Same reader at different stages of her 16 years long relationship with Conrad Fisher â from childhood friends, to lovers, to heartbreak, and finding their way back.
âŻâŻâŻ ⌠âŻâŻâŻ
⊠Undertow â Conrad Fisher x bfwb!reader
âA tipsy night by the bonfire turns into more than teasing touches and playful banterâitâs the night you and Conrad cross the line for good.â
âą Fire inside â đ„ đ„ (5.9k words) đ đ
âFrom best friends with benefits to something deeper, Conradâs biggest fear is losing you. Youâre determined to prove heâs the only one youâve ever wanted.â
âą Behind the door â đ„ (3.6k words) đ đ
âŻâŻâŻ ⥠âŻâŻâŻ
⊠Oceans â Conrad Fisher x ex!reader
âWhen Conrad calls from Cousins Beach, you expect a catch-up. One late-night call unravels sixteen years and old wounds neither of you ever said out loud.â
âą part 1 â đ„ (4.2k words) đ đ
âą part 2 â đ„ (6.5k words) đ đ
âą part 3 â đ„ đ (10.4k words) đ đ
âŻâŻâŻ đ„ž âŻâŻâŻ
⊠New Tide â Conrad Fisher x reader (post-reunion) this is an epilogue to Oceans
âAfter years of almosts, you and Conrad finally stop running from whatâs always been there. This time, thereâs no holding back.â
âI, for example, started out my academic addiction (read: growing pretentiousness in hopes Iâll be the smartest in the roomâit didnât work) when I realised how much power someone has over you when they just know more. How fascinating one becomes when they speak of things you never heard of in a way that it makes your heart beat a little faster.â
Why we keep trying to gain knowledge
Read more on my own cabinet of curiosities and about the way I decided to take my brain and expand its knowledge
If you miss my writing, make sure to check out my Substack where i actually will try to post (not fanfiction, but if youâre a fan of literature, history, art and all things gothicâyou should like it!)
Warnings/tags: SMUT (minors dni). Fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), p in v penetration, praising, cursing. Conrad is starved. PART OF THE OCEANS UNIVERSE
Summary: When finally getting your loved one back after four years and going forward with your lives as you move in with himâyou cannot wait any longer to celebrate
The sun sat high over Palo Alto, pouring out every ounce of warmth it had hoarded this past month. California didnât seem to care that the calendar had already surrendered to autumn. The air still shimmered with late-summer heat, leaving most of your jumpers and long jeansâthe ones youâd worn religiously in New Yorkâburied in unopened boxes.
Boxes that marked your new beginning. A small mountain of cardboard and tape, the clearest sign that youâd finally moved in. After that week in Cousins, after finding your way back to the love you thought youâd lost, youâd chosen to stay. To step forward, together. Now you were in California, finishing up the first whirlwind weeks of your Masterâs in Art History. The room smelled faintly of dust and old paper as you crouched over one of the last boxes, peeling away layers of tape and memory.
A song drifted out from the little radio by the window, low and familiar. You didnât notice Conradâs footsteps before you felt him. You never needed to. He was simply thereâan orbit youâd learned to trust, a presence as steady as breath. Warm hands slid around your waist, his nose brushing into the curve of your neck. A smile bloomed on your lips even before his did, even before you felt the soft graze of his mouth on your skin.
âI still canât believe youâre here,â he murmured, voice muffled against your neck.
The words loosened something inside you. You set the mug in your hand down carefully, as though the simple act deserved reverence.
âI know. Me neither. It feels like forever since we spent nights in the same place.â
And it had. Four years without his warmth had been too many. The rare meetings, scattered like compass points across the seasons, never enough to fill the distance. Each one too brief, too sharp with the ache of goodbye.
But thisâthis was different. This was a beginning.
âCome on, take a break,â he whispered, his breath warm against your skin, making you shiver.
He tugged you back, gentle but insistent, and you let yourself yield. Step by step, you moved with him until the couch caught you both, laughter breaking soft between you. Sunlight spilled across his face, gilding his hair, setting his eyes alight. That impossible sea-colorâgreen at the center, deepening toward the edgeâpulled you in, made the world around you blur.
You reached up, brushing his hair back from his forehead. He caught your wrist halfway, turning your hand so he could press a slow kiss to the inside of it. The kind of kiss that didnât just touch skin but sank deeper, grounding you.
Your sigh was quiet, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.
âIâve missed you so much,â he said, his voice low, stripped of anything but truth.
âIâve missed you too,â you whispered back, your body already leaning closer, legs curling over his lap as though they belonged there.
It had been only a month since the pieces fell back into place, since you finally drew a full breath without the ache of what-if. In that month, you had kissed, laughed, tangled together in the night, stitching time back into the shape it should have been. Almost whole. Almost healed.
And for the first time in years, the future didnât feel like a question mark. It felt like a promise.
You caught the flicker in his eyes again, that hunger he tried to bury under patience. Heâd been careful with you, letting you steer this fragile, rekindled rhythm. For that, youâd been grateful. But nowânow you were done waiting.
A hum slipped from your throat as his lips wandered down your forearm, each brush lighting up your nerves. Your eyes fluttered shut, and the past came rushing inânights tangled up under unfamiliar stars, the smoky crackle of the Cousins bonfire, his touch clumsy but tender because you were both so impossibly young. Children playing at forever. He had been even younger in spirit than you, a boy trying to fit into the shape of a man. And yet, even then, it had felt perfect.
Your eyes opened when his lips stilled. The decision had been in you for a while, curled up and waiting for the right moment. Now, with the last boxes nearly emptied and sunlight painting your bare shoulders in the heat of California, it felt right. Thank god for the sundress. Thank god for the warmth pressing through the windows.
âDonât stop,â you whispered, and the way his pupils darkened in response made your pulse stutter. You meant it. Every syllable.
âAre you sure?â His voice was low, careful, even as his hand found your waist and guided you closer. The question was a tether, his restraint hanging by a thread.
You shifted willingly, settling onto his lap, knees bracketing him as though youâd belonged there all along. Your arms looped around his neck, fingers tangling in the back of his hair.
âIâm sure.â
That was all it took. His mouth claimed yours in a rush, urgent and starved, the sound of your gasp swallowed between you. You clung to him, kissing back with the same desperation, the dam of four years breaking all at once. This past month had been a slow burn of almosts, but the fire finally caught, and it consumed you both.
His hands roamedâyour sides, your back, your hipsâlike he needed to relearn you by touch alone, as though sight wasnât enough. Each caress left you breathless, aching for more. You opened to him, lips parting, and his tongue met yours in a tangle that pulled a moan from your throat.
His grip tightened, palms firm at your hips, rocking you against him. Even through denim, you felt the sharp answer of his body, undeniable and heady. The kiss deepened, fierce and tender all at once, your heart thrumming in your chest like it might break through.
It wasnât just hunger. It was years of missing, of imagining, of longing pressed into skin and bone. Every movement whispered I missed you. Every touch said I canât lose you again.
âFuck, I missed you,â he rasped, the words spilling hot against your lips before his mouth wandered down, grazing your jaw, your throat. You pushed your hair aside with shaky fingers, tilting your head to bare yourself to him.
A sharp whimper broke free when his teeth caught at your skin, pleasure tangled with the faint sting. Your hips jerked instinctively against his, the friction sparking heat low in your stomach. Every second left you wetter, needier, your body begging before your voice could.
âConradââ his name tumbled out in a gasp, fractured by the path of his mouth. His hands were restless, worshipful, claiming every inch of you while his lips found the neckline of your sundress. His tongue traced fire over your collarbone, and you felt your pulse stutter.
âYou have no idea how hard it was to hold back,â he muttered, voice shredded with restraint, even as his fingers slipped beneath the hem of your dress.
He gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking higher and higher, the heat of his touch almost unbearable. âAll this month⊠all I could do was think about this.â
A shiver racked you as his hand finally found the thin lace between your legs. He pressed against your heat and you arched into him, a desperate sound escaping your throat. He smiled against your skin, and thenâslowly, deliberatelyâpushed the fabric aside.
The first touch of his thumb against your clit tore a cry from your lips. He slid lower, gathering the slickness there, and his breath hitched audibly.
âJesus Christ⊠youâre soaked,â he groaned, lifting his gaze to you. Hunger burned in his eyes, but so did something softerâaffection, awe, the weight of every moment youâd both lost.
âPlease,â you whispered, your voice trembling but certain as your eyes met his.
But you didnât need to beg. He gave without hesitation. His fingers pressed into you, stretching you, and the sharp burn of it pulled a moan straight from your chest. Your walls clenched around him, greedy, already aching for more.
His free hand anchored you at the hip as you moved instinctively, grinding down on his hand. Wet sounds filled the space between your moans, the room heavy with the pulse of your need.
âThatâs it,â he whispered, watching you unravel above him. His voice was low, reverent. âLook at you.â
His eyes never left you, drinking in every flicker of pleasure that crossed your face, every desperate roll of your hips. He reeled in it, the sight of you undone in his lap, knowing it was himâalways himâwho could make you feel this way.
âThis is mine,â he murmured, fingers curling deep inside you. âYouâre mine.â
âGod, youâre perfect,â he rasped, the words roughened by desire. âLook at you, sweetheart. Riding my fingers so good. Youâre perfect.â His mouth returned to your neck, teeth grazing the skin as if to prove the point.
Then his fingers curledâjust soâand your breath caught, your body going taut. The coil inside you drew tighter, hips chasing release with frantic precision. You were right there, ready to shatterâuntil a whine slipped free as he pulled his hand away.
Your eyes flew open, chest heaving, frustration painted across your face. Cheeks flushed, lips swollen from his kisses, you stared down at him in disbelief.
âConnieââ the protest broke in your throat, need sharp in your voice.
But you didnât get the chance to finish. With a swift motion, he flipped you, pressing you down against the couch cushions. Your stomach hit the soft fabric, his weight a presence above you.
âAs much as I love touching you like this,â he growled, lips grazing the shell of your ear, âthere is no way in hell Iâm making you come for the first time in four years without being inside you.â
Another needy sound spilled from you, muffled by the couch. Pillows tumbled to the floor as he made room, his hands slipping beneath you, lifting your hips until you were trembling and open for him. Your fingers clutched the armrest, knuckles whitening, your breath uneven.
Thenâthe pause. The rustle of denim. The metallic click of a belt buckle undone, the slow rasp of a zipper lowering. Each sound made your pulse race harder, the anticipation unbearable.
You whimpered as he spread your legs, his body settling behind yours. Heat radiated off him, and thenâsweet, devastating tortureâhis thick length slid between your cheeks, dragging slowly. He was hard, throbbing, every movement sending sparks skittering up your spine.
You could feel how much he ached, how badly he wanted thisâwanted you. His tip pressed at your entrance, teasing, smearing himself with your arousal, and you keened at the sensation.
Words abandoned you. All that was left was sound: gasps, whimpers, the sharp little mewls that betrayed how desperate you were. Your body quivered with the tension of waiting, the edge of it almost painful.
And still, he lingered there, right at the brink, like he needed one more second to take you inâneeded to savor the truth of having you like this again.
âFuck, you already feel so good,â he groaned, voice breaking on the words. One hand anchored on your hip, the other stroked himself a few more times before he pushed in, burying himself inside you in one swift, devastating motion.
Your moan tangled with his, sharp and helpless, as your walls clamped down around him. The stretch was maddening, almost too much after so long, and yet not enough all at once.
He stilled for only a beat, just long enough for you to adjust, before pulling nearly all the way out and slamming back inâhard.
Your cries filled the room, raw and echoing, as he set a brutal rhythm. His grip on your hips was iron, fingers digging deep enough you knew the marks would linger.
Every thrust drove you forward into the couch, the sound of skin on skin reverberating through the quiet apartment, underscored by his ragged grunts.
âFuck,â he rasped, leaning over you now, his chest pressing to your back, his breath hot against your ear.
One of his hands slid forward, trapping yours against the armrest, holding you as though letting go wasnât an option. His hips slammed into you with relentless force, shaking through your bones.
âNo oneââ his voice cracked, fierce and almost brokenââno one will ever have you like this again. You understand?â
You could only moan in answer, too far gone, your body giving him everything without hesitation.
âIâll give you the fucking moon itself,â he growled, each word punctuated with another deep, punishing thrust. âIf thatâs what it takes to keep you here.â
The angle shifted and you shattered against him, toes curling as he hit that spot inside you over and over, your vision blurring with tears. The coil inside your belly tightened mercilessly, pulling you higher and higher. He felt it too, in the desperate way you pushed back onto him, in the way your hand clutched his with near-painful force.
âSo fucking tight,â he groaned, hips driving harder, deeper. âSo fucking wet.â Another thrust, harder still. âAnd so fucking perfect. All mine. Always been mine.â
His free hand snaked down between you, fingers finding your clit without hesitation. He circled it in sync with the punishing pace of his hips, rubbing you exactly how you needed. The sharp clash of pleasure was overwhelmingâtoo much and not enough all at once.
Your back arched, hair sticking to your damp skin, every nerve in your body alight. You were right there, teetering on the edge, your cries unraveling into desperate sobs of pleasure as he pushed you closer, closerâ
âConradâI canâtââ you choked out, your voice breaking, and he groaned low in your ear, the sound vibrating through you.
âThatâs it,â he murmured, voice rough but steady, his lips brushing your temple. âDonât hold back, sweetheart. Donât hold back. Iâve got you.â
Your whines grew louder, climbing higher, until they were almost sobs. His teeth sank into your shoulder, a sharp sting lost beneath the firestorm of pleasure.
His hips snapped against yours, every thrust harder, deeper, more desperate. You could feel him trembling behind you, teetering close to his own edge, but he held himself back with sheer will. He wouldnât let go until you did.
âCâmon, sweetheartâŠâ he rasped, his breath hot against your ear. âBe good for me. Youâre gonna come for me, yeah?â
You cried out in answer, your body begging before your mouth could.
âGo ahead,â he urged, voice wrecked but commanding. âI want you to make a mess all over me.â
That was enough. His words sank deep, mixing with the relentless thrusts of his hips, and suddenly you were breaking apart. His name tore from your throat over and over, each syllable ripped raw as the orgasm crashed through you.
It hit like a tsunamiâsharp, merciless, overwhelming. Your whole body shook under him, your walls clenching and pulsing as release drenched him. The rush left you undone, trembling, your face pressed into the cushions as you sobbed his name.
His grunt followed, guttural and broken, hips slamming in ragged rhythm until the dam inside him burst. He spilled into you with a shudder, his warmth flooding your walls as he groaned your name like a prayer. He thrust a few more times, sloppy and desperate, before finally stilling, buried deep.
The room was filled with the sound of your panting, the heavy crash of your breathing as the world stilled around you. He slumped against your back, pinning you down, but neither of you minded.
His lips pressed soft, reverent kisses over the bite mark heâd left on your shoulder. One of his hands stroked down your arm, the other smoothing over your side as though to soothe the aftershocks quaking through you.
Minutes blurred together, lazy and warm.
âMoving in never seemed this enjoyable before,â you muttered breathlessly, cheek pressed to the couch.
He laughed, the sound husky and alive, vibrating against your skin.
And you realized how much youâd missed that soundâmissed himâmissed the way joy could be so simple. All you wanted, from this moment forward, was to be the reason he laughed like that. Not just today, not just for the next sixteen years, but for every year after. Always.
A/N: New Tide is wrapped up! Thank you to everybody who enjoyed Oceans! We hit over 1k under the chapters, and Iâm beyond words. Now, I do have planned a couple of past chapters just to give you insight into the breakup and the four years between that led to Oceans. Also!!! What the hell was that finaleđ I am SO writing the taxi and staircase smut, just you wait
Summary: When your mind is too loud, Sirius is your anchor once more. And maybe he always will be there to quiet down the storm inside you. Like a silencing charm.
Tags/warnings: None. Fluff. Sirius calls reader Star. Childhood best friends. Reader is a Slytherin and a Rosier
The tower was quiet now. The only sound was the fireplace, crackling low as the shadows stretched long across the stone floor, dancing in restless patterns that mimicked the thoughts in your mind.
You sat on the large windowsill, knees drawn tightly to your chest, eyes turned outward but distant, reflecting a sky you didnât truly see. The day had been loud in your headâtoo many voices, too many stares, too many expectations pressing down on you until words felt heavy and useless. You hadnât spoken in hours. You werenât sure you wanted to.
Then you felt him.
You always felt him before he spoke. Siriusâleaning against the doorway, arms crossed, his grin softened into something that existed only for you. He hadnât needed to announce himself; his presence was enough. He crossed the room slowly, unhurried, and lowered himself beside you without asking permission. His fingers brushed against yours, light as a question.
And you didnât flinch.
He was the only one you ever let touch you. The only one who quieted the storm in your head instead of feeding it. Slowly, you shifted until your head rested against his shoulder, and the warmth of him settled through your bones. He said nothing. He never needed to. You spoke in a language built from silences and half-remembered momentsâan unspoken understanding that belonged to no one else but the two of you.
You werenât sure what you were to each other. But you had always been something. Everything.
âSorry I was gone all day,â you whispered at last, your voice thin, hesitant, almost brittle. You hadnât shown up for meals, hadnât appeared in any of the classes you were meant to share. This was the first time he had seen you since last night.
You were curled up, legs crossed, your braid falling loosely over one shoulder. You were wrapped in one of his crewnecksâthe burgundy one, heavy and soft, with Gryffindor embroidered boldly in gold across the chest.
Sirius leaned his head against the cool glass of the window beside you, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. He liked when you wore his clothes, though he would never admit it aloud.
âWhere were you, darling?â he asked idly, reaching over to catch the end of your braid between his fingers and giving it a gentle tug.
âNowhere, really,â you murmured, your voice so quiet it almost disappeared into the crackle of the fire. âBlack Lake. The library. The Astronomy Tower,â you listed them off with a small shrug. âAnywhere people werenât.â A sigh slipped from your lips. âI just⊠needed some time to clear my head.â
Your gaze drifted back out the window, following the trail of raindrops as they raced one another down the glass.
His fingers stilled against your braid, and when you glanced sideways, his grey eyes were softer now, shadowed with a kind of knowing. He watched the rain slide down the window like tears that werenât yours. He understood that needâthe pull toward silence, the hunger for spaces where no one looked at you as if you might shatter.
âDidnât clear it enough,â he murmured, his voice low and rough at the edges. âOr you wouldnât still be wearing my jumper like armour.â
He shifted closer, his arm slipping easily around your shoulders, drawing you against him until you were small and tucked beneath his frameâfitting there as though you had been made to. You didnât resist. You never did.
âNext time,â he said softly into your hair, âtake me with you.â
âMaybe I just like wearing your clothes,â you answered quietly, eyes still following the rain.
You lifted your hand, pressing your fingertips to the cool glass, tracing the lines of water that blurred the outside world. There was something calming about it; about touching what could never be held.
His scent surrounded youâsmoke and leather, threaded with something you couldnât quite name. Something uniquely his. Something like rain. You liked rain.
âYou always smelled like it,â you murmured with a faint smile. âLike rain⊠and maybe the ocean?â You frowned a little at your own words. Both were water, both familiar, and yet their scents were entirely different.
And somehow, he carried both.
He laughedâlow, warm, the sound rumbling against you like a purr.
He tugged the sleeve of his jumper further down until it swallowed your small hand, then brushed his thumb slowly across your knuckles. The touch lingered, patient and steady, like a vow disguised as something casual.
âYou wear my clothes like theyâre yours,â he murmured, quieter now, his voice dipping lower in the hush of the tower. âWhich they are. Every damn thing I have is yours.â
His storm-grey eyes flicked to the window, where your blurred reflections stared back through the rainy glassâyour frame wrapped in red fabric, his arm anchoring you to him as if he could tether you against the world itself.
âAnd if rainâs what I smell like? Good.â A smirk ghosted across his lips. âMeans I match you better than your own house ever could.â
âYou always match me better than anything,â you replied softly, leaning into his touch as though it were the most natural place in the world for you to be.
Thisâthis calm, this quiet, this stillnessâit was yours. Him. You. Together. Your safe space.
He might smell like rain, but you carried lavender and honey with you, always. The tea that coaxed you into sleep, laced sometimes with a whisper of jasmine. A floral warmth, never overwhelming, just soft enough to catch him off guard in the smallest momentsâwhen you leaned over to grab your book, when you tied your hair up, when you brushed past him in the corridor.
His breath hitched, subtle but real, as if your very presence pressed its palm against his heartbeat.
âMerlinâŠâ he muttered, his voice rougher now, darker, like gravel softened at the edges. âYou say things like that and I forget how not to fall apart for you.â
He buried his face in your hair, inhaling slowâlavender, honey, jasmine. It filled his lungs, curled through him, stilling the noise that always lived in the back of his mind. Youâd always done that.
âYouâre in my head at the worst times,â he confessed in a whisper, words brushing the shell of your ear. âWhen Iâm hexing Slytherin prefects or nicking Jamesâs firewhiskeyâyou appear. Smelling like tea and trouble.â A pause. Then the curve of his smile against your scalp. âAnd then I have to stop being an arsehole for five minutes just to breathe.â
He shifted, pulling you tighter against him until you were folded fully into his chest, as though he feared the rain might wash you away.
âYouâre my silencing charm,â he whispered. The kind of truth that belonged only to moments like this, when the rain could hold it without ever breaking it apart.
You smiled at that. Youâd seen him hex those Slytherin prefects more times than you cared to admit, but you never interfered. It wasnât your battle. You were always the bridgeâbetween Gryffindors and Slytherins, between war and peace, his friends and yours. Just a small pocket of stillness wherever you could make it.
âYour⊠silencing charm?â you asked softly, tilting your face up toward him, lashes brushing shadows against your cheeks.
Your eyes met his, and your gentle smile deepened. There was something about the way you fit togetherâit never felt forced. It never had.
âLike a calming spell?â you teased, a grin tugging faintly at your pink lips.
He pulled back just slightly, enough to look at you properly, his storm-grey eyes mapping every curve of your faceâthe slope of your nose, the constellation of freckles dusted across honey-soft skin, the softness written into every line of you.
He reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind your shoulder with a tenderness that settled into the quiet like it had always belonged.
âWorse,â he murmured, though the grin that formed contradicted the word. His chuckle deepened when you narrowed your eyes at him. âBetter. Youâre a spell I never want an antidote for.â
He bent closer, lips tracing the line of your jaw, then ghosting the corner of your mouth.
âYouâre my secret addiction.â
You let out a small breath and close your eyes with a smile. His lips are warm on your skin, a little chapped from wind and weather, but still soft. Gentle. Familiar.
âI keep forgetting how charming you can be with your little words,â you murmur quietly as he continues to scatter kisses across your face. You nuzzle your nose against his like a cat, finally allowing yourself to unwind after the noise and weight of the entire day.
He laughsâsoft, low, like embers catching in the hearth.
âCharming?â he echoes, before nipping lightly at the shell of your ear, his voice dropping into that velvet purr he saves only for you. âJe ne suis pas charmant, Star. Je suis seulement vrai avec toi.â
Iâm not charming. Iâm just true with you.
He leans back just enough to study your faceâthe flicker of your lashes, the faint flush staining your cheeks, the way you press closer as though gravity itself has rewritten its laws to centre on him.
âYouâre shivering,â he says suddenly, catching the faint tremor in your shoulder. Not from coldâfrom release. The storm inside you, finally loosening its grip.
So he gathers you fully into his arms, wrapping you up, tucking you beneath his chin like a vow sealed in silence.
âStay here tonight,â he murmurs against the crown of your head. âNo libraries, no lakes⊠just this.â His fingers trace idle circles on your back, each one spelling the same word only skin can read: safe safe safe.
You hum softly, resting deeper into him. The idea of leavingâof walking back down to the dungeons, of curling alone in your dormitoryâfeels wrong now. You donât want that. You want this.
So you nod.
âI think youâve been my silencing charm since forever,â you whisper, your gaze drifting back toward the rain-dappled window where your reflections blur together into one.
His laugh is little more than a huff, a warm rumble in his chest. He presses a lingering kiss to your crown and pulls you impossibly closer, fingers brushing over the freckles on your cheek as though heâs memorising the constellations mapped across your skin.
And for a moment, he can see it. Years stretched aheadâof nights with you curled beside him, stealing his jumpers, murmuring in your sleep, being his spell. His quiet. His Star. His girl. The thought swells too large, too dangerous, so he swallows it down before it can spill out.
Instead, he buries his face in your hair and lets the silence hold him.
The world outside falls away until only the rhythm of rain remains, the steady beat of your hearts, the rise and fall of breath in the dark. His hand drifts upward, sliding slowly through your braid until the strands fall loose and soft around your shoulders. He works each tangle free with the kind of patience that says he could stay here forever.
His fingertips wander, tracing one freckle and then another, mapping the sky across your skin. His thumb brushes your brow, then the curve of your lip, as if each touch might carve you more deeply into his memory.
He leans close, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
âDo you know what my favourite sound in the world is?â he asks softly.
Your eyes flutter shut at his touch. Itâs gentle, reverentâheâs memorising you, piece by piece, in case the sky ever tried to steal you away. Heâs always said your freckles look like constellations. Always called you his star. But he doesnât know, not really, that in your eyes he has always been the brightest of them all.
âWhat is it?â you whisper back, your voice hushed, heavy with the pull of sleep.
He watches your lashes lower, your face tilt toward him like a flower leaning instinctively toward the sun. His lips curve into a small smile at the sound of your voice, soft and curling faintly at the edges with your accent. He loves that, too.
His hand slips down your arm, finding your fingers and threading them together, grounding you both.
âItâs the sound,â he says low, tender, as his thumb strokes gently over your knuckles, âthat you make⊠when you relax.â
He leans his forehead against yours, breath warm and steady.
âWhen you finally let yourself breathe.â
You chuckle faintly, the sound a feather against the hush of the tower. âI must make many of those sounds around you,â you murmur, squeezing his hand before bringing it to your lips. You press your mouth against his knuckles and keep it there, lingering in the warmth of the moment. Just letting yourself be. Letting you be.
A shiver cuts through himâsharp, silent, deep. Not from cold. Never from cold, not when you touch him like this.
He exhales your name, barely a breath, like itâs a secret the rest of the world was never meant to hear.
âEvery one,â he whispers, voice roughened with reverence. âYou make every single one around me.â
His fingers flex against yours as though holding onto this: the soft brush of your lips against his skin, the stillness, the trust in your quiet surrender.
âThe rest of the world shouts,â he murmurs. âBut you⊠you hum for me.â
And thenâbecause only you could see this part of himâhe rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes, surrendering the weight of himself to the closeness.
âIâd burn every star in the sky just to keep hearing it.â
âDonât burn the stars,â you breathe, brushing your nose against his. Your voice is soft, but certain. âYouâre the brightest one in the sky.â Your lips ghost the corner of his mouth as you whisper, âIâd hate to see you gone.â
His breath catches, sharp and unsteady, his chest pulling tight. Itâs a war not to press you back against the window and kiss the words from your lips, not to lose himself in the truth you hand him so freely. He canât remember the last time someone had said anything like that to himâwithout joke, without edge, without some ulterior motive.
Just soft. Just simple. Just truth.
His hand skims up your shoulder, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw, then rests beneath your chin, lifting your face gently until your eyes meet his.
Storm-grey eyes burn into yours, wanting, desperate, reverent all at once.
âYou sound like youâre afraid to lose me.â
You tilt your head, gaze unwavering. âOf course Iâm scared,â you admit softly, the honesty so stark it surprises even you. âWho wouldnât be? You bring so much into everybodyâs lives. And if someone dares to actually look at youâto really see youâitâs terrifying to think you could be gone one day.â
You reach up, brushing a stray lock of hair back from his forehead. âYou bring so much brightness into someoneâs world that it feels unbearably dark when youâre not in it. And yesâthatâs scary.â
He doesnât flinch. Doesnât look away.
He lets your words wash over him like ash and starlight, heavy and luminous all at once. His breath comes uneven, slower now, because no oneâno one, not James, not Remusâhas ever named it so precisely. They saw the fire, yes, but never the fragility of it. Never how quickly it could vanish.
But you do.
Because you know what it is to burn from the inside out.
He catches your wrist, gently guiding your hand to his lips. He presses a kiss into your palmâlingering, reverentâbefore lowering it to rest over his heart.
âThen keep this,â he murmurs against your skin. âThe beat of me.â His gaze fixes on yours, fierce, unyielding now. âYou think Iâm bright? Youâre the one who sees. Who stays.â
A smirk tugs faintly at his mouth, but itâs softer than usual, fragile beneath the bravado. His thumb brushes across your lower lip, lingering.
âAnd darling Star⊠I donât exist without you.â
A quiet sigh slips from you at his words. âYou always have a way with words, donât you?â you mutter, before letting your head drop against his chest once more, curling into him where he sits on the wide stone sill, your body folding neatly between his legs.
You close your eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. Each thump steadies you, each beat dissolving the last of your worries into nothing.
He wraps his arms more securely around youâone hand tangling gently in your hair, the other sliding over the small of your back, pulling you close as though gravity itself had been rewritten to bind you here.
âMhm,â he hums into your hair. âOnly for you.â
And itâs true. The jokes, the smirks, the careless swaggerâthose belong to the world. But this? The softness, the quiet words, the gentleness he offers when you canât sleep? That belongs to you alone.
He presses a final kiss to the top of your head, letting his eyes fall closed.
Outside, the rain keeps falling, soft as a lullaby. Beyond the stone and sky, time marches forward, relentless.
But hereâhere in this towerâyou remain.
Two breaths, two heartbeats, two broken constellations piecing each other back into whole.
You stayed with him that night. On that windowsill, curled into the warmth of him while the rain sang its steady lullaby against the glass. Back pain could be tomorrowâs problemâtonight belonged only to you both, to the hush between heartbeats and the hum of the storm outside.
Sleep pulled at you slowly, gently, until your lashes grew too heavy to hold open. For once, the nightmares kept their distance, edged out by the certainty of his arms around youâas though his very presence barred every shadow, every creeping dark thought from crossing the threshold of your mind.
He held you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable. And maybe you were. Just before sleep claimed you, you could have sworn you heard him whisperâlow and soft, as though he didnât mean for you to catch itâje tâaime. Maybe it was a dream, just another trick of drowsy thoughts. Or maybe, just maybe⊠he meant it.
Sirius watched as you finally let go in his arms, felt the last tension leave your body as your breathing evened out. A smile, faint but full of tenderness, touched his lips. He knew your nightmares wellâhad held you through them more times than he could countâand this time, they obeyed. They stayed away.
Good.
His fingers traced slow, idle patterns over your back, lulling you deeper into rest. He leaned down, the words leaving him in a whisper so soft the dark itself seemed to hold them close.
A/N: basically⊠this is based on my OC. In the universe of this fanfic reader is a Rosier and a Slytherin. And there is A LOT of lore. I mean A LOT. Let me know if you want more :)
Conrad Fisher x bfwb!fem!reader this story is a part of the Oceans universe.
Summary: Your latest encounter with your ex sets Conrad into panic mode. You realise that your life choices created more damage than you thought. And when a seed of doubt is running through his head, you'll do anything to ensure he never feels scared again.
Warnings/tags: angst with happy ending. hurt/comfort âą idiots in love. fluff. bfwbâ>gf âą establishing relationship between the lines (repost. If you read it; no you didnâtâŠ)
Conrad sat on the porch swing, the wood creaking beneath his weight as the late summer sun dipped below the horizon.
You come out barefoot, the screen door squeaking open behind you, then thunking closed with a soft finality. Your steps are light across the porch boards, familiar with their pattern. You're in cutoff shorts that have seen too many summers, and one of his hoodiesâoversized, hanging off you like a memory that still fits. It takes him a second to recognise it as his. Charcoal smudges mark your fingers and the cover of the sketchpad tucked under your arm. A faded streak of blue paint runs like a forgotten river beneath your wrist, catching the last of the sun.
You sit beside him on the porch swing, the old wood creaking under your combined weight as the last breath of summer exhales across Cousins Beach. The sky stretches out above you in a blaze of burnt orange and soft lavender, streaked with delicate clouds that seem half-asleep. The cicadas hum their slow, hypnotic chorus from the trees nearby, their song steady and familiarâlike a lullaby that only this place remembers how to sing.
The ocean breeze tousles his hair and lifts the ends of yours, warm and salty, brushing against your skin like a memory. It carries the scent of sunscreen, brine, and freshly cut grass from the back hill, all tangled together in that unmistakable coastal perfume. The cushions beneath you are sun-faded and still holding onto the dayâs heat, like the house itself is reluctant to let go of summer.
Out beyond the dunes, the sea rolls in slow and lazy, waves curling over each other like theyâre in no rush to reach the shore. The crash of them sounds like a soft, distant thunder. Farther down the beach, you can just make out the shapes of children chasing fireflies, their laughter pealing like wind-chimes over the sand. Somewhere in that blur of joy, you hear Jeremiahâs voiceâunmistakable, bright and loud, always the centre of the moment.
But here, on the porch, everything is quieter. That hushed, golden-hour kind of quiet. The kind that wraps around you like a blanket and settles in your chest like nostalgia. The kind of quiet that carries old conversations in its foldsâthe ones you never had, the ones you still might.
You donât say anything at first. Your shoulders touch. The heat of him seeps easily into your side, familiar and grounding. The wood groans beneath you both again, the same groan it always makes when the summer evenings turn heavy. You smell like beach air and tangerine soap, and when the breeze catches your hair, it brushes his shoulder like it has a mind of its own.
âI canât draw today,â you murmur, the words quiet but real. âToo many thoughts.â
He nods without turning. His gaze is fixed on the horizon, where the sun is all but swallowed now, leaving behind a thin sliver of gold barely separating the sky from the sea.
âWhen do you not have too many thoughts?â he says, voice dry but not unkind.
You smirk. The corner of your mouth lifts as you nudge him gently with your elbow, the last flickers of sunlight catching in your eyes like golden embers. âYou love that about me.â
Maybe he does. Maybe he always did.
He tilts his head back against the porch swing, letting the dying warmth of the day kiss his face before the nightâs chill seeps in. Above you, the first stars start to show, timid and blinking through the purple haze. Somewhere down the beach, wind chimes sing a delicate tune, their glassy notes barely rising above the breeze.
You both fall silent againânot awkwardly, not tenselyâjust naturally. The kind of silence that fills the space between two people who donât need to speak to be understood. It presses against your ribs, not with weight, but with presence. He doesnât look at you. He doesnât have to.
You slip your hands into the pocket of the hoodie you're wearingâhis hoodieâthe way you always do when the wind turns cool. Your fingers brush something unexpected. Warmth. Skin. His hand. He mustâve had it tucked there too, and the contact shocks a breath right out of you. Itâs quick, fleetingâbut your fingers touch his, and in that moment, itâs like the air crackles.
You donât pull away.
Neither does he.
The porch swing rocks gently, keeping time with your heart. The night has fully taken over now, the beach bathed in a hush of indigo, but his voice is barely above the wind when he speaks.
âDo you ever think,â he starts slowly, his words careful, gaze still lost in the waves, âthat maybe⊠people were right about us?â
And the hush settles in deeper. Because even with the sea, the stars, and the soft noise of summer all around you, nothing sounds louder than that.
You glance at him at his words, head tilting slightly as you study his faceâhis profile caught in the last remnants of sunlight. That golden glow clings to him like something sacred, softening the shadows along his cheekbones and outlining the sharp line of his jaw.
God, heâs beautiful.
You donât say it aloud, but the thought pulses through you like a heartbeat. You wonder if he even knows. If he ever sees himself the way you doâbreathtaking in the quiet, in the stillness, in the in-between moments like this. Thereâs something about the way the green-blue of his eyes catches the dusk, like seawater in motion. You could drown in them. You already have, a hundred times over.
You let the silence stretch as you think over what he said. Not because you donât understand. You do. You understood the moment he opened his mouth. But still, your voice comes soft, coaxing. âWith what?â
You already know.
His eyes stay on the horizon, but his voice dips lower, like the truth might lose some of its weight if he doesnât meet your gaze. âUs. Always together. Always attached at the hip.â A pause, and then, quieter: âMy mom saying you should buy more white dresses.â
Your breath stutters just slightly at that. You swallow, tasting salt on your tongueâwhether itâs from the sea breeze or his motherâs words echoing in your head, youâre not sure. They were true. She had said it, more than once. Always half-joking, always smilingâbut you heard what was beneath it. That unspoken suggestion. That nudge. That expectation.
And it was silly, wasnât it? You were just nineteen. You had time. You werenât in a rush for white dresses, for veils and vows and last names. You just wanted thisâthe now, the way his body leaned unconsciously toward yours on the swing, the way the ocean breathed with you.
You press your chin to his shoulder gently, grounding both of you, your voice a little quieter when you answer, âWell... didnât we prove them right?â
The porch swing shifts slightly with your movement, and you feel itâhow his breath catches, like youâve tripped some unseen wire inside him. His fingers around yours tighten just a little, just enough to be noticed. Just enough to say I felt that too.
âI suppose we did,â he replies, but thereâs a thread of something underneathâthin, taut. A note of doubt barely concealed in the quiet. His eyes flick toward yours briefly, then away again, like he doesnât want you to see it.
But you do.
Youâve always seen him clearer than he wants you to.
Thereâs something clouding his gaze, something worried. Not about what you said, but what it means. The weight of it. The pressure. Or maybe something deeper.
And suddenly, the idea of kissing him doesnât feel like comfortâit feels like a cover. Like a way to distract him from what he wonât say. But the air is thick now, heavier than before, and not just with humidity. Something unspoken hums between you, pressing in.
You want to reach for him, want to touch his jaw and tilt his face toward yours, like that would undo the knot in his chest. Like your lips could quiet the storm you sense rising inside him.
But you donât.
Not yet.
Instead, you keep your chin on his shoulder, voice gentler now. âConrad... what is it?â
The swing rocks again, slower now, creaking softly like a heartbeat. He still doesnât look at you.
But you wait.
You always wait for him.
He doesnât speak for a while.
You feel it in the silenceâthe shift in him. That quiet, uneasy kind of thinking he does when something gets lodged in his brain and wonât come out. You can practically see it happening: the slight furrow in his brow, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes stay fixed on some far-off spot, unfocused. You know him well enough by now to recognise the weight of his thoughts before he ever says a word. And itâs starting to worry you.
You lean in gently, your nose brushing against the edge of his jaw, your breath ghosting over his skin as you inhale him. Pink pepper and lemonâhis cologne, light and citrusyâmixed with the salt in the air and the deeper, earthier scent thatâs just him. Ocean wind stirs your hair and rustles the porch around you, but all you can think about is how his shoulders are tense beneath your cheek.
You hate when he worries. It sinks into the space between you, makes things that are usually easyâtouching, laughing, kissingâfeel suddenly distant.
âItâs probably nothing,â he mutters at last, the words barely more than a breath. His tone is forced, like heâs trying to convince himself more than you.
But you know better.
You shake your head and tighten your fingers around his, firm and steady. âStop lying to me,â you say, quiet but sure. âLetâs just talk. As always.â
Thereâs a pauseâand then a huff, soft and short. Almost like a laugh, but not quite.
âYeah. As always.â
And thereâs something in his voice this time. Something flat. Not sharp, but close enough. Bitter, maybe. Disappointed. It scrapes against your chest, and your brow creases as you look at him.
Did you do something wrong?
The thought stings, unexpected and unwelcome.
He catches the way your expression shifts and sighs again, but this time itâs differentâless tense, more apologetic. His face softens just slightly as he turns toward you, and his hand reaches out to brush your cheek with familiar ease. Then he leans in and presses his lips gently to yours, just a whisper of a kiss, grounding.
âIâm sorry,â he says softly. âI just... my mindâs been running nonstop lately.â
You hum into the kiss, letting the warmth of it ease the tightness in your chest. The tension begins to melt just a little, like sunlight breaking through fog.
âConnie, baby, talk to me.â
Baby.
You feel the way his breath hitches at the word. He always did love when you called him that. Thereâs a flicker in his eyes, something fond and raw and vulnerable. You know heâd give up every penny, every breath, just to hear you say it again. To hear your voice wrap around his name and that word like a secret only meant for him.
He hesitates. Thinking. Weighing.
But then he speaks, voice low and quiet, like the words are delicate glass in his mouth.
âThe party two days ago,â he says. âWho was that with you?â
You blink. Frown.
You replay the evening in your headâfirelight, music, the familiar blur of too many friends, too many conversations. But you were with him almost the whole night. Werenât you?
And then it clicks.
Tom.
Your ex. Long before Conrad, long before things ever turned real and intimate with anyone else. Heâd stopped you briefly near the drinks table, asked how youâd been. That was all.
âIt was Tom,â you say slowly, watching Conradâs eyes. âMy ex. Nothing important. He just wanted to catch up.â
Tom.
You see it the moment the name hits. His mouth tightens slightly. His eyes hardenânot angry, but unsettled. He already hates the name. The guy. Even if he has no real reason to.
âCatch up?â he repeats, and thereâs something different in his voice now. A subtle edge. Not jealousy exactly, but something adjacent. Something uncertain.
And you recognise that look instantly.
Itâs the one he gets when he doesnât want to admit heâs hurt.
You search his eyes, quiet for a beat, then nod slowly. âYeah,â you say, keeping your voice steady. âHe was just curious how things have been. Thatâs all. We talked for maybe a few minutes.â
You watch him carefully as you speakâevery twitch of his jaw, every flicker of his gaze. You tell the truth plainly, with calm certainty, because there was nothing more to it. Just a brief conversation, a passing moment. But you can still see it in him. That tiny crack of doubt. That shadow of hurt.
And it twists something in you.
Because surely he didnât think⊠no. He couldnât have thought anything else. Not really.
Technically, the two of you werenât togetherânot in the traditional sense. No labels, no announcements, no dramatic declarations. But still... itâs been a year. A year of public moments and quiet comfort. Of brushing your fingers through his hair in the dark. Of falling asleep on the same pillows. A year of choosing each other, again and again. It wasnât undefined. Not to you.
Not anymore.
But he nods slightly, eyes shifting away from yours. The movement is small, but it lands heavy.
Your heart sinks a little, and your brows draw together in concern.
âConnieâŠâ you murmur, your voice careful, soft. âWhat is this about?â
He doesnât answer at first. Just sits with it, shoulders hunched slightly, fingers still wrapped around yours but looser nowâlike he's slipping inward again, shutting a door he doesnât want you to knock on.
You almost expect him to let it go. To bury it.
To do what he always does.
Pretend heâs fine.
But then, to your surprise, he speaks.
âDo youâŠâ He pauses. Thereâs a hesitation in his tone that pulls your full attention back to him. âDo you talk to your exes often?â
The question catches you off guard.
Exes?
You blink at him, thrown for a second. Becauseâwell, no. Not really. You think back, running through the list in your head. Except for Tom, there havenât been any real relationships. Not anything that required âclosureâ or check-ins.
Just hookups. Flings. Summer things that never outlasted the sunburns. Youâve always liked the energy of new people, the thrill of being wanted, the freedom of not promising anything.
You started young. Sixteen, full of champagne bubbles and midnight laughter. Parties, beaches, crowded rooms where your name was whispered like a dare.
And he was there for so much of it. Watching, sometimes from afar, sometimes too close. He saw every messy, loud, beautiful part of your so-called âlove life.â
You shake your head, reaching out again to close the distance between you. âNo,â you say simply. âI donât really have exes, and you know that.â
You search his expression again, hoping to ease the worry thatâs etched there. He gives a small nod, but the tension doesnât fade completely.
âI meantâŠâ he trails off, then sighs. âJust people.â
Other guys. Thatâs what he really means. You hear it in his voice, even if he doesnât say it. He doesnât want to sound like some jealous seventeen-year-old. Doesnât want to admit that even now, even after everything, thereâs still a part of him thatâs scared he could lose you to something less important. Something stupid. Something that happened before you two ever became this.
And that thought alone makes your chest ache.
You shake your head again, gently lifting his chin so heâs looking at you. Really looking at you.
Your fingers brush the edge of his jaw as you search his eyesâdark and clouded, like heâs waiting for disappointment to slip past your lips. But you donât let him fall into that fear. You keep your voice steady, certain.
âConnie, baby, no. I donât. I donât meet up with anybody like that,â you say, your tone firm, even though his expression doesnât shift. âI wouldnât do that to you.â
Thereâs silence between you as he studies you again, eyes flicking across your face like theyâre searching for a crack. Something hidden. Some buried half-truth. But thereâs nothing.
Because youâre not lying. You never have.
Youâve always been honestâhonest to a fault, sometimes. Raw in your truths, open with your heart. Especially with him.
And slowly, almost cautiously, he leans in. Presses his forehead to yours.
âItâs not like you canât,â he says quietly, like the words cost him something. âIâm just curious.â
And godâyou want to slap him. Right across that infuriatingly perfect face.
Not like you canât?
Is he serious?
You could feel the ache building in your chest, the bitter sting of disbelief. Because heâs the only one you want. The only one you see.
To kiss him. To touch him. To hold him in every damn way a person could be heldâemotionally, physically, spiritually. Only him.
Has your pastâthe parties, the flings, the freedomâreally planted that much doubt in him? Has he been sitting with this fear that maybe heâs just a temporary chapter in your story? Just another fleeting thrill?
You cup his face gently, fingertips against his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye.
âWhy would I?â you whisper, the frustration bleeding into your sadness. âI donât want to.â
He doesnât pull away. Just stays close, warm and quiet under your touch.
âYou seriously think I could even look at another guy when I have you?â you add, voice light with a trace of broken amusement.
And he just shrugs. That simple, pitiful shrug that says more than words ever could.
Because he doesnât see himself the way you do.
He looks at you like you hung the starsâbut talks about himself like he isnât worthy of standing under them. Like loving you is something borrowed, not something heâs earned.
It hurts.
Because if thereâs one thing youâre certain of in this world, itâs that Conrad Fisher deserves the whole damn universe.
Your brows knit together as you ask gently, âDid I ever make you doubt?â
His response is immediate. He shakes his head with urgency, like even the thought pains him.
âNo, sweetheart. No. Itâs not you. Itâs me,â he says, the words tumbling out in a rush. âI just⊠I canât turn off my mind. And youâre so damn perfect, and I donât know what Iâm supposed to do to keep you.â
It hits you harder than you expected.
Because heâs always been good with affectionâtelling you he adores you, making you feel wanted. But this? This is different. This is vulnerability laid bare. This is him, stripped of all pretence, clinging to something real.
You swallow the lump in your throat and smile, soft and aching.
âYou just have to be you,â you murmur, fingers tracing his cheek again. âMy Connie. And Iâll be here.â
He leans in further, pressing his forehead tighter to yours like heâs trying to fuse the distance between you. Like closeness will silence the doubt.
âYou promise?â he whispers, voice frayed at the edges.
You sighâlong and deepâand itâs not because of him.
Itâs because of you.
Because in that moment, you hate yourself. Hate every bad decision, every wild night, every reckless part of your past that ever made this boyâyour boyâfeel like he wasnât enough.
You wanted to reassure him. To make it clear that this wasnât just a fleeting fling, nor something that existed solely for your own benefit. He was more than that â he was the one for you.
âCan you wait for me? Just for a second. Iâll be right back,â you said softly, searching his eyes for a sign. After a moment, he nodded. You pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, hoping to convey everything words couldnât quite capture.
Then, quietly, you slipped back into the house and made your way upstairs, your heart pounding as you headed toward the guest roomâyour room. You had to make sure he understood. Maybe it was time to make this whole thing permanent, after all.
Once inside, your feet carried you almost instinctively to the bedside table. You opened the drawer and pulled out a white journal, its cover dusted with glitter â a chaotic, youthful mess of sparkle that only your younger self could have created, messy yet strangely artistic. Bold letters sprawled across the front read: Connie & Me. You cradled the journal in your hands and headed back downstairs. The moment had come.
Returning to him, you nestled close to his side. His hand instinctively slid around your shoulders, pulling you gently closer. You settled the notebook on your lap, angling it so he could see. He glanced down, brow furrowing.
âWhatâs that?â he asked quietly.
You sighed, the weight of the moment settling over you.âšâThis is something... something that might help me be less of a crappy partner in your eyes.â
He looked at you, then back at the journal. You opened it slowly, revealing what you had carefully preserved inside. Everything.
It began with polaroids of the two of you as children â age seven and nine â building sandcastles, riding bikes, playing board games. The pages were filled with handwritten journal entries in your clumsy primary school script, sprinkled with doodles and drawings. He stared at it as if seeing a part of your world he never knew existed. Every page was a mosaic of memories, starting with your childhood together.
As you flipped through the pages, the memories grew richer and more detailed: first days of school, holidays, Christmas mornings, Halloween costumes. Movie nights, trips to the cinema, karaoke sessions, parties â each event painstakingly dated and illustrated.
Then, you turned a page that made his breath hitch, his eyes widening. There, in vibrant colours and careful strokes, was a drawing of a beach house â remarkably similar to his familyâs â but with subtle details that only he would recognise. This was your dream house. The one you had been talking about for so long.
âIs thatâŠâ he trailed off, his voice barely audible as his hand tightened around you.âšâšâYes,â you whispered, your voice trembling with hope. âOur future. The one weâve been planning.â
The beach house with its wide bay windows, a sprawling kitchen, and a breathtaking view of the ocean. The house where youâd sip coffee on the porch, watching sunsets paint the sky in hues of gold and crimson. A future filled with lazy mornings and stolen kisses, dawn surf sessions at the creek, and him making pancakes while you perched on the kitchen counter. A life where every moment was kissed by love, every minute cherished perfectly.
You flipped the page, and his body stiffened, tension rippling through him like a tightening chord. More drawings greeted him â a familiar beach scene, unmistakably Cousins. You had sketched round tables draped in white linen, adorned with wildflowers that seemed to dance in a gentle breeze. The soft pastel colours felt alive, as though the faint scent of salt air and blooming petals had seeped off the page, filling the quiet room with a fragile warmth.
He recognised it instantly.
âI want a wedding at the beach,â you had joked once, your eyes sparkling with mischief and hope, âA short dress, because I know youâre going to throw me into the water.â
And here it was â your dream wedding, immortalised in your careful, imperfect handwriting and whimsical sketches.
Suddenly, everything crystallised in his mind. This was more than just a journal. More than memories and past moments preserved. This was your past, your present, and your future. A future you imagined with him, sketched out in painstaking detail and bursting with hope.
âY/NâŠâ His voice was fragile, barely audible, a whisper weighted with emotion.
You shook your head slowly, like shaking away the doubts lingering in the air between you.
âIâm a crappy partner,â you confessed, your voice breaking slightly but steady in its truth. âI know that better than anyone. Youâve seen the wreckage â every reckless night, every wild party, every time I came stumbling home drunk, and you stayed up taking care of me, even though you didnât have to. Maybe you were too young to bear that kind of responsibility, but you did it anyway. Water, aspirin, helping me change into pyjamas, holding my hair back so gently it almost broke my heart. You witnessed every other guy, every careless kiss, every mistake. You shouldnât have...â
Your voice caught in your throat. You shook your head and closed the journal carefully, as if sealing away your deepest fears.
But when you met his eyes, you saw something there that made your heart tremble â vulnerability so pure, so unguarded, it was like he was laying his soul bare just for you.
You took a deep breath, grounding yourself in the weight of the moment. âIâm not surprised you doubt me. Iâm not surprised youâre scared Iâll leave. But I promise you â I wonât. Not ever. And this,â you said, holding up the journal gently, âthis is what I hold onto every single day. Every time we talk about our future â I mean it. You are my future, Connie.â
The pounding of his heart pressed against your ribs was a thunderous echo in your chest, a pulse you could feel in your fingertips. You realised then that he had never truly understood the depth of your feelings, the fierce way you clung to him, to us.
âAll of this... itâs us. Our future. And you⊠you want it? With me?â His voice was hesitant, fragile, laced with disbelief and hope intertwined.
You nodded, your hands trembling slightly as you cupped his face, your thumbs tracing the familiar planes of his jaw.
âOnly you. No one else. Youâre my Connie, my baby. And I⊠fuck, I want you. Us. Our life together.â
His breath caught, and his nose brushed softly against yours in a tender, electric moment. âI want that too,â he whispered, âmore than you could ever imagine.â
âIâm sorry my lifestyle made you doubt what I feel for you,â you admitted softly, your voice barely more than a breath but heavy with honesty. âBecause I do feel it. And Iâm not scared to say it anymore. I shouldâve told you long ago.â
He shook his head, silencing you with a kiss that was slow, deliberate, and full of all the things neither of you could say. It was a kiss that answered every fear, every hope, every whispered dream.
âYouâre my everything,â he breathed when he pulled back, voice rough with emotion. âFrom the day I met you, youâve been everythingâmy whole world. And I never want to lose you.â
His vulnerability cracked open something deep inside you. Your lips found his again, heart pounding wildly, warmth flooding through your veins like liquid fire.
âYouâll never lose me,â you promised, your voice steady and certain, a vow that echoed in the quiet room like a sacred prayer.
For a moment, all the noise of the world faded away. There was only this â the two of you, tangled together in the fragile glow of hope and love, standing on the edge of forever.
A/N: Hello! Now you know how reader and Connie labelled their relationship. In their own way. In reader's own artistic way. This idea has been in my head for ages, and I hope you love it just as much as I do <3 if youâve read it before, no you havenât đ«Ł
Summary: Sirius waits up in the Gryffindor common room, unable to sleep after hearing you were out with a Ravenclaw guy. Jealousy, miscommunication, and late-night confessions unfold by the firelight-until you finally remind him that you're his, and he's yours.
Warnings/tags: angst â softness âą hurt/comfort âą possessive!Sirius âą established-but-unspoken feelings âą slight miscommunication âą post-argument cuddles âą English is not my first language
It was lateâfar too late for the common room to still be this quiet, save for the soft crackle of the dying fire. The shadows danced lazily along the stone walls, and Sirius sat alone on the worn couch by the fireplace, the dim glow casting sharp lines across his face. He was waiting. He hadnât moved in what felt like hours. Restless, unable to sleep. Not since the boys had mentioned you were outâwith some Ravenclaw bloke, no less.
That single comment had unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. The idea that you'd gone off with someone else, without even telling him, gnawed at his insides like a splinter he couldnât get out. You were... well, whatever you were. Best friends, maybe something more. Titles didnât matter much to him. What mattered was you. And in his mind, you were his.
Eventually, the portrait hole creaked open, the sound echoing in the stillness of the room. You stepped inside, wrapped in the cool night air, not seeming to notice Sirius hunched on the couch in the shadows. Your eyes scanned the common room, searching. Your gaze swept past him at firstâbut then you spotted him. His frame partially illuminated by the firelight, arms folded, gaze unreadable.
You walked closer, a small, familiar smile playing at your lips. The kind you always gave him, like the world beyond the two of you barely existed. You sank down onto the couch beside him, crossing your legs comfortably as if this was just another night. No tension. No questions. Just the two of you.
âThought youâd be asleep by now,â you said softly, propping your head on your elbow against the cushion, eyes gentle as always. âI was on my way to join you.â
Join him. Just like every other time.
But something in the air had shifted, and you could feel it. Subtle, but present. The warmth between you was still there, but under the surface, something pulled tight. Sirius sat up a little straighter, adjusting his position to face you better. His voice came low, barely above a whisper.
âI couldnât sleep.â
Your brows furrowed slightly, a flicker of concern passing through your expression, but you didnât press. Instead, you leaned forward and rested your chin on his knees, your eyes studying his face in the firelight, searching for something unsaid.
âWhere were you?â he asked finally, voice careful but quiet. The question lingered between you like smoke.
âBlack Lake,â you replied, your tone light, nonchalant. You didnât elaborate, didnât offer details. Just that. As if it hadnât been the only thing rattling around in his head since sunset.
Your fingers idly traced the hem of your sleeve, and then you looked up at him again. âWhy couldnât you sleep?â you asked, this time with a bit more weight in your voiceâcuriosity laced with worry. It was usually you who struggled with sleep. Not him.
He leaned back slightly, arms folding across his chest in a way that tried too hard to look casual. But you knew him too well. His jaw was tight. His eyes flickered, avoiding yours.
âJust couldnât,â he shrugged. âHad a lot on my mind, I guess.â
Your chin still rested gently against his knee, but you tilted your head slightly to the side, waiting. Watching. His gaze finally met yours again, this time more steady. âWhy were you at the Black Lake?â he asked, trying to keep the question even, unaffected.
âWas meeting up with a friend,â you answered, just as lightly as before. Shrugged it off like it meant nothing. Maybe to you, it didnât. Maybe it was just a night walk with someone who didnât matter. But to himâit had mattered all evening. The thought of you out there, with someone else. Laughing, talking. It had driven him mad.
And now, here you were. Oblivious to the storm you'd stirred up, more focused on the shift in him than the fact you'd never told him who you were seeing. You looked at him, your smile softening.
âWhatâs going on in that pretty head of yours?â
Sirius clenched his jaw for a moment, teeth pressing together. That wordâfriendâechoed in his mind. Too vague. Too convenient. He hated how casual you were about it. How easy it was for you to leave him behind tonight.
âNothing important,â he lied, brushing it off. He didnât want to say the truth: that the silence of your absence had been louder than the fire, that heâd sat here with your name stuck in his throat for hours.
He shifted on the couch, the ache in his chest still lingering, still pulling. His voice dropped to almost a whisper as he looked at you again, expression unreadable.
âYouâre back late.â
You frowned. Sirius never usually commented when you returned lateânot like this. Most nights, heâd already be in bed by now, half-asleep, waiting for you to sneak into the dorm so you could curl up beside him without a word. Whatever this was⊠it felt off. Not just the tension, but him. The way he avoided your question, the way he pulled awayâit wasnât like him. He never hid from you. Never shut you out. If something was wrong, he just said it. Blunt. Honest. That was part of what you loved about him.
âI got caught up in a conversation,â you said slowly, your voice soft as you tilted your head, trying to read his mood. You reached for his handâyour usual gesture, the one that always grounded both of youâbut he shifted, subtly, just enough that your fingers brushed only fabric. You frowned again, the knot in your stomach tightening.
âWhatâs going on with you?â you asked, brows pulling together, concern spilling into your voice. âAre you sure youâre alright?â
Sirius didnât meet your eyes. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck, the nervous gesture making your chest ache a little. He looked cornered, like a wild thing trying to escape something it couldnât quite name.
âIâm fine,â he snapped.
The words cracked the air between you like a whip, sharp and unexpected. Even he looked surprised by the force of it. He closed his eyes for a second, then sighed, running a hand through his hair with visible frustration.
âI just⊠I donât like you being out so late, thatâs all.â
His words only deepened your confusion. Not because of the sentimentâyou knew he cared, even worried about you more than heâd ever admitâbut it wasnât just what he said. It was everything around it. The tension in his shoulders. The way he wouldnât let you touch him. The coldness in his voice that didnât match the warmth in his eyes.
You sat up slightly, pulling back just enough to look at him properly, studying his expression.
You were sure you left a note. Told James to give it to him before Quidditch practice, so he wouldnât worry. So he knew not to wait up. Or maybe⊠maybe you hadnât? Maybe you thought you had and forgot in the rush of the day. But stillâit wasnât like Sirius to get this upset about it.
âWell, sorryâŠâ you murmured, your voice quiet but not defensive. âBut Iâm back now. So⊠we can catch up, or go to sleep, like always.â
Sirius exhaled slowly, guilt flickering behind his eyes. He knew he was being unfair, but that possessive streakâthe one he hated and couldnât shakeâhad gotten the better of him tonight.
âNo, you donât have to apologise,â he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair again. âI just⊠I was worried.â
He leaned back against the armrest, finally looking at you without flinching, eyes darker than usual. âWho were you with, anyway? This friend of yours.â
You sighed again, heavier this time. You werenât trying to hide anything. But something in his voice made it clear he didnât believe that. Still, you reached for him againâand this time, you didnât let go. Your fingers closed around his hand and held it, gentle but certain. He hesitated for a second, but didnât pull away.
âA friend from Ravenclaw. My year,â you said simply, your voice calm. âNothing important, really.â
And it wasnât. It was just some harmless conversation, something forgettable. All you wanted now was to slip upstairs, change into something warm, slide beneath the covers next to Sirius, and sleep. Just a few hours of peace. The day had been long enough.
But Sirius didnât relax. He didnât soften. That tightness in his jaw remained, his body tense beneath your touch.
âRight,â he muttered. âJust a friend.â
His voice was taut, too taut, and you could practically feel the knot forming in his chest. You hated how you knew what he was thinking. How he was overanalysing every word. Torturing himself over something that didnât matter.
You let out a frustrated breath, squeezing his hand just a little.
He wasnât being himself. Or maybe⊠maybe he was. This was the part of him that got trapped in his own mind sometimes. The version of Sirius that didnât know how to say âIâm scaredâ without making it sound like an accusation. The version too proud to admit when he felt hurt or left out.
You shifted closer again, your voice soft, but firm this time.
âPads⊠Iâm gonna ask one more timeâwhat on Merlinâs beard is going on with you?â
Sirius fidgeted under your gaze, his posture tense, shoulders tight with the weight of everything unsaid. You could see itâthe way he shifted, trying to look unaffected, but failing miserably. He had always been proud. Vulnerability didnât come easy to him, not even with you. Admitting to insecurities, to feelings that made him feel exposed⊠it was like surrendering a piece of himself.
âNothing,â he said stubbornly, voice tight. âI told you, Iâm fine.â
He tried again to pull his hand from yours, but you held on tighter this time, refusing to let him slip away from you. Not like this.
âOh myâcan you stop trying to pull away?â you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. âI want to hold your hand, damn it.â
The frustration spilled out before you could reel it back. It stungâhow the boy who used to cling to you like you were the last safe thing in the world now recoiled like your touch burned. He had been your anchor, your constant. The only person you ever truly let in, the only one you let touch you. And now⊠now he was pulling away.
Sirius froze.
Your words hit him like a blow, cutting through the fog of jealousy and defensiveness heâd wrapped himself in all evening. He hadnât meant to hurt you. Merlin, he never meant to hurt you. And yet, here you wereâhurt, confused, and still reaching for him anyway.
His eyes finally lifted to yours, those grey stormy eyes of his locking with yours. The firelight flickered across his face, throwing shifting shadows along the angles of his jaw. For a moment, he looked so young. So unsure.
âI⊠Iâm sorry,â he murmured, the tension draining from his body all at once. âI didnât mean to pull away. I justâŠâ
I just donât like the thought of you being with someone else.
You stared at him, searching his face, your brows knitting together as your heart ached in your chest.
âWhat the hell is going on?â you asked, your voice low, tired. âI come in here ready to go to sleep, happy to finally see you after a long day, because weâve barely seen each otherâand now youâre just⊠youâre pushing me away like I did something wrong.â
His chest tightened at the sound of your voice. You werenât angry, not really. Just hurt. That made it worse. He hadnât meant to make you feel like this. But he had. Heâd let his emotions get the best of him. Again.
He sighed deeply, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. âI donât know. I just⊠I didnât like the thought of you being out with some other guy. It made meâŠâ
He trailed off for a second, then forced himself to say it. âIt made me jealous.â
You blinked, the word sinking in slowly.
Jealous. Sirius Blackâcocky, unshakable, never-bothered Sirius Blackâwas jealous. Over a guy who didnât matter at all. Over something that wasnât even worth your time.
âJealous?â you echoed, still trying to process it. âWhy would you be jealous? I told you it didnât matter. And I told you I was going to be back lateââ
You stopped mid-sentence.
Wait. Did you tell him?
Suddenly uncertain, you looked at him again, more closely this time. His confusion mirrored yours.
âI told James to give you a note,â you said slowly, frowning. âBefore Quidditch practice. I wrote something like, âIâll be late tonight, go to sleep. Iâm meeting with a friend to do DADA homework. Iâll try to get back to you as soon as possible.ââ
You tilted your head, brow furrowed. âYou didnât get it?â
Siriusâs entire demeanour shifted. He blinked, as if trying to rewind the whole day in his mind.
âNo,â he said, his voice quieter now. âI didnât get any note.â
He sounded genuinely confused, and for a moment, the both of you sat there in silence, the fire popping gently beside you. Siriusâs mind was spinningâhad James forgotten? Had he lost it? Why hadnât he just said something?
You let out a heavy breath, dragging a hand down your face.
âLet me guess,â you muttered. âJames got carried away chasing after Lily and forgot. Merlin knows it wouldnât be the first time. He probably still has the note stuffed somewhere in his robes.â
You leaned back against the couch, exhausted nowânot from the day, but from the sudden emotional whiplash.
You hated this. Miscommunication. The way it could ruin perfectly good moments. The way it could twist feelings and break things that were never meant to be broken.
Sirius stared at you for a long moment, guilt pooling in his chest.
Youâd tried. Youâd left a note. You hadnât kept secrets. You werenât hiding anything.
And still, heâd let his jealousy convince him otherwise.
Sirius let out a long sigh, frustration and guilt pooling in his chest like something heavy. He shouldâve known better. James was brilliant on a broom but hopeless when it came to multitaskingâespecially when Lily Evans was involved.
âYeah,â he muttered, voice resigned. âThat sounds exactly like something heâd do.â
Still holding your hand, he leaned back against the armrest, his grip softer now, more apologetic. His thumb brushed over your knuckles absently.
âIâm sorry I was being a git,â he said quietly. âI let my imagination run wild and turned it into something it wasnât.â
You let out a small exhale and gave him a lookâequal parts tired and affectionateâbefore gently pushing his knees apart. You crawled into the space between his legs without saying a word, letting your body settle against his. Your head found its place beneath his chin, fitting perfectly there like you always did, your weight warm against his chest. The fire crackled gently beside you, painting your skin in gold and amber hues.
âYouâre an idiot,â you mumbled into his shirt, your voice muffled but teasing, the words softened by the affection behind them.
Siriusâs heart stuttered in his chest at the feel of you so close, like the world had finally righted itself. His arm curled protectively around your back, holding you against him like heâd fall apart if he let go.
âYeah, I guess I am,â he murmured with a small laugh, the tension finally bleeding from his body.
With the hand that wasnât holding you close, he reached up and gently tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. His touch lingered, tender, reverent.
âBut Iâm your idiot,â he added with a lopsided smile, the words almost whispered.
You tilted your head just enough to look up at him, your chin resting on his collarbone. The space between you barely existed now, your noses nearly brushing. In the flickering firelight, you could see it clearlyâthe softness in his storm-grey eyes, a look he reserved only for you.
âYou are,â you said quietly, and even you could hear the weight behind those two small words.
His eyes searched yours for a moment, something unspoken passing between you. His arm around your waist tightened instinctively, pulling you closer into him, as if the nearness still wasnât enough.
âI know,â he breathed. âAnd I wouldnât have it any other way.â
His fingers traced the curve of your cheek, slow and gentle, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lipsâsubtle, but full of emotion. âYouâre stuck with me.â
You let out a quiet laugh, the sound warm against his throat. âSounds like a threat,â you teased, but your smile was soft as you leaned in, brushing your nose against his.
âCan we stop bothering with whoâs whose and whether the otherâs going to leave or not?â you whispered, your words threading between your breaths. âYouâre mine. Iâm yours. Iâm tired of pretending like it doesnât mean anything.â
Siriusâs breath caught at your words. His heart thudded in his chest, full and light all at once, like the very sound of your voice had knocked the air out of him.
âYouâre right,â he said, and this time, his voice held no hesitation. âIâm yours. Youâre mine. And weâre not going anywhere.â
He tilted his chin, finally closing the small distance between you, and pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss was softâtender, sureâbut it carried everything that hadnât been said aloud until now. It was a promise. A claim. A surrender.
And as you kissed him back, something settled inside you. Warmth bloomed in your chest, and you smiled against his mouth like you were the happiest girl in the worldâbecause in that moment, you were.
No more guessing. No more doubts.
Just this.
Him.
You.
Maybe you shouldâve thanked the Ravenclaw boy. Or James, for being too distracted by Lily to deliver a single note. Whatever it was, it brought you here.
And thisâthisâwas exactly where you wanted to be.
The floor barely creaks beneath your feet as you pad softly down the hallway, moving from the guest room toward his. The house is quiet, wrapped in the kind of late-night hush that feels almost sacred. Your parents are halfway across the country, visiting your aunt in Florida, and you stayed behind in Boston. Your plan? Spending the weekend at Conradâs. Of course. Susannah had insisted in that warm, unmistakably her wayâlike it was a given, not even something up for discussion. You were staying with them. You always did.
It wasnât unusual. Not in the slightest. Youâve been neighbours since you were seven and nine, and youâve known this houseâand the house in Cousins Beachâlike your own skin. The scent of vanilla clinging to the wood floors, the low hum of the street just outside, the creak in the third stair from the bottomâall of it has wrapped around you for so long it feels like home. Not just the house. Them. Him.
Every version of you seems laced into the fabric of this place. Especially the parts tied to him. To Conrad.
The line between you blurred a long time ago, and by now, itâs dissolved entirely. Itâs official, sure, but labels never really mattered to either of you. You never needed words like "boyfriend" or "girlfriend" to know what you were to each other. Still, thereâs something sweet in the quiet understanding that pulses beneath every glance and touch: Iâm yours, and youâre mine.
Loving Conrad feels like waking up slowly on a Sunday morningâquiet, warm, timeless. And tonight, youâre making your way to his room with the same ease youâve always had, the floor familiar under your bare feet, the soft cotton of his old T-shirt brushing your thighs. Youâre careful not to wake Susannah or alert Jeremiah, though you doubt anyone would care. This wasnât new. Youâve been slipping into Conradâs room long before anything was declared between you. Everyone knows. And when he kissed youâhe did it for the world to see.
At this point, the whole "guest room" charade feels silly. Youâre not kids anymore. Sharing space with him has been the norm for years, even before either of you dared call it what it was.
You reach his door and push it open without a knock. His room is dim, bathed in a soft, honeyed glow from the bedside lamp. Heâs on the bed, propped up against the headboard, his bare chest rising and falling gently beneath the covers. Only a pair of sleeping shorts clings to his hips. The moment your eyes meet his, that familiar smile curves across his lipsâslow, lazy, warm.
You smile back, heart skipping, as he closes his laptop and sets it aside.
âYouâre quite late tonight,â he murmurs, voice low, coaxing, as he lifts the blankets, wordlessly inviting you in.
You shut the door behind you with a soft click and crawl across the bed toward him. His room has always been your favourite place. Itâs a perfect reflection of himâin the acoustic guitar leaning in the corner, the glint of trophies on the shelf, the textbooks stacked like tired soldiers on his desk. Soon, those will be replaced by heavier ones, full of college lectures and serious words. Youâre wearing one of his old shirtsâsoft, slightly oversized, with a faded logo on the chestâand a simple pair of navy lace underwear that rests snugly around your hips. Your hair is braided back, still damp from your evening shower, in hopes of keeping the waves for morning.
âI was on the phone with my mom,â you say, laughter dancing in your voice as you settle against him, your body tucking easily into the curve of his side. âAunt Jenny really wanted to join in.â
âSheâs always been talkative,â he says, voice laced with fondness as his arm curls around you, pulling you closer.
The moment youâre in his arms, you inhaleâand there it is. The scent of him. Itâs always different here. In Cousins, itâs sea salt, sun, and wind. But in Boston, itâs something else. That cologne you gave him for Christmas a few years agoâlemon, pink pepper, a hint of mintâstill clings to his skin. Heâs never changed it. The fact that he still wears it makes your chest ache, in the best way.
His hand finds your hair without hesitation, fingers slipping gently between the strands. He scratches your scalp in slow, steady movements that make your whole body soften. You close your eyes, a quiet groan slipping from your lips, content and half-asleep already.
Nothing beats the feeling of his hands on you. In any way, at any time.
But now, in this moment, thereâs no more distance. Just you and him, curled up in the safety of his room, where everything feels quiet and right and like the world has finally exhaled.
âI missed you today,â you whisper, voice soft against the hum of the quiet room. The words fall from your lips almost shyly, though you mean every syllable. You donât always say it. But tonight, it slips out easilyâlike a secret you no longer want to keep.
His face softens the moment he hears it. That lookâthe one where all the walls drop. He loves when you say things like that. When you admit it out loud. It makes him feel seen, wanted, needed. Loved.
âI missed you too, baby,â he murmurs, his voice a low balm against your skin. His fingers never stop moving through your hair, gently untangling the strands as though heâs grounding himself in the feeling of you. Your hand still rests lightly on his stomach, tracing faint shapes against his skin.
âIâve been a walking ball of stress lately,â he admits, barely louder than a breath. Thereâs something in his toneâtired, raw, honest. You lift your head and look at him properly, eyes searching his with quiet concern.
âYouâre putting too much on yourself,â you say, the words steady but soft. âYou deserve a break just like everyone else. You know that, right?â
He exhales, the sound low and weighted. Youâve seen it beforeâthe way he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. Conrad has a bad habit of trying to be perfect. Of fixing everything and everyone, even when it leaves him splintered inside. Heâll set himself on fire just to keep others warm, and youâve never let that go on for too long. You canât. Watching him unravel hurts you too deeply.
Because if anyone deserves peace, itâs him. The sun, the moon, the fucking starsâyouâd hand them over if it meant heâd smile a little longer. Hell, youâve painted them for him before. But if he ever asked, youâd give him the real thing.
âLetâs just relax, alright?â he murmurs, his fingers drifting from your hair to your cheek, stroking your skin with the kind of tenderness that makes your breath catch. âI think I need that tonight.â
Your teeth sink into your lower lip as you lean into his palm. You do miss himâmore than usual, more than youâve even let yourself admit. Lately, he's been buried in books, chasing the future, pushing himself past every breaking point. And youâre proud. So unbelievably proud. But you still ache for him. For this. For touch. For the way he can ignite every nerve in your body with just one look.
You hum quietly, shifting closer until your noses brush. That simple touch sends a tremor through both of you. His breath catchesâhe always reacts like that when youâre this closeâand his hand slips down to your waist, his grip tightening just slightly. You feel the heat of him, the simmering tension beneath the exhaustion. That kind of tired that doesnât come from studying or late nights. The kind that says I miss you in ways I donât have words for.
âI think relaxing is a great idea,â you whisper, your lips grazing his. The smallest spark. His eyes darken. You hear the sound he makesâa quiet groan, like heâs already slipping underâand you smile against his mouth.
âI have a few ideas, actually.â
Normally, heâd tease you. Ask what you were going to do. Drag it out just to hear you say it aloud. But not tonight.
Tonight, heâs starved.
His mouth crashes onto yours, all restraint shattered. The kiss is deep, desperateâlike heâs been holding his breath for weeks and youâre the only thing that could fill his lungs. You sigh into him, your hand cradling his cheek, trying to pull him impossibly closer. The heat is immediate, all-consuming. His hand clenches around your waist as he shifts you onto his lap with effortless strength.
You straddle him, the hem of his old t-shirt riding up your thighs. He doesnât hesitateâhis hands move there, gripping your bare flesh like heâs anchoring himself. You feel his fingers tighten, feel the warmth of his skin searing into yours. When he bites your lip, you gasp, your arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer, tighter. You thread your fingers into his hair and tug gently. He groans again, the sound low and wrecked.
âYou have no idea,â he pants against your lips, âhow fucking much Iâve missed having you like this.â
Your breath stutters, and you tug at his hair harder, your body pressing down into his. He growlsâan honest-to-god growlâand his hands slide down, kneading the back of your thighs with a kind of urgency that sends sparks licking up your spine.
His tongue slips between your lips, coaxing yours into a slow, dizzying dance. The kiss turns messy, all teeth and heat and hunger. Your hands move to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you try to anchor yourself against the rising tide inside you. The ache between your legs grows unbearable, the damp heat of your lace underwear clinging to you, and all you want is more. All of him.
You whimper into his mouth as his hands wander, teasing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. The sound you make is involuntary, helpless. Your lungs start to burn, but you donât want to stop. Still, he seems to sense itâlike he always doesâand finally pulls away, both of you gasping for breath.
You rest your forehead against his, the space between you charged and trembling. Your lips are swollen, cheeks flushed, your whole body buzzing with tension and want. Heâs panting too, his eyes blown wide with desire but still locked on yours like youâre the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
You stay like that for a momentâjust breathing each other in, hearts pounding, skin flushed and electric.
âConnieâŠâ
His name spills from your lips in a breathless rasp, shaky and aching with need. You feel like youâre unraveling alreadyâand he hasnât even properly touched you yet. But the way heâs watching you? Like heâs starving. Like youâre the only thing in the world that could possibly satisfy him. Itâs almost too much.
His eyesâdark, hungry, and completely locked on youâdonât waver as his hand slips between your thighs, pushing the soaked lace of your underwear to the side. The fabric clings to your skin, drenched, and the moment the cool air hits you, you gasp. Then his fingers brush over your clitâjust onceâand your whole body jolts, hips twitching instinctively.
âFuckââ you breathe, barely able to get the word out as his fingers slide through your slick, collecting your arousal, dragging it down your slit. Itâs embarrassing how wet you already are, how just his presenceâhis hands, his voiceâcan make you come undone like this.
You arch your back, chest pressing into his as your head tips back, baring your throat. And he wastes no time. His mouth descends to your neck, his lips hot and soft at firstâthen rougher, hungrier. He sucks bruises into your skin, tiny marks of possession youâll try and fail to hide later. You moan, the sound swallowed by the heat of his mouth, your body grinding against his hand, chasing more friction.
He chuckles against your throat, but itâs not mocking. Itâs low, reverent. His fingers finally slip inside youâone at first, so slowly it feels like a tease. You gasp, your walls fluttering around him in response, welcoming the stretch. You canât help the soft moan that escapes you.
Then he adds a second finger.
Your breath hitches. The sensation is perfectâfull and deep, just enough to make your toes curl but not enough to satisfy the greedy pull in your belly. You clutch at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself.
âOh godâdonât stop,â you whisper, voice barely a thread. Your eyes flutter closed, your lips parted, every muscle in your body focused on the place where heâs inside you.
He watches you with aweâutterly transfixed. You, in his lap, moving on his fingers like you were made for this. Made for him. And maybe you were. His free hand slips beneath your shirt, skimming up your stomach, the warmth of his palm searing into your skin. He grips your hip tightly, holding you steady as you begin to moveâyour hips rolling down, seeking more, chasing your own pleasure with a desperation that borders on frantic.
The pressure builds fast when his thumb finds your clit, circling it with maddening precision. Of course he knows exactly how to touch you. He always has. Itâs a language only the two of you speak.
âConnieâŠâ you whimper, clenching around him. He groans at the feeling, and you feel it echo in your chest.
He adds a third finger.
You cry out, biting your lip hard to stifle the sound. The stretch is sudden, overwhelming, but perfect. You fall forward, arms wrapping around him for support. Your face buries into the crook of his neck as you pant against his skin.
âMissed seeing you like this, sweetheart,â he breathes out, his voice hoarse, reverent. âFuck, you feel so good. So perfect.â
The words make your heart ache and your stomach twist all at once. He always says them like theyâre truths written in scriptureâlike thereâs never been a doubt. You donât even realise how wildly your hips are moving until he tightens his grip on you, guiding you, anchoring you. The wet sound of his fingers working in and out of you fills the room, lewd and intoxicating.
âThatâs it, baby. Just like that,â he murmurs, eyes locked on you like youâre the most breathtaking thing heâs ever seen. âYou look so beautiful.â
Your body trembles, the tension in your core rising with every stroke, every curl of his fingers inside you. Youâre lost. Absolutely drowning in him. His voice, his hands, his scentâeverything is too much and not enough. Your nails dig into his shoulders as your moans grow louder, breath hitching every time his thumb presses just right.
âConnie, babyâfuck, donât stop⊠please,â you whimper into his neck, your voice cracking as the edge draws nearer. His grip bruises your hip now, and you know itâll leave marks come morning. You donât care. You want the marks. Want the reminder that thisâheâis yours.
âShhhâŠâ he soothes, his voice low and velvety against your ear. âIâve got you, sweetheart. Youâre doing so well, riding my hand like this. Feels good, yeah? Câmon, baby, show me how good it feelsâŠâ
You bite his shoulder to keep the cry from tearing out of your throat. His fingers pump faster, deeper, and you can barely breathe.
You need more.
And then he finds itâthat spot deep inside you that makes everything in you snap tight.
Your whole body seizes, a shudder wracking through you. He holds you tightly as your hips buck against his palm, your orgasm crashing into you so hard you swear the air leaves your lungs. Your head falls back and your lips part in a silent cryâbut his hand is there, pressing over your mouth, catching the sounds that surely wouldâve earned you teasing stares and knowing grins over breakfast.
âThere you go,â he whispers, brushing his lips against your cheek, voice thick with pride and something deeper. âShhh⊠gotta be quiet, sweetheart.â
You can barely hear him over the pounding in your chest, the trembling in your limbs.
âLook at you,â he breathes. âSo perfect.â
His fingers slow but donât stop, helping you ride out every last wave of pleasure. Itâs too much, but you donât want it to end. He knows exactly how to prolong it, how to coax your body through every shiver, every aftershock, until you collapse against him, boneless and dazed.
Youâre floating. Warm, weightless, and held so carefully in his arms.
And he never stops looking at you like youâre everything.
Youâre breathless, your chest rising and falling against his, your entire body trembling in the aftermath of your release. Every nerve feels lit from withinâhypersensitive and aching for more. He slows his movements, fingers still inside you but gentler now, coaxing soft pulses from your already spent body. His hand moves from your mouth to the back of your neck, grounding you with his touch before he pulls you into another kiss.
This one is slower. Deeper. But still urgent in its own wayâlike he's trying to speak through it, say everything he's feeling without needing words. And you kiss him back like youâre drowning in him. Like you need his lips to keep breathing. Itâs raw. Devouring. The kind of kiss that says donât ever leave.
His fingers curl just right inside you again, and your body tightens, clenching around him involuntarily. You whimper into his mouth, still buzzing from the orgasm he just gave you, still helpless to the way he knows every part of you so intimately.
âYouâre so beautiful when you come,â he whispers against your lips, his voice husky and reverent.
Your cheeks flush instantly, heat blooming beneath your skin. You look away, but he doesnât let you. His gaze stays locked on yours, pulling you back in.
âDid you know that?â he continues, softer now. âLike a work of art. The kind you create.â His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, and your heart stutters at the way he says itânot lustful, not teasingâjust honest. âI could watch you like this all the time.â
You never understand how he does itâhow he can praise you so shamelessly, make your legs shake and your head spin one moment, and then, in the next breath, turn into this. Gentle. Unshakeably sincere. Soft in a way thatâs more disarming than any dirty word could ever be.
You love that about him.
God, you love him.
Your foreheads rest together, breath mingling in the narrow space between you. You smile, still dizzy, still aching, still trying to catch up with the pace of your own heart.
âI missed that,â you rasp, voice hoarse and shaky from everything he just pulled from you.
His eyes soften immediately, and he kisses you again, lips curling slightly into a smile that you feel more than see. âI missed that too,â he murmurs, like itâs a secret.
His free hand drifts to your braid, fingers expertly loosening it as he slips the tie from your hair and slides it onto his wrist like a promise. Your hair falls around your face in soft waves, and he brushes a few strands aside, tucking them behind your ear. Then his leg shifts beneath you, spreading your thighs wider, and before you can register itâbefore you can breathe or brace or even blinkâhe flips you onto your back, body covering yours like a storm rolling in.
The gasp rips out of your throat as your back hits the mattress, your hands instinctively gripping his shoulders, eyes wide and wild. But heâs already there, already hovering above you, eyes locked on yours with that look. That look. The one that says youâre his entire world and heâs about to worship you like it.
His voice drops to a growl, low and sinful, his fingers now gripping your hips tightly. âAnd weâre far from done, angel.â He leans down, brushing his lips against your jaw, his breath hot and heavy. âBy the time morning comes, the only thing youâll remember is my name.â
His eyes are dark. Darker than before. Hungry. And you know what that look means.
It means youâre not sleeping tonight.
You swallow hard, your body already arching into his, legs falling open as if on instinct. Your underwear is already pulled off you, skin is flushed, your breath shallow, your heart beating too fast and not fast enough.
And the truth is?
You want it.
Every bit of it.
Again and again and again.
A/N: Closer glance into the past of Conrad and reader as an actual couple đ I had to write this since episode 5 aired. This is the part of their life when theyâre already in an established relationship đ«Łđ
Conrad Fisher x ex!fem!reader | part 2 part 3 this story is set in the Oceans Universe. Check chronology before reading.
Summary: When Conrad calls you from Cousins Beach, you expect a catch-up. Instead, he tells you Belly and Jeremiah just showed up engaged. What starts as a late-night FaceTime turns into sixteen years of friendship unraveling: old wounds, unspoken love, and the sting of realising he still hasnât let go of her⊠and maybe never will.
Warnings/tags: angst, season 3 spoilers, Conrad doesn't know what he wants, mild swearing if you squint, English is not my first language
Word count: 4.2k
The beach house looked the same from the outside as it always had, but the moment Conrad stepped inside, it felt different. Four summers had passed since you were last here with himâthe last one before you left for New York. Until now, he hadnât realised how much the house had become a place that only existed in his memory, polished and softened by time like a piece of sea glass.
The first few days had been calm. Quiet mornings. Coffee on the porch. The endless rhythm of the ocean filling in the jagged edges of a life that had been all sharp corners ever since med school began. For the first time in a long time, it felt like he could breathe again.
Until today.
Jeremiah and Belly had shown up unannounced and engaged. Engaged. And now Belly was staying in the house.
The place suddenly felt much too small.
Later, after everyone had retreated to their own corners, Conrad shut himself in his room. The night pressed close around the windows, the only light the pale glow of his laptop on the desk. He sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, and hit FaceTime.
The screen flickered, and then there you were. Hair pulled back in a messy bun, a faint streak of dried paint on the collar of an old T-shirt. Behind you, the walls of your apartment were soft gallery white, and somewhere beyond the glass he could hear the hum of the cityâmuffled, like a heartbeat.
âHey,â you said, a slow, surprised smile tugging at your lips when you saw him. âYou look⊠stressed. Bad day?â
âYou have no idea,â he answered, leaning back against the wall.
Your brows knit together, your eyes sharpening with concern. âWhat happened?â
He let out a long breath, dragging a hand over his face. âThey showed up.â
âWho?â
âJeremiah,â he said, pausing as if the next word might hit harder if he said it too fast. âAnd Belly.â
You straightened, folding your legs beneath you. âWait. What? Why are they there?â
âTheyâre engaged,â he said. Saying it out loud still sounded absurd. âThey came because Belly had a huge fight with her mom. So sheâs staying.â
The call went quiet, except for the faint hiss of city noise coming through on your side.
You blinked slowly, each word settling like a stone. âEngaged,â you repeated, as if saying it might help you believe it.
âYeah,â he said quietly. He never got to tell you after that stunt they pulled off at the diner.
You just stared at him for a long moment. He saw the crease form between your brows, the small tightness in your mouth as you thought.
âAnd youâre okay with that?â you asked finally. Your voice was steady, but there was something simmering under it.
A dry laugh escaped him, humourless. He tilted his head back against the wall, meeting your eyes through the screen.
âI honestly donât know what Iâm supposed to feel right now,â he admitted. âSo tell me, what do you think I should do?â
You shook your head, exhaling sharply. âShit. Are you serious? Belly and Jeremiah? Engaged? Theyâre kids.â
He could see you trying to process it, to make sense of something that didnât make sense.
âWell,â you said after a moment, âare you going to stay there or fly back to California? What about that summer job at the clinic? Thereâs no way you can just go back?â You hesitated, then added quietly, âI know you lost it on your first day. With Stevenâs accident and all.â
Conradâs mouth curved faintly despite himself. Even now, you still had a way of cutting straight to the heart of things. You always had.
He let out another breath. The truth was, he had a flight booked for Saturday. But after today? He wasnât sure he even wanted to be on it.
âI donât even know anymore,â he admitted, fingers raking through his hair.
You studied him on the screen. At least this time, for once, you were in the same time zone. When heâd been in California and you in New York, catching each other had been harder. Or maybe it just felt hard because most of the time, he hadnât answered.
âAnd that engagementâŠâ you began, shaking your head. âHow do you feel about it? Because, letâs be honestâitâs ridiculous. Theyâre kids. Didnât you tell me Jere has to repeat a semester? And he owes your dad twenty grand? Itâs insane.â
Conradâs jaw tightened, a muscle flickering in his cheek. He knew it was stupid, reckless. And hearing you say it made it all too real. Like you were giving shape to the very thoughts heâd been trying to bury all afternoon.
He sighed, shoulders heavy. You always saw right through him.
âConnie, baby, câmon. Talk to me,â you said as you moved from one room of your apartment to another, phone in hand.
Her wordsâyour voiceâwashed over him like a tide. He hated how much just hearing you say his name could undo him.
He looked up, the screenâs blue light painting his face. You were in your pyjamas now, hair loose around your shoulders. Just looking at you eased something in his chest, even as everything else tightened.
âItâs just⊠itâs a mess, â he said finally, the words tumbling out. âTheyâre kids. They donât know what theyâre doing. And Jeremiahâheâs barely getting his life together. He doesnât even have a job.â
He paused, swallowing hard.
âAnd then thereâs⊠Belly.â
The name caught in his throat, and you stiffened slightly. âYeah, thereâs Belly,â you echoed. âBelly, whoâs now going to be staying alone with you in that house for God knows how long,â you added, raising a brow.
You didnât like it. Not one bit.
Conradâs jaw tightened again, hearing exactly what you werenât saying.
Belly, with those brown eyes and that familiar laugh. Belly, who had been his best friendâs little sister. Belly, whoâ
He forced a humourless laugh. âDonât tell me youâre jealous.â
âVery funny,â you shot back, your expression flat. âItâs completely fine that your ex-girlfriend is right there with you, all alone. Ex-girlfriend who will be in love with you forever, no matter if she marries your brother or not.â
Your words struck something deep, and he hated the bitterness laced in your tone.
He raked a hand through his hair, frustration rippling through him. âYou canât seriously thinkââ
âAre you trying to bullshit yourself or me right now?â you cut him off, brow arched. You propped your phone up on the nightstand, climbed into bed with your laptop and a bowl of mac and cheese, still watching him.
He shut his mouth, staring at you, guilt twisting inside him.
âIâm not trying to bullshit anyone, especially not you,â he said finally.
âLook,â you said, stabbing at the pasta with your fork, âall Iâm saying is that she will always be in love with you, and everybody knows it. Probably even Jere knows it, and theyâre engaged. Heâs back in Boston, doing that internship for your dad, and sheâs thereâalone with you. Thatâs all Iâm saying.â
Conradâs jaw tightened again. He hated that you were right.
âSo what, you think Iâm just gonna⊠hook up with her?â he asked, trying not to sound defensive.
âI think youâre too selfless to do that to Jere,â you replied, sliding your glasses on and opening your laptop. âBut I do think youâd be more than willing to hook up with her if the situation were different.â The bitterness in your voice slipped out before you could stop it.
The tension between you thickened with every word. Youâd never believed much in the so-called change heâd claimed over the years, and the sting of that was something he felt all over again now.
âYou think you know me so well, donât you?â he said, sharper than he intended.
You scoffed. âOh, please. Are we really doing this? Is this high school all over again?â Your gaze flicked back to the screen. âConnie, all Iâm saying is that⊠we both know the truth, whether you want to admit it or not. And youâre asking me what youâre supposed to do about Belly.â Your voice cracked slightly. âI just think itâs unfair. Out of line.â
Conradâs eyes narrowed. The implication that he still had feelings for Bellyâfeelings that werenât for you.
âOut of line,â he echoed, his voice tight. âYou think talking to you about my ex-girlfriend is out of line? Even though weâre not together anymore?â
âYes,â you said flatly. âItâs unfair to me. Itâs uncomfortable. Especially when Iâm in a whole different city, doing something completely separate from this.â
His jaw tightened again, anger flaring, guilt following close behind.
âSo you expect me to just⊠not talk to you about it?â he asked.
âOh my godâŠâ You dragged a hand over your face. âFine. Tell me, straight up, what you want to do about it?â You set the laptop and bowl aside and stared directly into the camera. âYou see her for the first time in two years, sheâs engaged to your brother whoâs gone for a week, leaving you alone with her in that house. What does Conrad Fisher do? Tell me.â
Conrad sagged back against the headboard. The truth was simple but impossible.
âI donât know,â he admitted, his voice rough. âHonestly? I donât know.â
Seeing Belly again had shaken him more than he cared to admit. Heâd spent four years burying his feelings for her, but seeing her nowâall those old feelings came rushing back.
And you could see it. You could see it all over his face. And it hurt. Because you knew then, with painful clarity, that it wasnât you. It never was.
âMy advice? Stay away from her unless you want to lose your brother,â you said coldly, turning back to your laptop.
Conradâs chest tightened at the iciness in your tone. It stung more than he expected.
âWhy did you call me?â you asked suddenly, still typing. The words came out low, pained. âDo you have any idea how happy I was when I saw your name on my screen? And of all things, we end up talking about her.â
He sank into himself, all the fight gone. âBecause I needed to hear you,â he said finally, raw honesty in his voice. âI needed to hear your voice.â
Your fingers stilled on the keyboard. For a moment you just sat there, staring at the screen, throat tight.
âWell, you heard it,â you said after a moment, softer now. âYou heard my opinion. And now what?â
Conrad dragged a hand down his face. âAnd now I try desperately to ignore the fact that Belly being here makes me feel things I shouldnât feel.â
You nodded, eyes fixed on your laptop. âIf this was just awkward, Iâd fly there,â you said. âLike the good friend I am. But this? This isnât just awkward. Itâs because you still have feelings for her. And that? I canât help you with.â
The word âfriendâ hit him like a punch.
âYouâre really going to pull the friend card right now?â he asked, his voice rough.
âIsnât that what Iâve been for sixteen years?â you said bitterly. âThe best friend. Thatâs all Iâve ever been.â
His jaw clenched. He inhaled deeply, forcing down his frustration.
âItâs not all youâve ever been.â
You clicked your tongue. âThat was the past. And now, after four years, weâre here, talking about Belly again. Itâs pathetic.â You closed your laptop sharply. âItâs pathetic for me, donât you think?â
He sagged, the anger draining out of him. âPathetic?â he repeated, quietly. âIs that really how you see me?â
âConnie, baby, not everything revolves around you,â you said softly, your voice flat. âI see myself that way. Pathetic that Iâm still sitting here talking about this with you when I really, really donât want to.â
His chest tightened, words failing him. He wanted to tell you that you werenât pathetic. That you were everything. Strong and beautiful and always so far out of his league, it was almost comical. But he couldnât get the words out.
âIâm sorry,â he said finally, the words low, raw.
You stayed quiet for a long moment before you finally whispered, âSometimes I wonder if all those memories and plans we made as kids even matter anymore. I canât remember the last time I saw you. And the fact that you call me for this and not to check in⊠It tells me exactly how you feel about me now.â
Conrad felt the air leave his lungs. Guilt pooled in his chest, heavy and suffocating.
âI⊠I didnât mean for it to get like this,â he said softly. âYouâre still the closest person to me.â
âDoesnât feel like it. Hasnât felt like that in a long time,â you said quietly, your voice steadier than you felt. âAnd I get it. You left for California and cut yourself off from everybody for your own good. And Iâm happy for you, Connie. I really am. Iâm proud that youâre growing, that youâre healing, that med school is everything you wanted it to be.â
For a moment your lips trembled, the strength in your voice wavering. âBut I donât⊠know who you are anymore. I donât know you, Connie. I donât know the person I spent most of my life with. And it feels⊠awful.â
The words sliced through him like cold steel.
Until now, Conrad hadnât realised the full cost of his silence. He had been so focused on keeping himself afloat, on surviving med school, on burying his own pain, that he hadnât stopped to consider what his absence had done to the people who mattered mostâespecially you.
Guilt churned in his chest, bitter and sharp, as he stared at you on the screen. The sadness etched across your face, the hurt in your eyes, was worse than anything he could have imagined.
He opened his mouth, but the words stuck like stones in his throat. What could he possibly say to fix something like this? Could he even fix it?
âY/NâŠâ he started, but no more came out.
âI just wish you checked in on me the way I do from time to time,â you said, glancing at him through the screen, your voice quieter now, almost fragile. âAnd not just call me about your ex-girlfriend.â You let out a small, humourless laugh that sounded more like a crack in glass. âBecause, flash news, babyâIâm an ex too.â
You paused, your next words a whisper. âAnd I bet you donât talk to Belly about me. I bet you donât talk to anyone about me. Itâs like I stopped existing.â
The breath left his lungs like a punch.
The way your voice wavered broke something in him.
He felt like the worldâs biggest asshole, because you were right. You had been right all along.
Conrad dropped his gaze, unable to meet your eyes through the screen.
âYouâre not an ex,â he said finally, his voice low, gruff, almost desperate. âYouâre⊠you. Youâre my best friend.â
You swallowed hard, your jaw clenching as you nodded slowly. âIâm just⊠me. Good to know. So you have ex-girlfriendsâand then thereâs me. Just me,â you said, shaking your head, disbelief flashing in your eyes. âDo you know how humiliating that sounds? How belittling it feels?â
Conradâs chest tightened.
âI⊠I didnât mean it like that,â he said quickly, voice raw. âYouâre more than just âyou.â Youâreââ
But the sentence died in his throat. Because how do you explain that someone has always been everything when youâve made them feel like nothing?
You gave him no time to find the words.
âIâm gonna tell you who I am, Conrad,â you said, straightening a little as your voice turned sharp, every word trembling but full of fire. âIâm the invisible best friend. Iâm the forgotten ex-girlfriend. Iâm the person you call to talk about another exâthe one youâre still in love with.â
You blinked back the tears threatening to spill as you kept going.
âIâm someone whoâs been there for you for sixteen years. And in return? You donât bother to call unless I do first. Or nowâwhen you need to talk about Belly.â
Every word hit like a hammer.
âAnd Iâm someone whoâs been chasing a ghost for the past four years. Hoping, stupidly hoping, that maybe one day things would go back to normal. That maybe one day Iâd have you back. But tonight? This whole thing just proves that I was wrong. I over-calculated my chances. I have work in the morning. So goodnight.â
And before he could respond, the screen went black.
Conrad sat frozen, staring at his own reflection in the dark glass of his phone.
The silence that followed was crushing.
It settled over him like a heavy blanket, suffocating, filling his lungs with guilt and shame until he couldnât breathe.
Heâd messed up. Badly.
The weight of everything you had said pressed down on him, suffocating and relentless.
Iâm the invisible best friend.
The forgotten ex-girlfriend.
The person you call to talk about another ex.
The words replayed on an endless loop, each repetition cutting deeper.
He pressed a hand to his eyes, the guilt burning hot behind them.
How had he let it get this far?
He thought of every missed call, every unanswered text, every opportunity to check in that he had let slip by. Four years of silence that had built a wall between you so high, he didnât know if he could ever tear it down.
He thought of your laugh. The way you used to make fun of him until his stomach hurt. The nights youâd talk until the sun rose. The way you always seemed to know what to say, always seemed to understand him, even when he didnât understand himself.
And he had ruined it.
All of it.
He had been selfish, so wrapped up in his own pain and fear that heâd blinded himself to what you needed from him.
And in the process, heâd lost the one person who had always been there for him.
The one person who had never left.
Conrad leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his fingers tangled in his hair as the guilt rolled over him in crushing waves.
He had been terrified of feeling pain again. But tonight, as he sat alone in the dark, he realised that losing you hurt worse than anything he had ever been afraid of.
How the hell was he supposed to fix this?
Could he fix this?
Or was this the moment heâd finally lost you for good?
You woke up to chaos: your alarm hadnât gone off, your coffee spilled across the counter like an act of betrayal, and then traffic locked you in place for nearly an hour, leaving you with nothing but the thrum of engines and your own thoughts. By the time you finally reached the gallery, your mood was hanging by a thread.
Last night had poisoned the whole day before it even started.
The knowledge that Conrad was under the same roof as Bellyâthat after all this time he was still uncertain, still tornâburned inside you like acid. It wasnât just about Belly. It was about being reminded, in one terrible phone call, that no matter what history you and Conrad shared, she was still the ghost he couldnât shake.
And the fact that heâd called you only to talk about it?
Humiliating.
Pathetic.
You were angry.
So when, just past noon, a man came into the gallery holding a bouquet of flowers, you assumed there had been some mistake. You werenât expecting deliveries.
âMiss Y/L/N?â he asked, double-checking the note.
Your brows knit together as you signed for them.
The blooms were exquisiteâyour favourites. A riot of colour, soft and fragrant, standing out against the sterile white of the gallery walls.
Tucked between the stems was a card.
âIâm not asking for forgiveness. I just want you to know that Iâm truly sorry.
âCâ
Your fingers clenched on the paper until it bent. For a moment you wanted to throw the entire bouquet into the trash, as if that would erase the ache in your chest. Almost.
But you didnât.
You said nothing. You didnât text him. You didnât tell him the flowers had come or that they were beautiful. Because they were beautiful, and that made it worse. You were too hurt.
Conrad spent the entire day staring at his phone like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.
He wanted to call. He wanted to say somethingâanythingâto fix what he had broken. But he knew you needed space.
So he waited.
He checked the screen every few minutes, hoping, praying, for a message from you.
But nothing came.
As the hours dragged on, doubt began its slow creep.
What if she hates me now?
What if she never forgives me?
By the late afternoon, those doubts had transformed into certainties. He had convinced himself that the last four years had erased whatever you and he had been to each other.
That heâd lost you for good.
He went through the motions of the day in a hazeâanswering a few texts, eating lunch he couldnât taste, pushing himself through surfing, responding to emailsâbut every thought circled back to you.
When you finally made it back to your apartment, you stripped off your gallery clothes and threw on something soft, something that didnât pinch or squeeze. You painted for a while, hoping the colours would pull your thoughts into a quieter place, but even the paintbrush couldnât fully distract you.
By dinner, the flowers had already been brought home. They sat on your nightstand now, their scent delicate in the air, mocking you.
It hurt.
It hurt because Conrad was showing up, just as he always did. Because it only ever took one moment of you telling him exactly how deeply he had hurt you for him to do something. Not talk. Never words. Just gestures.
And gestures were sometimes worse.
You sighed, grabbed your phone, and opened your messages.
Y/N: Thanks for the flowers.
Simple. Bare. Practical. It was all you had the strength for.
Conradâs heart almost leapt out of his chest when the notification finally appeared.
You had answered.
It was short, coldâjust like you had been the night before. But it was something.
He opened your message and read it over and over, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He deleted and retyped three different replies, none of them good enough.
Every word felt wrong. Too much or too little.
Finally, after agonising minutes, he settled on the safest thing he could think of:
Connie: Youâre welcome.
You stared at the reply for a long moment, your phone balanced in your hand.
Was this how it was going to be from now on? Polite. Short. Stripped of everything you used to be?
You couldnât reconcile itâthe boy you had grown up with, the boy who had been your everythingâwith the man who could only manage âyouâre welcome.â
The same boy who had held your hand in the rain. The same boy who kissed you like the whole world had disappeared.
Now you were just this. Words on a screen.
Belly had taken the rest.
You swallowed the ache and typed before you could stop yourself.
Y/N: Did you figure out what to do?
Conradâs chest tightened as he read those words.
Of all the things you could have asked him, this was the one that made him feel like the smallest man alive.
He didnât want to lie. But the truth was just as bad.
After a long pause, he answered.
Connie: Not yet. Not yet.
The message stung when you read it.
The fact that it was even a questionâthe fact that Belly was still, after all these years, an unresolved thing in his heartâwas unbearable.
Your eyes prickled with tears you refused to let fall.
Why couldnât it be you?
Why didnât he fight for you the way he still seemed to fight against Belly?
You wanted to ask. You wanted to scream it.
But you didnât. You couldnât.
Y/N: I see. Goodnight.
Conradâs world collapsed around two small words.
I see.
They were cold. Final.
He stared at the screen long after the conversation ended, until the glow dimmed and the phone went black.
He fell back on his pillow, the ceiling blurring as he blinked back the tears that came anyway.
âWhat have I done,â he whispered to the empty room.
Alone in the dark, Conrad thought about your laugh, your smile, your voice. He thought about your touchâthe one thing that always brought him back to himself.
And he cried.
Silent, desperate, aching sobs that no one could hear.
Because for the first time, he truly believed he had lost you.
Conrad Fisher x bfwb!reader this story is a part of the Oceans Universe.
Summary: For months, you were lost in confusion about what you truly felt for Conrad. But one tipsy bonfire night, one heated fightâit all changed. You didnât know what it was yet, only that it felt like a beginning, not an end.
Warnings/tags: big angst. smut (minors DNI). fingering. unprotected sex. semi-public sex. p in v penetration. slight praise if you squint? swearing. mentions of alcohol. underage drinking and sex.
The bonfire was a tradition. Ever since you turned sixteen, you had shown up, year after year, chasing that hazy, intoxicating idea of summer magic. Your friends called you wildâwild in life, wild in your art, wild in the way you moved through the world. They meant it as a compliment, though sometimes it felt like a label you wore because no one could figure out what else to call you.
Wild in love, though? That was a joke. Your love life barely existed. You werenât searchingâat least, not seriously. After your last (and first) relationship crashed and burnedâif you could even call dating Tom a relationshipâyou swore you were better off alone. You should have seen the red flags from the beginning, but you didnât, and he ended things right before the summer you turned sixteen. That was when you slipped into a season of nothing but alcohol, late nights, and hookups with strangers who never asked for more than you were willing to give.
And God, you enjoyed it. No one telling you where to be, no one complaining that you didnât text back fast enough, no one sulking over imagined competition. No drama, no rulesâjust freedom. Maybe single life wasnât a tragedy after all. Maybe, at seventeen, it was exactly where you were supposed to be.
Now, with eighteen creeping closer in September, you were desperate for a summer worth remembering. Youâd declared it before June even began: This was going to be your summer. A summer of being utterly, unapologetically carefree. A summer of firelit sex with anyone who made your pulse race. A summer of reckless decisions and no second thoughts. One last stretch of chaos beforeâwhat? You got old?
You laughed at yourself for thinking that way. You werenât old. Not even close. But there was a weight pressing in from the edges of your future, a quiet whisper that life was about to change whether you wanted it to or not. College was nextâColumbia, in New York City. The dream youâd been clinging to for as long as you could remember. The History of Art program had called to you like a siren, promising something bigger, brighter, and better than the small, suffocating life youâd been living in Boston.
In a few months, youâd be gone. A new city. A new chapter. But tonight, with the smoke from the bonfire curling into the night sky and the ocean breathing somewhere in the distance, you only wanted to live inside the heat of the moment.
Except there were two problems.
The first? You didnât get in. Columbiaâs rejection had crushed you instantly, like a fist closing around your ribs and squeezing until you couldnât breathe. Years of preparationâlate-night studying, art portfolio submissions, endless essays where you poured your soul onto the pageâgone in a single moment. Youâd built a whole life in your head, curated Pinterest boards of apartments with tall windows and stacks of books, imagined yourself striding through New York streets in the rain with a coffee in one hand and a sketchbook in the other. And then, in one short letter, it all slipped away.
Your best friend. Your anchor. Your whole damn world.
Youâd never been afraid to admit itâyou loved him. You knew you did. And you werenât the type to tiptoe around feelings. But Conrad was two years younger, your neighbor since you were nine, and the eldest son of your motherâs best friend. That history made everything messier.
You still remembered the first time you met him as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. Youâd just moved to Boston, your boxes still unpacked, when Susannahâwarm and magnetic in a way that made strangers feel like familyâshowed up at your door with a welcome basket.
Your mom invited her in, and within minutes they were talking like theyâd known each other for years. And with Susannah came a boy. Youâd been so confused when you bounded downstairs at your motherâs call to find a dark-haired kid sitting cross-legged on your brand-new carpet, your toys already spread around him like he owned the place.
âThis is Connie,â your mom had said, smiling. And somehow, he had stayed that way. Your Connie.
The thing about love is that itâs never as simple as it looks in movies. And the thing about love that lingers for nine years? Itâs a tangle you canât easily cut free from. Standing by the sea now, a bottle of beer dangling loosely from your fingers, the salt wind curling your hair against your cheek, you watched him across the firelight. His first bonfire, his first taste of this traditionâand there he was, leaning in close to some girl, a crooked smile on his face.
And in that moment, you knew it wasnât just love. You werenât just fond of him, or protective of him. You were in love with him. Probably. Maybe. You werenât even sure anymore, and that uncertainty might have been the cruelest part.
It had started a few months ago. One ordinary day at school. You were finishing your senior year; he was wrapping up his sophomore. Hunger had driven you toward the cafeteria, your stomach already imagining the greasy fries and stale pizza youâd be willing to inhale just to survive another afternoon of classes.
He was always there firstâyour constant. Waiting for you at your table with that patient, quiet smile that belonged only to you. But that day, when you walked in, there was someone else sitting in your seat.
Blonde. Pretty. A warm, easy smile. She had her hand on his arm, leaning in, her eyes bright with whatever story she was telling. And he was smiling backâreally smiling, the kind where his eyes softened. The sight had hit you like a punch to the gut, sharp enough to knock the air out of your lungs.
You hadnât gone over. Not that day. And when he asked you laterâwhen you were curled up in your bed together, his arms wrapped lazily around your waist from behind, his nose buried against your neck as a movie played in the backgroundâyouâd lied. Said you had a headache, left school early. Heâd believed you without a flicker of doubt.
Now you were in Cousins. The place that had always been your escape, where things felt lighter and easierâuntil tonight.
The nausea curling in your stomach wasnât from the alcohol, though the beer had left you pleasantly tipsy, your thoughts tumbling over themselves. It was from the sight of him now, standing in the glow of the bonfire, talking to another girl.
She was gorgeous in a way that made it hard to breathe. A halo of red hair that caught the firelight, a simple white tank top tucked into linen shorts, her beauty effortless, as if sheâd just walked out of a magazine spread for some coastal summer getaway. She was laughing at something he saidâlaughing like she couldnât help herself.
And thatâs when the questions hit, fast and sharp.
What was so funny? Why was he making her laugh like that? Why was she touching him? Why was he touching her?
Because he was. His hand was curved around her waist like it belonged there, and the sight alone twisted your stomach in disgust.
Youâd always been a touchy personâit was your language, the way you loved without thinking. And Conrad? He had always been your greatest victim. You two were a constant thread of contact: sprawling on the couch with his arms around you, holding hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, perching on his lap even when chairs were free. Then there were the smaller touches, the ones no one else would notice. Tucking his hair out of his eyes. Letting your fingers graze his side when you stood close. Feeling his palm rest against the small of your back when a crowd pressed too tightly around you.
That was yours. Yours and his.
And now⊠the redheadâs. Or so it seemed.
You were tipsy. Not drunkânot enough to stumble or slurâbut enough to feel that warm, reckless hum under your skin. Enough to react without thinking.
So you just went. No hesitation, no strategy. The sand squeaked and shifted beneath your bare feet as you crossed the space, the bonfireâs glow painting your skin in gold. Your fingers tightened around the neck of your beer bottle, the condensation slick and cold against your palm.
And then you were there. Right beside them.
âThere you are,â you said, your voice bright with a fake-ass grin, slipping your arm around Conradâs shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. His head turned toward you, surprise flickering in his eyesâat the suddenness, at your proximityâbut it softened the second he realized it was you.
The redheadâs smile, though, faltered. Just a flicker, quick enough that most people wouldnât have noticed. But you werenât most people. You caught it, filed it away. You turned that warm, sugar-sweet expression on her, the one you reserved for people you didnât actually like.
âThanks for babysitting him for me,â you said, your tone casual but laced with the faintest edge. âMom said he shouldnât get drunk at his first party.â
Her gaze darted to Conradâs beer, then back to you, the unspoken math working itself out in her head. Fake dots connecting to a fake picture. But it didnât matterâit was enough.
She apologized quickly, stepping back and untangling herself from him. In seconds, she was gone, disappearing into the crowd, probably not wanting to risk trouble for drinking and flirting with an underage guy. You couldnât even fault her for that. Youâd had your fair share of guys turn you down in the past for the same reason.
Conradâs mouth opened, like he had something to say, but the girl was already gone. His frown deepened as he looked back at you, a question heavy in his eyes.
âWhat the hell was that?â His voice was sharper than you expected. âYou just cockblocked me.â
You forced your shoulders to stay loose, keeping your expression unreadable, even as his words cut deeper than they should have. Cockblocked him. He actually wanted to hook up with her.
âI didnât do anything,â you said smoothly, lifting your beer to your lips for a slow sip. The alcohol buzzed through you, almost strong enough to blur the sting of jealousy. âJust saved the girl trouble if something went wrong.â
âWho cared about the trouble? It was going well.â His tone was half-accusation, half-frustration.
Your jaw clenched. You swallowed the bitter taste in your mouthâpart beer, part something else entirely. He truly wanted her.
âThereâs plenty of fish in the sea,â you said, keeping your eyes fixed on the crowd instead of him. The heat from the bonfire painted your cheeks in a flush, your skin prickling under the glow. âCanât you choose someone else? Somewhere else? Not after alcohol?â
âWhat? Y/N, this is ridiculous.â His voice had that edge nowâthe one you recognized instantly. âSince when do you act like a nagging mother?â
You didnât even have to look at him to know how he was standing. You knew every tick, every shift in his body language, the way he tensed when he was irritated.
âIâm not acting like a nagging mother,â you said, your voice staying calm while your mind was anything but. âJust saving you from a party mistake.â
But you knew the truth. You werenât saving him from anything. You were saving yourself from watching him choose someone else. Jealousy churned in your stomach, thick and sour, almost enough to make you want to throw up again.
âConnie, baby,â you added, letting your arm still rest over his shoulder like nothing had happened, âcanât we just spend the party together? I donât see a problem with it. At least we can keep an eye on each other. I promised your mom Iâd bring you back in one piece. Even Iâm not getting drunk or hooking up.â
There was a beat of silenceâlong enough for you to start hoping he might agreeâbefore he let out a short, bitter snort.
âTonight.â
You blinked. âSorry, what?â
When your gaze finally met his, something in his eyes made your insides twist. The firelight danced over his face, casting shadows that made his features sharper, more defined. He looked⊠beautiful. More beautiful than youâd been willing to admit lately.
âTonight,â he repeated, his tone clipped. âYouâre not getting drunk and hooking up tonight.â
The words caught you off guardânot because he was wrong, but because of the way he said them. Accusatory. Bitter. Almost⊠angry. You faltered, jealousy and irritation sliding aside as confusion took their place.
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â you asked, your eyes searching his face for something, anything, that might give him away.
He just sighed, shaking his head. That familiar look crossed his faceâthe one that told you to drop it, because he wasnât about to unpack whatever was eating at him.
âForget it. You ruined the night already.â
The words stung, sharper than you expected. Before you could say anything, he tipped back the rest of his beer in a single swallow, tossed the empty bottle toward the sand, and turned away.
You watched him walk offâpast the firelight, past the noise and musicâhis figure pulling away toward the dark shoreline.
You ruined the night already.
The words rattled in your head, sharp and foreign. He had never said anything like that to you before. In nine years of knowing him, youâd never foughtânot really. Sure, you bickered now and then, teased each other until one of you rolled your eyes. But fights? No. Words like that didnât exist between you.
Was he really this pissed over that redhead?
You didnât waste a second. You tipped back the last of your beer, the bitter taste sliding down your throat, and tossed the empty bottle into the nearest trash bag before taking off after him.
âConnie!â you called, your voice cutting through the music and laughter behind you.
He didnât turn around. Didnât slow down. His bare feet carried him straight toward the shoreline, the water lapping over his toes as he kept walking away, the glow of the bonfire shrinking behind him.
Your chest tightened. He never ignored you. Ever. Was she really worth this?
The thump of music and drunken chatter faded with each step you took, the only sounds now the rhythmic hush of the waves and your own quickening breath.
âConrad, for fuckâs sake!â
That stopped him. Not because you sounded desperate, but because youâd used his full name. You almost never did. He knew that meant something.
You caught up, sand sticking to your damp feet as you stepped in front of him, forcing him to look at you. His face was a mix of moonlight and fire-glow, his eyes sharp and unreadable.
âWhat, Y/N? What do you want?â he snapped. âYou gonna lecture me about partying? About life? About sex? âSave meâ from making a mistake?â
The venom in his tone hit you like cold water. Your heart thudded hard in your chest. You didnât understand where this was coming fromâwhy he was suddenly looking at you like you were the enemy.
âWhat the hell is going on with you?â you demanded, your voice low but tight.
âWhat the hell is going on with you?â he shot back. âTracking how much I drink, cockblocking meââ
âStop with the cockblocking thing, for crying out loud,â you cut in, fists clenching at your sides. You knew it was true, but that wasnât the point. Youâd done it so you wouldnât have to wander off later and find him buried inside some girl while you pretended you didnât care. That wouldâve been unbearable.
That was the reason. Not because you were jealous.
âWhy? Why are you acting like this?â His voice rose, carrying over the crash of the waves.
Your pulse spiked. âLike what?â
âLike youâre suddenly responsible for once in your life,â he bit out, the words a direct hit to your lungs. You forgot how to breathe for a second. His eyes were feral, his expression sharp enough to cut. âYouâre not hooking up with anybody, youâre not getting drunk. You keep your eye on me the whole damn time.â
And there it wasâyou were acting like a nagging mom, not a best friend. Not the girl who should be laughing and drinking with him, dancing barefoot in the sand. Truth was, this was the first night in two years you hadnât had any fun.
You swallowed hard. âSo thatâs what this is about? That Iâm ruining your fun? Your night? Thatâs what you meant?â
Something flickered in his eyesâsoft for half a second, almost apologeticâbefore it hardened again. The tension between you felt electric, buzzing and dangerous. You didnât know if it was the alcohol, the heat of the night, or the nine years of something unspoken pressing down on you both.
âFor once in my life, I was ready to ignore your escapades.â His voice was sharp enough to cut, every word striking like a match. âI told myself youâd get drunk and go off with some guy. That I wouldnât have to watch you being fucked by another guy or hear how bad or good his dick was while holding your hair back as you threw up.â
Your eyes widened, the impact of his words settling heavy in your chest.
Is that how you looked to him? Is that how you behaved? Was that what youâd been tossing into his lap every time you partiedâevery drunken night, every morning-after conversation?
âConnieââ you tried to reason, but he didnât let you. He shook his head, and kept going.
He wasnât slurring. Not even close. But he was tipsy enough for his honesty to be bare and unfiltered, for him to say things you didnât think heâd ever let out.
âI was so damn happy, you know?â His eyes were wild now, the firelight flickering over them. âThat for once Iâd get drunk, hook up with someone myself, and forget what you do to me. Iâd have an excuse in the morning to not listen to your babblingâblame it on the hangover. For one fucking time, Iâd ignore and forget about how amazingly you live your life without me in those moments.â
The sound of the sea faded until it was nothing but a dull hum somewhere far away. All you could hear was the pounding in your ears, your pulse kicking like it was trying to escape your body.
Without him?
He was too young, for Christâs sake. That was always the line in your head. The reason you didnât bring him along, the reason you kept him away from those nights.
âConnie, baby, I couldnât take you with meââ
âStop calling me that, Y/N.â His voice was low but it hit like a shout. âStop doing things you donât mean. This is not the fucking point. The point is that you throw me around like some fucktoy, but you wonât do anything.â
The words landed like a slap.
Tears stung your eyesânot from pain, but from sheer helplessness. You were stunned, blindsided. Was this really how he saw you? Did he truly believe you treated him like that? He was your everything. The one person youâd never treat like the others. How could he not see that?
You swallowed hard, your hands trembling in the cold night air. He noticed. Of course he didâhe always did.
With a frustrated exhale, he dragged a hand over his face, then pulled his hoodie over his head in one motion. Without a word, he stepped closer, the distance between you shrinking until his body heat reached you.
âHands up,â he said, and you obeyed without thinking.
He tugged the hoodie over you, the fabric soft and warm, smelling faintly of him. He tucked you into it, adjusting it like he always did, making sure it sat right on your shoulders.
This was him. Conrad. Angry, fuming, practically spitting fire at youâand still taking care of you. Always.
He was so close you could see every detail in his face: the blue flecks in the green of his irises, the dilation of his pupils, the sharp rise and fall of his chest. His breath was uneven, warm against your cheek.
His fingers rested lightly around your arm, the touch loose but steady. And you could smell himâthe scent of mint, pink pepper, and lemon clinging to him. The cologne youâd given him last Christmas.
âWhat do you want me to do, Connie?â you asked, your voice cracking under the weight of himâof this moment. Youâd been overwhelmed by him for so long, you didnât even remember what life felt like without it.
âItâs not about what I want you to do.â His tone was low, almost broken. âWhat do you want me to do? Because thisââ he gestured vaguely between you, his hand trembling with more than just the cold ââitâs tearing me from the inside. Not being able to have you.â
Your heart stuttered, then stopped altogether. No. You werenât hearing this. You couldnât be. Not from him. Not like this.
âConnie, youâre drunkââ you whispered, clinging to the hope that reason might pull him back from whatever edge he was on.
âYes,â he said, stepping closer, his voice a rough exhale. âAnd it gives me the courage to do this.â
âConnieââ
âYou think Iâll regret this?â He let out a humorless laugh that cut through the sound of the waves. âI could never regret you. Not for a single second. Alcohol just gives me the guts to take what Iâve wanted for a long time. What Iâve needed for a long time.â
âAnd⊠what do you need?â Your voice was so small you barely heard it yourself, your fear and desire tangling in your throat.
âYou,â he said, the word hitting you like a wave. âEvery fucking perfect inch of you.â
The world went still. The bonfireâs glow was gone, swallowed by distance. The sea seemed to hush itself. All you could hear was your own pulse and the jagged rhythm of his breathing.
âTell me what you want, Y/N. Tell me what to do,â he whispered, leaning in until his breath warmed your chilled skin. His eyesâgreen and blue and stormyâsearched you like he was begging for an answer.
You were frozen. Your mind was a mess of crashing waves, but underneath it all, you knew. You knew exactly what you wanted. What you had always wanted. And it wasnât the alcohol. It was him. Always him.
You made a choice right there, one you knew could either ruin you bothâor be the beginning of something that would change everything.
âI want you to kiss me like the sun kisses the horizon during sunset,â you breathed, the words slipping out unplanned, your poetic soul taking the wheel when logic fled.
The words had barely left your lips before his mouth crashed into yoursâhot, desperate, bruising. Shock froze you for half a second before instinct shattered it, and then it was all teeth and tongue, hunger meeting hunger.
Your hands found his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape, while his arms locked around your waist like heâd been waiting years for the chance to hold you this way. You kissed him with the urgency of a drowning woman, and he was the only air you wanted.
When his teeth caught your bottom lip, a sound slipped outâhalf moan, half gaspâand it lit something in both of you. The fire wasnât from the long-dead bonfire; it was inside, molten and patient, simmering for years until it finally boiled over.
He dragged you closer, every inch of you fitting into him like youâd been carved for it. Thank God youâd walked far enough earlierâno one could see you now. His fingers dug into your sides before sliding under the hoodieâhis hoodieâand tugging at the hem. He didnât pull it off. Even in this fevered moment, he left you clothed, a tiny act of restraint that only made you ache more.
When you finally broke apart, you were both panting, foreheads pressed together, his breath mixing with yours. You could feel his self-control fraying, the tension in his shoulders saying he was one second away from laying you down in the sand and losing himself completely.
âConnieâŠâ
âI want you,â he rasped, so close his lips brushed yours. âIâve wanted you for so long, Y/N. You have no idea. It hurts to hold back. To kiss you, to touch you, always wondering if Iâm crossing a line.â
Your chest tightened. What did you want?
âI want you too,â you whispered, and his eyes flew open.
âI donât want this to ruin us,â you added, the weight of nine years pressing against your ribs.
âIt wonât. God, it wonât. Youâll always be my number one.â His hands came up to cradle your face, warm and sure. âYouâre my Y/N. Youâve always been. Tell me you want this. Us. Like this. Please.â
It was the plea that broke you. You wanted himâtonight, tomorrow, every night after. Whether you were still âfriendsâ or something entirely new, you didnât care anymore.
âI want you.â
And that was it. That was the step over the line you could never uncross. Maybe you didnât want to.
You didnât even know when you ended up on the groundâonly that his weight was pressing you into the sand, his body molded to yours, heat radiating through both of you. Your legs had somehow hooked around his waist, pulling him closer like your body knew exactly what it wanted.
You were kissingâmessy, desperate, all teeth and tongue. Your lips were already tender, bruised from his mouth, and when he caught your bottom lip between his teeth again, you moaned softly. The sound only spurred him on, telling him without words that he was doing everything right.
His hands slid to your thighs, fingers curling as he pushed your skirt higher. You were certain you were soaked, your body betraying just how much you wanted him. When his fingers found you through the thin barrier of your underwear, you gasped against his lips.
He took it as permission. The fabric was pushed aside in one slow, deliberate motion, his breathing ragged as his other hand tangled in your hair.
âTell me if I do something wrong,â he rasped, his mouth still brushing yours.
The words stunned you. You froze for a heartbeatâhad he evenâŠ?
He seemed to sense the question forming, his lips covering yours again before you could speak. When he broke away, it was only to let out a shaky breath as his fingers slid down your slit, gathering your arousal. You moaned his name.
âConnieââ
âI have.â
The words made you still. Your eyes opened, searching his.
âWith a friend,â he admitted, his voice low. âI⊠got carried away. I have.â
You swallowed hard, the confession hanging between you. It wasnât what you wanted to think about right now, but you filed it away for later. In his gaze you caught a flicker of guilt, like he was sorry for something that shouldnât even require an apology.
âIâm sorryââ
âDonât.â You shook your head, almost smiling at him. Silly boy. Apologising for touching someone before you, as if youâd ever had a claim over him. You wanted toâGod, you wanted toâbut you didnât. Not then.
You reassured him with your lips, kissing him deeply, your fingers curling into his hair. That was all it took for his hand to find you again, teasing you with a slow, deliberate touch. You were already trembling when one finger slipped inside, and you had to catch your breath, your body adjusting before your walls instinctively tightened around him.
He groaned into your mouth, pulling back almost completely before sinking in again, the motion making your whole body shiver. Within moments you were a mess beneath him, his touch relentless, and when he added a second finger, stretching you further, you gasped against his lips. Your hips began moving on their own, chasing every push of his hand.
âYouâre so beautiful⊠so perfect,â he breathed, the words weighted like they hurt to speak. His lips left yours, skimming over your cheek, your jaw, until they found your neck. You tilted your head without thinking, granting him more.
He bit down gently, then soothed the sting with his mouth, lips brushing your pulse while his fingers kept working inside you, pulling soft, desperate sounds from your throat. The steady rush of the sea muffled your moans and the slick, rhythmic sounds of your body welcoming him.
Your hands roamed greedily, slipping under his t-shirt, nails dragging against his warm skin. It was all heat and urgencyâthe two of you giving in to the tension that had been simmering for so long.
âConnieâ I need youââ you whimpered against his lips. You could feel the knot tightening low in your stomach, threatening to snap, but it wasnât enough. You wanted him. You needed him.
He pulled his fingers from you carefully, and you still whimpered at the loss.
âI need you too. God, I need you more than air,â he whispered, voice ragged, just as your nails traced down his stomach, making him hiss with pleasure.
You found the zipper of his shorts and tugged it down, unbuttoning them in the same hurried breath. Both of you were panting, the air thick with heat, as you pushed the waistband low enough to free him.
He moaned, head tipping back, eyes falling shut when your fingers wrapped around himâhard, warm, already slick at the tip. Perfect. Every inch. You stroked him slowly, deliberately, coaxing more from him. His face dropped into the curve of your neck as you spread his arousal along his length, and when he twitched in your grip, you couldnât help but smile.
âI donât haveââ
âPills, Connie. Donât worry,â you breathed against his ear. You trusted himâmore than anyone. You knew there had only been one before you. And in this moment, you couldnât bring yourself to care about anything but this.
His teeth found your shoulder, making you moan, and your legs locked around his waist, pulling him closer. You guided him to your entrance, his tip sliding down your slit, gathering your wetness before he pushed insideâslowly, stretching you, filling you.
You gasped, your head falling back as he bit harder to muffle his own moan. To him, you felt like heaven; to you, he was heaven.
âFuck,â he rasped, and it was the only word that could hold what you were both feeling. He sank all the way in, stilling there, the two of you locked together, breathing like youâd just run miles. You cupped his face, drawing his gaze to yours.
Moonlight spilled over you both, catching the shine in your eyes.
âYouâre the most beautiful person Iâve ever seen,â he whispered. The words made you gasp softlyâand tighten around him. His answering moan was low, broken, his head tipping back.
He pulled out almost completely before thrusting back in, his hips rolling with slow, deliberate force. Every movement was deep, unhurried, as if he could memorize every inch of you. You felt the restraint in him, the way he was holding himself backâfighting not to lose control too soon.
And you seemed to sense every shift in him. You kissed him slow and deep, moving with the rhythm of his hips, one hand sliding to his waist to subtly guide him. He moaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, making you clench again.
âSweetheartââ
âItâs okay, baby,â you whispered against his lips. It already was perfect. You could feel the tension running through him as he fought to hold himself back, to last, but you made it impossibleâyour scent in his lungs, your warmth around him, your body pressed to his like youâd been made to fit.
âGod, youâre amazing. You feel so good,â he rasped, his pace picking up, thrusts driving deeper. Your stomach tightened, heat pooling fast.
It shocked you. You werenât the type to come quicklyâusually it took forever, more foreplay, maybe a drink or two. But with him? You could have come twice already.
âDonât stopâConnie, youâre so good⊠donât stop, fuck, please,â you whimpered. That was all he needed; his grip on you tightened like he could anchor himself there.
His hands slid down to your thighs, palms hot against bare skin, fingers curling hard enough to bruise. Then his thumb found your clitâhesitant at first, searchingâbefore pressing and circling with just the right pressure.
You moaned, the sound sharp in the quiet, and he shushed you gently, the other hand coming up to cover your mouth. âShh, baby⊠shh, I know,â he murmured in your ear, hips stuttering as he tried to keep the pace steady. His voiceâlow, knowingâmade your eyes roll back, your walls clenching tighter around him.
He drove into you deeper, harder, until he found that spot that made you see stars. His palm pressed more firmly over your lips as you cried out, muffled and desperate, his thumb on your clit moving faster, relentless.
It crashed over you before you could prepareâyour body shaking beneath him, the wet sand clinging to your skin, tangling in your hair. Your orgasm tore through you like a tsunami, leaving you breathless, clawing at him, wanting it again and againâwanting him to give it to you again and again.
And when you clenched down on him just right, his control snapped. He groaned your name into your ear as he spilled into you, the heat flooding your still-pulsing core making you shiver all over again.
It sounded so good coming from his lips, like it belonged to you. His hips faltered, trying to draw out your high, but after a few more thrusts the sensitivity made him still inside you. For a moment neither of you moved, both catching your breath in the dark, the distant crash of the sea masking your rapid heartbeats.
You felt him soften but he didnât pull outânot yet. He just stayed there, his forehead brushing yours, eyes locking with yours. And what you saw wasnât fear, or regret, or even confusion. It was the same thing burning in your own chestâunderstanding. Affection. Something that went deeper than either of you had dared to name before.
You hadnât ruined anything. Youâd only tied yourselves closer.
A/N: and they did it⊠chronologically in the Oceans Universe this is the first piece. Did you catch the Easter egg? The beginning of it all. Angsty. Steamy. Hot. I love them, your honour. And I hope you love them too. The masterlist is being updated chronologically. Iâm not posting chronologically though, so if you ever get confusedâplease check the list.
this story is a part of the Oceans universe. For better understanding, read this story â> Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 and check the chronology
Summary: After four years apart, you and Conrad finally confront the feelings youâve both been holding onto. Between hesitant conversations, unspoken fears, and the familiar pull of something unfinished, you take a step toward something realâagain.
Warnings/tags: angst if you squint. soft, emotional conversations. longing. idiots in love. fluff.Â
The next week and a half after you arrived passed in a golden blurâlike slipping into a memory that had somehow become real again. Days stretched lazily, sun-drenched and slow, filled with the kind of peace you hadnât known in years. You stopped caring that Belly was in the house. Even when Jeremiah was around, you found yourself softening; he wasnât as unbearable as you remembered. Or maybe you simply didnât have the energy to hold onto old bitterness anymore.
Mostly, it was just you and Conrad.
The two of you drifted from one shared moment to the nextâbarefoot walks along the shoreline, laughter spilling under the sun, the ocean breeze tangling through your hair as you swam side by side in the surf. You baked cookies in the middle of the night, cooked lazy breakfasts with the windows open and music humming low from his phone. You talkedâreally talkedâabout silly things, old memories, movies you missed, and songs you both used to love. You were relearning each other, step by fragile step.
But with every perfect day, Saturday loomed closer like a shadow growing longer at sunset.
The day he'd fly back to California.
The day youâd return to New York.
It clung to your thoughts, no matter how hard you tried to stay present. Because for all the closeness, all the comfort, there was still an edge of hesitation between you. You hadnât kissed. Not even once. And worseâneither of you had brought up what came next. Not since that afternoon on the beach when the tide rolled in around your feet and youâd both admitted how much you'd missed what you'd lost.
The future felt like a cliff's edge, and neither of you were brave enough to look down.
Until, a few days before Saturday, you made a mistake.
You werenât snooping. You swear you werenât. But his laptop was left open on the kitchen counter while he was upstairs grabbing something, and curiosity pulled your gaze to the screen. Dozens of browser tabs. All open to universities in California. Masterâs programs. Art history.
Your heart stuttered. You remembered what youâd told himâthat you didnât know where you were meant to be anymore. That New York had started to feel like a cage instead of a dream. That you thought about going back to Boston, or quitting everything entirely. That you felt like a failure.
And there he was, silently searching for a way to keep you near him.
To give you a way out.
To bring you with him.
The weight of that truth settled in your chest like a stone, warm but heavy. You didnât say anything at first. You waited. Gave him space to bring it up on his own. Maybe it was stupid to hope he would.
But he didnât.
Another day passed. Then another.
And the silence between you, once comforting, began to hum with quiet pressure.
So when you were curled up with him on the couch one night, his arm around your shoulders, both of you half-watching some chaotic cooking reality show flickering on the screen, you finally asked.
Casual. Light. Like it hadnât been gnawing at you for days.
âSo,â you said, eyes fixed on the screen as you nuzzled into his side, âwhatâs California like?â
Conrad was only half-watching the TV now. Most of his focus was on youâthe comforting weight of your body pressed into his side, the way your fingers absentmindedly played with the hem of his hoodie. It was the kind of closeness he used to take for granted, and now it grounded him. But then your question slipped into the quiet.
His brow arched slightly, caught off guard. Still, a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he glanced down at you, hand drifting to your hair in a slow, familiar rhythm.
âWhat brought that question on?â he asked, his voice casual, his fingers twirling a lock of your hair like muscle memory.
You shrugged, head tilting further into his touch, the softness of the gesture contrasting with the wall you were building in your tone. âNothing. Just curious, I guess. You seem to really like it there. I was wondering if itâs, like⊠a special place or something.â
Your eyes didnât leave the screen. But he wasnât watching the TV anymoreâhe was watching you.
He heard the note in your voice immediately. That light, indifferent tone you used when you didnât want someone to see you unraveling. He knew it like he knew you. And he could tell something was ticking behind your eyes.
Still, he didnât push. Instead, his fingers kept moving through your hair, slow and methodical.
âCalifornia has its moments,â he said after a beat, matching your tone. âWeatherâs good, almost too good. I found this one surf spot out on the coast. Quiet. Youâd like itâitâs got those cliffs you always used to draw.â
Your lips curved into a hum, barely audible, but the sound betrayed the tension you were holding in your chest. His touch helpedâit always didâbut the words you needed to say were caught somewhere behind your ribs. You couldnât just blurt out Hey, I saw your laptop and now Iâm spiralling about everything. You didnât want to make it feel like youâd been snooping.
So instead, you reached for something adjacent. Something that might guide you both toward the conversation you were dreading without detonating it on impact.
âWhat timeâs your flight on Saturday?â you asked quietly, eyes still on the TV, though you couldnât have said what was happening in the show if your life depended on it.
The question settled heavily in the space between you.
Conrad stiffened slightlyâjust enough for you to notice. His heart skipped a beat. You felt the subtle pause of his fingers against your hair. Heâd known this was coming. Of course he had. Youâd both been tiptoeing around the inevitable, building something warm and fragile without asking if it could last once you were no longer under the same roof.
âIâve got a flight at eight,â he said finally, his voice lower now, quieter. The weight of it vibrated in his chest beneath your cheek. âMorning flight.â
Silence again.
He exhaled, slow and unsure. You felt it before you saw him move, his hand falling still.
âAnd you?â he asked, his eyes finding your face this time, searchingâreally searching. There was something aching in the way he looked at you, like he was bracing himself for whatever you might say next.
He wanted to hope. Wanted you to tell him you were staying. That New York didnât feel like home anymore. That youâd thought about what thisâyouâmight look like on the West Coast. But he didnât want to ask outright.
Because part of him was afraid.
Afraid that whatever you said next might break the spell.
That all of this might only be temporary.
That he might lose you all over again.
âAround nine, I think,â you said quietly, your eyes locked on the screen though you hadnât absorbed a single frame in minutes. You bit the inside of your cheek, hard. You could feel the subtle shift in himâthe slight tension threading into his shoulders, the way his body stiffened just for a second when you answered. He was trying to hide it, but after all this time, you knew him too well.
What were you even supposed to do?
You had to go back. Back to your job, back to New York. Back to the version of your life that looked good on paper but felt like something was always missing. You still hadnât decided about your masterâs program, hadnât figured out if you were running toward something or just away from the hollowed-out exhaustion that city now represented.
And he hadnât said a word about what you saw on his laptop.
Not one.
Conrad didnât flinch, but you felt itâthe way something in him sank, quiet and heavy. Your answer hadnât been what he was hoping to hear. You could tell by the way his arm still held you, but his body had leaned back slightly, like he was bracing for impact.
âRight,â he murmured, nodding. His voice was tight around the edges, the kind of restraint that made your stomach twist. The space between you felt suddenly full of things unspoken.
You wanted to hit something. Maybe the throw pillow. Maybe the wall. Maybe himâright in that stupid, perfect face. Because of course this was classic Conrad. Always trying to solve everything behind the scenes, always searching for the right answer... but never actually saying it out loud.
You were going to have to drag it out of him.
You inhaled slowly. Calm. Even.
âYeah, you know... I have to be back at work Monday. The galleryâs been kind of stuffy lately,â you said, keeping your tone light. âAnd I need to decide on my masterâs soon. Itâs... itâs time.â
He swallowed hard. You felt his jaw tighten just behind you, the tension radiating off him like heat.
âRight,â he said again, barely above a whisper. âYour job. And your masterâsâŠâ
His voice cracked just slightly at the end. You felt it more than you heard it. His fingers were still tangled in your hair, but they curled and uncurled like he didnât know what to do with his hands anymore. Like he was stalling. Waiting.
The quiet stretched between you like a fault line, deep and ready to rupture.
You could feel the indecision building in his chest, the way he couldnât quite look at you directly, couldnât quite settle. And then you movedâjust enough to shift onto your side, facing him, your hand on his chest.
You looked up into his face.
That face youâd memorised long ago. And you saw itâright there in his eyes. The worry. The fear. The guilt. You always could read him like an open book, even when he was trying to write between the lines.
His fingers stilled, slipping from your hair to rest lightly on your shoulder. The warmth of his palm was steady, but his pulseâunderneath it allâwas racing.
"Connie," you said softly, your eyes searching his. "is there something we should... talk about?"
He swallowed, and when he spoke, his voice was barely more than a breath.
âYes,â he said, finally. âThereâs⊠thereâs something I need to talk to you about.â
Relief bloomed inside your chest like a crack of light beneath a locked door. It wasnât much, but it was a start.
You nodded slowly, your voice soft, but clear. âOkay. Yes. Letâs talk.â
You reached for the remote and clicked off the TV, the screen going black in front of you as you turned fully to face him, folding one leg beneath you. The light from the floor lamp threw soft gold across his face, highlighting the way his brows knit together, the hesitance pulling at his mouth.
You knew what he was going to say.
But you needed him to say it.
Not for you to find out. Not by accident.
Not again.
âI found some... opportunities in San Francisco. CCA. Masterâs programs,â Conrad said, and his voice was steadier than he felt.
You looked at him then, really looked, and he knew you understood what he was trying to say. You were smartâyouâd always been. He could see the realisation dawning in your eyes, quiet and careful.
Still, he needed you to hear him. Not guess. Not infer. He needed to say the words.
âArt HistoryâŠâ he continued, but the words snagged in his throat, his voice catching. He paused, swallowed, tried again. âYou couldâŠâ another breath, another heartbeat pounding in his chest. âYou could finish your studies there.â
The silence that followed was louder than anything.
He held your gaze, eyes searching your face for a flicker of response, something to tell him he hadnât just opened a door you didnât want to walk through.
And thenâfinallyâyou let out a slow breath. One you hadnât realised youâd been holding until now. It left your chest in a soft exhale, like air leaking out of a balloon stretched too tight.
San Francisco. CCA. Art History. He wanted you to study in California.
Your heart twisted. San Francisco was close. An hour or so by train to Palo Altoâwhere he lived. Close enough to see each other on weekends. Close enough to feel real.
But the idea didnât stop there.
Because this conversation had two doors.
You could find a place in San Francisco and live alone. Visit him when you could. Maintain your own world, your independence, the life youâd been carving out in pieces since you left Boston.
Or... you could walk through the other door.
The one where you stopped trying to pretend this was temporary. The one where sixteen years of memories, of promises whispered under moonlight and half-laughed dreams, finally turned into something real. The one where you lived in Palo Alto. With him. Took the train from his apartment to your classes. Together.
You wet your lips, pulse fluttering like moth wings under your skin.
âSan Francisco,â you echoed softly. Your voice was careful, unsure, like you were touching something fragile and still warm. âYou⊠you were thinking of me studying there?â
Conradâs eyes didnât leave yours. His hand on your shoulder tightened slightly, grounding you both.
âYes,â he said, and it came out quieter this time, almost breathless. âI was thinking of you studying there.â
He looked like he was holding himself still with sheer willpower. Like any wrong word might send you retreating. His heart was hammering so loudly he swore it was echoing in his ears.
âAndâŠâ he hesitated, the crack in his voice returning. He looked like a boy again in that momentâhopeful, terrified, heart in his hands. âAnd I was thinking⊠more than just studying there.â
He looked at you like the world might end if you didnât answer.
And in some small way, it might.
Thank God, you thought.
âThe train from Palo Alto to San Francisco is about an hour,â you said, your voice light but laced with hesitation. âIf... that helps with anything.â
It felt awkward, this dance around each otherâlike two people pretending not to already know the rhythm by heart. You could feel it in the way your words slowed, in the way neither of you quite met each otherâs eyes for more than a few seconds. Were you supposed to act like strangers figuring this out for the first time? Like you hadnât already practically lived together once, shared a bed, a toothbrush, a future?
Did he want you to move in? Did he want to take things slowâas if you hadnât known the shape of his heart since you were nine years old?
Conrad exhaled, the tension in his chest easing slightly at your words. Sheâs thinking about it, he realised. Sheâs thinking about California. About us. He could see it in your eyesâsomething fragile, something hopeful.
âAn hour isnât terrible,â he said quietly, the barest hint of a smile twitching at his lips. His hand was still on your shoulder, thumb drawing gentle circles against your skin like it was second nature.
It was.
But beneath the quiet smiles and lingering touches, something hung in the air between you, heavy and unsaid. You both knew it couldnât stay unsaid for long.
âYeah, well⊠an hour is nothing,â you replied, still trying to sound casual, even though your heart was pounding. âIf I found something in San Francisco, I could visit you whenever we could.â
You watched him carefully.
You said it on purpose.
You dangled the possibility of not living together just to see if heâd flinch. To see if heâd speak up. To see if heâd fight for more.
And you saw it immediatelyâthe way his expression flickered, like your words had stung. Like he didnât want to imagine that version of the story. The one where you were near each other⊠but not with each other.
Conradâs chest tightened. Of course you were testing him. Youâd always been good at thatâpoking gently to see where he stood. And he wanted to say something. He wanted to scream donât live alone, live with me. But fear wrapped its hands around his throat.
Until something broke free.
âOrâŠâ he said softly, his voice nearly lost to the quiet. âYou could move in with me.â
The words slipped out like a secret too heavy to carry any longer.
And just like thatâeverything settled.
You let out a breath you didnât realise youâd been holding for the second time that night. Your body relaxed all at once, your shoulders slumping as if someone had lifted a weight off your back. You leaned forward and rested your forehead against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.
Finally.
âI thought weâd be walking around it for the next hour,â you murmured, a soft laugh escaping you as the tension eased from your chest.
His arm wrapped tighter around you, pulling you into him, anchoring you in a way that said stay. That said this is real.
And it was.
You felt the tension in him loosen the moment your body gave in and slumped into his. The relief radiated off him like warmth, like someone had cracked open a window in a room that had been stifling for too long. His arm wrapped around your waist, settling there with easeâhis hand finding its natural place on your hip like it had never left.
âI was scared youâd say no,â he murmured, his voice quiet against your hair, each word a confession. The brush of his lips followedâsoft, lingeringâpressed to the top of your head.
You closed your eyes for a moment, breathing him in. It felt like safety. Like truth.
âI was scared we wouldnât talk about it at all,â you mumbled into his chest. âSaturdayâs coming, and itâs scary.â
You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your voice soft but steady. âI saw the tabs on your laptop by accident. I didnât mean to. I just⊠saw them. And then I waited. I was hoping youâd bring it up.â
He stilled slightly, and you felt the shift in himâthe guilt, the vulnerability.
âI was wondering what weâre doing with this,â you continued, your eyes meeting his. âIf weâre still taking it slow like we have been... or if weâre actually going to move forward. Really move forward.â
You watched the guilt flash behind his eyes. He hadnât meant for you to find out that way. He probably had a planâConrad always had a planâbut life didnât care about plans.
He sighed, his fingers still tracing slow, calming circles against your hip. You could tell he was still processing, trying to make the words come out right.
âI wanted to talk about it,â he admitted. âI did. I just⊠didnât know how. I was scared of how youâd react.â
âI know,â you whispered, your voice gentler now.
But that didnât mean there wasnât more that needed to be said.
âThereâs more we need to talk about,â you said, a bit more firmly now, needing him to understand. âBecause right now, everything is slow. And I get thatâweâre trying to be careful. But the most weâve done is me kissing your cheek. And now youâre offering to move in together.â
You paused, taking a shaky breath, trying to find the right words to express what had been quietly gnawing at your chest for days.
âI just⊠I donât want to fall into what we were before. Best friends, but with blurred lines. Benefits. Confusion. Hurt. I donât want to go back to almost being together. I need to know weâre not heading down that road again.â
Your honesty hung in the space between you, heavy but necessary.
Conradâs heart stuttered as your words sank in, each one hitting him with quiet force. He knew you were right. He felt it. There was still so much unsaid, too much history still defining the silence.
He leaned back slightly, just enough to see your face fully, still holding you close. His hand remained on your hip, grounding him. Your eyes were searching hisâsoft, but full of worry. Full of need. For clarity. For truth.
And he knew, in that moment, he couldnât hold anything back. Not anymore.
âYouâre right,â Conrad said, his voice quiet but certain. âWe do have more to talk about. And noâI donât want to go down that path again. I⊠I want this to be different. Better.â
You nodded slowly, a gentle wave of relief moving through your chest.
âGood,â you whispered, meeting his gaze. âIâ I want that too.â
You never thought the two of you would be sitting here, talking like this. Like adults. Like people who had grown and broken and found their way back again, bruised but still standing. Still reaching for each other.
Funny how time does that. How everything could fall apart and still, somehow, come together again.
âYou said a week ago,â you murmured, âthat this thing between us wasnât going to end just because we get on different planes. And⊠I would really love to move to California if it means I get to have you back.â
Your throat tightened slightly, but you didnât stop.
âHave you back as in⊠my boyfriend. I want us to be together again.â
You saw it in an instantâhow your words hit him like a jolt to the heart. His entire expression shifted, light blooming behind his eyes, like he hadnât let himself hope that hard until just now. Like something in him had been holding its breath for days and finally, finally exhaled.
He pulled you closer, his arm tightening around your waist, his hand still drawing those slow, grounding circles on your hip. When he looked into your eyes, there was no hesitationâonly vulnerability, and love.
âI want that too,â he said, his voice raw with emotion. âMore than anything, I want to be your boyfriend again. I want us to be together. Really together. Properly.â
You let out a soft laugh, the weight of your fears finally starting to melt off your shoulders. You nuzzled into his chest, your fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt.
âProperlyâŠâ you repeated, your voice a whisper. âNot just two teenagers who donât know anything about life.â
You tilted your face up, smiling nowâtender, sure.
âI want us. I want to choose you every day, Connie. I want to wake up and see you right there beside me. I missed four years. I wonât miss a single day more.â
His heart felt like it was breaking and mending all at once. Too full. Too much. He held you tighter, like he could anchor you both to this moment, to this fragile, perfect now.
He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, lips soft and steady. His arm curled more tightly around your waist, moulding your body into his like he never wanted to let go again.
âI want that too, Y/N,â he whispered into your hair. âI want to wake up next to you every day. I want to share everything with you. I want to choose youâover and over and over again. Iâve missed you. So goddamn much.â
And just like that, it wasnât a question anymore.
It was a promise.
You looked up at him, your gaze searching his. This was it. Your moment. After all the pain, the years apart, the nights you spent missing him silentlyâhere he was, right in front of you.
Together again.
As it always should have been.
The breakup, the silence, the ache that never fully left your chest⊠none of it shouldâve happened. But maybe it had to. Maybe it all led you hereâwiser, older, still carrying the same love that had never really gone away.
And now⊠it was time.
You leaned in, your nose brushing gently against his, and your heart thundered so loudly in your chest you swore he could feel it. Your throat tightened. Four years. Four whole years since your lips had touched his, since youâd last felt that warmth that once made the whole world disappear.
Your eyes searched his, afraid and hopeful, your breath catching as everything stilled around you.
Then, softlyânervouslyâyou bit your lip, the words trembling on the edge of your tongue.
You whispered them.
The same words you said when you were seventeen, tipsy and barefoot by the bonfire, staring at him like he held every star in the sky.
âKiss me like the sun kisses the horizon during sunset?â
The moment you said it, you saw it hit him like lightning.
His expression shatteredâopen, raw, flooded with memory.
Conradâs heart clenched so hard it nearly stopped. Those words. Those words. The ones you whispered the first time everything changed between you. The ones that led to your first kiss, to the first time you gave in to what had always been between you.
You saw it in his eyesâthe way the past collided with the present, the way he looked at you like he was seeing a miracle.
He didnât speak right away. Just watched you like you were something sacred. His hand cupped your cheek with a reverence that made your skin prickle.
And then, finally, he closed his eyes.
His voice was barely more than breath when it came.
âAlways.â
Then his lips were on yours.
Desperate. Starved. Familiar in a way that made you dizzy.
He kissed you like it had been buried inside him all this timeâlike the four years apart hadnât dulled anything, only sharpened the ache. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as his mouth moved with yoursâslow, deep, full of everything he couldnât say.
You clung to him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, and for a heartbeat the rest of the world fell away.
Because in his arms, nothing else existed. Not the distance. Not the time. Not the hurt.
A/N: They finally figured it out! Like I promised, they resolved it. Now, since Iâve already announced itâtheyâre here to stay. There is a lot of past stories to write that I already am working on. And you all should also see how theyâre gonna do in California together. Everything is on its way. Once again THANK YOU for all the love and support. As Iâm writing it, Oceans hit 600 notes under first part! Itâs unbelievable to me. THANK YOU. More coming soonâŠ
Iâll be gone for a week and Iâm staying up all night to write and schedule one-shots for yâall starving for more of the Oceans!Conrad x reader đ perhaps an episode 5 inspired scene is coming your way too (yes, THAT sceneđ„)
Oceans was so good đ keep them, please! We need more of Conrad with his artsy girl đ
Iâm preparing a masterlist for Conrad and I have good news for everybody who wanted to keep this reader and loved the miniseries so much (Iâm genuinely starstruck! Thank you for all the love)
OCEANS IS HERE TO STAY! đ and youâll get much more than just ex!reader. Youâll get to experience every stage of their journeyâ16 years of love, heartbreak, and everything in between. đ„ their life pre-relationship, their relationship and fall out as well as those brief encounters in the 4 years they were apart âïž all the works youâll be able to find under #oceansuniverse đ on my profile đ«¶đ»
THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVE YOU HAD FOR MY WORK! More is coming đ Let me know if you want to be in a permanent taglist đ«¶đ»
Conrad Fisher x ex!fem!reader | Part 1 Part 2 This story is set in the Oceans Universe. Check the chronology before reading
Summary: When Conrad calls you from Cousins Beach, you expect a catch-up. Instead, he tells you Belly and Jeremiah just showed up engaged. What starts as a late-night FaceTime turns into sixteen years of friendship unraveling: old wounds, unspoken love, and the sting of realising he still hasnât let go of her⊠and maybe never will.
Warnings/tags: angst with happy(ish) ending, fluff, season 3 spoilers, Conrad doesn't know what he wants, mild swearing if you squint, English is not my first language
Word count: 10.4k
Conradâs shoulders tensed the moment you heard Bellyâs voice. His jaw clenched instinctively, a flicker of discomfort flashing in his expression. You felt it tooâthe shift in the air. Your spine straightened on instinct, your eyes locking with hers before you could stop yourself. The hallway pulsed with unspoken tension, the kind that had been simmering for years but now boiled just beneath the surface.
Belly froze. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw you standing there. She hadnât expected youâhadnât even considered that you might be here. âWhat are you doing here?â she asked finally, her tone flat, with just the faintest edge of irritation. Her eyes narrowed as she took you in, as if she were trying to figure out how you had somehow materialised in a place you didnât belong.
It was laughable. The way she asked that questionâas if you hadnât spent twelve summers under this roof, as if you were some outsider trespassing on sacred ground. As if this place wasnât yours, too. As if she hadnât stolen the love of your life right out from under you.
âVisiting,â you answered curtly, your voice devoid of the usual pleasantries. You didnât bother pretending anymore. When you were youngerâback when you and Conrad were still togetherâyou tried to be diplomatic, even when Belly had thrown every ounce of teenage jealousy your way. But now? You were done with playing nice.
Conrad felt the heat radiating off youâyour body stiff, your jaw set. And he didnât blame you. He could feel the silent accusation hanging in Bellyâs question, the implication that you had no right to be there. He shifted his stance slightly, stepping in like a buffer between two sparring flames. âSheâs just visiting for a few days,â he said, his voice calm, even, trying to diffuse the rising heat in the room.
Belly arched a brow as she gave you a slow once-over, skepticism written all over her face. Her lips pulled into a smile that didnât reach her eyesâtight, forced, almost mocking. âCongrats on the engagement,â you said coolly, your gaze flicking deliberately to her hand.
You could barely see it. The ring. So small it was practically invisible. If you hadnât squinted, you wouldnât have even noticed it at all. The urge to laugh tickled the back of your throat. They really did deserve each other, didnât they? Jeremiah and Belly. What a joke.
Bellyâs smile faltered, and her eyes sharpened as she caught the subtext in your tone. She wasnât stupid. She knew exactly what you were implying. âThanks,â she replied, voice clipped, brittle with offence.
She noticed the way your eyes dropped back to the ring, subtle but intentional. So she lifted her hand slightly, as if to flaunt it more clearly.
You couldnât help itâyour lips curled with a smirk before you could rein it in. It wasnât kind, but you werenât here to be kind. You were tired of swallowing your hurt just to make other people comfortable. Your gaze lingered on the ring, then flicked back up to Bellyâs face.
âIs that a diamond,â you asked, tilting your head slightly, âor tin foil?â
You werenât even exaggerating. From where you stood, the thing might as well have come out of a vending machine.
Conradâs jaw clenched tighter at your jab. He knew exactly what you were doingâwhere it was coming fromâand part of him couldnât blame you. But he also knew this wasnât going to end well. Bellyâs expression darkened instantly, lips flattening into a tight line. She was used to people questioning the ring, maybe, but this felt personal. Cutting. Sharp in a way only you could be.
âItâs a real diamond,â she replied, her voice cold and controlled. âNot that itâs any of your business.â
âRight,â you murmured, nodding slightly as you bit the inside of your cheek, keeping a lid on the thousand other things you wanted to say. Your eyes flicked to Conrad, your expression softening just for himâan apology written across your face. Not for what you said, but for how broken everything felt. You were pissed. You were furious. And you were shattered. That much was his fault. But this moment? This anger wasnât for him.
âIâll go freshen up,â you said softly, taking your suitcase from his hand without another glance toward Belly. You turned and walked up the stairs without hesitation, the familiar floorboards creaking under your steps.
You still had a guest room. You still had a place in that house. And you werenât going anywhere.
Conrad watched you walk away, your suitcase in hand as you disappeared up the stairs. A storm of emotion churned inside himâguilt, frustration, regret. He could still see the pain in your eyes, that quiet fury simmering just beneath the surface. And he knew. He knew he was part of the reason why it was there. Because of what he did. Because of what he didnât do.
He turned back toward Belly, who was still standing frozen in place, her hand raised ever so slightly, the ring catching the light as if it had something to prove.
"You didnât have to be so rude to her," Conrad said quietly, his voice low but edged with disapproval.
Belly scoffed, rolling her eyes. âOh, please. She was the one who started it with that tin foil comment.â
Conrad dragged a hand through his hair, the tension already starting to build behind his eyes. âShe wasnât even being rude until you questioned why she was here in the first place,â he said, trying to keep his voice even, but it was slipping.
Belly crossed her arms across her chest, her jaw tightening. âAnd why wouldnât I?â she snapped. âShe just shows up out of nowhere like itâs no big deal.â
âShe is here. Visiting. Itâs not a crime, Belly,â he said flatly. âAnd itâs not your business either.â
Her mouth twisted into a scowl. âIt is my business when she walks in like she owns the damn house.â
Conradâs patience was unraveling fast. He levelled her with a hard look, his voice dropping. âSheâs been coming here as long as you have. Even longer. She does have a right to be here.â
âSheâs not family,â Belly snapped, her voice rising with each word.
Conradâs gaze sharpened instantly. âAnd neither are you,â he shot back, his tone cold, cutting. âYouâre not blood. Youâre not married. Youâre a friend.â
Bellyâs face fell for a momentâshocked by the bite in his voice, by the truth she clearly didnât want to hear.
âYouâre the one acting like a spoiled brat,â he continued, not giving her space to respond. âLike youâre jealous she even exists. I wonder what Jeremiah would say if he saw you like this.â
That hit. Hard. Belly recoiled like heâd struck her. âIâm not jealous!â she snapped, voice trembling between indignation and disbelief.
Conrad arched a brow, the sarcasm in his expression unmistakable. âCouldâve fooled me.â
She stared at him, stunned.
âYouâre acting like the world is ending just because she walked into the same house as you. Grow up, Belly.â
The silence that followed was deafening.
Upstairs, you closed the guest room door behind you and leaned against it, your fingers still curled around the handle of your suitcase. You could hear their voicesâmuffled, angry, rawâand despite everything, you wished you couldnât.
After about five minutes, you heard footsteps approaching the guest room. You were halfway through unpacking, tugging folded clothes from your suitcase and laying them out in neat, distracted piles. Still, you recognised those footsteps instantlyâeven after all these years. You couldâve picked them out in a crowd. That soft shuffle, that measured pace that was somehow always heavier when he was thinking too much.
âThat went well,â you muttered under your breath, not bothering to turn around as you hung a T-shirt on the back of the chair.
Conrad leaned against the doorway, his figure slouched casually, but his expression told a different story. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, his brows furrowed, lips twisted in something halfway between a grimace and a smirk.
âYeah,â he replied dryly, letting out a humourless laugh. âA real walk in the park.â
You could feel his eyes on you, scanning you over like he was trying to memorise the lines of your face again. Like he was searching for what had changed. In truth, not much had. But everything had. You were the same girl, maybe, but with sharper edges now. Harder to hold.
You turned slightly, meeting his gaze over your shoulder. âDonât expect me to be nice to her,â you said flatly. âI played nice for years. Tried to win her over. And in the end?â You shrugged. âI got stabbed in the back. So noâIâm done bothering.â
Conrad let out a slow breath, his shoulders slumping as if your words knocked the wind out of him.
âIâm not asking you to be nice,â he said gently. âI just donât want to see you stoop to her level.â
He pushed off the doorframe and walked farther into the room, his steps hesitant. His hands stayed tucked in his pockets, but you could feel the way his presence filled the spaceâhow his nearness always unsettled something in you.
You set a blouse down carefully, slowly, like your hands needed something to do to stop them from shaking. You felt him behind you, close enough that the air between you buzzed. Close enough that his shadow wrapped around yours like it used to.
âIâd throw her into the pool if I could,â you muttered, your voice edged with venom. And you meant it. Youâd do worse, if given the chance. Six stupid monthsâthatâs all it took to erase everything you and Conrad had built. She got what youâd spent a decade loving. And even if he admitted it hadnât been worth it, even if he regretted it... he still left.
Your voice was tighter when you added, âThe fact that she has the nerve to act like thisâeven though sheâs engaged to Jereâit makes my head spin.â
You felt Conrad tense behind you, the way his breath caught in his throat, his jaw flexing.
âI know,â he said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. âBelieve me... I know.â
He stepped closer, and the warmth of him pressed just barely against your back. The space between you disappeared, and suddenly he was right there again. Too close. Too much. It felt like the past was reaching out and strangling you.
You turned slightly, not enough to face him, but enough to let your words hit harder. âShe acts like she has some claim over you. Like she didnât walk away four goddamn years ago. And now sheâs with your brother.â
Your voice cracked, just a little. But you kept going. The anger kept you upright.
âShe acts like she can have both. Iâve never met someone so selfish in my life.â
Conrad didnât say anything at first. You could feel him thinking, feel his guilt twisting in the silence. And it wasnât enough. Nothing would be enough.
âSheâs always been like that,â he said finally, voice low and tired. âSelfish and entitled.â
And then he stepped forward again, until his chest lightly touched your back, and you froze. Your whole body tensed at the feel of himâhow familiar, how impossible it all felt. It was too much. His scent, his warmth, the ghost of everything youâd lost standing behind you like it never left.
You wanted to cry. To scream. To run.
You had loved him. You still did, in ways that hurt more now than they ever had. And youâd lost him. That truth clung to your ribs like lead.
Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms. Your heart was breaking all over again, and this time he was close enough to feel it.
But he didnât touch you.
And you werenât sure if that made it better... or worse.
Conrad could feel the way your body tensed beneath his proximity, how every muscle in you went rigid the second he stepped close. The air between you was thick with everything unspoken, years of silence clinging to both of you like a second skin.
His heart felt unbearably heavyâcarrying guilt, grief, regret... and something softer. Something that still longed for you in a way he could barely admit to himself.
He wanted to touch you. Wanted to turn you around and pull you against his chest, bury his face in your neck and tell you he never stopped loving you. But he didnât. He couldnât. Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned forward slowly, resting his forehead gently against your shoulder.
âI missed you,â he whispered.
Your breath hitched at the sound of it, your throat tightening. Those three words cracked something in you. Last night, when you broke down on the phone and confessed you missed himâit had been a weak, fragile moment. You hated yourself for it after. But now? Now it just hurt. And your head was clearer, enough to remember exactly why you didnât want to let yourself go soft.
Still, you didnât pull away. But your body remained stiff under the weight of his closeness.
âYou never bothered to check in,â you said, your voice low but sharp, the wound behind the words still fresh. The hurt sat naked in your tone, impossible to hideâand it hit him like a blade to the gut.
Conradâs eyes squeezed shut tighter, his jaw tensing, his shame deepening.
âI wanted to,â he murmured, the words falling from his lips like theyâd been locked up for years. âI wanted to call. To check on you. To hear your voice. But IâŠâ
He trailed off, his throat thick. The truth sat like a stone in his mouth.
âI didnât know if you wanted to hear from me,â he finished finally, barely audible. His voice was stripped rawâhonest and terrified.
He lifted a hand slowly, his fingers trembling as they hovered over your shoulder, just brushing your skin. He wanted so badly to close the distance. To prove with touch what words couldnât fix. But the weight of what heâd doneâwhat he hadnât doneâheld him still.
âI was alone,â you whispered, your voice splintering, breaking through the silence like glass. âIn a new city. And I had nobody. So many things happenedâthings I wanted to tell you, share with you first. But I couldnât.â
Your eyes burned. âBecause you barely responded to a fucking Merry Christmas text.â
Conradâs chest twisted at your words. He could hear the isolation in your voice. Feel the nights you'd cried in silence. He didnât need you to describe themâhe already hated himself enough imagining it.
âIâm sorry,â he said, and it came out small. Fragile. Meaningless, even to his own ears. âI shouldâve been there.â
His fingers finally settled on your shoulder, hesitant at first, then curling slightlyâwarm, familiar. The kind of touch that used to mean Iâm home.
âI shouldâve kept in touch,â he continued, voice hoarse with emotion. âI said I would. And I meant it. But I failed. I shouldâve called more. Written more. I shouldnât have let it all fade the way I did. And most of allâŠâ
He paused, the words catching like barbed wire in his throat.
âI shouldâve never let you go in the first place.â
You closed your eyes, the tears slipping out before you could stop them. Your body trembled just slightly, betraying everything you were trying to hold inside. You hated this. Hated that you still felt so much. That he still had this power over you.
You wished youâd kept unpacking. You wished your hands were busy. You wished your heart would shut up.
âI was so⊠lonely,â you whispered again, quieter this time, the words breaking mid-sentence like a breath you couldnât hold. âSo unbelievably lonely, Conrad.â
He felt your pain like it was his own. His hand tightened on your shoulder, just barely, grounding you. Wanting to hold you but not daring to unless you let him.
âGodâŠâ he breathed, his voice cracking under the guilt. âIâm so sorry.â
The weight of your words crushed him. He could see it nowâthe nights you couldnât sleep, the way you probably curled into yourself and cried until your pillow was soaked. All the things you never got to share, all the calls that never came.
And it was his fault.
Heâd let you drown in silence. He hadnât been there when you needed him most. And now, standing behind you, he didnât know how to fix itâhow to piece you back together when he was the one who shattered you in the first place.
But god, he wanted to try.
âMy parents got divorced,â you said quietly, your voice barely more than a breath. A sad, tired smile flickered across your lips. âLast year of my bachelorâs. I⊠I barely graduated. Everything was so hard.â
You werenât trying to guilt-trip him. You werenât trying to catalogue every way heâd disappeared. But the dam inside you was breaking. All the words youâd swallowed for four years were rushing out. All the things you never said to anyoneâbecause you hadnât had anyone to say them to.
Conradâs hand on your shoulder tightened, his grip solid, steadyâlike he was trying to anchor you, or maybe himself. He felt something in his chest cave in as he pictured you alone in a silent apartment, studying for finals with tears in your eyes while your world fell apart. And he wasnât there. He hadnât even known.
His throat worked, but no words came out. Instead, he stepped closer until his chest was pressed flush against your back, your shoulders bracketed by the warmth of him. His hand slipped from your shoulder to your upper arms, curling around you so gently it made something in your heart twist.
Slowly, he turned you to face him. You let him. Your body moved like it remembered how to belong to him even when your heart didnât trust it anymore.
His eyes met yours, and they were so open it hurt to look at him. The rawness there, the sorrow, the regretâit made your tears spill faster.
âGod, Iâm sorry,â he whispered, his voice thick, almost breaking.
His hands lifted to cradle your face, his palms warm against your cheeks. You felt his thumbs brush over your skin, wiping away the tears that kept slipping free.
âIâm not trying to make you feel guilty,â you said softly. Even though, if you were honest, part of you wanted to. Because it had been so damn hard. Because he was the one who stopped fighting. Who walked away.
âI just⊠I was alone,â you breathed, your voice trembling. âAnd there was so much I wanted to tell you.â
Conradâs heart splintered. He could feel it, the jagged edges of it scraping against his ribs. You werenât accusing himâyou were just telling the truth. And it was somehow worse than if you had screamed.
His thumbs traced along your cheekbones, so tender it almost undid you. He leaned in, so close your foreheads nearly touched, his breath warm against your skin.
âTell me now,â he whispered, voice shaking. âPlease.â
You closed your eyes and took a long, shaky breath. Then you nodded.
And so you did.
Hours blurred by like minutes as you sat together on the bed, legs tangled, your suitcase forgotten by the door. You told him everythingâyour parentsâ divorce, how youâd cried in your tiny studio apartment, how youâd almost failed your final project because you were too exhausted to care. You told him how your degree ended, how you poured yourself into your art. About the gallery where you worked long hours, about the little plants you nurtured in your kitchen. About all the times you moved apartments, all the nights you lay awake wishing you could just pick up the phone and call him.
You told him how you thought about getting a puppy, how youâd tried to date and failed miserably, how lonely it was to come home to an empty place. How you should be starting your masterâs in September, terrified and excited all at once.
Every time you paused, he coaxed more out of you, his voice gentle, his touch steady. And all the while, he stroked your hair, his fingers combing through it the way he used to when you were nineteen and everything felt easier. He let you cry. He let you smile. He let you laugh. And for those few hours, it almost felt like nothing had ever changed between you.
Almost.
He listened like nothing in the world mattered more, memorising every detailâlike he was trying to rebuild the map of your life heâd abandoned. His arms wrapped around you, holding you against his chest as if he was afraid youâd disappear the second he let go.
Inside him, everything was a mess. Regret. Guilt. Affection so fierce it left him raw. Loveâlove he hadnât been brave enough to protect.
He missed you. God, he missed you more than he could ever say. Every minute you spent in his arms, telling him the pieces of your life he hadnât been there to see, was both heaven and hell.
Because he realised he had missed all of it. Not because he didnât care, but because he was a coward. Because heâd been too ashamed, too afraid to face what heâd done. And now that you were here, close enough to touch, he couldnât stop thinking about everything heâd lost.
He shouldâve been there to cheer you on, to hold you through every heartbreak, to tell you he was proud of you. He shouldâve been part of every moment you shared tonight.
But he wasnât.
And no matter how hard he tried, he could never get those years back.
âSo⊠yeah,â you sighed, eyes drifting to the wall beside the bed, unfocused. Your hand had slipped under his shirt a while agoâresting there, tracing slow circles on his skin. It was for your own comfort more than his. It grounded you. It was familiar. It felt right.
You had missed this.
âIâm still⊠contemplating where to do my masterâs,â you murmured.
Conradâs heart clenched. The soft, absent-minded way your fingers moved over his abdomen was something he hadnât let himself think about in years. But now that it was backâthis small, intimate gestureâit broke something open inside him. It reminded him how much he'd lost.
He placed his hand over yours, gently lacing his fingers between yours beneath the fabric of his shirt. Warm, steady. Like he didnât want to let you go again.
âYou still donât know where?â he asked softly.
You exhaled, your chest rising and falling against his. âMy momâs had it hard since the divorce,â you said. âI donât know if I should go back to Boston. Be closer. Help out.â
You gave his hand a light squeeze, more out of instinct than anything. You were torn, stuck between everything youâd built and everything youâd left behind. You had a job, a flat in New York. A rhythm. But it wasnât enough. It wasnât what you thought it would be.
He felt your hesitation in the way you held his hand, in the tone of your voice, and it made something inside him sink.
The love of his life was lying in his armsâconflicted, restless, hurting.
Conrad looked down at your intertwined hands resting against his chest, the contact grounding and devastating all at once. But hearing you talk about leaving New York⊠the thought sent a quiet panic through him.
âYouâre⊠considering leaving?â he asked, voice low and strained.
You tilted your head up slightly to look at him. Your eyes were tired, thoughtful, searching. âI donât know, Con,â you said, barely above a whisper. âNew York was supposed to be the dream. Columbia definitely was. And Iâm not saying I regret any of itâit was fun. The job is great. But⊠I donât feel like myself there. Something about it just doesnât fit.â
Your words hit him square in the chest. He hated the idea of you lost in a city that was supposed to be yours. A city that took you away from him.
He took a breath, slow and steady, trying to keep his voice calm. âSo youâre thinking⊠Boston?â
You nodded faintly. âMaybe. Just for a while. Everythingâs just⊠a mess.â Your eyes fluttered closed. âI donât even know what I want from life anymore. I feel like a failure. Iâm twenty-five, and Iâve got a life people envyâbut I feel completely lost.â
His heart shattered at that.
Youâthe girl who used to walk into rooms with fire in your chest and plans written across your palmsâsounded so small now. So unsure.
Conradâs hand tightened around yours, his thumb gently circling your knuckles.
âYouâre not a failure,â he said, firmer this time, more certain. âYouâve accomplished so much. You got into Columbia. You graduated. Youâve built a life in New York. You make art that means something. Youâve survived more than most people ever have to.â
His voice softened, thick with emotion.
âYouâre⊠incredible, Y/N. Please donât talk about yourself like youâre not.â
Your eyes opened again at the sound of your name. That name, in his voice, still made your chest ache in a way you didnât know how to stop.
And for the first time in a long time, his words didnât just wash over youâthey sank in. They stayed. You hadnât realised how much you needed to hear them until now.
You looked at him, something softer in your gaze, something calmer.
âHowâs med school?â you asked quietly. You just⊠needed a shift. Something lighter. You remembered everythingâthe way he used to fall asleep with textbooks on his chest. His first year at Brown. Getting into Stanford. The way he lit up when he talked about saving lives.
You were still proud. Even through everything. You always had been.
Conradâs expression shifted, some of the heaviness in his features lifting as you brought the focus to him.
âMed schoolâs been⊠intense,â he said, his voice almost amused now. âYou know how it is. Long nights, nonstop rotations, a million things to memorise. It never ends.â
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. âAnd an ungodly amount of coffee to stay upright.â
You smiled tooâsmall, but real. âYeah, I can imagine.â
You tilted your head slightly, your fingers still resting under his shirt, your touch softer now. âDo you have your own place?â
Your voice was gentle. Curious. Like you genuinely wanted to know.
His eyes found yours, and the softness there caught him off guard. For a second, he forgot about the pain between youâforgot everything except how close you were right now.
âYeah,â he said, nodding. âSmall place in Palo Alto. Nothing special. Just⊠quiet.â
He paused, his thumb brushing over your knuckles again, almost absentmindedly.
âIt gets pretty lonely, though,â he added softly, almost like he hadnât meant to say it out loud.
And there it was againâthe truth, sitting between you.
You were both lonely.
You were both trying to build something without each other.
And now, lying here, everything unsaid still hung heavy in the air.
You knew exactly what he meant. Living alone wasnât easy. New York was vastâits streets sprawling endlesslyâand even the magic of SoHo, with all its art and bustle, could never quite fill the aching void that settled deep inside during those early mornings. Or the crushing silence that greeted you every time you came home after a long, draining day.
âI know what you mean,â you sigh softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Slowly, you reach out your free handâthe one not trapped beneath his shirtâand gently run your fingers through his hair, savouring the warmth beneath your touch. âIâm proud of you.â
At your touch, his heart stutters, skipping a beat as your fingers weave tenderly through his hair. Your words, so laced with warmth and sincerity, press against his chest, making it ache in a way he canât ignore. His body tightens involuntarily, caught between the comfort and vulnerability of this moment.
He swallows hard, voice low and rough with emotion. âThanks,â he murmurs, never breaking eye contact. âMeans a lot coming from you.â
Closing his eyes for a brief second, he finds a rare solace in your touch. Itâs familiarâcomfortingâand yet so achingly right, as if no time had passed at all.
You watch him, sadness clouding your gaze. You miss him fiercely, painfully. The thought of curling up beside him in that bed at Cousins, as if the last four years had simply dissolved into a dream, feels bittersweet. As if the ruptureâthe breaking apartânever happened.
âYour hairâs lighter,â you murmur quietly, your fingers still playing gently with the strands. âLooks like the Californian sun treats you well.â
His gaze softens as you touch him, your words a bittersweet echo from the past. A low chuckle escapes him, a mix of humour and nostalgia. âYeah, the Californian sun seems to have a habit of bleaching my hair,â he says wryly.
You watch his hand move as you card your fingers through his hair, a simple gesture stirring up a flood of memories and feelings he thought he had buried long ago.
âIt suits you,â you say softly, your hand drifting from his hair to his cheek, brushing it lightly. You miss thisâmiss touching him, the warmth of skin against skin. His eyes flutter shut for a moment under your gentle caress, and you offer a sad smile. âI missed touching you.â
Your words and touches become both balm and blade to his heart, soothing yet sharp in their honesty. He leans into your hand, eyes closing as he drinks in your presence.
A soft, strangled sigh escapes himâraw and unfiltered. âGod, I missed you touching me too,â he whispers, the confession slipping out before he can stop it.
He opens his eyes again, searching yours. âYou have no idea how much.â
You smile gently, your fingers still tracing light patterns along his face. Resting your chin on his chest, you look up at him through your lashes, heart hammering in your chest. âSo⊠no girls back in Cali?â you whisper, the question hanging fragile in the air.
His heart jumps at your words. He knows exactly where this is going, and his gaze roams over your face, memorising every line and curve.
âNo,â he replies quietly, his voice steady and sure. âNo girls. Iâve been too caught up in med school and rotations to even think about dating.â
He pauses for a moment, the weight of unspoken truths pressing down on him. Then, with quiet honesty, he adds, âAnd⊠there was never anyone who could even come close to you.â
The words fall from his lips effortlessly, as natural and necessary as breathingâthe raw truth spilling out without hesitation.
He hasnât been with anyone for four years. The weight of that truth crashes into you like a freight train, sudden and undeniable. Your hand freezes mid-caress, caught between wanting to touch and needing to process. Your eyes search his face, trying to grasp the full meaning behind those words.
Then you tilt your head slightly, breaking the silence with a soft whisper and a small, almost teasing smile. âSo responsible, huh? As a future doctor.â Your voice trembles just a bit as you try to ignore the frantic pounding of your heart at his confession.
Conrad catches the flicker of realisation in your eyesâthe brief falter in your touchâand it tightens something inside his chest.
âSomeoneâs gotta be responsible, right?â he replies lightly, trying to keep the mood easy, but you can hear the way his heartbeat thunders beneath the surface, echoing in his voice.
His gaze never leaves yours as your fingers continue to trace his face, steady and sure, while he adds quietly, a vulnerable edge creeping in, âBesides, no one could ever measure up to you.â
You glance away, unable to fully believe him. âI doubt that,â you say softly, the words bitter with unspoken pain. Deep down, you donât want to accept that he might not have looked at other women the way heâs looking at you nowânot just because they werenât you, but especially because he left you in the first place.
His heart clenches painfully at the doubt shadowing your eyes. The thought that you might not trust himâthat you might believe heâs moved onâcuts him deeper than any words could.
His hand moves gently, cupping your face, turning you back toward him. âHey,â he says softly, voice steady but warm. âI mean it. There were a lot of pretty girls in Cali, but none of them did it for me.â
His eyes lock onto yours, brimming with sincerity and something raw, something unguarded. âNot even close.â
His thumb brushes your cheek tenderly, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw with slow, deliberate care.
âYou wanna know why?â His voice lowers, thick with feeling. âBecause every time I looked at someone else, all I could see was you. Like⊠I was always comparing everyone to you, and nobody ever came close.â
His thumb moves, tracing over your bottom lip, his gaze darkening with the weight of what heâs saying. âSo I stopped trying. It was pointless anyway.â
You close your eyes, the truth settling over you like a familiar ache. You know exactly what he meansâbecause you did the same thing. You searched for him in every guy you dated, but none of them were him. It never lasted long.
Your hand tilts into his touch, a quiet sigh slipping from your lips. Your bottom lip trembles slightly as he strokes it with his thumb. âConnieâŠâ you murmur.
His heart aches at the sightâyour eyes closed, the soft sigh that escapes you, the quiver of your lip. The nickname on your lips, warm and intimate, pulls at something deep inside him.
His thumb keeps moving, gentle and reverent, his gaze fixed on your face. âYeah?â he whispers back, voice thick with a mixture of longing and restraint.
You open your eyes, searching his, and with a fragile voice barely above the breath between you, you ask, âWhat are we gonna do?â
Youâre terrifiedâterrified of how much you miss him, how fiercely you still want him, how deeply you still love him.
He holds your gaze, his eyes dark and intense, reflecting the same storm of fear, longing, and love you carry.
He swallows hard, heart hammering in his chest. âI donât know,â he admits, voice soft and uncertain. âBut one thing I do knowâŠâ
He pauses, thumb still brushing your lip with gentle insistence. âI canât keep pretending I donât miss you. That I donât want you.â
You sigh softly, the ache in your chest both sharp and strangely comforting. It hurtsâthis fragile hope blooming inside youâbut itâs also what keeps you tethered to this moment. You donât want to think about next Saturday, when heâll return to Palo Alto and youâll head back to New York. For now, you just want to hold on to this week and a half of summer, the way it used to beâsimple, unburdened, shared.
âDo you want to go to the beach?â you ask quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. âWe could grab fish afterwards at that small place nearby.â
His heart skips a beat at your suggestionâhope and nostalgia mingling in his chest like the salty ocean air. The idea of a day at the beach brings back a rush of memories, some warm and glowing, others sharp and bittersweet.
He nods slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. âYeah,â he says, voice rougher than usual, like heâs swallowing a lump in his throat. âIâd like that.â
A small, almost shy smile tugs at his lips. âAnd you still love that crappy little seafood place, huh?â
âItâs not crappy,â you laugh softly, ruffling his hair playfully. âYou love their salmon.â
He exhales a soft chuckle, his hair tousled beneath your fingers. Your wordsâfull of shared memories and inside jokesâsting with a strange mix of comfort and longing.
âOkay, fine,â he concedes, a touch of sarcasm slipping into his tone. âThe salmonâs alright. But the oysters? Totally overrated.â
You chuckle again, resting your head against his chest. Your fingers trace the buttons of his shirt in a lazy, intimate rhythm. âWeâll get the salmon,â you murmur. âWe can grab towels, sit on the beach, and then go to the restaurant.â
You feel his chest rise and fall beneath your touch, his heartbeat pounding like a drum beneath his ribs. He closes his eyes for a moment, picturing itâjust the two of you, side by side on the sand, the sun warming your skin, waves crashing softly in the background.
He nods, voice hoarse with emotion. âSounds like a plan.â
His hand finds your waist, thumb tracing the curve of your hip slowly, deliberately.
After ten minutes, you both rise. You head to the bathroom to freshen up, slipping into a white sundress patterned with delicate blue flowers. You detangle your hair, letting it fall in loose curls around your shoulders, and apply just a touch of makeupâmascara to darken your lashes and a hint of highlighter to catch the sun.
Underneath, you wear a swimsuit, just in case the ocean calls to you.
When you join him downstairs, you see heâs changed into a linen button-up with short sleeves and beige shorts. Heâs packing towels into a tote bag, and you lean against the doorway with a faint smile, the quiet familiarity of the moment wrapping around you like a soft blanket.
It feels like the old times.
Conrad looks up just as you descend the stairs, and you catch the way his breath hitches for a moment.
Jesus, he thinks, you look beautiful.
The way the delicate fabric of your sundress hugs your curves, the subtle glow of your makeup, your loose curls framing your faceâevery detail takes his breath away.
Clearing his throat, he zips up the tote bag and turns to you.
âReady?â His voice is a little rougher than usual, carrying all the weight of what this moment means.
âYeah,â you nod, slipping your feet into your sandals as you step outside together. The walk to the beach is shortâjust a few steps from the houseâand the sun is high overhead, bright and relentless in the midday sky. You trail your fingers through the warm sand as you walk, the grains soft and comforting beneath your feet.
After a brief stroll along the shore, you pull the towels from the tote bag and spread them out carefully on the sand. Sitting down, you turn your gaze to the endless stretch of sea before you, breathing deeply as the salty breeze brushes against your face, the warmth of the sun pressing gently into your skin.
âI havenât been to any beach for four years,â you say quietly, your voice carrying a trace of disbelief. âI forgot what sand feels like.â
Conrad sets the tote bag beside you and lowers himself onto the towels, sitting close. His eyes follow your gaze out over the shimmering waves.
His heart tightens painfully at your words, the weight of the years between you pressing into the silence.
âFour years,â he repeats softly, the distance felt so vast in that simple phrase. The time apart hangs heavy in the space between you, a quiet ache neither of you can ignore.
He can barely imagine not feeling the sand beneath his feet for so long, or missing the sunâs warmth on his skin.
He looks back at you, eyes filled with a tangled mix of longing and frustration. âFour years is too damn long.â
âIt is,â you agree in a whisper, voice tender. âI always thought the big city was where I belongedâthat I was wasting myself in Boston, and that Cousins was just a summer place. But the sea... the seaâs my real love, I think.â
Your head dips down, resting gently on his shoulder as you continue staring out at the horizon. âI didnât realise how badly I loved this place until I lost it.â
His chest tightens, a sharp ache blooming as you lean into him. His arm moves on its own, wrapping around you, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your upper arm.
Your words stir something deep inside himâthe familiar ache of loneliness, the sting of loss, the sharp clarity that comes from realising what truly matters only after itâs gone.
He turns his head slightly, his cheek brushing against your hair as he exhales a slow breath. âI get it,â he murmurs. âThis place... it gets under your skin in a way you donât expect.â
You lift your chin, eyes searching his face as a gentle breeze lifts strands of your hair and the hem of your dress. The sun warms your skin, but your question cuts through the warmth like a shard.
âYou havenât visited either. Why?â
He swallows, meeting your gaze with a flicker of vulnerability. The warmth of sun and breeze contrasts sharply with the storm inside him.
He breathes deeply, fingers still tracing slow circles on your arm. âMed school, mostly,â he admits quietly, regret threading through his voice. âItâs been relentless. Barely any time to breathe, let alone come back here. Besides...â He trails off, letting out a soft sigh. âBeing hereâit hurt.â
You nod knowingly, understanding thereâs more beneath his words. You know him too well.
âIt feels weird,â you say softly. âBeing back here. Seeing all these places where we spent so much time... being at the house and...â Your voice drops lower, fragile. âAnd your mom not being here.â
The mention of his mom hits him hardâa sudden punch to the gutâand he inhales sharply, pain flickering across his features.
The loss is still raw, a wound that aches whenever itâs touched.
He shifts, turning slightly to face you more directly, his arm tightening gently around you.
âI know,â he murmurs, voice thick and hoarse. âItâs like⊠every inch of this place has her imprint all over it.â
You nod slightly, your hand reaching up to cup his jawâthe same way you used to, so many times before. Your thumb brushes gently over his skin, your voice barely above a whisper. âSheâd be proud of you, you know,â you say softly. âSheâd be proud of the man youâve become.â
His throat tightens, the ache squeezing his chest like a vice.
Your words, your touchâtheyâre both a balm and a torment, comfort and pain all wrapped together. He turns his head, pressing his cheek into your hand, his eyes locked on yours.
âYou really think so?â His voice is fragile, barely audible, filled with a vulnerable hope heâs usually careful to hide.
âShe would be,â you repeat with quiet conviction, your fingers still caressing his cheek. âJust like I am.â
You gaze at him as if you can hardly believe itâs the same boy you once built sandcastles with, the same boy you dated years ago. âThe only thing I wonât forgive you for,â you add with a teasing smirk, âis trading in the Rover for that Toyota.â
He canât help but chuckle softly at your quip, warmth flooding through him.
Your belief in him means more than you realise.
A faint smile tugs at his lips, eyes still fixed on yours. âHey, that Toyota gets great gas mileage,â he defends, his hand resting gently on your arm.
You roll your eyes, feigning irritation. âYeah, yeah. Because the Rover was so much better on gas,â you reply sarcastically, a playful smirk curling at the corners of your mouth.
He huffs, a smile tugging upward. âThat thing guzzled gas like it was going out of style.â
You sigh dramatically, shaking your head fondly. âBut the sound it made⊠that engine purringâŠâ
He chuckles, eyes sparkling with mischievous amusement. âDonât get all sentimental on meâyou sound like an old lady,â he teases, nudging you gently with his shoulder.
You groan. âUgh, donât remind me.â You shake your head. âIâm turning 25 in a month and a half. I feel like a grandma. Kids at stores actually say âgood morningâ to me. What a horrible thing.â
His smirk widens at your theatrical lament.
Reaching up, he ruffles your hair playfully. âYouâre rightâyouâre basically one step away from a cane and knitting a shawl. Better start practicing those old lady skills now.â
âHey!â you exclaim, grabbing his wrist to stop him from messing with your hair. A small smile plays on your lips as you look at him, that familiar hint of longing lingering in your gazeâa look thatâs been there since the morning.
His smirk softens at your reaction. The easy banter brings back a flood of memoriesâthose countless times you teased each other just like this.
He catches that longing in your eyes, and his heart tightens. He knows that look wellâit mirrors his own.
Leaning in slightly, his voice drops to a quieter, more serious tone. âYouâre not old,â he says softly, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the inside of your wrist.
âYouâre youngerâyou donât know what old is. Youâre still a toddler in diapers to me,â you tease, heart fluttering as he leans closer. You always loved joking about his ageâitâs only two years, but it never stopped being a favourite jab.
He rolls his eyes, a familiar smile tugging at his lips. âToddler in diapers? Really? Youâre gonna go there?â
He feigns annoyance, but the softness in his eyes betrays him.
âI know what old is,â he shoots back. âIâm in med school. Iâve seen old.â
His thumb continues tracing small circles on your wrist, tender and steady.
You snort softly. âI bet. Youâre all probably going grey by age thirty,â you say with a grin, shifting your hand to lace your fingers loosely with his.
A chuckle rumbles through Conradâs chest as his fingers effortlessly intertwine with yours.
âYeah? You think Iâll go grey before you do? Youâre the one whoâs been complaining about feeling old,â he points out, his voice thick with playful sarcasm.
You smile and nod, warmth blooming between you both. For a long moment, you simply sit like thatâhands linked, hearts quietly syncingâbefore you open your eyes. You remember the swimsuit tucked beneath your dress, just in case. Glancing down at his shorts and shirt, you lift your gaze back to him with a mischievous glint sparkling in your eyes.
âTell me youâve got swimming trunks underneath,â you say, voice teasing.
He raises an eyebrow, a small, knowing smirk pulling at his lips. He knows that lookâthat unmistakable spark in your eye.
âYouâre thinking what Iâm thinking, huh?â he asks, amusement threading through his tone.
He watches you for a moment, then lets out a mock-exasperated sigh.
âOf course Iâve got swim trunks under here,â he confirms, gesturing at his shorts.
Your smile widens into a full grin as you push yourself to your feet. Quickly, you tie your hair into a messy bun, turning to look at him over your shoulder.
âUnzip me?â you ask, anticipation making your voice light and breathy.
Conrad laughs quietly, heart doing a little leap at your eagerness and that radiant grin lighting up your face.
He rises smoothly and closes the distance between you, his hands finding the small zipper at the back of your dress. Slowly, he pulls it down, lingering for a brief moment on your bare back before slipping his hands away.
âEager much?â he teases softly, eyes locking with yours.
You tilt your head over your shoulder, humming softly. âSo excited,â you say with a small smile, goosebumps rising under his touch.
You slide the dress down, letting the fabric pool gently on the sand as you step out of it, revealing your white two-piece swimsuit.
The top is a halter with delicate ruffles and padding, tied neatly at your neck and back. The simple white bottoms rest lightly on your hips, soft and flattering.
Conradâs gaze flickers over your figure, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of youâthe way the swimsuit hugs your curves with effortless grace.
God, you are gorgeous.
He swallows hard, clenching his fists to stop his hands from reaching out to you, heart pounding fast.
âYouâre gonna give every guy on this beach a heart attack,â he mumbles, a mix of admiration and jealousy colouring his tone.
You turn to look at him, tilting your head with a playful glint in your eyes. Stepping closer, you glance over your shoulder at a group of guys nearby who canât seem to tear their eyes away from you.
âPoor guys,â you say with a teasing smirk before locking eyes with him again. âGood thing my eyes are set on only one.â
Then, with a burst of energy, you sprint toward the sea, laughing as you call out, âLast one to the waterâs paying for dinner!â
You know youâve got the upper handâheâs still fully dressed.
Conrad watches you go with a mix of amusement and frustration, narrowing his eyes slightly at the guys ogling you.
He mutters a grumble under his breath, both at your words and how stunning you look in that swimsuit.
Then your challenge sinks in, and he curses quietly.
âHey, no fair!â he protests, quickly yanking off his shirt and shedding his shorts, revealing his swimming trunks.
Sand flies beneath his feet as he chases after you, shaking his head with a playful grin. âCheater.â
âLoser!â you call out with laughter, sprinting into the water despite the sharp sting of cold. You yelp as the chilly waves crash against your knees, shivering but determined to get used to the temperature. You glance back to see him catching up, that familiar grin lighting up his face.
Conrad grumbles and curses quietly under his breath as he steps into the cold sea beside you, the crisp water making him hiss in surprise.
He catches up quickly, stepping closer and splashing water playfully toward you, a sly smirk playing on his lips.
âYouâre such a pain in the ass, you know that?â he teases, his eyes trailing over your figure, taking in the way the water clings to your skin.
You yelp as the cold splash hits you, retaliating with a quick splash of your own. âConrad!â you exclaim, stepping away, trying in vain to avoid getting completely soakedâthough you know full well itâs only a matter of time before he drags you under.
His smirk deepens at your reaction, eyes gleaming with mischievous triumph.
He loves the spark in your eyesâthe mix of mock annoyance and laughter dancing there.
Chuckling low, he closes the distance as you try to retreat, but heâs having none of it.
His hands slide around your waist, pulling you firmly against him.
âNowhere to run, sweetheart.â
âUgh, youâre such a jerk,â you say, shivering slightly from the sudden chill. The cold water is a sharp contrast to your sun-warmed skinâand to his. Your breath is still a bit ragged from your run, your hands resting lightly against his chest.
The endearment makes your heart skip, the familiar warmth spreading through you. You missed thisâmissed him.
He chuckles softly at your accusation, fingers tightening around your waist. He notices the goosebumps rising on your skin, the small shiver that travels through you.
His eyes flicker over your flushed face, the subtle panting in your voice. The feel of your fingers pressing against his chest makes his heart thump even harder.
Leaning in, he murmurs against your ear, his voice teasing yet charged with something deeper. âYou love it, though.â
You hum softly, eyes fluttering closed as his breath warms your skin. Your hands move slowly upward, tracing familiar paths as you relearn the contours of his body, fingers slipping around his neck in a loose embrace.
âAlways did,â you whisper, realisation settling deep within youâyou hadnât truly been living without him.
His heart pounds fiercely at your words. The touch of your hands on his skin sends a shiver racing down his spine.
He exhales a quiet sigh, tightening his arms around your waist, pulling you closer.
His eyes close as he nuzzles into the hollow of your neck.
âYou have no idea how damn much Iâve missed you,â he murmurs, voice rough with emotions held too long.
You swallow hard as his breath brushes against your skin, your body instinctively arching closer into him. Your hands thread through his damp hair, fingers tangling slowly, savouring the familiar feel.
âI missed you too,â you whisper, the gentle crash of waves surrounding you, their rhythm soothing as they lap against your bodies.
You take a slow step backânot to pull away, but to pull him with youâas you start moving deeper into the water. Conrad follows your lead without hesitation, his hands firm and steady around your waist, anchoring you both as the sea rises around you.
He rests his chin on your shoulder, pulling you impossibly close, the cool water reaching mid-thigh. Your hearts pound fiercely in your chests, the closeness dizzying.
He exhales a quiet, breathy huff, his voice muffled as he speaks against your damp skin. âYou drive me crazy, you know that?â
You chuckle softly, fingers idly playing with the wet strands at the nape of his neck, your body moulding perfectly against his lean frame. Turning your head, your eyes meet his, warmth and something deeper shining in their depths.
âI could say the same,â you murmur, the water swirling around your waists as you pull him further in. âYouâve always had this way of making me lose my mind without even trying.â
Conradâs lips press into a soft smile against your skin, his heart somersaulting like it always does when heâs this close. Your words, your touch, your nearnessâit all makes his head spin.
He tightens his hold on your waist, bodies pressed even closer as the sea deepens.
He laughs softly, breath warm against your neck. âYeah? Youâre one to talk. You drive me insane without even trying.â
A brief pause, then he adds with raw sincerity, âAnd I love it.â
You stop as the water reaches just beneath your breasts, the height difference between you more visible as it only reaches his middle.
At his words, you sigh softly, tilting your head to look up at him. âI have no idea how I survived these four years without you,â you whisper, hands tightening gently around his neck.
Conradâs heart aches at your vulnerability, his grip on your waist firming in response.
He looks down, eyes locking with yours as the cool waves lap around you, contrasting sharply with the heat burning between you.
âYou and me both,â he murmurs, voice hoarse with the weight of those lost years. âI shouldâveâŠâ
He stops himself, the words hanging unfinished on his tongue.
âShould have what?â you whisper, searching his eyes as your hand tangles deeper in his hair, the soft sound of waves soothing your nerves.
His breath hitches at your touch, sending an electric shiver down his spine.
He meets your gaze, intense and raw. His heart races as the words you need to hear get stuck.
âNothing,â he says quietly, tightening his hold on your waist. âForget it.â
âDonât do this,â you whisper, cupping his face in your hands. âWe already went four years without each other. Please⊠donât do this to us anymore. Not when I chose to come here. I shouldâve hated you long ago. And yet, I still picked up the phone and came.â
His heart clenches painfully at your confession, chest tightening. He reaches up, covering your hand with his, holding it gently against his cheek.
He canât deny the truth in your words, and he knows youâre right.
âIâm sorry,â he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. âYouâre right. I justâŠâ
He pauses, searching your eyes.
âIâm just tired of always messing things up. And Iâm scared.â
âAnd Iâm not?â you ask softly, tilting your head. You sigh, running your fingers over the waterâs surface, looking away toward the horizon. âYou left me for someone else. Yes, you havenât been with anyone else these past four years. And yes, you feel guilty for not being there for meâthrough everything, the good and the bad. I know.â
You swallow hard, voice trembling slightly. âBut being here, like this, with youâit terrifies me. Because my heart⊠itâs far from healed. And if⊠if in a week, this all ends and we go back to our livesâitâs going to kill me.â
His heart twists painfully at your vulnerability, throat constricting. Your words hit him like a blow, and he knows youâre right.
He left you for Belly. The guilt gnaws at him every day. The last four years have been a battle.
He reaches out, gently cupping your chin, turning your face so he can look deep into your eyes once more.
âYou think Iâm not scared too?â he murmurs, voice rough and low. âYou think Iâm not terrified of losing you again?â
âThen tell me,â you whisper, your voice trembling slightly as you search his eyes, âtell me that whatever happens here wonât end the moment we board our planesâwhen you go back to Cali and I return to New York. Tell me weâll make it this time. That this wonât just be another summer fling we forget come fall.â
His heart skips a beat, and his gaze locks with yours, steady and fierce.
You see the vulnerability flicker in his eyes, the same fear mirrored in your own. Four years ago, maybe he would have agreed that this summer was all there was. But now? Not a chance.
âThis is more than a summer,â he says softly, his hand warm against your cheek. âYouâre more than just a summer fling to me. You know that. I⊠I made the biggest mistake of my life by letting you go. By letting anyone get between us. By thinking Iâd be better off with someone else. Iâm not. I never will be.â
His hand cups your face tenderly, his thumb brushing your skin like a silent plea.
âGod⊠I messed everything up. But if you let meâif you let me, and I want you to so badlyâIâll make it up to you every single day. Iâll make sure that sixteen years we shared never went to waste. I canât let it all slip away. Youâre too important to me. Youâre everything.â
His words ripple through you, making you tremble against him. And this time, youâre certain itâs not just the cold water.
Never in a million years did you think youâd have a conversation like thisâin the sea, under the glaring midday sun, with waves around you. But thinking about everything youâve been through, and who you both areâthis feels exactly like you.
Because no matter how terrifying it is, falling back into the rhythm with him is as natural as breathing. Talking to him about your feelings feels easier than blinking.
âIâm scared, Connie,â you murmur, resting your head against his chest as the water around you slowly warms. âIâm scared to give you my heart again. Because itâs been yours since we were kids, and losing you⊠it was the greatest loss of my life.â
His heart aches as he holds you tighter, the waves gently lapping against your bodies like a soft lullaby.
He understands your fearâhe feels it too. The pain of the past four years still weighs heavy on both of you.
But he wonât lose you again. Not this time.
He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his voice barely more than a whisper, thick with promise.
âIâm not going anywhere, sweetheart. I swear, Iâll make it right. I canât go on knowing that you hate me⊠that I donât have you in my life. When you hung up on the phone and I realised it may be the endâI never felt a fear this big. Every panic attack Iâve ever went through was nothing like the panic I felt in that moment. I will make it right. For both of us.â
You wrapped your hands around his middle and closed your eyes. It felt like jumping off a cliff. This moment that could change everything. Because you could have told him that you were too scared. That you didnât trust him. That you couldnât risk having your heart destroyed again.
But this was Conrad. Your Connie. The boy with whom you built sand castles. The boy who taught you how to ride a bike. The boy with whom you grew up and shared every memory of your life since you were 9 and he 7. All the plans for the future the two of you madeâthey were in the back of your head.Â
He was your Connie.
And in that moment, jumping off an emotional cliff wasnât as scary. It wasnât scary, because he still held your heart in his hand. Clutching the broken pieces together and slowly letting them glue themselves back together.
A/N: So, we're finished with these two (although, I'll be honest, I could have written at least two more parts before they reconcile properly). Let me know if you'd like these two to become a constant! I have so many ideas for their past, or maybe some sweet epilogue?
