“Tommy’s Lucky Star” part nine
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Tommy Conlon was supposed to be your past. But when he re-enters your life years later, you realise he never stopped looking for you.
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warnings: angst, mature themes, 18+ series, minors DNI!
notes: can be read as a standalone, long so read with time ♡
Hear him say how you’re wrong this time.
For a second, you freeze. Because it feels the same. Like standing on his porch with your heart in your throat, waiting for him to open the door. Waiting to see if he’d let you in…or leave you standing there.
You want him to be wrong. But he’s not moving. Not stopping you. Just like before. Just like always.
Your grip tightens around the handle of his bedroom door. Your breath catches in your throat as you pull it open. It sticks for a second before giving, the old wood dragging against the frame with a dull scrape. Cold air from the hallway slips in immediately, brushing over your skin.
“I fell for it twice,” you say, quietly. “Twice now I let myself believe there was something—some kind of future for us.” You try to keep your voice steady, but it slips anyway. “I wish…” you swallow. “I wish you never let me inside when I showed up with those stupid brownies. You should’ve just shut the door.”
You walk out. The door shuts behind you, loud enough to make you flinch as it slams into place. You leave him standing there in his childhood bedroom. The same way he left you asleep in his one ten years ago. Only this time, you’re awake for it. This time, you’re the one choosing to leave.
You don’t turn around. Adjust the strap of the bag on your shoulder. and keep going.
A sharp pain stings in your chest. Your breath hitches, but you keep walking anyway.
The wooden stairs creak under your weight. You take one at a time, careful not to slip.
You reach the sitting room, drowned in yellow-grey light from the sunrise, amber-shadows reaching in subtly from behind the curtains.
You pass the kitchen with the re-painted cabinets.
Past photos set on drawers of young Tommy and Brendan, before life tried to swallow them whole.
You try to picture him like that. Before everything hardened. Before leaving became easier than staying. Before you knew what it felt like to wake up and find him gone.
Paddy is still asleep. Tommy is still upstairs, right where you left him. And the house feels…almost peaceful like this.
You make it to the front door. Your hand closing around the handle. The cold metal bites into your palm. It almost stings.
You stay there for a moment, grip tightening until it aches.
Everything started with a door. And now it ends with one too. Back then you knocked—and he hesitated, but he let you in anyway. You should’ve known even then. He never knew how to keep anything once it was his.
In another life, you and Tommy could’ve been like Brendan and Tess.
But in this one, it always starts the same—soft, warm, open. And ends with you shivering because he’s no longer holding you.
You push the door open before you can stop yourself.
“Don’t,” he says, somewhere from behind you now.
You don’t know when he moved. But you feel him standing there.
A draft slips through the open door, brushing over your skin. Tugging at your clothes. Urging you forward. Just one more step. That’s all it would take.
You stare past the threshold; hand still fixed on the handle. You force yourself forward, before you can stop yourself.
The floor creaks heavy with his footsteps. “You ain’t walking out.”
He’s too close now. Close enough you feel his breath at your neck before you hear it—the heat of it against your neck.
You don’t turn. You can’t bring yourself to.
Your name leaves him anyway. The way it always did. Like it’s still his to say. It burns heavy in your chest.
You exhale slowly, eyes closing for a second like it might change something. Fix something.
Then you turn. Not fully, just a glance over your shoulder. Just enough to see his face. Just one last time.
He’s standing closer than you thought. Close enough that there’s nowhere to go but forward.
His shoulder sits wrong without the sling. The stitches along his brow are still fresh, pulling when his jaw tightens. A bruise has started to darken along his cheekbone.
He's pulled on a blue shirt at some point. It clings to him. Stretched tight across his chest and shoulders. The fabric pulls when he shifts, like his body doesn’t know how to be still around you. He looks like he could take hit after hit and still not move.
His chest rises unevenly. Every breath forced into place.
His arms hang tense at his sides, muscles drawn tight. His hands flex, once, then still. He caught himself before reaching for you.
His blue eyes don’t leave you. Not even for a second. You feel it. The way they hold you there. Locked on you like if he looks away, you’ll be gone. He doesn’t hide what’s in them now. Not the restraint. Not the way something’s slipping behind them. Not the way he needs you.
You turn your head away again, but you can still feel him. Close enough it presses into your back without touching. Close enough that leaving won’t make you come out unstained. It’ll feel like tearing yourself out of something.
You push the door further open anyway.
“I shouldn’t’ve—” he cuts himself off. He hesitates, jaw tight, then drags a hand over his face.
“Shouldn’t’ve left,” he says, roughly. He looks away for a second. Like even that was too much.
It hurts your chest. Lands all wrong. The words are ten years too late.
“Don’t say that now.” Heat rises behind your eyes before you can shove it down again. “Doesn’t change anything.”
Your vision blurs properly. You blink it back. Not here. Not in front of him.
You take another step and push the door open the rest of the way.
Cold air hits your skin. It feels like stepping out of something you won’t get back. And it’s the only way you’ll survive.
Behind you, his control snaps. “I mean I can’t—can’t lose you like that again.”
It almost makes you turn back. Muscle memory. Instinct. The same part of you that used to follow him without thinking.
This time you don’t. You keep walking instead.
And that’s when he moves. Your name tears out of him, and he then he’s there—reaching for you.
His arm slams around your waist, hard. It knocks the breath out of you as he yanks you back mid-step, your footing slipping, your back hitting his chest.
For half a second, his grip falters. Pain catching up to his shoulder. His arm locks around you fully anyways.
You twist, trying to pull free. He doesn’t budge.
“Let go Tommy—” your voice cuts as you fight him.
He only drags you further back against him. Thick muscle and heat holding you exactly where you are. Like he won’t let you leave the way he did. One arm does the work, the other lagging—but still there. Still holding you.
“You left me. You don’t get to—"
“You think I forgot that?” It’s right against your ear. “Doesn’t go away,” he adds. “Not for me either.”
His grip shifts—one hand splayed firm against your waist, the other braced across your stomach. Keeping you exactly where you are. Boxing you in.
“You changed your number,” you say, breath catching, still fighting his hold. “You just…” The words won’t come out right. “Cut me out. Like I didn’t—"
Your voice breaks. “Like I didn’t matter. Like it was nothing.”
Like you weren’t the girl who showed up at his door with too much hope in your hands.
A muscle jumps in his jaw. He swallows, forces it down.
“You think I don’t know what I did?” his grip tightens. “I do. Every day”
“You don’t know shit,” you snap. “Waking up alone like that.” Your voice slips but you don’t stop. “First thing I saw was your wardrobe empty and you were just…. gone.”
You stop fighting him long enough to look at him. And you wish you hadn’t.
Because he’s not hiding anymore. The distance he keeps, the walls he builds, are gone. It’s all there. Raw, exposed in a way you’ve never seen him. In a way that feels wrong to witness. Something in his eyes you were never meant to see.
You can’t hold his gaze. “You don’t even believe it yourself, do you?” you whisper, “That you’ve changed.”
“I’ll always have to carry it,” you say. “So don’t do this…don’t stand here acting like you’ve suddenly figured it out.”
“You think I don’t carry it?”
“God forbid you have to feel a fraction of what I did.” You shake your head. “Just… do me one last favour. Pretend the past two days didn’t happen.”
You wipe your eyes with your sleeve. “Pretend none of it did. Should be easy enough for you.”
Your words hit him, you feel it. The way his body flinches. You’ve cut at parts he keeps buried deep.
“No,” he says. “Not doin’ that.”
He drags in a breath. It scrapes on the way down.
“I’m not—” The words stall in his throat.
“You came back...” His grip on you tightens without him noticing.
“You came back to me. And now you’re standin’ here sayin’ it doesn’t matter?”
“I’m trying not to screw this up,” he continues, voice rougher now.
“That’s what that was this morning. I left ‘cause I—” he cuts himself off. “I left because I know what I do to things that matter.”
You shake your head, tears falling now. “No,” you say, like you can undo it.
“Would’ve ruined you. It’s what I do.” His teeth drag over his bottom lip. “Tried stayin’ away from you even back then,” he says. “Couldn’t.”
His jaw tightens, he’s still annoyed with himself, even now. “When I knew you were it for me—"he exhales hard. “That’s when I left.”
“You realised that… and then decided to leave me?” You struggle against his hold again.
“Thought it was the only call."
“For you.” He huffs, like it tastes bad. “You’re doin’ fine—without me. Didn’t need me for any of it.” His jaw tightens. “I’d’ve dragged you under.”
“Shut up, Tommy,” Your voice breaks but you don’t stop. “You stood there and promised me a future that never existed.”
“Yeah,” his eyes shine, and he looks away before it shows.
“Cause’ you made things better. And I can’t—" he drags a hand over his face. “I don’t know how to keep that.”
“Want you with someone better.” He shakes his head like he already hates what he’s about to say. “Still can’t let you leave now.”
“You actually think I’m staying?” You let out a short, disbelieving huff. “Wait around for you to do it again? Wake up every morning wondering if you’re gone? I can’t live like that.”
He flinches like you hit him. His arms loosen from around you. Not letting go all at once but slipping gradually.
You barely have time to move away before he steps around you, like he’s trying to fix something he can’t anymore. Reach for someone he can’t get to anymore.
And then, he doesn’t make it.
His shoulder gives first. The rest of him follows. His knees hit the floor before he seems to realise what’s happening. He drops in front of you before he can stop it—hands catching at your hips just to stay upright.
“Tommy, what are you doing? Get—"
“Every day,” he mutters. His grip tightens, uneven. “Didn’t matter where I was.”
He drags in a breath. “I loved you.”
He swallows hard. “Every day after I left.”
“I did,” he breathes. “Still do.”
His hands slide higher up your hips. “I know I don’t get to ask you.” His hands tighten anyways, fingers digging into your skin there. “But don’t walk away thinkin’ I’d do it again. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
He looks up at you, and it’s worse than before. Every year without you sitting heavy in his face. Nothing held together. Just the knowledge of what it cost to leave—and how he won’t survive it twice.
“If you go…” his jaw tightens. “You ain’t goin’”
“That’s not your decision.”
Your name leaves his lips again. “I’m here now,” he says, “That’s not changin’”
You don’t move. Just look at him. Trying to understand him, this version he’s letting you see.
He keeps his eyes on you, like he’s committing you to memory. And he has a look on his face that almost makes you believe him.
“I needed this years ago, Tommy,” Your voice strains. “It’s too late.”
“What happens when you think you’re doing the right thing again?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, tight. “But where you are…that’s where I stay.”
Your fingers catch his jaw. You hold onto it firmly. Like you’re trying to see how deep his promises go.
“Don’t ever make choices for me like that," you whisper.
“I won’t,” he says, blue eyes clinging onto yours, too bright up close.
Your fingers stay on his jaw, waiting for him to pull away. He doesn’t. But you feel it anyway, the way something in him fights it. Not to leave, but to not be seen fully. Not by you.
The pressure around your heart eases a fraction. Not properly. Enough that the cold doesn’t feel as deep. Just enough that you’re not already halfway out the door.
“We can’t just go back,” you say. “That’s not how it works.”
“I know.” He drags a hand over his face, trying to get a grip on himself.
“Don’t wanna go back either,” he adds, quieter now. “I want something new with you.”
You swallow and look away. Past him. Out through the open door, where cars pass through the quiet suburbs.
This isn’t the yellow house where he first saw you. Where everything started. There’s no porch between you now. No easy distance to cross. Just the absence of what you used to have.
Leaving would still be the safe thing to do. Keep the shield around your heart. But you’ve already felt the absence of what comes after. You’ve already lived like that.
You say nothing for a long time.
When you finally look back at him, he’s pushing himself up, unsteady for a second before he’s there again, right in front of you.
“We can try,” you say. So quiet it almost disappears.
Something in him breaks for a second, barely visibly. Just in the way his hands twitch, like he’s about to reach for you again. Bracing for you to still walk away.
You don’t. Even when your body almost does. Fear pressing in, familiar, telling you to leave.
You choose to stay, even when he couldn’t. And it’s not forgiveness. Not trust. Just the knowledge of what it cost to live without him.
He nods once. His arms tense at his side. Like if he moves too fast you’ll take it back.
Then it hits him. A sharp pain in his shoulder. His breath catches wrong. Sharp through his nose. The cut through his brow pulls tight for a second. He looks away. Trying to push through it.
“I’m fine,” he mutters, already pushing past you like that settles it. He doesn’t make it far.
His hands hit the wall just inside the doorway, catching himself. Fingers flex once against the surface.
You follow him in, keeping your distance. You nod towards the couch. “You need to sit down. You never took your painkillers.”
He exhales through his nose, like he’s about to argue. He doesn’t. Just drops onto the couch, a tight wince slipping through before he can stop it. Elbow braced on his knee, hand dragging over the back of his neck.
You turn away from him, already moving.
“You don’t need to get ‘em,” he says.
You ignore it. Upstairs, the box of painkillers is still where you left it.
When you come back down, he hasn’t moved. You set the water and pills in front of him. “Just take them now.” No edge left in your voice. No fight.
He looks at them, and there’s that same pause, like he doesn’t trust himself.
That’s when you realise. “You don’t take pills anymore, do you?”
“This isn’t that. It’s for your shoulder.”
He doesn’t move. Then he reaches for the water. For the pills. Takes them this time.
You don’t watch him. Try to find something, anything, to keep your hands busy.
You move to the sink. Grab some kitchen roll, pressing it hard to your eyes. He pretends not to see it.
You turn on the tap. Plates from last night stacked in front of you. You start scrubbing, like you can wash the past away with the grease.
He lets you do it for a moment, then you hear the creak of the couch as he pushes himself up. “Stop doin’ Paddy’s dishes.”
He moves towards you, too fast. His shoulder pulls immediately. His body locks for half a second before he forces through it.
“Sit back down,” you say, placing items on the drying rack.
“It’s nothin,’” he mutters. “Brendan did worse. In the cage.”
He’s already moving past you, towards the stove.
You straighten slightly, watching him. “What…are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just opens a cabinet like he still knows where everything is, grabs a pan with his good arm.
“You need to eat,” he mutters.
“You could barely stand a minute ago.”
“Well… I’m standin,’ ain’t I?”
You look away, hiding an eyeroll before it turns into something else
He sees it you do it, and the corner of his mouth pulls, almost a smile. Then it’s gone. He reaches for the eggs, fumbles one when his shoulder pulls again— catches it before it drops. His jaw twitches but he keeps going.
It looks familiar enough to sting. You used to have mornings like this with him.
You step closer before you can stop yourself. He stills when you reach past him to turn on the stove. “I can do it," you say.
“No. I’m cookin’” he start cracking eggs messily with one-hand. One carton. Then another. Until he has pan full of them sizzling. Twelve for himself and a few for you.
You suppress a smile, a small sniff slipping out before you can stop it, nodding towards them. “You still eat that many?”
He glances up at you, something softer in his face now. “Easy work.”
“Yeah? With one arm? You’ve got like fifty shell pieces in there, Tommy.”
That almost gets you there. A ghost of a laugh in his face before it disappears again.
He cracks another egg one handed, messily, more shell fragments slipping in.
You reach in quietly, fishing them out before they burn.
“Now you got your fingers in the food,” he mumbles, but he’s not complaining. Not really.
When you finish collecting the shells, your fingers catch the edge of the pan—then his hand. You pull your hand back, like you shouldn’t have touched him at all.
He stays still for a fraction longer than he should. Then he exhales through his nose and turns the heat down.
You swallow and step back again. Give him space and let him do it.
The kitchen fills with small sounds—the sizzle of eggs, the scrape of the spatula. Tommy putting toast in the toaster, buttering it for you. Makes you coffee exactly how you drink it.
He sets the plate down in front of you then another for himself.
You sit across him on paddy’s small wooden kitchen table. There’s a book left open near your elbow. You were part of the movie adaption years ago. He notices you looking and moves it away without a word. Like it doesn’t belong to him.
He sits but waits until you start eating to pick up his fork.
“You wrapped a film in Atlantic City then?” he asks.
You take another bite. “Yeah, character’s a psychopath.”
He eats slower than he used to. More careful. His body won’t let him forget what he went through during the tournament. It’s catching up with him even more.
“Tommy…you should’ve spent the night in the hospital.”
You glance at the food, take another bite. When you look back up, he’s already watching you. You look away first.
After his plate is cleared, he waits for you to finish before pushing up from the chair, slower than he wants. You look up from your fork.
“When they put your shoulder back in—did they even check anything else?” you blurt, unable to let it be. You know how this goes. He’ll let it get worse. Push straight through it.
You shake your head. “That’s not what I asked.”
“Just need to change the bandage. That’s all,” he gestures vaguely toward the stairs. “It’ll be fine then.”
You don’t respond. Not because you agree. Because arguing won’t stop him.
He waits a second like he expects you to follow. When you don’t, he goes.
The house settles again as you finish up in the kitchen. The sun now fully shining into the window, a cat somewhere in Paddy’s back garden. You stand there for a moment, watching it. Until your eyes land on the bandages on the coffee table. He forgot those too even when he needs them to change his bandage.
You grab them, taking the stairs up two at a time. You reach his door, barely knocking, pushing it open. “Tommy, you forgot—"
He’s halfway through pulling his shirt up, just having come out of a shower. His grey sweats sit low, showing off his v-line. The fresh shirt he’s putting on caught at his shoulder, fabric twisted, one arm free, the other not cooperating because of the injury. For a second he doesn’t notice you.
And you take him in, properly this time. Not rushed. Not in the dark like last night. No excuse not to see him.
His hair is damp, darker at the ends. Water still clinging to his skin, trailing slow lines down over his chest, disappearing into his waistband.
The fabric doesn’t co-operate, twists awkwardly as he tries to pull it over his head. He keeps trying anyways, like it’ll just work eventually. He stills.
Then looks up at you. Aware of you now.
You clear your throat, lifting the bandages. “You’ll need these when you’re done.” You don’t offer to apply them for him. Not anymore.
He nods and goes back to trying to get the shirt over his head.
You watch him struggle. Tell yourself to leave it. But you cross the space to get to him anyways. “Hold on.”
Your hands come up, already reaching for the fabric, peeling it over his head gently, careful not to get it caught on his neck or shoulder. Your fingers brush over his damp, warm skin.
Then you start working on applying the new bandage for him. “I’m taking you to see another doctor today. Ask Paddy if we can borrow his car.”
You shoot him a look, and he stops arguing it. For the first time.
Paddy’s car hums steady beneath you as you drive Tommy back from the Pittsburgh ER. Dark rural roads stretch out ahead in long, quiet lines. One of your hands is one the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift.
Tommy sits beside you, angled slightly away, shoulder help stiff. The wrap is fresh again, tighter than earlier.
You made the right call bringing him in after the pain this morning. Hours of waiting, tests, and a doctor moving his arm until his face turned pale just to check it was still in place.
It is. Just badly strained. They rewrapped it and told him to keep it still. You already know he won’t.
On his lap a box of brownies you picked up on the way back. He turns a toothpick between his teeth.
“Pain better now?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Was fine before.” He turns to where you crease your brows and mumbles a quiet. “Thanks…for bringing me.”
You nod and keep your eyes on the road. Mostly.
Silence stretches. Until you finally ask what’s been on your mind for the past three days. “You deserted, didn’t you?”
He rolls the toothpick between his teeth a little harder. “Why ask if you already know?”
Your grip on the wheel tightens. “You can’t keep acting like it doesn’t matter what happens to you. You fight like it doesn’t matter if you make it out.”
You reach a red light and glance towards him.
“Then what happens to you now?”
The lights stay red. His jaw clenches, hard. “They’ll come when they come.”
“That’s really reassuring, thanks.”
“And I’m gonna keep fightin’,” he adds.
You drive the rest of the way without another word, past the church paddy visits, until you reach his house. You cut the engine.
He’s already looking at you when you glance over.
“I meant what I said earlier. All of it.”
You look down. You know exactly what he means.
By the time you shut the door, he’s already halfway inside.
You don’t follow right away. The night breeze feels nice on your skin. The Pittsburgh skyline flickers in the distance.
You sit on the porch. Just for a moment, just to breathe.
The same cat from this morning brushes against your legs, a scruffy grey thing. It circles your legs, happily purring. You reach down, letting your fingers run along its back.
A minute later, the door opens again. He steps out, a black beanie pulled over his head and a blanket tugged under his arm. He has a mug in one hand, the box of brownies in the other. He sets both down beside you and sits. Nudges the box toward you.
“You feed that thing, it ain’t leaving,” he says.
He takes the blanket from under his arm and drapes it over your back. Hands sliding down your shoulders a second too long. “You should come in. Don’t freeze out here.”
He nods. Hesitates like he doesn’t want to leave you out here on your own. Then shifts, getting up anyways.
He sinks back down beside you. Closer than he needs to.
The cat rubs against his leg and he pets it awkwardly. Tapping it’s head to hard.
You can’t hide your laugh fast enough, turning away, but he sees it anyways. “You think that’s funny? I’m a dog guy.”
This time you laugh properly. He looks at you—like he’s trying to remember it. How much he loved it.
“Makes sense,” you say. “You’re a bit of a pitbull, actually.”
He huffs, quieter, almost a laugh. Not quite, but it catches you off guard all the same.
You hesitate, then tug part of the blanket over him, even though he doesn’t need it.
His shoulders shift slightly under it, but he doesn’t say anything.
You grab one of the brownies. “My cats in Chicago would hate you, you know.”
His eyes flick to you. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. They’re old and grumpy.”
He huffs again, softer this time. “I’d win them over.”
“You?” you raise a brow. “You’d get humbled in five minutes.”
“Nah.” He shrugs. “I’d wait.” He glances at you. “They’d get used to me.”
And you can see in his face it’s not about the cats, not one bit.
You take another bite instead of answering. “Chicago’s far for you.”
He nods once. “Then I stay.”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t argue. “Just means I do it anyway.”
You look back down at the cat, your fingers still moving absently through its fur. “Okay,” you murmur. “If you say so.”
That night, you’re facing the wall in Brendan’s old bed, across from where Tommy’s is.
You can hear him. Not properly asleep, just that uneven, shallow breathing he gets when his shoulders bad. A low sound in the back of his throat every now and then, like it hurts to settle.
He offered you the room. Said he’d take the couch downstairs. You refused, and now you can’t remember why. Even sleeping in the same room as him seems wrong after this morning.
And still, your body wants to be held by him.
You keep your back to him anyways, like even just sleeping in his direction means too much.
Across the room, his mattress shifts. Like he caught himself wanting to reach for you. Stopped himself. Again. Like he doesn’t trust his own hands around you. He never could sleep well without holding you.
You squeeze your eyes shut. Try to sleep. Try not to listen.
All your mind does is replay the words he said earlier, over and over anyways. You wish it would stop.
You feel the absence of his touch more every minute, until it becomes unbearable.
And then you’re standing in front of his bed.
He’s asleep on his back, chin tugged under his neck uncomfortably, a slight frown on his face, and he’s holding his arms across his chest, as to stop himself from reaching over towards Brendan’s bed again.
His eyes open—like he felt you there already.
“C’mere,” he mumbles, and you sink into his arms without another word, cramped in the tiny space. The duvet barely big enough for the both of you. The warmth hits you immediately. You hate how fast your body settles into it.
You finally manage to doze off when you feel his calloused hand slide under your shirt to press his hand against your stomach. He doesn’t seem to realise he’s doing it. His body moving before his mind can even catch up.
“Tommy,” you whisper and gently pry his hand away. He stirs slightly, rumbles a ‘’sorry’’, and presses his broad shoulders back into the wall as to keep his distance again.
The part of your skin where he moved his hand away feels his absence immediately. You mentally scold yourself. It would be easier if you’d left. Or if wanting him had ever stopped.
“Wait,’’ you whisper, and before you can even react his big arm already covers you. Radiating warmth off it like a hearth, keeping you tugged away under his chest. And it feels so right. Like you belong right here.
When you start to fall back asleep again, you feel him shift against you. Careful with his shoulder, his hand dragging slow up against your skin as he pushes your shirt up, carefully. Almost waiting for you to stop him.
You don’t. Because you know what he wants. To feel you completely bare against him. Pressed warm against his chest. The way you used to sleep back then. Nothing between you, just skin to skin. When sleeping next to him still felt safe.
You turn slightly, helping him pull your shirt over you. And by the time both of you have peeled off all layers of fabric, he pulls you as close into him as he can. Breathing into your neck again. Shielding you from all harm with his big frame, tugging you in completely like you were made to fit there.
You put your hand on where his lies on your stomach, even though you know it won’t fix anything. Just makes it even harder if he leaves again.
Morning comes in grey. Light pushing on through the attic window, unfiltered, cutting across the room in angle. You wake slowly.
When you do, you don’t move at first. Afraid to reach behind you. There’s a moment where you brace yourself. For empty space. For cold sheets. For proof he’s gone.
But then you feel him. His arm still around you. Not gone.
Your back still pressed to his chest, his leg hooked loosely with yours like he didn’t let you drift too far even in his sleep.
His face is pressed into your hair, still half-asleep. You exhale, relief flooding through you before you can stop yourself.
His body moves closer towards you before he’s even conscious of it.
You turn, so your chest is against his. His grip tightens, then adjusts, like he’s working around the strain.
His eyes stay closed, breath changing as he starts to wake. His face looks different when his eyes are closed. You take in the split in his brow, the dark lashes against his skin, the rough stubble along his jaw.
“I got you,” he mutters, rough, barely formed. His hand slides from your waist to your hip, holding you there.
You tug your head into his chest, your leg moving instinctively against him, hooking around his side. Fitting into him like its instinct.
He stills when you do that. Then his hand moves, slow, following the curve of your hip where your leg is wrapped around him. His eyes open just enough to find you.
You don’t move away. Instead pressing your hips more into him. His thumb dragging once against your skin.
His eyes close again, his breath catching against your neck.
“You sleep okay then?” he mumbles.
“Yeah, you?” you ask, as his leg moves between your thighs, tentative at first, then settling there.
He slides his thigh further between your legs until it rubs against your folds. “Better the second half.”
You shift instinctively, moving slightly against it, seeking friction.
Done holding yourself back.
Your name leaves him under his breath as he feels how wet you’re getting. The way your body reacts to him. Even now.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your skin.
A sound escapes you as he shifts his thigh, grinding up into you.
He pulls you in and kisses you, rougher this time.
You do anyway. Your hips press against his thigh, chasing the pressure. A sound escaping you before you can stop it.
His fingers dig into your waist, he says your name like a warning, voice rough, cutting himself off as your body moves against him again.
He exhales harder this time, the sound low in his throat, and his grip changes, firmer now, as his hand settles into your back, holding you there, guiding your movements.
You feel it, heat blooming in your stomach, friction building where you need it. “Tommy—”
His hand slides down, fingers dragging slow over your hip before pulling you flush against him. “Yeah…go on,” he breathes, low.
His thigh shifts deliberately now, grinding up against your pussy, slow enough that you feel every inch of it. Your hands slide up his back, fingers pressing into muscle, holding on.
His hands drop further, gripping your ass properly now, keeping you exactly where he wants you as you rock your hips against him.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper.
He doesn’t, drags you further against his leg, the pressure building. He still knows exactly how to make your body react to him.
He lets his eyes to roam over you, towards where your leg is still draped over his side. The way your grind against his thigh.
“You’re soaked,” he says.
He lifts your leg higher around the side of his hip. “C’mere then.” he mutters.
He drags you closer to kiss you again, nipping at your bottom lip. He holds onto the inside of your thigh, angling himself, moving his hips closer until you feel his cock drag against you.
Your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping it around his hard length, stroking up and down. He exhales sharply, forehead dropping briefly to yours.
You circle his tip with your thumb. He groans, catching your wrist with his hand. “Need to be in you,” he mutters.
You tilt your hips in response, and he drags his cock through your slick, slower this time, coating it, brushing your clit as he rubs against your folds.
He keeps his eyes on you, then he pushes forward slowly.
And you feel every inch of him as he sinks into you, the stretch making you moan.
He pulls back slightly, just enough that you feel the loss, and then pushes back in. Deeper this time. The movement knocks the breath out of you, your pussy tightening around him instinctively.
His hand clamps around your thigh, keeping you in place as he does it again, slower now, like he’s figuring out exactly how you take him.
Your head tips back slightly, a gasp leaving your mouth.
He watches his cock disappear inside you. “Take me so well.”
You pull him closer in response.
He doesn’t rush. Pulls out slow, before easing back into your pussy. Hips rolling into you, deeper each time, dragging against that spot as he buries his cock to the hilt.
Then he slows. Like he’s feeling it properly for the first time. He pulls back enough to look at you, like he needs to see your face. Your reaction.
“Feels so good,” you manage.
His breath catches and he pinches your inner thigh, his control slipping.
Your hands tighten on his back, nails dragging over ink and muscle there, pulling him even closer.
He groans at that, his gaze dropping between you again. Watching his cock slide in and out, the way your body takes him, tightening around him like it doesn’t want to let go.
His jaw tightens, and his next thrust lands deeper, abs tensing as he moves. Still slow, but heavier now.
Your body moves with him, hips lifting into every push, chasing it without thinking.
“Yeah…” he breathes, rough, almost to himself.
His hand drags you down onto him as his cock pushes into you again, slowly, completely covered in your slick.
“Don’t hold back,” you breathe, fingers sliding into to his hair.
He slams his hips harder into you, going faster now. Wet sounds filling the room.
Your head drops to his shoulder, pressure building low in your stomach.
You catch his thick neck between your teeth, just enough. He groans. Pinches your inner thigh harder and drags you down onto him as his hips stutter, then drives up harder, deeper, his control completely gone now.
His cock hits your g-spot again and again, making your breath catch, your walls tightening around him.
“Tommy—” it breaks out of you.
His hand comes up to your jaw, pulling you back so you have to look at him. His eyes fixed on you, on the way you’re taking him.
His hips grind into you, his pelvis brushing against your clit as he tries to bury himself deeper with every thrust.
Your pussy clenches, slick and warm around his cock, pulling him in, making it hard for him to not fill you up right then and there.
Then you feel the shift in him, the way his hips start to lose their rhythm, chasing it instead, sweat forming at his brow. Your hips lift into every thrust, needing more.
His grip turning almost bruising as he holds you in place and drives into you as hard as he can, like he can’t stop now even if he wanted to. “Come on,” he mutters roughly, more a breath than a command.
You press your forehead to his, eyes slipping shut for half a second as you come around him, and he notices. “Look at me.”
Your eyes open again, and he’s right there, blue eyes dark, lips puffy, watching you like he needs to see it happen, like this is the only way he knows you’re still with him.
You don’t look away this time as he slams into you harder, hitting your g-spot, your pussy milking him greedily until you flood his length with slick, moaning breathlessly.
“That’s it, good—",” he cuts himself off, crushing his lips to yours hungrily.
“Fuck…Tommy,” you whisper into his relentless kiss, still coming down from it, your body oversensitive, every movement pulling another reaction out of you. His hand slides back over to your hip, and he slides his cock out of you, coated in you.
Before you can catch your breath, his hands are on you again, guiding you over firmly, until you’re on your stomach, the sheets cool against your skin.
“Stay,” he mutters, following you down. His muscular chest pressing into your back before there’s even space between you. One hand presses at your hip, lifting you slightly, angling you exactly how he wants.
“Gonna make you cum like this,” he says, pressing a knee between your legs, spreading them. He follows down, his cock sliding through your slick first, dragging between your folds before he pushes in again, deeper like this—your body jolting as the angle hits harder than before.
You gasp, fingers gripping the sheets.
He follows it immediately, hips snapping forward again, finding the rhythm fast—each thrust landing deeper, rougher.
“Fuck…feel how wet you are.” he groans, as your hips shift back into him before you can stop yourself.
His chest presses further into your back, close enough that you can feel all of him on top of you.
His arm slides tighter around you, hand flattening against your stomach as if to keep you right there.
He buries his face into the curve of your neck, mouth dragging there like he can’t get enough of you, like he needs to feel every part of you under his mouth. Convince himself you’re really here.
His hips don’t slow—each thrust pushing you forward into the sheets, keeping you pinned beneath him.
He doesn’t let space exist. Keeps you pinned beneath him, chest to spine. Holding you there with his whole body as he drives into you.
Your body answers before you can think. Your hips pressing back, meeting every movement, forcing him deeper.
His hand tightens at your hip, dragging you back onto him as his cock angles just right, hitting that same spot again, precise.
Wet sounds fill the space between you, louder now, messier than before, as your body gives around him. Your pussy clenching hard around his cock, making his rhythm stutter for a second.
“Thats it,” he mutters, voice rough, almost gone. “Squeeze me like that.”
You push back harder, chasing it, grinding against him, arching to take him deeper. Your hand slips back, catching his wrist, holding him there, keeping him exactly where you need him.
“Don’t stop Tommy,” you manage, breath breaking.
His grip tightens on your hip, dragging you back onto him as he fucks into you harder, faster now, losing whatever control he had left. He groans your name, dragged out of him.
It hits you again before you can brace for it—your pussy fluttering around him, the sensitivity too much.
“There you go,” he says, voice gone.
He doesn’t let you drift this time either. Keeps you there, pulling you back onto him with every thrust as your body shakes around him.
He keeps you exactly where he wants you as your pussy milks him, still riding it out.
His pace falters for a second before it turns rougher, deeper, chasing it now, fucking you through it, making you cry out.
His breath breaks against your neck as he buries his cock as far in as he can and spills himself inside you. A low, strained sound leaving him against your neck, then your name dragged out of him.
Then his body finally gives a little, weight settling heavier against you.
You turn to look at him, and he presses his forehead against yours instantly, like he doesn’t trust any space between you. Not even now. His breath uneven as he stays buried deep, hips still rolling, keeping himself inside you. He moves to kiss you, mouth parting against yours, he’s breathing you in.
When you break it, your hand comes up to his face without thinking, fingers sliding into his hair, holding him there. He doesn’t pull away. Stays close. Stays buried deep, hips shifting only slightly, not leaving—just keeping the contact.
You move beneath him, guiding him with you as you roll onto your back, and he follows straightaway. Even now he won’t risk losing the contact. Until you’re facing each other.
He settles between your legs again, still inside you, his chest pressed to yours. Close enough that you can feel every breath he takes against your collarbone. His eyes are already on you. Nothing pushing you out, no walls up. Just present. Just here with you.
He’s still warm from it, a sheen of sweat still on his skin, face softened, lighter than you’ve ever seen it. His hand reaches for your face, knuckles brushing against your cheek.
He looks different. Not the boy you knew. Not the man you saw three days ago either.
The lines in his face have eased. The tension you’re used to isn’t there, not even a trace of it. He isn’t hiding.
Your thumb brushes over his eyebrow. “Will you be alright Tommy?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, not looking away. Even when you expect it. For that flicker, that moment where he shuts down, pulls back and disappears behind himself again.
Instead, his thumb brushed under your eye, the gold star of the blue bracelet reflecting off the dim morning light. The touch of his knuckles so gentle. Like he’s still getting used to the fact that he’s allowed to touch you at all. That you let him.
You reach for him, and he responds instantly, settling his head onto your chest. His breath still ragged. You weave your fingers through his hair as he looks up at you. Even now, not looking away.
And you realise he’s still your Tommy. Still him.
He shifts closer, presses his head further into your chest, mumbling your name again, quieter this time.
It feels too normal. As if it had always been like this. As if you woke up next to him a thousand times over. As if you didn’t lose ten years.
The thought catches in your throat.
“You’ll still be here?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.
He stills slightly at that. Just for a moment. “Yeah,” he says firmly.“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
You nod, and his mouth pulls slightly, not quite a smile. “Wouldn’t leave anyway.”
Your brow furrows faintly, and he huffs out something almost amused, shaking his head. “You’re my lucky star, aren’t you?” he mutters. “Never do well without you.”
Then, quieter, he adds. “Not ‘cause I believe that shit. Just...it’s you. Need you here.”
You let out a small breath, something like a smile. You’re still searching for that flicker of fear, for proof he might retreat. You still don’t find it.
He opens his mouth to say something else when a faint sound of movement comes from downstairs. Cabinets opening and closing, the cling of a mug. Paddy, and the distant sound of Brendan stepping into the house. Here to check on Tommy, like he said he would.
Tommy’s eyes move towards it before he exhales and turns back to you.
This time when you look at him, it doesn’t ache under your ribs. He didn’t leave in the night. Didn’t sit at the edge of the bed like he used to, like he was already halfway gone.
He’s still here. You can feel it in the weight of him, the way he hasn’t pulled away. For the first time in ten years, he stayed.
You swallow. “It won’t be easy, you know.”
You lean forward, pressing your lips to his forehead. He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s memorizing it.
“Tell me ‘bout your cats in Chicago again,” he murmurs.
You smile, properly, and he watches you like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen. “Tommy they’ll hate—”
“They’ll get used to me.”
Warmth eases itself into your heart. You let your hand fall into his hair again as he settles back into your chest.
In another life, maybe it would’ve been easy. Like Brendan and Tess. But in this one, he always comes back to you.
You’ll tell him you love him too. You just haven’t said it yet.
And this time, he stays. That much you know.
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a/n: if you're seeing this, thank you for reading their story♡ this is the end...for now. Until sometime in the future I'll add an epilogue filled with Chicago nonsense😛 until then, sending lots of love💕
