robby making a “wtf” face when you tell him you’re spending one of your days off work at a hair appointment. "the whole day? for really? honey, it's just hair..." him shaking his head and accidentally laughing when you try to explain, 'cause he doesn't get it, nor does he really want to. it's fine. you're grown, so do what you want. someone would have to actually pay him to sit in a barbershop all day, but it's whatever. so long as you look cute.
VERSUS
jack offering to drive you when you tell him you'll be gone all day. doesn't let you leave the car without a long kiss. "text me when you want me to stop by so i can drop off your food, yeah? good. now, one more kiss." him thumbs uping the message you send with a grumbling stomach a handful of hours later. showing up with your food plus extra for anyone who wants it, and a kiss that has the entire room smirking and making little noises. "looks good, baby. call me you're ready, 'n i'll be here."
💋ྀིྀི | a continuation of ex!sukuna with a print of your lips tattoed on him, i am hungry for this man
— ᨳଓ . pt. 1 — pt. 2 <here!> — pt.3
[ cw : sukuna is STILL pathetic for you, this part is sfw | reader gets called : princess ]
Sukuna had thrown his phone across the room in shame and hopped in the shower as soon as he saw that you read his message. He thinks you to be some sort of angel for not having blocked him after all this time but it makes sense because you always seem to see the good in people, including him.
The cold water hits his back as he runs his hands through pink hair. He remembers when he first dyed it, so long ago, and how you squealed in delight when you saw the large, tall man with biceps that may or may not be bigger than your head with light pink hair. You had ran your fingers through the thick stands of hair and made fun of his uneven roots and hands dyed pink for the next two weeks. You had made sure to help him whenever his roots had grown out, so it didn't look so choppy. He wishes he had the excuse of being drunk in response to your inevitable questioning text but he could never bring himself to lie to you.
When he steps out of the bathroom he ignores his phone and opts to harshly drying his head with a stained towel, another towel sitting low on his hips as he opens his bedroom window and lights a cigarette. You used to curl up beside him on his ratty couch on late nights, taking the occasional drag and sitting in the smoke with him. He hates how he can't seem to do anything without the lingering thought of you in odd corners.
When he finally decides to bite the bullet, he opens his phone with teeth gritted, forearms on his knees gripping the device.
you : sukuna ryomen.
He thinks that's just like you. Not cussing him out, not questioning, not blocking, just his stupid name as if you didn't already have him in a chokehold.
His hands are shaky, to the point where he thinks he might drop his phone. It's been a year and a half and he's sure you've moved on, sure you don't deserve his stupid ass texting you at god knows what hour.
sukuna : wasn't lying though
you : glad you know you're an idiot
you : if you're having a tough night i can talk but i'd rather not talk about us
His thumb hovers over the call button. He knows he shouldn't, knows you're probably happy, dating, living your best life without him. But he's always been a greedy son of a bitch.
💋ྀིྀི
You pick up the phone like it's second nature, his contact photo is still the same because you haven't been able to bring yourself to change it. It's a picture of the two of you someone took, it must have been Gojo or Shoko, you're at an amusement park, laughing at something he said and he's got this stupid grin on his face, looking at you. You used to have the picture framed on your wall somewhere before it hurt too much to even know it was there so you had thrown the frame out and shoved the picture in a drawer.
"Hey," his voice is gruff, low like you remember.
"Hi," you say evenly, "You're lucky I haven't reported and blocked you,"
You hear him snort and it brings you a smile.
"Don't know why you haven't yet," he sounds like he genuinely doesn't know. You hum in response, thinking through the question. You hadn't broken up on bad terms per se, but you hadn't broken up on good terms either.
"I don't know why either," is all you can offer him.
"I should probably get that tattoo covered up," he says, and you know what he's talking about without an explanation. You pause, you had assumed he would've covered it up already, it's not the best look, especially if he's been seeing other women and decides to be honest with them about who's lips are actually marked on him.
"I'm surprised you haven’t yet," you say with a small voice.
"Turns out people don't like it when you have your ex branded on you permanently,"
"They must think I'm crazy," you snort.
"Would never let them think that," he says and it makes you quiet. He says it so casually. As if the two haven't been avoiding each other at all of the group hangouts, as if this is the first time you've even had a proper conversation since the breakup.
"Is that why you messaged me?" you try and change the subject and he lets you for the sake of being able to hear your voice for a while longer.
"Was seeing a girl, she was upset I didn't have any plans to cover it up and broke it off with me tonight,"
"Shit, I'm sorry,"
"'S not your fault,"
The two of you sit in silence for a while. It makes you think how it doesn't even feel awkward, it's as if the two of you picked up right where you left off, except for the weeks leading to your breakup.
"My roots are growing out," he murmurs into the speaker not knowing why.
"Have you been keeping it pink?" he hears you smile and just wishes he could be in the same room as you to see that smile.
"Yeah, it's my look now I guess,"
"I think it suits you,"
"That's part of why I still keep it," he says and you ignore how it makes your heart flutter.
"Do you need help with the bleaching?" you ask and regret it when you're met with silence. You can tell he's thinking, and you're glad one of you is because you seem to be making mistake after mistake tonight by even interacting with him.
"Are you sure?"
"Mhm,"
"I'm free thursday night if you want to come over,"
author's note : reader has more grace and patience than i would have, but i would fold
hiii how are you !! I have an idea/request for u and it’s will smith gets ex!reader pregnant ! If u don’t wanna do this or not taking requests pls act like you never saw this🥹 have an amazing day!!
eventually
will smith x pregnant!ex!reader
wc: 2.6k
warnings: suuuuuper angsty, pregnant reader, mentions of will being a bad bf?
note: this can be read as a continuation of the last ex!will fic or a completely new timeline. choose your own adventure, see? 😏
ex!reader masterlist
“can we talk about something?”
you’re laying on the couch, fluffy blanket pulled up to your chin, the secret lives of mormon wives playing on the tv, when will comes into the living room. there’s a look on his face that you don’t like, a look you recognize from every difficult conversation you’ve had with him since breaking up. the look that means you’re not going to like what comes out of his mouth next.
a few months ago, conversations like the one you know is coming weren’t a huge deal. it’s the same thing every time, how he’s so sorry, how much you mean to him, and that he promises he’ll be better than he was before. he promises.
a few months ago, you could just laugh awkwardly, brush him off, and then leave, or kick him out. this conversation usually came after the two of you spent the night together, when he’s feeling particularly tender and misses you the most. after a while, you came to expect it. you’d wake up in the morning, rest in bed for as long as possible, before he inevitably brought it up.
but he hasn’t brought it up in a while. and unfortuantely for you, this conversation isn’t as easy to avoid as it once was.
because now, there’s a very big, very important thing keeping the two of you together.
you’re pregnant.
“about what?” you ask, keeping your eyes on the screen. you know that extending the whole situation by pretending to play dumb isn’t your smartest move, but you’re kind of hoping that if you just dodge whatever he’s going to say for as long as possible, he’ll just give up and move on.
you’re not that lucky.
will moves to the couch without saying anything. you’re lain across the length of it, so you think he won’t be able to sit with you, but you’re wrong. he picks up your ankles, sitting where they were, placing your socked feet in his lap. immediately, he goes to work rubbing and massaging them, causing your eyes to flutter closed and a happy moan to leave your lips.
he goes at this silently for a few minutes, fingers working magic on your swollen feet and ankles. ever since you got pregnant, he’s been like this. so attentive, and caring, and loving.
the baby was a… surprise. to say the least. in hindsight, it honestly shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was, because you and will weren’t being the most careful. yeah, you two have been broken up for a little over a year, but you still saw each other. you still had sex, pretty frequently. honestly, it was almost every time will was home, the two of you were meeting up at least once. most of the time in your apartment, on occasion at his, when mack wasn’t home. and even though you knew better, you know better, there were a few times where the two of you didn’t have any condoms on hand, and didn’t think it would be a huge deal.
well, it turned out to be a pretty huge deal, because now you’re laying in his apartment and eight months pregnant. you don’t live here, not technically. most of your stuff is here now, and the things the two of you have accumulated for the baby are here and not at your apartment, but you refuse to officially move in. will’s been begging you for weeks now, but you’re trying your best to maintain as much independence as you possibly can.
you’re so caught up in the drama unfolding on your tv, and the amazing feeling of will massaging your feet, that you forget how will approached you, not even five minutes ago. that he started that damned conversation.
and then he reminds you.
“i think we should get back together.”
will’s voice is soft, and he says it quiet. almost like he wants you to miss it, to just hum and nod and agree even though you didn’t really hear him. but you did hear him, and your heart drops the second you register his words.
all sense of relaxation from the foot massage dissipates in milliseconds. your whole body tenses, and your heart starts racing.
the very last thing you want right now is to be talking about this.
“will…” your tone is warning. “please. can we just… not?”
you’d been trying to avoid looking at him, but then his gaze swings to you, and like a magnet, your eyes find his. his cheeks are pink and his eyes are glassy, his expression so full of love and yearning your heart nearly stops.
“baby,” he starts, and your breath hitches in your chest. “i know you don’t want to talk about this, but we need to.”
you can’t hold back your scoff. “no, we don’t. in what world do we need to talk about this?” you sit up and look him dead in the eye, trying your best to convey your annoyance at this whole ordeal without having to outright say it. “will, this whole… situation we’re in is already complicated enough. i’m already stressed enough. i just can’t do this right now.”
“what can i do?” he blurts out. you just look at him for a minute, confused on what he’s asking. he sighs, and continues. “what can i do to prove myself to you? that i’m not gonna be like i was. that i’m gonna be a good boyfriend, a good dad. what can i do?”
you just stare at him, dumbfounded, for a few seconds.
this is a question you haven’t prepared for, haven’t really thought about.
“will, i…” you start. you feel a little flutter in your stomach, like butterflies. earlier on in your pregnancy, your baby din’t move very much. you were constantly worried that there was something wrong, calling your doctor at least once a day to ask ten questions at once. a few weeks ago, you and will found out the sex of your baby. a little girl. he’d been ecstatic, kissing your belly and kissing you, holding you close and thanking you for everything that you do, everything you’ve ever done for him. ever since you found out that you’re having a girl, it’s felt like she’s started moving ten times as much. usually it’s a little kick, or a wiggle. it always makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside, but right now, it’s making you sick to your stomach. a reminder of both why you can’t take will back, and also exactly why you should. “i don’t know what to say.”
he gets up from the couch, gently placing your feet back on the cushion, making sure they’re covered by the blanket to keep them warm. you expect him to walk away, to go into his room and wallow in his emotions for a bit, but he doesn’t. will gets on his knees, and shuffles nearer to your head, placing a hand on your belly, your baby girl instantly landing a kick to the exact spot his hand is.
a little smile makes its way onto his face at the feeling, as it always does, but the happiness at her greeting her dad is tinged with the sadness that this whole conversation is causing. your stomach sinks.
“i love you,” he says, your eyes widening in shock. “i know that’s not what you want to hear. i’m sorry. but i can’t not say it anymore, because i need you to know it. i love you so much, and i love our baby. i can’t wait to be a dad, and i’m going to be the best one that i possibly can. i’m always going to be there for her, going to help raise her as much as i can. i’m going to teach her how to skate, teach her how to play hockey. if she wants to play hockey professionally, like i do, i’m going to encourage her and help her to do that, to get there, as much as i possibly can. she’s never going to want for anything. she’s going to feel so loved, never going to doubt that she has someone in her corner. but it’s going to be better, because we’re both going to be there for her, always.”
tears have sprung to your eyes. will’s thumb is caressing your belly, rubbing up and down soothingly, and your daughter has settled, both at the sound of her father’s voice, and at his touch. pregnancy hasn’t been easy, but will has been there for you throughout the whole experience. he’s supported you through every single thing you’ve gone through, told you how beautiful you are when your belly started growing, researched anything and everything you were worried about, and made sure nobody said anything negative to you about anything.
being pregnant with your ex-boyfriend’s baby is a strange experience. you did your best to hide the fact that you were still seeing him, from your friends but most importantly, from your family. your parents and siblings saw you through the worst of the things you dealt with when you and will were together. they held you through his cruel words, and ignored pleads for him to love you.
when the pregnancy test came back positive, you were shocked, scared, excited, and everything in between. you knew pretty much instantly that you wanted to keep the baby, no matter what will said. obviously, when you told him, he was ecstatic. you were honestly more scared to tell your family. they were the ones who witnessed all the damage will caused you firsthand, and you telling them that you’re having his baby was definitely an awkward and tense conversation to have. you assured them that there’s nothing going on between the two of you (lie), and that you only saw him once, which resulted in the pregnancy (another lie).
you and will were together for a year and a half before you broke up. you loved him, you really, really did. throughout that year and a half period, you tried desperately to make it work, to keep it going. before you started dating, you’d been talking on and off for years. you’ve known each other since you were both freshmen at boston college, and you’ve loved him the entire time you’ve known him.
admittedly, you love him now. even after all that he did during your relationship, even though he didn’t realize how much he loves you until after you were gone, you love him. especially through this whole pregnancy, with how unexpected it was, and how unwavering his support for you has been. you’ve really been able to lean on him, to depend and count on him, and you’re so unbelievably grateful for that.
you want to take him back, you do. your life would be ten times easier if you and will were dating, and you know that. but as much as you want to, as hard as you try, you just… can’t.
you take a shaky breath, and start to stand up, pushing will off of you. he stays kneeling on the carpet, eyes watching as you begin to pace the living room. you’re trying desperately not to cry, mostly because you feel like you’ve done nothing but cry this entire pregnancy, and you’re not sure if you have any tears left.
“i want to, will,” your voice is thick. “i want to so bad. trust me, you’re doing amazing. i want our baby to have parents who are together, who love each other and trust each other.”
“then why? why are you holding yourself back?” he gets up and crosses the room so he’s standing right in front of you, gently grasping your hips and pulling you close, so close that your bump grazes his lower stomach. your daughter, pefectly cradled between her parents’ bodies, safe and loved and directly in the middle of every problem they’re having. “just let me love you, baby. love me back.”
“i want to,” you repeat quietly, tears beginning to slide down your cheeks. you let out a sigh and rest your forehead on his shoulder, your arms sliding up and wrapping themselves around his neck. “i just don’t trust you anymore.”
you allow yourself a minute to be held by him, to cry into his shoulder and lean on him and feel how steady and loving he is. you feel him shudder at your words, but he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t ask you why not, or tell you that you can now. he just listens, allows you to seek comfort in his hold, and is just there for you.
you hate him right now.
“you were like this before,” you say, sniffling and ripping yourself away from him at the same time. “before we got together. you were sweet, and caring, and there for me. you said pretty things to me and made me feel loved. but then we got together, and that all stopped. no more nice words, or kisses, or love. you got me, and then you started treating me like shit. i won’t go through that again.”
“y/n…” will takes a step towards you. you take a step away.
“and it’s scarier now. we have a baby on the way,” your cradle your bump protectively, your eyes squeezing shut at the thought that your baby girl could ever possibly go through anything like that you did when you were with will. “she’s not even here yet, and she’s my whole world. you say you won’t treat me like that anymore, won’t treat her like that, but i don’t even want there to be that possibility. i can’t do that to her. i know, logically, that you won’t be like that. at least not with her. but i’m just… scared.”
will stands there, looking at you with an expression that can only be described as heartbroken. he doesn’t say anything, because he knows he can’t. you’re right. he was awful to you when you were together, and it’s the biggest regret of his life, the thing he’s most ashamed of. he hates thinking about it, hates remembering who he was.
he was in a dark place at the time, because of things that weren’t your fault. the team was doing bad, and he felt like he was failing in life. he took it out on you, and that wasn’t fair.
will has never blamed you for breaking up with him. even the day that you did it, when he was feeling the most tender and the most raw, he understood. which makes him feel worse, because he knew that he was being a bad boyfriend, a bad person. and yet, he thought you would stay anyway.
he collapses onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands. on the other side of the room, you stand, the love of his life and the mother of his daughter, staring at him with fear and love warring on your face and in your heart.
“i have to protect myself, will,” you say softly. “i have to protect my heart.”
“i know,” he murmurs. he looks up at you finally, and the sadness in his eyes nearly makes your knees buckle “just know that i love you. and i’m here when you’re ready.”
you nod, heart aching in your chest. “i know. i love you too.” will’s eyes widen, but you turn away so you don’t see the exact expression on your face. you just can’t handle it. you start walking towards will’s room, knowing that he won’t follow you, even though it’s his apartment. you stop right before you enter to say, “i’ll get there. not right now, but i’ll get there. eventually.”
a/n: woof this one is... rough 😭 i really struggled with writing this one for some reason, and there were MAAAAAAAAANY iterations of it, but i'm happy with how it came out! this is... probably the angstiest thing i've ever written, but i feel like that's at the core of every ex!will fic! so it's okay! thank you all so much for the support and love on this series, it's so encouraging and never fails to put a smile on my face. you guys are all the best, and i'm so thankful that i have this blog, and this creative outlet. i hope you guys enjoy this one, and have a wonderful day or night <3
Summary: You thought he didn't care when he threw you out of his life, but a midnight text leaves your ex boyfriend Megumi, on his knees begging for you under the moonlight.
Pairing: Ex!Megumi x Reader
Word Count: ~2k
Content: Slight angst, some comfort, Megumi is your ex, mutual pining, yearning, Megumi not knowing how to navigate emotions, some intimate touching & kissing
You and Megumi dated for six months, a relationship that seems short to some, but for you, it felt you had found the love of your life. Megumi was a good guy, smart, athletic, attractive, literally the whole nine yards. You even stayed with him most nights, basking in his company as long as you could, but he had one fatal character flaw.
He was emotionally unavailable.
He hid all his feelings beneath his dark stoicism and wit, a trait that you grew to despise. Sometimes, you caught glimpses of why he kept his guard up, the way he flinched at certain memories, like someone who'd been let down one too many times before. You yearned for a genuine connection, but whenever it came too close to cracking open his shell, he pushed you away.
Once he broke up with you, you were absolutely devastated. It took you a good week to look at yourself in the mirror, let alone leave the house. You hated yourself for being “too much” for him, for making him angry. But eventually, you realized it wasn’t your fault.
You started getting back into your old habits, going out at night and seeing your friends again. You regained your confidence, your mind finally moving away from the painful end of your and Megumi’s relationship.
Tonight was no different, you were at the club with your friends, having fun on the dance floor, and doing some light drinking. Everything was going well, you were in a really cute black slip dress, your hair all done, and it seemed that you were just magnetic tonight. Guys were coming up to you left and right, hitting on you, asking for your number or a dance, the whole deal. It was honestly a great distraction and made you feel much better, well, until you started to attract guys from outside the club.
From: Fushiguro 😒
Meet me at the park in 10?
The second the text lit up your phone, you gritted your teeth angrily. What the hell was with him! He had the audacity to break your heart, and now he’s just demanding you drop everything to meet him like it’s no big deal, no way. It seemed like he didn’t care before. Why all of a sudden is he being like this, especially now?
To: Fushiguro 😒
Fuck off
You laughed a little to yourself, expecting Megumi to leave you on read while you went back to dancing, but then your phone buzzed again.
From: Fushiguro 😒
Please
Please? The single word felt like a physical blow, your thumb hovering above the screen uselessly. Your heart began to pound against your ribs, your breath turning into shallow rasps.
Megumi Fushiguro did not say please. He didn’t use words that implied he was hurting, and he certainly didn't back out of decisions. He would rather rot in silence than text you that. Or would he? No. Absolutely not. Don’t get your hopes up.
You felt an angry heat take over your stomach, a tiny bead of sweat falling from your forehead. But beneath all that, a tiny ember of your old relationship sparked back to life. You missed Megumi a lot, and every time you thought you were over him, you knew you were lying to yourself.
So, now the two of you are standing face to face at the park, the moonlight cutting sharply between you. The bass from the club you just walked out of still lingers slightly in your ears, a reminder that you shouldn’t be wasting time on this. But when your eyes fall on Megumi, you freeze.
He looks terrible, his neat spiky hair a tinge disheveled and eye bags so prominent you could see them in the dark. He was wearing sweatpants and a tight compression shirt, his usual muscular build hunched under the weight of his own exhaustion. For a guy who held himself together with rigid precision, seeing him this undone feels entirely wrong.
“You have two minutes, Fushiguro,” you hiss, crossing your arms over your chest, “I’m kinda in the middle of something.”
Megumi clenched his jaw. His dark eyes traced your silhouette in silence for a moment, how your dress traced your curves, how it looks like a piece of the night came over to talk to him. He never told you that dress was his favorite. Never told you he thought you looked beautiful in black or that every time you wore it, he had to remind himself to keep looking at your face.
He takes a step towards you, pulling one of his hands out of his pockets, only for it to stall in the air for a moment. It almost closes the space between the two of you, his fingers curling into nothing before dropping slack against his side.
“You look nice,” He says, his words reminding you exactly why you’d broken up.
“Seriously?” You ask, your tone is nothing but sharp and irritated. You roll your eyes at him, already considering turning around. “That’s what you dragged me out here to say.”
Megumi lets out a gruff sigh, his eyes drifting from yours and towards the night sky. He wanted to say more, so much more. All the things he failed to tell you, how much he cared. How breaking up with you was a mistake. But the words didn’t come out.
You took another 10 seconds of him staring blankly before you decided to call it. You let out a dry chuckle devoid of any humor. “Right,” you say, shaking your head, “I’m leaving.”
“Wait.”
His words make you stop immediately in your tracks. The way he’s looking at you now, his dark eyes burning into yours with that soft intensity you used to love.
“Megs,” you call, the nickname slipping out before you can stop it. It painfully hangs between you for a moment. For the first time that night, Megumi’s composure cracked. His eyes widened ever so slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as hope flickered across his face.
Your lips pressed into a thin line. “…Fushiguro,” you corrected quietly.
The glimmer of hope in Megumi’s eyes dimmed in an instant. His shoulder stiffened again, his every emotion retreating behind the walls he’s spent months building.
Neither of you spoke for a moment, the silence only making things more uncomfortable. You watched how his posture continued to grow more rigid, how he looked like he was forcing words back down his throat before he finally decided to speak. “I.. I didn’t know if you would come.” He mumbles so quietly you almost can’t hear.
“Well, I’m here, so if that’s all you wanted, can I go now?” You say, your voice cutting through the night.
“No.”
“No?” You ask, cocking a brow, “Fushiguro, this is ridiculous,” you say, moving to turn your back to him.
“Don’t turn around,” he says, his voice louder this time but nowhere near confident, but desperate. “Please…”
You freeze, your foot bracing to take another step away, when you feel the concrete move under you. You let out a sharp sigh, planting your foot down and turning back around, but the sight was not something you could have ever anticipated.
Megumi was still looking at you, but this time he was on his knees and instead of a glimmer of hope in his eyes, there was a fresh tear lingering inside.
Your breath caught in your throat, the petty retort you’d prepared dying instantly on your tongue. The image felt completely wrong. Seeing your ex, who was basically devoid of emotion 24/7, the one you thought didn’t care about you, down on his knees when you threatened to leave. Your heart starts to beat faster, your lip starting to tremble.
He was looking up at you through his dark spikes, his eyes full of nothing but a raw, agonizing desperation, the tear now making its way down his cheek and shimmering in the moonlight.
“Megumi…” your voice came out as a fragile whisper, the anger that had been keeping you upright suddenly evaporating, leaving behind a hollow ache.
“I always loved you,” he says, his usually flat voice slipping into a regretful, almost yearning register.
As you walk closer to him, his shaky hands come up to clutch at the hem of your black dress, holding it like he was drowning.
“There were so many things I never told you,” he says as you look down at him, his voice almost more shaky than his hands. “Like how I loved waking up with you beside me, and how those cute sticky notes you would leave all over the apartment made my day.”
The second Megumi started listing off things from your old daily routine, you felt your heart swell. All the things you thought he didn’t care about…
He squeezes the dress tighter, hoping some sort of you is still willing to listen. “I never told you how I thought you looked like a goddess every time you would wear this dress, or how I could never truly relax after you left.” His voice cracks again, his confession turning into a quiet mumble. “I never thought you were too much. I don’t even know why I said it,” He says, the warmth from his hand starting to register in your brain. “I just thought if I let myself love you… It would ruin everything.”
By this point, there were hot tears flowing down your face, your eyeliner making inky trails down your cheeks. You never thought you would hear those words, that he actually cared. The warmth in your chest wasn’t anger anymore; it was something else entirely. This entire time, you wanted Megumi back, but because you thought he didn’t care, you tried and tried to throw it all away. But now you see that’s not the case at all.
“I’m really sorry for throwing you out,” he says, “for acting like I didn’t care all this time.” He lets out a sharp breath, his hands still trembling on your thighs. “Go out at night, hate me, do whatever you want, but please let me be the one waiting for you, just save something for me.”
Your defense finally cracked. Feeling Megumi’s warm, large palms on your thighs, seeing how he’s looking up at you, how he actually cares, you find yourself sinking right down to the floor with him.
“You really hurt me, Megs, you know that?”
Hearing it out loud after a month of deafening silence made a visible shudder run right through Megumi’s shoulders. His grip on your thighs tightened slightly, as if your words were a physical blow he had to brace himself against. He forced himself to hold your gaze, taking in the sight of your ruined eyeliner and the tears still actively spilling over your lashes. He wanted to look at the damage he had caused and wasn't going to hide from it anymore.
“I know,” he whispered, his voice incredibly thick, the words scraping out of his throat. “I know I did. And it’s the biggest mistake of my life.”
He slowly moved his hands from your thighs, his fingers tracing up the sides of your waist before his large, warm palms carefully came up to rest against your jawline. He was so gentle, a stark contrast to the desperate, trembling wreck he had been just seconds ago. His thumbs brushed right over your damp cheeks, black ink smudging onto his skin, trying to wipe away the evidence of your hurt.
“I’m so sorry,” he rasped, his eyes shining as a fresh wave of moisture threatened to spill over. “I was a coward. I saw how much I was starting to care, and it terrified me. But I can’t live without you.”
He leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest gently against yours. You could feel the frantic, uneven heat of his breath against your lips, the familiar scent of him instantly wrapping around you like a heavy blanket. A heat you’ve been craving for a long time.
“Don’t let me go back to the silence tonight,” Megumi begged softly against your skin, his hands sliding around to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair to pull you just a fraction closer. “Please.”
You let your lips sink into his, drinking him in. You really did miss him, how his hands felt on your skin, how soft his lips were, you needed this. You bring your hands up to his neck like the two of you never even broke up in the first place, letting yourself fall for him all over again.
we go ‘round again, we jump back in bed, that’s what you do when you love somebody.
part one // part two
pairings: frank langdon x ex!reader
cw/tags: no use of y/n, swearing, a LOT of infidelity (from both frank and reader) and arguing. eventual orthopedic surgeon!reader, discussion and depiction of drug use/addiction (specifically amphetamines - AU where frank is addicted to speed instead of benzos), angst without a happy ending, implied and lightly explicit smut. mention of urgent care and antibiotics (brief depiction of reader having pneumonia, including coughing, fevers, medications, dizziness). use of nicknames for reader (peanut and baby from frank). reader did not do her residency at PTMC. reader wears heels and makeup one time, but other than that there are no physical descriptions.
wc: 12.1k
inspired by bad omens by 5sos
masterlist
Frank Langdon is, unfortunately, the love of your life.
Even if you don’t want him to be.
Even if you’re not his.
April, 2014
You know Frank is wearing himself thin.
Between co-captaining the football team, classes, volunteering, studying—it’s all starting to take a toll, especially after he failed a midterm two months ago. You’ve tried to tell him that almost everyone fails a test at some point in university, but it hasn’t helped, and he’s only ended up throwing himself into things harder.
You aren’t much better off, but you’re able to keep up with things in a way that he isn’t. Both of you are running on caffeine and delusion, praying that you’ll finish up with the semester before the consequences of your actions catch up to you.
Frank’s taken a different route, sick of constantly coming second place to you, the resentment starting a fire underneath him that he has no way to sustain. You’re graduating a year early, for godsake, and he can barely handle the typical course load. He’s pulling all-nighters constantly, barely eating, and he almost never comes home to your shared apartment anymore except to shower and grab food after a multi-day study session at the library.
As far as you can tell, it’s working. His grades are up, ‘hundreds’ stacking up in all his courses, almost completely correcting the dip from the failed midterm. You’re more than proud of how he’s turned things around, but you don’t know how much longer you can survive with the version of him that you’re getting.
He’s irritable—snapping at you over every little thing, cancelling plans with his friends, getting into fights on the field. He disappears for days at a time, always coming back run down, claiming to have spent his time studying or ‘disconnecting.’ When he is around he’s restless, practically bouncing off the fucking walls, making it impossible for you to focus. Despite that, you’re worried, so you agree to any opportunity you have to keep an eye on him, including a study session with him and some of your friends.
You’re scattered across various tables and seats in the library, all of you completely focused on whatever task you’re trying to finish before turning in for the night. You squint at the textbook in front of you, highlighting an important line, rubbing your eyes when your vision starts to blur. It’s already midnight, but you told yourself you wouldn’t go home until you finished this unit.
“Fuck me, I need to take a break,” Frank says, pushing his chair back and standing up, stretching his arms above his head. “You want anything from the vending machine?”
You don’t answer right away, forcing him to poke your shoulder a few times. “Sorry, what?”
“Do you want anything to eat?” He asks. “I’m gonna’ go grab something.”
“Oh, no, I’m okay,” You say, smiling up at him. “Thank you.”
He leans down, kissing your forehead, walking off to the stairs and disappearing. Now that your focus has been broken, you feel the familiar twinge of a headache blooming behind your eyes, and you reach down into the front pocket of your backpack, pulling out a bottle of ibuprofen.
You unscrew the cap, tipping the bottle upside down, only for nothing to fall into your hand. You frown, shaking it a few times, groaning once the realization hits that it’s empty.
You don’t hesitate to grab Frank’s bag, hoisting it into your lap and sifting through it’s contents. You spot a bottle of something at the bottom, and you reach down for it, pulling it out and turning it over in your hand, reading the label. It’s acetaminophen, not ibuprofen, but it’ll have to do if you want to get through this final chapter.
You dump two pills out, grabbing your water bottle, moments away from tossing them into your mouth when you actually get a glimpse of them. They don’t look like any acetaminophen you’ve ever seen, making your brows furrow. You flip one of the pills over, revealing a crooked imprint code, but you’re certain that this isn’t any kind of painkiller you can buy at a pharmacy.
It’s not his vyvanse, either.
You tuck one of the pills into your pocket, throwing the other one back into the bottle and replacing the lid. You put the bottle at the bottom of his bag, then drop his backpack onto the floor just as he comes back up the stairs. He gives you a bright smile, setting your favourite chocolate bar on the table.
“Figured it couldn’t hurt,” He says, taking his seat beside you again. You swallow, nodding, forcing a tight-lipped smile.
“Thanks,” You say. “I was actually gonna’ head home, are you coming?”
“Shit, really?” He asks, tilting his head a little. “I wish I could, but I should really stay. I’m fucked for this final if I don’t.”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll see you in the morning, then?” You ask, already packing your things up.
“Probably not,” He says. “I need to get at least twelve hours in tomorrow, I was gonna’ leave pretty early.”
You nod, fingers ghosting over the outline of the pill in your pocket. “Can you wake me up when you get back, say goodnight?”
“Sure, yeah,” He says, already distracted by his work, jotting something down in his notebook. “See you at home. Love you.”
You don't even take your shoes off once you're home, just sitting on the floor by the front door. You fish your phone out of your pocket, snapping a picture of the orange pill and pasting it into the search bar. You watch the browser load for too long, then similar pictures start popping up. You click on the first one, looking at the article name that sits below it.
Amphetamine Addiction and Withdrawal - Statistics, Warning Signs, and More
Your mouth goes dry.
You thought it would end up being naproxen or something, not an illegal stimulant.
Things start to click into place as you think about everything that's happened over the past few months—the not sleeping, barely eating, the irritability—it's all because he's been high.
You don't get any sleep that night, and Frank never comes home. You don't see him until the next day, long after the sun is set.
“Hey, peanut,” He says, closing the door softly, kicking his shoes off and tossing his bag aside. “Sorry I didn’t wake you up last night, you just looked so peaceful, I didn’t wanna’ interrupt.”
Your stomach twists, nausea curling up and taking hold of your chest. You close your laptop, tossing it onto the couch beside you, shaking your head.
“Why are you lying?” You ask, getting to your feet, folding your arms over your chest.
“What do you mean?” He asks, trying to smile, but you can see the panic in his expression. “I got back late, you know-”
“You didn’t come home,” You interrupt. “I was up all night, waiting for you.”
He sighs, coming farther inside. “I didn’t know you were waiting, you should’ve texted.”
“I shouldn’t have had to,” You counter, shifting on your feet. “Do you have anything you wanna’ tell me, Frank?”
He raises an eyebrow. “No, what? Do you think I’m cheating on you or something? Because I swear I’m not, I was at the library all night, Jonah can back me up-”
“I don’t think you’re cheating on me,” You clarify.
“Then…what?” He asks. “No, I don’t have anything to tell you, babe.”
“Really?” You push.
“Yeah, really.”
You reach into your pocket, pulling out the pill, holding it out towards him. Obvious recognition passes over his features before he feigns confusion.
“What is that?” He questions.
You close your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, folding your fingers back over the pill and dropping your hand to your side.
“I found a bottle of these in your backpack last night,” You explain. “I didn’t know what it was at first, but then I did some research. Fucking speed, really?”
“What bottle, babe?” He asks. “It’s not mine, whatever it is.”
You hum with frustration, gesturing to his bag. “Show me your bag, then.”
“Seriously?” He says. “You don’t trust me?”
“You really expect me to believe that someone put a bottle of speed in your backpack without you realizing?” You ask. “Do you think I’m fucking stupid?”
“I obviously don’t think you’re stupid,” He argues. “But yeah, I expect you to trust me after six years of knowing me.”
“You lied to my face two minutes ago,” You say. “Completely unprompted.”
He huffs. “That was so you wouldn’t worry about me staying up all night.”
“Show me your bag, Frank.”
“No,” He says. “That’s insane, come on.”
You click your tongue behind your teeth, sucking in a breath, shrugging.
“You’re being ridiculous,” He says.
“Frank, whatever this is? We can deal with it,” You say. “Just…stop lying, okay? Please.”
He purses his lips, leaning over and picking his backpack up, handing it to you. You rummage through the contents until you find the same acetaminophen bottle, unscrewing the cap and peering inside, seeing the same orange pills you saw last night. He doesn’t say anything, he just stands with his hands in his pockets, his anxiety palpable.
“I’m right?” You ask, putting the lid back on. “It’s speed?”
“...yeah,” He says, looking down at the floor. You nod, trying to get yourself to think rationally, but you have no idea what to do here.
“Okay,” You say, moving towards the couch. “Come on, let’s sit for a second.”
You ask him a million questions. How long, how much, why? His answers come slowly, a part of him still wondering if he can shield you from this for a little while longer, but you don’t leave any room for half-truths. He truly hesitates when you ask him if he’s tried to stop.
You watch his adam’s apple move when he swallows, his eyes averting to his hands, which twist around each other as he toys with his fingers.
“No,” He finally says. “I was going to the second the semester was over, I swear. It was just to keep up with school.”
“Right, I get it,” You say, reaching for him, trying to ignore the bottle that sits on the coffee table. “You’ve had a rough couple months. But this was not the solution, Frank. You could’ve talked to me, or your advisor, or your profs—there were a lot of steps to take before you started using drugs.”
Your tone isn’t judgement or condescending, it’s realistic. You’re trying to remind him that he has other options.
“This seemed easier,” He says. “And more effective.”
“I mean, it probably was,” You agree. “But it’s dangerous, baby.”
“No, I know, you’re right,” He says. “But I’m not out of control or anything, I can stop whenever I want.”
You straighten, signalling that he’s said the wrong thing. He grimaces, hating the way the line sounds coming out of his mouth.
“Most people who say that can’t actually stop whenever they want,” You counter.
“Those people aren’t me,” He says. “A lot of people use it, and they’re all completely fine. I just needed something short-term.”
You take a deep breath, tangling your hands with his own, the action making his pulse spike. He sighs with relief, leaning closer to you, squeezing your fingers tightly.
“You need to stop,” You say, not leaving any room for interpretation. “This is—this isn’t okay, Frankie.”
“It’s not, it’s so far from being okay,” He repeats. “I’ll stop, I’m done. Starting right now.”
He makes a point of flushing the pills down the toilet, but it doesn’t feel as final as it should. Something heavy sits over both of you—an omen of what’s to come.
October, 2014
Frank’s voicemail plays in your ear for the sixth time.
You call again, kicking a rock with your heel-clad foot, sending it into the dirt beside the sidewalk.
“Hey, it’s Frank, leave a message-”
You close your eyes, jabbing your finger against the ‘end call’ button, shoving your phone back into your purse. You’re trying so hard to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the past six months have made that exceptionally difficult.
The summer had been great, with you graduating and the two of you taking a short vacation before you started medical school in July. Then September rolled around, and Frank jumped back into everything, needing to keep his GPA up if he had any hopes of following in your footsteps. You had tried to get him to take a lighter course load, but he had refused, claiming he would be fine.
You tried to convince yourself that you were imagining things when the tell-tale signs started up again. Him picking fights over stupid shit, long stretches of time where you don’t know where he is, a level of sleep that isn’t congruent with survival for most people.
Or, at least, for anyone who isn’t abusing stimulants.
You asked a million times if he was using again. He said no, promised that it was just because of school and that he’d be back to normal once the two of you could go home for the holidays.
But now, standing outside your favourite restaurant an hour after your reservation, on your seventh anniversary, with no sign of him solidifies your worst fears.
You blink back tears, checking your phone again, still seeing nothing. A family of five walks by you, the youngest daughter saying something about how pretty you look to her mom, which only makes your heart hurt more. You’re about to give up and go home when a car pulls up in front of you, the passenger door opening hastily. You step back as Frank clambers out, shouting goodbye to his friend and slamming the door shut. You flinch, putting more distance between you and him when he turns around.
“Hey, baby, I am so sorry,” He says, walking over to you, setting his hands on your cheeks. You turn to the side when he leans in, forcing him to kiss the corner of your mouth, making him frown. “I know, I’m so fucking late, practice was insane and I’ve got that assignment due on Friday, I lost track of time.”
You look at him. His irises are practically invisible.
“I’ve been waiting for an hour,” You say. “No call, no text, no nothing, Frank.”
He frowns, grabbing both your hands. “I’m sorry, I know, I’m the worst. Maybe we can still get a table? I’ll go ask-”
“Don’t bother,” You say. “I’m not having dinner with you when you’re high out of your fucking mind.”
“What?” He asks. “I’m not high, come on, I told you I’ve just been busy. I haven’t been using, I swear.”
You shake your head, laughing a little despite yourself, pulling your hands out of his. “Is this all you’re ever gonna’ be now?”
His brows furrow. “What do you mean? Busy? No, of course not. I’m almost done undergrad, and then we’ll both be in med school, but that’ll be a different kind of busy. We’ll be back to normal.”
“I keep waiting for things to change,” You say, barely digesting his words. “I keep waiting for you to stop lying.”
“Baby, I’m not lying.”
“It’s always…this,” You continue. “You fucking up and trying to convince me you didn’t.”
“I’m not trying to convince you of anything,” He argues. “I know I fucked up, I should’ve been here on time, I know.”
“You shouldn’t have gotten high,” You whisper, tears piling in your eyes. “I don’t…I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
“Are you joking?” He asks. “It’s one fucking night, come on-”
“You still won’t admit it?” You ask. “All I have ever asked of you is that you tell me the truth. And you have failed over and over again.”
You step back when he reaches for you.
“I love you, but I can’t keep putting up with this,” You say, not bothering to wipe away the tears that drip down your face. “Get your shit together, please.”
January, 2015
The party isn’t anything huge, just yours and Frank’s main friend group, which is enough people to fill a room. You had been hesitant to go at first, still trying to keep your distance from him, but your best friend practically dragged you there after letting you mope in bed for the past three months.
It starts off fine, but it quickly takes a turn for the worse a couple hours in. Luckily, you’re on your fifth drink by the time the door opens, revealing Frank and a petite blonde girl some time after eleven.
“Hey, look who it is!” One of your friends exclaims, pushing himself off the couch and over to the door. “We were starting to think you wouldn’t make it.”
You pull your phone out of your back pocket, taking a swig of the drink you’re holding, trying to seem remotely busy as people move to greet him.
“Who’s this?” Someone asks, making you glance over, seeing the woman standing just behind him. You feel your chest tighten when he beams, wrapping an arm across her shoulders.
“This is Abby,” He says. “We met a couple months ago.”
People start introducing themselves, tossing out names left and right, clearly overwhelming the poor girl. Someone eventually gestures to you, saying your name, and you see the way Abby’s face changes. Her smile drops a little, but she still gives you a wave.
“Nice to meet you,” She says. “Frank’s told me a lot about you.”
“Yeah, bet he has,” Someone mutters, making the group laugh. Frank joins in, tightening his grip on Abby, desperately trying to get you to look at him. You avoid his eyes, downing the rest of your drink and standing up, giving her the most genuine smile you can muster.
“Wow, I love your jeans, you’re stunning,” You say. “Frank’s a lucky guy. How’d you meet?”
You hear someone murmur something like ‘wow, very mature’ as you guide her into the living room, asking if she wants something to drink. Frank’s best friend, Jonah, slaps a hand onto his back once the two of you are out of earshot.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He asks, making Frank scoff.
“Don’t start, man.”
“No, seriously, what’s your problem?” He pushes. “What happened to trying to get her back?”
“I never said I was doing that,” Frank argues.
Jonah gives him a disapproving look, one that Frank isn’t sure he’s ever seen from his long-time friend.
“You’re an idiot,” He says. “Bringing a new girl here like this, when you knew she’d be here too? That’s pretty selfish, man.”
“It’s not that serious,” Frank says.
“That’s the problem, dude,” Jonah says. “It should be that serious.”
Meanwhile, you rummage through the fridge, listing out options to Abby, who’s standing off to the side.
“I’m good with a beer,” She says, and you pull one out, passing it over before grabbing one for yourself. You crack it open, bringing the can to your lips, taking a sip as you close the fridge.
“So, Frank told me you’ve known him since you were teenagers?” She says, leaning back against the counter.
“Oh, yeah,” You say. “He moved into the house across the street from mine, we got pretty close.”
“Right, he says you’re his best friend,” She adds. “I’d really love to get to know you, you know, to see more of his life.”
You hum, taking another sip of your drink. “Yeah, no, for sure. I’d like that too.”
Frank watches carefully as the two of you come back into the living room, trying to figure out if anything happened while you were gone. Abby grins as she walks over, and he smiles back, replacing his arm around her shoulders.
“She’s really nice,” Abby says, and Frank glances at you for a second before settling his eyes back on her.
“Yeah, she’s great,” He agrees. He can’t help but feel a little disappointed with how well you’re taking this, almost as though he wanted it to bother you. “You wanna’ sit?”
He catches you on the balcony a few hours later, missing the way you swipe a hand over your cheek, brushing away a stray tear.
“Hey,” You say. “I was just about to head in, balcony’s all yours.”
He grabs your arm as you walk by, stopping you from going inside.
“I actually came out here to talk to you,” He says. “I was gonna’ tell you about Abby, I swear.”
“Yeah, okay,” You say, sarcastically. “I would’ve loved a heads up that you had a girlfriend before agreeing to come tonight.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” He counters, still holding your arm. You pull out of his grip, exhaling sharply, tugging the sleeves of your hoodie down.
“She said you called me your ‘best friend,’” You say, putting quotes around the words. “Does she know about us?”
“What about us?” He asks. “That we dated?”
You purse your lips, tears pushing against your throat again, pooling in your eyes. Him summing up almost a decade of history with ‘we dated’ reignites the anger and insecurity that you’ve been feeling for months, and you just want to get out of here and go home.
“Yeah,” You say.
He squints, shrugging his shoulders up, waving his hand in a ‘sort of’ motion. “She knows we were together in high school.”
“In high school,” You repeat.
“That’s when it started,” He adds, obviously trying to justify his actions—something he’s been doing a lot of for the past year. He shifts on his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Yeah, no, I was there,” You say.
He raises an eyebrow. “I know.”
You watch him for a second, trying to read his expression, which use to be easy for you. Now it feels impossible, his face neutral, not letting you in.
“Is this your way of ending things, like, for real?” You ask, finally voicing what you’ve had on your mind since he showed up. There’s no edge in your voice, the question not meant to hurt him—you just need to know. “Because you could’ve just…said it.”
His face flickers, an unrecognizable look settling on it while he digests your words.
“No, that’s—that’s not what this is,” He says. “You—you ended things with me, I didn’t realize you and me was still an option.”
“You think I’ve just been checking in with you constantly for the past three months, what, for fun?” You ask. The corners of his lips quirk up with the ghost of a smile, taking the opportunity to try and lighten the mood.
“I mean, talking to me is a lot of fun,” He teases. A tear slips down your cheek, brows creasing and lips parting in disbelief.
“Why do you always do that?” You ask, gesturing with your hand before letting it fall back against your leg. “Why can’t you take anything seriously?”
“Come on,” He says, exasperatedly. “I’m just trying to keep this from becoming a whole thing, I-”
“God fucking forbid this become a whole thing,” You say, cutting him off. “I almost thought everything that happened between us actually meant something, thank you so much for reminding me that it didn’t.”
“When did I say that?” He asks, more defensive now.
“You don’t have to say something for it to be true.”
You try to go back inside again, but he grabs both your biceps, holding you in front of him. You refuse to look at him, sniffling as you wipe your eyes with your sleeve. He clenches his jaw, swallowing back tears of his own, letting go of one of your arms to tilt your chin up.
“Everything that happened means so much to me, peanut,” He says. “Why do you think it doesn’t?”
More tears fall, dripping off your chin and onto the concrete beneath you. You suddenly feel stupid, the adoration on his face making you momentarily forget all the times he’s hurt you, all the times he’s lied or said something he didn’t mean, all the promises he’s broken. When you look into his eyes you see the boy you fell in love with staring back at you, genuine curiosity and concern in them.
“You said ‘that we dated’ like that’s all it ever was,” You explain, finding yourself leaning closer to him. “Making a joke about having fun together when…I’ve been checking up on you to try and hold on to any fucking remnant of you and I because-”
You pause, inhaling involuntarily, a stifled cry catching in your throat. Frank’s face softens more, his grip dropping to your hands, taking them in his own.
“This is killing me,” You admit, voice shaking. “I only broke up with you because I thought it might convince you to stop using, I—I thought we’d get back together once you got clean, I wasn’t expecting you to move on so fast.”
He sighs, nodding, tugging you into his chest and wrapping his arms around you.
“I didn’t move on,” He admits. “The whole thing with Abby is selfish and stupid and I absolutely have not moved on, I swear to god.”
You don’t say anything, you just tuck your face into his neck.
“I’ll talk to her tonight, tell her it’s over,” He says.
“You don’t have to do that,” You say, voice muffled by his jacket. “She seems really sweet.”
“Yeah, she is, but she’s no you,” He says, holding you tighter. “As long as I have a chance with you then I don’t want anyone else, baby.”
He kisses you, and the hollowness in your stomach starts to fill.
June, 2015
His phone rings when you’re already in bed, snuggled into his chest, his arms around you. He groans, shifting away, reaching for the object and glancing at the screen. He freezes, making you lift your head, catching sight of the contact before he can hide it.
Abby ❤️
“Why is she calling you?” You ask, sitting up a bit. “Why does she still have a heart beside her name?”
“I dunno’,” He says. “I must’ve forgotten to get rid of the heart when I ended things.”
His thumb slams against the ‘decline’ button, which for some reason makes you doubt his answer.
“What if something’s wrong?” You ask, reaching for the lamp, turning it on. “You should call her back, make sure everything’s okay.”
A part of you means it—if she’s in trouble you want to help, but the other part wants to see just how far he’ll take this if he’s lying.
The two of you never re-established the seriousness of your relationship, but you certainly hadn’t seen anyone else since the conversation you had six months ago, and you were under the impression that he hadn’t either.
He shakes his head, setting his phone face-down on the nightstand. “Nah, I’m sure she’s fine.”
You squint. “Then just call her back, what’s the big deal?”
“No big deal,” He counters. “I’d just rather stay here with you.”
“Well, I won’t be able to sleep unless I know she’s alright,” You argue, analyzing his face, but you know the tells you learned when you were teens no longer apply, his whole charade much more calculated now.
“Why does it matter?” He asks, a slight edge to his tone. “She has other friends she can call, she’s fine.”
You don’t respond, and he lets himself relax, thinking you’re done pushing.
“Frank,” You say, forcing him to look at you again. “Fucking call her.”
He rolls his eyes, tossing the blanket off his body and sitting up. “Are we really doing this right now?”
“Doing what, exactly?” You ask.
“You still don’t trust me,” He says, saying it like it’s unbelievable. “Wow, I honestly thought you were past this bullshit.”
You genuinely laugh at that, burying your face behind your hands. “Oh my god. I’m such a fucking idiot.”
“Sometimes, yeah,” He says. “This isn’t gonna’ work if you don’t start believing me.”
You’re still laughing, putting a hand over your mouth to muffle it, trying to get yourself together. Frank just stares at you, your reaction sparking fury inside him.
“Wow, fuck me,” You say. “You’re sleeping with her.”
“That’s insane,” He counters, too quickly, as though he had the line ready.
“You never ended things,” You continue, mostly just processing out loud, not actually needing him to confirm or deny. “You’ve been seeing her this whole time.”
“I—I did end things,” He argues. “Why would I not have? This is actually so fucking ridiculous, I can’t-”
“Okay,” You say, sucking in through your teeth. “When exactly did you end things?”
“Babe, I swear to you, nothing is going on,” He says.
“That’s not what I asked.”
He pauses, looking up towards the ceiling, shrugging. “I—I dunno’, after the party.”
You hum disbelievingly. “Does she know that?”
“Yes, she definitely knows that.”
You gesture to his phone. “Then call her.”
He doesn’t move.
“Why is that so hard?” You ask. “Pick up the phone and call her.”
“You’re turning this into something it’s not,” He says. “I cannot believe-”
“Frank, shut the fuck up,” You say, holding your hands up. “You can either call her, or you can leave.”
“Really? Over this?” He asks, still deflecting. “I’m not calling her, babe, there’s no need.”
“I’m not asking you again.”
He doesn’t move at first, but then he reaches for his phone, pulling it off the charger. You stupidly believe that he’s actually going to call her back, but he slides it into his pocket instead.
“Fine,” He says, grabbing his hoodie off the floor as he goes, stopping in the doorway of your bedroom. “I don’t wanna’ be around you when you’re like this anyway.”
You nod, watching him close the door behind him, the pause before he actually walks off confirming that he wanted that to get a reaction out of you. You wait until you hear the front door close before letting yourself collapse, burying your face in the covers and crying until you can’t breathe.
December, 2015
You don’t see him until he’s already too close, leaving you unable to force your way through the sea of people fast enough to get away. Avoiding him has been relatively easy for the past six months, considering you’re a year ahead of him, meaning your classes don’t overlap. But here he is, somehow, waiting for you outside your lecture. His hand lands on your backpack, grabbing the loop at the top, shifting himself into place beside you.
You don’t look at him as you walk through the hall, practically elbowing people as you move, making him have to fight to keep up. He says your name, but you don’t stop.
“Can you just hang on for a minute?” He finally asks.
“No,” You say, pushing a door open, stepping out into the freezing cold. He doesn’t have any problem catching up now that there’s no one in his way, and he plants himself directly in your path, making you freeze. You try to go around him, but he sticks an arm out, gently latching onto you shoulder.
“You don’t have to say anything,” He says. “Just listen to me for a second.”
“Why?” You ask. “So you can lie to me?”
He exhales roughly, shaking his head. “No, so I can tell you the truth.”
You shrug, folding your arms over yourself, shivering. “Fine. Go.”
“Abby and I are done,” He says. You roll your eyes, trying to get away again, but he holds onto you. “Seriously, we’re fucking done, for real. I—I wanted to give it a real shot, you know, make it something that was worth losing you over, but that’s dumb. Nothing is ever worth losing you.”
“I’m glad you figured that out,” You say. “But that has nothing to do with me anymore.”
“What do you mean?” He asks. “It has everything to do with you.”
You sigh. “I have a train to catch, so, I should go.”
“Your train doesn’t come until six-fifty,” He argues. You go still, scoffing, the sound close to a laugh, but not quite.
“Don’t do that,” You say. “Don’t fucking memorize my schedule like that.”
“I…I didn’t,” He says, then he recalibrates. “I didn’t mean to. I see you take that train five days a week, it just…stuck.”
“Okay, whatever,” You say, shrugging your shoulders up to your ears, your nose tingling in the cold. You inhale sharply, momentarily forgetting that your lungs have been protesting their usual function for the past few days, resulting in you falling into a fit of coughs. He frowns when it surpasses ‘swallowed the wrong way’ and enters ‘I can’t fucking breathe’ territory, stepping a little closer.
“You okay?” He asks. You clear your throat as you straighten out, nodding quickly.
“I’m fine,” You say, but it’s clipped, and you dissolve into more rib-shattering coughs immediately after.
“That sounds like the exact opposite of fine,” He says. “You should sit down.”
The coughing subsides after a few more seconds, and you breathe in carefully, trying not to provoke your airway again.
“I’m good, it’s just the weather,” You lie. He almost believes you for a second, but then you stumble slightly, making him reach out, grabbing your hips to keep you steady. “I should really get home.”
“I don’t like the idea of you taking the train like this,” He says. “Not by yourself.”
You wave him off. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
“And yet I do anyways.”
Your walls splinter—he sees it on your face.
You realize that the meds you took this morning must be wearing off, because your fever now feels very real, and sweat starts to bead along your forehead and neck. Your vision blurs, forcing you to blink a few times, your ears ringing in protest from you still being upright.
“Come on, I’ll get you home.”
The drive back to your apartment is hazy, but you’re aware of the way Frank holds you as he helps you into the elevator and to your door. You fumble with your keys, dropping them onto the floor. He swoops down, picking them up and selecting the correct one, sliding it into place and unlocking it.
He follows you in, not taking his shoes off, telling himself that he just wants to make sure you get into bed safely. That goes out the window when you almost knock a lamp over trying to turn it on, movements clunky and disorganized. He sticks his hand out, catching it at the last second, carefully putting it back upright.
“Have you eaten anything?” He asks, watching you lower yourself onto the couch, cheeks hot and eyes closed.
“Not really,” You admit. “I haven’t been shopping in awhile, I’ve been surviving off of stale crackers.”
“Well, that just won’t do,” He says. “Let me help you get settled and then I’ll get you something to eat, okay?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” He says. “I want to, so, just…shut up and let me.”
You fall asleep on the couch as soon as you’re done eating, curling into him, resting your head on his chest. He hesitates at the contact, but then he tucks a blanket around you, holding you close.
He stays like that all night.
You’re not any better the next morning, in fact, your cough is exponentially worse.
“We should go to urgent care,” He says, aftering listening to you hack up a lung in the bathroom for nearly ten minutes. “You could have pneumonia.”
“I don’t have pneumonia,” You argue. “I just need to rest.”
“You slept for sixteen hours last night,” He counters. “Now you’re even worse.”
“It’s just because I haven’t taken anything yet,” You say, pulling the cabinet open and grabbing various bottles of medication.
“Prove it.”
You raise an eyebrow. “How?”
“Go to urgent care,” He explains. “They’ll tell me I’m wrong and then I’ll shut up.”
You huff, setting the meds down. “Fine. Let’s go.”
You’re back in his car two hours later, a pneumonia diagnosis on your chart and a bottle of antibiotics in your lap. You’re waiting for him to say ‘I told you so,’ but he stays quiet the entire drive back to your apartment, only speaking to check if you’re warm enough.
“You were right,” You finally say.
He hums. “Yeah, but you’ll be feeling better in no time.”
“You don’t want to…rub it in?” You ask.
“That I was right about you having pneumonia?” He asks. “No, I wish I had been wrong.”
“Me too,” You say. “This sucks.”
“Do you have anyone you can call?” He asks. “Could your mom come take care of you?”
You shake your head. “No, I’ll be fine on my own.”
“The doctor said someone should stay with you for a few days.”
“I heard,” You say. “It’ll be fine, Frank.”
He hesitates, debating the idea in his head before deciding to bite the bullet. “Let me stay for the rest of the day, make sure you don’t die.”
He expects resistance, but he doesn’t get any. You just shrug, eyes starting to feel heavy again as you lean back into the seat.
“Suit yourself.”
He doesn’t leave that night.
You spend the next three days together, him cooking, cleaning, and taking care of you while you suffer on the couch, wondering what you did to deserve whatever plague you caught. By the end of the third day you start feeling better, and you can actually get off the couch without any assistance, making him jump when he sees you come around the corner into the kitchen.
“Jesus,” He breathes. “What’re you doing up?”
You smile, gesturing to your legs. “I can walk again.”
He chuckles. “You never stopped being able to walk.”
“Felt like I did,” You counter. “I feel a lot better today.”
“Oh, good,” He says, but he can’t even hide the disappointment. You feeling better means he has to go, and he’s nowhere near ready for that. “I’m glad, peanut.”
“Thank you for everything,” You say.
“Yeah, anytime, seriously,” He says. “I guess I should get going, then.”
You look towards the window, shrugging. “It’s coming down pretty bad out there, I’d feel like an asshole if I made you drive in that.”
He follows your gaze, seeing the blizzard that’s starting outside. “It probably won’t last long.”
“So stay until it’s over.”
He tries to find any hint of insincerity in your eyes, but there isn’t any. Instead, he finds desire burning in your irises, the rest of your face completely innocent. He shakes his head, despite the voice screaming at him to jump at this opportunity.
“Okay, yeah, I’ll stay for a bit,” He says. “You should lay back down, though, wouldn’t want to overdo it.”
You nod. “Will you help me?”
“You just said your legs are working again,” He counters.
“They are,” You say. “That’s not what I want help with.”
He follows you back to the living room, watching you get back onto the couch, looking up at him with wide eyes.
“Can you hold me?” You ask, softly. His breathing stutters, some sort of affirmation stumbling from his lips. He sits beside you, opening his arms up, letting you lean into him. You don’t wait long before resting your hand over his, slowly pushing it down towards your thighs, towards the place you need him most.
“You’re sick, we shouldn’t,” He whispers. “You’re not thinking straight.”
“I don’t have a fever anymore,” You say, pressing your forehead to his for proof. “I want you to touch me, Frankie, please.”
You mentally thank his impulsivity when he slides his hand beneath your waistband. Your eyes rolls back as his fingers move in slow circles, drawing a whine out of you. He leans down, pressing his lips to your neck, gently peppering kisses across your skin.
“I’ve really missed you, baby,” He whispers. “And not just like this.”
You don’t say anything in response. You keep your eyes trained on your ceiling, focusing on how good he feels pressed against you. He kisses your collarbone, desperate for you to just look at him for a second.
“Baby?”
You hum.
“Could you look at me?”
You roll your hips into his hands, a soft moan slipping past your lips. “We can talk later.”
You never talk. You just slip back into old habits.
February, 2017
“My mom called me this morning,” You say, sitting across from him in the cafe you’ve been studying at for the past few hours. “Said her and your mom have basically started planning our wedding.”
Your tone is casual, anecdotal, as though it’s just a funny thing someone said that rolled off your back. Frank raises an eyebrow, smiling a little as he sets his pen down.
“Yeah?” He asks. “And where will we be getting married?”
You laugh. “I dunno’, I told her were weren’t even engaged yet and she was like ‘oh, I know, but you’ve found each other so many times and been through so much together’ or…whatever. Apparently it’s ‘written in the stars.’”
“She’s not wrong,” He says. “I mean, we’ve technically been together for a decade.”
“Big emphasis on technically,” You say, taking a sip of your coffee, completely unaware of how your words hit him. He tenses, picking his pen back up, spinning it around his fingers.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks. You set your coffee down, shrugging, missing the underlying seriousness in his tone.
“Well, we were on and off in high school, and we’ve spent nine months of the last two years broken up, so.”
In your mind, you’re providing context. To him, you’re highlighting the incontinuity that he hates himself for creating.
“Okay,” He says, and you finally see the pain beneath his expression. You sit up a little straighter, reaching your hand across the table, interlacing your fingers with his.
“I didn’t mean it like a bad thing,” You say. “But, I mean, it’s not as easy as ‘we’ve been together for a decade’ in my mind.”
He nods, his hand loose in your grip, not holding yours back. You frown, squeezing it gently, but he keeps it limp.
“Frank,” You say. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t think about it like that,” He says. “What do you say when people ask how long we’ve been together?”
You shrug. “I usually just say since high school.”
“But you don’t actually believe that.”
“Well, it’s objectively not true,” You argue, starting to get defensive, no idea why he’s fighting you so hard on this. “But they don’t need to know all the…nuance, or whatever.”
“The nuance being me being a drug addict?” He asks.
You flinch, taking an intentionally deep breath before responding. “That’s part of it, yeah. Do we have to have this conversation right now?”
“Oh, sorry, am I embarrassing you?” He asks, everything about the sentence hitting you the wrong way. It’s too loud, too brazen, too disproportionate for the circumstance. You’re stunned for a second.
“No,” You say. “That’s not what I said.”
You’re trying to de-escalate, but he doesn’t take the hint.
“You’re literally telling me to shut up about it,” He counters, leaning away from you, gesturing to the people around you. The tables in the immediate vicinity have averted their eyes, doing their best to ignore whatever the fuck is going on.
Your heart skips. Something is definitely wrong—this isn’t him.
“Hey, you’re freaking people out,” You say, as gently as you can, taking his hand in yours again and rubbing your thumb along his knuckles. “Can you just…lower your voice for a second?”
“Why?” He asks. “So people can’t hear how ashamed of me you are?”
“Okay, what is going on with you right now?” You ask, starting to pack your belongings up, desperate to get out of the coffee shop before he can say much else. “You’re—I don’t know what this is.”
“Nothing’s going on with me,” He snaps. “I’m just saying what you won’t.”
“You’re basically yelling at me in public,” You correct. “We should go, talk about this at home.”
“Right,” He says, not moving. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your image.”
You slide your laptop into your bag, zipping it up and setting it on the bench beside you. “You don’t have to come with me, but I’m not doing this here.”
He doesn’t come home that night, but he’s back in the apartment when you get home from classes the next day, all the lights off and him wrapped in a blanket on the couch. You jump when you notice him, gasping and clutching your chest. He lifts his head slowly, face dull and pale, his eyes looking right through you.
“Hey,” You say, dropping your things and taking your shoes off, kneeling in front of him. You set your hands on his cheek and forehead, frowning. “Are you sick? What’s wrong?”
You’re already back up by the time he processes the question, softly padding into the bathroom, running water over a washcloth. You come back out to the living room, looping it behind his neck, brushing a few strands of hair behind his ears. He grimaces, making you stop immediately.
“Sorry, sorry, is it too cold?” You ask, going to move the cloth, but he grabs your wrist.
“No, it’s not that,” He says, voice quiet and rough. He clears his throat, then he says your name.
“What?” You say. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sick,” He says. “I—I’m just coming down.”
You don’t register the meaning behind that for a few moments, and he watches your face change as understanding sinks in. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, removing your wrist from his grasp, setting your hands on top of his thighs.
“Okay,” You say. No judgement, no accusation, no disbelief. “Do you need anything?”
The immediate acceptance unravels his thoughts.
Maybe he should’ve started telling you the truth a long time ago.
“Uh—uhm, no,” He says. “I’m okay, it’ll pass.”
“You look awful,” You say. “When’s the last time you slept?”
He sighs. “I dunno’.”
His body hurts so badly he doesn’t hear the distance in your voice.
“You should probably do that,” You say, pushing yourself back on your heels, not touching him anymore. “I need to get changed, I have a shift in an hour.”
“Wait, wait, you’re going to work?” He asks.
“Yeah,” You say, standing up now, brushing your hands over your thighs. “Someone called out, I offered to take the shift.”
You wait a moment before continuing, debating how much to tell him.
“I honestly didn’t think you’d be back yet,” You admit. “I didn’t want to be home by myself all night.”
He winces. “Right, yeah, fair enough.”
“I ordered in last night, there’s leftovers in the fridge,” You continue. “I got that, uh, that pasta you like.”
His thoughts are incomprehensible, but he knows he has to apologize. “I’m sorry you were alone yesterday.”
You nod. “I appreciate that.”
“I love you,” He says. “More than anything.”
His vision is too blurry to see the tears gathering in your eyes.
“I love you too, Frankie,” You say, leaning over, pressing a soft kiss to his hairline. You disappear into the bedroom before the tears actually fall, changing into your black slacks and button down that you always wear to the restaurant you’ve been working at for years. You dry your face, putting on some makeup to hide any evidence of the day you’ve had, then you tiptoe past the living room to the front door, slipping out without a sound.
You spend the next two days in a stupor, mindlessly dragging yourself to class, then home, then work, all while making sure Frank doesn’t die on the couch. You go through the motions of taking care of him—making him food, forcing him to hydrate, helping him take showers. You don’t actually know when you made the decision to leave, if you decided the second he admitted to relapsing or if it came a little while after, but your mind is made up by the time he’s lucid again.
“We should talk about…what happened,” You say, not taking a seat on the couch, simply standing off to the side with your arms crossed over your chest. He nods.
“We should,” He agrees. “I’m really, really sorry, peanut. It was just the once, one of my friends had some on him, and I just…I caved. I wished I could take it back the second I swallowed it.”
“Yeah, I believe that,” You say. “But that’s not—that’s not it.”
“What is, then?”
“I—I was really mad at you for relapsing,” You start. “And I hated every second of helping you through the comedown.”
“Of course, that’s totally fair-”
“I want to take care of people for a living,” You interrupt. “I don’t…I can’t be with someone who makes me hate that. I can’t let myself be apathetic.”
He stops breathing at the implication of what you’re saying.
“I don’t like the version of me that I saw for the last two days,” You continue. “And I don’t want to be put in that position again.”
“Then I’ll never put you in it again,” He promises.
“That’s not a guarantee you can make,” You counter. “And…if your track record is anything to go by, you will do it again.”
“I go longer and longer between relapses every time,” He says. “I haven’t used in almost two years.”
“And I’m really fucking proud of you, Frank,” You say. “But I’ve put in too much work to get to where I am, I’m not willing to risk it.”
“Baby-”
“It’s not up for debate,” You say. “I…I would really like to be your friend, if you’re ever ready for that. I think that might suit us better.”
His eyes are glassy with tears. “Yeah, uh—okay. I’ll get back to you on that.”
Him and his belongings are gone by the time you get back from work that night.
August, 2019
You can’t stop looking at the picture, always finding your way back to it after you manage to swipe away, re-reading the caption and the comments until your vision blurs.
It’s a picture of Frank holding a chip in his hand, beaming at the camera so wide it almost looks painful, posted by Abby with the caption ‘one year sober!!! so proud of you :)’.
There’s almost a hundred comments, all variations of congratulations, praising him for his hard work. You force yourself to double-tap the photo, even liking a few comments, trying to come across as supportive and mostly nonchalant.
“Is that Frank?”
You nod, tilting your phone towards your boyfriend, letting him look at the picture.
“Good for him,” He says. “He’s really put in the work.”
“Yeah, definitely,” You say. “I’m glad he’s doing better.”
“You talked to him recently?” He asks, and you shake your head, rolling over and getting out of bed.
“No, not for awhile,” You say, making sure he can’t see your face when you say the words, fearing he’ll be able to see right through you. “I haven’t even seen him since before my graduation.”
It’s a lie—you’ve seen him so many times you’ve lost count, each time dissolving into familiarity and collapsed boundaries, him usually on top of you, coaxing out moans and whines in the way that only he can. He leaves at the end of the night, going back home to Abby, and you end up alone in the same apartment you got together in undergrad, unable to let it go.
“That was over a year ago,” He says. “You should give him a call, I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”
“Yeah, maybe I will,” You say, already halfway in the bathroom, reaching over and turning the shower on.
You close the door before climbing in, letting the hot water run over your sore muscles, your back particularly tight after being in a precarious position for the majority of a twelve-hour surgery yesterday.
Your mind drifts to Frank as your hands trail down your body, one of them hovering between your thighs. You can practically hear him saying your name, breath feathering over your neck, ramming into you-
“Jesus,” You mutter, snapping out of it and bringing your hand back up, grabbing the bottle of bodywash off the shelf.
You pull a fresh pair of scrubs on once you’re out of the shower and completely dry, checking your phone to make sure you still have time to grab something to eat before you get to the hospital. You see Frank’s contact name on the screen, and you glance over your shoulder before opening the text.
Can I come over tonight? I have news!
You wonder if it’s about him hitting one year sober, but you decide quickly that it’s unlikely to be that. You know that it isn’t true, and he knows that you know. He’s done an incredible job at keeping it from Abby and his friends, instead coming to you every time he slips up again, which is exactly how you found yourself in this situation in the first place.
He had taken you up on your offer to be friends a few months after your most recent break-up, and at first that’s all it was. Then, he showed up at your doorstep higher than you’ve ever seen him, begging you to let him crash on your couch until he was sober again. You had agreed, but you hadn’t taken care of him the way you did the last time he rode a high out in your living room. You just moved around him, coming and going, leaving food and gatorade in the fridge.
He stayed sober for seven months after that before he used again, and he ended up in the exact same place, needing somewhere to stay so Abby didn’t find out.
After that your friendship…shifted.
Late nights, wandering hands, bad decisions. Forcing your respective partners out of your heads for a few hours, finding comfort in the person who knows every piece of you, convincing yourselves that each time will be the last.
You text back.
At the hospital until eight, swing by after?
The knock startles you despite the fact that you’re expecting it. Frank’s shoulders are scrunched up to his ears, hands in his pockets when you pull the door open, a wide grin on his face.
“Hey,” He greets. You step to the side, letting him in, just like you do every time. “You look nice.”
“I haven’t slept in three days,” You counter. He grimaces, sliding his shoes and jacket off.
“Back to back call shifts?” He asks.
“Yeah, fuck, it’s been brutal,” You say. “I have to be back at the hospital in-”
You pause, checking the time on your phone, whining. “-six hours.”
“Shit,” He says. “Seems like I’ve got a lot to look forward to.”
“You absolutely do,” You say, smiling. “What did you wanna’ tell me?”
He hums, pulling you in for a hug, rocking you back and forth. You relax into his touch despite the guilt that builds inside of you, the same guilt that’s been slowly gnawing away at your sense of self for the last two years.
“It can wait a bit,” He mumbles, tilting your chin towards him. “I’ve missed you.”
He breaks the silence once you’re done, laying beside eachother, chests heaving with deep breaths.
“Abby’s pregnant.”
You go completely still—like a child tucked away in bed who hears a noise from the hallway, convinced that whatever horrors lay outside won’t be able to see them if they don’t move a muscle.
The words feel sharp, not quite tearing your chest open, but slicing the skin over your collarbone, leaving you breathless. If you listen close enough you can almost hear them echoing around the room, distant, yet earth-shattering. His tone is so gentle, like he believes there’s a reality where both of you make it out of this alive.
But you know better.
One of you gives up here, and you’re absolutely certain it’s going to be you.
There’s a crack running along the edge of the ceiling that you’ve never noticed, inching towards the slowly spinning ceiling fan that does little to protect you from the dry, prickling heat under your skin. It runs down the wall too, splitting the uneven paint that you and Frank rolled on six years ago, the colour now dulled into something that barely resembles the sample you picked the day you moved in.
You can see yourself taping it up on the wall, letting it sit there for days, examining the way it changed under different lights, as if you could account for the ruthlessness of shadows and time. The way you convinced yourself that if you stared at something for long enough you’d be able to see into the future, knowing exactly how it would look ten years down the line.
You did the same for Frank, committing things to memory, even if they seemed mundane. His mouth tilting to the left when he smiles, the way he laughs when it’s just the two of you, the rhythm you hear every time you lay your head on his chest. The tapping of his fingers on your thigh when you stay up late watching TV, the pitch of his voice in the morning, the notes he used to leave for you on the bathroom mirror.
The ordinary used to feel like proof. That you were solid, that he was there, that he’d always be there. Now, after all this time, it feels like something that was only believable if you didn’t look too hard.
You need to say something soon—the silence has dragged on too long already.
You flash through all the things you’ve put up with over the past ten years, all the morals you’ve cast aside just to have some sliver of the man who lays beside you. He stares straight ahead, gaze locked on your ceiling, fingers drumming against his stomach.
Every time you lied to your partner about who you were texting, then calling, then seeing.
The nights Abby texted you, asking if you knew where Frank was, when you’d tell her that he was still at the library when he was actually in bed with you.
Countless hours you’ve spent convincing yourself that you’re not a bad person—you’re just hopefully, sickeningly, disturbingly in love. Hoping that each infraction might bring you closer to what you actually want. Calling things ‘complicated’ as if that makes it any better.
But it hasn’t. And it won’t.
You’re just a terrible person who has absolutely nothing to show for it.
You turn slightly, looking at him instead of the crack.
“Are you serious?” You ask, despite knowing the answer.
“Yeah,” He says. “Eight weeks.”
“Oh,” You say, sitting up slowly, reaching for your shirt off the floor and yanking it over your head. “That’s—that’s good. It’s good, right?”
Frank blinks a few times, confusion passing over his features as he sits up, too.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s good,” He agrees. “She’s pretty psyched.”
You nod, actually standing up now, slipping into your shorts and reaching back to smooth your hair down. You don’t stop moving, because you know that you won’t surrender if you stay still for too long.
“Okay,” You say, looking around the room as though you might snap out of this soon. Like this isn’t real. “So…this is done.”
Frank says your name, drawing it out as though you’re being unreasonable.
“No, Frank, fucking-”
You cut yourself off, grimacing when a small whimper follows the truncated sentence. Frank copies your actions, pulling his sweatpants up and walking over to your side of the bed, setting a hand on your shoulder.
“It doesn’t have to be,” He says, softly. You shake your head, swallowing back tears.
“You’re having a baby,” You counter, stepping away from him, hands raised to keep him from touching you again. He straightens, dropping his arms to his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists in an effort to get his heart to slow down. “She’s…Abby’s pregnant.”
“Yeah, no, I know,” He says, his thoughts completely incoherent. “But she has no idea about this, and-”
“That’s the problem,” You interrupt. “You—you’re about to have a baby and you’re talking about how she doesn’t know that you’ve been fucking me since the day you met her.”
Frank steps back too, crossing his arms over his chest, that all-too-familiar defensiveness starting to prickle through his skin.
“So, what?” He asks. “You have some kind of moral objection to this suddenly? You never had an issue with infidelity before—yours or mine.”
“You think I never had a problem with this?”
“Certainly didn’t seem like it.”
Your jaw tightens, tears hot in your throat and eyes, dizziness forcing you to reach back until you feel the nightstand beneath your palm.
“You always knew exactly what this was to me,” You say. “I told you, out on that fucking balcony, that this was about how much I loved you.”
“And you’re telling me it still is, huh?” He asks. “All this sneaking around has been out of love?”
It’s not exactly anger, something more like refusal. The ceiling fan keeps spinning, clicking each time it finds the same spot, the pull string waving back and forth. You wonder if the crack would be farther down on the wall if you turned to look.
“Has it not been for you?”
Your voice is practically nothing.
“I haven’t heard you tell me you love me in years,” You add, still quiet, voice catching on the last word. “But I keep showing up because I don’t know what I’ll do if I never hear you say it again.”
His heart practically stops.
“Look at me,” He says, closing the gap between you. You don’t, eyes trained on the floor in front of you, hands going numb from how tight you’re gripping the edge of the nightstand. His tone strays from anger, edging into something much kinder. “I love you.”
Your bottom lip actually wobbles.
“I love you with everything that I have,” He continues. “I wouldn’t—I couldn’t keep doing this to Abby if I didn’t love you.”
You can’t swallow anymore, your throat wound too tight.
“I’m not saying that because I think it’ll fix things,” He adds. “I’m saying that because it’s true, and I cannot keep lying to you.”
“But you do,” You say. “You keep lying.”
“I’m not lying right now,” He insists.
You nod. “I know.”
The stillness is unbearable.
“Then what do you want from me?” He asks, a hint of anger returning along with an uncontrolled urgency, one he knows well. “What do I have to do here? Just tell me, and—”
He cuts himself off, exhaling abruptly through his nose, running a hand through his hair. A few pieces stick upwards, drawing your gaze to them, watching as they slowly fall back against his head.
“I’m not lying to you anymore, I can’t keep doing that, and I don’t want to keep doing that,” He says. “So just tell me.”
A beat.
“Tell me what you need from me,” He finishes. “And I’ll do it.”
You can see exactly what he doesn’t want you to.
It’s not coming from a place of love, it’s coming from a place of desperation.
You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and shaking your head. “Build a time machine.”
“I can’t do that, baby,” He says, bouncing on his feet. “But I fucking would if I could.”
“Yeah,” You say. “I would too.”
He watches you carefully, waiting anxiously for a solution he can execute. You cross your arms over your chest, bracing yourself for the words you’re about to say.
“You know what you can do?” You ask.
He shakes his head. “No, tell me. Please.”
“You can get clean,” You say, hugging yourself, ignoring the panic that’s simmering beneath the surface. “For Abby.”
You pause.
“For your kid.”
You don’t give him a chance to retaliate.
“Maybe this’ll finally be enough to snap you out of it,” You add. “Because I was never enough, Abby was never enough, nothing has ever been enough for you to get your shit together.”
Your tone is so final he feels like there’s nothing he can say to change your mind.
“I really tried,” He says. “After you left.”
“No, you didn’t,” You say, finally dipping into anger yourself. “You did just enough to string me along, made me look like a fucking idiot every time I actually believed you were clean.”
“I wanted to, I swear,” He says. “It didn’t have anything to do with you, I just, I couldn’t kick it-”
“Like me?” You ask. “I’m clearly just another bad habit you can’t quite seem to shake.”
He purses his lips, clenching his jaw, scoffing. He drags a hand down his face, trying to ignore the way your words shatter against his cheekbone like glass. “That’s a low blow.”
“That’s why this all started, right?” You say. “Because you couldn’t get clean.”
“I tried!” He yells, slamming his hand against the bedframe, the sound of his palm connecting with the wood echoing in your bedroom. “You are the one who left me!”
“Because you were high all the fucking time!” You yell back, voice wavering now, hands thrown out in frustration.
He takes a deep breath, his eyes closing for a second while he gets himself together, feeling you slipping through his fingers more with each word that he says.
“No, I know that, and I’m sorry,” He says.
“Don’t be sorry for me,” You argue. “Be sorry for yourself. And don’t make your kid spend their whole life wondering why they weren’t enough for their dad to stop using.”
You squint a touch, leaning towards him.
“You can do that, right?”
He takes a moment before answering.
“I really fucking hope so.”
There’s no false confidence—just honesty in a way you haven’t seen in years. Your face breaks before you can stop it, breath catching as you twist away from him, tears trickling down your cheeks. You try to inhale, to avoid what you know is coming, but it’s no use. A sob rattles inside your skull before you can stop it, pressing a hand against your mouth to at least muffle the sound.
“I-”
He stops himself when another cry tumbles out of your lungs, his own chest constricting. He reaches for you, arms finding their way around your waist and chin resting on your shoulder.
“Hey,” He murmurs. You turn around, curling into him, tucking your head against him. He hesitates, having expected you to push him away, but you don’t.
“I just want you to be okay,” You say, words slightly incoherent. “To be happy.”
“I know, peanut,” He says. “I’m so sorry.”
Your breathing picks up, the occasional sobs shifting to full-blown crying, the kind that makes it impossible to steady yourself, no matter how hard you try. His hand moves up and down your spine, his lips by your ear, muttering reassurances that you can’t quite hear.
You become aware of everything all at once.
His arms around your shoulders, the pressure of his hand between your shoulder blades, the sound of his breathing.
You’re memorizing him, fiercely clinging to something you know hasn’t been yours in a long time—something that won’t ever be yours again.
“I don’t wanna’ lose you,” He says, softly, rocking you slightly in his arms. You shake your head, leaning back and wiping your face off.
“I’m not gonna’ do that to a kid,” You whisper, sniffling. “I’m not gonna’ be the reason you don’t show up for them.”
“You won’t be,” He insists. “Don’t…don’t think of it like that, alright? That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” You ask, still quiet.
“It’s—it’s us,” He insists.
“Us,” You repeat. “And what even are we anymore?”
He raises his hands, gesturing vaguely, eyes searching yours for anything he can use.
“Everything,” He says. “It’s been everything.”
“I think—I think we’re just pathetic,” You say, spitting the words out before you can taste the poison on them. “Two people who meant something to each other a long fucking time ago who can’t admit that it doesn’t mean anything anymore.”
“It does-”
“Oh my god, what is it gonna’ take?” You ask, exasperated, throwing your hands up. “What’s not clicking for you?”
You push yourself away, leaving him with his hands raised, looking odd now that they’re not holding anything.
“There is no coming back from this,” You continue. “We’re…we’re fucking done. For real.”
“Baby, come on, just listen-”
“No, you listen,” You say, grabbing his shirt off the bed and throwing it against his bare chest. “We are never gonna’ see each other again. Not like this.”
You step around him, walking out into the living room, him following you as he tugs his shirt back on.
“What do you mean ‘not like this’?” He asks, stumbling to keep up. You throw his jacket and keys towards him, opening your front door, practically parading him out of your apartment.
“Figure it out, Frank.”
September, 2024
You clip your badge to the front of your black scrubs, running your hands over your hair and looping your stethoscope around your neck. You breathe out through your mouth before shutting the locker, making sure you have the small slip of paper detailing the combination in the back of your phone case before pushing it fully closed.
Your eyes scan the department until you spot an older man in a navy blue zip-up, somehow certain that that’s exactly who you’re supposed to be looking for. You make your way over to him, planting yourself in his field of view, smiling.
“Hi, Dr. Robinavitch?” You ask. He nods, returning your smile, but it doesn’t quite hit his eyes. You stick your hand out, introducing yourself, putting ‘doctor’ before your first and last name. “I’m the new orthopedic trauma fellow, I’ll be hanging out down here for the next four weeks.”
“Ah, yes, right,” He says. “Everyone calls me Robby. Welcome, we’re happy to have you.”
“I’m happy to be here,” You say. “Where do you need me?”
“Uhm, just stay here for one second,” He says, then he disappears, leaving you alone by the central desk. You nod to yourself, still re-adjusting to the constant introductions that come with working at a new hospital.
People start gathering around the desk, and Robby returns a few minutes later, addressing the group. You put your attention on him, subconsciously adjusting your badge and stethoscope again.
“As you can see, we have some new faces with us this morning,” He says, glancing past you, waving a group of younger students over. He gestures to you first, repeating your first and last name. “She’s an ortho trauma fellow, she’ll be your first point of contact for any ortho cases.”
You give a small wave, and Robby moves on with the rest of the introductions. He points out the board, explains how things move, and makes sure all of you know exactly who Dana is before continuing.
“Your senior residents are Dr. Collins,” He says, gesturing to a woman wearing a red fleece over her scrubs. “And Dr. Langdon. You report to them, they report to-”
Your ears start to ring, adrenaline flooding your veins and hammering in your skull as you turn around, praying that you misheard him, or that it’s somehow not who you think it is.
His hair is a little shorter than it was five years ago, but it’s undeniably him, his blue eyes already looking at you. His jaw is tight, brows raised and eyes wide with disbelief. You let your gaze skitter over him, not daring to stop for too long, using every ounce of strength you have to keep your face neutral.
John Logan x reader where she’s a singer maybe even in Justin’s bands and either writes a song above having feelings for Logan which makes him finally make his move or maybe something went wrong in their relationship and it’s a break up/doing better type song and he realises what a mistake he made
Ask and you shall receive 🫶 I really hope you enjoy this! I was a bit torn on which direction to go for this fic so naturally I tried a lil bit of angst for the first time. Since I liked the prompt so much I will also be posting a sweet fluffy version of this.
Summary: After a painful breakup caused by his cheating and insecurities, Logan is forced to face the music—literally.
Pairing: John Logan x Badass Ex!Reader
Warnings: Infidelity / Cheating (I love Logan but there had to be a wedge. Nothing is too explicit about the actual situation) *Edit* Sorry for the faux pas I did label this x Reader and proceed to give a full physical description 😬 I am new to this.
Notes: I don’t own the lyrics. They are from a song called I Hope by Gabby Barrett. If anyone wants to see a part 2 lmk!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The air inside Malone’s was thick with the scent of stale beer, hot wings, and pure, unfiltered anticipation. The diner was packed to the rafters, a sea of Briar U students buzzing with energy.
In the center booth, the Briar hockey royalty and their girls were squeezed together. Garrett had his arm around Hannah, Dean was whispering something that made Allie giggle, Tucker and Sabrina were sharing a basket of fries, and Jules sat right next to their brother, Logan.
They were all there for one reason: you.
Even though you and Logan had crashed and burned a few months ago, you were still the undisputed queen of their friend group. No one was taking sides, especially not when you were making your grand debut as the new frontwoman for Justin’s band, After Hours.
"Man, I hope she doesn't freeze up," Garrett muttered, taking a sip of his beer. "Malone’s is packed tonight."
"Please," Jules snorted, rolling their eyes. "Y/N won’t freeze. She commands."
Logan didn’t say a word. He just stared at the empty stage, his knuckles white around his pint of beer. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He hadn’t seen you in weeks, and the withdrawal was eating him alive.
As if on cue, the stage lights shifted to a sultry, deep crimson. Justin gave a count-in on the drums, the bass kicked in with a heavy, driving rhythm, and Y/N stepped out onto the platform.
A collective gasp, followed by an immediate wave of hooting and hollering, rippled through Malone’s.
You looked absolutely lethal. Your sun-kissed tan skin practically glowed under the stage lights, contrasting sharply with your piercing eyes. Your long, wavy hair tumbled down your shoulders in a wild, rock 'n' roll mane. You wore low-slung, distressed denim that hugged your curves perfectly, paired with a black, midriff-baring crop top. Every time you moved, the silver of you belly piercing flashed, alongside a glimpse of a heart-shaped tattoo with the initials JL inside it—a permanent reminder of what used to be. The black, intricate ink of your arm tattoos wrapped down your skin as you gripped the microphone stand.
Logan’s breath hitched in his throat. He couldn't take his eyes off you. You were a siren. You were beautiful. Sexy. Dangerous.
You gripped the microphone stand, tilted your head, and flashed that disarming, brilliant smile that used to be his entire world. But as your icy-blue eyes swept the crowd and locked dead-center onto Logan’s booth, that smile turned into something sharp.
"Hey, everyone," your sultry voice echoed through the speakers, holding the room hostage.
"Before we get started, I want to dedicate this debut song to a very special someone," you said softly, your smile turning sweet. "The guy who stole my heart."
In the booth, Dean nudged Logan’s shoulder. "Bro, maybe she’s making amends," he whispered. A collective "Awww" rippled through the unsuspecting crowd.
You paused, clearing your throat, and your smile turned delightfully wicked. "...and promptly shattered it into a million pieces."
The bar erupted. “Oooooh!” echoed from every corner, followed by hollering, and whistling.
"Oh shit," Garrett muttered, instantly sliding lower in his seat.
Hannah turned a slow, pointed glare toward Logan. "Well. Here we go."
Tucker’s jaw dropped, and Sabrina let out a low whistle. Logan felt the blood drain from his face.
The guitars kicked in with a twangy, vengeful rock edge. You didn't just sing; you performed. You swayed your hips to the heavy beat, practically grinding against the mic stand, dropping low to the stage in a seductive, calculated move that had half the guys in the audience drooling. But your eyes never left Logan’s.
I, I hope she makes you smile
The way you made me smile on the other end of a phone
In the middle of a highway driving alone
Logan felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck. The lyric hit him like a physical blow.
Oh baby, I, I hope you hear a song
That makes you sing along and gets you thinking 'bout her
Then the last several miles turn into a blur, yeah
The crowd sways as you build up to the chorus, your voice velvety but laced with a dangerous edge. You keep your icy eyes locked directly onto Logan, hips swaying slowly to the beat, completely mesmerizing the room.
I hope you're both feelin' sparks by the end of the drive...
In the booth, Logan’s breath catches. The room around him seems to vanish. The lyric slams into his chest, triggering the memory of that suffocating, screaming match you two had in his car. A massive fight born of his own stupid insecurities that ended with him slamming the door and driving straight into the arms of someone else.
I hope you know she's the one by the end of the night...
Logan quietly curses, his collar suddenly feeling way too tight. He remembers the blur of that same night. A random puck bunny. A mistake fueled by cheap alcohol and a desperate, cowardly need to numb the pain. He didn't even remember her name the next morning, but the guilt had burned a permanent hole in his gut.
I hope you never ever felt more free...
You belt the line, dancing without a care in the world, your movements pure, unapologetic confidence. Logan swallows hard, shrinking slightly into the vinyl seat. That had been his pathetic excuse, hadn't it? “I just feel caged, Y/N. I need some freedom.” It was a lie. The truth was, he had never loved anyone the way he loved you, and that absolute, consuming devotion had terrified him beyond anything he’d ever faced. So, he panicked and blew his life up.
Tell your friends that you're so happy...
You offer the crowd a dazzling, gorgeous smile that doesn't reach your eyes. Garrett and Dean glance at each other, before subtly checking Logan’s reaction. Logan feels his face burning. He remembers sitting locker room after the breakup, putting on a brave face, casually telling the guys, “Yeah, we’re done, but it’s fine. Seriously, you guys should still hang out with her. I'm happy, I'm moving on.” He had been dying inside.
I hope she comes along and wrecks every one of your plans...
Your gaze hardens, just a fraction. Logan winces. He’s tried to talk to you a dozen times since the breakup, desperately wanting to beg for you back, but that same puck bunny keeps lingering around him at the worst possible moments—at the rinks, at parties—and he knows you’ve noticed every single time. It was ruining any chance he had to fix this.
I hope you spend your last dime to put a rock on her hand...
A phantom weight settles in Logan’s jacket pocket. His throat goes completely dry. You don't even know that before the fight, he had been taking extra shifts, budgeting his money, and secretly looking at jewelers. He hadn't wanted freedom. He had been planning to buy you a ring. He wanted to propose.
I hope she's wilder than your wildest dreams / She's everything you're ever gonna need...
The band swelled, building up to a massive, explosive crescendo. The entire bar was on their feet, jumping and screaming along. You were absolutely mesmerizing, a goddess under the lights. Logan was completely transfixed, mortified, and drowning in a tidal wave of regret.
On stage, your icy-blue eyes flashed with a dangerous, thrilling spark. You dropped low one more time, your hips swaying to the heavy bass, before again locking eyes with Logan for the final, killing blow of the chorus.
And then I hope she cheats...
The band drops out for a split second of dramatic silence, leaving your voice echoing raw and powerful through Malone's.
...Like you did on me.
The final chord crashed. As you hit the final, killer note of the chorus, you made sure to hold Logan’s panicked eyes the entire time. The crowd erupted into absolute, deafening cheers for the sheer audacity and talent, completely oblivious to the personal warfare that just took place.
Then, with the practiced ease of a true rockstar, you press your hand to your puckered lips and blow Logan a sweet, devastating kiss. But as your hand moves away from your mouth, you smoothly flip your middle finger, maintaining that gorgeous, blinding smile.
Directly. At. Him.
You turned on your heel, your long hair whipping through the air, and walked off the stage like a total badass.
Inside the booth, the silence was deafening.
Logan slowly shrank down into the vinyl seat, his face burning with a mixture of shame and heartache. With a heavy thud, he let his forehead bang directly onto the sticky wooden table, a miserable groan escaping his throat.
"Bro," Dean muttered, wincing. "That was savage. Accurate, but savage."
"Total carnage," Garrett agreed, shaking his head.
From across the table, the girls were giving Logan absolute daggers. Even though they had promised to keep the peace, there was no hiding their loyalty tonight.
"She’s entirely right, you know," Sabrina said, her voice dripping with ice. "You royally screwed up, Logan."
"We love you, Logan, but you devastated her," Allie added, crossing her arms. "She cried on my couch for three weeks straight. You earned every single lyric of that song."
Hannah leaned forward, ensuring Logan could hear her over the roaring applause you were receiving. "If you think a pretty face and a stupid excuse justifies what you did to our best friend, you’ve got another thing coming. You broke her heart."
Jules turned in the booth, looking down at their brother’s defeated, slumped form. With a brutal, sibling lack of sympathy, Jules patted Logan roughly on the back. "Well, bro. You officially fumbled the best thing that ever happened to you."
"Yeah, man," Garrett muttered, shaking his head. "You really screwed the pooch on that one."
"Total idiocy," Tucker chimes in, shaking his head while Sabrina nods in agreement. "You're a dead man walking. She looks better than ever, too. Bad choices, Logan. Bad choices."
Logan let out a muffled, pathetic groan of total sadness and defeat against the table. The weight of his mistakes was crushing him, exacerbated by the fact that you looked like an absolute, untouchable goddess up on that stage—completely out of his reach.
But then, as the applause for your band faded and the house music started playing, something shifted inside him. The despair slowly gave way to a desperate, fiery resolve. He didn't care if you hated him right now. He didn't care if you had just humiliated him in front of basically the entire university.
Logan lifted his head from the table, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with sudden determination as he looked toward the backstage doors.
"I don't care," Logan muttered, his voice thick but fiercely determined. "I don't care if she hates me right now. I'm winning her back. I'll do whatever it takes."
synopsis : seeing you after being away from each for so long made him realize he shouldn’t have let you go in the first place.
cw : house party scene, mentions of alcohol & weed, cursing, usage of n word. unchecked lol.
unfortunately your best friend dragged you out to a party you didn't wanna be at. like, of all the parties in the city, it had to be where he was staying?
"nai, deadass, ion know how i let you convince me into going. i don't wanna see that boy," you sighed, arms crossed as you stood outside the house.
the bass was already rattling the windows, and you could see bodies moving through the curtains. this was a mistake.
your bestfriend nai rolled her eyes "bitch, you've been rotting in that house all damn year. like, i love you, but you need to touch grass. have some fun for once."
she grabbed your wrist, tugging you toward the door with a grin that said she wasn't taking no for an answer.
you tried to plant your feet, but nai was stronger than she looked.
"fun? nai, i called him out his name, now you got me walking into somewhere he could potentially be at like it’s normal?"
"girl, that was months ago. he probably don't even remember—"
"he remember."
"well, then he can stay mad! you look too good to be worried about him anyway." she looked you up and down, nodding approvingly at your outfit.
"besides, if he wanna act up, we can leave. but you not finna spend another night laid up in your bed doing nothing. period."
you sucked your teeth but didn't argue further. she had a point. and maybe— getting out would do you some good. even if it meant risking an awkward run-in with your ex.
the second y'all stepped through the door, the music was loud. some sexy redd track that had everybody moving, the room was packed shoulder to shoulder. red solo cups everywhere, & the unmistakable scent of weed smacked you dead in the face.
nai immediately locked eyes with some lightskin dude leaning against the wall, and you already knew what time it was.
"nai—"
"girl, i'll be right back! just go get a drink, mingle a lil bit. you'll be fine!" she was already halfway across the room before you could protest, leaving you standing there like a lost puppy.
well, damn.
you made your way to the kitchen, weaving through people who were way too drunk and way too close. the counter was lined with bottles— henny, casamigos, pink whitney, some cheap vodka that nobody was touching. you grabbed a cup and poured yourself whatever was closest, not even caring at this point.
the warm liquor burned its way down your throat, settling heavy in your chest. you pulled out your phone, already calculating how long you had to stay before it was socially acceptable to dip. thirty minutes? an hour? you were leaning toward twenty.
you stood off to the side, back against the wall, observing the chaos.
you kept your head down, scrolling through your phone like you were busy, praying nobody took it as an invitation to come talk to you. ready to get in your pajamas and go the fuck to bed.
but god wasn't on your side tonight.
"ain't expect to see yo pretty ass here."
that voice. the one you dreaded hearing.
deep. smooth. familiar in a way that made your stomach drop. you didn't even have to look up to know who it was, you froze, cup halfway to your lips.
there he was.
your ex. the one you'd cussed out in a parking lot three months ago. the one you swore you'd never speak to again. standing right in front of you with that same cocky smirk, gold chain catching the light.
he looked good. too good. and he knew it.
"and what do you want jermajesty?" you shot back, trying to sound unbothered even though your pulse was doing backflips. you took another sip of your drink, using it as a shield.
he laughed, low and easy, "chill mama, saw you over here by yourself.”
“just checkin on you”
you rolled your eyes. "don't call me mama. you don’t need to check up on me. i’m waitin for my homegirl."
"mann, you still friends with that hoe? she ain’t no good"
his eyes dragged over you slowly, taking in your outfit, your hair, everything. "you look good though. real good."
you hated how your body reacted to that. hated the way your skin heated up under his gaze. hated that after all this time, he still had that effect on you.
"don't start," you muttered, looking away.
"start what? i'm just saying." he stepped a little closer, and you could smell his cologne now—the same one he always wore, the one that used to cling to your clothes after you spent the night.
“you not fucking with me or something?”
"clearly not. we don't talk no more, remember?"
"yeah, i remember. you made that real clear." he scratched at the back of his head, and for a second, something flickered in his eyes. hurt, maybe. "called me a lame ass nigga, said you never wanted to see me again. that ring a bell?"
you'd said that. and you'd meant it at the time—or at least, you thought you did. but now, standing here with him looking at you, you weren't so sure.
"you was acting lame," you said defensively, crossing your arms.
"and you was acting childish."
"excuse me?"
"you heard me." he tilted his head, studying you. "but i ain't come over here to argue. i just wanted to see if you was good. that's all."
the sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. you searched his face, looking for the lie, but all you saw was him. the same him you'd fallen for. the same him you'd walked away from.
"i'm good," you said quietly, your defenses cracking just a little.
"yeah?" he reached out, fingers brushing against your wrist, sending a shock up your arm. "you sure about that?"
you swallowed hard, your mouth became dry. this was dangerous. this whole conversation was dangerous. you should just walk away..
but you didn't move.
"why you care?" you asked instead, voice barely above a whisper.
his eyes locked on yours, intense and unwavering. "you really gotta ask me that?"
the question hung in the air between you, heavy with everything left unsaid. your heart was doing that thing again that stupid, traitorous thing where it forgot all the reasons you'd left.
all the late nights you'd spent crying. all the arguments that went nowhere. all the times you'd sworn you were done.
the party noise seemed to fade. the music, the laughter, all of it became background to this moment. to him standing so close you could feel the heat radiating off his body, wrapped around you like muscle memory.
your chest felt tight, like something was squeezing your lungs. you wanted to say something cutting, something that would put distance back between you. something that would remind both of you why this ended in the first place.
but the truth was sitting right there in your throat, bitter and indisputable.
but the truth was sitting right there in your throat, bitter and indisputable. you'd been lying to yourself, all the months of "healing" and "moving on" was a show you put on so convincing you'd almost believed it yourself.
almost.
his thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of your wrist, and your breath hitched.
"i shouldn't be here," you whispered, but you didn't pull away.
"but you are, baby" he said softly, stepping even closer. close enough that you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact.
you couldn't go there. you wouldn’t go there.
except his free hand came up to cup your jaw, gentle but possessive, and your resolve crumbled like sand.
his voice dropping lower, more intimate. "tell me you don't miss me, i'll walk away right now and i'll leave you alone."
you opened your mouth. the lie sat on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn't say it.
every rapid heartbeat, every shallow breath. you felt it in the way your body leaned into his touch without permission, in the way your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
three months. three months of blocking his number, avoiding his favorite spots, pretending you didn't stalk his instagram at 2am. three months of building walls and convincing yourself you were better off.
and it embarrassingly took less than ten minutes for him to tear it all down.
his forehead pressed against yours, and you let your eyes flutter closed. this was a mistake. you knew it was a mistake. tomorrow you'd regret this. tomorrow you'd have to explain to nai why you were so stupid. tomorrow you'd have to rebuild everything you'd just destroyed.
but right now, there was only him. only this. only the inevitable pull of something that never really ended, no matter how hard you'd tried to kill it.
"fuck," you breathed out, and it sounded like surrender. his lips curved into a smile against your skin.
and just like that, you were right back where you started.
EVE’S 2K CELEBRATION 🎤: your relationship with isack through the lens of your camera …… ft. dtmf and baile inolvidable by bad bunny
pairing: isack hadjar x photographer!ex!reader
contents: part one here, exes to lovers, second chance romance, angst with a happy ending, there’s four people in a two-person relationship (ft. pepe martí and gabriel bortoleto), jealousy, pepe went from sidepiece to unwilling couples counselor, drunk confession, google translated french.
word count: 4.3k + smau (it got out of hand)
liked by gabrielbortoleto, isackhadjar and 91,207 others
stakef1team First day jitters 🇧🇭
👤 tagged: yn.png, gabrielbortoleto
view more comments
yn.png green has never looked better 🫶 ♥️ liked by author
user1 PAUSEEE GABI LOOKS HOT
user2 pre-season testing has never looked so goddamn fine
user3 cuidem bem de nosso menino 🇧🇷
user4 admin is stronger than me fr…. imagine taking that picture of gabriel and then having to act like everything’s fine?? HELLO
user5 that second gabi pic??? i feel faint
user6 why is hadjar lurking in the likes of the competition 😭
Working with Gabriel is different. Not good, not bad—different.
It’s taken some getting used to—not that he’s hard to work with. You’re still undergoing the process of getting to know him, though you suspect he’s been trying to make your job easier. It’s a blessing, honestly. Especially when you’ve heard from some of the photographers from the other teams that there are drivers—both from Formula 1 and otherwise— that almost seem to strive to make their jobs harder.
You’re still not sure whether Gabriel is a good person or if he’s just as unsure as you are on a new job. If anything, the two of you share that—starting from zero in F1. Maybe he wants someone who’s in a similar situation as him. Or maybe he’s just notices his legs are significantly longer than yours, and decides to walk slower for your sake.
Still. For all his politeness and awkward smiles, it’s hard to separate Gabi—this Gabi—from the image you had of him last year. The competition. The enemy. The boy who ripped Isack’s dream straight out of his hands.
You’re not sure that’s a fair assessment anymore, though.
Gabriel is looking up at the screens as one of the engineers points at one section. He nods, and you can see him making mental notes for the next laps. Quietly, you bring up your camera to your face, snapping a picture of Gabriel and his engineer. It’s sweet—a little more unfocused than you would’ve liked. When you bring your camera back up to try and take another one, you find that Gabriel is not where he was before.
You furrow your brows. How did you lose sight of him already? He’s in a neon green suit, he can’t—
“Can I see?”
You jump, hands gripping your camera tightly. “Fuck!” you say, a little too loudly. Do you get fined too, if you cuss? You hope not. Gabriel stands just behind you, peering over your shoulder. “You startled me.”
Gabriel shrugs his shoulders, though you can see a small, amused smile playing on his lips. “Sorry,” he says in a voice that suggests he’s everything but. He gestures at the camera. “Can I?”
“It’s not my best work,” you say immediately, tilting the camera towards him so he can see it.
“I like it,” Gabriel says simply, meeting your gaze with a small smile and an only slightly-awkward thumbs up. “I look… official. Can you send it to me later?”
You nod, smiling despite yourself. You feel like you’re in second grade again, and the teacher has just given you a gold star. When Gabi is called back, he hums a quick goodbye before moving back into the garage. You hold your camera with a little more fondness.
Then, a loud, reverberating metal clang echoes behind you. You flinch, if only for the startling closeness of the loud sound. You turn around.
He’s holding his forehead against his palm, wincing. The metal pillar in front of him still vibrates a little from the impact. He mutters a curse in French, pink growing from his neck and spreading onto the tips of his ears.
Isack meets your gaze. Your heart jumps inside your chest, hands tightening around your camera. Among the nervousness and eagerness to do well in your first official day, you’d completely missed the fact that the RB garage was sharing a wall with Sauber.
“Hi,” Isack says, just a few steps shy of you. His hair’s grown out. It’s the first thing you notice, even though, with Isack, it’s not saying a lot. There’s a faint red imprint of the wall on his forehead, an embarrassed blush on his cheeks.
“Hi,” you repeat dumbly. Foolishly, you’d thought you’d have more time before seeing him again. That as Gabriel’s personal photographer, you wouldn’t be around other drivers that much. You still haven’t even caught a glance of Lewis Hamilton.
And yet.
Isack’s eyes turn downwards, taking in your black and green shirt. Blinding, you’re sure. Certainly less subtle than the RedBull merch he’s given you in the past. You watch Isack’s gaze flick somewhere behind you, swallowing as he returns to you. “You’re with Gabriel,” he says. It’s not a question.
“I’m with Sauber,” you correct, ignoring the sudden unsteadiness you feel inside your chest. A drumbeat in your ears. “I got a job with their social media team.”
“Ah.” But he doesn’t look convinced. You’ve always been good at reading him—at least, you used to think you were. But after last year, you’re not so sure anymore. Still, you can’t force yourself to overlook the signs. His fingers twitching at his side. His throat bobbing. The attempt he makes to keep his lips set into a line. He’s nervous. Unsure. Like he doesn’t quite trust himself around you. Then, like he’d been holding his breath, he says, “You look good—great. You look great.”
You straighten. Right. After months of bordering on texting him, of waking up with red-rimmed eyes, of watching romcoms and crying at the TV that he’s lying, he’s a liar, don’t fall for it, Sydney.
You suppose that, technically speaking, you seem to have it together now. But it’s unfair—so, so unfair, how he can just show up and make you feel everything you’ve been pushing down for months.
“I know,” you say, even when it’s a lie, even when you don’t believe it. You glance behind you, and spot Gabriel already putting his helmet on. “Sorry—I have to go.”
“Yeah,” Isack says, and his voice sounds strained. “Yes, um—” he clears his throat, even when you’re already turning away from him, he hastily adds, “it’s good to see you!”
Something tightens around your stomach. Warm. Uninvited. “Yeah,” you say, quietly—maybe too quiet for him to hear, “you too.”
MARCH, 2025 : MELBOURNE.
liked by gabrielbortoleto, emmafelbermayr and 51,981 others
yn.png race day at melbourne + first official race in sauber 💚
👤 tagged: gabrielbortoleto, stakef1team
view more comments
gabrielbortoleto Big day for both of us today 🫡 ♥️ liked by author
user1 oh someone cooked here
user2 THE GREEN AAAAH I’VE BEEN BLINDED
stakef1team It’s too iconic 💚
user2 girl- it wasn’t a compliment 😭 it’s seared into my retinas
user3 OMG??? I GAVE GABI THAT KOALA PLUSHIE
yn.png he was so happy!!! he made me look after it for most of his media duties <3 he also might have named it
user4 “might have” ?
yn.png he won’t tell me the name :( i’ll get it out of him though dw
user5 we are being FED
user6 bora borboleto!! 🇧🇷
user7 why is no one talking about that second picture????? hello 😵💫
user8 no exactly cause is this man single
user9 i mean…….. you can’t convince me someone that ISN’T in love with him can take a picture like that
user8 WAIT that’d be so cute 😭 and it’s the first race in f1 for both of them as well……. that’s just a romcom waiting to happen
MARCH, 2025 : SHANGHAI.
You don’t know why you’re nervous. Standing backstage, moments before Gabi is supposed to go on stage alongside Nico. You can hear the excited cheers from the crowd, and something in your gut flutters a little. They’re not here for you. You wipe your sweaty palm on your jeans.
Media day in Shanghai for you means having three memory cards in your bag and your camera ready to take as many pictures of Gabriel as you can manage, before you eventually get back to your hotel room, open your laptop, and start sorting through them. You’re not exactly a believer of quantity over quality, but if your job demands it then so be it. You’ll choose your favorite ones to post on your Instagram account, anyway.
They’re supposed to go on stage in less than ten minutes, and yet, Gabriel and Nico are nowhere to be seen. You wipe your palms against your shirt again, anxious. Was it your responsibility to bring Gabriel here? Surely not—surely that falls beyond the scope of your job. Still, you can feel as you slowly start to gaslight yourself into thinking you were told and you just forgot.
Before your panic can start jumping away like a jackrabbit, you hear talking and footsteps from the metal stairs behind you. You turn around, hopeful—
Surprised brown eyes meet yours.
“Hi,” Isack says, voice soft. His press officer gives some indications to one of the technicians backstage, before leaving you and Isack temporarily alone.
Your shoulders drop. “I thought you were Gabi.”
“Ah,” Isack says, and your disappointment sours into regret.
I didn’t mean it like that, you very nearly say. You swallow back the words, ignoring the way they lodge into the back of your throat.
Isack scratches his neck, smile faltering just enough for you to notice. “Sorry to disappoint.” He shrugs his shoulders in an attempt to be nonchalant. “He’ll be here. Gabriel, I mean. He’s responsible like that.”
You turn away from Isack, glancing once again at the stairs for any sign of his black and bright green team kit. You bite your thumb anxiously, foot drumming against the floor of the stage. You can’t fail at your job on the second race of the season. Do people get fired over this? How do you explain to your boss that you lost your driver?
“Hey,” Isack says, quietly, gently. His hand reaches out for yours instinctively, his thumb caressing the back of your palm in a soothing motion. You resent that it works, that it grounds you just a bit. When you look up, Isack meets your gaze a beat later.
The realization in his eyes is near instant.
Isack pulls his hand away hastily, as if touching your skin has burned him. He inhales sharply. “Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t—” The words die in his throat. He looks away from you as his hand drops against his side.
“It’s fine,” you say, for his sake. Maybe for yours, too. He gnaws at the inside of his cheek, and you can’t remember the last time it was like this between you two. Like stepping around broken glass.
A beat passes. “This is your first time on this side of the stage, isn’t it?” he asks tentatively.
“Yeah,” you sigh, anxiousness wearing you down. You make a sound at the back of your throat that borders on a scoff and a laugh. “I guess I’m more used to being down there with the crowd.”
“You were always easy to spot, you know,” Isack responds absentmindedly. He’s already gazing at the gathering crowd, though he doesn’t seem to be looking at anything specific.
You ignore the way your heart skips a beat. Ignore it, suppress it, dismiss it—whatever it takes not to acknowledge the easy warmth that blooms in your chest now that you’re standing next to him. “Was I?”
Isack turns back to you, but his eyes drop to the embroidered strap around your neck, eventually finding the camera by your hip. His brows furrow. “You still have it,” he says, like a revelation.
A blush tints your cheeks. It’s so dumb. Stupid, really, how exposed you feel when he points it out. Your camera is your job—it’s an extension of you, like an arm or a leg.
“Of course I do,” you say, and there’s no sharp edge to your words. Maybe an undeserved softness. It’s your fault for being sentimental. If anything, you should’ve long upgraded to a better model, one with a better lens, with more light settings and a better zoom. But you couldn’t—not when it was a gift from him. Not when you know he spent restless nights scouring the internet, asking around the F2 paddock for suggestions for a professional camera he could get his girlfriend.
It was out of his budget. You know it was, because it was before he had major sponsors like he does now. You know, because unlike most drivers you’ve met, Isack doesn’t come from money. Every penny that went into your birthday gift had been hard-earned by him—and it landed him eating chicken and rice for three weeks. You’d reprimanded him, saying that you could still return it—only for him to lean closer to you and press a kiss onto your temple, whispering against your skin, “Why would I do that? C’était fait pour toi, chérie.”
You’d kept it, because Isack had insisted, and because, in all honesty, you didn’t want to let go of it.
A part of you still doesn’t.
Isack looks like he wants to say something, before he swallows it back. He looks conflicted, apologetic, and when he glances down at your palm again, you get the feeling he wants to intertwine your fingers with his.
The sound of steps coming up the stairs makes the two of you take a step back from one another. Warmth shoots up your spine. You hadn’t even realized how close you’d been standing.
Gabriel comes up the stairs with Nico and Liam in tow, curls poking from underneath his Sauber cap. “Hey—thought I had lost you.”
You try to smile—you do. Gabriel’s attention shifts over to Isack, who’s jaw looks tenser than it did a moment ago. Something akin to recognition flickers in Gabriel’s gaze.
He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.
gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:14 PM ] : Hi
gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:14 PM ] : What are you doing right now?
you [ 10:14 PM ] : just got back to my room!! so i’m choosing n editing a few pics for sauber
you [ 10:14 PM ] : dw i’m making sure you look handsome in all of them
you [ 10:15 PM ] : unless you choose to wrong me in the future. in which case i have plenty of unflattering material
gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:15 PM ] : Good to know
gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:15 PM ] : Hey, can I ask you a personal question?
gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:15 PM ] : You can say no
you [ 10:15 PM ] : yeah ofc!!!! shoot
gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:15 PM ] : You used to date him, no?
you [ 10:16 PM ] : pardon
gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:16 PM ] : Hadjar
gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:16 PM ] : I kept thinking your face looked familiar when we first met.
gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:16 PM ] : I figured I must’ve seen you around in F2 or F3. But you were his girlfriend yes?
you [ 10:17 PM ] : yeah
gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:17 PM ] : That makes sense
gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:17 PM ] : I’ve noticed him staring at me a lot. Especially today at the fan forum
gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:17 PM ] : And it couldn’t be because of the races, since our car is a million dollar piece of shit
you [ 10:17 PM ] : GABI
you [ 10:17 PM ] : YOU CANT SAY THAT
gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:17 PM ] : What
gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:17 PM ] : This is all confidential right
you [ 10:18 PM ] : 😭 what would you do if i said no
gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:18 PM ] : It’s not like I’m lying,,, everyone knows it’s a shitbox
gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:18 PM ] : Is it too invasive if I ask why you two broke up?
you [ 10:18 PM ] : we just had different priorities i guess
you [ 10:23 PM ] : you haven’t told me your embarrassing middle name yet
gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:24 PM ] : It’s Lourenzo.
you [ 10:24 PM ] : boooo 👎👎 that’s not embarrassing at all
you [ 10:24 PM ] : sounds really regal though
you [ 10:24 PM ] : prince lourenzo
you [ 10:24 PM ] : eh
you [ 10:24 PM ] : i think i like people calling you bubbles better
bubbles ☘️ [ 10:25 PM ] : only max calls me that
you [ 10:25 PM ] : mhmm sure 😁
you [ 10:25 PM ] : also yeah we’re friends gabi <3
bubbles ☘️ [ 10:25 PM ] : Okay
bubbles ☘️ [ 10:25 PM ] : Then as your friend I would like to say that you should probably tell Isack that we’re not
bubbles ☘️ [ 10:25 PM ] : Together or anything
bubbles ☘️ [ 10:25 PM ] : Because I keep getting a chilly feeling and then turning around and just. Catch him staring at me.
you [ 10:25 PM ] : have you considered maybe this has nothing to do with me
you [ 10:26 PM ] : i mean maybe he has a crush on you
you [ 10:26 PM ] : have you considered that
bubbles ☘️ [ 10:26 PM ] : What
liked by gabrielbortoleto, pepemartiofficial and 91 others
yourusername got to visit an actual f1 factory? in switzerland? shoutout gabi for convincing the big boss to let me tag along <3
👤 tagged: gabrielbortoleto
view more comments
friend1 pls tell me you bought the cow
yourusername i bought the cow
friend2 WAITT your new friend has cheekbones for DAYS
gabrielbortoleto Last time I do that cause I didn’t know you would snore the whole flight
yourusername I DID NOT??????
yourusername pepemartiofficial you like my posts but don’t comment anymore? woowww
pepemartiofficial what are you on about i hadn’t even seen your post
pepemartiofficial oh i mean. yeah idk
APRIL, 2025 : SUZUKA.
liked by isackhadjar, yn.png and 180,921 others
visacashapprb had… joints? HADJOINTS!
view more comments
user8 MY GOAT
redbullfrance Solide 🙌
user9 protect him from the redbull seat at all costs
user10 HELLO that last slide…….. not complaining
formula2 YESS ISACK! BIEN JOUÉ
user11 is isack single asking for a friend
This isn’t stalking. You’re not—you’re not. Not really. You’re just… seizing up the competition.
You’re sitting inside the Sauber motorhome, waiting for the post race interviews to be done. It’s not as crowded as you expected—and, at least, you have Emma to keep you company. In the short time you’ve known her, you’ve decided you like her—even going as far as to offer taking a few pictures for her for the next time F1 and F1A races overlap.
She’s texting someone on her phone while you hide yours behind your open laptop. It feels… wrong, like a betrayal both to Sauber and to yourself. You can’t help yourself either way.
You scroll down VCARB’s recent Instagram feed, stumbling upon a post celebrating Isack’s first F1 points.
Is this pathetic? You feel a little pathetic. What good is having him blocked if you’re still searching for breadcrumbs?
Your thumb slides on the screen, showing a picture of Isack along with the rest of the team. Then, one of him with his hair mussed and his race suit still on. Then—
You smack your phone facedown against the table, making Emma flinch across from you.
She blinks. “…Are you okay?”
Your cheeks burn. Isack’s shirtless torso. On social media. On a team account. Something you wholeheartedly refuse to name flutters around your gut. Why are you so affected by this? You’ve seen him shirtless—fuck, you’ve seen him naked before.
It just took you by surprise, you reason.
“Yeah,” you say, voice strangled, “fine.”
you [ 6:14 PM ] : do you think it’s unprofessional that i still have him blocked
pepe 👎 [ 6:16 PM ] : i think it’s unprofessional that you’re having this conversation with me
you [ 6:16 PM ] : can you just answer the question
pepe 👎 [ 6:16 PM ] : no
you [ 6:16 PM ] : no you don’t think it’s unprofessional or no you’re not going to answer
pepe 👎 [ 6:17 PM ] : the second one
you [ 6:17 PM ] : why
pepe 👎 [ 6:18 PM ] : because i’m seeing isack tonight and i have a terrible poker face
pepe 👎 [ 6:18 PM ] : and when he winds up asking about you i don’t wanna tell him everything and risk you paying someone to put me in the wall
you [ 6:18 PM ] : josep maría martí.
pepe 👎 [ 6:19 PM ] : your intimidation tactics don’t work on me
you [ 6:19 PM ] : did you know my paddock pass works for f2 races as well
you [ 6:19 PM ] : and i’ve been becoming good friends with joshua dürksen. he’s starting p7 tomorrow
you [ 6:20 PM ] : what position are you starting again? p6?
pepe 👎 [ 6:20 PM ] : getting a job in f1 has made you demented
you [ 6:20 PM ] : is it unprofessional YES OR NO
pepe 👎 [ 6:20 PM ] : ?????? HOW WOULD I KNOW
pepe 👎 [ 6:20 PM ] : would he want you to unblock him? probably
pepe 👎 [ 6:21 PM ] : does he use my phone to see what you’ve been posting on instagram? on occasion
pepe 👎 [ 6:21 PM ] : has he checked your linkedin multiple times because it’s the only social media you haven’t blocked him on? YEAH
you [ 6:22 PM ] : he what
Seen 6:22 PM
you [ 6:24 PM ] : PEPE
pepe 👎 [ 6:24 PM ] : I’VE SAID TOO MUCH ALREADY
isack 🥷🏽 [ 6:31 PM ] : Hey
isack 🥷🏽 [ 6:31 PM ] : Has she said anything to you?
pepe 👎 [ 6:32 PM ] : FUCKING LEAVE ME OUT OF THIS
isack 🥷🏽 [ 6:33 PM ] : ????
APRIL, 2025 : BAHRAIN.
liked by pepemartiofficial, redbulljuniorteam and 99,871 others
yn.png we interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to say PEPE WON THE SPRINT RACE I KNOW HIM HE WON I WAS THERE
👤 tagged: pepemartiofficial
view more comments
pepemartiofficial i do not know this woman
yn.png i can’t even be bothered by this YOU WONN
chloechambersracing what. a. race. 👏
redbulljuniorteam We’ve definitely missed being photographed by yn.png 🏆
user14 should’ve hired her while you still could cheap ass
user15 GET HIM AN F1 SEAT NOWW
user16 why do y/n’s redbull pics hit so different from the sauber ones though
user17 win so good it actually made pepe and y/n forget they can’t stand each other
user18 did you even watch the race 😭 she was up there hugging him and crying and smiling “they can’t stand each other” be so fr
♥️ isackhadjar has liked your post
The scent of champagne and celebration is thick in the air. Despite the sun having long sunk over the horizon, the night air still feels warm, electric.
You’re waiting in the garage, checking the pictures from your camera with giddy excitement. It feels like centuries since the last time you were at an F2 race celebrating. You imagine Pepe will want to take you guys out, maybe somewhere to eat, maybe to a club. It hurts a little, knowing you won’t be able to go—knowing that you’re already behind on work you need to get done before tomorrow morning.
You feel him before you ever see him. Like magnets, you turn around and you find him. You always seem to.
Maybe there’s something in your face that gives you away, because Isack is quick to say: “It’s okay, you don’t have to go.” He’s wearing his RB team kit, and it’s still odd, not seeing him in RedBull gear. With how the team is looking, you suppose it’s for the better—not that you’re in any position to say anything. “I wanted to talk to you, actually.”
Your throat tightens. There’s a glint in his eye you can’t seem to place. Still, you try for a smile you hope looks relaxed, nonchalant. “Shoot.”
Isack swallows, and only then you realize he’s nervous. “I realized I never apologized,” he starts, slowly, like he doesn’t want to scare you off. There’s still celebrations going down all around you. It’s a stark contrast to Isack’s quiet, tentative tone. “I’ve been meaning to—for, for a while, I mean. To apologize.”
“Isack,” you start, though you’re not sure what you intend to say.
“You were right,” he says, more confidently this time. “You deserved better—you still do. It was a shitty thing to do, and it was disrespectful to you.” Your mouth closes, and Isack takes it as a chance to continue. “I, ah. I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. That it was never my intention to make you hurt. I was in over my head, and when I should’ve been turning to you, I turned to wrong influences in the team and shut you out.” He gnaws at the inside of his cheek, and you catch him toying with a string bracelet around his wrist you gave him back when he was in F4. “I’m sorry.”
This is it—what you’ve been wanting to hear since last year. But there’s distance between you, and you’re painfully aware of it. Isack doesn’t attempt to close it, so neither do you. You lick your lips. “It’s in the past, Isack,” you say, even when you hear your heart beating in your ears. “It’s fine.”
“The past,” he repeats. He tries to smile, but it feels strained. He drops his hands. “Right.”
You open your mouth to say something, but you’re interrupted by a round of claps and whistles going around. Before you even get the chance to turn, you feel Pepe wrap his arms around both you and Isack as he brings the three of you into a sideways hug.
“What a day, huh?” he grins, skin still sticky with champagne. There’s excitement vibrating off his skin, and you’ll be damned if you’re the one to try and dampen that.
“What a day,” you repeat, smiling.
Pepe pulls away from the two of you, clasping his hands together with a giddy smile. “Okay, so. The guys from the team said there’s a bar nearby that’s really good for celebrating. So, I was thinking we could go after you guys finish with your quali?”
“I’m gonna have to sit this one out,” you say, regretfully. You can feel Isack’s eyes on the side of your face. When you briefly meet his gaze, there’s an unreadable expression on his face. “I still have a lot of work to do, and I don’t fancy being fired before the break.”
“Killjoy.” He rolls his eyes, though he doesn’t seem to take it personally. Instead, Pepe turns to Isack with a mischievous glint and a grin. “But, that means you can’t ditch me now.”
Isack raises a brow. “Really? Why not?”
He shrugs lightly. “Because then you’d be leaving me on my own. Are you really gonna leave me lonely on the day I won?”
Isack rolls his eyes, though there’s a hint of a smile curling his lips. “You are unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told, yeah.”
[ INCOMING VOICE MESSAGE FROM: isack 🥷🏽 2:31 ]
hi. um. you unblocked me. that—ha, that wasn’t what i wanted to say. i… pepe missed you, at the celebration. everyone did. the guys from campos kept, um. they kept asking why i wasn’t with you. i didn’t—i mean—putain, that’s not what i wanted to…
i guess i’ve just been thinking about you. a lot. earlier—earlier you said it was in the past. and—and that’s fine? i mean, i should have apologized to you in person so fucking long ago. and i didn’t, because i was a coward. like, a big, stupid, coward who didn’t want to look you in the eye. who had to ask you for a break over text—and fuck, what was i thinking? maybe you were right—maybe i was concussed. i mean, just, who does that? ah—anyway, i know you’ve moved on, that you have your life together now.
but—but you said it was in the past, and i should be fine with that, cause you’re fine with that but—it’s not in the past for me, okay? et je suis un idiot—je sais. i was an idiot last year, and i’m still an idiot now.
and look, i know i’m not supposed to know—but pepe mentioned that i made you cry. more than once. and i hate—i hate that. i hate it when you cry, and—and knowing i was responsible for that? ça me brise le cœur, chérie. but that’s fair, because i broke your heart first, even when you didn’t deserve it, when you weren’t at fault, when it was me—
je n’aime pas ça. i don’t want to sound like, like i’m trying to be a martyr, or anything. i know i’m not, that i am not being fair. i know that i should have said this months, months ago, that it’s too little too late.
but i miss you. so, so much, chérie. and i keep seeing you around the paddock with your camera and that embroidered camera strap you bought in algiers, and i keep forgetting that i ruined it. that i ruined us. and when i get out of the car, i keep—i keep looking for you.
c’est pathétique. god. sorry. you, um—you don’t owe me an answer, or anything. you don’t… you don’t owe me anything. i’ll just… putain, je ne devrais pas envoyer ça. comment… comment puis-je supprimer ça—
isack 🥷🏽 [ 2:45 AM ] : Dont listne to thabt
you [ 2:47 AM ] : are you drunk??
you [ 2:47 AM ] : isack you’re racing TODAY
you [ 2:47 AM ] : i can hear music in the background where are you???
isack 🥷🏽 [ 2:48 AM ] : Are you mad atme
you [ 2:48 AM ] : your location. share it with me now
you [ 2:49 AM ] : NOW.
isack 🥷🏽 [ 2:49 AM ] : I dont like it whne you yell :(
isack 🥷🏽 [ 2:50 AM ] : 📍Iguana Lounge, Bahrain
you [ 2:50 AM ] : ask for water at the bar
you [ 2:50 AM ] : and don’t move. i mean it
you [ 2:52 AM ] : you’re dead to me
pepe 👎 [ 2:55 AM ] : whatddid i do
you [ 2:55 AM ] : oh my god. you’re useless
By the time you arrive at the bar, the streets are empty with the dull beat of club music. Isack and Pepe sit beside each other on the curb, with the latter leaning his head against Isack’s shoulder.
You get out of the car, and Isack helps you get Pepe onto the backseat. Once you put on his seatbelt, you go back to the driver’s seat, while Isack sits next to you.
The drive to their hotel is quiet. Pepe snores softly in the backseat. Your knuckles are tight around the steering wheel, and you’re unwilling to even glance at either of them. You threw on the first thing you had in hand—an old sweater of yours to cover the pajamas you’re wearing underneath.
You stop at a red light. Then, quietly—
“Are you mad at me?”
You look over at Isack. He’s toying with his string bracelet, looking unbearably small as he stares at you, brown eyes wide and worried. He drops his hand from his bracelet, turning instead to fiddle with the bottle cap from the water you gave him.
“Of course I’m mad at you, Isack.” You watch his face sink, and you force yourself to look ahead. “How—How could you be so irresponsible? You’re supposed to be in the car in a matter of hours, and you’re gonna wake up hungover. Do you know how reckless that is?” The light turns green. “What were you thinking?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, barely above a murmur: “I was thinking about you.”
Your throat feels like sandpaper. “You can’t—you can’t say that. Not like this. Not when you’re drunk. Like—fuck, Isack,” your voice breaks, “you can be so mean sometimes.”
You breathe in slowly, attempting to blink back the tears that are threatening to spill.
“Please don’t cry,” Isack says, and you can see him shifting on his seat out of the corner of your eye. You park on the sidewalk of the hotel, and when you turn to face him, you find he’s leaning closer to you. His brows are drawn together, and even when he looks miserable, your heart is begging you to give in. His throat bobs, and Isack reaches up with his thumb, wiping away a tear from your cheek. “You know I hate seeing you cry.”
“Then why do you do this?” you ask. You’re afraid if you open your mouth again, you’re gonna start crying and be unable to stop.
His eyes look glassy now. “I didn’t mean to,” he says, apologetic, sincere. His thumb still rests against your cheek. “I had a plan—I did. I was gonna ask you today, after the race. I was gonna ask you to talk, just the two of us.” He searches your face, and he tries to smile, even when it makes tears gather at his eyeline. “I found this cafe that has those strawberry desserts that you like. But—” his voice dies in his throat, and you remember what he said in his voice message. You said it was in the past.
“Isack—”
“Je suis désolé,” he says, and it sounds like the words are stolen from beneath his ribs. Something guttural. “For everything.”
You shouldn’t—you shouldn’t. But he’s there, cast in moonlight like a dream. Everything you’ve been missing. His warmth, his laugh, his presence—missing, like a phantom limb.
You capture his lips with yours, closing the gap between you two in a breath. Isack tenses in surprise for just a split second before he’s melting into you, kissing you back like he’s afraid to let go. Like you’re everything he’s been missing. His hand is still on your cheek, bringing you closer to him. He kisses you softly, gently, with a care that makes you want to cry again. For a moment, it feels like breathing easier again—like coming home.
You’re the first to pull away, even when Isack tries to chase you. He opens his eyes, uncertain. You lean your forehead against his, taking a moment to relish this. Him.
It feels impossible, going back to not having him anymore.
“I miss you,” he says. A murmured confession.
You don’t think you could lie even if you wanted to. “I miss you too.” And he’s looking at you the way he always has—like you’re early spring, like you’re the moon itself, like you’re everything he’s been waiting for his entire life.
You hear rustling in the backseat. You pull back, glancing at Pepe through the rearview mirror.
Pepe groans quietly, voice hoarse and disoriented. “Are we there already?”
“Yeah, champ,” you say, and you can’t find it in yourself to be mad right now.
Isack unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out of the car to help maneuver Pepe out as well. He slings Pepe’s arm around his shoulder, helping him stand.
Your window is lowered when you meet Isack’s gaze. His lips press together, like there’s more he wants to say. Instead, he simply opts for: “Tomorrow. Can we talk tomorrow?”
You nod. “Tomorrow.”
pepe 👎 [ 8:56 AM ] : i feel like death
you [ 8:57 AM ] : good morning princess 😍
you [ 8:57 AM ] : serves you right for pulling that last night
pepe 👎 [ 8:58 AM ] : i can feel you laughing at my misery stop it
pepe 👎 [ 8:58 AM ] : ohhhh fuck me i’m never drinking again
you [ 8:59 AM ] : screenshotting that for future reference btw
pepe 👎 [ 9:00 AM ] : 🖕
pepe 👎 [ 9:00 AM ] : real talk though and maybe this is an awkward question but
pepe 👎 [ 9:00 AM ] : have you heard from isack?
pepe 👎 [ 9:01 AM ] : i went to his room and he wasn’t there? and when i call it just sends me to voicemail
pepe 👎 [ 9:03 AM ] : hello?
Sent 9:03 AM
The knock on your door makes your heart skip a beat. You don’t miss a second, dropping your phone onto the hotel bed and hurrying towards the door. You don’t waste time looking through the peephole.
When the door opens, you’re met with Isack and a bouquet of pink lilies clutched between his hands. His hair looks disheveled, and to your relief, he doesn’t look nearly as hungover as you expected him to be.
“I will spend every single day trying to earn your forgiveness back,” Isack says, “if you give me the chance.”
There’s no hiding the smile that lights up your phase. He’s ready to catch you in his arms when you throw yourself at him, bringing his lips to yours. His hands settle around your waist, familiar, at home.
He smiles against your lips.
liked by isackhadjar, pepemartiofficial, and 92 others
yourusername forgot to mention 💌
view more comments
friend1 wait no i shit talked him SO MUCH what do you mean you’re back together
gabrielbortoleto Finally
friend2 MY PARENTS ARE BACK TOGETHER
pepemartiofficial you get drunk ONE TIME and SUDDENLY you miss the entire plot
pepemartiofficial after keeping up with you two since SEPTEMBER
pepemartiofficial isackhadjar yourusername you two owe me reparations
isackhadjar You said to keep you out of it 🤷🏽♂️
pepemartiofficial i hate you
a/n: crazy how writing this turned me into a pepe martí fan. like during the 2024 f2 season i was so blinded by franco and gabi that i COMPLETELY overlooked isack and pepe and now i have regrets.
also! thank you thank you for all the love i got on part 1 of this!! it definitely helped getting this out quicker than i expected <3 ily all so much 💘
