crawlin’ back to you
masterlist
ao3 | wattpad
characters: ex-husband erwin smith x female!reader
summary: Seven years. That’s how long you and Erwin spent together before it all ended. Years of laughter, fights, and love all ended in a boardroom with a piece of paper. Now, as you try to pick up the pieces, he shows up to pick up your two boys for his weekend - only to have forgotten an different arrangement was already made. You invite him in, and the rest - well, it might just fix past mistakes.
cw: angst, more angst, smut - obviously, you might actually fall in love with erwin smith? (maybe just a little), post-divorce, divorce mentioned in first half, oral receiving (f)
wc: 9.7k
Heartbreak had visited you more times than you could count. It came in small, fleeting moments — like when you lost homecoming queen, blinking back tears as you smiled through the disappointment. Or when your family had to put down the old dog who’d slept at the foot of your bed for most of your childhood, the house feeling unbearably quiet afterward.
But real heartbreak — the kind that lodged itself in your chest and refused to leave — was sitting in a stuffy boardroom across from the man you once thought you’d spend forever with, Erwin Smith.
The man you fell in love with freshman year of college, who made you laugh until your stomach ached even on some of your most stressful days. The man you married in a small elopement ceremony, hands trembling as you slipped rings onto each other’s fingers with only two witnesses there to cheer for you. The man you had built a life with, through restless nights soothing two crying babies and early mornings spent packing lunches and driving your boys to sports practices.
Now, that same man sat across the table, his icy blue eyes fixed on a spot just past your shoulder like he couldn’t quite bring himself to look at you. A single sheet of paper lay between you, the words Divorce Agreement printed in bold, black lettering at the top.
The sharp scent of coffee and disinfectant lingered in the air, each tick of the clock dragging you closer to the end. You wanted to speak, to say anything, but the words stuck in your throat. How could you sum up years of love and heartbreak in a few sentences? How could you grieve the life you built together while he sat there, silent, like you were just strangers dividing what was left?
Turns out, the cruelest kind of heartbreak wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was quiet. Paper-thin. Just ink on a page and a signature line waiting to be filled.
The attorney spoke quietly, his words fading into the background like distant static. You kept your eyes on the papers in front of you, the ink blurring as tears welled up.
You didn’t need to read the words — you already knew every painful detail by heart. Your lawyer had drafted the documents, carefully outlining the end of your marriage like a routine transaction. You helped decide the terms, knew exactly where custody and assets were divided. But even though you tried to be fair, seeing it in writing still felt like a punch to the gut.
“If you both agree to these terms,” the lawyer said softly, “I’ll just need your signatures on the last page.”
You stayed frozen, and so did Erwin. The lawyer’s voice was gentle, but his words landed like a blow, echoing through the heavy silence. Two signatures — that’s all it would take to end everything. Seven years total of love, fights, laughter, and shared dreams, reduced to a quiet ending.
Across the table, Erwin finally shifted. His gaze dropped to the papers, jaw tight, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. For a second, you thought he might say something. That he might break the silence, tell you he still loved you, or that this was a mistake. Give you a reason to tear up the papers and walk away together.
But he didn’t.
He just reached for the pen.
The scratch of it against paper felt deafening, like the final nail in a coffin. He signed his name with the same hand that used to hold yours so tightly — the hand that lifted your children into the air and wiped your tears on your wedding night. When he slid the papers toward you, his fingers barely grazed the edge, like even the smallest touch might hurt too much.
It was your turn.
The lawyer folded his hands on the desk, waiting. Erwin leaned back in his chair, staring out the window like he couldn’t stand to look at you. His jaw clenched, shoulders stiff, but you knew him well enough to notice the way his thumb rubbed against his palm. A nervous habit.
He was struggling, too.
Maybe that should have made it easier. Maybe it should have reminded you why you were here — why love hadn’t been enough in the end. But all it did was make the ache worse. Because if he felt this broken, if this was tearing him apart too…
Then why wasn’t he saying anything?
Your vision blurred as you blinked back tears, throat tight with words you couldn’t bring yourself to say. The lawyer shifted in his chair, glancing at the clock, but the world outside felt distant and irrelevant. Your hand hovered over the pen, trembling, your heart pounding so loudly you swore he must have heard it.
Your fingers curled around the pen, and your pulse thudded in your ears as you lowered the tip to the paper. The ink flowed easily, your signature unfurling like a death sentence across the bottom of the page.
When you finally set the pen down, it felt like laying a flower on a grave.
Erwin let out a breath — shaky and quiet. You thought he might say something then, but he didn’t. He just nodded, pushing the papers toward the lawyer without a word.
It was done.
You pressed your hands into your lap to stop them from shaking and tried to swallow the lump in your throat. But the ache didn’t fade. It only grew, spreading through you like an echo of everything you’d just lost.
You stood, legs unsteady, and turned toward the door, the lawyer’s voice a distant hum behind you as he wrapped up the meeting.
Erwin didn’t stop you. He didn’t even look up.
And as you walked out of the boardroom, wiping at the tears that finally spilled over, you realized the cruelest part of heartbreak wasn’t the leaving.
It was knowing no one was going to follow you.
— —
2 Years Later
Your apartment smells like vanilla and jasmine, the scent drifting from a candle on the kitchen counter. You only light it when the boys aren’t home — they always say it makes the place smell “too girly.”
Soft music plays in the background as you sift through your jewelry box, searching for the right earrings. You stop when you find the gold hoops — the ones you used to wear whenever you wanted to feel a little more put together. The ones Erwin once said made you look elegant.
You hesitate, holding them in your palm for a moment. Then, you put them on anyway.
You catch your reflection in the mirror — hair curled, makeup carefully done, wearing the dress your friends convinced you to buy last summer. They’d dragged you through store after store, insisting you needed something that made you feel like you again. The fabric hugs your body in all the right places, the emerald green making your skin glow under the dim lighting.
You look good.
More than that, you look like you’re trying to be happy.
Tonight is your first real date in almost a year. You met him at a friend’s party — he had an easy smile, the kind that made you relax without trying. After weeks of texting, you finally agreed to dinner. You want to feel excited, to feel that hopeful flutter in your chest again.
And maybe you almost do.
Until there’s a knock at the door — sharp and familiar enough to make your stomach drop.
You freeze, your heart lurching into your throat. For a split second, you convince yourself you imagined it. But then it comes again — steady, unhurried. A knock you know as well as your own name.
You step toward the door, pulse hammering, hands trembling at your sides. The date, the dress, the last hour you spent trying to convince yourself you were ready to move on — it all fades into the background.
Because there’s only one person who knocks like that.
You grip the doorknob, hesitating, your fingers cold against the metal. Every part of you screams to walk away, to pretend you’re not home. But your body betrays you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re pulling the door open.
It’s Erwin.
He stands in the dim hallway, hands in his jean pockets, blonde hair damp from the rain. His sweatshirt looks worn, like he grabbed the first thing he could find. His blue eyes, the same ones you used to fall asleep next to, sweep over your face and then drop to your dress.
His brows furrow. “Are you going somewhere?”
You grip the edge of the door, your fingers digging into the wood. “Erwin?” Your voice barely comes out. “What are you doing here?”
He shifts on his feet, glancing back toward the elevator.
“It’s my weekend,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the words. “I was supposed to pick up the kids at seven.”
Your stomach sinks. “No,” you say, shaking your head. “My parents wanted to take them for the weekend. I texted you about it on Tuesday. You said that was fine.”
He blinks, the crease in his brow deepening. He drags a hand down his face and exhales. “Right,” he mutters. “I forgot.”
Silence lingers, heavy and uncomfortable. Two years of scheduled drop-offs, polite texts, and standing on opposite sides of sports fields — and now he’s here, seeing you dressed up for someone else.
Erwin clears his throat and steps back. “I should go,” he says, already turning toward the elevator. “Sorry for bothering you.”
You should close the door.
You should let him leave and get back to your night — to your date, to moving on.
But you don’t.
You watch him retreat, the familiar slump of his shoulders, the way he rubs the back of his neck like he always does when he’s upset. And just as he reaches the end of the hall, the words spill out of you before you can stop them.
“Do you want to come in?”
He stops.
His hand hovers over the elevator button, fingers twitching like he isn’t sure what to do. Slowly, he turns back, his eyes searching yours.
And you don’t know why you said it.
But when he nods and starts walking back, your chest tightens, and you step aside to let him in.
He steps inside, careful and hesitant, like he’s not sure he belongs here. You close the door and turn to face him, the soft glow of the candle casting shadows across the room.
He stands in the middle of your living room, arms folded over his chest, eyes drifting over your space. The toys are neatly put away, and photos from your last beach trip with the kids cover the fridge.
You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how quiet it is. “Do you want some water? Or… coffee?”
He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, I’m good.” He glances at you, then quickly looks away, his gaze flicking to the floor. “I, uh… I really didn’t mean to mess up your night.”
You cross your arms over your chest, hugging yourself like that might steady your heartbeat. “It’s fine,” you say, even though it doesn’t feel fine at all.
He exhales, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I should’ve double-checked the schedule,” he mutters. “I just… I guess I had it in my head that it was my weekend.”
“It’s okay,” you say again, softer this time.
He glances toward the kitchen, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I haven’t seen you dressed up in a while,” he says, his voice low. “Are you…meeting someone?”
Your throat tightens. You don’t owe him an answer, but the question lingers between you like a ghost.
“Yeah,” you finally say, barely above a whisper. “It’s just dinner.”
He nods, but something flickers across his face — too fast for you to catch. He looks down, scuffing his shoe against the floor. “That’s good,” he says, even though it sounds like a lie. “You deserve that.”
The ache in your chest swells, unexpected and sharp. Because this is what you wanted, isn’t it? Distance. Space.
A chance to rebuild.
So why does it hurt to see him standing here, pretending like this doesn’t affect him?
The clock on the wall ticks steadily, the only sound filling the room as you try to remember how to breathe. Your phone buzzes on the counter. You flinch at the sound, grateful for the distraction, and rush to grab it.
It’s a text from your date.
Hey, I’m really sorry, but something came up. Can we reschedule?
You stare at the screen, your jaw tightening as the words blur. You should be upset, maybe even hurt, but all you feel is irritation.
With a sharp breath, you set the phone down carefully, resisting the urge to toss it across the room.
Erwin watches you, brow furrowing. “Everything okay?”
You swallow, pressing your lips together before answering.
“Yeah,” you say, the word sharper than you intend. “My date just canceled.”
His jaw tightens, something flickering in his eyes. “Oh,” he says, voice low. “I’m… sorry.”
But he doesn’t sound sorry. Not really. And before you can stop yourself, the words are already out:
“Do you want to stay for a while?”
His eyes snap up to meet yours, surprise flickering across his face. He doesn’t answer right away, and for a second, you wonder if he’s going to turn you down.
But then he exhales, his shoulders dropping just slightly.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can stay.”
You nod, though your pulse is racing, and gesture toward the couch. He hesitates for just a second, then grabs the hem of his sweatshirt. His hands work quickly at removing it as his body sinks into the cushions.
You slip off your heels and sit at the opposite end of the couch, tucking your legs beneath you. The distance feels necessary, like a safety net, but it doesn’t stop the air from feeling heavy between you.
For a while, neither of you speaks. The soft hum of music still floats through the room, but the song has changed — something slow and aching, the kind of song you’d skip if you were alone.
Erwin rubs his palms over his jeans, staring at the coffee table like it holds the answers to whatever question he’s not asking.
“You didn’t have to invite me in,” he says eventually, voice low and careful. “I know this is… weird.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah,” you admit. “It is.”
He glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he almost smiled. “I can go if you want.”
But you shake your head, staring down at your hands in your lap. “No. It’s… it’s fine. It’s been a while since we talked, that’s all.”
He leans back, resting his head against the couch. “Yeah,” he echoes, staring at the ceiling. “Feels longer.”
The words settle in your chest, heavier than you expect.
You study him out of the corner of your eye — the way his shoulders curve in like he’s trying to make himself smaller, the faint streaks of silver threading through his hair. He looks tired. Older. But he’s still him. The same man who used to dance with you in the kitchen, who carried all three grocery bags in one trip just to make you laugh. The same man who signed his name on a divorce agreement two years ago without looking back.
Or maybe he did look back. Maybe you both did — just never at the same time.
You press your thumb into your palm, grounding yourself, and force the words out. “How have you been?”
He turns his head to look at you, eyes searching yours like he doesn’t know how honest he should be.
“I’ve been…” He trails off, biting the inside of his cheek. Then he exhales, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Some days are easier than others, I guess.”
You nod because you understand that too well.
“And you?” he asks, voice quieter. “Are you happy?”
His question knocks the wind out of you. You should say yes. You should tell him you’ve rebuilt your life, that you’re doing well, that you’re fine. But the truth lodges in your throat, too messy to untangle.
“I’m trying to be,” you say instead, your voice barely above a whisper.
Erwin’s expression softens, his brows drawing together like the answer hurts him somehow.
The silence stretches again, but it’s different this time — less awkward, more familiar. Like you’ve both slipped into an old rhythm, even if the melody is fractured.
After a while, he scrubs a hand down his face and shifts in his seat. “I should probably let you get some rest,” he murmurs, already moving to stand.
But your chest tightens at the thought of him leaving, at the door closing and swallowing him up again.
“Or,” you say, voice shaky, “we could order takeout.”
He freezes, eyes locking on yours.
“For old times’ sake,” you add, your throat tight.
He studies you for a long moment, like he’s searching for permission to stay. And then he smiles — small and tired, but real.
“Okay,” he says, settling back into the cushions. “What are we in the mood for?”
And just like that, the space between you shifts. It’s not forgiveness. It’s not closure.
But it’s something.
You grab your phone, fingers hovering over the screen as you scroll through the familiar list of restaurants. The usual suspects — the pizza place you spent many birthdays at, the Italian restaurant Erwin took you to for your first date, the occasional hole in the wall Asian restaurant, and his favorite Greek restaurant.
“What do you feel like?” you ask, glancing over at him, already having a sneaking feeling as to what he’ll choose.
Erwin leans back against the couch, stretching his arm along the backrest like he’s trying to get comfortable. But his gaze keeps flicking around the apartment — your new apartment. It doesn’t look anything like the home you used to share, but he’s still studying it like he’s searching for pieces of the life you built together.
“I don’t know,” he finally says, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Is that Greek place still around?”
Your chest tightens with the memories — late nights with plates of hummus and pita bread, laughing until your stomach hurt, Erwin stealing your fries even though he swore he didn’t want any. The seven birthdays of his that you spent chatting the night away there, just because it was his favorite.
“Yeah,” you say, your voice softer now. “It’s still there.”
He nods, rubbing his jaw. “Let’s do that, then.”
You place the order, and by the time you set your phone down, the tension in the room has eased just a little. But there’s still something fragile about it — like the new version of your life is trying to coexist with the ghost of your old one.
He rests his elbows on his knees, glancing toward the hallway where the boys’ rooms are. Their doors are covered in stickers and crayon drawings, things they picked out to make the space feel like theirs.
“They like it here?” he asks, voice careful.
“They love it,” you say, and a small, proud smile tugs at your lips. “Xavier picked out his own paint color — bright green. It’s a little… intense, but he thinks it’s the coolest thing ever. And Jasper loves the park down the street. We go almost every evening.”
Erwin smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your heart ache. “I’m glad,” he says, leaning back against the cushions. “This place suits you.”
You blink, caught off guard by the comment. “What do you mean?”
He gestures vaguely around the room. “I don’t know. It just feels like you.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “The candles, the books everywhere, the throw blanket that’s way too soft to be practical.” His gaze softens as he looks at you. “You built something good here.”
You swallow the lump rising in your throat, fingers curling into the hem of your dress. “I had to,” you say quietly. “For the boys.”
“And for yourself,” he adds, his voice gentle but certain.
His words settle between you, heavy and tender all at once.
The food arrives a little while later, and you spread the containers out on the coffee table like you used to. You eat in easy, quiet bites, talking about the kids, work, and the little things that make up your separate lives. And when you’re both too full to move, he sinks further into the couch, eyes drifting closed.
“I haven’t eaten that much in forever,” he mutters, rubbing his stomach.
You laugh, pulling the too-soft blanket over your lap. “You always say that. And then you always do.”
His eyes flick open, finding yours, and something shifts in the air again — that fragile thread pulling tight. You should look away, but you don’t.
“It’s nice,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Talking like this.”
You nod, your pulse thudding painfully loud in your chest. “Yeah,” you admit. “It is.”
He swallows, gaze dipping to your mouth for half a second before he looks away, rubbing his palms on his jeans like he needs something to ground him.
“I should go,” he says, but he doesn’t move.
You stare at him, heart racing, words pressing against the back of your throat like they might tear you apart if you keep swallowing them down.
“You don’t have to leave, you know,” you say quietly.
Erwin freezes, his body tense like he’s not sure he heard you right. His hand, halfway to the armrest, curls into a loose fist, and he slowly turns to face you.
His eyes search yours, cautious and careful. “Are you sure?” he asks, voice rough like he doesn’t quite trust it.
You nod, your pulse pounding in your ears. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m sure.”
He sinks back into the couch, exhaling like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. He rests his head against the back cushion, rubbing his hands over his face before letting them fall into his lap.
For a few moments, neither of you speaks. The music hums softly, a low, aching melody that barely feels real. It fills the silence like it’s trying to soften the sharp edges of everything you’re not saying.
Erwin leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, rubbing his hands together like he’s trying to steady himself. His shoulders are tense, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.
“I miss them,” he says, voice so quiet it almost disappears into the room. “On the nights they’re not with me. The quiet just… gets to me sometimes.”
You nod, fingers twisting in your lap. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Me too.”
Because you know exactly what he means — how the absence of your kids turns the apartment into an echo chamber. How you still find yourself listening for their footsteps or the sound of them giggling in the next room, even when you know they aren’t there.
“They keep me busy, though,” he continues, a faint, tired smile tugging at his mouth. “Jasper’s been making me practice baseball with him in the backyard. I think he wants to go pro.”
You laugh, the sound lightening the weight in your chest. “He’s been telling everyone he’s the next big thing. He even tried to negotiate a later bedtime because ‘athletes need more recovery time.’”
Erwin chuckles, shaking his head. “That sounds like him.”
The ease of it — talking about the boys, sharing the small moments you’ve each had with them — chips away at the tension, piece by piece.
“How’s Xavier?” he asks, turning to look at you. “He seemed a little quiet last week.”
You tuck your legs beneath you, rubbing your thumb against the seam of your dress. “He’s okay,” you say. “He’s just been having trouble sleeping lately. Says he has bad dreams sometimes.”
Erwin’s face falls. “He didn’t tell me that,” he murmurs, guilt flickering through his eyes.
You shake your head quickly. “It’s not a big deal. He usually just crawls into bed with me, and then he’s fine.” You hesitate before adding, “He brings his stuffed elephant — the one you won for him at the carnival.”
Erwin’s throat bobs as he swallows, and he leans back against the couch, running a hand through his hair. “I wish he’d told me,” he says, voice quieter.
You want to tell him it’s okay. That co-parenting is messy and complicated, and sometimes the boys talk to you about things they don’t tell him — just like they probably tell him things they don’t tell you. But the ache on his face makes it impossible to find the right words.
Instead, you just say, “They love being with you. They come back talking about all the fun stuff you do together. Jasper told me you let them build a fort in the living room and sleep in it.”
Erwin’s lips twitch into a small smile. “I didn’t let them. They just did it. I woke up with a pillow to the face.”
You laugh, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. And for a moment, it feels… easy.
After a while, he sinks further into the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Do you remember when we used to do this?” he asks, his voice quieter now. “Just sit and talk until it was way too late?”
You nod, your chest tightening. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I remember.”
He looks over at you, something unreadable in his expression. “I missed this,” he admits, the words falling out like he’s been holding them in for too long. “Talking to you.”
Your heart stumbles over itself, and you have to force yourself to breathe. “Me too,” you say, so quietly you’re not sure he even hears it.
But he does.
Because he shifts closer — just slightly — like he’s drawn to the sound of your voice. And when he exhales, his whole body seems to relax, like some part of him needed to hear you say it.
You can see it in the way his shoulders relax, the tension in his jaw loosening like your words unraveled something inside him.
And maybe it should scare you — how easily you can still affect him. How easily he still affects you.
But it doesn’t.
Not tonight.
Without thinking, you shift closer, closing the space between you until your knees almost touch. He notices, his eyes flicking to where you’ve moved, but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t move at all.
“I missed this too,” you admit, the words spilling out before you can second-guess them. “I miss… you.”
His breath catches, sharp and sudden. He turns to face you fully, his eyes searching yours, wide with something that looks a lot like hope — but fragile, like he’s afraid to let himself feel it.
“You do?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You nod, your chest tightening. “Yeah,” you breathe. “I do.”
The air between you hums, charged and fragile all at once. You can feel the warmth of his body this close, the familiar scent of his cologne lingering on his clothes. It sends a shiver through you, not from discomfort, but from how right it feels — how terrifyingly easy it is to slip back into this space with him.
“I think about you,” he says, his voice low and rough. “When the boys aren’t with me, when the house is quiet… I wonder how you are. If you’re happy.” He swallows, his gaze dropping to your mouth for just a second before flicking back up. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to miss you, but I do. All the time.”
Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.
“You don’t have to wonder,” you whisper, your fingers curling into the fabric of your dress to keep them from shaking. “I’m right here.”
Erwin exhales sharply, like your words knock the air out of him. He looks at you, really looks at you, and something shifts in his expression — something raw and aching, like a door opening to a room you both promised never to step into again.
“But you weren’t,” he says, his voice breaking on the words. “At the end… you weren’t.”
The sentence slices through the moment, sharp enough to make you flinch. But he doesn’t pull back. He stays, his hand resting on his thigh, fingers twitching like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you.
Your chest tightens. “Erwin…”
“I know I’m not innocent in this,” he says, shaking his head. “I know I made mistakes, but it felt like I was losing you a little more every day, and I didn’t know how to stop it.”
The room feels too small, too heavy. But you force yourself to stay in it — to face what you both ran from for so long.
“I didn’t know how to ask for help,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I felt like I was drowning. Between the boys, the house, work… and I just kept holding it in because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do.” You blink rapidly, fighting the burn in your eyes. “And then I started feeling like a failure. Like I was ruining everything, and I didn’t want you to see me like that.”
Erwin turns to face you fully, his brows knit together. “You thought you were ruining things?” he asks, disbelief lacing his voice. “I thought I was the one ruining things.”
You laugh bitterly, wiping at your eyes. “We were a mess, weren’t we?”
“We were tired,” he corrects, his voice softening. “We were trying to keep everything together and forgot to take care of each other.”
The truth of it sits between you, heavy and undeniable.
“I resented you,” you confess, your voice shaking. “Not because of anything you did. Just because you didn’t seem to be falling apart like I was. And that felt… unfair.”
His eyes darken, guilt flooding his expression. “I was falling apart,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I just hid it because I thought if one of us stayed steady, it might keep us from collapsing completely.” He looks down, rubbing his hands over his jeans. “I didn’t want to add more to your plate, so I buried it. And eventually, it felt like I was living with a stranger.”
You suck in a shaky breath. “I felt like a stranger.”
Erwin’s hand twitches, and this time, he doesn’t stop himself. He reaches for you, his fingers curling over yours with careful, deliberate gentleness.
“I hated that we stopped talking,” he whispers. “We were best friends, and then one day, it was like… like we were just these two people passing each other in the same house.”
Your chest tightens so painfully it makes your eyes sting. “I hated it too,” you admit. “But by the time I realized how bad it was, I didn’t know how to fix it.”
He nods slowly, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. “Neither did I,” he says. “So we just… let it break.”
You swallow the lump in your throat, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I thought leaving would make it hurt less,” you whisper. “But it didn’t.”
His grip on your hand tightens like he’s trying to anchor himself to the words. “Me neither.”
You continue, your voice barely above a whisper. "I thought it would be easier to move on, but I couldn't. I kept wondering what you were doing, who you were with..."
He cuts you off, his own voice thick with emotion. "There was no one else. There hasn't been anyone else since you left."
You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and the space between you hums with electricity. The weight of everything unsaid lingers in the air, thick and unrelenting. Erwin reaches out, his hand cradling your face with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. His thumb grazes your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine as your pulse races.
He shifts closer, his body pressing against yours on the couch, the warmth of him sinking into your skin. His gaze flickers to your mouth, and the desire in his eyes is unmistakable — raw and unguarded.
He leans in, his face just inches from yours, his breath warm against your lips. Your heart pounds, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. But none of it matters the moment he finally closes the distance, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss so soft it steals the air from your lungs.
The kiss deepens slowly, like neither of you wants to rush it — like you’re afraid to break whatever fragile thread is holding you together. But the restraint doesn’t last long. His fingers slide into your hair, pulling you closer, and you respond without thinking, your body melting into his like you were made for this. For him.
He pulls you onto his lap, his hands exploring your body with a hunger that makes your breath hitch. His kiss is desperate, unrestrained, fueled by years of longing that neither of you dared to voice until now.
His lips leave yours to trail down your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. He nips and sucks at the sensitive spots, drawing a soft moan from your lips as your fingers weave into his hair. You arch into him instinctively, chasing the warmth of his touch, the closeness you’ve craved for too long.
His mouth lingers on your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver. When he pulls back, his breathing is ragged, and his eyes — darker and heavy with desire — trace every inch of your face like he’s trying to memorize you.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “I can’t believe I let you go.”
The words hit you harder than you expect, your chest tightening at the raw honesty in his voice. But before you can get lost in the ache of the past, his lips are on yours again, gentler this time, like he’s savoring the taste of you.
His hands slide down your sides, gripping your hips with enough pressure to make your pulse stutter. The way he holds you, like you’re something precious, makes your heart pound even harder.
You shift in his lap, your body burning with the need for any friction, but it’s not enough. A soft whine escapes your plump lips, your mind overrun with thoughts of what to do. You want to take your time, to draw this out, to feel every inch of him. But you also would not be upset if decided to throw you against the wall and have his way with you.
“Stop thinking,” he whispers in your ear, sensing that you were starting to get in your head. “Take what you need from me. I’ll give you anything you want. You already know that.”
His lips place soft kisses under your ear as his words echo in your head. All at once, the battle in your brain stops, and you finally give in to your desires. Erwin’s hands tighten on your hips as you shift on his lap, worried that you’re trying to get off and end whatever was about to happen.
You can’t help but smile when you hear the quiet gasp leave his mouth as your legs move to straddle one of his thighs. Your dress rides up higher as your clothed cunt makes contact with his jeans, the heat from it making his cock instantly hard.
Erwin stills, his fingers digging into your hips as a sharp breath escapes him. His eyes snap up to meet yours, his jaw clenched like he’s holding himself back.
“Are you trying to kill me?” he breathes, a shaky laugh breaking through the tension.
You smile, biting your bottom lip as you roll your hips just slightly, testing him. His grip tightens, and a low groan rumbles in his chest, his head falling back against the couch.
“Good girl,” he mutters, his voice rough and dripping with praise. He lifts his head again, watching you like you’re the only thing in the world. “Take it, baby. Take everything.”
His words send a spark of heat through you, and you move again, slower this time, savoring the friction. His thigh is solid beneath you, the muscles tensing with every shift of your body, and the way he watches you — eyes hooded, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like he can barely breathe — makes you feel dizzy.
He doesn’t rush you. He just holds you, steady and patient, his hands guiding your movements like he’s perfectly content to let you unravel in your own time. And with every roll of your hips, every quiet sound that escapes your lips, his praise comes like a steady pulse of warmth against your skin.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers, his fingers flexing against your waist. “Just like that.”
Your body hums with every slow, deliberate movement, the ache in your core growing unbearable, but you don’t want to rush. Not when he’s looking at you like that — like you hung the stars and he can’t believe he’s allowed to touch them.
Erwin’s hands guide your hips, his fingers digging into your skin just enough to keep you grounded. His jaw is tight, the muscles twitching as he watches you, completely wrecked and utterly devoted.
“You feel so good,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “I could stay like this forever… watching you get yourself off on my thigh.”
The words sink into your skin, making your whole body flush. You grip his shoulders, your nails biting into his skin through his t-shirt as you move a little faster, chasing the friction that has you spiraling. One of your hands slips down his chest, stopping at the hardness hidden by his jeans. You lightly dance your fingertips on it, teasing him.
Erwin groans, his head tipping forward until his lips are brushing against your ear. “You’re incredible,” he breathes, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”
You whimper, shaking your head, because words feel impossible when he’s touching you like this, holding you like you’re something sacred.
He kisses your neck, his lips trailing up to your jaw, and every touch feels like an apology, a promise, and a prayer all at once. “I’ve wanted this,” he confesses, his breath hot against your skin. “Wanted you. Even when I tried not to.”
The confession knocks the air from your lungs, and you turn your head, capturing his mouth in a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation. His grip tightens, pulling you even closer, swallowing every sound you make like he needs it to survive.
“W-Wanted you too,” you quietly moan into his mouth, your hips moving faster at his words. “Fuck, Erwin. So good.”
He shifts beneath you, flexing his thigh just right, and that’s all it takes for you come undone with a trembling moan, your body quaking against him. Your hand tightens on the outline of his length, making him groan loudly at your touch. His hands move to your back, pulling you close to his chest as you come down from your orgasm. He can feel your back move with each shaky breath, and your skin feels like fire under his fingertips.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just cradles you close, pressing soft kisses to your temple as his finger stroke the length of your spine softly.
You hear the shaky breath that leaves him as he rests his chin against the top of your head. “God, I missed this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I missed you.”
You lift your head, your chest still heaving, and meet his gaze. His face is flushed, his normally bright eyes dark and heavy-lidded, but there’s something else there too — something raw and vulnerable, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to want this as much as he does.
“I missed you too,” you whisper, brushing a damp strand of hair away from his face. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think we’d ever be here again.”
His fingers flex against your waist, and he swallows hard. “I didn’t either,” he admits, his voice breaking. “And now that we are… I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”
Your heart clenches painfully. Because it’s not just physical. It never was. The years apart haven’t erased the way he craves every part of you — not just your body, but the way you fit into his life, the way you always have.
You cup his face, your thumb tracing the curve of his jaw.
“You don’t have to stop,” you say softly.
His breath hitches, and something shifts in his expression — the last shred of restraint slipping away.
“Come here,” he whispers, his voice laced with both command and plea.
You kiss him, slow and deliberate, pouring every ounce of longing and regret into the space between you. And he gives it all back — his lips moving against yours with an aching kind of desperation, like he’s trying to make up for every missed chance, every lost moment.
But the couch feels too small for everything you feel for him.
Erwin pulls back, his breathing ragged, his forehead resting against yours. His fingers dig gently into your waist, like he can’t stand the thought of letting you go.
“Let me take you to bed,” he whispers, his voice rough and low. “I want to feel all of you.”
Your chest tightens, and all you can do is nod.
He doesn’t make you move. Instead, he shifts beneath you, his hands sliding under your thighs as he lifts you effortlessly into his arms. Your legs wrap around his waist like second nature, your body clinging to him as he stands, holding you against him like you weigh nothing at all.
He carries you through the apartment with slow, careful steps, his lips finding yours again and again — hungry, searching kisses that make you dizzy.
By the time he reaches your bedroom, you’re both breathless. He nudges the door open with his foot, stepping inside without breaking the kiss. The room is dimly lit, the glow of the streetlights outside spilling through the curtains and casting soft shadows across the bed.
He lowers you onto the mattress with heartbreaking gentleness, as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go too quickly. But he doesn’t leave you for long. He follows you down, settling between your legs, his body pressing into yours like he’s desperate to be as close as possible.
His fingers trail down your sides, slow and deliberate, like he’s relearning you through touch alone. He lifts himself just enough to hover over you, his gaze roaming your face, then lower — taking in the way your chest rises and falls, the way your body molds against his like you never stopped belonging to each other.
His hand drifts to the hem of your dress, fingers curling around the satin fabric. He hesitates, his chest heaving as he searches your face. “Can I?” he whispers, voice rough and strained.
You nod, your pulse thudding in your ears. “Please.”
He exhales, sitting back on his heels as he slowly pushes the dress up your thighs. His hands are steady, but there’s a respectful gentleness in the way he touches you, as if handling something sacred. The fabric slides over your skin, and each inch he uncovers feels like a rediscovery, as if he’s relearning you all over again.
When the dress pools around your waist, he leans down, pressing his lips to the curve of your hip, then just above your navel. “You’re still perfect,” he murmurs, his voice vibrating against your skin. “Every inch of you.”
Your fingers sink into his hair, your body arching into him like instinct, like muscle memory. “Erwin,” you breathe, your voice already unraveling.
He groans softly at the sound of his name, his hands skimming up your thighs to grip your waist. “I’ve missed this,” he says, almost like he’s confessing a sin. “Missed you.”
He lifts the dress higher, sliding it up and over your head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside like it’s the last thing on his mind. His gaze rakes over you, dark and desperate, but there’s something fragile underneath the hunger — a quiet awe, like he can’t believe the two of your are this close.
“Two years,” he whispers, his fingers trailing over your skin like he’s counting the days you’ve been apart. “I’ve wanted you every single day.”
Your chest tightens, tears pricking at your eyes, and you tug him back down to you, capturing his mouth in a kiss that tastes like longing and forgiveness all at once.
“Then take me,” you whisper, the words spilling out against his lips. “Like you never stopped.”
Erwin groans, the sound breaking in his throat, and when he kisses you again, it’s not careful anymore. It’s consuming.
He kisses you like he’s starving for it — like every day without you has been slowly killing him, and this is the only way to breathe again. His body presses into yours, his hands exploring every inch of skin he can reach, like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.
He moves slowly at first, almost hesitant, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. But when you arch into him, when you tug him closer and gasp his name, something inside him snaps.
Erwin moans into your mouth, his grip on your waist tightening as he presses you deeper into the mattress. But then, he suddenly pulls back, chest heaving, his eyes blazing as they rake over you.
You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s kissing his way down your body — slow, deliberate, like he’s unraveling you piece by piece. His lips trace a burning path along your collarbone, then lower, pressing quick kisses to every inch of skin he uncovers.
“I need to taste you,” he mutters against your stomach, his voice wrecked. “I’ve been dreaming about it.”
Your body jolts at his words, heat pooling low in your belly. You lift your hips instinctively, and he takes it as permission, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and sliding them down your legs with agonizing patience.
He spreads your thighs, settling between them like he belongs there. His hands stroke along your inner thighs, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to make you squirm.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice thick with awe. “You’re perfect.”
You open your mouth to respond, but all that escapes is a broken gasp as he leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your most sensitive spot.
It’s almost too much, the way he devours you like he’s starving for it — like he’s been deprived of this for so long he can’t bear to take his time. With every gasp and moan that escapes your lips, Erwin feels the last bit of himself he was holding back unravel.
His tongue works magic on your clit, sending waves of pleasure through your body. He alternates between gentle licks and hard sucks, watching each reaction you give him. When you try to turn away, his hands grip your thighs, holding you in place as he devours you with a hunger that leaves you breathless.
“Don’t look away,” he murmurs, voice low and commanding. “I want to see you fall apart.”
His words and the weight of his gaze on you unravels you. Your fingers work into his hair, twisting at the strands as your back arches in pleasure. He doesn’t stop — doesn’t let up his tongue’s torment on your aching clit, doesn’t look away from your beautiful face for even a second until you shatter beneath him, crying out his name like a prayer.
His tongue slows down its movements, working you through your orgasm. Soft groans leave his throat as he tastes you, licking every inch of your cunt so he doesn’t leave a drop behind. Your legs try to close on his head, and he grins at the overstimulation he’s causing you.
He moves slightly, pressing gentle kisses to your trembling thighs as you recover, his touch grounding you. When he finally lifts himself back up, he kisses you without hesitation, letting you taste yourself on his lips as he settles over you again, his body flush against yours.
“I could do that forever,” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “But I need to feel you.”
The way he says it, the desperate crack in his voice, makes you pull him even closer.
“Then take me,” you breathe, your legs wrapping around his waist. “I’m yours.”
Erwin freezes, his body trembling above you like your words physically stopped him. He lifts his head, eyes searching yours, his chest heaving with every shaky breath.
“Say that again,” he pleads, his voice barely a whisper, like he needs to hear it one more time just to believe it’s real.
You cup his face, your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw, your heart pounding so hard it hurts. “I’m yours,” you repeat, your voice steady despite the tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “I’ve always been yours.”
He exhales like the weight of the world just slid off his shoulders, and then he kisses you — desperate and consuming, like he’s trying to fuse himself to you.
“I’m yours,” you whisper again, the words slipping out between kisses, like you need him to believe it.
Erwin groans like the words break him, kissing you fiercely as he finally gives in. His body presses into yours, the heat of him seeping into your skin, but it’s still not close enough.
His hands explore you like he’s trying to commit you to memory all over again, but when you tug at the hem of his shirt, he gets the message. He sits back on his heels, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, and yanks the shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor without a second thought.
Your breath catches as you take him in — the familiar stretch of muscle, the faint scars you used to trace with your fingers, the way he still looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing, but there’s a vulnerability in his eyes, like he’s desperate to know you still want him like this.
You reach out, your fingers gliding down his chest, tracing the lines of him softly. “I didn’t think I’d get to do this again,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
His throat bobs as he swallows, and he leans down, capturing your mouth in a kiss so tender it makes your chest ache. “You can,” he whispers, like a promise. “I’m here. You can have all of me.”
Your fingers trail lower, to the waistband of his jeans, and he shudders as you start to undo them. But he doesn’t make you finish. He stands, stripping the rest of the way, his movements quick and unsteady, like he’s afraid if he takes too long, you’ll change your mind.
And when he finally lowers himself back over you — skin to skin, nothing left between you — he exhales like he can finally breathe again.
He presses his forehead to yours, his hand cradling your face. “I can’t go slow,” he whispers, voice rough and wrecked. “I’ve wanted this for too long.”
You wrap your legs around him, pulling him impossibly closer. “Then don’t,” you breathe. “I need you.”
Erwin doesn’t make you wait.
He kisses you like he’s starving, his body pressing you deeper into the mattress as he positions himself between your legs. His hands roam your skin, both rough and gentle, as if he’s trying to memorize every inch of you by touch.
He lines himself up, pausing just long enough to search your eyes, his chest heaving. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers, his voice tight, like it’s taking every ounce of restraint he has not to lose himself in you completely.
You shake your head, your nails dragging down his back. “Don’t stop,” you plead, arching into him. “I want all of you.”
That’s all it takes.
He sinks into you slowly, his forehead dropping to yours as he lets out a broken groan. The stretch, the fullness — it’s almost overwhelming, but it feels right. Like he belongs there.
“God,” he chokes out, his fingers digging into your hips. “You feel… perfect.”
You gasp, clinging to him, your body adjusting around him as he stills, like he’s trying to give you time to catch your breath. But you don’t want time. You want him.
“Move,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “Please.”
Erwin curses under his breath and obeys, drawing back before pressing into you again, slow and deliberate. His movements are steady, like he’s savoring every second, every tiny reaction he pulls from you — the way your body arches, the way you gasp his name, the way your fingers claw at his skin like you’re trying to pull him even closer.
He kisses you through it, swallowing your whimpers, his breath hitching every time you roll your hips to meet his thrusts. “You’re everything,” he mutters against your mouth, voice rough and desperate. “I don’t deserve you, but I can’t stop.”
“You don’t have to stop,” you pant, your legs tightening around him to keep him exactly where you want him. “I don’t want you to.”
That shatters whatever fragile control he was holding onto.
His pace quickens, his thrusts turning frantic, like he’s trying to bury himself in you completely. The room fills with the sound of your ragged breaths, your bodies moving together like you never stopped fitting this perfectly.
“I love you,” he gasps, his face buried in your neck. “I love you so much I can’t —”
The words, the way he says them, completely undo you. Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, your body clenching around him as you cry out his name, trembling in his arms.
Erwin follows a moment later, a guttural groan spilling from his throat as he comes undone, his body shaking against yours. He collapses on top of you, his weight grounding you, his face still pressed to your skin as he tries to catch his breath. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as you both come down from your highs.
The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the steady rhythm of Erwin’s breathing. The sheets are tangled around your legs, your skin still warm from where his body pressed against yours.
You lie on your side, facing him, your fingers tracing slow, aimless patterns against his chest. His arm rests around you, his fingers trailing gently up and down your spine, like he needs the constant reassurance that you’re still there.
For the first time in years, nothing feels broken.
You don’t speak at first — both of you content to exist in the quiet, letting the moment stretch out like it might last forever.
Erwin breaks the silence first, his voice low and rough. “I forgot what it felt like to hold you,” he admits.
You tilt your head up to look at him, your heart stuttering. “Yeah?”
He nods, eyes heavy with exhaustion and something softer — something that looks a lot like love. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I didn’t realize how much I missed it until now.”
Your throat tightens, and you press your palm flat against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your hand. “I missed it too,” you say quietly, the words soft but true.
He swallows hard, shifting to prop himself up on one elbow so he can see you better. His fingers brush a strand of hair behind your ear, lingering like he’s afraid letting go will make this disappear.
“I don’t want this to be something we pretend didn’t happen,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges. “I don’t know what comes next, but… I want to try. If you’ll let me.”
Your chest tightens, the weight of his words pressing against something fragile inside you. Tears prick at your eyes, and you blink quickly, trying to steady your voice.
“I want that too,” you whisper, the words tumbling out like a confession. “But I’m scared. What if we just break all over again?”
His thumb sweeps across your cheek, catching a tear before it can fall. “Then we put ourselves back together,” he says, his voice shaking. “I don’t care how messy it is. I just don’t want to lose you again.”
A quiet sob slips out, and you grip his arm like you need something solid to hold onto. “I just signed a lease,” you say, your voice trembling. “The boys are finally settling in. I can’t… I can’t rip them out of that.”
“I know,” he whispers, his hand cradling your face like you’re something fragile and precious all at once. “I don’t need any of that to change. I just want to be here… as much as you’ll let me.”
You break completely at that. You curl into him, burying your face against his chest as the tears finally fall. And he just holds you — no pressure, no expectations — his fingers threading through your hair, his lips pressing soft, steady kisses to the top of your head.
Eventually, you pull back, your face flushed, your body exhausted, but your heart a little lighter. “So… we try?” you whisper, searching his face like you’re still waiting for him to change his mind.
He smiles, small and a little sad, but real. “We try,” he promises, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.
And as you close your eyes, breathing him in, the quiet doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.
banner credit: @saradika
