Summary : You and Nett were friends long before the fame. While his life explodes into tours and chaos, you stay grounded and private. When he comes back home, old feelings resurface, but you refuse to be a side story in his world. After distance and heartbreak, he realizes success means nothing without you.
A/N: I felt really inspired after reading texts w cheater!nettspend by @romansbbg. Trying to get back to writing is so difficult. Also kinda want some mutuals !
TW: MDNI, dry humping, p in v (tell me if i forgot some)
You and Nett have been friends since he was still in school. You were one of the few people he stayed close to back home in Virginia. When his career blew up almost overnight and he became one of the main figures in the underground scene, everything around him changed fast.
You were never part of that world. You’re quiet, reserved, the type to keep everything private. No social media presence. No interest in clout. No desire to be seen.
When the fame really started to take off, he left home. He began doing shows all across America, even in Europe.
You didn’t really follow his life that closely. You don’t have social media, and you’ve never cared much about that kind of thing. Most of what you knew came from your mom mentioning something she saw online, from friends sending screenshots, or from coworkers talking about him while you were folding clothes at the thrift store you and Nett used to go to after school.
It always felt strange hearing his name like that. To everyone else, he was Nettspend. To you, he was still Gunner.
You and him didn’t talk much after he left, but you understood. He was finally living his dream. He was becoming everything people back then said he never could.
Now you’re eighteen when you receive a message from a number you don’t recognize.
Unknown Number: Hey y/n, it’s Gunner. How are you? It’s been a long time since we last saw each other. I’m at my mom’s for the weekend. I was wondering if you’d like to hang out?
Your heart stops. The message was sor formal. You stare at the screen for a full minute before typing anything back.
For a second, you think about all the reasons you shouldn’t go. He’s different now. His life is different. You’re different.
But your thumbs move before your doubts can catch up.
He replies almost instantly.
Bet. I can pick u up. I really wanna get those milkshakes like we used to.
You can’t help the small smile that pulls at your lips. The milkshakes at the cheap diner off Route 5 with the red booths and sticky menus. The place you used to sit for hours after school, splitting fries because neither of you ever had enough money for two full meals.
You text back your address before you can overthink it.
You don’t really think about it again until Saturday, when he texts you that he’s on his way to pick you up at 6 p.m.
When he arrives, you’re surprised to see a brand-new car. All black. Blacked-out windows. The engine low and expensive-sounding as it idles in front of your house.
You walk up to the passenger side and slide in. The interior smells like leather and something faintly sweet, probably his cologne.
He pulls away from the curb, one hand on the wheel, chains glinting when streetlights pass over him.
Finally, he clears his throat.
“So… what you been up to?”
The question feels simple, but it hits harder than it should.
What have you been up to?
Working at the thrift store. Helping your mom with bills.
“Nothing crazy,” you say softly. “Still working at the thrift store.”
“That’s cool,” he says. “You always liked that place.”
He’s changed. You see it by the way he carries himself. His confidence. His calmness.
“You?” you ask quietly, even though you already know.
He lets out a short laugh. “You know. Just… working. I wanted to see my mom this weekend. I’m trying to come visit more often.”
You nod, looking out the window so he doesn’t see the way that softens you.
He’s still someone’s son.
Still the boy who used to complain about curfew and ask you to lie for him when he stayed out too late.
“That’s good,” you say quietly. “She must miss you.”
He shrugs, but it’s not careless. “Yeah. She does.”
There’s something unspoken there. Guilt maybe, or distance. The kind of space that grows when your life starts moving faster than everyone else’s.
He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, then glances at you again.
“You still don’t got social media?”
You shake your head. “No.”
He smiles a little. “That’s kinda fire, actually.”
You frown slightly. “Why?”
“’Cause you don’t see none of it,” he says. “The comments. The weird stuff. The fake love.”
The car slows at a red light. The glow from outside cuts across his face.
“I miss when it was simple,” he admits quietly.
“You could’ve texted,” you say softly. “Before now.”
He exhales through his nose. “I know.I didn’t know if you’d still pick up.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you tell him quietly.
You arrive at the diner a few minutes later. The neon sign is still flickering like it always did. Some things really don’t change.
He insists on going in to order, even though you both know he could’ve just sent someone.
You wait by the counter while a couple of teenagers whisper and stare, clearly recognizing him. He keeps his hood up, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not invisible anymore.
You take the milkshakes to go.
Instead of driving back toward your house, he turns into an empty parking lot nearby.
He parks and cuts the engine.
The sudden quiet feels heavier than before.
The city glow reflects off the windshield. You sit there with the cold cup in your hands, condensation dripping onto your fingers.
He leans back in his seat, staring straight ahead for a second.
“Lowkey missed this,” he says.
“Drinking milkshakes in a random parking lot?” you tease softly.
He glances at you, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Yeah. With you.”
“Life just did its thing,” you say softly. “We grew up. Everyone has their own path.”
You both fall into an easier rhythm after that.
Talking about old teachers. Old classmates. People who swore they’d leave town and never did. He tells you small stories from tour. Airports at 3 a.m. Studio sessions that lasted until sunrise.
At some point, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a joint, and lights it.
He hesitates for half a second before passing it to you.
“You still smoke?” he asks.
He lights it, takes a slow drag, then passes it to you.The air inside the car fills with a familiar haze.
He leans his head back against the seat.
“I got this girl back in Cali,” he says casually. “Her name’s Mazzy.”
You nod like he just told you the weather.
“That’s cool,” you reply, passing the joint back to him.
“She’s chill,” he continues. “Been around for a minute.”
“Good for you,” you say simply.
“And you?” he asks after a moment. “You talking to anybody?”
You shake your head. “Not really.”
You shrug again. “Just haven’t felt like it.”
He studies you for a second, like he’s trying to figure that out.
The joint burns lower between his fingers.
“You’re still the same,” he says.
You glance at him. “That a bad thing?”
He shakes his head slowly.
“Nah,” he says. “It’s just… rare.”
The blunt burns down slowly. More are smoked. Random things get said. Some serious, some stupid. The kind of conversations that only happen when it’s late and neither of you is trying too hard.
By the time he drops you off, it’s almost 11 p.m. He doesn’t make it weird. No long stare. No dramatic goodbye.
He leaves the next night. You don’t see him again before he goes back to California.
You expect things to go back to normal after that.
You go back to work. Back to your routine. Back to folding clothes and organizing racks.
But your phone starts lighting up more often.
Gunner:You alive? This town still boring? Shooting a vid today, lowkey tired.
You don’t always reply right away. Sometimes hours later. Sometimes the next morning. He doesn’t complain.
The conversations aren’t deep. Mostly random memes or updates.
You’ll be folding clothes at the thrift store and your phone will buzz.
You would hate this beat.
Followed by a laughing emoji.
You roll your eyes but smile anyway.
He’s in Cali. Or New York. Or somewhere in Europe. You’re still in Virginia. Two completely different lives moving at different speeds. But somehow, there’s still a thin thread between you.
One night, around 2 a.m., your phone lights up again.
You’re half asleep when you reach for it, the screen too bright in the dark.
You stare at it for a second before replying.
Gunner: Lowkey just got into it with Mazzy.
You shift onto your back.
Gunner: Nothing crazy. Just dumb stuff. She think I don’t be present. I do be busy though.
You can almost hear his tone through the screen.
You are busy, you type back. You’re always somewhere.
Gunner: That’s what I said. But she don’t get it.
You don’t pick sides. You don’t ask invasive questions. You don’t soften your tone either.
Long distance and fame probably don’t mix well, you answer simply.
Gunner: You always neutral as hell.
A few seconds pass before another message comes in.
Gunner: I just needed to vent. Everyone else gon turn it into something.
You know what he means. His circle, the people around him now, managers, friends who benefit from proximity. People who would twist it into drama or content.
It’s fine, you reply. You can vent.
The typing bubble comes back.
Gunner: Miss when it was simple. Miss smoking in my old car.
You sit up slightly, resting your back against the wall.
You can smoke anywhere, you text.
Gunner: Not like that. I wanna smoke with you again.
Your thumb hovers over the screen.
You were just here, you type.
Gunner: Yeah. And I’m already back in chaos.
Then come back when you’re free, you reply.
Gunner: Maybe next month. You better not disappear on me.
You almost smile at that.
I told you, you reply. I’m not going anywhere.
A month later, he’s standing at your front door.
When you open the door, he’s there in a hoodie and sweats, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
He’s been to your house before, so it doesn’t feel unfamiliar. Your mom even says a quick hello like it’s normal.
You both head upstairs to your room.
You sit on the floor like you used to.
He rolls up while you scroll through your phone, then passes it to you. You both laugh about something stupid he saw online. The smoke fills the room slowly.
“I made a lot of money this month,” he says casually, leaning back against your bed.
You glance at him. “Yeah?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Define a lot.”
He smirks. “More than this whole house probably cost.”
You let out a small laugh. “Okay.”
“Gunner,” you say, amused, “you don’t have to impress me.”
That makes him sit up a little.
“I’m not trying to impress you.”
He stares at you for a second, then shakes his head and reaches for his duffel bag.
Before you can even process it, he unzips it and pulls out thick stacks of cash rubber-banded.
Your smile fades slightly.
“Why do you just have that on you?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing.
“’Cause I can. And I was gonna give some away after we hang out. Help some people out.”
He starts stacking the money on your floor like it’s a joke.
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but you’re smiling.
He looks at you through half-lidded eyes, grin lazy from the weed.
“You still don’t look impressed.”
He scoots a little closer.
“Lemme see something,” he says.
Before you can ask what he means, he grabs a stack and flicks a few bills over your shoulder.
They land in your hair, on your lap, sliding down your hoodie.
You blink at him. “Gunner.”
“Don’t move,” he says, already pulling his phone out.
He lightly fans more bills over you, laughing under his breath.
You roll your eyes but stay there.
“Delete that,” you say automatically.
“It’s not for the gram,” he replies. “Relax.”
He takes another one, closer this time. You push his shoulder lightly.
He grins. “You look good.”
You brush the money off your sleeve. “It’s literally paper.”
“I’m not talking about the money.”
The words hang there. He lowers his phone, studying you in that slow, thoughtful way he does when he’s high.
“You always look the same at me,” he says quietly. “Like I’m still just… me.”
He shakes his head slightly. “Not to everybody.”
You shrug. “That’s their problem.”
He smirks at that, then picks up a stack and lightly taps it against your knee.
“You really don’t care about any of this?” he asks.
You meet his eyes. “Should I?”
He holds your gaze for a second longer than before.
“No,” he says quietly. “I just… ain’t used to that.”
The room feels smaller now.
He’s still close. Close enough that if you lean forward even a little, your knees would touch.
“You don’t act different,” he adds. “Even after everything.”
“You wanted me to?” you ask.
He shakes his head slowly.
His eyes drop to your mouth for a second. Then back to your eyes.
He studies your face like he’s trying to decide something. Then, without saying anything else, he leans in. His hand comes up slowly, fingers brushing your jaw like he’s making sure you’re real.
When his lips touch yours, it’s soft at first, like he’s testing the space between friendship and something that could ruin it.
His thumb presses slightly against your cheek, grounding you, and you can feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of smoke clinging to his hoodie, the slow exhale through his nose as he settles into it.
You kiss him back, and the moment stretches. He shifts closer without thinking, knee brushing yours, and the contact sends a small jolt through you that feels far more intense than the kiss itself.
When he deepens it, his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck,
When you finally pull back, it isn’t abrupt. Your lips barely separating, your breath still tangled with his. Your chest rises slowly as you pull in a breath, and that’s when it hits you.
For a second, neither of you speaks. The room feels thick, smoke lingering in the air, cash scattered across your carpet, the faint sound of a car passing outside your house like the world is still moving even though yours just paused.
The word comes out sharper than you expect.
He blinks. “What about her?”
You lean back now, creating space between you.
“You have a girlfriend,” you say, and there’s irritation in your voice now.
“It’s not like that,” he replies quickly.
You let out a dry laugh. “It’s exactly like that.”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.
“We’ve been arguing. It’s complicated.”
“It’s not complicated,” you cut in. “You’re with her.”
Your chest feels tight because you refuse to be that girl. The side moment. The hometown option when things get messy somewhere else.
“I’m not some in-between,” you say firmly. “I’m not the person you come to when Cali gets to much.”
He looks at you like that stung.
“I didn’t plan that,” he says. “It just…happened.”
You gesture vaguely between you. “Exactly.”
Silence falls again, but this time it's tense.
“You’re acting like I used you,” he mutters.
“I’m acting like I respect myself,” you reply.
That lands heavier than anything else. He exhales slowly, leaning back against your bed, jaw tight.
“It wasn’t just a kiss,” you say quietly.“You should leave.”
He stares at you like he’s waiting for you to take it back.
“You’re serious?” he asks quietly.
“You’re really gonna kick me out over this?” he says, a hint of disbelief creeping in.
“I’m not kicking you out,” you reply evenly. “I’m choosing not to be part of whatever this is.”
He scoffs softly, running a hand over his jaw. “You’re making it bigger than it is.”
The cash is still scattered across your carpet. It suddenly feels ugly. Performative. Like proof of how far apart your lives really are.
“I came here to see you,” he says, softer now.
“And you did,” you answer. “And we were fine. Until you forgot you have a girlfriend.”
He clenches his jaw. “It wasn’t about that.”
“Then what was it about?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he stands up slowly, grabbing his duffel bag off the floor. He doesn’t look at you while he shoves the stacks of money back inside. He moves quicker now, his jaw tight and shoulders stiff.
A few bills stay on your carpet. He doesn’t bother picking them up.
He zips the bag hard. The sound is sharp in the small room.
“So that’s it?” he asks without looking at you.
He shakes his head once, mutters something under his breath, then walks toward your door.
“You know I’d never disrespect you like that,” he says quietly.
You both walk down the hallway.
Your mom glances up from the couch when you reach the bottom.
“Leaving already?” she asks lightly.
“Yeah, ma’am,” he says, polite as ever. “Got an early thing tomorrow.”
She nods, smiling. “Drive safe.”
You walk him to the front door.
The porch light casts a soft glow over him. For a second, neither of you moves.
“Goodnight, y/n.” he said before leaving.
That was the last thing he said to you.
A month passed before you heard from him again. You were out with your friends when your phone buzzed.
You didn’t respond. You were still mad at him. But you couldn’t deny that he was constantly on your mind. You even considered creating an Instagram account just to see if he had finally broken up with his girlfriend, who you’d learned thanks to your friend was a model.
Two weeks later, another message came in.
Gunner: I wish you were here.
Your heart sank, because you wished you were with him too. But you couldn’t be some rapper’s side girl. Your life already felt complicated enough, you weren’t about to make it messier.
After that, you didn’t hear from him for almost two months.
You told yourself it was better that way.
You focused on work. On saving money.
You stopped checking your phone as much. Stopped wondering where he was. Stopped asking your friend if she’d seen anything about him and that model girl.
Then one night, close to midnight, your phone lights up again.
Gunner: You still mad at me?
Gunner: Aight. I deserve that. But don’t act like you don’t think about me.
You type back before you can stop yourself.
He responds almost instantly.
Gunner: I’m honest. Difference.
You roll your eyes, but your heart betrays you, beating a little faster.
What do you want, Gunner?
The dots appear then disappear.
Your stomach flips, and you hate that it does.
Gunner: I’m down bad, actually. Like embarrassing. My friends be talking and I’m zoning out thinking about you in that hoodie. That’s sick.
Gunner: You know how crazy it is? I got girls throwing themselves at me every show. And I’m ignoring all of it. Because I want you
You read that line three times.
Your heart is pounding in a way you don’t like.
You don’t get to say that, you type.
Gunner: Why not? It’s the truth. You think I’d embarrass myself like this for no reason?
You have a whole girlfriend.
Gunner: You think I don’t know that? You think I ain’t been thinking about that every night? You really gon act like this don’t mean nothing?
It means something, you type slowly. That’s why I’m not playing with it.
He doesn’t respond right away.
When he does, it’s shorter.
Gunner: You really different.
Another message comes through.
Gunner: I’d leave everything for you.
You close your eyes, already exhausted by all of it. Instead of replying, you put your phone on Do Not Disturb and go to sleep.
You never open his message again.
But a few weeks later, you start to wonder if you should have.
You’re at work, folding a stack of sweaters behind the counter, when one of your coworkers walks up to you.
“Hey,” she says quietly, “there was this guy earlier asking for you.”
“He had blond and black hair”
Your hands freeze mid-fold.
“You told him I wasn’t here, right?” you ask quickly.
“Yeah, of course,” she says. “He looked mad weird. I wasn’t about to let some random stalker get to you.”
Your heart starts pounding. You step into the back room, hands slightly shaking as you pull your phone out of your pocket. The screen lights up. His last message still sits there unopened.
You type before you can overthink it.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Gunner: So you ARE there.
Why are you here? you repeat.
Gunner: You stopped answering. You think I’m just gonna sit in L.A. and pretend that’s cool?
You press your back against the wall of the storage room.
You can’t just show up at my job.
Gunner: Why not? You told me to figure my life out. I’m trying.
Your pulse won’t slow down.
Gunner: I been outside for ten minutes. I ain’t even go in like that. I just wanted to see you.
That’s not how this works.
Gunner: Then tell me how it works. ’Cause ignoring me wasn’t working.
Your phone buzzes again before you can answer.
Gunner: I’m not leaving without talking to you. I’ll catch you at your house.
Your shift doesn’t end for another two hours. They feel longer than usual.
When you finally get home, your mom is in the kitchen cooking, like it’s any normal evening.
She glances at you casually. “Gunner’s upstairs. I think he was crying.”
Your heart drops. You don’t even take your shoes off properly. You head upstairs quickly, pushing your bedroom door open.
He’s sitting on your bed. Head in his hands.
You’ve never seen him like that before.
You step inside and close the door behind you.
He doesn’t look up at first.
You move toward him instinctively, kneeling in front of him. You hate seeing him like this. You hate how it makes your chest ache.
Even though you tried not to care. Even though you told yourself to stay out of it. Your hands move before your mind does. You gently touch his cheek, trying to make him look at you.
“Look at me,” you say softly.
Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes are red and puffy.
“Everything is going wrong,” he says hoarsely. “I just… I just want to come home.”
“What happened?” you ask quietly.
He exhales shakily and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.
“I broke up with Mazzy,” he says.
Your stomach drops slightly, but you don’t react the way he might expect.
“Okay,” you say carefully.
He looks up at you quickly. “It’s not why I’m here.”
You search his face. “Then why are you here?”
He runs both hands through his hair, frustrated, vulnerable in a way you have never seen before.
“Because I woke up one day and realized I don’t even like that life if you’re not in it,” he admits. “All of it. I thought that’s what I wanted. I thought once I had it, I’d feel solid.”
His voice cracks slightly.
He looks at you like he is scared you are about to disappear again.
“I’m not here because I don’t have her anymore,” he continues. “I’m here because I figured out that even when I had everything, I still felt like something was missing. And it was you.”
The room feels small again.
“You told me to figure my life out,” he says. “So I did. I ended what didn’t feel real.”
“I don’t want to live that life if I don’t get to share it with you. What’s the point of all of it if I can’t come back here and feel like myself?”
“You can’t just show up and expect me to fix that,” you whisper.
“I’m not asking you to fix it,” he says quickly. “I’m asking you to choose me.”
The honesty in that makes your breath hitch.
“I need you to need me back. Just tell me I’m not the only one feeling this,” he whispers.
For months, you told yourself you were protecting your peace. Protecting your pride. Protecting yourself from becoming a side story in someone else’s life.
But this does not feel like that anymore.
Your hand is still resting against his cheek. You can feel the warmth of his skin under your palm, the faint tremble in his jaw as he waits for you to say something.
You do not speak. Instead, you move. You lean forward and press your lips to his.
His breath hitches when you finally lean in, pressing your lips against his with a quiet urgency neither of you bothers to hide. It's not soft this time. It's messy and familiar, like muscle memory taking over. His hands slide up your arms, fingers tightening around your shoulders as he pulls you closer, his knee bumping against yours, the bed creaking under his weight. His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging lightly, and you gasp against his mouth, your hands fisting in his hoodie like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go.
The kiss deepens with a hunger that feels like catching fire after years of smoldering.
Somehow, you’re straddling his lap now, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. His mouth leaves yours to trail down your throat, nipping at the sensitive spot behind your ear, and you gasp, fingers twisting in the chain around his neck. "Fuck," he murmurs against your skin, his voice wrecked. "Missed you like this."
His hips roll up against yours instinctively, the friction drawing a ragged groan from his throat. You can feel him hardening beneath his jeans, pressing insistently against your thigh. One of his hands slides from your hip to the waistband of your pants, fingers hooking under the fabric like a question.
"Off," he growls against your collarbone, and you don't hesitate, your hands tug at his hoodie, yanking it over his head. His bare chest presses against yours, skin damp with the heat between you.
His belt buckle clatters to the floor before he kicks his jeans off, the mattress dipping under his shifting weight. You follow suit, peeling your clothes away until there's nothing left but skin and the heavy press of his body against yours. He's everywhere, his mouth on your neck, his hands sliding up your thighs, the hot length of him pressing against your stomach.
"Fuck, look at you," he mutters, dragging his teeth over your shoulder as his hips jerk forward again. The friction is maddening, his cock grinding against you.
You bite back a whimper, arching into him, but he pulls back just enough to watch your face twist in frustration. "Say it," he taunts, fingers tracing your ribs, skimming just below where you need them most. "Tell me you wanted this."
You groan, bucking against him, but he holds you down with ease, his grip bruising. "Gunner-"
"Nah, nah." He tsks, lips brushing your ear. "You ghosted me for months, acted like you didn’t miss me." His fingers skim lower, just shy of where you’re throbbing, his voice a rough whisper. "But look at you now shaking."
You whimper, hips jerking uselessly against his restraining grip. "Bet you thought about it," he murmurs, dragging his thumb in slow circles on your clit. "Late nights, fingers buried in your sheets was it me you pictured?"
"Shut up," you gasp, but your body betrays you, arching toward his teasing touch. He laughs , breath hot against your neck as his fingers finally dip lower, sliding through your slick.
His breath catches when you shove him backward onto the mattress, palms flat against his chest. The surprise flashes across his face for half a second before dissolving into something darker, hotter.
Leaning forward, you drag your nails lightly down his torso, relishing the way his muscles jump under your touch. His cock twitches against your stomach, already slick with precome, and you smirk. "You talk too much," you murmur, shifting back just enough to line him up. His hips jerk instinctively, but you hold him down with a hand flat on his abdomen. "Uh-uh. My turn."
The first slow slide of him inside you wrings a ragged moan from his throat. "Jesus fuck, look at you," he grits out, gaze locked on where your bodies join.
"Shh shut up," you hiss, slapping a hand over his mouth as his hips stutter upward, his groan vibrating against your palm. Your mom is just down the hall, the thin walls doing you zero favors. Gunner's eyes widen, pupils blown black with want, but he doesn't stop moving, his cock dragging deeper inside you with a filthy, wet sound. "You moan like a goddamn virgin," you whisper, but your voice cracks when he bites down on your fingers, his tongue swiping over your skin.
He bucks up again, harder this time, and you nearly choke on your own breath, your free hand flying to grip the headboard for balance. The wood creaks ominously, but you couldn’t care less about anything but the way his cock drags against your walls with every ragged thrust, the way his teeth dig into the meat of your palm as he stifles another groan. His hips snap upward again, and suddenly the coil in your stomach pulls taut, your thighs trembling around him.
And now it’s too much. His thumb finds your clit again, rough and impatient, and you bite down on your own knucles to keep from screaming as you come, your vision whiting out for a dizzy second.
It’s not just the orgasm that wrecks you, it’s the realization that this is real, that after months of lying awake imagining Gunner’s hands on you, his mouth, his hips grinding into yours, you finally have him. The weight of that want crashes over you like a wave, leaving you gasping against his shoulder as your body clenches around him. He curses, fingers digging into your hips as he fucks you through it.
Gunner’s fingers clamp around your wrist, prying your hand from his mouth with a ragged exhale. "Off," he grits out again, voice shredded. "Gotta-fuck,gotta get off you."
You barely have time to blink before his hands are on your hips, lifting you bodily off him with a groan. The sudden loss of contact draws a whimper from your throat, but he’s already shoving you onto your back.His hand wraps around himself, strokes once-twice, then he’s cursing, hips jerking as hot stripes paint your abdomen. His breath comes in punched-out gasps, forehead dropping to your shoulder as his body shudders through the aftershocks.
His breath is still ragged against your collarbone when the reality of what just happened crashes over you both. Gunner’s weight presses you into the mattress, his heartbeat thundering against your ribs. Then he exhales, slow and shaky, and rolls onto his back beside you.
Gunner’s chest rises and falls unevenly beside you, one arm flung over his eyes. You swallow and turn your head to study the sharp line of his jaw, the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he clears his throat.
His breath is still uneven beside you, the room quiet except for the sound of both of you trying to come back down to earth.
You turn slightly onto your side, propping yourself up on your elbow. He moves his arm from over his eyes and looks at you, vulnerable in a way he never is anywhere else.
Neither of you speaks. He looks almost scared to break the silence.
You trace your fingers lightly over his chest, feeling his heartbeat finally slowing under your palm. You let your hand rest there, steady over his heart.
You lean down and press a soft kiss to his lips.
“Don’t make me regret choosing you,” you whisper.
And in the quiet that follows, with his fingers tightening around yours, it feels like the beginning of something neither of you is ready to lose.
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