angelofdawnbreak - Tumblr blog

angelofdawnbreak · 3 months ago

Text

Suppressing desires

Synopsis: You never expected your quiet friendship with Zayne—the cold, brilliant cardiac surgeon—to spiral into something that burned beneath your skin. Between long shifts, cold coffee, and fleeting moments, you tried to ignore the pull between you two. But life was hard, and desire was harder to suppress. Filming yourself became your secret escape. You never thought he’d find your videos. You never thought he’d watch. And when the truth breaks free, so does everything between you.

Content warnings: Friends to lovers, slow burn, camgirl x viewer dynamic, explicit sexual content, masturbation (camgirl content), mild voyeurism (consensual context), sexual tension, emotional angst, miscommunication, guilt, soft dominance, possessiveness, power dynamic, soft dom Zayne, oral sex, begging, overstimulation, rough sex, aftercare, cute shower scene, mutual pining, unspoken feelings, confessions during intimacy, possessive!Zayne, light choking (consensual), hand on belly kink, manhandling, praise kink, deep emotional release, cuddling, vulnerability, comfort after conflict.

Pairings: Zayne x reader

Word count: 5.1k

part 1 - part 2 - part 3

He hadn’t meant to watch it that night. But that excuse had lost its weight the moment he came to the sound of your moans.

Zayne sat alone in his apartment most nights now, the silence more suffocating than usual. The kind of quiet that wasn’t restful, but sharp-edged and constant—like the hum of a surgical light long after the patient was gone. He buried himself in work, deeper than ever before, clinging to it like a tourniquet. Double rounds. On-call weekends. Extra consults he didn’t need to take but did anyway, anything to keep his hands busy and his mind obedient.

He hadn’t opened the site again. Couldn’t.

That night—that one night—had started as nothing but release. Exhaustion. A disembodied need he tried to chase into numbness. He hadn’t even remembered paying for the video until he saw the receipt in his inbox days later—proof, in black and white, of the line he crossed. He deleted it without opening it. Deleted the browser history. Deleted the app.

But nothing could delete the memory.

You haunted him now. Not in the way of ghosts or grief, but in movement in the dim light. The way your hips moved beneath the lens. The shudder in your thighs. The wet sound of your fingers sliding through your slick folds, and the way your chest rose in uneven, stuttering breaths when you neared the edge.

He remembered too much. He saw your face in the middle of the night when he blinked. Heard your quiet, broken gasp when the silence in his apartment stretched too long. And worse—far worse—was what came next.

The arousal. Undeniable. Thick and low and crawling down his spine until his hand was fisting the sheets or pressing into his lap, his body reacting with shameful need before his thoughts could even catch up. He didn’t even have to touch himself anymore. You lived beneath his skin now. Every memory blurred with the shape of you, the sound of you, the unbearable want of you.

And so he pulled away. He hadn’t decided to. There was no conscious effort. No dramatic vow to create distance. It just happened. He found himself hesitating when he passed the café. Scrolling past your messages instead of answering right away. Saying less. Giving nothing. And when he saw you that one last time—flour-dusted apron, tired smile, slipping him a macaron like always—he wanted to throw up from how normal it all was.

You didn’t know. Of course you didn’t, how could you? You greeted him like nothing had changed, made a small joke, asked about his week. And he couldn’t look you in the eye. Not the way he used to. Not when he had seen your mouth open in a moan, your body shaking as you came, so beautiful and undone that it nearly brought him to his knees.

He had always been good at restraint. That was his entire life—control, discipline, precision. He prided himself on never crossing lines. Never indulging what didn’t belong to him.

But now… now he was tainted by the weight of what he’d taken. He couldn’t unsee you like that. Couldn’t pretend he hadn’t touched himself to the sound of your pleasure. Couldn’t be the same Zayne you smiled at, so easily, so trustingly—not while his body betrayed him every time your name so much as drifted through his thoughts.

So he distanced himself. Because it was the only thing he could do.

He told himself it would pass. That if he stayed away long enough, if he buried himself deep enough in work, the memory would fade. He told himself you deserved better than the man who’d watched you like that. Who couldn’t face you without the blood rushing straight to his cock and the shame blooming hot across his skin.

But it didn’t fade. And every day that passed only made the guilt grow louder—clawing against his ribs, not just because of what he’d seen, but because of what it meant. Because maybe…just maybe…he hadn’t watched you by accident at all.

There were moments—late ones, usually—when Zayne let the truth crawl up the walls of his apartment and press into the hollow of his chest.

He missed you.

Not in the casual way people said it, not like a “we should catch up” text sent out of politeness. It was deeper than that. Messier. Something more like grief. Something that sat under his skin like a bruise that never faded.

The past year had crept up on him in quiet ways. What started as coincidence—the coffee shop, the check-ins, the light teasing you managed to pull from him on tired days—became routine. And Zayne didn’t build routines with people. He didn’t let anyone close enough. But you… you’d bypassed all of that without even trying.

He should’ve known better. He should’ve set boundaries from the start. That would’ve been the smart thing. The safe thing.

But you smiled at him like you saw something behind his stillness, behind the sterilized walls and grey suits and unreadable gaze. You joked when others backed off. You understood the pauses in his messages, the weight in his silences, the sharp way he sometimes said too little instead of too much. You made space for him—for the real him—without ever demanding it.

And somehow, without realizing it, Zayne started looking forward to the little things. The text notifications with your name. The way you added just enough syrup to his coffee to piss him off. The sound of your voice through the noise of a busy café, instantly grounding him in ways he couldn’t explain.

He let himself care. And then he watched you…at the edges of pleasure. And now, everything was fractured. Because the truth—the awful, quiet truth—was that he hadn’t just seen you as a friend. Not for a long time.

Zayne knew what you deserved. He’d known it from the beginning. Someone light. Someone who brought joy like oxygen. Who laughed without restraint and danced in the kitchen and would tell you to fuck off and skip work just to lie in bed all day. Someone better. Someone normal.

Not him.

Not someone who lived under the weight of other people’s hearts, who only came home to silence and cold floors and microwave leftovers. Not someone whose affection came wrapped in sarcasm and eye contact that lingered too long because he couldn’t say what he wanted. Not someone who loved in restraint and apology and ghosted conversations when the shame got too loud.

You gave him so much without even knowing it—your attention, your time, your trust. And he? He tainted it. Took you into the dark and watched you like he had the right. Got off to it. And then ran.

What kind of man did that? Not the kind you deserved. But the most unforgivable thing—the part that made him press his palms into his eyes at night until stars danced behind his lids—was that he didn’t just want your body. He wanted you.

The quiet you. The exhausted, eye-rolling, stubborn you. The version of you who laughed too hard when the whipped cream machine broke and stood with hands on your hips like the world owed you something. The one who leaned on the counter and called him predictable for ordering plain coffee, who slipped him macarons like it was an inside joke, who looked at him like he wasn’t just the surgeon—like he was Zayne.

He wanted a life with you. A real one. One where he came home and found you curled on his couch with a mug too big for your hands. One where he woke up tangled in your limbs and brushed hair out of your eyes before kissing your temple. One where you sat on the kitchen counter complaining about your classes while he made time to cooked for you and made sure you ate something that didn’t come from a vending machine.

He wanted mornings that stretched slow and warm. Shared showers. Matching mugs. Sundays where neither of you said much because you didn’t have to.

And maybe, in a different world, he could’ve let himself believe in that. But this wasn’t that world. This was the world where he’d crossed a line he couldn’t uncross. Where every time he thought about seeing you again, his body remembered too much—the flush in your cheeks, the arch of your back, the tremble in your thighs—and his shame swallowed every kind thing he could’ve said to you.

So he stayed away. Said less. Gave less. Pretended less was fine. And still, when he closed his eyes, it was your voice he heard. Still, when his fingers curled around the edge of the mattress at night, it was you he imagined curling into his chest in the morning.

And the worst part? He knew you saw it. The shift. The silence. The difference. And it was only a matter of time before you asked him why. And Zayne wasn’t sure what would break first—his resolve, or the lie he kept trying to live with.

————

It had been nearly two months.

At first, you didn’t even have the energy to notice it fully. Life was relentless—coursework stacked higher than your sanity could manage, shifts at the café bleeding into study marathons that left your back sore and your eyes burning. You were in survival mode, held together with caffeine, stress, and pure spite. The days blurred. Sleep was a luxury. Eating became mechanical.

And Zayne? Zayne simply… faded.

Or maybe he withdrew. Quietly. Strategically.

At first, you told yourself it was fine. He was busy—always had been. Surgeon hours, demanding cases, sleepless nights. It made sense. And besides, your own world was chaos. You didn’t have time to cling to every unanswered message or missing smile. You were barely holding yourself together.

But after weeks of the same dry, clipped replies—if he replied at all—the truth began to weigh heavier than the excuses.

He hadn’t come by the café. Not once. And that wasn’t nothing. You noticed it in the way your eyes drifted to the door every time the bell chimed. How your heart still leapt—just a little—before your brain caught up with the letdown. You didn’t say anything. Not to your coworkers. Not even to yourself, at first. Because it felt like jinxing something fragile.

You texted him. Light things, soft things. Dumb jokes, photos of your busted espresso machine with “RIP” typed underneath. Even a photo of the last pistachio macaron, captioned you missed your chance, old man.

Most of it got no reply. The few responses you did get were sterile. Efficient.

Busy. Sorry.

In surgery.

Later.

You called twice. Once, it went to voicemail after five rings. The second time, he picked up—breath tight, voice clipped, as if you’d interrupted something you weren’t supposed to.

“Zayne?” you had said, soft, hopeful.

“I can’t talk,” he replied, low and sharp, background noise too chaotic to place. “Emergency bypass. I’ll call you later.”

He didn’t.

And still, you waited. Waited because you’d come to know Zayne—not just the sharp lines of his face, or the way his mouth tugged when he smirked. You knew how long it took for him to open up. How care from him came in gestures, in precision. In remembering how you took your coffee, in placing his palm over yours when words failed him.

This wasn’t him forgetting you. This was avoidance. You could feel it. The way people do when they’ve been dropped without the courtesy of a fall.

You didn’t know what exactly changed. You went over scenarios, again and again, dragging your own memory through every small interaction. Had you said something wrong? Texted too much? Not enough? You even wondered—on nights when the loneliness ached a little too deep—if maybe he’d gotten tired of you. Realized you weren’t worth the softness he offered.

But deep down, past all the spiraling, the dread, the overthinking—you knew this wasn’t boredom. Or indifference. This was deliberate. And it hurt. More than you let yourself admit.

So one night, after a particularly shitty shift where a customer made you cry in the back room and your professor smugly handed back your project with a disappointing grade and too much red ink, you walked home in the rain. Alone. No umbrella. Soaked to the bone. Shivering.

And that night—that exact night—something inside you snapped. Because you were done. Done pretending not to notice. Done excusing the silence. Done wondering what the hell you did wrong when he wouldn’t even give you the decency of honesty.

You stood in your tiny apartment, hair dripping onto the floor, and stared at your phone like it held answers. It didn’t. Just unread messages, unanswered questions, and a contact name that used to make your heart skip.

And now only made it sink.

You wrapped yourself in a blanket. Sat on your bed. Let your frustration burn low beneath your ribs, steady and unresolved. Because if Zayne wasn’t going to speak? Then maybe you would.

You tried for another two weeks. Texts. Calls. Even one stupid meme that made you think of him—something dry and sarcastic and exactly the kind of humor he used to pretend not to laugh at. You sent it without thinking, half hoping it would shake something loose.

It didn’t.

Everything stayed the same: unanswered, unread, unreturned. And slowly, your frustration melted into something worse. Something heavier.

Hurt.

It settled in the pit of your stomach and made itself a home—not sharp like a blade, but dull, persistent. A quiet erosion of all the trust you’d built, day by day, moment by moment, in soft smiles and slower conversations that had once felt like safety.

You didn’t understand. You’d always thought highly of him—more than he probably realized. It wasn’t just about his career, though that alone could’ve been intimidating. Zayne was… steady. Quiet. Thoughtful in a way that never needed to be spoken aloud. He noticed things. He remembered them. He showed up in the background without fanfare, and somehow that meant more than all the dramatic, hollow promises anyone else ever gave you.

And somewhere along the way, it started to matter. A lot.

Too much.

You liked the way his glasses slipped down his nose when he was tired. The way his dry remarks always carried a thread of warmth buried beneath them—like he wasn’t as cold as he wanted the world to believe. The way he looked at you, sometimes, when you caught him off guard. Not wide-eyed or stunned—just present. Like he really saw you. All of you.

And maybe, deep down, you were starting to fall for him. But you never dared to say it. Because your life was chaos. Cracked at the seams. Uni was a warzone, work was survival, and half the time you were scraping by with four hours of sleep and a granola bar as dinner. Zayne was a surgeon. Respected. Calm. A man with a path so clear, it felt blasphemous to imagine him sidestepping it for someone like you—messy, disorganized, exhausted.

You were barely keeping yourself afloat. And now… the one thing that felt like an anchor—your friendship with him—had started to sink too. Slowly. Quietly. Without warning.

That’s what hurt the most. Not knowing why.

You replayed every conversation, every joke, every soft moment. Searched for the crack, for the mistake, for the shift in his gaze that might’ve told you when things changed. But there was nothing. Just absence. Just silence. Like a door closing without a sound.

It was a Thursday night when it all hit you at once. University had drained every last bit of patience from you—another group project where you carried the weight, another professor who condescended with a smile, another assignment deadline that loomed like a guillotine. And then came work, where the line stretched to the door and your manager blamed you for the broken milk frother. A man snapped at you for getting his order wrong when he hadn’t even spoken clearly. A teenage girl rolled her eyes when you handed her the wrong size cup.

By the end of the shift, you could barely keep your hands from shaking. You clocked out late. Walked past your apartment. And just kept going. No headphones. No destination. Just footsteps and cold air and the ache in your chest that refused to quiet down. The streets were quiet—late enough that the bars were winding down, too early for sunrise joggers. You shoved your hands deep into your coat pockets and stared at the sidewalk like it could offer you something you’d lost.

You weren’t sure what you were looking for. You just knew that if you stopped walking, you’d cry. And not the soft kind. Not the cinematic, beautiful kind. No—it would be ugly. Angry. Frustrated and furious that someone like Zayne—someone who used to make you feel like maybe you weren’t entirely alone in the world—could just vanish. Without reason. Without a word. The thought made your throat close. You turned a corner. Slowed. Pressed your fingers against your eyes as the burn started to rise.

You missed him. You missed Zayne. And the longer the silence stretched, the louder one truth kept echoing in your chest. Something between you had broken. And you still had no idea why.

————

It started as a drizzle—the kind of rain that didn’t feel real until it soaked through the collar of your coat. You barely noticed it at first, too deep in your own spiral to care. But then a cold drop smacked hard against your cheek, and you blinked.

Then another. Then dozens. And before long, the sky opened up above you.

You stopped walking as the downpour hit in full. Cold. Sharp. Merciless. You tilted your head up, let it slap against your skin like it had a point to make. And for some reason, the only reaction you could manage was a laugh. A single, bitter, humorless huff of a sound that cracked at the end.

Of course. Of fucking course it had to rain. So cliché.

You stood there, soaked and shaking and done with everything—this day, this week, this version of your life. You let out a breath so heavy it felt like it carried your entire soul, and then… you walked. Not toward home. Not toward shelter. Just… forward.

Cars passed, tires hissing through puddles. People bustled past with umbrellas, barely sparing you a glance. You might’ve looked deranged—soaking wet, clothes clinging to your body, hair dripping into your eyes, walking like you had nowhere left to be.

And then one car slowed.

You didn’t notice it right away. Not until the brake lights flared beside you and the low purr of the engine crawled into your awareness. The passenger window rolled down, letting in a wave of warm air and the sound of your name spoken low and sharp—like disbelief wrapped in concern.

"—What the hell are you doing out here?"

You stopped. The rain blurred everything, but not his voice.

Zayne.

You turned slowly, eyes wide, breath caught in your throat. For a second, you genuinely believed you were hallucinating. Your mind, fractured and soaked through, playing tricks on you. But then you saw him—hand on the steering wheel, brow furrowed in stunned alarm, hair damp at the edges like he’d just come from work. His tie was loosened, the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

He looked… shaken. But not as much as you.

You said nothing. You just stared. And he had none of it.

“Get in the car,” he said—low, urgent, seeing straight through your silence, your soaking sleeves, your cracking expression.

Still, you didn’t move. His eyes narrowed, voice dipping softer. “You’re freezing.”

That did it. You swallowed hard against everything rising up in your throat and opened the door, sliding into the passenger seat without a word, dripping rain onto his pristine upholstery. You stared ahead. He didn’t comment. Didn’t even flinch. He just started driving. But the silence was suffocating.

Your breath caught in your chest, your fingers curled around the damp hem of your coat. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye—the way he gripped the wheel a little too tightly, the way his eyes refused to meet yours for more than a flicker. He looked calm. Composed. Like this wasn’t the first time in two months you’d seen each other. Like he hadn’t disappeared. Like he hadn’t left you wondering what you’d done wrong.

You hated how casual his voice sounded when he finally broke the silence. “I didn’t expect to see you out here. This late, and in the pouring rain, no less.”

You turned your head slowly, disbelief etched across your face. “That’s what you’re opening with?”

He glanced at you, brief, unreadable. “You’re wet and shaking. What would you prefer?”

You laughed. Sharp. Bitter. Loud enough to make him blink. “You’re unbelievable.”

He didn’t reply.

The tension wound tighter. You could see his jaw clench, the flicker of something behind his eyes that he didn’t want you to see. He kept driving, like it was just another day. Just another shift. Just another one of your normal, quiet encounters—like he hadn’t been ghosting you for weeks. Like he didn’t get to act like nothing happened.

When he pulled up outside your apartment, you unbuckled your seatbelt with trembling fingers.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said flatly. Then you got out and slammed the car door so hard the whole vehicle shook.

You didn’t even feel satisfied doing it. You just had to do something—anything—to keep the tears from breaking loose in front of him. You were halfway up the building steps, feet squelching with every step, when you heard the car door open again. Then slam shut.

“Wait.”

You didn’t stop. You didn’t want to see him being composed again, not when your chest was tight and your teeth were clenched and everything inside you was fucking unraveling.

But he didn’t listen. Zayne sprinted after you—into the pouring rain, shoes slapping the pavement, soaking within seconds—and you heard his footsteps echo behind you before he caught up.

“Wait—damn it—just wait!”

You turned around, rain cascading over your face, heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst right through your ribs.

He stood a few feet away. Dripping. Soaked. Chest heaving slightly from the run. His hair was plastered to his forehead, eyes wild and hurting. And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t look composed at all.

You turned on him. Not loud. Not theatrical. You didn’t scream or shove at his chest, though your body burned with the want of it. The rain poured down harder now, so cold it felt like punishment. The streets were slick with silver, your hair clinging to your cheeks, your fingertips numb. And still, you didn’t yell.

You seethed.

“Two months, Zayne.” your voice shook with fury you could barely hold in. “Two months of silence. Of short replies and canceled calls and empty space where you used to be.”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. You didn’t let him interrupt. You couldn’t. Because if you stopped now, your voice would crack—and you refused to give him that.

“I was going through hell,” you continued, quieter this time, but no less sharp. “Uni is a nightmare. Work’s draining the life out of me. I’m barely surviving most days. And do you know what the one constant in my life used to be? You.”

His expression changed then, just slightly. Like something inside him finally registered the depth of it. The weight of what he’d done—or hadn’t done.

“And then you just…” you laughed again, bitter and breathless. “You just disappeared. Like I didn’t matter. Like I wasn’t supposed to notice.”

Rain dripped off your jaw. Your coat hung heavy on your shoulders, soaked through to the skin, but you didn’t move.

“I texted. I called. I made excuses for you. Told myself you were busy. That you were tired. That maybe I’d done something wrong. Do you know what it feels like to doubt yourself every fucking day because someone you trusted suddenly decided to vanish without explanation?”

Zayne’s jaw tightened, his glasses streaked with water, his suit soaked beyond saving — and still he didn’t speak. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t offer a single fucking word. And it made something inside you snap.

“Say something,” you whispered, furious. “Anything, Zayne.”

He looked at you—eyes full of guilt and something deeper, something cracked wide open—but still, nothing came.

That silence? It undid you, made you so angry. You turned away, your throat burning. “Fuck this.”

You made for the apartment entrance with shaking legs, your boots squeaking against the wet tile as you yanked open the building door. The instinct was to slam it. To shut it in his face, in his silence, in his guilt. But you didn’t. You left it open.

Because despite everything, he was soaked through. Because you still cared. Because some pathetic, stubborn part of you still held out a hand toward the connection you’d once shared—the one he seemed determined to ruin.

You walked up the stairs without turning around. But you heard his footsteps. Wet and soft behind you. And when you unlocked your apartment and stepped inside, trembling and breathless, you couldn’t stop yourself from spinning on your heel—eyes red with unshed rage.

"You could’ve told me. Anything. Anything, Zayne. You could’ve said you were overwhelmed. Or that you didn’t want to talk. Or that I annoyed you. But no. You said nothing. You just vanished. Like a fucking coward.”

That one cut deeper than you meant. You saw it in the flicker of pain that crossed his face. But you didn’t take it back. Couldn’t. You huffed sharply, tossing your keys onto the table with a loud clatter, too hard, too much, and kicked your wet shoes off like they were enemies.

“Get in or go,” you muttered, voice hoarse. “But close the door either way.”

You turned from him again, hands trembling, heart racing, and this time you didn’t look back. You couldn’t. Because if you did, you’d break. And right now, you were holding the last of yourself together with fraying thread and spite alone.

The door clicked shut behind him. You didn’t turn around, but you heard it—that small, weighted sound. A huff escaped your chest before you could stop it, a mix between disbelief and bitter relief. He stayed. Of course he did. Despite everything, despite the silence and the distance and the way he’d hurt you—some small, aching thread of hope still clung to your ribs, whispering that maybe he wouldn’t walk away this time.

You hated that hope.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath as you strode into your room, shoulders squared in frustration, limbs stiff from cold and fury. “Absolutely fucking unbelievable.”

The anger gave you something to do. Something to cling to. Your hands moved on instinct, yanking open drawers with too much force, shoving aside old clothes, socks, forgotten sweaters. You found a pair of sweatpants—soft cotton, probably from your uncle’s old stash—and an oversized t-shirt that might've once been your ex’s but had long since lost meaning. They were clean. Dry. Comfortable.

Not nearly enough to fit Zayne’s tall, broad frame properly. Good. Let it be uncomfortable. Let him drown in it.

And still… you dug out a towel. Because you knew him. You knew how he got when he was sick—quiet, fussy, prone to pretending he was fine while sniffling into his sleeve and stubbornly refusing to take anything stronger than lukewarm tea. You hated how that memory softened something in your chest even now.

You marched back into the hallway and tossed the bundle of clothes and towel at him—not hard, but not gently either. You didn’t say a word. Just turned and stomped toward the bathroom, your own change of clothes clutched to your chest.

Zayne caught the clothes with a grunt, silent, soaked and still at the threshold like he wasn’t sure he deserved to go any further.

And then you shut the door. The shower came on in a sharp hiss of water, and you stood under it without even checking the temperature, letting it scald your skin, hoping the burn would melt something—the knot in your throat, the tremble in your hands, the goddamn ache in your chest that still wanted to reach for him despite everything.

You didn’t cry. But your jaw ached from how tightly you clenched it, your nails biting into your palms as the steam curled around you. Because if you didn’t get control of yourself now, you’d explode. And you didn’t want to say the things you were thinking.

Didn’t want to scream about how dare he come back acting like nothing happened. About how sick it made you to still care, to still think about whether he’d be warm enough, dry enough, comfortable enough—when he’d left you alone with silence and doubt and confusion for two goddamn months.

Meanwhile, outside the bathroom door, Zayne stood in the quiet, the clothes limp in his hands, his own wet frame slowly steaming in the warmer air of your apartment. He didn’t move right away because he couldn’t. Your voice still rang in his ears—low, trembling, furious. Not just angry. Wounded. Like he’d taken something sacred and shattered it with his silence.

He hadn’t known. Not truly. Not until tonight. He thought he’d pulled away cleanly. Quietly. That maybe you would notice but wouldn’t feel it like this. He had told himself he was protecting something. Sparing you from the mess of his own failure. That it was better this way, to leave without saying too much, before whatever quiet affection lingered between you could twist into something irreversible.

But he’d been wrong. So deeply, undeniably wrong. And now the proof of it clung to your skin, raw in your voice, etched into the way you threw clothes at him like they were both a comfort and a punishment. He didn’t blame you. Not for a single second. Because this was his fault. All of it.

And the worst part? He still didn’t know how to fix it.

He changed into the clothes—awkward, uncomfortable, the fabric tight across his chest and barely reaching past his wrists. He ran the towel through his hair in silence, chest aching with every minute that passed, replaying your words over and over until they carved themselves into him like a wound. Because he couldn’t shake the image of your face in the rain.

He had done that. And nothing—no silence, no apology, no excuse—would make it disappear.

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