୨ৎ .ᐟ 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒, 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 ── test.
. ݁₊ ⊹ plot: you’re backstage after your match, exhausted and hurting, too worn down to hide it. you pull on one of test’s, your boyfriend who you have a tense relationship with, shirts without thinking, trying to steady yourself. when he finds you like that—small, vulnerable, fraying at the edges—he finally says what’s been sitting heavy in his chest. you don’t believe him at first, convinced he’ll leave like everyone else, but he doesn’t let you push him away.
. ݁₊ ⊹ notes: TEST… odd (at least for me), butttt, i’m always happy to write for what my readers wanna see!! 🤷♀️ (this is also not meant to be a dig at any fans of him!!!!)
the backstage hallways still hummed with noise from the arena, muffled like the roar of a storm through thick walls. you slipped into the first quiet space you could find: test’s “locker room”. actually, just some random dressing room with a door sign with “test” on it from a segment earlier that night. your ribs were taped tight, every breath tugging against the tape, and sweat clung sticky to your skin. you didn’t have the energy to make it to the women’s shared locker room. a shirt was draped over a chair in there, oversized and soft, smelling faintly like him. you pulled it on, sinking onto the bench, sleeves hanging long past your elbows. for the first time all night, you let yourself sag.
the door creaked open. you tensed but didn’t look up. heavy steps crossed the threshold of the hallways and the room, then paused. you could feel his gaze on you before he spoke, the weight of it making you shift on the bench. when you finally glanced over, he was leaning against the doorframe, towel looped around his neck, hair damp from a post-show shower. a smirk tugged at his mouth, though his eyes softened the second they landed on you. “you look good in my shirt.”
you rolled your eyes, but the motion lacked bite. “don’t start.”, you muttered, sleeves bunched around your elbows. you two were dating; technically… but doubt ate at you, chewing through every quiet moment. you wore his shirt like it belonged to you, yet deep down, you couldn’t silence the voice telling you you didn’t. your words came thin, frayed at the edges. you kept your head down, staring at the floor, but your hands betrayed you. shaking when you pressed them lightly to your ribs, trying to hide the tremor from him.
the smirk faded. he shut the door behind him, the click echoing in the silence. boots thudded until he crouched in front of you, bringing himself level with your bent frame. one large hand landed steady on your knee, heat bleeding through the fabric. you tried to avoid his gaze, but his brows drew together, eyes sharp and unyielding, reading every flicker in your face you thought you had hidden.
“i’m fine”, you whispered, shaking your head. the lie was brittle, already cracked. you shifted back, but he caught your wrist—not forceful, just anchoring. for a long beat, stillness stretched, thick and heavy. then he exhaled, rough and low, as though the words had been buried in him too long.
“i’ve loved you all along.” your breath caught. wide eyes flicked to him before skittering away, unable to hold. “you don’t mean that.”, you whispered, voice breaking. “you say things, but… you’ll get tired of me. you’ll walk away like everyone else eventually.” your throat burned with the effort to get the words out, your chest tight, not from the tape, but from the fear clawing at your insides.
his palm lifted, cradling your cheek. the pad of his thumb brushed against a tear you hadn’t realized escaped. “look at me.”, he said softly, and when you did, he held you there. his voice carried no hesitation, no room for doubt, each word steady as stone: “i’m not leaving you. not now, not ever.”
something in you cracked open. he pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you as if he could shield you from every ache and fear. the shirt you wore… his shirt… smelled like him, warm and familiar, and his hand slid to the back of her head, keeping you tucked safe against him. you finally let go, quiet sobs shaking through your ribs, soaking into his chest as he held you tighter. he didn’t speak again. he didn’t have to. his chin rested on your hair, his body solid, and for the first time… you let yourself believe him.
