Dance All Night Until We Call It The End - S.Johnny
Pairing - Non-Idol!Johnny x AFAB Reader
Genre(s) - Fluff, Angst, Smut
Warning(s) - weddings, alcohol consumption, smut, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected sex, reader is on birth control, p in v, breakup sex
Summary - You only meant to dance with Johnny for just one night, one rooftop, one spark that felt like forever. But love bloomed fast and burned brighter than either of you were ready for. Now, you return to where it started, trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping through your fingers.
Word Count - 6.9k
Author’s Note - I think I broke my own heart writing this fic. It’s the end of this collection, so I think I was feeling a little bittersweet about finishing it off, but I think the ending of this fic reflects my feelings towards this collection :’)
Taglist - @k-vanity @cosyhomenet @neocity-net @k-films @cinneorolls (join my taglist!)
Written for the Every Summer After Event hosted by @k-vanity. Also part of my NCT J-Line: Roses Are Rosie Collection.
Now playing: Call It The End - Rosé, Dance All Night - Rosé
The vineyard stretches out beneath you, all honey-colored hills and neat rows of vines. At the edge of the terrace, fairy lights are strung from tree to tree like constellations pulled to earth. A small jazz band plays under a white canopy, not loud enough to demand attention, but just enough to keep the silence away.
You’re perched at the edge of the bar with a sweating glass of wine and a view of people who feel far too in love.
The bride was your friend in high school. You sat next to each other in class, traded secrets over cafeteria food, and dreamed about futures and forevers. But then she moved across the country for college, and you lost touch for a while. Then, just in time, you reconnected, and she asked if you’d come to her wedding. “Only if you want to,” she wrote. “No pressure.”
You RSVP’d that you’d be there before you could think better of it.
Now you’re here at a hotel, surrounded by people you don’t know, watching love bloom in real time. There’s something sweet and painful about it, something like nostalgia with teeth.
You swirl the wine in your glass and check your phone for the third time in five minutes. No new messages. The reception is charming, beautiful even, but you’re driving—a ghost in tulle, haunting someone else’s happy ending.
“You don’t look like you’re having fun.”
You turn at the voice, expecting a waiter, maybe someone lost on their way to the bathroom. Instead, it’s a man with a crooked tie and a glass of something dark in his hand. His hair is pushed back like he got tired of fixing it. There’s a lilac stain on his cuff where someone, possibly himself, spilled wine. Nonetheless, his smile is clean and bright.
“I’m not,” you reply honestly.
He laughs like that’s the right answer. “Me neither. Want to dance?”
Your eyes narrow. “Do I know you?”
“Nope. But we’re both here, aren’t we? Might as well fake it.”
You glance toward the dance floor, the twinkling lights overhead, shoes abandoned at the edge, couples swaying to a throwback song you’ve already forgotten the lyrics to.
“I don’t even know whose wedding this is,” you say, half-teasing.
“Friend of a friend,” he shrugs. “I was invited. Could say I crashed the reception.”
You raise an eyebrow at him. “You crash weddings often?”
He grins, cocky and earnest all at once. “Only the ones with open bars.”
You laugh, and it catches you off guard, how easy it is with him, how light it comes out.
“Come on,” he prompts, extending his hand. “One dance. I promise I won’t step on you.”
You hesitate, wine glass still in hand. Then the music changes to a slow, sultry cover of some pop song, and the couples on the dance floor begin to sway slower, closer.
“I don’t usually do this,” you tell him.
His voice drops lower, not flirtatious, just real. “Then don’t think. Feel.”
You slide your hand into his, and your wine is left forgotten on the bar. The dance begins with a spin and a stumble. He nearly trips on his own shoe. You’re both laughing before you can even find a rhythm.
“You’re a terrible dancer,” you say.
“Gotta learn somehow,” he replies.
As the beat slows, your bodies fall into a gentle rhythm. His hand settles confidently at the small of your back, warm through the fabric of your dress. His other hand holds yours, not too tight, but sure of itself. You feel the space around you narrow, the world beyond the twinkling lights fading like film grain.
He leans in slightly, his voice more curious than coy. “I’m Johnny, by the way.”
You look up at him, one eyebrow raised. “You waited this long to tell me your name?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t want to give you my name in case I ended up breaking a bone.”
You smile as you give him your name, and this time it lingers. “Nice to meet you, Johnny.”
“Likewise,” he says, repeating your name, and you feel it, that shift. The unspoken click. Something quiet and magnetic.
His thumb brushes along the edge of your hand, barely there. You don’t pull away. The space between your bodies narrows with each step. Your breath syncs to his while his fingers spread a little more against your back.
You lean in without meaning to, but you don’t close the distance. Not because you don’t want to, but because, for once in your life, you’d like to let something unfold instead of crash.
His breath brushes your cheek. “You okay?”
You nod. “Yeah. Just…wasn’t ready for something like this.”
“Neither was I.”
The music fades into something unfamiliar as the moment settles. You step back first, not far, just enough to catch your breath.
Johnny watches you for a second, then glances up toward the side of the hotel. “Is it just me,” he begins, “or does this place have a rooftop?”
You follow his gaze. There’s a service ladder tucked into the corner, half-hidden behind a curtain of fairy lights.
“I bet the view is way better up there,” he adds, mischief curling at the corner of his mouth.
You smirk. “Are you planning to impress me with a skyline?”
“Would it work?”
“Maybe.” You pull off your heels, still warm from dancing, and take Johnny’s hand in yours as he leads the way. The ladder is cool beneath your palms, and you climb behind Johnny with a laugh caught in your throat. When he reaches the top, he turns around and extends his hand towards you, helping you up and making you think that perhaps chivalry is not entirely dead.
The rooftop is flat and gravel-lined, edged by an old iron railing. Above, the moon glows like something ancient. Below, the faint thrum of music rises, bouncing off the walls up to where you stand. A soft breeze lifts your hair.
You rest your palms on the railing and let your eyes shut, feeling the cool air against your skin. “I think I needed this.”
Johnny slides up beside you, tucking his hands into his pockets. “So did I.”
You look at him. “Why are we really up here?”
He smiles, gentler this time. “Because I didn’t want the night to end now that I’ve met you.”
Something shifts again, low and easy. You reach for him, fingers curling around his. He follows when you pull him into a clumsy, quiet dance with no beat or choreography, just movement and breath and the hush between the two of you.
“You really don’t know how to dance, huh?” you tease when he steps on your foot yet again.
“Guess you’ll have to teach me.”
You sway together, slower now. He spins you once under the glow of the stars and you laugh, your head tilted back. When you look at him again, he’s already staring.
It’s not just admiration, it’s something softer, like wonder. As if he’s seeing something he hadn’t expected to find. The kind of gaze that doesn’t demand but simply takes you in.
The music from below fades into something distant and cinematic. It feels like time has slipped sideways.
You barely realize you’ve stopped moving. Your hands rest lightly on Johnny’s chest now, feeling the slow thud of his heartbeat beneath the fabric. He breathes out, and it sounds almost like a question. Or a wish.
The wind lifts between you, brushing hair across your cheek. Johnny reaches out immediately, tucking it behind your ear with the gentlest of touches. His fingers linger there, trailing down until his thumb is resting at the edge of your jaw.
Neither of you moves. Instead, your eyes flick between his—searching, waiting, daring.
Then you’re both leaning in at the same time, like the space between you never really existed to begin with. The kiss is clumsy at first, all breath and nerves and adrenaline, but it softens quickly. His lips part around yours like they’ve known the shape of you forever. One of his hands settles against your waist while the other cups the back of your neck.
And just for a moment, it feels like even the stars are holding their breath.
Yet there’s nothing performative about the kiss. It’s not neat or polished. It’s not meant for anyone else’s eyes. It’s just a little too warm, a little too desperate, a little too honest.
You break apart only when you have to, foreheads touching, breath mingling. Johnny laughs, low and stunned, and brushes his nose against yours.
“You didn’t plan that, did you?” he murmured, his voice rough around the edge.
You shake your head, still catching your breath. “No,” you whisper. “But it felt right.”
Johnny takes a small step back, pulling a pen from his jacket like a magician pulling a coin from their sleeve. He lifts your wrist, steady and warm in his hand, and writes his number in looping, smudged ink across your skin.
“Promise me you won’t wash it off until you text me.”
You smile, eyes fixed on the digits. “I’ll keep it safe. Even if it rains.”
“We should probably, uh, get back to the wedding,” Johnny suggests. “Make sure no one is missing us too much.”
“I don’t think anyone would be, but lead the way,” you encourage.
You and Johnny descend from the rooftop, the faint hum of the reception drifting up as you rejoin the crowd. You spot the bride surrounded by a cluster of laughing friends, her smile radiant and unburdened.
“I’m starting to feel a little tired,” you say to Johnny, rubbing your arms lightly. “I’ll probably head back to my room soon. I’m going to wish her well before she’s fully swept away.”
Johnny nods, glancing toward the groom and a few other guests clustered near the bar. “Yeah, I should say goodbye to my friend and the groom, too. My buddy’s over there, probably on his third whiskey.”
You smile as you take a look at the crowd of them, all starting to go pink in the face. “Good luck with that.”
You and Johnny split apart, weaving through guests to say your goodbyes to the newlyweds. After you achieve your mission of thanking the bride for inviting you and saying goodnight, you linger by the door, watching Johnny clap the groom on the back, laughing at something he had said.
Johnny’s hand comes up, a small wave in your direction once he’s said his goodbyes. When he reaches you, his voice is casual. “My ride’s definitely not driving anywhere. I think I’ll probably get an Uber—”
You surprise yourself with your words. “You can crash in my room if you want. Couch pulls out. Or you can take the floor and be noble about it.”
His mouth quirks. “How chivalrous.”
The elevator ride is quiet. Not tense, just charged, like something is coiling between you both, neither of you quite naming it yet.
Your hotel room is decent. It’s clean, dimly lit, warm with the faint scent of rose soap and leftover champagne from when you were getting ready earlier in the day.
Johnny drops his blazer over the arm of the chair by the window, then sinks into it with a sigh, long legs splayed carelessly, hands resting on his thighs.
You go to your suitcase, loosening the zipper and digging around for your sleep clothes. “I’m gonna shower, get out of all this makeup and clothing.”
“Okay,” he acknowledges. “You’re really beautiful, you know. In that dress and everything.”
You pause. His gaze isn’t invasive. It’s full of something raw, reverent, and a little astonished. You can tell he’s not expecting anything, not pushing. But it hits you anyway, low in your stomach.
Your fingers go to the zipper of your dress, sitting in the middle of your shoulder blades. “You could watch,” you offer, testing the space between suggestion and nuance.
Johnny doesn’t move from his seat, but his eyes flicker darker. “Only if you want me to.”
You turn away from him, pulling the zipper down, one inch at a time. The fabric slowly starts to slip down your body until it’s pooling around your feet. You stand there a beat longer in your underwear, then turn.
Johnny is still sitting, but now he looks wrecked. His breath is coming in shallow, his fingers gripping the arms of the chair.
You close the distance between you in quiet steps. “Do you want to keep going?” you ask, the words hushed and breathless.
He stands, slow and careful. His hand comes up to cup your jaw. “I do. But only if you’re okay with it.”
“I am,” you tell him. “Clean. On birth control.”
“Clean too,” he answers.
It’s clumsy at first. His hands fumble with your dress and bra, and your fingers pull at his buttons too hard. You kiss like you’re still catching up with your own bodies, mouths too eager, teeth clacking once or twice. You laugh softly against his neck at the clumsiness of it all. He kisses down your shoulder, still enamored, nonetheless.
Once every article of clothing has been thrown off, you sink onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and low breath and heat, your legs straddling his. When you reach down and wrap your hand around him, his hips twitch in surprise. He’s half-hard already, thick and heavy in your palm, and growing harder fast.
“Shit,” he mutters, his eyes fluttering shut as you pump his length slowly. “That’s—yeah, just like that.”
You slide down between his legs, lips parting around the head of his cock, tongue dragging slowly across the tip. You take him in carefully, adjusting his girth. As the warmth of your mouth envelops him, his hand finds your hair, not pushing but needing something to ground himself. He moans, the sound coming out strangled when you hollow your cheeks.
“Fuck, that feels so good,” he breathes, even as his thighs tense in your grasp.
You find it endearing, the way he breathes harder when your hand follows your mouth and the way he trembles when you moan around him. You can tell he’s getting close, and he’s getting there fast, moaning your name, tugging on your hair until you finally let up and allow him to pull you away with a gasp. “Stop, stop, I’m gonna—”
“I wanna return the favor,” he says determinedly as you crawl back up his body, mouth damp and chest heaving.
“Tell me what you like,” he insists while flipping you gently beneath him and kissing down your chest and stomach. “Let’s make this up as we go, yeah?”
You nod, your heart pounding. “Find something good, and keep doing it.”
Johnny grins at that. “Deal.”
He settles between your thighs, hands dragging slowly along the outside of them like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. His breath ghosts over your skin, warm and deliberate, and when his mouth finally meets your folds, it’s tentative—like he’s testing the waters, figuring out what makes you squirm.
The first lick is too soft, the second too quick, but then he finds a rhythm that makes you gasp, your hips bucking up into his mouth before you can stop yourself.
“You like that?” he asks, his breath hot against you.
“Yeah,” you exhale. “Right there.”
He hums his approval, tongue pressing more firmly now, circling your clit with a newfound purpose. When he feels your legs tense, your thighs twitching around his shoulders, he locks in. His mouth and tongue are unrelenting, dragging pleasure out of you until your fingers are tangled in his hair and your back is arching off the mattress.
You cry out his name, breath catching as you tip over the edge. Johnny holds you there, helps you ride it out, his tongue still slow and coaxing even as your body trembles beneath him.
When you finally come down, chest rising and falling with effort, you reach for him, tugging him up until he’s hovering over you, his eyes dark and full of something tender.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly, brushing your hair back and away from your face.
“More than okay,” you breathe. “I want you.”
Johnny nods, his expression flickering between focused and wrecked as he reaches down to guide himself to your entrance. He presses in slowly, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time like he doesn’t want to miss a single reaction.
You both gasp when he bottoms out—deep and thick and perfect—and stays there for a moment, just breathing. Then he pulls back, thrusts forward again, a little more sure this time. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, drawing him closer.
There’s no rhythm at first, just the raw, uncoordinated mess of two people who barely know each other’s bodies, but are desperate to learn. Johnny kisses you through it, letting out shaky groans when you clench around him and when your nails dig into his back.
Then he finds it—the angle, the pace—and your moans rise in tandem with his. Every thrust feels like a pledge, like he’s trying to carve something real into the moment. His hips rock forward, slow but deep, the ridges of his cock dragging along your walls with each thrust.
You feel every inch of him, how thick he is, how he stretches you just enough to leave your mouth falling open with every deep slide. The weight of his body against you is grounding, arms braced beside your head, shoulders tense, chest brushing yours as he leans down to kiss your neck.
His breath is warm against your skin, quick and uneven, little huffs that scatter along your jaw and collarbone between kisses. You whimper when his hips grind down just right, his pelvis pressing firm against your clit while the head of his cock nudges something deeper inside of you that makes your toes curl.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice low and fraying, “you feel so good—so wet, so fucking tight.”
You moan in response, your fingers scrabbling along the planes of his back, down to the curve of his ass as you try to pull him deeper. His balls slap against you with every thrust now, heavy and damp with sweat and slick, the sound obscene and perfect.
“Right there,” you gasp when he hits the spot that has you seeing stars. “Johnny—don’t stop—”
He doesn’t. He keeps fucking into you like he’s found something sacred, like your body is giving him answers he didn’t know he was asking for. His pace falters only when your walls start fluttering around him, your body winding tight again with the start of another orgasm.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, his voice rough and raw as he wraps an arm beneath your back, lifting your hips just enough to change the angle. “Let go for me.”
The stretch hits different now, deeper and devastating. Your vision blurs as he drives into that spot over and over again, and when your climax finally hits, it tears through you. Your nails rake down his back as you cry out, trembling beneath him, your body locking up around his cock with a force that makes his breath stutter.
“Shit—” Johnny hisses, hips jerking erratically. “You’re so tight—baby, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna come—”
He buries his face in your neck, his moans muffled against your skin as his thrusts turn frantic. You feel him pulse inside you, hot and deep, filling you up as he groans through his release. His whole body shakes with it, his arms wrapped around you tight like he doesn’t want to let go.
You stay like that for a long moment, bodies slick and tangled, your breathing slowly syncing as the aftershocks ebb. His lips brush your shoulder, then your cheek, then your temple.
“Holy shit,” he murmurs.
You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah. Holy shit.”
Johnny stays buried inside you for a moment longer, his weight a welcome anchor as you both catch your breath. When he finally pulls out, it’s slow and careful, and you shiver at the drag, the wet heat that follows. He murmurs something soft against your skin, inaudible, but it sounds like it could be a thank you.
You watch him disappear into the bathroom, returning moments later with a warm, damp towel. He presses it gently between your thighs, whispering apologies when you flinch from the sensitivity. There’s a carefulness to him now, a sweetness that wasn’t there before—like he’s trying to make up for every rough breath, every urgent thrust.
“You okay?” he asks again, quieter this time, his thumb brushing along the inside of your knee.
You nod, and his lips curve, slow and relieved. He finishes cleaning you up, tosses the towel somewhere on the floor, then slips beneath the covers with you. His arm comes around your waist, tugging you into the heat of him. His skin is still flushed, sticky with sweat, but his heartbeat is slow and steady where your hand rests on his chest.
You think maybe you’ll talk, maybe he’ll say something about what just happened, something cheeky or maybe something too sincere, but instead he kisses the top of your head and exhales like he’s finally permitted himself to rest.
Wrapped in each other, sleep takes you slowly. The music from the ballroom has long since faded, and the world outside your window is silent, save for the faint hum of city traffic far below. His breath evens out before yours. Somewhere between dreams and dawn, you press your hand to his chest and let yourself believe, for just a little while, that this might mean something.
Light creeps in through the sheer curtains, pale gold and soft. The hum of the city is distant now, like it’s afraid to intrude. You shift under the sheets, reaching out for Johnny, but instead, you find yourself warm and alone.
For a moment, you think you dreamt him. That the ache between your thighs, the smudge of ink on your wrist—it’s all just leftover longing. But when you sit up, rubbing at your eyes, the memories hit like a film reel. His mouth on you, his voice in your ear, the stretch, the kiss, the way he looked at you like he didn’t want the night to end.
You glance at your wrist. The phone number is still there, smudged but legible.
When you unlock your phone, there’s a new voicemail. The number matches the one left on your arm. Without hesitation, you press play.
“Hey…I had to leave early. Something came up. But…dance with me again someday, yeah?”
Even in a recording, Johnny’s voice is quiet, shy, and hopeful.
You press the phone to your chest for a second, eyes closed. Then you press play again. And again.
Two weeks after the wedding, after you and Johnny decided to give things a try, you're already on your third date with him. It’s still early into the night, your heart buzzing more than your limbs.
You’re sitting at a table outside of a restaurant, paper cups of ice cream melting slowly in your hands. Johnny props his head up, resting his chin in his palm, his hair ruffled from the wind.
“You’re quiet,” he notes with a slight grin.
“I just…” You trail off before taking another scoop of ice cream. “I don’t want to mess this up.”
Johnny tilts his head. “You’re not going to.”
You glance over at him and something tugs in your chest like a thread. He smiles, then leans in and kisses your forehead with startling softness. It’s not rushed or expectant, only warm.
You pause, almost buffering from his actions. “Why does that feel like something people only do after years of knowing each other?”
He shrugs. “Maybe I want to know you for years.”
You laugh, too startled to mask it. “You don’t even know my birthday.”
“Challenge accepted.” He nudges your shoulder with his. “But for the record, I’ve already decided I want to be in your life for years.”
It was four months after that you had your first real fight with Johnny. It started with a text left on read, then escalated when you show up late to dinner, still in your work clothes, apologizing in a voice that doesn’t sound more tired than sincere.
After the night was over and Johnny had brought you back to your place, he was pacing in the small kitchen, arms folded, eyes sharp. “You said seven. It was almost nine when you finally came.”
“I got caught in a meeting—”
“You could’ve called or texted. You always say communication matters, but you never—”
You drop your bag with a thud. “Johnny, I would have if I could. I just got held up.”
Silence. You both look at each other, and the room suddenly feels too small.
“I’m sorry,” you say first.
Johnny exhales hard, deflating. He walks over and cups your face in his hands. “I just…missed you. And I hate that missing you makes me angry.”
“I hate that I didn’t try harder to get there for you.”
He leans his forehead against yours. “Let’s get better at this.”
You nod. “Okay.”
Two weeks after your first fight, you’re both half-awake, tangled in cotton sheets. It’s a Saturday. The world outside is gray and rainy, but the bed is golden—warm from skin, breath, and the kind of love that asks for nothing but presence.
Johnny shifts closer, an arm wrapping around your waist, his lips brushing the nape of your neck. “I had a dream about you,” he mumbles.
“Oh yeah?” you question, eyes still closed. “Was I taller than you?”
He chuckles, low in his throat. “No. You were writing something. And I was just…watching.”
“That’s boring,” you comment.
“It wasn’t. You looked happy. And I remember thinking I’d never seen anything better.”
You roll over, lying nose to nose with him. “You’re such a sap.”
He shrugs. “Some may say that. Others would disagree.”
You kiss him slowly, still bathing in the early morning light as rain keeps falling.
Almost a year to the day after that first wedding, you and Johnny dress up for another one, this time for one of your college friends, and this time, as a couple.
Johnny’s tie matches your dress, picked out weeks in advance, even though he acted like he didn’t care at the time. “Whatever you choose, you’ll look good in it,” he had teased.
It should’ve felt perfect.
But the car ride there was quiet. The air conditioner hummed louder than either of your voices. His hand rested on the gear shift instead of reaching for yours. You looked out the window instead of at him.
You had fought the night before. A stupid one, something about a missed call and a comment that didn’t land right. You told him not everything was about him. He said you never listened when he needed you to. And somehow the argument ended not in resolution, but in withdrawal.
Still, you both packed your bags that morning, knowing this weekend was supposed to be your staycation—a small anniversary celebration folded into the weekend event. One year. One whole year of being together, of choosing each other.
At the venue, you took photos in the photobooth with your heads pressed together and smiles too polished. You clapped when the bride walked down the aisle, and Johnny rubbed circles on your back during the ceremony. No one watching would guess there was anything wrong. The two of you together looked like love personified. Coordinated, beautiful, and glowing.
You slow danced with him under string lights, your chin on his shoulder, his breath soft against your temple. From the outside, it looked like it might just be you walking down the aisle next. But inside, you were both still somewhere else. Still at the foot of last night’s fight, still wondering why it hadn’t fully left your bodies. Still loving each other but loving through tight throats and second-guessing everything.
“I missed you,” Johnny whispered, the music covering his voice.
“I’m right here,” you replied. And you were. But it wasn’t enough.
Later that night, your shared hotel room is lit only by the soft glow of the bathroom light peeking around a corner. Outside, the city is sleeping. Inside, you both sit on opposite sides of the bed, half-dressed. He’s in his dress pants and an undershirt, you in your dress with the zipper down. Your heels lie discarded near the door. One of his socks is still on the floor by your bags, where he kicked it off without thinking.
No music. No TV. Just the silence of two people who love each other but don’t know how to act like it anymore.
You shift to lie back against the headboard, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “This room reminds me of the first night.”
Johnny glances over. “Yeah?”
“You couldn’t figure out how to get your tie undone, and I took it off for you.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “In my defense, I was nervous.”
“You didn’t seem nervous when you kissed me.”
His mouth twitches, forming into that soft half-smile that used to melt you. “I wasn’t thinking. I just…felt like I had to. Like if I didn’t, the moment would pass me by.”
You turn your head to look at him, seeing not just Johnny now, but the Johnny from a year ago who was brighter and less cautious. The one who danced with abandon. The one who never used to second-guess you.
“I liked that night,” you say quietly.
“Me too.” He shifts closer, but not enough to touch. His voice softens. “I think about it sometimes…how easy it felt.”
You nod. “Before we got too careful with each other.”
The silence stretches again. You know he’s trying. You are, too. You always were.
“Do you think we changed?” you ask.
Johnny leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “No. I think we just started carrying things we never thought to put down.” He looks back at you, eyes soft and unguarded. “I don’t want to lose this. Us.”
You swallow. “Neither do I.”
“But I don’t know how to fix it,” he admits.
You look at him for a long moment, the ache in your chest too familiar now. “I think we’ve been trying to fix it without saying what’s actually broken.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it again. And then, instead of responding, he reaches for your hand. You let him take it.
His fingers brush yours, tentative at first, then firmer. You thread them together, his palm warm against yours. The silence still hums, low and uncertain, but now there’s something else under it. Not quite forgiveness, not quite desire, but something shaped like muscle memory.
You lean in first, maybe out of habit, maybe because it’s easier than talking. Either way, Johnny’s mouth finds yours with practiced ease. There’s no rush, no fumbling. You’ve kissed like this a hundred times now. You know the way he likes to be kissed—slow at first, then deeper, with your hand in his hair and your knees nudging apart his thighs. He knows how to hold your waist, to tug gently at the straps of your dress as his lips part yours.
It doesn’t feel new. But it still feels like something.
You shift to straddle him, your dress hiked up around your hips. His hands glide over your thighs, up your back, under your bra. He unhooks it in one fluid motion, always so proud of how fast he learned. He palms your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples the way he knows makes you shiver.
You press your mouth to his neck, then his jaw, then back to his lips. When he groans, it’s not from surprise but from memory, from knowing exactly where this is going.
His fingers slide between your legs, pushing your panties to the side. He finds your clit with practiced precision, rubbing slow circles that build and build and build. You arch into him. He knows your rhythm better than anyone now.
You whisper his name, more out of habit than heat. He answers with your own, his breath hot against your shoulder.
When you reach down to free him from his pants, he’s already hard—not because of some wild, frenzied lust, but because that’s what happens when you touch him like this, when you kiss him like this. You get on your knees and take him in your mouth the way you always do, slow at first, then deeper, letting your lips stretch and your eyes water. His hand settles on your head, not guiding, just there, needing to feel you.
Johnny lasts longer now, knows how to hold himself back. He waits until you’re ready, until you’re looking up at him with that look that always gets him, the one that says ‘now.’
You climb back into his lap, press your mouth to his again, and sink onto him in one smooth motion. He fills you like he always does. Your bodies fall into that tempo, the one you’ve built over months of late nights and early mornings together. You ride him the way he likes, the way he always tells you that you look beautiful doing. He runs his hands along your hips, your waist, up to your chest. He mouths at your nipples, and you tilt your head back as a surrender to him. You let him have you knowing this part, at least, still works.
His voice breaks a little as he says your name again, his hips meeting yours. He reaches between you and rubs your clit with just enough pressure to make your legs shake. You clench around him, a reflex you can’t control, and he feels it—of course, he does. He always does.
Johnny’s fingers don’t falter, don’t press too hard or too light. He knows your edge like the back of his hand. The exact way your breath stutters, the way your thighs twitch when you’re almost there. He watches your face the way he always has. Reverent, focused, as if your pleasure is something precious.
Your orgasm crests with quiet intensity. It’s not loud or dramatic. It’s full-bodied, spine-arching, the kind that takes everything with it—your breath, your thoughts, the weight of all the things left unsaid. You gasp and shudder through it, and Johnny holds you through every second, rubbing you through the comedown, kissing your shoulder while you tremble.
He’s close too. You can feel it in the way his thighs tense beneath you, the way his hands grip harder at your hips. You sit up and reach between you, taking him in your hand as you start stroking him just the way he likes, the way you know always unravels him. You shift your hips again and sit back down into his lap, slower now.
He moans against your chest, teeth grazing the swell of your breast. “You’re gonna make me come,” he breathes, voice raw and wrecked, the way it always gets when he’s right there.
You nod and press your forehead to his. “I know.”
You clench around him again, on purpose this time, and he groans out a low, broken sound that makes you ache all over again. His thrusts stutter and then stop completely as he spills inside you, his breath catching, his face buried against your neck. You hold him close, fingers in his hair, letting him finish in your arms the way he always does.
For a moment, you both just breathe. Sweaty. Breathless. Tangled together in a quiet hotel room, just like you were a year ago.
It was good sex. Great, even. Familiar. Attentive. Loving, in its own tired way.
But when it’s over, you’re still here. Still carrying everything you were before you started.
And maybe that’s the part that hurt the most.
It’s nearly dawn when you and Johnny find your way to the rooftop of the hotel. The place hasn’t changed. The same rusted railings. The same strings of lights, one or two bulbs flickering like they’re stuck in time. The city hums below, but up here, it’s quiet. Perhaps too quiet.
You’re both sitting side by side on a ledge, knees barely touching. A bottle of cheap wine between you. One glass is passed back and forth like it always used to be. Only now it feels ceremonial, not intimate, as if you’re offering each other memories instead of sips.
The air smells like warm concrete and distant rain. You used to call it ‘the spot’, this crooked little corner of the skyline where you once danced barefoot with him, careless and a little tipsy. Back then, the rooftop felt infinite, like anything said here would echo forward into forever.
Now the silence echoes louder.
You steal a glance at Johnny. He looks tired in the way only love can wear someone down. His smile is soft but doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His hands fidget with the label on the wine bottle like he’s peeling away something that won’t come off clean.
You’re here to talk. But neither of you is saying anything.
A thought slips your mind before you can grasp it. “We didn’t fall out of love. We just…kept breaking it.”
Johnny flinches like he wasn’t expecting that, like he came here hoping for one last dance, not an autopsy of your relationship.
“I thought this was our beginning,” he says, voice low. “I didn’t know it was our peak.”
That sits between you, heavy and quiet. The wine does help. Neither does the view.
It’s strange how sometimes grief doesn’t need yelling or tears. Sometimes it’s just two people sitting too far apart on a rooftop they once called their special place.
“I’m sorry.” He finally looks at you. “For all the times I made you carry it alone.”
You nod. “Me too. For holding it like it was mine to fix.”
The words don’t come out clean, but they’re real. And for a second, that’s enough.
Then comes the question you’ve both been circling like it might bite.
“So…what are we now?”
You shrug. “I don’t know. Weren’t we everything?”
Johnny breathes out something like a laugh or a sigh. “Ghosts, maybe. Or just two people who remember each other too well.” You laugh too, but it sounds hollow, like the rooftop already swallowed it up.
When you look at him again, you realize the hardest truth. You weren’t trying to build something new. You were just trying to relive the best part, to play the song again, hoping the dance would come back with it.
“When did we stop dancing together?” you ask.
“Maybe when we started expecting it to last forever.”
And that’s the thing about love. Sometimes it ends with silence, with a single glass of wine, with your knees barely touching while on the roof where it all began.
The sun breaks slowly over the skyline, dragging soft gold across the rooftops and catching the edges of old brick, rusted pipes, and the empty wine glass. Everything is dipped in amber, like the morning is trying to preserve this moment in honey—a farewell sweetened by nostalgia.
You haven’t spoken in a while. The words ran out somewhere between confession and silence, and now all that’s left is the city waking up and the unspoken knowing stretching between your bodies.
You stand. He follows. There’s nothing left to say. And still, your chest aches with everything you didn’t.
Johnny doesn’t reach for your hand, doesn’t try to stop you. He just looks at you the way someone might look at the last page of their favorite book, knowing it has to end, even if they’re not ready to close it.
Then, gently, he steps forward and pulls you into his arms. But he doesn’t go for your lips like he usually would. Not this time.
His lips find your forehead and leave a kiss that says ‘I loved you deeply.’ A kiss that says ‘I’m letting go.’
It feels like a benediction. A blessing for what you were. A goodbye wrapped in tenderness.
“I’ll never regret you,” he whispers.
“Me neither,” you say, and it’s the truest thing you’ve spoken all night.
The drive back is quiet. It’s not tense, it’s just quiet in a way that feels sacred, as if you’re both honoring something that died in the sunrise.
When Johnny pulls up in front of your building, you don’t wait. You simply get out with your bags, close the door, and walk away.
Neither of you looks back at the other. But the beat of your first dance together plays in your memory on loop—not as a regret, but as a gift. A flash of something golden and impossible. The night you met flickers behind your eyes like the city lights through his windshield. He hears it too, you know it. He feels it echo in his chest as he drives off.
You were never a match. Just a spark that burned too bright, too fast. But oh, how beautiful it was to be loved by him.
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