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pedroshoneybear · 14 hours ago

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PEDRO PASCAL ‘The Fantastic Four: First Steps’ World Premiere, Los Angeles July 21, 2025

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pedroshoneybear · 18 hours ago

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stay ── .✦

requested! thank you. ♡ content: breakup aftermath, regret and guilt, angst with romantic resolution

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You’d always known Pedro was a people person.

He was warmth in human form. He touched when he talked, he laughed with his whole chest, and he had this way of making everyone feel like the only person in the room. You fell for it. And then, over time… you fell apart because of it.

What once felt like charm eventually chipped away at your sanity. The way he’d wrap his arm around a coworker’s waist, linger in someone else’s ear when you were right there. You’d told him, once, twice, three times — “I know you don’t mean anything by it, but it hurts me.”

And still, nothing changed. Or if it did, it didn’t last.

So you did what you never thought you’d have to: you walked away.

And it broke your heart.

It’s been three weeks. Three weeks of silence and aching and trying to convince yourself that you did the right thing. Three weeks of fighting the urge to call him. Three weeks of imagining this exact moment — him at your door.

You never expected it would actually happen.

But now it has.

There he is. Pedro. On your porch. Drenched in rain like a scene out of some old romantic film, holding a crushed bouquet in one hand, a paper bag in the other, and your favorite candy peeking out from his coat pocket. His hair’s wet. His glasses foggy. And his eyes?

His eyes are wrecked.

You just stare. Frozen in the doorway. Wearing a hoodie that doesn’t belong to him. Not speaking.

“Hi,” he says, voice soft and shaking. “I… I didn’t know where else to go.”

You exhale through your nose. “It’s late.”

“I know. I just—I’ve been walking around the block for like an hour trying to work up the nerve to knock.”

“You look like shit.”

He laughs. One miserable, breathless sound. “Yeah. I feel worse.”

You step aside without a word. He doesn’t ask questions, just walks in like muscle memory, like his body remembers this space even if his heart’s not allowed to anymore.

He sets the flowers on the kitchen counter. They’re a little wilted. You hate how much you still love them.

“I brought the things you like,” he says, holding up the paper bag. “The little peach tea bottles you always hoard, the lip balm you can never find, the sour candy you pretend to hate—”

“Pedro,” you cut in gently.

He looks at you. Really looks. Like a man who hasn’t seen sunlight in days.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice cracking. “I should’ve listened. I should’ve changed. And I didn’t. Not because I didn’t care — but because I was stupid. And cocky. And I thought… she knows I love her, so it’s fine.”

You stay quiet.

He keeps going. “But it wasn’t fine. You told me you were hurting and I ignored it. I thought I was being harmless, that it was just my personality, but you needed me to see you. And I didn’t.”

Your lip trembles. You hate that he’s right. You hate that he finally gets it now that everything’s broken.

Pedro steps closer.

“I miss you. Every day. Every night. Every version of you — angry, soft, sleepy, wild. I miss your little notes on the fridge and the way you whisper ‘come here’ when you want me close. I miss you stealing my socks. I miss your skin.”

You inhale sharply.

“I fucked up. And I don’t deserve another chance. But I’m here begging for one anyway.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out something small — it’s that dumb little pressed flower you two found on a hike months ago. The one you kept between pages in your book. He laminated it.

“I want to be better for you,” he says, eyes shining. “And I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll show up every day if I have to. I’ll re-learn how to love you in the language you need.”

Your walls begin to crumble.

And he sees it. God, he sees it — the tremor in your chin, the shimmer in your lashes. One tear escapes. He takes a shaky breath.

“I didn’t just lose my girlfriend,” he says softly. “I lost my best friend.”

You walk toward him slowly.

He doesn’t move, just lets you close the gap, lets you look up at him with the saddest smile. And when your fingers reach out to touch his cheek, he leans into it like he’s starving.

“I needed to hear this,” you whisper. “Weeks ago.”

“I know,” he breathes. “I know, baby. And I’m sorry.”

You press your forehead to his. Both of you silent, suspended in this strange moment between past and possibility.

He closes his eyes.

“Can I stay?” he asks, voice barely a whisper.

You nod. “Just for tonight.”

He exhales, shaking. A single tear falls down his cheek. Your thumb catches it.

“I’ll earn tomorrow,” he says. “And every one after.”

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

#fic rec: Pedro

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pedroshoneybear · 19 hours ago