hi, your girly pop xanadu speaking. this is da materlist if anyone even cares. welcome to my madness. i’m trying to make “comedic angst” a thing in a gretchen weiners mean girls “fetch” kind of way.
Okay so lately I've been having the biggest austin/benny obsession and stumbling upon your miss honey fic was just😆😆😆😆😆😆😆😆😆😆😆🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Like OMG, miss honey from matilda?Uptown girls? Brittany Murphy? Maneskin? Benny fn Cross?? SCREEEEEAAAAMMMSS taste to me!!!!!! 🤩🤩🤩🤩😍😍😍😍
Like girly pop, how'd u manage to get my obsessions all in one great and beautiful fic????? Imma sue u for stalking 🫵🤨
I finished the first chapter yesterday after a long shitty day @ college, and it made me super duper happy!!!! I wish I can continue reading it, but I can't rn cuz I have midterms coming up 😖😣😫 Like man! It should be illegal to be given work when I'm supposed to read a masterpiece 😤😤😤😤😤
But of course, I couldn't contain myself and so, I skimmed through the other chapters n I swear I choked on my food from how cute these 2 are 😭😭😭😭😭🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏
Really can't wait till I have time to read them fully!!!!
It's sooooo fn good!!! Thanks for writing it!!! 😚😚😚😚😚😚😚😚😚😚😚😚
oh my goodness, this makes me so so happy ahhhh !!! thank you sm anon, so glad you are enjoying it & i hope you got to complete the installments after your midterms were completed. hope they went well. i’m sure you did great !!! i will be posting a new installment titled mad honey real soon ! 🐝🍯
can you do a austin butler x reader imagine where Austin and the reader get in an argument because austin is so worked focused that he barely makes time for their relationship. Because of the argument the reader leaves Austin for like two weeks but they eventually make up and things get better.
Word Count: 11.9k
Masterlist
The Space Between Us
You
The clock on the wall reads 11:42 PM when Austin finally walks through the door. You don’t look up at first. You just sit there on the couch, TV playing something you’re not really watching, fingers curled around the sleeve of your sweatshirt. You’d been waiting.
Again.
Austin doesn’t seem to notice the tension in the air as he drops his keys onto the counter, his phone still in his hand, scrolling through whatever email or message he missed in the past thirty seconds. “Hey, baby,” he murmurs distractedly, barely glancing at you as he toes off his boots. “Sorry I’m late. Filming ran over.”
Your chest tightens. Of course it did. You force yourself to take a slow breath before replying, keeping your voice even. “It always does.”
That makes him pause. Not fully, but enough that his thumbs stop moving over his phone screen for a second before he finally looks up. “What?”
You shake your head, staring at the TV, even though you couldn’t name a single thing that just happened in the show. “Nothing.”
Austin exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he walks closer, finally slipping his phone into his pocket. “Come on, don’t do that,” he says, his voice laced with tired frustration. “What’s wrong?”
You let out a sharp, humourless laugh. What’s wrong? What’s wrong is that you’ve been having this exact conversation for months—sitting on this same couch, waiting up for him, trying to be okay with the fact that you are slowly becoming just another thing he keeps pushing aside. You look at him now, really look at him, and he doesn’t even seem to realise it. So you brush it off. You swallow it down like you always do, because maybe you’re just overreacting, right? Maybe you’re being unfair. You inhale sharply, forcing a small, tight-lipped smile. “Don’t worry about it.”
Austin sighs, running a hand through his hair before pulling his phone out again, scrolling absently. “Oh—” he mutters, reading something. “Sunday… shit, I forgot I’ve got dinner with that producer. Shouldn’t take long, though.”
Your stomach drops. Sunday. You stare at him for a second, heart pounding, trying to see if this is some kind of joke. Because Sunday? You already had plans. Plans that had been made weeks ago.
“Austin,” you say slowly, voice too even, too careful. “We’re supposed to go to dinner on Sunday.”
He frowns slightly, still looking at his phone. “What?”
“For my sister’s birthday.”
That makes him freeze. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and you see the exact moment he realises. The moment he remembers. Shit. Your throat tightens. “We’ve had it planned for weeks.”
Austin swears under his breath, rubbing his face, shaking his head. “Babe, I—I’m sorry. I completely forgot.”
You nod stiffly, feeling the pressure build behind your eyes. “Yeah. I figured.”
“I’ll—I’ll try to move the meeting,” he says quickly, straightening up. “I can talk to them, see if—” “Don’t,” you cut him off, voice flat. “It’s fine.”
“Y/N—”
“It’s fine, Austin.” You let out a breath, forcing a tight smile. “I’ll just go alone. Again.”
Austin exhales, stepping closer, reaching for you. “Baby, come on, I—”
But it’s too late. Because now you see it all so clearly. How many times you’ve made excuses for him. How many times you’ve shown up alone, smiled at your family and told them, he’s just really busy right now, but he wishes he could be here. How many times he’s forgotten. Not just small things. Big things. Things that mattered to you. You feel something snap inside you. And suddenly, you can’t do this anymore. You stand up abruptly, and Austin blinks in surprise as you brush past him, heading for the bedroom.
“Y/N,” he sighs, turning to follow you. “Seriously, what is this about?”
Your fingers curl into fists at your sides as you spin around, finally meeting his gaze head-on.
“This is about the fact that I feel like I don’t even exist in your life anymore, Austin!” The words come out louder than you expected, but once they start, you can’t stop. “You’re always on set, always working, always answering a million calls and emails, and I get it—I do. Your career is important, you’ve worked so hard to get here, and I would never ask you to choose between that and me. But I can’t be the only one making time for us.”
Austin’s face tightens. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “Tell me, when was the last time we spent more than a few hours together without you being distracted by work?”
Austin exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Y/N. I mean, this is just how it is right now. You knew my schedule wouldn’t be easy.”
You swallow the lump in your throat, stung by how dismissive that sounds. “I knew it wouldn’t be easy,” you repeat, voice quieter now. “But I didn’t think it would feel like this.”
Austin’s expression falters, his shoulders sagging slightly. “Like what?”
Like I’m always waiting for you to come home. Like I don’t matter enough for you to make time. Like I’m slipping further and further away from you, and you don’t even see it. But you can’t say any of that. Because if he doesn’t already know—if he hasn’t already felt the weight of it, too—then what’s the point? Instead, you just shake your head, backing toward the dresser and grabbing your overnight bag.
Austin’s brows pull together. “What are you doing?”
You don’t answer, not right away. You just start packing.
“Y/N,” his voice is sharper now, more alert. He steps forward, his presence suddenly unshakable, right in front of you. “Hey. Stop for a second.”
You don’t.
“Y/N,” he tries again, this time softer. “Where are you going?”
You hate how your hands tremble when you shove clothes into the bag, hate how your voice cracks when you say, “I don’t know, Austin. But I can’t just sit here waiting for you to remember I exist.”
Silence. Thick and heavy.
His jaw tightens. “So what? You’re just gonna leave?”
You freeze. Then you look up at him, and something inside you snaps.
“I already feel like I’m not here half the time, Austin.” Your voice wavers, but you don’t look away. “So yeah. I guess I am.”
Austin swallows hard, his hands flexing at his sides like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know how. “Y/N…” His voice is quieter now, pleading.
Your chest aches, because you want him to fight for this, for you. But he doesn’t. Not really. Because he still doesn’t get it. He thinks this is just an argument, something that will blow over in a few hours. He doesn’t realise that this is you breaking. You shake your head, exhaling sharply. “Would you even notice, Austin?”
His brows knit together. “What?”
“If I left. If I really left. Would your life even be any different?” The words come out quieter than before, but they land heavier. “You already go days without seeing me, sometimes months. You forget things that matter to me. You fill every second with work until there’s no space for us anymore.”
Austin’s lips part, but no words come out.
You let out a shaky breath, gripping the strap of your bag tighter. “So tell me… if I wasn’t here when you got home tomorrow, or the next day, or the next—” your voice catches, but you push through, “—how long would it take for you to notice I was gone?”
Austin’s whole body goes still, his face paling like the weight of your words just slammed into him. He looks at you, really looks at you, and for the first time, something shifts behind his eyes—realisation, maybe. Or fear. But it’s too late.
Austin shifts, like he’s about to reach for you, but stops himself. His fingers flex at his sides, his throat working like he’s trying to say something, trying to fix this. But he doesn’t. And that’s the worst part.
You don’t wait for an answer. You turn, stepping through the door, and this time—you don’t look back. The door clicks shut behind you, sealing the silence between you. The TV still plays in the background, voices droning on, oblivious to the fact that everything just changed.
Austin
The door clicks shut. Austin doesn’t move. He just stands there, staring at the spot where you were standing seconds ago, his breath uneven, his chest tight. This isn’t the first time you’ve argued. It’s not even the first time you’ve been upset with him for missing something important. But this is the first time you left.
The realisation sinks in slowly, like a weight pressing down on his chest. His ears ring in the silence you left behind, the house suddenly too still, too empty. His eyes flick to the empty space where your bag was, the dresser drawer you left half-open in a rush. You didn’t take much. Just enough. Because you’re coming back… right? You just needed space. A night away. That’s all.
Except—
His stomach twists. That’s not what this was. Your words hit him all over again, sharp and impossible to ignore now that you’re gone.
“Would you even notice, Austin?”
He runs a hand over his face, exhaling harshly, trying to shake the uncomfortable weight settling in his chest. Of course, he would’ve noticed. He would’ve noticed. Wouldn’t he? The thought makes his stomach churn. Because if he’s being honest with himself—really honest—he doesn’t know the answer. And that’s what scares him the most.
Austin paces the bedroom, his heart hammering harder than it should. He reaches for his phone, thumb hovering over your name in his call log. He could call. He should call. But his hands feel too shaky, too unsure—and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t know what to say. So instead, he just sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. And the silence doesn’t feel like peace. It feels like consequences.
1:24 AM
He’s still awake. The TV is playing something in the background, but he hasn’t looked at the screen once. The couch still smells like you—like your shampoo, your perfume, like the last lingering traces of your presence before you walked out the door. His phone is next to him, dark screen taunting him. He tried texting you once. Just to see if you were okay.
Austin: Where did you go?
No response. He didn’t expect one. Didn’t mean it hurt any less. His jaw clenches as he leans back against the couch, running a hand over his face. His mind keeps circling back to the same thought, the same gut-wrenching realisation that won’t let him sleep. You weren’t just mad tonight. You weren’t just frustrated about his schedule. You were done. And he didn’t see it coming. He thought you’d always understand. That you’d always be there, waiting for him, fitting yourself into the spaces he left open. But tonight, you’d finally said what he should’ve been seeing all along.
“I can’t be the only one making time for us.”
His throat tightens. Because you were right. And he was too late to fix it.
3:09 AM
Austin finally drags himself to bed. It feels wrong. The sheets are cold. The room is too quiet. He doesn’t hear you shifting beside him, doesn’t feel you stealing the covers, doesn’t hear the little sigh you always make when you roll over in your sleep. For the first time in years, he’s alone in this bed. And it’s the loneliest he’s ever felt.
His arm instinctively reaches toward your side, like muscle memory, like habit. But all he finds is empty space. His throat goes tight as he exhales, staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the crushing weight of it all. He closes his eyes. He doesn’t sleep. Because this time, you’re not coming back in the morning.
Day One
You
You don’t turn your phone off, but you don’t answer it either. Not when the screen lights up with Austin’s name late at night, not when he texts you at 1:24 AM, and not when he tries again the next morning. You see them. You just can’t. You tell yourself you need time. Space. But the truth?
You don’t know if you want to hear his voice because you miss him, or because you’re waiting for him to say something different. Something that changes things. Something that proves he’s finally seen what you’ve been trying to show him for months. But deep down, you’re not sure he will. And that’s what hurts the most.
So you let the calls ring out. Let the messages sit unread. Let the silence stretch wider and heavier between you. It’s easier that way. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
Day Three
Your sister asks about him at dinner. You smile, press your lips together, and say, He’s busy with work. The lie comes so easily, so naturally, because you’ve said it so many times before. She gives you a look but doesn’t push, just nods and changes the subject. You should feel relieved. You just feel tired.
Day Five
You wake up, reach for your phone out of habit, and catch yourself before you text him. The muscle memory is still there. The instinct to share your morning, to tell him some random thought, to ask how he slept. It’s so stupid, but it stings. You don’t text him. You roll over instead, staring at the ceiling, blinking hard against the ache sitting heavy in your chest. You don’t miss him. You won’t miss him. You just need more time.
Day Seven
Austin stops calling. You tell yourself that’s a good thing. That it means you’ve finally made your point. That he’s respecting your space. But then why does it feel like the walls around you are closing in instead of opening up? Why does it feel like the silence is suffocating instead of peaceful? Why does it feel like he’s giving up instead of fighting for you? And why, for the first time, does that make you want to cry? You don’t. You won’t. You just sit there, staring at the blank screen of your phone, hands curled into your sweatshirt sleeves, wondering if he’s finally stopped waiting for you to pick up. Wondering if he’s waiting at all.
Austin
Austin stares at his phone for a long time. Your name is still sitting at the top of his call log. The last message he sent—Where did you go?—still hasn’t been opened. He wants to text you again. Wants to call, show up at your door, do something, anything to fix this. But he doesn’t know how. Because what if he’s already done too much damage? What if this isn’t just you needing time? What if this is you realising you’re better off without him? The thought settles like lead in his chest. He sets the phone down, scrubs a hand over his face, and tells himself to give you space. But that’s the problem. There’s already too much space between you. And he’s never hated it more.
Day Ten
The thing about distance is that it doesn’t stay contained. It seeps into the cracks of everything else—work, conversations, the quiet moments when you think no one is watching. And people start to notice.
You
You didn’t want to come. You almost texted to cancel—twice. But your sister insisted, and you knew if you didn’t show, she’d just keep pushing, keep pressing, until you caved anyway. So here you are, sitting across from her in a small café, picking at the sandwich you barely have the stomach for. She watches you for a while, saying nothing, sipping her drink, waiting. Then, finally—
“Alright,” she says, setting her glass down with a little more force than necessary. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to guess?”
Your stomach clenches. You force yourself to shrug like it’s nothing. “What do you mean?”
She gives you a look—the kind that older siblings specialize in. The kind that says I know you better than you think I do. “You didn’t talk about Austin once at dinner last week,” she points out. “And I let it go because I figured you didn’t want to make a big deal out of him missing it, but now?” She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. “You’re different. You’re quiet. You’re here, but you’re not really here. And don’t even try to tell me it’s just stress.”
Your fingers tighten around the napkin in your lap. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Your sister exhales, like she expected you to say that, but she’s not backing down. “Fine. But just answer one thing for me.”
You force yourself to meet her eyes.
“Are you okay?”
That’s what does it. Not the questions about Austin, not the prodding, not the expectations. Just those three simple words, spoken with so much concern, so much care, that your chest goes tight, your throat burning as you try to keep it together. You look away quickly, blink hard, shake your head. “I don’t know.”
Your sister reaches across the table, resting a hand on yours. “Hey,” she says softly. “Talk to me.”
You swallow the lump in your throat, try to take a deep breath, try to push it down before it cracks you open completely. And then, before you can stop yourself— “I left.” The words barely make it out. Quiet. Shaky. Almost like you don’t believe them yet.
Your sister’s brows furrow. “You what?”
“I left,” you repeat, voice thick now. “I walked out. Packed a bag. I—” You inhale sharply, digging your nails into your palm under the table. “I don’t even know if I’m going back.”
Her lips part in surprise, but she doesn’t say anything at first. Just squeezes your hand. And that makes it worse. Because if she yelled, if she told you that you were being dramatic, if she said you were overreacting, maybe you could fight it. Maybe you could push it down. But she doesn’t. She just looks at you like she sees all of it. Like she sees you. And that’s when your eyes burn, your throat tightens even more, and you have to bite your lip to keep it together.
“Shit,” you mumble, blinking quickly. “I don’t want to cry.”
Your sister exhales softly, gives your hand another squeeze. “Then don’t.” A small, knowing smile. “Just tell me what happened instead.”
Austin
“Cut!”
Austin barely hears it. He blinks, dragging himself back into the present as the director sighs and steps forward.
“Austin, man,” he says, rubbing his temple, “you okay? That’s the third time you’ve missed the cue.”
Austin shifts on his feet, exhaling sharply. “Yeah. Yeah, I got it. Sorry.”
His co-star gives him a pointed look. “Dude. This isn’t like you.”
And it’s not. Normally, he’s on it. Locked in. Focused. But not this week. Not since you left. Not since the house started feeling like a place he just exists in instead of somewhere he belongs.
His co-star nudges him. “You need a minute?”
Austin shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. “Nah. Let’s go again.”
Because what else is he supposed to do? Go home to an empty house? Sit in the silence? No. He needs to work. Needs to fill his time with something—because if he doesn’t, he’s going to start thinking about you again. And if he does that, he might just lose it.
Day Eleven
You
The hotel room is quiet. Too quiet. You weren’t expecting that. You booked it because you needed space—needed to be somewhere that wasn’t him, wasn’t your shared house, wasn’t full of things that reminded you of what you just walked away from. But now, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the unfamiliar beige walls, you feel like you’ve traded one kind of loneliness for another.
There’s no hum of his voice in the other room. No sound of him moving around, no half-muttered lines as he paces, practicing dialogue under his breath. No scent of his cologne lingering in the air. Just… silence. And for the first time, you wonder if you really thought this through. Not the fight. Not leaving. But this part. The part where you have to sit in it. You inhale sharply, dragging a hand through your hair. You shouldn’t miss him. You can’t. Not after everything.
But then, your phone buzzes. And there it is. His name. Your heart jumps—once, twice—before you force it down and remind yourself that this isn’t new. That he’s called before. That you haven’t answered. But this time, there’s no missed call notification. Just a message. A voice note. You stare at it for a long time. A full minute. Maybe more. Then, finally—hesitantly—you press play.
His voice fills the quiet.
“Hey.” A pause. A deep breath. “I know you probably don’t want to hear from me. And I get it. I do.”
You close your eyes at the sound of him. It’s too familiar, too much. It hits you in a way you weren’t ready for, makes the ache in your chest feel sharp and fresh instead of something you were starting to get used to.
“I, uh… I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I keep running through it in my head, trying to come up with the right words, but nothing feels good enough. Because I know I messed up. I know that. And I know you’re probably sick of hearing me say I’m sorry when I haven’t—when I haven’t done enough to prove it.”
You bite your lip, stomach twisting.
“I don’t know where your head’s at right now. I don’t know if you even want to hear me out. But I need you to know that I—I feel it, Y/N. The space. The weight of it. I don’t know if you meant for this to be permanent, but if you did… if you’re really done with me, I just—”
A beat of silence, then—he exhales, a rough, uneven sound.
“I need to hear you say it.”
Your chest tightens. Your breath catches. Because this is different. This isn’t a casual apology. This isn’t him assuming you’ll come back. This is him realising he might have already lost you. You stare at the screen for a long time after the voice note ends, your thumb hovering over the reply button. You should say something. Anything. But what if you don’t have the right words either? What if this moment—this silence—is the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely? You close your eyes. And for the first time in days, you don’t know what to do. Or worse—what if you do?
The hotel room is still too quiet. You lie on the bed, phone resting on your stomach, staring at the ceiling. The voice note ended ten minutes ago, but it still lingers in the air, hanging over you like a weight you can’t shake. Your thumb moves on its own, swiping back to the message. You hesitate—but only for a second. Then, you press play again.
“Hey.”
His voice fills the space again, soft, rough, unsure. You close your eyes.
“I know you probably don’t want to hear from me. And I get it. I do.”
Your chest tightens, fingers curling around the edge of the pillow. The words sink deeper this time. You listen all the way through, all the way to that final breath, that last plea—
“I need to hear you say it.”
The message ends. You exhale. And then— You play it again. Not because you want to, but because it’s the only thing grounding you. Because hearing him like this—uncertain, vulnerable, different—makes you wonder if maybe, just maybe, he really is starting to understand. Maybe. Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You should say something. You should. You start to type—
Austin: I—
You stop. Your heart pounds. The words don’t feel right. What are you supposed to say? That you hear him? That you’re not sure if it’s enough? That you don’t even know what you’re waiting for anymore? Your jaw clenches as you delete the message. You put the phone down. Turn it over, face-down, so you won’t be tempted. Then you roll onto your side, tuck yourself into the too-stiff hotel sheets, and let the silence swallow you whole. But the message still plays in your head. Over and over. Even when you finally fall asleep.
Austin
Austin sits in the driver’s seat of his car, parked outside the studio, staring at his phone. The message is still marked as delivered. Not read. He exhales sharply, gripping the steering wheel. She’s listening. He knows she is. But she’s not responding. And that scares him more than if she’d told him to leave her alone. Because it means she’s still deciding. And he doesn’t know if he has any time left.
He could text again. He could call. But those things feel too easy. Too impersonal. Too much like all the times he called her late, distracted, with half his attention on something else. And he refuses to do this wrong again. Flowers are useless. jewellery, gifts—none of it matters. It has to be something real. Something that proves he’s not just saying things this time. Something that makes her see—really see—that he’s not just trying to fix the fight, he’s trying to fix himself.
His fingers drum against the steering wheel. And then, it hits him. It’s not about grand gestures. It’s about the small things. The things he should have noticed before. The things she thought he forgot. He throws the car into reverse and heads home, a plan already forming in his mind. If she won’t talk to him, if she won’t answer— Then he’ll show her. Because he finally knows what to do.
Day Twelve
You
You wake up with your phone in your hand. You don’t even remember picking it up. The screen is still dark, but you don’t have to check to know that you never responded. That you played the message again. And again. And again. You groan softly, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes before dragging yourself out of bed. The hotel room is still unfamiliar, still stiff, still not home. But you remind yourself that’s the point. You shower, get dressed, tell yourself that today will be different. And then— Your phone buzzes. Your stomach lurches. You know it’s him before you even look. But when you do, it’s not a call. Not a text. Just a photo. No caption. No explanation.
Just a picture of a book—your favourite book. The one you lent him months ago, the one you thought he forgot about. It’s open, worn at the edges, with a pen resting against the spine. And the page he’s marked? It’s the page with your favourite passage. The one you told him reminded you of him. Your breath catches. Because this isn’t an apology. It’s not an I miss you, or I’m sorry, or Please come back. It’s proof. Proof that he was listening, even when you thought he wasn’t. Proof that he didn’t forget everything. You stare at the picture for a long time, heart hammering, fingers twitching to type something. But what? What does this even mean? Before you can decide, your phone buzzes again. Another photo.
This time, it’s a coffee cup. Your coffee cup. The one he always made fun of because of how chipped it was, but you refused to throw it away. And next to it? A notebook. His notebook. The one he uses to scribble ideas, to jot things down between filming, to collect the little moments he never wants to forget. And this time, there’s a message beneath the photo.
Austin: I know I don’t deserve another chance, but I need you to know that I remember. I remember everything.
Your breath catches. Because this is different. This isn’t a grand apology. This isn’t him saying all the right words. This is him showing you. Him proving it. Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You should say something. You almost do. But instead— You do the only thing you can. You close your eyes and let yourself feel it. Because for the first time in days, you’re not just thinking about what’s broken. You’re thinking about what’s still there. And you don’t know if that’s enough. But maybe—just maybe—it’s a start.
Austin
Austin sees it the moment it happens. The tiny “Read” notification under the voice note. The double checkmarks next to the photos. His heart jolts. It’s the first sign of life he’s gotten from you in twelve days. You saw them. You saw the book, the coffee cup, the notebook. You saw him trying.
But you didn’t respond. His stomach twists. It’s not rejection. Not exactly. But it’s not an answer either. And that’s almost worse. He exhales, dragging a hand down his face, staring at his phone like it holds some kind of answer. But it doesn’t. You’re still out there. Still silent. And he’s still losing you. Unless he does something more. Something real.
Austin paces his apartment, phone pressed to his ear. He doesn’t know if she’ll pick up. But after three rings—
“Why are you calling me?”
Your sister’s voice is not unkind, but not exactly warm either. Austin exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Because I don’t know what else to do.”
A pause. Then, a sigh. “Austin…”
“I’m not asking you to fix this,” he says quickly. “I know I have to fix it myself. I just—” He swallows hard. “She read my messages. But she didn’t answer. And I don’t know if that means I should keep trying or if she wants me to stop.”
Your sister is quiet for a long time. Then—“She doesn’t know either.”
Austin’s chest tightens.
“She’s still figuring it out,” she continues. “She’s not just angry, Austin. She’s… hurt. And I don’t think she’s ready to talk yet.”
He nods, even though she can’t see him. He already knew that. He just needed to hear it out loud. A long breath. “She’s at work today, isn’t she?”
“You already know the answer to that.”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I do.”
Another pause. Then—softer this time—“What are you trying to do here?”
Austin leans against the counter, gripping the edge. “I just want to give her something real. Something that’s not a text. Not a call. Just… something she can sit with. No pressure. No expectations.”
Your sister doesn’t answer immediately. Then—“If you think that’ll help, then do it. But, Austin?”
His jaw clenches. “Yeah?”
“If you’re just trying to make yourself feel better—don’t.”
The line clicks dead before he can respond. Austin exhales. And then— He grabs a pen and starts writing.
You
You’re halfway through the day when you see it. A plain white envelope sitting on your desk. No name. No label. Just waiting. You frown, glancing around, but no one seems to be paying attention. With hesitant fingers, you pick it up. Turn it over. There, scrawled in his familiar handwriting—
For when you’re ready.
Your breath catches. You swallow, pulse thrumming in your ears, fingers tightening around the paper. For when you’re ready. Not if. When. The weight of it sits heavy in your hands. Because you don’t know if you are. But you know you want to be. And maybe that’s enough. For now.
The envelope sits untouched on your desk. You haven’t opened it. Not because you don’t want to—because you do. You can feel the weight of it, heavier than it should be, as if whatever he wrote inside carries more than just words. It carries him. And right now, you’re not sure if you can handle that.
You glance around the office, fingers tapping against the envelope’s edge. The room is buzzing—keyboards clicking, quiet voices on calls, the occasional burst of laughter from a coworker’s desk.
You should be focusing. You should be working. But your mind is somewhere else. Your eyes drift to the shelf beside you, where a single copy of a familiar book sits. The book that started all of this.
The adaptation. The reason you met him in the first place. You remember those first few months—late-night meetings, frantic emails between agents and producers, the stress of making sure the story stayed intact while Hollywood shaped it into something new.
You remember when he started sitting in on meetings, not just as the lead actor, but as a producer. You remember how he would lean back in his chair, listening to every conversation, scribbling notes in the margins of the script. You remember thinking: He cares about this. And maybe that was the first time you really saw him. Now, you wonder if he still has that script. If he ever looks at the notes he made. If he even remembers what he wrote in the margins.
Your fingers tighten around the envelope. Austin remembers things when they matter. That’s what makes this so hard. Because for a long time, you weren’t sure if he did. You glance down at the handwriting on the front.
For when you’re ready.
Not please read this. Not I need you to understand. Just when. Like he knows you might not be there yet. Like he’s finally learning that this isn’t on his timeline anymore. You swallow, thumb brushing the flap of the envelope. You could open it now. You could get it over with. But instead—
You tuck it into your bag, right beside your notebook, and turn back to your work. Because right now, you need to be you. Not the girl waiting for an answer. Not the girl wondering what he wrote. Just you. And if that means waiting a little longer, then that’s what you’ll do. For now.
Austin
Austin sits in his car, hands gripping the steering wheel, eyes flicking to his phone for the tenth time in the past five minutes. Nothing. No text. No call. No read receipt. And maybe that’s worse. Because at least if she ignored it—if he knew she threw it away—he’d have his answer. But now? Now, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t know if she read it. Doesn’t know if she tucked it away in a drawer, or if it’s still sitting on her desk, unopened. Doesn’t know if she’s waiting for the right moment, or if there isn’t one at all. He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. He’s done all he can. The rest is up to her. But waiting? Waiting feels like hell.
You
The envelope sits on the hotel nightstand. You’ve been ignoring it for hours. You told yourself you wouldn’t open it tonight. That you’d wait. That you’d at least give yourself another day, maybe two. But the longer it sits there, the more it feels like it’s staring at you. Like it knows you’ve already made up your mind.
You sigh, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes before finally reaching for it. Your fingers hesitate at the edge of the flap. You should wait, you tell yourself, fingers gripping the envelope. Just one more night. But deep down, you know that’s a lie. Because if you really wanted to wait— You wouldn’t still be holding it.
You tear it open. The handwriting is his—the same messy scrawl you’ve seen on script pages, on post-it notes left around the apartment, on birthday cards written at the last second but always signed with something that made you laugh. This time, it’s different. This time, it’s careful.
Y/N,
I don’t know if you’re ready to read this. I don’t even know if you ever will. But I need to say it anyway.
I know words aren’t enough. I know I’ve said “I’m sorry” before, and I know it probably doesn’t mean much when I haven’t done enough to show it. So this isn’t an apology. It’s a promise. A promise that I see it now. I see you.
I see the space I left for too long. The nights you waited. The conversations you never got because I was too distracted, too focused on everything else. The way you held us together when I should have been holding you, too.
I don’t know when it started—when I started expecting you to wait for me instead of meeting you halfway. When I started thinking “later” was enough, without realising that every “later” made you feel like less of a priority.
I never wanted that. And I know now that wanting isn’t enough. I don’t want you to come back just because I miss you. I want you to come back because you believe I won’t make you feel like this again.
I want to be better. For you. For us.
But only if you still want us, too. If you don’t, I’ll let you go. But if there’s even a chance—just a small one—then I’ll wait.
I’ll wait for when you’re ready.
Austin
Your breath catches. You read it again. And again. And again. The paper trembles slightly in your hands, but you’re not sure if it’s from the weight of the words or the weight of everything you’ve been holding in for days.
Because this is different. This isn’t a desperate plea. This isn’t him asking you to come back right now. This is him finally listening. Finally seeing you. You inhale sharply, pressing the letter to your chest, closing your eyes. You’re not ready to respond. Not yet. But for the first time since you walked away— You think maybe, just maybe, you could be.
Day Fourteen
You
You don’t throw it away. You don’t leave it behind on the nightstand, don’t tuck it away in a drawer to forget about it. Instead, you carry it with you. It stays folded in your bag, buried beneath your notebook and keys, its presence subtle but impossible to ignore. You tell yourself you won’t read it again. But every night, when the hotel room is too quiet, when the weight of the silence feels heavier than it should—you do. You unfold the paper, smooth out the creases, and let your eyes trace over the same words, over and over again.
I see you.
I don’t know when I started expecting you to wait for me instead of meeting you halfway.
I’ll wait for when you’re ready.
You don’t know why you keep reading it. Maybe you’re looking for something you missed the first time. Maybe you’re trying to convince yourself that it doesn’t mean as much as it does. Or maybe—just maybe—you’re not ready to let it go yet. And that? That scares you more than anything.
It’s been two days. Austin hasn’t sent anything else. No texts, no voice notes, no calls. And you should feel relieved. You should feel like this space is yours now, that he’s finally respecting the silence you needed. But instead—you just feel the weight of it.
You stare at your phone for what feels like forever. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitating. There’s so much you could say. You could tell him you’ve read the letter a hundred times. You could tell him you still don’t know what you want. You could tell him you miss him. You could tell him you don’t. But instead— You type two words.
I read it.
And then you hit send. No explanation. No decision. Just an acknowledgment. Because that’s all you have to give right now. And for the first time in days, you finally exhale.
Austin
Austin is half-asleep on the couch when his phone buzzes. He almost doesn’t check it. Almost lets it sit there, unread, like every other silence-filled moment of the past two weeks. But then— His breath catches. Your name. Your message.
I read it.
That’s it. Nothing else. His grip tightens around the phone, his heart hammering harder than it should. Because it’s not an answer. It’s not a promise. But it’s not goodbye either. And right now, that’s enough.
The House
You
You check the time before stepping out of the car. He’s not home. You made sure of it. The key feels heavy in your hand as you slide it into the lock, the metal clicking softly in the quiet. The door creaks open. And just like that—you’re back.
The air inside feels too still. Like the house has been waiting, holding its breath. Your breath is shaky as you step inside. The kitchen light is off. The living room looks exactly the same. It smells the same. Your chest tightens. You don’t know why you came. For your things? Maybe. To see what it felt like being here? Probably.
You take slow steps through the space, feeling the absence of him in every corner. Your coffee mug is still on the counter. A book you left on the couch weeks ago is exactly where you last put it. One of his jackets is draped over the chair, like he hasn’t moved it since you left. Like he doesn’t want to. Your fingers ghost over the fabric, your throat tightening. This house still holds you. Still remembers you. But do you still belong here? You don’t have an answer. Not yet. You swallow, shake yourself out of it, and head to the bedroom. Because this isn’t about him. This is about you. And right now, you just need to breathe.
The bedroom feels even heavier than the rest of the house. Your side of the bed is still untouched. Drawers still half-filled with your things. You hesitate before stepping further inside. This was supposed to be easy. Get what you need, leave. But now that you’re here, it doesn’t feel easy at all. Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag as you move toward the dresser, pulling open the drawers. A sweater. A few shirts. The book you kept on the nightstand. Nothing that matters too much. Nothing that would make this feel permanent.
Your hands still as you pick up a small piece of paper tucked under a bracelet you left behind. It’s a post-it note. His handwriting—messy, scrawled in a rush.
You were right. I should’ve come to bed.
Your breath catches. It’s from a night months ago, when you’d fallen asleep alone after waiting up for him. You don’t realise how tight your grip on it is until you hear the unmistakable jingle of keys in the front door. Your stomach plummets. Austin. He’s home.
No, no, no—he’s not supposed to be home. You planned this, timed this, made sure there was no way you’d run into him. You’re not ready. Your pulse kicks into overdrive, heart slamming against your ribs as you move on instinct, backing toward the closet like you can somehow disappear into it. Maybe he’ll go straight to the kitchen. Maybe he won’t even come in here. Except—
You hear it. That moment of hesitation. The way the front door doesn’t close right away. Like he knows. Like he can feel it. Like something in the air tells him that he’s not alone.
Footsteps. Slow. Careful. Getting closer.
Your breath is caught in your throat as you grip the strap of your bag, backing toward the other door—the one that leads to the bathroom, to the hallway, to a possible escape. You could slip out before he even makes it in here. You could still get away. And then—
The bedroom door swings open. Austin stops dead in his tracks. The silence between you is instant, deafening. His keys are still in his hand. His breath stills, his whole body going rigid at the sight of you, like he thinks if he moves too fast, you’ll vanish.
Your chest is tight. Too tight. This was never supposed to happen like this.
His gaze drags over you, landing on the bag slung over your shoulder, the sweater in your arms. His throat works as he swallows, trying to catch up to the reality of you standing here. Here, in this space, in his space.
“…You came back.”
It’s barely a whisper. Barely a breath. Not an assumption. Not an accusation. Just—shock. You don’t know what to say. Because you don’t know if you came back. You just came.
Your grip tightens on the strap of your bag, and that tiny movement—that small, almost imperceptible shift—is what makes Austin blink, like the spell has broken, like he’s realising what’s actually happening.
That you’re leaving. Again. His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t block your path. Doesn’t try to reach for you.
“…I didn’t think I’d see you.” His voice is hoarse, quieter than you expected. “Not yet.”
You lick your lips, shifting slightly. You should say something. Anything. Make this less awkward, less painful. But your chest is too tight, your throat too full of everything you’re still not sure of.
So you just nod.
Austin watches you for a long moment. Too long. His eyes flick to your bag again, like he’s trying to memorize every last thing you’re taking with you. Like he thinks it matters. Like he doesn’t realise that what you’re leaving behind is heavier.
Your throat tightens. You should go. You should walk past him, step through that door, and let this moment stay exactly what it is—brief. Necessary. Over. But your feet don’t move. Not yet.
Austin exhales softly, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time, like he’s afraid anything too sudden might shatter whatever fragile thing exists between you right now. His fingers twitch at his side, but he doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t try to stop you. But his eyes—they hold you still. The same way they did the night you walked away. Only now, there’s no frustration, no sharp edge of disbelief. Only quiet knowing. Like he finally understands. Like he finally sees you.
You blink fast, swallowing against the burn in your throat. This is already too much. Too much history in a single breath, too much of him in the walls, in the air, in the way your body still knows this space like it’s home. You shift your grip on the bag, adjusting the strap over your shoulder. Say something. You don’t even know what, but the thought of walking out without a word—without acknowledging that this moment is nothing like the last—feels unbearable. So, you exhale slowly and say, “I don’t know how to do this.”
Austin’s jaw clenches, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t rush to fill the silence. Just listens. Neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes. Then, quietly—like it’s the most honest thing he’s ever said—Austin murmurs, “Me either.”
Your chest tightens. Because that’s the truth, isn’t it? Neither of you knows what comes next. But for the first time, you’re both willing to find out.
The air shifts, thick with hesitation, with unspoken things, with the fragile hope that maybe this doesn’t have to be as impossible as it feels. Austin swallows hard, glancing down at the bag in your hand. Then, softly—so softly you almost miss it—he says, “You don’t have to go.”
You inhale sharply. He doesn’t say Stay. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t beg. Just lets you decide. Your fingers tighten around the strap, heart hammering. This is it. This is the moment.
You meet his gaze, searching, trying to figure out if you’re ready. And maybe you’re not. Maybe you still need time. Maybe you still need space. But you’re tired of running.
So instead of walking past him, instead of brushing past him like a ghost in the place you used to share, you shift your weight from one foot to the other and say, quietly— “Do you have time to talk?”
Austin exhales sharply, like he wasn’t expecting it. His hand flexes at his side, like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you, but his answer is immediate. “Yeah. Of course.”
The words are hoarse, barely above a whisper, but they hold everything.
You nod slowly, licking your lips. The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy with everything unsaid, with everything that’s been simmering in the spaces between you for weeks. Then, softer—“Now?”
Austin swallows, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to figure out if you really mean it. If this is really happening. “…Yeah,” he says again. “Now.”
You shift your grip on the bag, feeling its weight in your hands. You could still leave. You could still walk out the door, keep the distance between you, let this be another almost. But you’re here. And so is he. And for the first time, neither of you is running.
So, slowly, carefully—you let the strap slide from your shoulder, let the bag drop to the floor with a soft thud.
Austin’s gaze flickers to it, then back to you. He doesn’t move, doesn’t push. Just waits.
You inhale deeply, wrapping your arms around yourself, grounding yourself in this moment. “I don’t know where to start,” you admit, voice quiet, uncertain.
Austin nods, like he understands that. Like he’s been waiting for this conversation, but he’s just as unsure of how to navigate it as you are. Then, carefully—“Start anywhere.”
The room is too still. The weight of this is too much. But you’re here. And so is he. And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough.
Austin
He barely breathes as he watches the bag slip from your shoulder, hitting the floor with a quiet thud. You’re not walking out. Not yet. His pulse pounds in his ears as he forces himself not to move, not to reach for you—not to ruin this.
“I don’t know where to start,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.
Austin exhales slowly. He doesn’t push, doesn’t rush. “Start anywhere.”
For a moment, it feels like you might take it back. Like the weight of the moment is too much, like it might swallow you whole before you get the words out. Then—finally—you step past him, sinking down onto the edge of the bed.
Austin follows carefully, sitting a few feet away, hands clasped between his knees. The space between you isn’t as wide as it was two weeks ago. But it’s still not where it used to be. And that’s on him.
You don’t speak at first. Just stare at your hands, breathing slowly, deliberately. Austin keeps his eyes on you, waiting, letting you decide how this goes. Then, finally—your voice is quiet, but it doesn’t waver. “Did you really not see it before?”
Austin’s chest tightens. He knew that was coming. And he doesn’t have a good answer. So he tells you the truth. “I think I did.” His throat works. “I just… I told myself it wasn’t that bad.”
Your eyes flick up to his, sharp. “That bad?”
“No—” he exhales, shaking his head. “I mean—God, I don’t know. I thought you were okay. I thought… I thought we’d be fine.”
You let out a breathless, humourless laugh.
“Austin, I told you.” Your voice shakes slightly, but it’s frustration, not uncertainty. “I told you so many times.”
“I know.” His hands press together, fingers tightening against his palms. “I know you did.”
Silence stretches. Then—softer now. “So why didn’t you listen?”
Austin closes his eyes for a second. Because I didn’t want to believe I was failing you. Because I kept telling myself I had time. Because I didn’t realise I was running out of it until you were gone. But none of that is enough. So he looks at you—really looks at you—and finally says the one thing he should have said weeks ago. “Because I was selfish.”
Your breath catches.
Austin keeps going before you can stop him. “Because I let myself believe that as long as you were still here, everything was okay.” His voice is rough now, raw. “Because I was too caught up in everything else to see what it was doing to you. Because I thought—” He swallows hard, shakes his head. “I thought you wouldn’t leave.”
You don’t say anything. And that’s worse. Because now you’re really looking at him. Now you’re seeing the full weight of what he’s saying, what he’s admitting to. And it hurts. For both of you.
The silence is thick, heavy, pressing in around him like it might crush him completely. Then, finally—soft, hesitant— “I didn’t want to.”
Austin’s breath catches. You don’t look at him when you say it, eyes still locked on your hands, fingers twisting together in your lap.
“I didn’t want to leave.” You exhale shakily. “But I didn’t know what else to do.”
Austin’s chest aches. Physically aches. Because he gets it now. Really, truly gets it. You left because you had to. Because he left you no other choice. And fuck. That’s on him.
The air is too thick, too fragile, too much. Carefully, cautiously, he shifts closer. Not enough to crowd you, not enough to push. Just enough. His hands twitch against his thighs, but he doesn’t reach for you. Not yet.
“I know.” His voice is quiet. “And I’m so sorry I ever made you feel like you had to.”
Your shoulders drop slightly, just barely. Like maybe you believe him. Like maybe—just maybe—this is the start of something new. Something better.
Austin exhales slowly. Then—soft, careful, giving you the space to decide— “Can we try to figure this out?”
The silence between you stretches, long and uncertain. Austin’s hands flex against his thighs, his heart hammering as he waits for something. For a word. A nod. A sigh. For any sign that you’re not walking away again. But he doesn’t say anything else. He’s too busy seeing you. Really seeing you. And it guts him.
You look tired. Not just physically—though that’s there, too. Your frame looks a little smaller, like you haven’t been eating properly. There are faint shadows under your eyes, proof that sleep hasn’t come easy. But it’s more than that. It’s in the way you carry yourself—shoulders tense, fingers curled slightly into your sweater, like you’re holding something in. Like you’re holding yourself together. And the worst part?
He did this to you. He made you feel like you had to leave. Like he wasn’t paying enough attention. And now that he is—now that he finally sees the weight of it? It’s unbearable.
His chest tightens as you shift slightly, fingers twisting together in your lap, like you’re still trying to decide if this conversation is worth having.
“I don’t know how to fix this.” Your voice is soft, but steady. “I don’t know if we can.”
Austin exhales slowly, nodding. “Then let’s not think about fixing it.” His throat works as he swallows. “Let’s just talk.”
Your lips press together. You nod, but there’s still hesitation in your eyes, like you don’t trust that this won’t fall apart again. And Austin can’t blame you. He let you down. So he doesn’t rush. Doesn’t push. He just leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “What do you need to hear from me?”
You inhale sharply, like you weren’t expecting that. Like you weren’t expecting him to ask. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your sweater. “I don’t know.”
But you do. Austin sees it in the way your shoulders tense. Sees it in the way your mouth parts slightly, like you almost said something but held back. So he waits. Because this time? He’s listening.
You let out a slow breath. “I need to know that it’s not always going to be like this.”
Austin nods, absorbing the weight of that. Because it’s not just about this fight. It’s not just about one missed dinner. It’s about all of it. The late nights. The cancelled plans. The empty promises. The slow, painful erosion of what you used to be. His chest aches.
“It won’t be.” His voice is firm, no hesitation. “I know I can’t just say that and expect you to believe me, but—” He exhales. “I don’t want to be the person who makes you feel like this.”
Your eyes flick up to his. Finally. And something in them shifts. It’s not forgiveness. Not yet. But it’s something. Austin holds onto it.
“I let everything else take up so much space that I didn’t leave enough for you.” He shakes his head, jaw tightening. “And I hate that. I hate that I made you feel like you weren’t—” His voice catches. He swallows hard. “Like you weren’t the most important thing to me.”
You flinch, just barely. Like that’s the part that really hit.
Austin runs a hand through his hair. “Because you are. You always have been.”
Your throat works as you swallow, blinking fast, like you’re trying to hold something back. And fuck. That hurts. Because he did this. He made you feel like you had to fight for space in his life.
Austin lets out a shaky breath. “I know I have to prove that to you. I know words aren’t enough.”
Your lips part slightly, but you don’t speak.
So he does. “But I want to.” His voice is rough, full of something raw and real. “I want to prove it. I just need to know if I still have the chance to.”
Silence.
Your fingers tighten around the edge of your sweater. You look away, blinking hard, your jaw clenching like you’re fighting something back. And then—so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it—
“I don’t know.”
Austin’s chest tightens. He nods slowly, absorbing it. Because that’s not a no. It’s not over. It’s just… unknown. And that? That’s more than he deserves. He won’t push you for more. Not yet.
So instead, he leans back slightly, letting the tension settle, and then—softly, carefully— “Do you want to stay?”
You inhale sharply, your eyes flicking up to his, wide and uncertain.
He doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He waits.
You stare at him for a long moment, breathing slow and deep, like you’re testing the weight of the question. Then, finally—you shake your head.
Austin’s fingers twitch at his sides like he’s about to reach forward, about to do something—but then he stops himself. Instead of rushing, instead of trying to take control, he lets the moment be yours. His hands flex, then fall still.
“Okay.” His voice is steady, but the tightness in his throat is impossible to ignore. Because this? This is the part where you leave again. But then—
You shift. And before he can react—you stand. Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag, but you don’t move to leave right away. You hesitate.
Austin watches, heart pounding, as you stare at the floor for a long second, your lips pressed together like you’re weighing something. And then— You look at him. Really look at him.
And fuck, whatever you see there—whatever’s written all over his face, in his eyes—it makes yours shine too. You sniff once, barely, shaking your head at yourself, at this, at all of it. Then—as you step past him—
Your fingers brush against his hand. A whisper of contact. Soft. Fleeting. But deliberate. But fuck. It wrecks him. Because it means something.
You move past him slowly, not rushing, not running. And right before you reach the door, you murmur—so quiet it almost disappears into the air between you—
“I’ll think about it.”
Austin exhales sharply, his hands flexing at his sides. He closes his eyes. Okay. Okay. Because that’s not a no. And for now? For now, that’s enough.
You
The drive back to the hotel feels different this time. Not lighter, exactly—but less impossible. You still don’t have answers. You still don’t know what comes next. But for the first time, the uncertainty doesn’t feel like something you need to run from.
You pull into the parking lot, turn off the engine, and just sit there. The weight of the evening lingers in your chest, in your hands, in the faint echo of Austin’s voice still looping in your mind.
"I don’t want to be the person who makes you feel like this."
"I want to prove it. I just need to know if I still have the chance to."
You believe that he meant it. And maybe—just maybe—you want to give him the chance to prove it. Your fingers hover over your phone screen, hesitating. So many things you could say. So many things you want to say. But in the end, you keep it simple.
You: Thank you for listening tonight.
Your heart pounds. Then—after a beat—another message.
You: I meant what I said. I’m thinking about it.
You press send. And instead of second-guessing it, instead of holding your breath, you put the phone down and let yourself breathe.
Austin
Austin’s phone buzzes from where it sits on the coffee table. For a second, he doesn’t move. He’s been sitting here, staring at nothing, trying to process everything. The way you looked at him. The way your fingers brushed against his. The way you stayed—even if only for a little while. He doesn’t let himself hope. Not really. Because hope is dangerous. Hope is what made him blind when you were slipping away. But then—his phone screen lights up.
Your name. His stomach twists as he picks it up, thumbs shaky as he unlocks the screen.
You: Thank you for listening tonight.
Austin exhales sharply. And then—another message.
You: I meant what I said. I’m thinking about it.
Something settles deep in his chest. Not relief. Not yet. But something real. He doesn’t rush to reply. Doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. Doesn’t want to make you feel like this is another weight pressing down on you. So he types only what he means.
Austin: Take your time.
Austin: I meant what I said, too.
He hits send and leans back, running a hand over his face. The silence in the apartment still lingers. But it doesn’t feel as suffocating as it did before. Because for the first time in weeks—he knows you’re still there. And that means everything.
You
You wake up the next morning without hesitation sitting on your chest. It’s not clarity exactly. You’re not suddenly sure of everything. But something feels… lighter. You glance at your phone—the texts are still there. Austin’s words, waiting.
Austin: Take your time.
Austin: I meant what I said, too.
You read them again. Not overthinking, not analysing—just letting them be. And then—without letting yourself second-guess it— You type out your next message.
You: Do you have time to see me tomorrow?
You hesitate for just a second— Then hit send.
Austin
Austin almost doesn’t check his phone. He’s been forcing himself not to wait. Not to obsess over whether you’ll respond. But when he picks it up and sees your name? His breath catches. Your message is short. Simple.
You: Do you have time to see me tomorrow?
Austin lets out a shaky breath. This is it. Not a fix. Not a resolution. But a choice. You want to see him. He types fast, hands a little too unsteady.
Austin: Yeah. Anytime. Just tell me when and where.
He stares at the screen, waiting, pulse pounding. Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then—
You: I’ll come over after work.
His chest tightens. Not with nerves, not with fear—just with something that feels a little like hope. He grips his phone a little tighter. Then—his final reply.
Austin: I’ll be here.
You
Austin is already at the door when you step onto the porch. He must’ve seen your car pull up. For a second, he just looks at you. Like he’s bracing himself. Like he doesn’t want to scare you off. You exhale slowly. "Hi."
Austin nods. "Hey."
Neither of you moves at first. Yesterday had been an accident—timing you hadn’t planned for. But this? This is a choice. You shift on your feet. "Can I come in?"
His throat bobs. "Yeah, of course."
He steps aside, letting you pass, and the second you do—it’s different. There’s no rushing this time. No pressure. Just the weight of everything still sitting between you.
Austin gestures toward the couch. "Do you wanna sit?"
You hesitate, then nod. "Yeah."
It feels weird at first. Sitting together again. But it also feels necessary. The silence lingers as you both settle in. Austin leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. You tuck your legs up, pulling your sleeves over your hands. Not avoiding. Just gathering yourself. Then—finally—you clear your throat.
"I meant what I said," you murmur.
Austin turns slightly. "Which part?"
You take a slow breath. "That I don’t know how to do this."
Austin nods slowly, like he understands. "We don’t have to know. We just have to try."
Your throat tightens. That’s all he’s asking for. For you to try.
Your fingers tighten in your sleeves. "You say that now. But what about later? When things get busy again? When work takes over? When things start to pile up?" You swallow hard. "What if this happens all over again?"
Austin exhales, running a hand through his hair. "It won’t."
"Austin—"
"Because I know what it feels like to lose you now.” His voice is quiet, but certain. “And I won’t let that happen again.”
You blink fast, heart hammering. Austin watches you carefully, not moving, not pushing. You notice the signs of exhaustion in his face.
"You look tired," he murmurs. "Thinner." His jaw tightens. "Like you haven’t been eating properly."
Your chest aches. Because he’s right. "I could say the same about you," you whisper.
Austin huffs out something that isn’t quite a laugh. Just a broken sound in the space between you. "I don’t want to do this without you," he admits. "Any of it. The good, the bad—I don’t want to go through any of it without you, Y/N."
Your chest tightens. Your fingers curl into your sleeves. It would be so easy to just say yes. To fall back into him. But you need to be sure. You need to hear him say it.
“And when things get hard?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. “When work is all-consuming, when you’re exhausted, when you’re stretched thin—how do I know I won’t become the thing that gets pushed aside again?”
Austin leans in slightly, eyes locked on yours. "You won’t."
The certainty in his voice shakes something loose in your chest. A deep breath shudders out of you. Because you believe him. But do you trust him?
Austin must see the hesitation flicker across your face, because then—softly, cautiously—he asks the question that changes everything.
“Come home.”
Your breath catches. Your heart stumbles. His expression is open, raw, unguarded. He’s giving you the choice. But the thing is… You already made it. Your fingers tighten at your sides, lips parting as you finally let yourself feel it. The relief. The love. The truth.
Austin must see the flicker of something in your expression, because he asks carefully—"Do you have your stuff in the car?"
A pause. Then, finally— You nod.
Austin exhales, blinking fast like he wasn’t expecting that. He nods once. "Then stay."
The words settle into the space between you. Your pulse kicks up. Because this? This isn’t running. This is choosing. Choosing to stay. Choosing to try. You let out a breath.
Maybe things wouldn’t be perfect right away. Maybe they’d have to work at this every single day. But wasn’t that what love was? And wasn’t he worth it? You take a breath. Then—so softly it’s almost a whisper— "Okay."
Austin closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again—there’s something lighter there. Something hopeful. Something real. And this time, when you stand—it’s not to leave.
Three Months Later
You
The morning light filters softly through the bedroom curtains, casting a golden hue across the sheets. Your sheets. Because this is home again.
Austin stirs beside you, still deep in sleep, his arm draped loosely across your waist. He’s always been a heavy sleeper, but these days, he sleeps better. He told you that last week—muttered it against your skin after pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder.
"I sleep better with you here."
And you believe him.
You carefully slip out from under his arm, padding into the kitchen, the familiar morning routine settling into place. Coffee brewing. Toast popping up. The quiet hum of the city outside. It’s different than it was before—you both are—but in the best way.
There are small changes, subtle shifts in the way you and Austin navigate each other now.
Like the sticky notes on the fridge—reminders he leaves just for you. "Pick up more oat milk?" and "Don’t forget your lunch!" and "You looked really pretty this morning. Just saying."
Like the way he calls in the afternoons now, even if it’s just to say hi.
Like the way he asks, "Do you need me to slow down?" instead of assuming you’ll always be there waiting.
And the thing is—you don’t need him to slow down. Because now, he makes space for you. For both of you.
You settle onto the couch with your coffee, scrolling absently through an email about an upcoming adaptation pitch. Work had been hard for a while—your mind too tangled with everything that happened. But now, you’re finding your rhythm again.
A rustling from the bedroom, then the soft shuffle of bare feet on the floor. Austin appears in the doorway, sleep-rumpled—a sight that still makes your chest tighten in the best way.
“You left me,” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes.
You smirk over your coffee. “You were snoring.”
Austin groans, flopping onto the couch beside you, his head dropping into your lap. “I don’t snore.”
“You do. Loudly.”
His lips curve against your thigh. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
You roll your eyes, fingers instinctively threading through his hair. He leans into the touch like he always does, his hand resting lazily on your knee, fingers tracing absent patterns against your skin. For a moment, you just sit there in the quiet, his breathing even, your hand in his hair, your heart full.
Then—softly, sleepily—he murmurs, “You’re happy?”
Your fingers still for a second. And then you smile. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I am.”
Austin exhales, his fingertips grazing slow circles against your knee. “Good,” he murmurs. “Me too.”
And with that, he closes his eyes again. And you? You just sit there, watching him, knowing that this time—this love—is here to stay.
