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coolgrl111 · 1 month ago

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rock bottom

patrick zweig x reader

summary: patrick zweig has lost everything. his best friend, his girlfriend, his pride.

a/n: this one was so sweet to write! i hope you enjoy it, patrick lovers🫶

You find him sitting alone at the corner table of a dingy café, looking like a man who’s lost everything. He’s unshaven, his clothes wrinkled and mismatched, and his hair, once probably neat, is now unruly. His eyes are downcast, heavy with something deeper than exhaustion. At first glance, he looks like a lonely loser, someone who’s fallen so far from where he used to be. But there’s something about him that draws you in. Beneath the layers of untidiness, there’s a certain handsomeness—something that hints at who he might have been before.

You can’t help yourself. You’re curious.

When you approach, he glances up, startled, as if he’s not used to being seen anymore. Especially not someone as attractive. His response to your initial greeting is barely a nod, and when you ask if you can sit, he mutters a reluctant, “Do what you want.” His voice is quiet, reserved, lacking any of the confidence that he probably used to carry effortlessly.

Over the next few days, you keep finding yourself returning to that café, to that table. And each time, you talk to him, even when he doesn’t want to talk back. He pushes you away with every opportunity—short responses, guarded eyes, excuses to end the conversation. But you keep coming back. You fight through the walls he’s built around himself, refusing to let him disappear into the background like he so clearly wants to. You’re determined to find the person underneath all that heaviness.

One day, he finally lets his guard down, just a little. It’s subtle at first—a flicker of something in his eyes, a less guarded posture as he leans forward. You decide to take the chance.

“What’s your story?” you ask, keeping your voice light, almost casual. You don’t want to push too hard. He’s given you so little up until now, and you’re afraid of scaring him off.

He flinches, almost imperceptibly, and looks away. His fingers tighten around the coffee cup, knuckles white. For a long moment, you think he’s going to shut you out again. His jaw works like he’s chewing on the words, debating whether to say them or not.

“I don’t have a story,” he mutters, his voice so low you barely catch it.

“Everyone has a story,” you counter softly. “You don’t sit here every day just to avoid telling it.”

He exhales sharply, an annoyed laugh slipping through his lips. “Is that what you think?” He shakes his head, the corners of his mouth twitching, but it’s not a smile. “It’s not some sob story worth hearing. Trust me.”

You stay quiet, giving him space. He still isn’t looking at you, his gaze fixed on the window like he’s watching something only he can see. This aggressiveness is obviously a front. He’s scared. And you understand that. Eventually, he speaks again, quieter this time, almost like he’s talking to himself.

“I had everything, you know? Friends, a girlfriend. I thought I had it all figured out.”

He stops, and you can see the battle happening in his mind—whether to keep going or retreat back into the silence you’ve grown used to.

“So what happened?” you ask gently.

He grimaces, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “What happened?” he repeats bitterly, letting the words hang in the air. “A fight. A stupid fight with her… my girlfriend at the time. It blew up. Next thing I know, she’s gone.”

You can tell there’s more, so you wait, watching him closely as he wrestles with his next words.

“And…?” you prompt, careful not to push too hard.

“And my best friend—my best friend—takes her side. We had this thing. We both liked her, but once I started dating her, he backed off. At least outwardly. As soon as I fuck up, he snatches her up. Now they’re married with a fucking kid.” His voice cracks on the last word, and you see the rawness of it all still clinging to him, even after all this time.

“That’s… a lot,” you murmur, unsure what else to say.

He laughs darkly. “Yeah. You could say that. I lost both of them in one day. Never saw it coming. One minute, I had everything, and the next… nothing. Now they have everything. Together.” He shakes his head, biting down on whatever emotions are threatening to spill over.

“I’m sorry,” you say, meaning it.

He looks up at you, his expression softer than you’ve ever seen. “Yeah… me too.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “The name’s Patrick, by the way.”

———

Next thing you know, Patrick’s at your house all the time. It’s not planned; it just sort of happens. One night he stays over after you watched a movie, then the next. Soon, it’s just normal to find him sitting on your couch, his legs stretched out, scrolling through his phone or making some sarcastic comment about the show you’re half-watching. You tease him back, tossing a pillow at him, and he laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that makes you feel warm inside.

He starts sleeping over more often. Not in a weird way— totally not. just in that easy, comfortable way where neither of you says much, but your heart seems to flutter rampantly, and you swear he can hear it over the faint sound of the air conditioning. You’ll talk for hours, lying on your bed or the couch, sharing deep stories from your pasts that you didn’t even realize you needed to tell until he was there, listening.

It feels safe with him. You’ll watch him, sometimes, as he talks about his childhood or his awkward high school years, and there’s a softness in his face, like he’s letting himself forget all the rough things for a while. He’s content, and when he’s with you, everything seems to fall into place, like it’s always been this way.

He’ll make you tea when you’re tired, bringing it over without asking, and sometimes he’ll fall asleep mid-conversation, his head lolling onto your shoulder, his breathing steady and slow. You don’t mind. In fact, you like it. His presence fills the room with something warm and sweet, like this quiet pattern you’ve both fallen into. It’s oddly domestic, what you two have established.

Something else is brewing under the surface though. It’s obvious. It happens so quietly, so gradually, that by the time you do notice, it’s already rooted deep within both of you, like ivy creeping up the walls, wrapping tighter with every passing moment.

Patrick’s presence becomes more than just routine; it’s essential, a pulse threading through your days. He’s there when you wake up, still asleep beside you, his face soft and unguarded in the early light. There’s a calmness to him in these moments, as if the world’s weight has finally been lifted from his shoulders. And there’s a strange comfort in watching him, in the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair falls across his forehead, unruly and perfect.

You wonder how something so simple became so sacred. When did the spaces between you fill with something more? His hand lingers a little longer when he hands you a mug of tea. His shoulder presses just a bit closer when you sit together on the couch. At first, it’s easy to tell yourself it’s nothing. A trick of the mind, maybe, or just the natural progression of a deep friendship. But there’s an undercurrent now, undeniable and electric, humming in the air between you like a wire pulled taut.

It’s in the way his eyes soften when he looks at you. The way his voice dips, almost hesitant, when he asks, “You good?” after a long day. It’s in the warmth that blooms in your chest when he throws his head back, laughing at something you said, and you realize you’ve memorized the exact sound of it, as if you’ve been collecting each laugh and tucking it away somewhere sacred.

You notice it most in the quiet moments. Like when you’re sitting on the floor of your room, both of you leaning back against the bedframe, the evening air thick with that golden, honeyed dusk light. You’re both quiet, but the silence between you isn’t empty. It hums with all the things you haven’t said yet, the things that live just below the surface.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Patrick murmurs, his voice soft, almost like he’s speaking to himself.

“Do what?” you ask, turning your head to face him. His gaze meets yours, lingering, a flicker of something tender in his eyes.

“Make me forget,” he says, almost shy, his thumb rubbing the edge of the cup in his hand. “How rough things were. When I’m with you… it just feels easy. Like everything’s… softer.”

Your heart skips, a quiet stutter of realization. You wonder if he feels it too, the thing that’s been weaving itself into the fabric of your days, the invisible thread that’s tied you together so tightly now it’s impossible to tell where you end and he begins.

You don’t respond, not immediately. The words catch in your throat, because what is there to say to something like that? Instead, you let the moment hang between you, weightless and fragile. And then, in a breath, it breaks.

He leans closer, and for the first time, there’s no hesitation, no fear of what this might mean. His lips find yours in the gentlest of touches, a brush of warmth that sends shivers down your spine. It’s soft, tentative, like the first breath of spring after a long winter, and you respond without thinking, your hand sliding into his hair as you pull him closer.

The kiss deepens, slow and sweet, and it’s like everything inside you is unraveling all at once. You’re no longer just friends who fell into a rhythm—now you’re something more, something undefined and beautiful, something that feels like coming home after being lost for so long. His hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, and there’s a tenderness in the way he holds you, like you’re something precious, something he’s afraid to break.

When you finally pull away, both of you breathless, he rests his forehead against yours. “I think I’ve been falling for you for a while now,” he whispers, and it’s the kind of confession that makes your heart ache in the best way, because you’ve been falling too, piece by piece, with every quiet moment, every shared laugh, every lingering glance.

“I know,” you whisper back, your voice trembling with the weight of it all. “Me too.”

And just like that, everything shifts. The world around you fades, and it’s just the two of you, entwined in something bigger than yourselves, something that’s been growing quietly, unnoticed, until now. You lean into him, your hand still tangled in his hair, and the rest of the night is spent in soft kisses and whispered promises, the two of you wrapped up in each other like you were always meant to be.

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