#once a cheater always a cheater | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

junedenim · 2 months ago

Text

oh.

Somethings That I Shouldn’t Have Done

but i haven’t stopped loving you

series masterlist

warnings: angst, smut, just normal fucking, cheating

word count: 10.1k

Between Paris and London, 2023

You were used to Alex being gone. In fact, you’d had to get used to it long before he was truly yours. Before he called you his, before the world started to pair your names together in passing conversations. You were familiar with the ache of waiting, the distance, the silences that stretched too long between calls. Nights spent wondering where he was, whether he was thinking of you. And after a while, you learned to fill the space his absence left behind, telling yourself that it was just part of loving someone like him. Someone whose life was loud and sprawling, filled with constant movement. He was the man made for stages. You were just a shadow at the edge of all that.

So when he left for tour, when the rhythms of his life pulled him away from yours, you told yourself it shouldn’t hurt. You should have been used to it by now.

But this time was different.

The difference wasn’t something you could name at first. It was quiet, like the feeling of standing in a room before a storm hits, the air thick and electric, waiting for the first drop of rain. He still made the effort to call, and you still made the effort to see him when you could. That part hadn’t changed. You flew to meet him in airports, standing by the baggage claim, waiting for his familiar silhouette to emerge from the blur of strangers. Every time, without fail, your heart would jump at the sight of him, even slightly dishevelled from the flight, always with that bag slung over his shoulder like he wasn’t entirely ready to put down roots.

He would smile, that lopsided grin that once made you feel like you were the only person in the world he saw. But this time there was something else behind it. A kind of tiredness that wasn’t just from travel. A weight in his eyes that lingered even when he pulled you into a tight hug, burying his face in your hair to remember the scent of you.

Your hands would slide up to his head, fingers threading through his hair, a small ritual you’d developed over the years. Checking its length like you were marking time. Had it grown since you last saw him? Was it shorter? You liked to feel the changes. Subtle things no one else would notice. To anyone else, he was still the same man they saw onstage or in photoshoots, the same tousled rock star they’d idolised for years. But not to you. You knew the man beneath the persona. You knew every inch of him, every shift in mood, every line that had deepened in his face over time.

As your hands slid down to his face, lightly brushing the scruff on his chin, you felt the familiar scratch of his stubble. Even this had become something of a compass to you. His facial hair was always a little different each time, like the changing of the seasons. It was your way of reorienting yourself to him after the time apart. You would catalogue the changes and tell yourself it was still him. Still the man you loved.

But this time, there was something else in the details. A slight hesitation in the way he held you, a flicker of discomfort that passed through him so quickly, you almost thought you imagined it. But you knew better. Your heart had grown sharp in noticing the things he thought he could hide.

You pulled back to look at him, really look at him, and for a moment, you saw a flash of something in his eyes, there and gone so fast you almost missed it. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You okay?” you asked, your tone casual, thumb brushing over the scruff on his chin. “You look…I don’t know, different.”

“Different?” he laughed softly, tilting his head, playing along.

You grinned. “Yeah, you’ve got that tragic rockstar look going on.”

He chuckled, pulling you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist. “Tragic, huh? I thought I was pulling off mysterious.”

“Mmm, mysterious, tragic…same thing.” you teased, reaching up to ruffle his hair. “But seriously, you need a nap or something.”

His smile softened, and for a second, it felt real again, like the way things used to be before the distance started to creep in. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” he joked, but there was a quietness to his voice, a softness that tugged at your heart.

“Maybe you should take a break now and then, so you don’t end up there too soon.” you replied, letting your hands slide up to rest on his shoulders.

He laughed, the sound warm, as he leaned down to nuzzle his face into your neck. “I’ve got you for that.” he mumbled against your skin, his breath warm. “You always take care of me.”

You smiled, relaxing into him, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the muscles in his back. “Someone’s gotta. Can’t have you falling apart on me.”

He held you tighter, almost too tight, like he was afraid to let go. “Never.” he whispered, his lips brushing against your collarbone.

For a moment, it was easy to fall into the warmth of his embrace, familiar in all the ways that mattered. His scent, the way his hands knew just where to hold you — it was all the same.

Paris in the spring. The city you both returned to again and again, as if drawn by some invisible thread. The first time you came together was different — back when neither of you belonged to the other, when the lines between ‘friendship’, your arrangement, and something more were blurred beyond recognition.

It had been magical then, walking the narrow streets, hand in hand, like you were the only two people in the world. He had taken you there, not because he was on tour, not because it was convenient, but because he had wanted to. He had wanted to show you the city through his eyes, and in doing so, made you feel like you were something special.

One night, or more accurately, one early morning, you lay naked in bed together, the sheets kicked to the side in the heat of the stuffy air. The room smelled faintly of sweat and the sweetness of sex, the street noises below filtering in through the open window. The first light of morning crept in, just enough to cast a soft glow on the walls. You were both wide awake, buzzing, like the night hadn’t quite let you go yet.

He sat up a little, leaning on one elbow, and then without a word, pulled the sheets over your body, covering you up, while he stayed bare. You laughed softly, your hand tugging at the sheets. “Why are you covering me up? A little late for modesty, don’t you think?”

He smirked, his hand resting on your hip through the fabric. “Just want to keep you to myself for a little longer. Don’t want to steal the view now, do you?”

“How poetic.” you teased, though your smile softened, your heart swelling with something warm.

He looked at you then, the playfulness fading into something deeper. “You know, I've never really brought anyone here before. Not like this.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden seriousness in his voice. “What do you mean?”

He lay back down, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. “I mean, this...us. This isn’t something I do. I guess. Bringing someone here, or anywhere really, just because I want to. No agenda. Just…being together.” His voice was quiet, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

You felt a weight in your chest, and you weren’t sure if it was because of the words or because of the way he said them — like he was trying to let you in, but only just enough. “Alex…” you started, but he interrupted you.

“You don’t have to say anything.” He glanced over at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not trying to be weird, I just-” He stopped, swallowing hard, his eyes soft in a way that made you feel exposed. “Sometimes, I think I feel too much.”

You reached for him, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. “You never seem like it.” you whispered.

“I know.” he said, his voice almost a sigh. “I think that’s deliberate. I got good at pretending. But with you…it’s different.” His hand found yours, squeezing it lightly. “You make me say things I probably shouldn’t. Things I’d never tell anyone else.”

You chuckled softly, trying to lighten the moment even though your heart was pounding. “Like what? Your deepest, darkest secrets?”

“Like how I’m terrified, sometimes. That I’ll fuck this up. That I’ll never be able to keep things like this, easy. How being with you makes everything feel so fucking simple, and I don’t know how to deal with that.”

You froze, the weight of his words hanging in the air between you. This wasn’t a conversation you were supposed to have. You weren’t supposed to be more than what you were — a fling, a moment in time, something fleeting. But here he was, unravelling in front of you, saying things you weren’t sure you were ready to hear and he wasn’t ready for you to hear.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, trying to brush off the heaviness. “You’ll be fine, Alex. We’ll both be fine.”

He laughed softly, but the sound was hollow, almost resigned. “I don’t know if I believe that, sometimes,” he admitted quietly, his eyes still avoiding yours.

You frowned, but you didn’t let it show to him. Instead, you shifted closer, draping an arm over his chest, pulling the sheets tighter around you. “You deserve more than you think, you know that?”

He didn’t respond at first, just looked at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read, a mixture of sadness and something else. Then he smiled again, but it was softer this time, more vulnerable. “Maybe you’re the only one who thinks that.”

You shook your head, leaning in closer. “Maybe I’m the only one who knows you well enough to see it.”

He met your eyes then, really looked at you. His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek. “God, you make everything sound so easy.”

“It can be.” you whispered back, smiling up at him.

For a moment, he stared, his eyes searching yours, and then, slowly, he leaned in. His lips found yours, soft and warm, and the kiss was slow, like he was trying to say something he couldn’t put into words. His hand slid behind your head, pulling you closer as his body shifted against yours.

He kissed you like he wanted to stay in that moment forever, as if the world outside didn’t exist and it was just the two of you, tangled up in each other, the city of Paris breathing softly around you.

There’d be time for everything else later. For now, there was only this — this kiss, this closeness, this fleeting moment that you both wanted to hold on to, even if you didn’t know how.

That was years ago. Back then, his hair had been short, styled in a way that made him look more polished, sharper around the edges, like he was still trying to prove something to the world. But now, now his hair was longer, curling slightly at the ends, falling into his eyes in a way that made him look softer, more real. You liked it better this way. It felt like he was letting go of the need to keep up appearances, letting you and everyone else see the man underneath.

He never really pretended with you. Not in the ways that mattered, at least. He had tried, back when you were still getting to know each other, when he was still figuring out how to let you in without losing himself. But with you, he never succeeded in keeping up the walls. You saw him, really saw him, in a way that no one else did. He knew that, and so did you.

The first night in Paris, he was exhausted, and it showed. He leaned into you as you walked back to the hotel, his arm heavy over your shoulders, his body sagging from the weight of too many sleepless nights, too many miles spent away.

As you walked in silence, his head dipped closer to yours. “I’m so tired.” he murmured, his voice rough around the edges. “Feels like I haven't slept in days…maybe weeks.”

“You look like you haven’t.” you teased lightly, though your heart wasn’t quite in it. He smiled, but it was weak, like it took too much effort.

“Yeah.” he chuckled half-heartedly, his fingers tapping against your arm as you continued down the hallway. “Think I forgot how a bed feels. Been living off caffeine and power naps. God…what I’d give for a real cup of coffee. The stuff on the bus is awful. Like drinking mud.”

You hummed in agreement, though your mind was elsewhere, caught up in the quiet distance between you. He went on, the words drifting out as if he was speaking just to fill the silence. “And I think I left my good headphones somewhere back in Berlin...can’t keep track of anything lately.” His voice trailed off, his arm pulling you in a little closer as you entered the room, as if seeking some kind of comfort.

The smell of him – sweat, cigarettes, and that familiar musky cologne – was stronger now, clinging to his clothes, to his skin. It was the scent you’d always associated with him, something that had once been comforting, like coming home. But now, even that felt different, like the smell was masking something else. When you slipped your hands beneath his jacket, your palms brushing the heat of his back, it didn’t feel the way it used to. His warmth was still there, but it didn’t pull you in like before. There was a barrier between you now, a wall that you could feel but couldn’t yet see.

Even with his body pressed against yours, it didn’t feel the same. Not like it used to.

You had sex. There was no other way to put it. It wasn’t making love. Whatever softness had once defined the two of you, whatever tenderness had lingered in your touches, was missing. It wasn’t even fucking, because there wasn’t enough passion in it for that. It was just…sex. A simple, transactional act, like something to get through. In, out and done.

He’d taken you from behind. No foreplay, no buildup. Just the raw mechanics of it. His hands gripped your hips as he thrust into you, but there wasn’t any urgency, any need to be closer. There was distance, even in this, the most intimate act you could share. It reminded you of something he’d told you a long time ago, back when you were still figuring each other out. He had once joked, back then, he was afraid that if he looked at you during sex, he’d fall in love. It had been a flirty, careless comment, something that made you laugh at the time because you thought it wasn’t really true. This time, it felt like he didn’t want to look at you because if he did, maybe the love would crack, or worse, fall apart completely.

He didn’t say much throughout, only the occasional grunt, a breathless “fuck” or a muttered “yeah” when you responded to him. You moaned for him, not because it was some elaborate performance, but because even in the fog of whatever was happening between you two, he still knew your body well. He still knew how to work himself inside of you, and you didn’t have to fake that part. But it wasn’t connected to anything deeper. It was just a reaction, just your body doing what it always did.

When he came, his grip tightened for a moment before he pulled out and slapped your ass, a gesture that felt more like habit than anything meaningful. Like punctuation to an act that didn’t need one. In, out, and done.

You rolled over, silent, and made your way to the bathroom. The water felt good, scalding hot, as you stood under the showerhead, letting it wash away the sweat and the sense of something unfinished. You’d expected him to follow you. He usually did. When he didn’t, you felt a brief moment of relief. Space. At least there was that. But then, after a few minutes, the door creaked open, and there he was, stepping into the shower behind you, his hair sticking to his forehead from the heat. Without a word, you reached for the hotel shampoo and started working it into his hair, your fingers rubbing through the strands. It was something you’d always done for him, something you had never thought twice about.

He groaned, not in pleasure but in complaint. “This stuff’s gonna dry my hair out.” he mumbled, and you could hear the tiredness in his voice, the strain of a day that had been too long. You didn’t say anything. Just nodded and kept working the shampoo into a lather. You worked it through his hair, feeling the way his muscles relaxed under your touch, his eyes closed as if he were already half-asleep. It was such a mundane conversation, the kind you’d had a hundred times before, but now it felt almost surreal. He still handed you the little packet of conditioner, though, the same way he always did, as if that small gesture of care could make up for everything else that had gone wrong.

There was a time when moments like this had felt intimate, like the quietest parts of your relationship were the ones that mattered the most. The nights when you washed his hair, or when he kissed the back of your neck while you brushed your teeth, or when you lay tangled together in bed, too tired to speak but content just to be near each other.

Now all of it felt like a routine. A hollow echo of what it used to be.

You finished rinsing his hair, and he stepped out of the shower without another word, leaving you standing there alone, water still running, wondering if you’d ever truly get back what you had lost. Or if it had been slipping away long before you even noticed.

When you stepped out of the shower, the room was dark, save for the dim glow from the city lights outside the window. The hotel room felt colder now, the silence thick in the air. You dried yourself off, the damp towel heavy against your skin, and made your way toward the bed. He was already there, lying on his side with the covers pulled up to his waist. His breathing was deep and steady, and you knew without even looking at him that he was asleep.

You slipped under the duvet quietly, careful not to disturb him. But the moment your body hit the mattress, even though he didn’t wake, his arms found you, pulling you in without hesitation. His hand slid around your waist, his palm pressing against the curve of your hip, trying to hold onto you, even in sleep. It was instinctual, the way his body gravitated toward yours, like it always had.

His chest pressed against your back, and you felt his breath, warm and slow against the nape of your neck. It was comforting in the way it used to be – the weight of him behind you, the way your legs fit together like pieces of a puzzle. His skin was cool from the night air, but the warmth between you began to build, seeping into the space where your bodies met, turning the cold bed into something almost bearable.

You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the feeling of him, of this.

“I love you.” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with sleep. It was slurred. He hadn’t fully woken up, and it felt both real and fragile, like a secret said in the dark.

A soft smile tugged at your lips. “I love you, too.” you whispered back, your fingers tracing lazy circles on the back of his hand where it rested on your waist.

“Missed this.” he added, his voice fading as sleep pulled him back under. “Missed you.”

You felt his body relax even more against yours, his breathing growing deeper. “Goodnight.” you whispered, but he was already gone again, lost to the quiet rhythm of sleep, holding you tight even in his dreams.

But even as his arms tightened around you, the feeling of safety that had once come so naturally felt fragile, like a thread that could snap at any moment. There had been a time when being wrapped up in him like this meant everything was right, when the simple act of falling asleep in his arms was enough to make you forget whatever else was going on. He still held you the same way, but something had shifted, something that his arms couldn’t bridge.

Your thoughts wandered back to the way he had touched you, how it had been automatic, devoid of the tenderness you craved. You had shared your body with him, but it hadn’t felt like sharing at all. It had been two people going through motions they’d gone through so many times before, and now, lying here, entwined with him, it was hard to know which felt more distant – the silence of his sleep or the brief, hollow intimacy you’d shared just earlier.

Still, you let yourself lean into him. Your body softened into his embrace because, at the very least, you could hold onto this moment. He was still here, still wrapped around you, and there was a strange comfort in that, even if it wasn’t the same. You could feel his heartbeat against your back, slow and steady, syncing with your own, lulling you into that hazy space between sleep and waking.

For a moment, you let yourself forget. You closed your eyes, focused on the rise and fall of his chest against you, on the way his breath brushed lightly against your skin. It was enough to let sleep pull you in, despite the lingering thoughts that still crowded your mind. In this small, fragile moment, it was just the two of you, tangled together in the dark, the way you always had been.

You wondered if he held you tighter in his sleep because, somewhere deep down, he knew that he was losing you. Or maybe it was you who was losing him. Either way, you slept like that, wrapped in his arms, bodies entwined, pretending, if only for a few hours, that the distance wasn’t there.

He was distracted, his phone buzzing more than usual. At first, you didn’t think anything of it. He was always busy, always connected to something or someone. But then you started to notice the way his eyes darted away from yours when he checked his messages, the way he quickly put the phone down when you glanced his way. Little things. Things that didn’t feel right.

And then you found out.

You weren’t sure how, or when exactly it happened. Maybe it was a stray comment from someone, a mention of a name you didn’t recognize. Or maybe it was the look on his face when you asked him a simple question, the way he hesitated just a second too long before answering. That hesitation was all you needed.

You didn’t make any accusations. You didn’t need to. That hesitation – so small, so quick – was enough to confirm what had already started to unravel in your mind. The truth lingered between the two of you, hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break, but you kept silent. What would have been the point of asking? You knew. You didn’t need him to say it. Saying it would make it real, and somehow, keeping quiet allowed you to hold onto a piece of what you had for just a little longer.

So, you let the moments pass.

You spent the next two days in Paris, walking the streets you’d come to know so well, trying to lose yourself in the city, in him. You visited the places that had become sacred to the two of you. It should have felt like a homecoming. It didn’t.

You walked with him, your hand still clasped in his, but the warmth wasn’t there. His grip, once tight and reassuring, now felt like a formality. The café where you shared your first real conversation, where you used to sit for hours, talking about everything and nothing, felt smaller now, like the space between you had grown so large that even this place couldn’t contain it. He ordered for both of you, his voice still carrying that gentle tone, but he didn’t meet your eyes. You smiled when the waiter brought your drinks, tried to carry on the conversation, but it was all surface-level. The usual ease of your back-and-forth had vanished, replaced by polite exchanges that felt more like strangers trying to keep the peace.

There were pauses now, long stretches of silence that once might have felt comfortable but now only reminded you of what wasn’t being said. You sipped your coffee, nodding when he spoke, but your mind was somewhere else, circling back to that moment of hesitation, that flicker of guilt in his eyes.

You didn’t ask him about the messages, didn’t mention the way he quickly turned his phone face down on the table every time it buzzed. You didn’t ask why he seemed distracted, why his eyes seemed to dart away from yours whenever you caught him in a rare moment of stillness. You just…let it be. You let it pass, hoping, maybe foolishly, that if you didn’t press, it would somehow dissolve on its own.

At the bookstore, he picked up a volume of poetry, holding it up for you to see, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Remember this?” he asked, his voice carrying a hint of nostalgia.

You glanced at the cover and nodded. “Of course I do.” you said, taking it from his hands. It was the same book he had bought for you on one of your first trips here, back when everything between you was still new and full of possibility. You remembered lying in bed together, his voice low and steady as he tried to read the French words aloud, his thumb gently tracing the back of your hand.

He leaned over your shoulder as you flipped through the pages. “We never made it through the whole thing, did we?” he said, his tone light, almost playful.

“No.” you replied, forcing a smile as you skimmed over the familiar lines. “We got...distracted.”

He chuckled softly, but the sound wasn’t as warm as it used to be. “Yeah, well…maybe we should try again. Finish what we started.”

You paused, your fingers resting on the edge of a page, not quite turning it. “Maybe.” you said quietly, glancing up at him.

His smile faded just a little as he caught your eyes, but he didn’t say anything more. He lingered behind you for a moment, his presence close but somehow distant. You felt the empty space between you growing, even as he stood there beside you, and when you turned back to the book, the words on the page blurred into nothing.

The city had always been a place where you could lose yourselves in each other, where the noise of the world faded and it was just the two of you. The streets felt smaller. The air felt heavier. And the gap between you was everywhere. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t escape it.

You spent those two days trying to fill the silence. He still held your hand, still smiled at you when you made a joke, still kissed the top of your head in passing. But it all felt practised. As if he were going through the motions of something he no longer fully believed in.

And you played along. You laughed at the right moments, kissed him back when he leaned in, made small talk about the things you’d always shared. But inside, there was a quiet resignation building. You didn’t start a fight. You weren’t sure if you had the energy for it anymore. Maybe a part of you was afraid of what he might say, what kind of lie he might offer to cover the truth you already knew.

So, you stayed quiet. You told yourself you just needed to get through the weekend. Get through these last moments in Paris without shattering everything. Because once you did, there would be no going back. And maybe, just maybe, you could somehow preserve what was left of the two of you.

But as you walked through the city, his phone vibrating more often than not, the silence between you started to feel louder. Louder than the sounds of the traffic, the chatter of people in the streets, the clatter of dishes. The truth was always there, looming over everything.

He knew you knew. That much was clear. You saw it in the way he avoided your gaze, in the way his touches felt just a little too brief, too careful. But neither of you said anything. Maybe because saying it out loud would make it impossible to pretend, and right now, pretending was the only thing keeping you both together. You let the truth sit between you, unspoken, like a third presence neither of you wanted or dared to acknowledge. And the city that had once felt like a homecoming, now felt like a goodbye.

He knew he shouldn’t have done it. He knew it then. He knew it when it happened, and he knew it even more now, with the weight of everything pressing down on him like a knot in his chest. It was one of those truths that was always there, lurking in the background, even when he tried to tell himself otherwise. He’d spent so long convincing himself that he didn’t know what he was doing, that maybe in the moment, he wasn’t aware of the damage it would cause. But that wasn’t true. He did know. He knew it every second before, during, and after.

Maybe pretending he didn’t understand the consequences made it easier to live with himself. Maybe it helped him sleep at night – those rare nights when the guilt didn’t wrap around him like a tight coil. But the more he let himself think about it, the more it ate away at him. That promise he made to you, the one he had buried so deep, came creeping back, clawing at him. It had been a constant, gnawing reminder that no matter how far he ran, no matter how many miles separated you two, it was still there, festering inside him.

You hadn’t seen him since then, since that trip to Paris. You both existed around each other, circling the same truth without ever speaking it aloud. He still called. You still answered. But it wasn’t the same. There were no lighthearted moments, no jokes, no sweet nothings whispered into the phone at midnight. Just empty conversations filled with pleasantries, both of you dancing around the silence. He never suggested meeting up. He knew better. The gap between you had grown too wide, and now it was too vast to ignore.

And now the tour was over, and it wasn’t exhaustion weighing him down. It was the thought of you waiting for him back home. He was tired, sure. His body ached, his mind worn out from endless flights and crowded venues, but what really haunted him was how he’d look you in the eyes again when he saw you at the airport. The guilt was always there, lingering, but now it was sharpening into something real. Unavoidable. He couldn’t hide from it anymore.

You were waiting for him at arrivals, standing among the sea of strangers with your arms folded, eyes scanning the crowd. He spotted you instantly. He always did, like some instinct he couldn’t shake. You didn’t wave or smile, just stood there, waiting, and when he finally reached you, he hugged you close. His arms wrapped around you like they always did, pulling you into him, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. To anyone else watching, you looked perfect. The couple everyone probably envied, the kind that made people roll their eyes and wonder how anyone could be so lucky.

To you, nothing was perfect. And he knew it.

“I missed you.” he said, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

“Yeah?” you replied, glancing over at him but not reaching out like you usually would. “Long trip?”

He shrugged, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “Same as always. Glad it’s over though.” He flashed you a smile, the kind that might have once melted you, but now it just felt like a thin cover. “Paris was nice, wasn’t it? I’m sorry we didn’t see each other, uh…”

“It was, yeah.” you said, your voice neutral, as if you were commenting on the weather.

He looked ahead, the sound of the airport buzzing around you. “You didn’t touch my hair.” he muttered, almost like he was joking, but you could hear the edge in his voice. “Didn’t check if I trimmed it.”

You swallowed, keeping your eyes forward. “Did you?”

“Yeah.” he said, and his hand reached up, brushing a strand of it back. “Thought you’d notice.”

“I did.” you said, not meeting his eyes.

He kept his glasses on as you walked out of the airport, hiding behind them, keeping his face just out of reach. You kept your distance, and he could feel it. He could feel everything had shifted, even if neither of you were ready to say it aloud.

Home wasn’t much different than before. The same familiar walls, the same furniture, the same little routines you had fallen into. But it felt like there was a new layer now, an invisible wall that kept you apart. You’d moved into his place months ago, but now it felt like you were more distant than when he was halfway across the world. He stayed out later than usual, spending evenings at the pub around the corner, avoiding the quiet tension that filled the house. He’d come back after a few drinks, claiming his bones were tired, that he was still adjusting to being back, to sleeping in his own bed again. But you knew. You both did.

And then tonight, something shifted again.

You were both lying in bed, the flicker of the TV casting shadows across the room. He was on the right side, you on the left, the gap between you as wide as ever. The opening credits of some film he’d chosen were rolling, but neither of you were really watching. You were lost in your own thoughts, in the quiet sound of the city outside, when you felt him glance over at you.

“Is this one any good?” he asked, his voice soft, almost casual.

You blinked, not even sure what the movie was. “I don’t know.” you replied, shrugging slightly. “You picked it.”

“Right.” he muttered, his eyes still on you. His hand reached out, fingers brushing over your chest, rubbing your nipples through the thin fabric of your tank top. The touch was familiar, almost automatic. “You cold?”

You shook your head. “No.”

“You’re stubborn.” he teased lightly, glancing at the blanket you hadn’t pulled up. “You know it’s freezing in here.”

“You could just turn the heat on.”

“It’s barely October.” he chuckled, his fingers now lazily trailing down your side. “Gotta wait ‘til Halloween, remember?”

It was early October, the chill of autumn creeping into the room, but you refused to wear anything heavy. He refused to turn the heat on before Halloween, claiming it was still too early for that. You rolled your eyes but didn’t say anything, your focus drifting back to the movie, though neither of you were really watching. His touch lingered, his thumb grazing back over your nipple as he glanced at the screen.

“Let me know if it gets good.” he said quietly, leaning a little closer.

His touch was tentative at first, but when you didn’t pull away, he became bolder. He rubbed your breasts through the fabric, his fingers lingering, and you felt his gaze, that intensity returning. You turned to him just as he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, and this time, there was love in it. It was broken, yes. Fractured. But it was there, a flicker of something still alive.

You reached for the remote, turning off the film, and he reached for the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head. He moved over you, his body pressing into yours, and in that moment, he seemed bigger than you remembered, or maybe you just felt smaller. His hands roamed over your skin, tracing familiar paths, and his lips followed, pressing soft kisses to your collarbone, your neck. Your mouth parted, a soft moan escaping your lips as his fingers trailed lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts.

There was something desperate in the way he touched you, something that felt like he was trying to make up for lost time, for the distance that had grown between you. His hands were rough, his kisses urgent, but there was love in it, somewhere beneath the layers of guilt and longing. You felt it in the way he whispered your name against your skin, in the way his breath hitched when you moaned beneath him.

For a moment, it was just the two of you again, bodies tangled together, lost in each other like you used to be. The outside world didn’t exist. The mistakes, the lies, the silence. It all faded away, leaving just this. Just you and him, wrapped in the fragile remains of what you once were.

But even now, as he kissed you, as his hands moved over you with the same familiar rhythm, you knew that when the night was over, when the quiet settled back in, everything would still be there. It would all still be waiting for you, lurking in the dark corners of your home, reminding you that love, once broken, is never quite the same again.

He undressed himself slowly, his hands trembling as he pulled his shirt over his head, then shimmied out of his pants. It wasn’t that he needed to. It would’ve been enough for him to stay half-clothed, letting you be the one stripped bare. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not when the distance between you had been so stark for so long. He needed to be just as exposed as you were. Naked. Vulnerable. Your equal.

The cool air hit his skin, but all he could feel was you – your warmth, your breath, the way your eyes traced the lines of his body. He needed this, needed you, needed to feel small beneath you, as if the weight of everything that had happened could be lifted, if only for a moment. He needed you to make him feel small, to remind him of the part of himself that was still yours.

His hands shook as he braced them on either side of you, lowering himself over you, the skin-to-skin contact sending a shiver through him. His body pressed against yours as he looked into your eyes, searching for something, some sign of forgiveness, some hint of the love you once shared. His gaze was intense, desperate, and as he entered you, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

You felt him everywhere. He filled you, his hips moving against yours with a deliberate, slow rhythm that was more careful than it had been in months. His arms caged you in, the weight of him pressing into the mattress as if he was trying to hold you there, to anchor you to him. Even if you looked to the sides, his hands were there, gripping the sheets, bracing himself as his body moved over yours. And even when you closed your eyes, the sensation of him was inescapable, his breath hot on your neck, his hair sticking to your skin as he pushed into you, again and again.

But you wanted more. More than this. More than his body moving above you. You needed to take control. To flip the script. To remind him that this wasn’t just about him. It wasn’t just about guilt or regret. It was about you, too.

You shifted beneath him, pushing against his chest with a gentle firmness, and in one smooth motion, you flipped the two of you around, your thighs wrapping tightly around his hips as you straddled him.

He slid deeper inside you as you pressed down, his breath catching in his throat. His hands instinctively found your waist, his fingers digging into your skin, but there was no resistance. He let you take control, let you lead, his body sinking back into the bed as you stayed on top of him, every inch of him buried deep inside you.

His eyes locked on yours, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw something break in him. His tough exterior, that carefully constructed wall he’d built around himself, started to crumble as you moved. His gaze softened, his pupils blown wide, his lips parting as his breath grew shallow. His eyes were beginning to get glassy, the emotion he’d been holding back flooding to the surface, threatening to spill over. He gripped your hips tighter, his fingers trembling as he tried to keep some semblance of control, but it was slipping away from him, fast.

You could feel the shift, the way he was unravelling beneath you, the way his need for you – this moment – was consuming him. You rocked your hips, slow at first, grinding down on him, and a guttural sound escaped his throat. His hands slid up your back, clutching you closer as if he couldn’t stand to have even a fraction of space between you.

You leaned over him, your hair falling around his face as you pressed your forehead to his. Your breaths mingled, your bodies moving together in perfect sync. His hands roamed your body, no longer possessive but reverent, afraid you might slip away if he didn’t hold on. You rode him harder, faster, and his eyes fluttered shut, his mouth falling open as he let out a shaky breath.

There was no more pretending, no more hiding behind the silence. It was raw, exposed, and for the first time in a long time, you were both on the same page. Both needing, both wanting, both afraid of what would happen when this moment ended.

He came with a sob.

You weren’t sure at first if it was because of the orgasm or something deeper, something raw that had been building inside him for longer than either of you cared to admit. But as you felt his body tense beneath you, his arms wrapping around you tightly, holding you down against him, you realised it wasn’t just about release. His chest was pressed so firmly against yours that you could feel his heart racing, the uneven breaths he was trying to control.

He didn’t want you to see. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his lips pressed against your skin, as if he could hide the crack in his facade, as if he could bury the shame, the guilt, and the weight of everything he had been carrying. But you felt it – the way his lip trembled against your collarbone, the slight quiver in his chin as he fought to hold it all in. The tear that slid down his cheek and onto your skin was undeniable, no matter how hard he tried to press you into him to hide it.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t ask. You didn’t stop him. You let him hold you down, let him keep you close, his arms a cage around you, trying to anchor himself to something real. The room felt heavier, as though every breath you took pulled you deeper into this tangled mess that neither of you were prepared to face.

Even with his body trembling, his dick still moved inside you, slow, with that familiar purpose. His hips jerked involuntarily, prolonging the sensation, and despite the sob that had escaped him, despite the vulnerability that hung thick in the air, he knew how to move in a way that still brought you there with him. He knew your body, even now, even through all the confusion and hurt, in a way no one else ever could.

Your head fell back, a quiet moan slipping from your lips as the sensation built within you, your thighs tightening around his hips. The tension that had been coiling inside you for what felt like an eternity finally snapped, your body trembling as you came, the pleasure crashing over you. It was quiet but intense, your muscles tightening around him as you ground down into him, riding out the last of it as his body softened beneath you.

But as the high began to fade, the reality of what had just happened – the sob, the tear, the fragile state he was in – settled in the quiet between you. His hands stayed on your back, but their grip had softened, as if he wasn’t sure whether to keep holding on or let go. He hadn’t said a word since it happened. His breathing was still uneven, the aftermath of his breakdown lingering in the room like a ghost.

You could feel him underneath you, his chest rising and falling, but the connection between you wasn’t just physical anymore. There was something deeper now, something you both had been avoiding, something that neither of you could quite find the words for. And in the stillness, with your bodies still tangled together, the weight of it all – the love, the pain, the betrayal, the regret – settled heavily between you.

And neither of you knew where to go from here.

Your chest rose and fell against his, still catching your breath as the tremors of your orgasm faded. Slowly, you pulled back, your body lifting slightly off his. He didn’t stop you. He didn’t fight it. His hands fell away from your back, loose now, no longer gripping you with that desperate need to hold on.

For a moment, his eyes flickered down, as if he considered turning his gaze away. But he didn’t. He met your eyes, and in that second, you could see everything. His guilt, his pain, the extent of what he’d done. It was raw and unfiltered, no walls left between you. And it hurt him. He could feel it deep inside, that crushing feeling of seeing himself reflected in your eyes like this. But he deserved it, and he knew it. You deserved to see him like this, broken, even if it wasn’t any kind of consolation.

You reached up and gently wiped the tear from his cheek, your thumb brushing his skin with a softness that only made his heart ache more. A second later, you felt your own tears, the hot, stinging trail they left as they slid down your face. He caught them before they could fall too far, his hand trembling as he wiped them away, his thumb hesitating at your cheek. His lips parted, as if to say something, but nothing came.

Instead, you both just cried together. Quiet, broken sobs, tangled up in each other in the most intimate way possible, yet somehow feeling miles apart. He was still inside you, still connected to you in the most physical sense, but emotionally, it felt like a chasm had opened between you that neither of you knew how to cross.

“I’m sorry.” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. His hand drifted to your waist, as if holding onto you would make the apology mean more.

You bit your lip, trying to steady yourself, to keep from breaking completely. “It’s fine.” you whispered back, but even as you said it, you knew it wasn’t true. You felt the words as they left your mouth, hollow and unconvincing.

He smiled then, but it was small, weak. Bittersweet. “No, it’s not.” he said quietly, shaking his head, his eyes shining with the remnants of tears. He let out a breath, like he was trying to gather the strength to keep speaking. “It’s not fine.”

You looked down, nodding as a fresh wave of tears threatened to spill over. “No.” you agreed softly. “It’s not.”

He closed his eyes for a second, the truth of it was too much to bear, his hand slipping from your face to rest against your thigh. The silence that stretched between you now felt heavier than anything you’d experienced before. There was no rushing to fix things, no desperate attempt to gloss over the cracks. Just honesty, raw and undeniable.

“After laughter may come tears,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, “but we owe it to ourselves to feel everything. The highs, the lows…all of it.”

You blinked back your tears, taking in the warmth of his breath on your skin, the way his hand trembled ever so slightly against you. He was right, even if it hurt to admit it.

His thumb brushed lightly across your cheek, wiping away the tears that fell. “We owe it to ourselves,” he repeated softly, his eyes locking onto yours, “to embrace it all.”

The days passed quietly. You both existed in the same space — ate together, slept together, spoke in passing — but it was as though you were living in parallel worlds. Every interaction was careful, deliberate, skimming the surface of the deeper things that needed to be said. You both avoided the hard truths, as if dancing around them might keep them at bay a little longer.

But you knew it couldn’t last forever. The distance, the unspoken questions, the answers you already half knew but needed to hear were inevitable.

It was a Sunday evening when you finally felt ready to ask. The house was quiet, the autumn chill creeping in through the windows, and he was sitting on the edge of the couch, flipping through the channels without really watching anything. You were sitting at the kitchen table, half-heartedly scrolling through your phone, but you weren’t paying attention to the screen. Your mind was elsewhere, circling the same question over and over.

The thing about knowing the answer to something before you ask is that it doesn’t make the asking any easier. If anything, it makes it harder, because once it’s spoken, it becomes real. And you weren’t sure if you were ready for that, if either of you were.

You watched him for a moment, his familiar profile lit by the soft glow of the TV. He hadn’t shaved in days. He didn’t put in the effort anymore. He glanced over at you suddenly, as if sensing your gaze. His eyes met yours, and for a split second, there was something vulnerable there that he quickly masked with a half-hearted smile.

“What?” he asked, his voice light, too casual.

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “Nothing.” you said, though you knew it wasn’t true. “Just...thinking.”

He nodded, his attention drifting back to the TV, but you could tell he was waiting. There was a tightness in his posture, a tension in his shoulders that said he knew exactly what you were thinking about, and he was bracing himself for it.

“Do you ever...” you began, your voice quiet, almost tentative. “Do you ever wonder if things would’ve been different if I hadn’t come back to Paris that last time?”

He looked over at you again, brow furrowing slightly, as if he hadn’t expected that question. “What do you mean?”

You shrugged, trying to keep your tone light, deflecting just a little. “I don’t know. It just feels like...everything shifted after that trip. Like we crossed some kind of line, and we’ve been...off balance ever since.”

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze drifting down to his hands. He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. restlessness settling into his movements.

“I don’t think it’s about Paris.” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “I mean...I- I don’t think the city had anything to do with it.”

You nodded, even though his answer wasn’t really an answer at all. It was a way of avoiding the real issue, the same way you’d both been doing for weeks. But it didn’t make you angry. If anything, it made you sad. Sad because you both knew the conversation was coming.

He turned the TV off, tossing the remote onto the coffee table, and then leaned back on the couch, his head resting against the cushions. “Why?” he asked after a moment, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Why are you asking about Paris?”

You stared at him for a second, trying to figure out how to answer that without tipping into dangerous territory too quickly. “I don’t know. Just...thinking about how different things felt before that. How easy it was.”

A soft chuckle escaped his lips, but it wasn’t a happy sound. It was hollow, as if he was laughing at the absurdity of it all. “Yeah.” he muttered, his eyes still on the ceiling. “Things were definitely…yeah.”

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “So, uh, what changed?” The question slipped out before you could stop it, and as soon as the words were in the air, you knew there was no taking them back.

He didn’t move for a long moment, just lay there, his chest rising and falling slowly. You watched him, waiting, your heart beating in your throat.

“I don’t know.” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been asking myself that same question.”

You stood up then, needing to move, to do something with the restless energy that was building inside you. You walked over to the couch and sat down next to him, close but not touching, your hands folded in your lap.

“Do you really want to know what changed?” he asked, his voice tentative, as if he was testing the waters.

You met his gaze, your stomach tightening. “Yeah.” you said quietly. “I do.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I guess…I guess I got scared.” he admitted. “Of everything. Of how much I needed you, of how much I could hurt you. I tried to pretend like it wasn’t happening, like I wasn’t feeling all of it, but…it caught up with me.”

You frowned, confused. “You got scared of me?”

He shook his head quickly, sitting up a little. “No. Not of you. Of…what we have. What we had. It’s like I started thinking I wasn’t good enough for it, that I’d screw it up eventually.” He paused, his eyes searching yours, trying to gauge your reaction. “And I guess…I guess I did.”

“You didn’t screw it up.” you said softly, though you weren’t sure if you believed it.

He smiled at you then, but it was a sad one. “I did, though. You just haven’t figured out how much yet.”

His hand reached for yours, fingers brushing against your skin as if he needed to touch you to get through the rest of it.

“I think I have.” you said quietly, your voice steady even though your heart wasn’t.

His hand stilled. He glanced away, shifting uncomfortably. You could see it in the way his jaw tightened, in the way his eyes flickered to the floor. He wasn’t good at hiding.

You thought he might deflect again, retreat into that space where he kept things locked away, just out of reach. But something in him seemed to crumble. His shoulders slumped, and he took a breath that sounded heavier than it should’ve.

“You know?” he said, but there was no challenge in his voice. It was soft, resigned, like he knew that pretending wasn’t going to save him anymore.

You nodded, keeping your gaze on him. “Yeah.” you said, the words sticking a little in your throat. “So…who’s the mystery girl?”

There it was. The question that had been hanging between you for weeks, maybe longer. The question that neither of you had wanted to ask because once it was out in the open, everything would change. You’d felt it — her presence — without ever meeting her. You just didn’t know how or when or who. But you could feel her shadow there in the distance.

His head dropped, chin to his chest, as if he was trying to disappear. You watched him, the way his fingers fidgeted, the way he couldn’t quite look at you now.

After what felt like forever, he looked up. His eyes were glassy, full of something that resembled regret but also shame. “It’s not like that.” he said softly. “I didn’t mean for any of it to…”

His voice trailed off, and you could see the internal battle written all over his face. He was caught between wanting to tell you everything and wanting to protect himself, protect you, maybe, from the reality.

You swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in your throat. “Then what is it like?”

He rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers digging into his hair. “It’s not- She’s not…I don’t even know how to explain it.” he admitted, frustration edging into his voice now. “It just happened. I wasn’t looking for anything. I didn’t want anything to happen. But…”

“But it did.” you finished for him.

He looked at you, eyes wide, like he wasn’t expecting you to be so calm. And maybe you weren’t calm, maybe it was just the shock of hearing it said aloud, of it becoming real after so long of pretending it wasn’t.

“Yeah.” he whispered. “It did.”

You weren’t sure what you were supposed to feel. You felt all of it, but none of it was coming to the surface. Instead, you just felt…numb. Like this was always going to happen, and now that it had, there was a strange sense of inevitability to it.

“Is she still around?” you asked, your voice quieter now, almost detached.

He winced, the question hitting him hard. “No.” he said, shaking his head. “It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t…serious. It wasn’t anything, really.”

You raised an eyebrow at that. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

He let out a sigh, one that seemed to carry the weight of all the guilt he’d been holding onto. “I know. But I swear…it’s over. It’s been over. I don’t even know why it happened in the first place.”

You nodded, taking in his words but not sure how to process them. “So what now?” you asked softly, your voice trembling a little despite your best effort to keep it steady.

He didn’t have an answer. At least, not one he could give you right then. His eyes searched yours, pleading, but he stayed quiet, his fingers brushing against yours as if that could fix everything.

“I’m sorry.” he whispered. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You nodded again, staring down at your hands, trying to keep the tears at bay. You were angry. Of course you were. But more than that, you were tired. Tired of carrying this weight, tired of not knowing what was real between you anymore.

What could you even say to him when you didn’t know what to think anymore? You wanted to explode. You wanted to kiss this man — with his stupid beautiful face and the most perfect brown eyes. You wanted to make love to him. You wanted to pull his hair straight out with your bare hands. You wanted to hurt him too.

You didn’t. You loved those eyes too much.

“I know.” you said softly. “But you did.”

a/n: the end, I suppose.

#how am i just supposed to go about my day now????#i feel this has broken me #like i kind of don't know how to cope #sigh #once a cheater always a cheater #but come on!!!

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