Thea Bae @theabae - Tumblr Blog

Violet Haze and Iron Hearts

➛ Pairing: JFK Jr and reader

➛ Genre: contemporary romance, slow burn, emotional drama, psychological romance, angst/hurt-comfort, age gap, celebrity/public figure romance, obsessive love (soft, emotional focus), high-society, family & media drama, found-connection, yn is unable to feel emotionally, suggestive

➛ Summary: She never stayed long enough to belong to anyone, especially not to him. A man the world watches closely, and a man who, for the first time in his life, loses control over exactly one thing: her.

This is not a love story that begins with certainty. It begins with return. Again and again. Until one day, coming back changes what “love” even means, and neither of them can afford to walk away anymore.

As this is my secondary blog, I have decided to make my writing account my primary platform, so I’ve created a new account under the same name where all future stories will be posted.

Continue reading my ongoing (and incomplete) works there at @baethea This account will remain active, but there will be no further updates. All unfinished stories will now be continued and updated on the new account.

Jfk jr Masterlist

The first thing that hits him is the mascara. Smudged. Not dramatically, just enough to betray that she tried to fix it before walking in.

John doesn’t look up immediately. He’s halfway through a conversation, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a glass he hasn’t sipped from in ten minutes. The room is dense with familiar noise, politics, publishing, legacy. The kind of room he was born into. But then, a shift. Not loud, not obvious. Just the way the air tilts when she enters. He exhales once, slow.

“Excuse me,” he says, already stepping away before the other man finishes speaking. Because of course it’s you. It’s always you.

You don’t walk like you’re breaking, you never do.

Even now, eyes glossy, lips parted like you forgot to breathe properly, you carry yourself like something curated. Controlled. Untouchable. Except he knows better. He always has.

“John,” you say, like it hasn’t been months.

Like you didn’t vanish again. Like you didn’t leave him standing in his own apartment the last time, staring at a door that clicked too softly for something that ended so loudly.

He studies you. Not your face, your posture. The way your fingers curl slightly inward. The tension in your shoulders.

“You’re crying,” he says quietly.

You give a small shrug. “Not really.”

A lie. A familiar one.

.

Then - Three Months Into Something That Wasn’t Supposed to Matter

He met you at a gallery opening.

Not because he wanted to be therebut because someone told him he should. You were standing in front of a piece you clearly weren’t looking at. “You hate it,” he said beside you.

You didn’t turn. “I hate the people pretending they understand it.” That was it. No spark, no dramatic pull, just alignment. You didn’t ask who he was. Which, for him, was new. For you, it was irrelevant.

.

Back to the Party

Now, months later, years tangled between then and now, you’re standing in front of him like you always do when something goes wrong in your life. Not asking. Just arriving.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” you ask.

No apology. No explanation. Just a quiet, practiced vulnerability. Something in him shifts. Because this, this exact moment has happened too many times. Different dresses, different cities, same eyes, same distance.

“You don’t get to do that anymore,” he says.

You blink, it’s subtle, lmost imperceptible but he catches it.

“You don’t get to disappear for months,” he continues, voice even, “and show up when something hurts and expect me to just—” he stops, because you step closer.

Not dramatically, not seductively, just enough. Your fingers brush his wrist and like always, he stills.

“John,” you murmur, softer now. “I didn’t know where else to go.” and that’s the problem. It’s 'always' him. Never because you want him. Always because you need somewhere to land.

He looks down at your hand on him, then back at your face, and something cracks. Not loudly, not visibly, but internally. Something fractures in a man who has spent his entire life composed.

“Come on,” he says finally.

.

His apartment hasn’t changed, you notice it immediately. Same books, same scent, same quiet order. Like time pauses here, waiting for you to either stay or leave again.

You slip off your heels without asking, you always do. He watches you like he’s memorizing something he’s already lost too many times.

“Bathroom’s the same,” he says.

“Of course it is,” you reply, already walking away.

Like you belong here, like you never left. He runs a hand through his hair. This is how it starts again. Every time.

.

Flashback - The First Kiss

It wasn’t planned. You weren’t even looking at him, you were talking, something about fabric, about movement, about how clothes should 'feel' like something even if people don’t and then you stopped mid-sentence.

Looked at him, really looked and said, “You’re different than I expected.”

“Disappointed?” he asked. You shook your head. “No. Curious.”

You kissed him first. Not soft, not hesitant. Just decisive, like testing a theory.

.

Back in the present

You step out of the bathroom, face clean now, his shirt hanging off your frame. You look younger like this. Less untouchable. More dangerous. “Why now?” he asks.

You lean against the counter, arms crossed loosely. “I messed something up,” you say.

“What else is new?”

You smile faintly, not offended. You never are.

“Are you going to ask what?” you tilt your head.

“No,” he replies. “Because it doesn’t matter. You’ll still leave again.” That lands, not on your heart but somewhere else. A place you don’t quite recognize. “You always say that,” you murmur.

“And I’m always right.”

Silence stretches, different this time, then you walk toward him. Slowly. Measured. Like you’re aware of every inch between you.

“Then why do you let me come back?” you ask.

He lets out a breath, almost a laugh nut there’s nothing amused about it. “Because I don’t know how not to.”

You stare at him, longer than usual. Long enough that something almost shifts inside you. Almost. Then you kiss him and it’s the same, and not the same. Familiar heat, familiar rhythm. But his hands, they hesitate now. Just for a second. Before pulling you closer, harder. Like he’s trying to prove something or forget something. “Love…” he murmurs against your lips.

His nickname for you. Soft. Worn. Dangerous.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

“Don’t start,” you whisper, because that word, that 'tone', it asks for something you don’t have. But he doesn’t stop, not this time.

.

Morning comes too quietly, it always does here. You wake before him, not because you sleep lightly, but because you never really sleep 'deeply' beside him. There’s always a part of you awake. Observing. Detached.

The sheets are warm, his arm draped over your waist in a way that feels instinctive, not deliberate. Like his body has already decided something his mind is still trying to negotiate. You don’t move immediately. Instead, you watch.

John sleeping is different. Softer, younger, almost. The tension in his jaw disappears, his brows smooth out. He looks like someone who doesn’t carry a name that’s constantly being watched, dissected, expected. You study him like you study fabric before a design, texture, structure, weight. Understanding without feeling. Your fingers hover over his face. Not touching, just tracing the air above him.

“Are you going to do that all morning?” His voice is rough with sleep, but steady.

You don’t flinch. “I wasn’t touching you.”

“You don’t have to.” His eyes open slowly, locking onto yours. There’s no confusion in them. No hesitation, just recognition. “You’re still here,” he says. Not a question, something closer to disbelief.

You tilt your head slightly. “That bothers you?”

“It should,” he replies.

His hand tightens slightly at your waist. Not possessive, not yet, just confirming. “You usually leave before I wake up,” he adds.

You consider that. Not defensively, just factually.

“I didn’t feel like getting dressed.”

A corner of his mouth lifts, not quite a smile “Of course.”

He sits up slowly, running a hand through his hair. There’s a shift already, subtle but there.

.

Last night was a crack. Morning is structure trying to rebuild.

“You can stay,” he says after a moment.

You raise an eyebrow. “I already am.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You watch him now. Closely, because this, this tone, it’s new.

“I mean,” he continues, slower now, choosing each word, “you don’t have to leave tonight.”

There it is. Not a request, not quite a plea but something 'dangerously close'.

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you slide out of bed, his shirt falling further down your thigh as you move toward the window. The city looks different from up here. Smaller, manageable. “I have work,” you say.

He exhales softly behind you. Of course you do. You always do, you don’t exist quietly, not really. Not anymore. In the fashion industry, you’re becoming something. Not famous, not yet but watched, discussed. Your work, structured, restrained, precise, mirrors you too well for people not to notice. You design like someone who understands control better than emotion and lately, there have been whispers. Photos, you and him. Grainy at first, then clearer. More intentional.

“Have you seen it?” he asks from behind you.

You don’t turn “I don’t look for things I already know exist.”

A quiet huff of breath, half amusement, half frustration.

“They’re going to keep following you,” he says.

“They already do.”

“That’s not the same.”

Now you turn “It is to me.”

That’s the difference. For him, the public is pressure. For you, it’s just background noise. He studies you for a long moment and something in his expression tightens “You really don’t care,” he says.

You shrug lightly “I care about my work.”

“And nothing else?”

You don’t answer, because the honest answer is complicated. Not no, not yes, just, not enough.

.

Later that week

The first real fracture doesn’t happen in private. Of course it doesn’t, nothing with him ever does. It happens at a dinner, not just any dinner, a Kennedy family dinner. You knew what you were walking into, you always do. The room is warm, elegant, filled with people who have known him his entire life. People who look at you and don’t just see 'you'. They see context, implication, risk. You don’t shrink under it, you never have.

“You must be the one we’ve been hearing about,” a woman says, smiling politely.

You return it perfectly “And you must be someone who listens closely.”

There’s a flicker, subtle but noticed. Across the table, John watches you. Not intervening, not correcting. Just observing. Because this is where things shift. Not in the way you behave but in how it lands. You don’t soften for them, you don’t adapt, you don’t try and they notice.

Later in the car, silence stretches too long.

“You could’ve tried,” he says finally.

You look out the window “I did.”

He lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “No, you didn’t.”

Now you turn “I showed up,” you say. “That’s more than trying.”

“That’s attendance,” he replies. “Not effort.”

There it is, the first real edge. You study him, not hurt, not defensive, just curious.

“Why does it matter?” you ask.

His jaw tightens. Because the answer is obvious to him but not to you. “Because they matter,” he says.

“And?”

“And you matter,” he adds, sharper now. “So I’d like the two parts of my life to—” He stops. Recalibrates. “To coexist,” he finishes.

You look at him for a long moment. You shake your head slightly “I don’t fit into your life like that.”

Something in his chest pulls' hard “I’m not asking you to fit,” he says. “I’m asking you to try.”

“And I’m telling you,” you reply calmly, “that I don’t want to.”

Silence, final in a way neither of you fully acknowledges yet.

.

It doesn’t explode, it dissolves. You’re in his apartment again. Same place, same couch, different air.

“You’re already leaving,” he says quietly.

You’re standing near the door. Shoes on. Composed. “I think I should,” you reply. No tears, no shaking voice, just clarity.

“Why?” he asks.

You pause. Because you could lie but you don’t “This is getting too defined,” you say.

He stares at you. Not understanding or maybe understanding too well. “That’s the point,” he says.

You shake your head slightly “No, John. That’s your point.”

“I don’t feel what you feel,” you continue. Not cruel, not apologetic, just honest.

His throat tightens but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I like being with you,” you add. “I like how you touch me. I like how easy it is.”

“But I don’t 'miss' you when I’m gone.”

There it is, the cleanest cut.

He exhales slowly like he’s trying to hold something in place inside himself. “And you think that’s not going to change?” he asks. You hesitate. Just for a second “I don’t know,” you admit. Hope. A dangerous, immediate thing. It flickers in his eyes.

"So stay,” he says. “Let it change.”

You look at him. Really look this time and for the first time there’s something like conflict but, it’s not enough.

“I don’t want to promise something I can’t give,” you say softly.

His jaw tightens again. “I’m not asking for a promise,” he replies. “I’m asking you not to walk away before it has a chance.”

You pick up your bag “That’s the only way I know how to do this.” And then, you’re gone.

The door closes too quietly. Again.

John doesn’t move immediately. He just stands there. Staring at the space you occupied seconds ago. This time feels different, not because you left but because of 'what you said'.

"I don’t miss you."

He lets out a breath. Short. Sharp. For most of his life, he’s been wanted. Desired. Chosen but this, this is something else entirely.

You don’t choose him, you 'return' to him and somehow, that’s worse. He runs a hand over his face then laughs once.

Under his breath. “Jesus Christ” because the worst part? He already knows you’ll come back and he’ll let you.

.

He doesn’t call you, that’s the first change. John has always believed in restraint, timing, distance, control. It’s how he’s lived most of his adult life and now, for the first time with you, he tries to use it. Days pass then a week, then two. He sees you anyway. Not in person, never that easy. A photograph first. Grainy, taken outside a studio downtown. You, stepping out of a car, oversized sunglasses, your expression unreadable as always.

Then headlines. Not about you, about 'him'.

*“Kennedy Junior's New Obsession?”*

*“Who Is the Woman Behind John Jr.’s Sudden Disappearance?”*

*“From Playboy to Private. What Changed?”*

He stares at the last one longer than he should because he knows the answer. You. And the fact that you don’t even realize it. He tosses the magazine aside, runs a hand through his hair, walks to the window. He could call. He doesn’t, because this time, he wants to see what you do without him holding the door open.

.

You notice it. Not emotionally, not in the way he would want but structurally. Your routine shifts slightly. Less interruption, fewer late nights that blur into mornings. No familiar apartment waiting at the end of a long day. It’s quieter.

You stand in your studio, pinning fabric onto a mannequin, adjusting the fall of a sleeve. Your assistant is talking, something about a client, a deadline. You nod at the right moments, respond when necessary but there’s a pause, small, almost unnoticeable.

When your phone lights up and it’s not him. You stare at it a second longer than needed then go back to work. That’s the thing about you, you don’t 'ache'. You 'register' and right now, you’re registering absence.

.

The Second Collision

It happens at an event you weren’t supposed to see him at. A magazine launch. High-profile. Predictable.

You’re there because you have to be. He’s there because he 'is'.

The room hums with attention. But when he walks in, it shifts. He doesn’t look for you, that’s intentional but he finds you anyway. Standing near the bar, speaking to someone he doesn’t recognize. You’re composed, effortless. Untouched. Like nothing ever happened. Something in his chest tightens. Not sharply, not painfully, just persistently. You feel it too, that shift. Your eyes move before you think about it.

And then, there he is. Across the room. Watching you. Not approaching, not calling you over, just watching.

You excuse yourself mid-conversation, walk toward him. Not rushed, not hesitant. Measured.

“John.”

His name on your lips still does something to him.

Annoyingly. Inevitably.

“Love,” he replies automatically, then catches himself just slightly.

You notice

“You didn’t call,” you say.

He tilts his head “And you didn’t come back.”

“That’s not how this works,” you reply.

Something in his expression shifts, sharper now. “No,” he says. “That’s exactly how it works. You leave. You come back. I stay.”

You study him. Because this tone, you haven’t heard before.

“And this time?” you ask.

He takes a slow breath. Steps just a fraction closer “This time I wanted to see if you’d choose to come back,” he says.

You don’t answer immediately, not because you’re conflicted but because you’re thinking. “I’m here,” you say finally.

His jaw tightens. “That’s not the same.”

You tilt your head. “Why not?”

Because to you, presence is presence but to him, it’s never been that simple.

“Because you didn’t come for me,” he says quietly.

You blink once. “I don’t think like that,” you reply.

“I know,” he says. And that hurts more than if he didn’t.

.

The second break

You don’t go home with him that night, that’s the shift. Instead, you sit in his car. Engine off, city noise bleeding in through the windows.

“You’re doing it again,” he says.

You look straight ahead. “I’m sitting here.”

“No,” he replies. “You’re keeping distance without leaving.”

You don’t deny it because it’s true.

“I don’t want things to get like before,” you say.

He lets out a quiet laugh. Not amused.

“Before?” he repeats. “You mean when I cared too much?”

You turn to him now. “Yes."

The honesty lands harder this time.

“And that’s a problem for you?” he asks.

You nod slightly. “It complicates things.”

“Things like what?” he presses.

You hesitate because putting it into words makes it clearer. “Expectations,” you say. “Feelings I can’t return. Pressure to be something I’m not.”

He stares at you, longer this time. “And what am I to you?” he asks.

You don’t answer immediately because you 'do' have an answer but it’s not one he’ll like. “You’re…” you start, then pause.

He waits. Doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t push.

“Easy,” you finish. That does it.

He leans back in his seat, runs a hand over his mouth. “Easy,” he repeats quietly.

You nod. “I don’t have to feel anything I don’t understand with you,” you explain. “I don’t have to try.”

“And you think that’s a good thing?” he asks.

You shrug. “It works.”

He looks at you like he’s seeing something clearly for the first time. “No,” he says. “It works for you."

“It’s ruining me.” he adds

That lands differently. Not emotionally, not yet but structurally. Again. You watch him carefully. “You’ll be fine,” you say and you mean it. That’s the problem.

He shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says. “I won’t. Not if I keep letting you do this.” You don’t argue. Because part of you, a small, quiet part, knows he’s right. “So don’t,” you say simply. That’s your solution, always has been.

He lets out a breath. Long. Controlled. “Get out,” he says.

You look at him, not hurt but surprised. “John—”

“Get out,” he repeats. Quieter this time and you do because that’s what you do best. Leave.

.

This time he doesn’t stand at the door. He doesn’t wait, he doesn’t replay your words immediately. He grips the steering wheel, hard. “Easy,” he mutters to himself and something in him, something controlled for years, starts to twist because it’s not just that you don’t love him. It’s that you 'experience him without consequence' and he’s drowning in something you barely register. That imbalance? It doesn’t fade, it deepens.

You walk away like you always do, steady, composed, untouched but later, much later you’re alone and you think about something he said. "It’s ruining me." You don’t feel guilt. Not exactly but something lingers. Unfamiliar, unlabeled. You sit with it for a moment then stand up and go back to work like always.

You don’t plan to come back, that’s the first truth.

There’s no moment of longing, no sleepless night, no sudden realization, it’s practical. Your show is in three weeks. Everything is moving too fast fabric delays, investors asking questions, press starting to circle. Your name is appearing in articles now. Not just industry ones, lifestyle columns, society pages and sometimes right next to his.

You stare at one headline longer than necessary:

*“Kennedy’s Cold Flame Returns to the Spotlight Alone”*

Cold.

You don’t react but you don’t look away immediately either.

.

John doesn’t read everything written about him, he never has but he reads anything with your name in it not obsessively, not outwardly, just consistently. He knows your schedule without trying. Show dates. Studio hours. Which events you attend, and which you avoid, not because he’s following you but because he notices patterns , you’re predictable in ways you don’t realize and nd right now you’re about to break one.

.

The Third Return

It’s late. Not too late. Just late enough that it means something. You stand outside his building, looking up. There’s no hesitation in your posture, only in your stillness then you walk in.

He opens the door before you knock. That stops you, just slightly.

“You always come back around this time,” he says.

Not accusing, not welcoming, just stating.

You study him because something is different.

“You were waiting?” you ask.

“No,” he replies. “I expected it.” he adds

You step inside anyway. The apartment feels the same but he doesn’t. There’s distance in him now, not absence but distance.

“I have a show,” you say. Straight to the point.

His gaze flickers slightly, not surprised.

“I know,” he replies.

You walk further in, set your bag down like before, like always.

“I need…” you start, then pause.

He waits, doesn’t help you finish.

You try again. “I need things to be uncomplicated right now.”

Silence. A quiet exhale.

“You mean you need me to be easy again,” he says.

You don’t deny it. “Yes.”

That word, it lands heavier now because this time he understands exactly what you’re asking.

He walks closer, slowly. Not pulled, not reactive, deliberate. “You don’t get to decide that anymore,” he says.

You nod “That’s what this has always been,” you reply.

He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “That’s what you made it.”

“And you let me,” you add.

That hits because it’s true, but this time, he doesn’t deflect it. “Not anymore,” he says quietly.

You step closer because that’s what you do when things get complicated, you simplify them physically. Your fingers touch his wrist, slide up his arm. He doesn’t stop you but he doesn’t melt into it either. That’s new.

“John,” you murmur his name soft, familiar.

You lean in and kiss him, and for a second it’s the same then it isn’t.

His hand moves to your jaw. Firm. Still controlled but not yielding. He pulls back just enough to look at you. “Don’t do that to fix it,” he says. Your breath catches. Not emotionally but physically because that, that interrupts your pattern. “I’m not fixing anything,” you reply softly.

“Yes, you are,” he says. “You always do.”

Your fingers tighten slightly against his shirt.

“And it works,” you say.

He studies you carefully then he kisses you again.

But this time it’s not easy. It’s slower. Intentional. Almost searching. Like he’s trying to find something in you, something that might not exist. His forehead rests against yours briefly.

“Stay tonight,” he says.

Not a question, not a plea. Something else.

You stay but it doesn’t feel like before.

There’s less lightness, less instinctive rhythm, more pauses, more moments where he looks at you like he’s trying to understand something deeper than your body. You respond the same way you always do. Touch. Closeness. Precision.

You know exactly what he likes, exactly how to satisfy him and you do but this time, he notices something. Not what you’re doing but what you’re 'not'. There’s no loss in you, no surrender, no emotional slip, you’re present perfectly but untouched and for the first time, that doesn’t comfort him. It unsettles him.

.

The Third Break

Morning again but this one, feels heavier. You’re getting dressed. Back to routine. He watches from the bed. Silent.

“You’re leaving,” he says.

You nod. “I told you,” you reply. “I have work.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You don’t respond because you know what he meant. He sits up. “This doesn’t work for me anymore,” he says.

You turn “Last night seemed fine,” you reply.

There it is again, surface-level truth. He lets out a breath. “That’s exactly the problem,” he says.

You study him. “I don’t understand what you want me to do differently,” you admit. That’s the most honest thing you’ve said.

He softens slightly. Just slightly. “I want you to feel something,” he says.

You hold his gaze. “I don’t know how,” you reply.

There’s no manipulation in it, no evasion. Just truth and that breaks something in him more than anything else so far. He looks away, runs a hand through his hair.

“Then I can’t keep doing this,” he says quietly

“Because I do.” he adds

You don’t move, don’t interrupt, don’t soften it “Okay,” you say and that’s it. No fight, no pull, no attempt to stay. You leave.

Again.

This time he doesn’t try to stop you but he doesn’t let go either, because now, he understands something clearly. You’re not withholding. You’re incapable and somehow that makes him want you more, not less, because now it’s not just about being loved. It’s about being the one who finally makes you 'feel' and that’s where it stops being simple.

You go back to your life, like always but something is different, not inside your chest, not in your heart but in your thoughts. You replay something he said. 'I want you to feel something.'

You don’t understand it. Not fully but for the first time, you 'notice' that you don’t and that awareness? It stays.

.

You don’t go back to him immediately, that’s the first difference. Days pass then weeks. Your show gets closer, and with it, attention. Not just industry attention, public attention.

Your name starts appearing more frequently beside his again, even without recent photos.

Speculation fills the gaps, it always does.

*“On-again, off-again?”*

*“The woman who won’t commit.”*

*“Is she using him or is he chasing her?”*

You don’t read most of it but people around you do and they start behaving differently. More careful with their words, more curious with their silence.

.

Family Pressure

John is used to scrutiny. He was born into it.

But this feels different because now it’s not just about him. It’s about you too.

“She doesn’t seem invested.” The comment is light, casual, over dinner by his sister but it lands.

He doesn’t respond immediately, just sets his glass down carefully. “You’ve only met her once,” he says.

A small smile across the table. Knowing.

“And that was enough to notice.”

He’s not defensive, not outwardly but something in him tightens because she's not wrong.

.

Pressure Without Penetration

Your mother calls. She doesn’t ask directly but she circles it. “You’ve been photographed again.”

You hum softly, adjusting a seam with precise fingers.

“He’s visible,” she continues.

“So am I,” you reply.

“That’s not the same.”

You don’t argue because it isn’t but it doesn’t change anything either.

“You’re getting more attention than your work,” she adds.

That you register. Your hand stills slightly. “I’ll fix that,” you say and you mean it.

.

The Fourth Return

You go to him this time with intention. Not emotional, not impulsive. Strategic. He opens the door slower this time.

Takes you in, fully. “You look like you’ve made a decision,” he says.

You step inside. “I have,” you reply.

That immediately shifts the air.

He closes the door, leans against it.

“Should I be concerned?” he asks.

You shake your head slightly “No. You should listen.”

That almost makes him smile because you’ve never positioned yourself like this before. Controlled. Directed.

“Alright,” he says. “I’m listening.”

You don’t sit. You don’t soften. “My show is in two weeks,” you begin. “There’s too much attention right now. It’s affecting how people see my work.”

He watches you carefully. “And?” he prompts.

“And I need distance from you publicly,” you say.

A quiet, almost amused exhale “Publicly,” he repeats.

You nod. “Yes.”

“And privately?” he asks.

You meet his gaze directly. “Uncomplicated.” The word again but this time it lands differently.

He doesn’t respond right away, he walks past you. Slow. Runs a hand along the back of the couch. Thinking.

“You want me hidden,” he says finally.

“No,” you correct. “I want control over how I’m perceived.”

“And I interfere with that.”

You don’t answer because you don’t need to.

He lets out a quiet laugh “Of course I do.”

There’s no anger in it, not yet but something colder is forming.

You step closer because again this is where you know how to navigate.

“John,” you say softly.

He turns to you and for a moment there’s something unreadable in his eyes. You kiss him and this time he lets you but only for a second. Then his hand moves firm on your waist, stopping you. “No,” he says quietly.

“What?” you ask.

“You don’t get to negotiate me like this,” he says.

Your expression doesn’t change much. “I’m not negotiating you,” you reply. “I’m setting boundaries.”

He steps closer “No,” he repeats. “You’re setting conditions where you get everything you want and I disappear when it’s inconvenient.”

“That’s not happening anymore"

.

The Fourth Break - The First Time He Walks Away First

Silence stretches, you study him. Adjusting. Recalculating.

“This is temporary,” you say. “After the show—”

“No,” he cuts in. Not loud, not sharp, just final.

“You don’t get to schedule me into your life when it suits you,” he continues

Your jaw tightens slightly “I’m not asking you to disappear,” you say.

“You are,” he replies “And the worst part?” he adds quietly “You don’t even see it.”

That lands, not emotionally but cognitively.

“Fine,” you say no argument, no persuasion.

“If that’s how you feel.” and there it is again.

That distance. That ease of exit.

This time, he doesn’t ask you to leave. He just steps aside and lets you go.

The door closes and this time, he doesn’t stay still. He moves. Pacing. Running a hand through his hair because something just changed. Before you left, and he reacted.

Now, He 'anticipated' you. He saw it coming and still it hit harder because now he understands something else: You don’t just avoid feelings. You restructure reality to avoid ever needing them and he’s trying to exist inside that structure. Which means he’s either going to break it or break himself.

You walk away like you always do but this time smething doesn’t settle. Not in your chest, not in your heart but in your mind. He said no. That’s new. You replay it not emotionally but analytically.

Why did it feel different? Why did it disrupt your rhythm?

You sit in your car. Hands resting lightly on the steering wheel and for the first time you don’t start the engine immediately. You just sit. Thinking.

.

The night of your show arrives with precision. Nothing about it is chaotic. Everything is controlled, curated, exact.

Backstage hums with quiet urgency, fabric being adjusted, heels clicking, voices low but fast. You move through it like you always do: calm, composed, untouched by the pressure pressing in from every direction. This is your world and here, you don’t falter but outside? It’s different tonight.

The press turnout is larger than expected.

Not because of your collection but because of you and because of him. Even though he’s not there. That doesn’t stop them.

*“Is Kennedy Junior attending tonight?”*

*“Are you still seeing him?”*

*“Is the relationship over?”*

You don’t answer, you never do but the absence, it speaks anyway.

.

John isn’t there. Not physically but he’s watching.

The coverage is everywhere, live updates, photos, commentary.

And then, a name appears. Not his, another man. A known investor. Well-dressed. Well-positioned. Standing beside you in multiple shots. Close, too close.

His jaw tightens, he knows how this works. He’s lived in this world long enough to understand implication is everything. Still that doesn’t stop the reaction.

You didn’t plan for it. The proximity. The photos.

It just happened. He was there, he spoke, you responded and when cameras flashed, you didn’t step away because you didn’t see a reason to. That’s always been the difference.

You don’t calculate emotional consequences, only practical ones and right now this benefits you.

Visibility.

Connections.

Funding. It makes sense, so you allow it.

.

The Return

You go to him that same night, not because you miss him but because it feels correct. Like closing a loop. He opens the door slower than usual and this time, he doesn’t step aside immediately. His eyes move over you. Your dress. Your hair.

The faint traces of makeup left after hours under lights.

“You look like you had a successful night,” he says.

“I did,” you reply.

“And?” he asks.

You tilt your head slightly. “And I wanted to see you.”

Because that’s new phrasing. Not 'needed', not 'convenient'. Wanted. He notices but he doesn’t soften.

“Who was he?” John asks.

You don’t pretend not to understand. “An investor,” you say.

“Looked closer than that.”

Your expression doesn’t shift. “It wasn’t.”

He studies you, long enough because he believes you. That’s not the problem.

The problem is, you didn’t think it mattered.

“You didn’t move away,” he says.

“No,” you reply simply.

“Why?”

You pause. Because the answer is obvious to you.

“It didn’t require a reaction.”

There it is again. That gap. That space where something should exist and doesn’t.

He steps closer. Slower this time.

“You don’t think things matter unless you feel them,” he says quietly.

You hold his gaze “Yes.”

That honesty, it’s starting to affect him differently now. Not just frustration, something darker.

His hand lifts, brushes a strand of hair from your face then lingers.

“You let people get close to you like it means nothing,” he continues.

“It does mean nothing,” you reply.

That does something to him. His hand moves to your jaw. Firm.

“Not to me,” he says.

And then he kisses you, not like before. There’s no hesitation now, no searching, just intensity. Something close to restraint breaking but not fully. You respond the same way. Precise. Controlled. But this time, he deepens it, pulls you closer.

Like he’s trying to erase the space that exists in you.

“John—” you murmur softly against him.

He doesn’t stop immediately.

Then, he does. Pulls back. Breathing slower than he should be.

.

The Fifth Break

“This isn’t working,” he says.

You’ve heard that before but this time, it sounds different.

“How?” you ask.

He lets out a quiet breath.

“I don’t trust how little you feel,” he says.

You don’t react to that emotionally but you process it.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you reply.

“I know,” he says “That’s the problem.”

You step back slightly, not retreating, just adjusting.

“What do you want from me?” you ask.

His jaw tightens. “Something real,” he says.

You hold his gaze “This is real,” you reply and you mean it.

That’s what makes it worse.

He shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says. “This is controlled.”

“And I’m losing control of myself in it.”

That lands. Because now, it's not about you. It’s about what you’re doing to him.

You go quiet. Thinking. And that silence, that pause, it stretches too long.

“Say something,” he says.

You look at him. “I don’t know what to say that would fix this,” you admit. And again, truth.

He exhales. “Then don’t fix it,” he says.

“Just stop coming back.”

You look at him, not hurt but something shifts.

“You don’t mean that,” you say.

He holds your gaze “I do.”

And for the first time, you hesitate. Not long but long enough to notice. Then, you nod. “Okay.” and you leave.

.

This time, neither of you believes it’s temporary.

He doesn’t move after the door closes, because he meant it. He has to or he’ll disappear completely into something he doesn’t recognize anymore.

You get into your car, start the engine. Drive. But something, something is off. You replay the night.

The show.

The cameras.

The investor.

Him.

'Just stop coming back.'

You tighten your grip on the wheel slightly.

Why did that feel, different? Not painful, but wrong. You don’t understand it but you don’t ignore it either.

And that, that’s new.

Part 2 (to be continued) @baethea

As this is my secondary blog, I have decided to make my writing account my primary platform, so I’ve created a new account under the same name where all future stories will be posted. Continue reading my ongoing (and incomplete) works there at @baethea This account will remain active, but there will be no further updates. All unfinished stories will now be continued and updated on the new account.

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