Posting this on here because I have no one irl to fangirl about this to
Personal Life Update: I met a guy with dark curly hair, tanned, dark brown eyes, smooth and flirty af (younger than me which is unlike me) helps out at a mechanic shop fixing cars‼️‼️‼️ but of course he's pining over another girl whilst flirting with me....
Have I been given my very only irl Logan ⁉️ am I grace?
Oh also he has Italian heritage like Antonio and his accent is sexy as hell
Btw if you wanna know what I based the cover from this off of look at Anne Marie's version of Dangerous Woman on YouTube.
The first sound was just the piano—soft, deliberate notes filling the quiet before her voice cut in.
“Don’t need permission, made my decision, to test my limits…”
Joe froze mid-sip of his coffee. His phone was sat face up on his coffee table, her voice filling the space.
It wasn’t the polished studio version. This was slower, stripped back, every word hanging in the air like it was meant just for him. Her voice slid over the melody, rich and warm, with just enough grit to make it dangerous.
In the Radio 1 Live Lounge, she stood with one hand wrapped around the mic stand, the other hanging loosely by her side. The soft lighting made the gold of her hair glow, casting shadows along the wall. She glanced at her band—her people—and they met her gaze with quiet grins, all of them knowing exactly who this song was for.
The arrangement was sparse at first, the piano giving her voice space to breathe. She played with the phrasing, stretching certain notes, then pulling them back in quick, unexpected flips. Even the untrained ear would be impressed. To someone who understood technique, she was showing just how much she could do.
Her drummer joined in, laying down a slow heartbeat beneath her words.
“All that you got, skin to skin, oh my god, don’t you stop, boy…”
In that moment, Joe thought he’d never stop. Never stop seeing her. Never stop exploring with her. Never stop whatever she wanted. He couldn't even actually see her, he had to wait until the video of the performance would be uploaded later that day, but just imagining her was driving him crazy.
Back in the studio, she caught her bassist’s eye as she drew out the last word, her voice curling up and away in a delicate run. They were in sync, all of them leaning into the pocket of the song, letting it simmer.
By the time the final chorus hit, she was all in.
“Somethin’ ’bout you makes me feel like a dangerous—” The word was almost growled, low and deliberate, before she hit, “woman.”
“Makes me wanna do things—” the emphasis on things carried heat and promise,
“—that I shouldn’t…” The last word flipped upward, soaring, like she was daring him to hear the emphasis.
And then, softer, almost tender: “Somethin’ ’bout you.”
Joe’s breath caught. It wasn’t just a lyric anymore—it was a line aimed right at him, dressed up as part of the performance.
She closed her eyes for the last line, letting her voice linger, holding the note just beyond where it should end, before finally letting it go. Silence filled the space for half a beat, then the room broke into applause. Her band grinned at her; she grinned back, heart pounding from the rush of it.
Her band grinned at her; she grinned back, chest rising with the effort and the thrill.
Back in his flat, Joe set his coffee down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The host’s voice came back over the airwaves, thanking her for the performance, but he barely heard it.
The only thing clear in his mind was that he had to see her.
She stepped away from the mic, heart still pounding, the adrenaline like static in her veins. Her band were already exchanging looks, and the bassist was the first to smirk.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you sell a song that hard,” he teased.
“Yeah, I’m surprised the mic didn’t melt,” the drummer added with a grin.
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “Shut up.”
They knew. They definitely knew.
Gregg, her manager, appeared from the corner, beaming like she’d just nailed the biggest show of her career. “Incredible. Absolutely nailed it. And before you ask—yes, I’ve already had calls from people at the label. They’re buzzing.”
She took a sip of water, letting the praise wash over her, but her mind was already drifting. She wondered if he’d been listening. No—she knew he had. And she knew exactly what line would be stuck in his head right now.
He didn’t even wait for the host to finish speaking before grabbing his phone. His thumbs hovered for half a second before he typed:
Heard you on the radio. Make you feel like a Dangerous Woman, huh?
A beat.
If that was for me… you might have to get ready for me showing up sooner than planned.
He paused, then added one more.
And when I do… we’re going to finish what that song started.
He hit send before he could overthink it, leaning back in his chair, a slow smile pulling at his mouth as he imagined her reading it.
The buzz in her pocket pulled her attention instantly. She stepped back from the small group gathered around her, thumbing her phone open.
The first text made her grin. The second had her biting her lip. By the third, her pulse had kicked into overdrive.
She locked the screen quickly, trying to cool her face before anyone noticed, but the bassist was already giving her a knowing smirk.
“Everything alright?” he asked innocently, though the glint in his eyes said otherwise.
She slipped her phone back into her pocket, ignoring the heat creeping up her neck. “Perfect,” she said, the word tasting almost dangerous on her tongue.
Because if he meant what he’d just sent, she had a feeling she’d be the one in trouble next time they saw each other.
Later, once the studio was quiet and the others had drifted off to pack up, she leaned against the wall and pulled her phone out again.
She read the messages slowly this time, each one sinking deeper than the last. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, tempted to fire back something equally tempting, but she didn’t. She wanted to let him sit with it, let him stew in the same restless energy she was feeling now.
Instead, she just smiled to herself, tucking the phone away.
Because she knew exactly what would happen when they saw each other next. And God, she couldn’t wait.
She swung the door open — and there he was.
Not just standing there. There. Filling the doorway, taking up the space in that way only he could. Her skin prickled instantly, heat blooming before he’d even touched her. He was already in her head, already clouding every thought.
Then he stepped forward.
His hands found her hips in one swift, sure movement, and before she could blink, he spun them both so her back hit the door. The click of it shutting echoed through the hall, but neither of them heard it — not over the way his lips crashed into hers.
It was urgent, greedy. Faster than any kiss they’d shared before.
She managed to speak through one of them, her lips brushing his with every word, making her breath hitch. “How—are—you—here—right now?”
His mouth still chased hers as she spoke, stealing her air.
“Thought you were busy,” she teased, knowing full well he had been. As had she.
It had been hours since the radio performance, but it was the only thing on his mind.
“Cancelled,” he said simply.
That made her pull back, searching his face. “Wait… what? Cancelled what exactly? Nothing too important, I hope."
“No, darling. Nothing more important than this.” His voice was low, certain, before his lips were back on hers.
She wanted to push — to find out exactly what he’d dropped everything for — but she couldn’t. Not when his tongue slid against hers with that controlled, deliberate pressure, tasting faintly of coffee and mint. Dangerous. So dangerous.
Her knees went weak, and maybe he felt it, because his big hands slipped under her thighs, lifting effortlessly.
“Jump,” he murmured against her mouth.
She didn’t think. Her body just obeyed, legs wrapping around his waist. He held her like she weighed nothing, pausing for a beat, clearly unsure where to go in the unfamiliar apartment.
“Right,” she whispered, breathless.
He started moving, still kissing her like he couldn’t stop. They found the sofa as if they’d done this before, falling into it with the same urgency that had carried him through her front door in the first place.
They landed in a tangle, her back hitting the cushions with him braced above her, one knee pressed into the seat, his hands still locked on her hips like he was afraid to let go.
His mouth didn’t leave hers, not for a second. It was messy now, their lips dragging, teeth grazing, breath mixing. Every shift of his body pressed him harder against her, the heat between them building fast.
Her hand slid up to the back of his head, nails grazing lightly over the short buzz of his hair. He made the same low, involuntary sound he had that first time they’d been this close — the one that went straight through her and made her pull him in even more.
“Joe…” she breathed, the name breaking into the space between kisses. He groaned against her mouth, like even hearing his name from her right now was too much.
One of his hands slid from her hip up under the hem of her top, his palm hot against her skin, fingers splayed wide. She shivered, arching into the touch before she could think better of it.
It was intoxicating — the weight of him, the taste of him, the way he was looking at her like he’d been starving and she was the first thing he’d been allowed to touch in days.
She knew she should stop. They both knew they should. But when his lips left hers just to trail down her jaw to her neck, when she felt the warm drag of his mouth and the scrape of his teeth there — stopping didn’t even feel like an option.
“Tell me to slow down,” he murmured against her skin, though his hands didn’t stop moving, sliding up her sides in slow, deliberate strokes.
“Not a chance,” she whispered, pulling him back up to her mouth.
His laugh was quiet, dark, and it only made her want him more.
His hands roamed over her hips, up her sides, then back down again, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted her most. His lips were hot against her neck, moving lower, slower, until her breath was coming in uneven bursts.
She shifted beneath him, but he only pressed closer, his knee nudging between her thighs just enough to make her catch her breath.
“Joe…” she whispered, and it wasn’t a warning.
He pulled back just enough to look at her — really look at her — like he was memorising this exact second. “I told you earlier… I’d finish what that song started.”
They both knew their first time together wouldn't be like this. But that didn't mean they couldn't explore, other things.
His hand finds the hem of her t-shirt, eyes finding hers waiting for the go ahead. She nods and he's quick to remove it from her frame.
“Jesus” he says, leaning back to admire her, he wasn't expecting her to not be wearing a bra but god he is grateful she didn't.
His eyes flick to hers, they're darker now, somehow, the soft brown, taken up almost entirely by his pupils, it made them look jet black, holding a carnal desire that was so sinfully enticing.
“You're going to be the death of me yknow that?” She didn't but she does now, and it has her core fluttering around nothing.
Her hands reach for his own top but his hands are quick to swat them away.
“Uh-uh. This is about you”
“I wanna see you Joe. Wanna feel you” he can't fight that, he leans back, hands finding the hem of his own t-shirt and whipping it over his head so fast with such precision she knows he's had plenty of practice. The act was fairly simple, tame compared to what could happen, what would likely happen ; eventually.
Her mouth falls open slightly, before her bottom lip is taken into her mouth, her teeth abusing the plumpness, shining with the combination of their saliva.
“Jesus don't do that” he says.
“Please shut up and come here” she says, he moves forward instantly, her hands find the muscles along his shoulders, drifting down the expanse of his chest, feeling the toned flesh beneath her soft palms contract. He was so responsive to her touch and she was obsessed with it. She allows one hand to dip lower, eyes never leaving his.
He has to remind himself that this was about her, but he allowed himself just one moment. It was like she was mapping him out, hand carving it's way across his sculptured abdomen, dipping dangerously close to his arousal before hooking back up to his shoulder, pulling him in for another intense kiss.
He eventually wills himself to pull away, hand drifting along her thigh, across the denim until they find her zipper. His eyes find hers again, searching for something that would tell him she didn't want this, but came up short.
He makes light work of removing the fabric, eyes drifting down to her lace clad core. The damp patch at the front making his hips stutter forward.
“Oh jesus Christ” he mutters to himself, so quiet it might have been missed by her. But it wasn't.
His fingertips hook into the corners of the lace and as his eyes flick up to hers again she nods.
He eases the fabric down her tanned thighs, she watches as he tucks them into her back pocket and it has her smirking. She wasn't expecting that, she inhales like it was the hottest thing she'd ever seen, but then he's slowly inching down, lips pressing against any skin he could find, wrapping around one of her nipples until she's gasping. Only then does he move on.
“Gonna let me taste you?” He asks, and she nods, unable to speak now.
His mouth was back on her again, but somewhere new. His movements were purposeful, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world just for her.
Her heart flutters when he wordlessly presses gentle kisses against the scar at her inner thigh. A question for another time he thinks, if she wanted to talk about it.
There was no warning — only the sudden, consuming press of him against her clit, like he’d been holding back for far too long.
Joe’s tongue moves skillfully against her, the light stumble scattered across his jaw grazes her flesh with each movement. It was overwhelming, a kind of pleasure she hadn’t even known was possible until him. Until them.
“You taste incredible darling” she gasps at that, back arching off the sofa, she feels him smirk against her but she doesn't have the willpower to knock him down a peg and honestly she doesn't think she wants to.
Not when it has him all smug and cocky, doubling down on his efforts, really showing her what pleasure meant.
The noise he makes has her gasping again, like someone starved, finally indulging in the thing he’d been craving most. His tongue moves languidly, lapping up all of her.
Her head tipped back against the sofa, fingers digging into the fabric, eyes squeezing shut as a sound escaped her — one she couldn’t hold back if she tried. He stayed there, focused, relentless in the way only someone who needed to be close could be.
She knew he was good with his tongue, that much was obvious from the kisses they shared, but this, this has her wrecked for any other potential man.
She was dizzy from it — from him — from the way the air between them seemed to thicken until she could barely think.
One particular stroke of his tongue has her eyes rolling into the back of her head, thighs clamping shut around his head, that drives him insane. He eases them back open, holding her hips with a newfound fervor as he continues to devour her.
“Fuck you're good at this" she says, head thrown back, hands finding the back of his head, holding him against her, not that he'd dare to leave, not when he was drawing such sensual and truly destroying sounds from her. He's aching now, strained painfully so against the confines of his jeans.
When she finally looked down, breathless and dazed, he was watching her with a heat that made her shiver.
When his fingers join the mix she truly loses it, head snapping upwards, eyes trained on the sight unfolding before her. He looked good, so good, lips coated with her, and his face, oh my his face, his own pleasure etched across his features.
They start at her clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles against the sensitive bud. Her hands clamp around his head, probably hurting him but she couldn't help it. He groans against her, the vibrations drawing another moan from her, a different one, a cry that tells him he's got her exactly where he wants her.
“I need more" she admits, he listens, finding her entrance, two fingers push in, immediately curving upwards and finding that spot. He sets a torturous pace, thrusting in all the way to his knuckle before pulling out to the hilt, pushing back in and then curving. In seconds, her vision blurred with the rush of it. Still her eyes never leave his, not wanting to miss a single moment. Soon her noises are incoherent, simple mumbles of "fuck" and "don't stop" and "right there”.
His tongue flattens as his fingers curl, he can feel her clenching around him and he knows she's close.
“God you're so tight” His eyes meet hers through his eyelashes, orbs the darkest she's ever seen them, he's smirking, knowing exactly what the words are doing to her, unraveling her further. She's dangerously close to the edge and he can tell.
Saliva rests against his lips and her juices coat his tongue. He groans again, that sound of enjoyment has her clenching again. His tongue is relentless against her clit and she hears him speak.
“Gunna cum for me?” She moans loudly and he smiles before delving back in.
“Joe, Joe, oh god Joe” she's rambling now, hips attempting to rise from the sofa, the pleasure beautifully unbearable now, he holds her down, pressing his head impossibly closer and harder against her.
One last curl of his fingers and suck of his mouth and she's shaking beneath him, completely coming undone.
He knows he's never heard his name sound so good. The best he'd ever heard it rung out.
He works her through it until she's all but pushing him away. She pulls him into a kiss, he grunts into her mouth, it was shameless, she didn't care that he had the taste of her on his tongue, she needed him, now.
“Okay well now you're just going to have to stick around” she says, head falling back against the sofa. His lips place soft kisses against the skin of her neck, holding her to him.
“Not going anywhere darling”
“Worth cancelling for?” she teased, voice still unsteady.
He withdraws from her neck, his mouth curved in a slow, satisfied smile. “Every. Single. Second.”
“Going to let me return the favour?” She asks, hand slowly moving down his chest again. His hand finds hers softly, intertwining their fingers.
“I meant it when I said it's about you” he says and it's so sweet she almost melts. But then her eyes are flicking down to his still obvious arousal, eyes finding his in a way that says “really? Not gonna let me help with that”
“I'm a big boy” he starts, I can tell she thinks but doesn't say “I can deal with it, now come here”
They shuffled against the sofa, resituating themselves until they're comfortable. He passed her his own t-shirt, it was too big of course, but it was perfect, he could get used to seeing her in his clothes, she looked better in them than he ever did. They stayed like that for a long moment, breaths uneven, foreheads pressed together. Neither moved, as if breaking contact would shatter the spell between them.
His hands stayed firm on her waist, thumbs drawing absent circles, anchoring her there like he wasn’t ready to let her go. Her fingers curled against his skin, hand running up and down absentmindedly.
Eventually, he leaned back enough to really look at her. That same smile — the one that was equal parts mischief and reverence — tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“What?” she asked, her own smile threatening to break through.
“Just making sure you’re real,” he said simply, his voice low.
She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding the way her chest warmed at the words. “I could say the same.”
He brushed a stray hair from her cheek, his knuckles lingering against her skin. “You’ve got that look,” he murmured.
“What look?”
“The one you had before you performed today. Like you were about to set the place on fire.”
Her lips curved into something slow and knowing.
“And?”
“And I was right.”The laugh that escaped her was soft, but it reached her eyes.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he admitted, leaning in again, “but I’m also right.”
They didn’t need to say it out loud — how much they’d missed each other, how the past few days had been nothing but countdowns to moments like this. But it was there in the way he lingered, in the way her hands traced lazy, absent patterns along his back.
Somewhere in the corner of her mind, she knew they both had early mornings ahead. But right now, the idea of letting go felt impossible.
Joe asks if he can have a shower. She shows him where it is and hands him a towel. While he’s gone, she takes the opportunity to call Em—best friends share everything, after all.
When she tells her, Em gasps loudly, which only makes her throw her head back in a loud laugh. She twists a strand of hair around her finger, the smile still lingering on her face.
“So he—?” Em begins, but her best friend cuts her off.
“Uh-huh.”
“And he didn’t let you—”
She interrupts again. “Nope. Said it was about me.” The smile on her lips isn’t fair, truly.
“Oh my god… where do I get one of those?” Em asks, making her chuckle again.
“Well…”
“Well what?”
“Was it good?” she asks over the phone.
“So good,” she replies, her voice dripping with pleasure at the memory.
“You’re one lucky bitch, you know that? I was with what's-his-face for a year and a half a he never”Joe returns from the shower, a towel slung low on his hips, steam still clinging to his skin.
Her gaze catches on the slow path of a water droplet tracing down his torso, and she can’t quite help the way her mouth parts.
He notices. Of course he notices.
A faint smirk curves his lips, his eyes holding hers with the kind of look that feels like a dare.
“Hey, Em, I’ve got to go,” she says quickly, her voice a little too casual.
“He’s still there, isn’t he?” Em teases, and she can hear the smile in her best friend’s voice.
“Yeah. Love you too—see you tomorrow,” she replies, masking the fact they’d been talking about him.
She hangs up and places her phone down on the table beside her bed.
Her eyes rake over him again—toned torso still damp, heat radiating from him like he’s carried the shower with him.
He looks hot. So very hot.
And the air between them feels heavier than before.
“Do you have anything I could wear?” he asks, voice low, as if they both know the question means more than it sounds.
“Actually, yeah…” she says. He wonders for a moment if it’s from an ex, but then she adds,
“They’re Pedro’s clothes—hope you don’t mind.”
That makes him smile.
“He likes to leave things at mine to annoy me… so I annoy him back by never giving them back.” Her hands rummage in the drawers, retrieving a cotton t-shirt and a pair of joggers.
“Thank you, darling,” he says, leaning down to peck her lips. Her hand rests over his chest, feeling the faint thud of his heartbeat, making him smirk against her mouth—he knows exactly what she’s doing.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, disappearing into the ensuite to change.
When he returns, she’s already cosy in bed, patting the empty side and smiling at him. They settle against each other, his arms wrapped around her from behind. She breathes him in, surprised at how safe she feels in his arms.
He rests his chin lightly against her hair, wondering how someone could fit against him so perfectly. They fall asleep like that—comfortable, warm—and both start to feel something else. Not quite love. Not yet, anyway. But something of the sort.
New obsession unlocked after watching off campus: Antonio cipriano 😍 I've had Bloom from in pieces on repeat and I maybe including it in a upcoming fic... Yeah that's right I'm back bitches 🔥
P.s to all my followers wanting more of Joseph Quinn series I was writing, it's coming
An: this is just a random idea I had, decided to run with it. Not proof read so sorry for any mistakes. Enjoy!
She's sat on his bed wearing his shirt, his sheets hooked up to her shoulders, her knees bunched up to her chest, arms hooked around them, cheek resting against them.
Joe’s sat at the foot of the bed in a beaten leather arm chair, legs crossed and guitar resting in his lap. He was clad in a pair of grey sweats, chest bare, hair askew on his head.
She stared at him. Eyes skirting across his face, erratic and quick, like she didn't know which part of his features she wanted to look at, each more perfect than the last.
He paused his strumming to nudge his glasses back up his nose, before his fingers find the strings and he continues to play something he had been working on. Something irritatingly incomplete, stuck in his head and begging to be finished.
It wasn't a song, not really, just the bare bones of something promising. She hears him grunt when his fingers slip against the strings, swearing before playing the part again. She smiles to herself.
She could watch him all day if he'd let her - and if their schedules and the world allowed it, he'd let her.
He tuts and sighs and grunts some more, humming something that maybe fits the sound of the guitar. Her eyes never leave him - the way his eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, the way an idea frames his features before he acts on it, the way his lips twitch and mouth’s words soundlessly before he sings them - as if tasting them first.
Her heart flutters with every movement he makes, every chord he strums, every lyric he sings, every sound he makes, every blip and every re-attempt.
When he sighs again he looks up at her, instantly smiling a fond smile across to her.
“Having fun over there?” He asks, hands pausing on the strings of the guitar. She just nods and smiles back.
“Yknow it's unfair that you're over there looking like that when you know I have to work” he says, a smirk against his lips, hands twitching, resisting the urge to put the guitar down and go to her.
“You don't have to work” she says, she knows him better than anyone, she knows that “have to work” really means, “I have to do this to shut my brain up”. He knows she knows, so he doesn't reply, just smiles before he begins strumming again.
An idea comes to her almost lazily, the kind that arrives when you’re not forcing it. She shifts slightly, the sheets slipping down her shoulder, revealing a slither of bare skin where his shirt was too big for her frame, resting further down her arm than on her shoulder like it was supposed to. He thinks she looks perfect - always, but especially in his clothes.
“What if you change the rhythm instead of the notes?” she says softly. “Like… keep the chords exactly as they are, but play the second bar just a fraction behind the beat. Not enough that it sounds wrong—just enough that it feels like it’s dragging its feet.
He stills.
“Behind the beat?” he repeats.
She nods. “Yeah. Like it doesn’t quite want to get where it’s going yet.”
He exhales through his nose, amused, thoughtful.
“Hmm” he doubts it for a second.
But he tries it anyway.
The difference is instant. The same progression suddenly feels heavier, more intimate. Less polished. His shoulders drop as he settles into it, letting the rhythm breathe instead of pushing it forward.
“…That’s annoying,” he murmurs.
“Good annoying?” she asks.
He glances up at her, eyes warm, a slow smile spreading. “Very good annoying.”
He replays what she suggested, eyebrows raising when he likes what he hears.
“Knew there were some perks to dating a fellow musician” he says which makes her chuckle.
“Ditto” is all she says and he looks up at her at that. He fights the urge not to give in to his desires but ultimately loses, placing the guitar down and standing from the chair, rounding the other side of the bed.
She lifts the covers wordlessly, allowing him to pull her into his chest, his lips finding the crown of her head.
“What was you thinking about just now?” He asks, knowing she was staring.
“Just about how handsome you are and how much I love you” she says, leaning back into his embrace. He squeezes his arms around her, lips pressing down with more pressure against her head.
“I love you more”
He stays like that for a moment longer than necessary, arms firm around her, breathing her in as if he’s grounding himself. When he finally pulls back, it’s only enough to look down at her, one hand coming up to smooth her hair back from her face.
“You know you do that a lot, right?” he says softly.
She blinks up at him. “Do what?”
“Fix things.” He shrugs, almost sheepish. “Without trying. Without even knowing you’re doing it.”
She frowns slightly, considering him. “I wasn’t fixing anything.”
“I know,” he says, smiling. “That’s the point.”
He shifts, sitting back against the headboard and tugging her with him so she ends up tucked neatly into his side, her head fitting under his chin like it’s always belonged there. One arm wraps around her shoulders, the other rests lazily at her hip, thumb tracing idle shapes against the fabric of his shirt she’s wearing.
“The song,” he continues quietly. “It wasn’t the chords that were wrong. It wasn’t even the melody. I was just… pushing it. Like if I forced it hard enough it’d give me what I wanted.”
She hums, nodding slightly. “You always do that.”
He laughs softly at that, a breathy sound against her hair. “Yeah. I do.”
They sit in comfortable silence for a bit, the room filled with the low hum of the city outside and the faint creak of the bed as he shifts. His fingers keep moving against her side absentmindedly, like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.
“You make things feel less loud,” he says eventually. The words come out easy, unguarded. Honest in the way only late nights ever allow. “In here.” He taps two fingers gently against his temple.
Her chest tightens, but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a joke of it. She knows better than that.
“I like being here,” she replies simply.
He tilts his head, pressing a kiss into her hair, lingering there. “So do I.”
After a moment, she shifts slightly, pulling back just enough to look at him. His eyes are soft, unfocused, like he’s still halfway inside the song.
“Does it still feel unfinished?” she asks.
He thinks about it, really thinks. Then he shakes his head. “No. Not like before.”
She smiles at that, small and private, and settles back against him. He lets out a slow breath, content, and rests his cheek against the top of her head.
A few minutes later, without a word, he reaches over to the side table and pulls the guitar back into his lap. He doesn’t sit back up. Doesn’t separate from her. He just adjusts carefully so he can play with his arm still around her.
He starts strumming again—soft this time. Behind the beat. Letting it drag, letting it ache.
She closes her eyes.
And just like that, the song comes easier.
Not because he’s trying harder.
But because she’s still right there, breathing in time with him, loving him in the quiet, unremarkable way that somehow makes everything fall into place.
She doesn’t know it’s that song at first.
They’re standing side-stage, the familiar buzz of pre-show chaos humming around them — cables being checked, drums tested, voices overlapping in half-shouted sentences. The room smells like warm amps and stale beer and adrenaline. She’s seen this a hundred times now. Knows where to stand without being in the way. Knows when to stay quiet.
Joe disappears briefly, reappearing with his guitar slung over his shoulder, hair still slightly damp, glasses pushed up his nose the way he does when he’s nervous but pretending not to be. He catches her eye immediately. He always does. The smallest smile tugs at his mouth — grounding, checking in — before he steps out into the lights.
The crowd roars.
She watches from the wings like she always does, arms folded loosely, heart swelling at the sight of him so fully in his element. Confident. Alive. Himself.
They get a few songs in before he shifts, stepping closer to the mic, fingers resting idly on the strings as the noise dies down.
“Alright,” he says, voice warm, familiar. “I’m gonna play something a little newer for you.”
A cheer ripples through the crowd.
He glances down at his guitar, then back up — and this time, his eyes flick briefly to the side of the stage. To her. It’s quick. Barely noticeable. But she feels it like a touch.
“I wrote this one kind of… backwards,” he continues, a small smile creeping in. “I kept trying to force it, and it just wasn’t working. Everything felt too loud. Too busy.”
Her breath catches, just slightly.
He shifts his weight, thumb brushing over the strings absentmindedly. “And then someone very special helped me with it.”
The crowd murmurs, amused, intrigued.
“She has this way of doing that,” he says softly. “Helping me. Without really trying. Just by being there. By… silencing the noise”
Her chest tightens.
“So I ended up writing a song about it,” he finishes, voice steadier now. “About her.”
The room erupts — cheers, whistles, someone shouting we love you, Joe! — but she barely hears it. Her ears are ringing, heartbeat loud in her head. He doesn’t look at her when he starts to play.
But she knows.
From the very first strum, she knows.
It’s behind the beat.
Just like she said.
The song unfolds slowly, deliberately — not rushing itself, not trying to land too hard. It drags its feet in the most beautiful way, heavy with feeling, leaving space where silence matters just as much as sound.
And then the lyrics start.
They’re not obvious. Not literal. No names. No grand declarations.
But they’re him.
And they’re her.
Lines about noise and stillness. About hands that don’t fix, just steady. About finding calm in another person’s presence. About loving someone who makes the world softer just by existing in it.
Her throat burns and eyes well.
She presses her lips together, eyes stinging, watching him like the room isn’t full of people — like it’s just the two of them again. His bedroom. The armchair. The guitar slipping slightly out of time.
Halfway through the song, his voice falters for a fraction of a second. Just long enough for her to see it — the way he swallows, the way his grip tightens.
Then, finally, he looks at her.
Really looks.
And the line he sings then — quieter than the rest — lands square in her chest.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t clap when the song ends. Can’t.
The room explodes around her, applause thunderous, people shouting, chanting his name. Joe smiles, breathless, overwhelmed, ducking his head slightly as he steps back from the mic.
But when he comes offstage, he goes straight to her.
No hesitation. No performative distance. He reaches for her hand, squeezing once — just for them.
“You okay?” he asks softly, eyes searching her face.
She nods, even though her chest feels too full, like it might crack open. “You wrote that about me.”
It’s not a question.
He smiles then — not the confident, crowd-facing one. The private one. The one she gets when it’s just them.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I did.”
She exhales shakily, fingers tightening around his.
“You didn’t even tell me.”
“I didn’t want to explain it,” he replies. “I wanted you to hear it.”
Her eyes glisten as she leans in, pressing her forehead against his shoulder, hiding from the noise, from the world.
“You always do this,” she murmurs. “You make everything sound bigger than it is.”
He laughs softly, arm slipping around her instinctively. “Funny. I was thinking the same about you.”
They stand there like that for a moment longer — held together in the aftermath of something honest and exposed — while the world keeps spinning loudly around them.
And for once, it doesn’t matter.
Because he wrote a song about the quiet.
And it was her.
She’s halfway through her own set when it happens.
The crowd is warm, loud, already hers — arms in the air, voices shouting lyrics back at her like a shared secret. The lights spill gold across the stage, heat pressing against her skin, adrenaline humming in her veins. She thrives here. Always has.
She closer to the mic between songs, brushing hair back from her face, grinning as the noise slowly dies down.
“Alright,” she says, drawing it out just enough to tease them. “So… quick story.”
The crowd cheers automatically.
She glances to the side of the stage without meaning to — or maybe meaning to more than she realises.
He’s there, half-hidden in the shadows, hands tucked into his pockets, watching her like she’s the only thing in the room. When their eyes meet, something unspoken passes between them. Recognition. Anticipation.
She looks back out at the crowd, smile turning cheeky.
“So,” she continues, “my boyfriend wrote me a song recently.”
The reaction is immediate — screams, whistles, someone yelling we love him! She laughs, letting the noise roll over her for a moment before adjusting the mic.
“And I figured…” she pauses, fingers tightening around the mic just slightly, “…it’s probably about time you hear the one I wrote about him.”
A beat.
“And before anyone overthinks it,” she adds, head tilting, mouth curling into something deliberately casual, eyes sliding — just once — to the side of the stage, “it’s just a song about really loving your boyfriend.”
The crowd loses it. But she isn’t looking at them anymore.
She’s looking at him.
He knows it instantly.
From the way her voice softens. From the way her shoulders relax instead of squaring. From the way the moment seems to shrink until it’s just the two of them again — a bedroom, a guitar, quiet.
The song starts.
It’s different from his. Brighter. Warmer. Still intimate, but less aching — grounded. Steady. Lyrics about noise fading when someone walks into a room. About loving a mind that never stops spinning. About hands that fidget, thoughts that spiral, and the comfort of being known anyway.
She sings it like a confession and a grin all at once.
And he breaks.
By the final chorus, he’s already moving.
She finishes the song to thunderous applause, breathless, heart pounding — and the next thing she knows, he’s on stage, arms around her, lifting her clean off the ground. She laughs in surprise, instinctively wrapping her legs around him as he kisses her — not careful, not subtle, just real.
The crowd screams.
He pulls back just enough to grab the mic, rambling, flushed, eyes still glued to her.
“Sorry,” he laughs, breathless. “Just— yeah. Had to do that.
She’s still holding onto him, forehead resting against his, smiling like she doesn’t care who sees it.
There’s a beat. Then she pulls back slightly, eyebrow arching.
“Well,” she says into her mic, voice playful, eyes never leaving his, “might as well stay for one now, huh?”
The roar is deafening.
He grins, wide and unguarded, nodding. “I thought you’d never ask.”
They move into position together, shoulders brushing, guitars being passed up, the band exchanging looks that say oh, this is happening.
They don’t explain the song they sing together.
They don’t need to.
Their voices weave effortlessly — harmonies settling like they’ve always belonged there. It’s intimate and electric, familiar and new all at once. The crowd watches something shift in real time: not a performance, but a partnership.
When the song ends, they stand there for a second longer than necessary, hands still linked, breathing in sync.
And for the first time, neither of them feels the weight of being seen.
It doesn’t feel daunting.
It feels right.
Because they’ve already loved each other in the quiet.
Turns out, “all the time in the world” was one week. Joe’s phone rings with a film audition he can’t turn down, and hers buzzes with her manager’s voice insisting they start mapping out another tour. Time, it seems, has other plans for them.
By breakfast, Joe had one hand wrapped around his coffee mug, the other scrolling through an email titled ‘Casting Opportunity’. By lunch, she was on the phone with her manager, promising to “think about” another tour — even though she already knew that meant yes.
Despite the new, unexpected and unplanned-for rush that was back in their lives, they couldn’t stop thinking about one another. There was barely time to text, just a sadly rushed phone call to explain to the other their change of plans.
They found it excruciatingly annoying. But it was life. It was the industries they worked in. Practically inevitable.
He so badly wanted just one bit of respite during his day — one moment he could have to himself where he could call her, just to hear her voice. Hell, he’d even settle for a chain of text messages that allowed that need for each other to spark and linger.
There just wasn’t the time.
One conversation about her “thinking” about the next tour turned into pages upon pages of different ideas scattered across the large meeting table at her management’s office. Her manager sat to her right with her stage manager, looking at different venues online, while pictures of different lighting techniques and stage presentations lay before them.
To her left was her stylist, a folder of outfit ideas she could wear for the different shows — shows that weren’t even booked yet. She usually loved doing this, finding it exciting to create her own shows down to every minute detail. But this wasn’t expected. She had expected a break — to get her (less than) normal life back. The one where she could be something other than the famous singer. The life where she could actually look for a permanent apartment, spend endless hours searching through record shops and vinyls, and most importantly, be with him.
But alas, here she was.
Perhaps the only saving grace about the whole ordeal was that she got to be with her best friend: her makeup artist, Em. They were scrolling through makeup looks they had done in the past — some of her favourites she wanted to replicate, others they wanted to improve on.
When she started getting noticed for her music, when people started wanting to work with her, she recruited her best friend at the first chance she got. Not only was Em unbelievably talented, it was her dream, and it provided the singer with a sense of security and familiarity she could bring along on tours, which otherwise had the potential to be extremely lonely.
Of course, she had her bandmates — all of whom were scattered around the table, looking at different things, most of them trying to create the set list. They were her family, her closest friends, but even then, they didn’t know her the way her best friend did. Her best friend was just that, when she wasn’t the “famous singer,” when she just was… her. Unknown, with an undeniable talent and a dream so big it was scary.
Her best friend sat directly next to her. They were talking about work — were — until her tone dipped, speaking in hushed tones. The topic switched so easily to him, and it made her heart ache. She truly missed him.
“When are you seeing him next?” Em asked, her eyes flicking around the room. Too many people. She held up a finger before she spoke.
“I’m just going to grab a coffee,” she announced, flicking her head towards the door at her best friend.
Her assistant immediately stood. “I can get it,” she offered. Her manager rolled his eyes, knowing the way she was — knowing she wanted a break but didn’t want to disappoint everyone by announcing it. He wanted her to pause too. She deserved it. He felt guilty; he was the one that put the whole break idea on hold, caving to the pressure of higher-ups and the label.
“That’s okay, Lex,” she said softly. “I’ve got it.”
Her manager spoke then. “Why don’t you go with her, Em? That way you can continue your discussion.”
It had another meaning, and her eyes met Em’s. She smiled, silently saying thank you.
Em stood, following the singer to the kitchen. They actually did make coffee. She poured herself a strong concoction, immediately sending her mind wandering back to him. She brought the cup to her nose, inhaling deeply and closing her eyes. It was like he was with her, if only for a moment.
“Greg is a sweetheart, really,” Em said, and she nodded in reply.
“He needed the break as much as me… but he’s not good with the pressure. I don’t blame him though, it’s difficult,” she admitted, and Em smiled sadly back at her.
Em’s smile softened, eyebrows wiggling before she spoke. “So… Joe?” She rounded back to the previous conversation that had been brewing.
“I dunno, Em… I mean, he’s busy now, and I am too. And I know it's only supposed to be a few more weeks, but we both know that a few weeks can turn into months with these guys,” she said, thumbing back towards the meeting room where the rest of her team remained.
“But… aren’t you supposed to be seeing Pedro in like… a week?”
She was right. The singer’s face lit up at that, picking up on the idea Em was putting out.
“I could ask if Joe could join us,” she said.
“Exactly,” Em said, her hand finding her shoulder, softly squeezing before she spoke again. “Look, I know things with this”—her hand fluttered around the space, gesturing to her career—“are unpredictable, and the break you so desperately needed is on hold.” She paused. “But I’ve never seen you like this. This feels special, Dimples.”
The childhood nickname never failed to make her smile.
“It does…” she confirmed.
“I mean… if it doesn’t work out… At least you can have some fun, right? You need that.” Her best friend was right as always.
“Right. I do. I do need that.”
“And come on… you know I’m like the biggest Stranger Things fan… so if I can say my best friend dated the Eddie Munson… well, that would be like the highlight of my life,” she said, the air shifting to something lighter. It made her laugh. She pulled Em in for a tight hug.
“Thanks, Em.”
“No seriously, Dimples. Please, please do Eddie Munson. That man is fine.”
She laughed loudly then, hand smacking over her mouth to stop the noise, not wanting to alert anyone in the adjacent room that they definitely weren’t having work talk.
“Oh, I know… trust me, I know.”
His day was just as hectic. What started as reading the script over coffee turned into a mad dash across London.
The email had come in at 8:07 a.m. — URGENT: Self-tape request – due today. His agent’s voice on the phone had been the usual mix of encouragement and thinly veiled panic. Big film. Big director. Don’t screw this up.
By 9:15, he had the sides printed, pacing his flat with the pages in one hand and a pen in the other, marking beats, circling words. He read the lines out loud over and over, changing his tone each time, trying to catch something new in the rhythm. It was second nature by now — this obsessive running of lines — but it never stopped feeling like a test he couldn’t cram for enough.
In between takes, he’d glance at his phone. No new messages from her. He almost sent one — wish you could see this — but stopped himself. She had her own whirlwind to deal with.
By 10:45, he was out the door, script stuffed into his bag, headphones in, trying to ignore the noise of the Tube as he mouthed lines under his breath. A couple of people recognised him — the usual nods, one or two phones subtly angled his way — but he didn’t have the headspace to deal with it.
At the office, it was already in motion. His team knew exactly what was needed. One of them was setting up the camera, another adjusting lights until the space looked like daylight on a good hair day. The reader — someone he’d worked with before — was already flicking through the sides, underlining their cues.
They ran it again. And again. And again. Different inflections. Tiny shifts in posture. A glance here, a pause there. He was hyperaware of how small the margins could be — how a single beat could be the difference between a callback and nothing at all.
By the time they wrapped, he was buzzing, the kind of adrenaline that made the whole day hum. It was dark when he stepped back out into the city, script still in his bag, the lines echoing in his head.
At home, he kicked off his shoes, collapsed onto the sofa, and stared at his phone. It was late. Too late, maybe. But he called anyway.
She picked up on the second ring.
“Hey, handsome,” she said, her voice warm, tired.
“Hi, darling.” His voice was soft but carried the same tiredness as hers.
They talked for a while, the way people do when they don’t need to explain the chaos — just knowing it’s there was enough.
Then she said it. “I’m seeing Pedro next Friday. You should come… if you’re free.”
“I’ll be free,” he said instantly. “I’ll make sure of it.”
There was a pause, one of those quiet moments that said more than words.
“Good,” she said softly. “I’d like that.”
“Hey, one sec — I wanna see you,” he said. The line disconnected, and his thumb quickly found the video call button. When the screen reconnected, her face filled it. She was resting on her bed, hair tied in a messy bun, completely makeup-less. He didn’t think she’d ever looked so beautiful.
He looked tired, but in a way that made his handsomeness look more rugged. Hot, she thought.
“There she is,” he said fondly, a huge smile breaking across his features.
“Here I am…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes drinking him in, his doing the same.
“I missed you,” he said. It had been two days, but she got it — she felt it too. She didn’t comment, didn’t tell him he was crazy. If he was, then so was she.
“I missed you too, Joe.” His smile widened again at that.
They shared more about their days. He told her about the self-tape, despite not really being allowed to, though he didn’t reveal what the role was — that, he couldn’t do. He said he thought it went well. That he hoped he’d get it. They both knew it would mean their time together would be further cut short, but she also knew he deserved this.
She told him about the ideas they’d solidified — locations for shows, some booked, some still in discussion with venues. She shared her plans for lighting and staging, speaking like she knew everything about it all: lighting, staging, fashion. Not just singing and music.
They both knew they should wrap up the conversation — long days ahead for them both.
But they couldn’t. If this was all they could get, they had to make it last. They could deal with being tired. What they couldn’t deal with was not speaking, not knowing when the next time might be. Both wanted — hell, needed — it to be before they saw Pedro.
“So, what does the rest of the week hold for Mrs. Famous Singer?” he asked, making her laugh. “More tour planning?”
“Mostly, yeah,” she started. He saw her fiddling with something, absentmindedly playing with it — her duvet, he’d know if he could see. Whatever it was, he found it completely endearing.
“I’ve got a radio thing tomorrow. You know Radio 1’s Live Lounge?” she asked shyly.
“Oh wow, that’s amazing! How did that happen? Someone drop out again?”
“Actually, yeah,” she said, chuckling at the way his eyebrows lifted.
“Always saving the day, aren’t ya?” It was sweet, and it made her smile even wider — so wide her cheeks hurt.
“Gregg — my manager — his daughter is an apprentice at the studio, and someone cancelled. Not sure who,” she explained, and he nodded.
“What are you going to sing?” He knew they always did covers on that section of the show.
“Well, the artists on the show usually do something different to their own music — a different style or a twist on another song. So we’re doing doing Dangerous Woman by Ariana Grande,” she told him.
The song seemed fitting for how she was feeling — all the still-unsaid things they hadn’t unravelled yet. He liked that.
Of course, he didn’t know that was why she’d chosen it. But he was hoping she was singing it for him.
“Better tune in. It’ll be live… obviously,” she laughed at herself — of course it was live, it was radio.
“Singing it for you, after all,” she admitted. She was being honest. Brutally honest. Nearly killing him right there. He loved that she didn’t hold back — not just testing the waters but plunging them both in headfirst.
“Oh, really?” His smile was teasing, but also cocky, in a way she didn’t know she’d like. But god, she did. Loved it, even.
They talked for a little longer before he saw her eyes grow heavy, her head sinking further into her pillow. He felt himself doing the same.
“We should really sleep,” he said.
“We should.”
They stayed on the phone, not really meaning to, but somehow falling asleep.
He woke at some point to find his phone still beside him, her face on the screen. She looked so peaceful.
Shit. His eyes flicked to the top of the screen — 4%.
He cheekily snapped a screenshot before ending the call, then sent her a quick message:
Both fell asleep. Phone’s going to die so ended the call. Sleep well, darling. See you soon. – Joe xx
Plugging his phone into the charger next to his bed, he unlocked it again and found their chat.
P.S. You’re awfully cute when you sleep… unfairly so.
SUMMARY: You and Joe ended things just before summer began… you were okay. You said it enough times that it almost felt true. Until you ran into him again — unexpectedly, unfairly — in the same bookshop where it all once started. Christmas lights were already up… and suddenly, being okay didn’t feel so certain anymore.
a/n: i was just listening to sabrina's christmas album and this whole plotline wouldn't stop going round and round in my head... so i needed to write it. Not a lot of context needed. Love writing Joe being a bit messy you all know that already.
requests are open | masterlist
What were the odds?
Maybe higher than you’d ever wanted to admit to yourself.
Because yeah, London was a big city. Endless, loud, always moving. But apparently not big enough when it came to running into your ex at the exact same bookshop where everything had started three springs ago.
How fucking cliché.
The place was dressed for Christmas now — warm lights strung between shelves, a small tree near the counter, paper stars taped to the windows. Somewhere, low and tinny, a carol played through old speakers, almost apologetic about it.
Life had this annoying habit of proving that reality could outdo fiction whenever it felt like being cruel. So yeah. There he was.
Standing a few aisles down, flipping through a book like his heart wasn’t about to rip straight through his chest. Looking unfairly good — enough that yours clenched, sharp and immediate, like it had been waiting for this moment to ambush you.
You’d spent the last month convincing yourself you were over him. That you were fine. That you’d accepted his decision and moved on like a functional adult. All of it collapsed the second you caught sight of him.
Black jeans, just like always. A long grey coat. That checked scarf — earthy tones, warm, familiar. Something you’d seen a hundred times, something your hands knew better than your brain ever had.
Six months meant nothing, apparently.
You didn’t move. Your body stayed rooted between the fiction and poetry sections, hands tightening around a book you hadn’t actually been reading. Outside, someone laughed. A bell chimed as the door opened, letting in cold air and the smell of cinnamon from somewhere down the street.
Your mind didn’t ask permission before drifting.
You saw him in your kitchen, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration like he was doing something serious instead of cooking dinner after you’d come home exhausted. Christmas lights had been half up already, tangled, unfinished.
I’ve got you, he’d said that night, handing you a glass of wine.
Your chest tightened.
Then the weight of him in the middle of the night. The way he always found you in his sleep, arm slipping around your waist, nose pressed into your hair. The heat of him grounding you. Safe, perfectly safe.
And then — the doorway… His coat on. Keys in hand.
I can’t do this right now. Not I don't love you.
I’m overwhelmed. I need space. I don’t know how to be what you need.
The words still lived somewhere deep. You felt them echo now, between shelves stacked with stories that all seemed easier than yours.
You swallowed.
For a second, you thought about walking over. Saying hi. Letting the season do some of the work for you. Christmas made people softer, braver. Or maybe just more reckless.
Your feet didn’t move. Because you already knew how it would go. The look in his eyes. The sound of his voice. The way everything would crack open again under the warm lights and the quiet music.
So you stayed where you were. You let the moment stretch. Let it hurt. Because sparing yourself the ache felt like the only smart choice you could make.
-
He noticed you before you noticed him.
You were standing near the front table, half-hidden behind a stack of holiday editions, the glow of fairy lights catching in your hair. Real. Solid. Not a ghost.
He didn’t move. He waited. To see if you’d look up. If you’d find him across the aisle. If you’d walk over like the space between you hadn’t once been a whole life.
The bookshop felt too warm all of a sudden. The smell of paper and pine and something sweet in the air. Someone flipped pages nearby. A child tugged on their mother’s coat, pointing at a snow globe by the register.
And then the memories came.
Your laugh when he leaned too hard into being a dork, just to get that sound out of you. The way you’d roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself.
Your softness after his longest shoots — quiet nights, your hands on his chest, reminding him to breathe.
The tone in your voice when you scolded him for forgetting to separate colors from whites, standing in front of the washing machine like this mattered. It had. Everything with you had.
Leaving hadn’t been easy. It had been the hardest decision he’d made in years.
He’d felt like he was drowning. Work, expectations, the constant sense of failing someone he loved. And at some point, staying had started to feel like lying.
So he’d walked away. Not because he wanted to. Because he hadn’t known how else to keep going. Watching you now, under soft lights and fake snow taped to the windows, he wondered if he’d been wrong.
You still hadn’t noticed him and part of him hoped you wouldn’t. Because Christmas or not, he wasn’t sure he could walk away twice.
And then… you moved.
At first, it was barely anything. Just a shift of weight. A book sliding back into place. Your body angling toward the door.
And something in him snapped.
Not loudly or dramatically. Just a sudden, very clear certainty that if you walked out now, he would let you go. Again. And that thought felt unbearable in a way he wasn’t prepared for.
He started toward you, then stopped. Too slow. Too late. You were already stepping around a couple near the front, coat half on, attention elsewhere.
His heart kicked hard against his ribs.
This wasn’t how he did things. He thought. He hesitated. He chose the reasonable option and lived with the consequences. He didn’t draw attention. He didn’t make scenes.
But he also didn’t think he could watch you disappear.
“Hey—” Too soft it got lost to the music and the murmurs.
You were closer to the door now. The bell above it swayed slightly as someone else came in, letting in a gust of cold air.
“Hey,” he tried again, louder this time. Still not enough.
And then he said your name.
Not shouted. But clear. Unmistakable. Loud enough that the woman by the counter looked up, that a couple of heads turned… Loud enough that the whole bookshop seemed to hold its breath for half a second.
Your name didn’t sound careful when it left his mouth. It sounded desperate. Honest. Like he hadn’t meant to say it that way but couldn’t stop himself.
The moment it was out there, his stomach dropped. This was it. No thinking.. no rehearsing. Just feeling.
-
You froze.
For half a second, you weren’t even sure you’d heard it right. Your name, cutting through the soft music and the murmur of voices. Too clear to be a coincidence.
You turned instantly.
He was standing there, a few metres back, shoulders tense, eyes locked on you like he’d just jumped without checking if there was ground underneath.
It was… strange. Almost funny. This wasn’t him. Not the careful version you knew. Not the man who measured his words, who left because staying felt impossible.
And yet — your chest fluttered.
Because if he’d done that, if he’d said your name out loud in a room full of people, then it had to mean something. It had to.
You hesitated, then took the last few steps toward the door. The bell above it chimed softly as you stopped beneath it, cold air brushing your ankles. You didn’t leave. You just… waited.
When he reached you, it was too fast. Like he’d forgotten the space between you could still hurt. He came to a stop at your side, breath uneven, eyes searching your face like he’d lost his thoughts somewhere between the shelves.
You smiled. Small. A little sheepish. Unsure of what to feel.
“Hi,” you said.
He blinked, like he’d forgotten the script entirely.
“Hi,” he echoed.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The bookshop went on around you — pages turning, someone coughing, the counter bell ringing — and yet it felt like you were standing in a pocket of silence, exposed and slightly ridiculous.
You both just stood there. Right in the doorway. Half in, half out. People squeezed past, coats brushing your arm, the bell chiming every few seconds like it was politely trying to move you along.
“So…,” you said, then stopped. The word went nowhere.
He nodded, like that had been a full sentence. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t know you still came here,” he said finally, glancing around the shop, as if that was safer than looking at you.
“I don’t. Not really,” you replied. “I just— I was nearby.”
“Right.” He shifted his weight. “Makes sense.”
It didn’t. You both knew it didn’t.
A couple waited behind you, clearly wondering if you planned on living there now. You stepped a little closer to the door, then hesitated, still not leaving.
He noticed. Of course he did.
“It’s… busy,” he said, gesturing vaguely, like he’d just discovered the concept of doors. “We’re kind of— in the way.”
You huffed a small, surprised laugh. “Yeah. We are.”
The silence then felt different, less sharp.
“I, uh,” he started, then stopped, like he’d scared himself. He cleared his throat. “Do you— are you in a rush?”
You shook your head, slower this time. “No. I was just… going home.”
He nodded. Thought for half a second too long.
“There’s that place you loved just a few blocks away,” he said. Casual. Almost careless. “The one with the cold brew you always complain is too strong but still finish.”
Your chest did that stupid thing again.
“You remember that?” you asked, before you could stop yourself.
He smiled. Small and a little crooked.
“Yeah. I remember.”
The bell chimed behind you. Another impatient shuffle.
“I have time,” he added quickly, then softened it. “If you do.”
You hesitated. Long enough to feel the risk of it, to imagine how easy it would be to say no and walk away with your heart intact.
But you didn’t.
“Okay,” you said, quieter. “Coffee sounds… okay.”
Relief crossed his face before he could hide it.
“Yeah?” he asked, like he needed confirmation.
“Yeah.”
So you stepped outside together, the cold air rushing in, the bookshop door finally closing behind you.
You walked side by side, close enough to feel him there, not close enough to touch.
The street was louder than the bookshop had been. Christmas everywhere now — lights strung overhead, shop windows glowing gold, people moving in pairs and groups, arms linked, scarves tangled, laughter spilling out onto the pavement. Someone bumped into you and apologized too brightly. Somewhere, a busker played something cheerful and slightly out of tune.
It felt wrong to be this quiet in the middle of it.
“So,” he said after a moment, clearing his throat. “You… still live nearby?”
“Yeah,” you replied. “Same place.”
He nodded. “Right. Nice area.”
You almost laughed. Almost.
A few steps passed in silence. Your breath fogged in front of you, disappearing just as fast.
“And you?” you asked. “How 's work?”
He huffed softly. “Crazy. As always”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, shoulders tense. “It’s been busy. You know how these things are.”
“I do, yes.” you said, even though it didn’t mean anything.
A group of people crossed in front of you, arms full of shopping bags, talking over each other. You slowed instinctively. He slowed too, matching your pace without looking at you.
Something in your chest shifted.
The pavement narrowed. For a second, you had to walk closer. Your sleeve brushed his coat. The contact was brief, accidental — and still, your body reacted like it had been waiting for permission.
You didn’t look at him. Neither did he.
“Cold,” you said, because you had to say something.
He let out a small breath of a laugh. “Yeah. Definitely.”
Another stretch of quiet. Not awkward exactly. Just full.
You passed a café window fogged up from the inside, people crowded around small tables, hands wrapped around mugs. The smell of coffee and something sweet followed you for a few steps before fading.
“You always hated this time of year,” he said suddenly, then froze. “I mean — the crowds.”
You glanced at him. He was watching the street, not you.
“I still do,” you said. “But I like the lights.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”
You walked on, the café just ahead now.
Neither of you mentioned the six months or why this felt heavier than it should. And yet, with every step, it became harder to imagine turning around.
You’d barely made it halfway the way when you noticed it. He slowed, fished something out of his coat pocket, then stopped under the excuse of checking his phone. The little metallic glint gave him away.
“You still smoke?” you asked, before you could think better of it.
He looked up, caught. Then grimaced. “I don’t—” He sighed. “It’s a vaper.”
You snorted. “That’s worse.”
“It’s not worse,” he protested, immediately defensive. “It’s progress.”
“Progress would be quitting,” you said, shaking your head. “This is just… flavored regret.”
He laughed. Actually laughed. The sound startled both of you.
“Wow,” he said. “You haven’t changed at all.”
“You say that like it’s an insult.”
“It’s not.” He hesitated, then added, softer, “It’s nice… familiar.”
The word settled between you.
You walked on, the street opening up, lights blinking overhead. Someone was dragging a Christmas tree down the pavement, needles trailing behind them like evidence.
“Do you remember last Christmas,” you said suddenly, surprising yourself, “when you almost burned my kitchen down?”
He groaned immediately. “I did not almost burn it down.”
“You set off the smoke alarm.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
The way you were looking at him was enough to make him laugh while rubbing a hand over his face.
“Okay, fine.. But in my defense, chocolate lava cakes are deceptively dangerous.”
“You had one job,” you said. “And we almost had to call emergency services.”
“They were still good,” he argued. “You ate two.”
“You emotionally manipulated me into eating them.”
“See?” He smiled at you then, real and unguarded. “Teamwork.”
Your chest tightened. Not painfully, just… quietly.
For a few steps, neither of you spoke. The café was closer now, its windows glowing, but it didn’t feel like a finish line anymore.
“I can’t believe you remembered that,” he said.
You shrugged. “Hard to forget almost dying.”
He shook his head, still smiling. “You were so mad at me.”
“I was terrified,” you corrected. “And you were standing there, covered in chocolate, acting like it was a personal attack.”
“Because it was,” he said. “That oven had it out for me.”
You laughed — softer this time. Less surprised.
And for a moment, walking beside him under the lights, it almost felt easy. Like the six months were something thin you could step over, not a wall you’d crashed into.
Almost.
-
The café was warm in that slightly suffocating way, fogged windows and coats piled on chair backs. Christmas pressed in from every corner: a crooked garland over the counter, a tinny version of a carol playing too softly to be festive, too loudly to ignore. The place smelled like coffee and sugar and damp wool.
You ordered without thinking. Cold brew. He didn’t comment. Just nodded, like that was a little part about you he still kept.
You ended up at a small table near the window. Too close. Knees almost touching. You noticed but you didn’t move them.
“So,” he said, wrapping his hands around his cup like he needed the heat. “Are you still doing that thing where you pretend you’re going to bed early and then stay up reading until two?”
You blinked. “You used to hate that.”
“I hated that you complained about being tired the next day,” he corrected. “The reading part was… kind of hot.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. The sound surprised you. It sounded normal… too normal.
He smiled at that, slow and easy, like it was a reflex his body remembered even if his head hadn’t caught up yet.
You talked about work. About mutual friends you’d both half-lost touch with. About a show you’d started watching and never finished because it reminded you too much of him — you didn’t say that part. He told a story about a nightmare shoot day, exaggerated just enough to make you roll your eyes.
“You always do that,” you said. “I’m sure it wasn’t that dramatic.”
“It absolutely was.”
“You spilled coffee on yourself and blamed the universe.”
He shrugged. “The universe had it coming.”
You shook your head, smiling into your cup. Your chest felt light.
At some point, he leaned back in his chair, relaxed. Comfortable. Like he hadn’t once stood in your doorway and broken your heart with careful words and good intentions.
And that’s when it hit you.
How easy this was.
How your body wasn’t braced for impact. How your laugh came without effort. How his presence didn’t feel like a stranger’s — it felt like slipping into an old sweater you’d never thrown away.
A quiet resentment stirred beneath the warmth.
Because if it was this simple — if you could sit here, six months later, talking about nothing, feeling okay — then what had all that pain been for?
You looked at him then. He was smiling as he spoke, big brown eyes bright, animated, alive in a way you hadn’t seen toward the end.
And suddenly, the memory rose uninvited: him telling you this was for the best. For both of you. Like he was doing you a favor. Like love hadn’t been enough because he hadn’t known how to stay.
You wrapped your hands tighter around your cup.
“Are you okay?” he asked, noticing the shift. Of course he fucking noticed.
“Yeah,” you said quickly. Automatically. “Just hot.”
A lie. A small one. Just because it was easier than the truth.
He nodded, accepting it the same way he used to accept your bad moods — without pushing. Without asking for more. And somehow, that hurt too.
Outside, people hurried past under the lights, arms full, lives intact. Inside, you sat across from the man who had left you and somehow still knew exactly how you took your coffee.
It was dangerously normal.
-
You didn’t realize how late it was until the café started thinning out.
Cups were cleared. Chairs scraped softly against the floor. Outside, the light had shifted into that deep, early darkness December does so well. You’d stopped checking the time somewhere between laughing about the chocolate cake and arguing about whether Die Hard counted as a Christmas movie.
“It’s… late,” you said eventually, glancing at your phone like it had betrayed you.
“Yeah,” he agreed. He didn’t move to stand. Neither did you.
“So,” he said, casual again, almost too casual. “Have you… decorated yet?”
The question caught you off guard.
You hesitated, just enough to be honest. “Not really.”
He frowned slightly. “Really?”
You shrugged. “I took the box out of the cupboard. That’s about it.”
He smiled, soft but knowing. “You love decorating.”
“I love decorating with help,” you corrected. “Turns out doing it alone feels a bit… sad.”
The word slipped out before you could soften it.
He didn’t joke this time. Just nodded slowly, like he understood more than he was letting on.
“I didn’t decorate either,” he admitted. “Didn’t even buy a tree.”
You looked at him. “You always bought the tree.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “Didn’t feel right.”
Something warm and dangerous settled between you.
You stood first, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I should probably head home.”
“Yeah,” he said, standing too quickly. “I can—” He stopped himself. Restarted. “I can walk you, if that’s okay.”
You nodded. “Yeah. That’s okay.”
Your place was only a few blocks away. Close enough that the silence felt… heavier now. Something between familiar and domestic.
-
When you unlocked the door, the hallway light flickered on, revealing exactly what you’d left unfinished — a box half-pulled out from the closet, a strand of lights tangled on top like they’d given up waiting.
His gaze followed yours.
“You didn’t even get the tree out,” he said gently.
You exhaled. “I know.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. You could still say goodnight. Still choose this version of the evening.
Instead, he nodded toward the box. “Do you… want help?”
It wasn’t dramatic… It was just him, standing in your hallway, offering a hand.
You hesitated, even felt the risk but you stepped aside anyway.
“Okay,” you said. “But you’re untangling the lights. That was always your job.”
He smiled — small and real. “Fair.”
And just like that, coats came off. Shoes were kicked aside. The box was dragged into the living room.
You told yourself it was harmless. Just decorations, muscle memory. But as he knelt on the floor, lights spilling over his hands like they remembered him too, you realized this was worse than talking. It felt like home.
You sat on the floor too, cross-legged, pulling things out of the box one by one. Ornaments wrapped in old tissue paper. A star with one bent point. The cheap wooden reindeer you’d bought on impulse and never really liked but always put out anyway.
“Wow,” he said softly. “You kept everything.”
You shrugged. “Didn’t see a reason not to.”
That wasn’t the truth, but it was close enough.
He sighed as his hands untangled lights with the same concentration he used to give everything practical, tongue sticking out just a bit like an old habit. You watched his hands without meaning to. Familiar movements. Muscle memory you hadn’t erased.
The conversation shifted without either of you noticing. It wasn’t jokes anymore. It wasn’t safe small talk either. It hovered somewhere in between — careful, charged, like you were both aware that one wrong sentence could tip the night.
You stood to hang a strand of lights along the bookshelf, stretching up on your toes. He watched you for half a second too long before looking away.
“Do you want these here?” he asked.
“Yeah. That’s where we always—” You stopped yourself. “Where they usually go.”
He nodded. “Right.”
The silence then was thicker but then his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, frowned, then let out a quiet, surprised laugh.
“Huh.”
“What?” you asked, still holding the lights.
“I think my phone’s still connected to your Alexa.”
Your stomach dipped. “What?”
“Yeah,” he said, almost amused. “I haven’t been here in six months and it never disconnected.”
Of course it hadn’t. Before you could think too hard about it, he said, as if it was nothing:
“Alexa, play the Christmas playlist.”
For a second, nothing happened. Then—Last Christmas filled the room.
You groaned immediately. “You did that on purpose.”
“I absolutely did not,” he said, laughing. “It’s the first one every time. We never changed the order.”
“You said we should,” you reminded him. “You said it was emotionally manipulative.”
“And yet,” he said, shrugging, “here we are.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, and went back to the box. Tissue paper rustled. Ornaments clinked softly.
When Santa Tell Me started, he glanced at you. “You used to play this on repeat.”
“Because it’s fun.”
“It’s aggressive,” he corrected. “Festive, but aggressive.”
“You just don’t appreciate pop culture.”
He snorted. “I appreciate it. I just don’t trust it.”
You laughed, a real one, and he looked at you like he’d been waiting for that sound.
You handed him a strand of lights. “Here. Untangle, mister ‘I’m good with my hands.’”
“Oh, I remember this slander,” he said, sitting on the floor. “You said that once and never let it go.”
“It was accurate.”
When Let It Snow came on, the room felt quieter somehow. Softer. You stood on your toes to hang an ornament, and he stepped closer without comment, steadying the branch so it wouldn’t sway.
“You always do that,” you murmured.
“Do what?”
“Help without asking.”
He shrugged. “You never needed to.”
Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree followed, louder, brighter. He mock-danced in place, just enough to make you roll your eyes.
“Oh my god,” you said. “Please stop.”
“You loved this,” he teased.
“I loved you embarrassing yourself in private.”
“See? Compromise.”
You both laughed, breathless, the sound filling the room.
Then Snowman started. Your favorite. He noticed immediately. His movements slowed. His voice dropped when he spoke.
“This one,” he said. “You always went quiet during this one.”
You swallowed. “I like it.”
“I know,” he said gently. “I always thought it felt… fragile.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.
When Wonderful Christmastime came on, you were sitting on the couch, lights finally on, the tree glowing softly in the corner.
“This song is ridiculous,” you said.
“It’s iconic,” he replied.
“It’s nonsense.”
“It’s joyful nonsense.”
You leaned back, bumping his shoulder. “You say that about everything you like.”
He smiled. “Only the important things.”
Later, when you ordered food and ate cross-legged on the couch, the playlist kept looping. You talked about nothing. Work again. Wes' terrible dating life. Listed the reasons why The Holidays was probably the worst Christmas movie.
It was too damn easy, too familiar.
At one point, he reached over and wiped sauce off the corner of your mouth without thinking. His hand froze. Yours did too.
“Sorry,” he said quickly.
“It’s okay,” you replied, just as fast.
Neither of you moved away and the music played on. The lights hummed softly as if Christmas carried on without you while you both pretended this was normal. And somehow, pretending felt effortless.
Joe leaned back on his hands, eyes on the tree. The lights reflected in them, softening his face.
“This looks good,” he said. “You always did Christmas better than me.”
You smiled faintly. “Someone had to.”
He nodded, thoughtful. Too relaxed.
“I think,” he added, offhand, almost absentminded, “this is the first year it actually feels… quiet.”
The word landed wrong.
You turned to look at him. “Quiet?”
He didn’t notice. He kept going, unaware he’d stepped onto something fragile.
“Yeah. I mean—” he shrugged, searching for the thought, not the consequence. “Not bad quiet. Just… simpler. Less pressure.”
There it was: Simple. Less pressure. Your chest tightened, sudden and sharp.
You felt it before you understood it — the way your eyebrows pulled together, the small twitch at the corner of your mouth you could never quite control. Sadness rising fast, embarrassingly fast.
Joe saw it instantly. He stopped mid-breath.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “Hey— no, that’s not what I meant.”
But it was already too late. The room had shifted. You looked down at your hands. At the lights hanging on your shelf like something living.
“I think I need a minute,” you said.
Your voice was steady. That somehow made it worse. You walked out, too quickly, the motion almost abrupt.
“Wait. I didn’t—”
“I know,” you said, turning away before he could see your face properly. “I know you didn’t.”
That didn’t make it hurt less.
You walked toward the hallway and behind you, Joe stood frozen, panic blooming across his features.
He replayed the moment in his head, already knowing he couldn’t take it back. Already seeing it — the way your expression had changed, the way something closed off behind your eyes.
He followed you a few steps, then stopped, afraid of making it worse.
“I didn’t mean you,” he said helplessly, voice carrying down the hall. “I swear. I wasn’t talking about you.”
But you kept silent.
Joe ran a hand through his hair, heart pounding, surrounded by lights and music and the mess of something he’d broken without even touching it.
For the first time that night, the six months came rushing back in. And he had no idea how to stop everything from falling apart again.
He reached for his phone with shaking hands and muted it. The silence started pressing in on him immediately.
He dragged a hand down his face and let out a breath that sounded more like a laugh than it should have. His chest felt tight. The same way it had felt months ago, when he’d sat on the edge of his bed convincing himself he was doing the right thing.
Simpler. Less pressure. What the fuck had he been thinking?
This was the part he hated: the moment when someone he loved pulled away and he had no idea how to end the distance without hurting them again. Six months ago, this feeling had swallowed him whole.
Back then, he’d told himself leaving was kinder than staying half-present. That giving you space was better than failing you in slow motion. He’d wrapped his fear in logic and called it love.
And now here he was again — heart racing, fingers fidgeting with his ring, brain scrambling — watching something precious break because he’d spoken without thinking.
He sank onto the couch and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
Say something. Do something.
But Joe had never been good at fixing things in the moment. He overthought. He spiraled. He waited until it was too late and then hated himself for waiting.
He glanced at the tree. At the lights he’d untangled. The ornaments he’d placed like muscle memory had never left him. Proof of how easily he’d slipped back into a life he’d willingly walked out.
“This is exactly why you left,” he muttered to himself. “Because you ruin things.”
The thought hit him hard. Sharp and familiar. He stood abruptly, then stopped again, indecisive. He felt sixteen years old all of a sudden. Too many feelings and nowhere to put them.
He took a few steps toward the hallway, then hesitated.
He leaned his forehead against the wall, eyes closed, breathing uneven, heart pounding with the awful certainty that he was about to lose you again — not because he didn’t care, but because he cared and didn’t know how to show it without breaking something.
That’s exactly why he forced his brain to shut up and he moved instead. This time, for the first time in too many months, he didn’t plan thoughtfully. If he had, he would’ve talked himself out of it. Waited. Overthought. He would have let the silence drag on until it became permanent.
He walked down the hallway on instinct, heart in his throat, stopping just short of the doorway. The light from the kitchen spilled out, catching the edge of the counter, the sink. You stood there with your back to him, shoulders tight, hands braced against the surface like you were holding yourself together.
He swallowed.
“I didn’t mean that,” he said, too quickly and too loud. The words tripped over each other. “What I said. About it being quiet. I wasn’t— I didn’t mean you were pressure.”
You didn’t turn around. He pressed on, panic rising.
“You know I’m bad at— at saying things right. I always have been. And I know that’s not an excuse, I just—”
He stopped. Dragged a hand through his curls. His chest felt like it was caving in.
“When I said it felt simpler, I meant me,” he said, voice cracking despite his effort to keep it even. “I meant that without you I didn’t have to worry about disappointing anyone. About failing. And that’s not a good thing. That’s just… me being scared.”
Still, you didn’t move. The silence stretched and he laughed weakly.
“See? This is what I do. I come in and say the wrong thing and then try to explain it and just… make it worse.”
He leaned a hand against the doorframe, grounding himself.
“I left because I didn’t know how to stay without falling apart,” he said quietly. “And I thought if I did it cleanly, if I wrapped it up in something that sounded reasonable, it would hurt you less.” His voice dropped. “It didn’t.” He paused again. “I don’t know how to fix things in the moment,” he went on, softer now. “I freeze. Or I run. Or I talk until I mess it up beyond repair. And I’m doing it again, and I hate it.”
His eyes and his voice were begging at you to turn around and meet his gaze.
“I don’t want this to be another thing I walk away from because I’m afraid,” he said. “But I also don’t know how to make this okay without hurting you again.”
He let the words hang there, unfinished but messy and real.
“I’m sorry,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “I really am sorry.”
He waited then, heart pounding. Hands unsteady. Fully aware he might have just broken something fragile. And still — it was the most honest he’d been in months.
You stayed still for a moment longer. Your hands were resting on the counter, fingers spread, like if you moved them you might lose whatever fragile balance you’d found. His words were still hanging in the air behind you — a little clumsy but painfully sincere.
You took a breath and then you turned.
He was standing there like he didn’t trust the ground under his feet. Eyes too bright. Shoulders tense. Hope and dread tangled so tightly it was hard to tell them apart.
And something in you finally gave. Not all at once, or dramatically. Just… quietly.
Your eyes burned first. A sting you ignored out of habit. Then your vision blurred, and you blinked, confused, like this wasn’t supposed to be happening. One breath hitched. Then another.
Joe saw it immediately.
“Fuck—” he whispered, stepping forward without thinking. Then stopping himself. “Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” you said.
Your voice came out steady, which almost made it worse. Your face didn’t match it at all. A tear slipped down your cheek, slow and unhurried. Then another.
You didn’t wipe them away.
“I know you didn’t mean it,” you continued, swallowing. “That’s kind of the problem.”
He flinched like you’d hit something soft.
“I’m just… tired,” you said. The truth, finally. “I’m tired of understanding. Of translating. Of being the one who sees what you meant instead of what you did.”
Your eyebrows pulled together, that small crease between them you hated. The corner of your mouth twitched, betrayed you completely.
Joe’s chest tightened at the sight. He looked wrecked by it. Like he wanted to gather you up and didn’t trust himself to touch you at all.
“I loved you,” you said softly. “I didn’t need you to be perfect. I only needed you to stay.” The words didn’t accuse. They just… they were too honest. Tears kept falling but you laughed under your breath, embarrassed and broken all at once. “God. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.”
“I hate this,” he said quietly. “I hate that I just keep hurting you.”
You looked at him then, and there it was. Still there. The love, a bit bruised. Worn down but undeniable.
“I still love you,” you admitted, voice barely above a breath. “And that’s the part that hurts the most.”
Joe’s eyes filled instantly. He shook his head once, like he didn’t deserve the confession.
“I never stopped,” he said. “I just didn’t know how to do it without feeling like I would drown into it.”
You shook your head slightly, like you were embarrassed by your own reaction. “I didn’t—” Your voice broke. You stopped and tried again. “I didn’t want it to hit me like that.”
But the tears slipped free anyway. Joe took a step toward you, then stopped himself, unsure. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides.
“I’m just… so tired,” you said softly, wiping at your cheek, failing to stop the next tear. “I was okay, Joe. I worked really hard to be okay.”
He nodded, eyes glossy now. “I know.”
“And then you’re here,” you went on, voice unsteady but honest, “standing in my living room, putting lights on my tree like you never left. Like I didn’t spend months trying to put myself back together.”
“I still love you,” you said, the words falling out bare and unprotected. “I hate that I do sometimes. But I do. And when you say things like that— when it sounds like your life got easier without me— it just…” You gestured helplessly between you. “It makes everything feel small. Disposable.”
Joe’s face crumpled.
“No,” he said immediately. “God, no.”
He crossed the space between you then, slow, careful, like approaching something fragile but he didn’t touch you. Just stood close enough that you could feel his warmth.
“My life didn’t get easier,” he said, voice thick. “It just got emptier. And I convinced myself that was the same thing.”
You looked at him through tears, eyes searching his face despite you were afraid of what you might find in his eyes.
“I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you,” he continued. “I left because I didn’t know how to carry my fear without making it your problem. And instead of learning… I ran.”
Your shoulders sagged a little.
“I never wanted to be the thing you escaped from,” you whispered.
“You weren’t,” he said. “You were… the only thing I was too scared to lose.”
The silence that settled between you then wasn’t sharp but soft… aching.
Joe lifted a hand slowly, giving you time to stop him. When you didn’t, he brushed his thumb under your eye, wiping away a tear with a touch so gentle it almost made you start crying all over again.
You leaned into it without thinking.
And there it was: just two tired people, standing in a half-lit kitchen, crying quietly because love hadn’t gone anywhere, it had just been patiently waiting.
His thumb was still warm beneath your eye when you spoke. Your voice was still a bit shaky.
“I’m scared that this… this is just nostalgia” you said and his brow furrowed. “That we’re standing here because Christmas does this to people. Because the music is soft and the lights make everything gentler. Or because we know each other’s habits and it just feels safe to… I don't know, fall back into it.”
Joe stiffened, not pulling away, but alert. Like he knew better than to rush this part and you pushed on before he could interrupt.
“And then January comes. And life comes back. And you get overwhelmed again.” Joe flinched to that last beat. “I’m scared,” you continued, voice still low but steadier now, “that I let myself believe this means something — and I end up right back where I was. On the floor. Trying to convince myself I’ll survive you leaving twice.”
That landed, you could see it on his face. Joe closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, they were wet.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “Yeah.”
You looked up at him, surprised. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said again. “That’s… that’s my fear too. That I reach for you because it feels like oxygen, and then I panic when I realize how much I need it.” He exhaled shakily. “I’m scared I don’t know how to stay yet,” he admitted. “Not perfectly but… consistently.”
The word lingered between you. You nodded slowly.
“I don’t need perfect, Joe… I had never asked for that”
“I know,” he said. “But I need to learn how to not disappear when things get heavy. And I don’t know if I’ve proven that yet.” He paused for a second and the, softer, he added, “But I don’t want to run tonight.”
“Then don’t.” you replied.
Joe didn’t hesitate this time… he just wrapped his arms around you — not tight, not claiming. Just there and you let your forehead rest against his chest.
His heartbeat was fast and uneven.
“It’s okay,” you whispered, half to him, half to yourself.
And he softened. Not because the fear vanished, but because, for the first time, he had been able to speak his heart out and the world didn't feel like it shrinked or as if he was weak. It felt right, almost as relief.
Then you lifted your head because your neck hurt from holding it that way and somehow standing there was starting to feel unreal. Joe’s chin dipped at the same time, like he was about to say something he hadn’t figured out yet.
You were suddenly too close. Close enough that you could feel his breath change, that stepping back would’ve been obvious.
So when your lips touched — it wasn’t even a kiss. Just a soft and brief contact. And everything in you reacted before you could decide if it was a good idea.
Your stomach dropped. Your chest tightened. That sharp, familiar pull hit all at once, unwelcome and undeniable.
You didn’t pull away. Joe didn’t either.
And that’s when the second kiss happened. Without discussion, without intention — it felt more like a reflex than a choice. As if muscle memory was taking over.
He exhaled against your mouth, startled, like he hadn’t meant to go that far. Your lips pressed together again anyway, firmer this time, uneven. Joe’s hand found your side automatically, then stilled, fingers splayed like he’d just realized what he was doing.
You broke apart abruptly. Both of you breathing too fast. You stayed there, a breath apart, the air between you thick and unsettled.
Neither of you moved right away. Like you were both waiting for the other to name it. Or stop it. Joe was the first to speak. His voice was low and careful.
“Hey,” he said. “We don’t— we don’t have to.”
You nodded, swallowing. “I know… but I want to,” you said quietly but honestly.
His jaw tightened, like that confession hit him somewhere deep. He let out a breath through his nose, almost a laugh, almost a curse.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. Me too.”
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Like… really.”
You met his eyes.
“I am,” you said. “I wouldn’t say yes if I wasn’t.”
That did it.
His hand came back to your side, slow this time, deliberate. He waited — a fraction of a second — until you leaned into it. Only then did his fingers curl slightly, grounding, warm.
The next kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careful either. It landed somewhere in between — steadier, deeper, inevitable. You felt it spread through you immediately, that low, familiar heat, the kind that makes thinking feel optional.
You broke it gently, forehead resting against his.
“This is a bad idea,” you murmured.
Joe huffed a breathy laugh. “Probably.”
You kissed him again anyway.
His hands slid up your back, hesitant at first, then firmer when you pressed closer. Yours gripped his sweater, knuckles brushing his chest, like you needed to be sure he was real.
The room felt smaller now. Warmer. Joe pulled back slightly, breath uneven.
“If we keep going…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
You nodded. “I know.” Another beat. Then, softer — “I want to.”
He kissed you again then, slower, surer, and this time when his hand slipped to the small of your back, you didn’t hesitate — you stepped closer, closing the last of the space between you.
You didn’t move right away. You were still close, his hands warm at your waist, your fingers curled into his sweater like you needed the touch to ground yourself.
Joe cleared his throat softly. “We’re… really bad at taking things slow,” he said.
You huffed a quiet laugh. “You were the one who leaned in first”
“It was absolutely mutual," he corrected. “Perfect timing.”
That got a real smile out of you. Tired, but real. He smiled back, relieved, like the sound had loosened something in his chest. His thumb brushed a slow, absent circle against your side.
You leaned your forehead against his shoulder for a second, just breathing. He bent slightly to meet you there, chin resting in your hair.
“This feels… weirdly normal,” he murmured.
You tilted your head back to look at him. “That’s what scares me.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.”
Another beat. Then, lighter — almost teasing — “You still haven’t fixed that lamp, by the way.”
You pulled back a little. “You promised you would.”
“I promised to try.”
“Joe.”
He grinned. “See? Pressure.”
You laughed, shaking your head, and he watched you like the sound mattered more than anything else in the room.
When the laughter faded, the quiet settled again — not heavy, just expectant. He took your hand then. Not pulling, just holding.
“Come here,” he said. “Please.”
You followed him down the hallway slowly, fingers still intertwined. Every step felt deliberate. Chosen.
At your bedroom door, you stopped again. Old instinct… gravity. Joe noticed immediately.
You lingered in the doorway longer than intended, the weight of the moment pinning you there. Joe caught the change before you could voice it—the quickened rhythm of your breaths, the way your fingers clenched around his. The air thickened, heavy with unspoken need, shedding its careful edges.
He closed the distance, no questions this time. His body heat pressed against yours, solid and insistent.
“You’re thinking too much,” he murmured, voice low and rough.
“So are you,” you replied, your tone dropping to match the growing hunger.
A breathy laugh escaped him, but it cut short as you leaned in, your lips grazing his jaw, then trailing down his neck. Not quite a kiss—just a deliberate tease, your breath hot against his skin.
Joe swore softly, the sound raw. “Fuck, that’s not playing fair.”
You tilted your head up to meet his gaze. “No one said I had to.”
His hands settled on your hips, gripping tighter now, fingers digging in as if anchoring himself. The touch sent a jolt straight through you, pooling low in your belly.
“Okay,” he said, voice strained. “But tell me if it’s too much. Or if you change your mind.”
You shook your head, pulse racing. “It’s not enough. Not even close.”
That snapped something in him.
His mouth crashed onto yours, urgent and consuming, like he’d been starving for this. Not brutal, but desperate. Heat flared instantly between your thighs, sharp and insistent, you were already clenching with the first real ache of want.
Your hands roamed up his chest, fisting his shirt, yanking him flush against you. He moaned into the kiss, the vibration rumbling through his body into yours, making your nipples harden against the fabric of your top.
You pulled back only to gasp for air, lips swollen and tingling.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, forehead resting against yours, breaths coming fast. “You’re fucking killing me here.”
A sly smile curved your mouth, edged with challenge. “You made it through six months.”
“Barely,” he admitted, eyes dark with intent. Then, softer: “I don’t — I can’t stop. I need you.”
You swallowed hard, the raw honesty hitting like a spark. “Then don’t pull away. Not this time.”
“I won’t,” he promised, fierce and immediate.
His lips found yours once more, the kiss slower now but infinitely deeper. His hands mapped your back, sliding down to cup your ass, squeezing firmly as he pulled you tighter. You could feel the hard line of his cock pressing against your thigh through his jeans, thick and straining, and you rocked against it instinctively, drawing a low growl from him.
You arched into him, your breasts crushing against his chest, the friction making you whimper softly. His fingers kneaded your flesh, thumbs brushing the curve where hip met thigh, teasing closer to where you throbbed for him.
The room shrank around you, the air turning humid with shared heat. Every brush of skin felt electric, deliberate—his stubble scraping your neck as he nipped there, your nails scraping lightly down his arms.
When he finally eased back, his voice was gravelly, wrecked. “Bed. Now.”
It was not an order but a raw, aching need.
You nodded, heart pounding, body already humming with anticipation. No more teasing words. No more space between you.
He led you there, hands never leaving your body, backing you toward the bed until your legs hit the edge. You sank down together, him hovering over you, eyes locked as he peeled off your shirt, exposing your skin to the cool air.
His gaze raked over your bare breasts, hungry, before his mouth descended—lips closing around one nipple, sucking hard while his tongue flicked the peak.
You gasped, fingers threading into his hair, holding him there as pleasure shot straight to your core. He lavished attention on you, switching sides, teeth grazing just enough to sting, then soothing with wet, open-mouthed kisses.
His free hand trailed down your side, tracing the dip of your waist, the swell of your hip, before slipping between your thighs. He cupped you through your pants, pressing the heel of his palm against your mound, feeling the heat radiating from you.
“Already so damn hot, baby” he breathed against your skin, nipping at your collarbone as his fingers worked your button open.
He tugged your pants down slowly, deliberately, kissing a path along your stomach as more skin came into view. You lifted your hips to help, kicking the fabric away, leaving you in just your underwear.
Joe’s eyes darkened further at the sight of you in your underwear, his thumb tracing it lightly.
“Can I?” he asked, voice husky, before he hooked his fingers in the waistband.
You nodded and he slid them off, baring you completely.
“Please.”
He paused there, kneeling between your legs, his hands sliding up your thighs in slow, reverent strokes. The six months apart hung between you like a shadow, but his touch chased it away—gentle yet insistent, fingers tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, parting them wider.
“I love you,” he whispered, the words rough with emotion, eyes meeting yours as if to etch them into your soul. “Missed this. Missed you. Every fucking day.”
Your chest tightened, love swelling alongside the heat.
“I love you too, Joe. So much.”
You reached for him, cupping his face, pulling him down for a kiss that was tender at first, lips brushing softly, then deepening as tongues met in a slow dance.
He settled over you, his weight a comforting press, cock still hard and trapped in his jeans against your bare skin. You tugged at his shirt, helping him strip it off, your hands exploring the familiar ridges of his chest, the moles, the muscles earned over time. He kicked off his pants next, boxers following, until he was as naked as you, his erection curving up toward his stomach.
Instead of rushing, he lay beside you, pulling you into his arms, bodies aligning side by side. His mouth found your neck, kissing softly, then firmer, sucking marks that would linger as reminders. You turned into him, leg hooking over his hip, your wetness brushing him as you shifted.
“Slow,” he murmured against your ear, hand sliding down to grip your ass, guiding you closer without entering. “I want to feel every second of this. Like it’s the first time all over again.”
It felt that way—the ache of absence making every touch new, profound. You nodded, kissing his shoulder, tasting the salt of his skin. His fingers dipped between your legs, stroking you gently, circling your clit with feather-light pressure that built the need gradually, tenderly. You moaned softly, rocking into his hand, your own palm wrapping around him, stroking from base to tip in unhurried pulls.
He groaned, burying his face in your hair, hips thrusting lightly into your fist. “God, your touch... it’s everything.”
Minutes stretched like this, hands exploring, mouths kissing—lazy trails across collarbones, down ribs, over hips. He sucked on your nipples again, slower now, tongue swirling as if memorizing the taste, while you traced patterns on his back, nails grazing just enough to send shivers down his spine.
When the need grew too insistent, he rolled you onto your back, positioning himself carefully. His cock nudged your entrance, sliding through your wetness once, twice, teasing without pressure.
“You ready for me?” he asked, voice thick, forehead pressed to yours.
“Yes,” you breathed, arms wrapping around his neck. “I want you, Joe. I’ve never stopped.”
He did. Pushing in inch by inch, eyes locked on yours, watching your face as you stretched around him. The fullness was perfect, a burn that faded into warmth, your walls hugging him tight. He bottomed out with a shared sigh, stilling to let you adjust, his hand stroking your hair, thumb brushing your cheek.
“Fuck, you feel amazing” he whispered as he started to move.
Long, deep thrusts that were measured, each one pulling almost out before gliding back in, grinding against your clit at the end. The rhythm was heated, bodies slick with sweat, but laced with tenderness: his lips on yours between thrusts, soft words of love murmured into your skin,
“You feel perfect... so good around me... love how you take me.”
You met his pace, hips lifting to draw him deeper, the friction sparking pleasure that built steadily, not crashing but rising like a tide. Your hands roamed his back, feeling muscles flex with each roll of his hips, while he kissed your jaw, your throat, nipping gently. The slap of skin was quieter, more intimate, accompanied by your gasps and his low moans.
He shifted, hooking your leg higher over his hip, changing the angle to hit deeper, brushing that spot inside that made your toes curl.
“Right there?” he asked, voice strained but attentive, adjusting based on your nod and moan.
“Joe... I’m close,” you panted, fingers digging into his shoulders as pleasure coiled tighter.
“Come for me,” he urged softly, hand slipping between you to rub your clit in slow circles, matching his thrusts. “Please”
It washed over you then, orgasm blooming warm and intense, waves pulsing through your core as you clenched around his cock, crying out his name in a voice raw with feeling. He followed moments later, thrusts faltering as he spilled inside you, filling you while he groaned your name like a prayer, body trembling against yours.
He didn’t pull away after, staying buried deep, rolling to the side and drawing you into his chest. Your legs tangled, breaths syncing as the aftershocks faded. His fingers traced lazy circles on your back, lips pressing to your forehead.
“I love you,” he said again, quieter now, the words settling like a promise.
You smiled against his skin, heart full. “I love you too.”
He pressed you closer, lips grazing your temple, where he pressed a small and soft kiss. You lay there staring at the ceiling, close enough that every deeper breath brushed the other.
Joe broke the silence in a voice far too casual to be believable.
“So,” he said, gesturing vaguely upward like the ceiling might explain things, “this was not in my plan for today.”
You let out a small, tired laugh. “I was just going to buy a book.”
“And look at us now,” he added. “Overachievers.”
You turned your head to look at him. He was wearing that half-smile he always used when he was nervous and pretending he wasn’t.
“Are you okay?” you asked.
He nodded, then corrected himself. “Yes. No. I mean— yeah, I think so. Just… weird.”
“Weird good or weird bad?”
“Weird good,” he said quickly. “Definitely weird good.” He was quiet for a second, fidgeting with his ring. “So… what are we now?”
You shrugged. “Two people who got derailed by Christmas.”
He smiled. “Right. Curse the festive spirit.”
You nudged his arm lightly.
“For now,” you said, choosing your words carefully, “I just need you not to disappear tomorrow.”
He looked at you properly then. Not dramatically, just… open.
“I won’t,” he said. “I won’t promise you I’ll do this perfectly, but I won’t vanish.”
He tugged the duvet around both of you, a little clumsy, but warm. Then he stared at the ceiling for a beat, like he was trying to find the right words.
“Can I… stay?” he asked.
Simple. No pressure.
You turned to him. His face was soft in the low light. “Yeah,” you said after a beat. “I’d like that.”
His smile was instant — wide, boyish, completely unable to hide itself. You shifted closer automatically, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“And… maybe coffee tomorrow?” he added after a moment.
“Coffee?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow. And the day after. And… you know, the next one too.”
You laughed quietly, resting your head back against him. “That… actually sounds nice.”
“Honestly,” he murmured, pressing you a little closer, “couldn’t imagine a better way to spend Christmas.”
You didn’t say anything else. Didn’t need to. You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of him, the soft flicker of the living room lights, and for now… that was enough.
Maybe, just maybe, it would be enough tomorrow too.
