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riewritten · 24 days ago

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「 MERE DROPLETS CAN STILL MAKE A GLASS FULL 」 • AO3

ERWIN X FEM!READER, ERWIN X YOU, NO Y/N

˚ · .─ SYNOPSIS: Despite blatant awareness of how much you hold him with affection, he will rely entirely on subtleties because he believes it's the farthest he must go. He'll keep doing just that until it piles up, up and up and up, until it brings Erwin on the verge of exploding. After all, mere droplets of water can still make a glass full.

˚ · .─ WORDS: 5.2k

˚ · . ─ TAGS: age gap, angst, erwin is a professor/researcher while reader is his research assistant, touch-starved idiots, EVENTUAL SMUT (proceed with caution!), CREAMPIE, MULTIPLE POSITIONS & ORGASMS, OVERSTIMULATION

CHAPTER 1 | CHAPTER 2 | CHAPTER 3 [YOU ARE NOW HERE]

You’re not quite sure when it started—that gradual emptying of the glass.

It’s not abrupt. Nothing ever is with Erwin. He doesn’t shatter. He leaks. Carefully, dutifully, like a man patching himself mid-break without ever admitting it. You’ve long since grown attuned to the subtle cracks, but lately, you’ve been too caught up with your own, with getting accustomed to the new country, with having Erwin as an actual friend because that is in accordance with his wish, with not asking for things he can’t give, and with shining best on your own instead. Because while Erwin is the man you once begged to stay—the one you followed across the sea to remain close to—he’s also the man you taught yourself to love from a distance.

So you did. And slowly, steadily, you learned to do something else too: you stopped asking what if.

It bore fruit eventually. You managed to adjust until you gained your own office desk and students and research assistants to handle by yourself, until you had Erwin not as your research head but as an actual colleague—one you stood equal to. Back then, you wished to reach this far so you could love Erwin with no restraints. Now, you achieved it for yourself instead. You soared high enough you could ask him out to dinner after work every single day, but platonically. This is all you could’ve wished for and more.

You just know that Erwin couldn’t be prouder.

And one day, during your routine weekend dinners with him, you drop a revelation.

“There’s someone I like.”

He merely blinks once, as though he hasn’t braced for it, and yet it turns out he memorized the script. “Huh, must be an interesting guy.” Perhaps quipping that you must indeed be drawn only to interesting people because you used to be so drawn to him. “Is he someone I know?”

You smile, “It’s actually Moblit.”

He hums in reply. Then chuckles. Then he shakes his head with a smile, “That’s something I envisioned long ago. You two are very compatible.”

That’s the end of it. But then again, with Erwin, endings are never the end.

Since then, you begin seeing each other less, at first in ways you chalk up to circumstance: a missed coffee run, a quiet cancellation, meetings attended separately. Until you realize it has been nearly three weeks since you last saw him outside professional obligations, all because he keeps on turning down your offers to hang out together.

Time came when you stopped asking him altogether.

Maybe Erwin needed space. This is such a busy period, after all. Or maybe it was you. Maybe he’s letting you go on with exploring your life with a new guy—like he always does, like he always thinks is best.

It’ll be funny if it’s the latter, how even now he still believes in the illusion that you can ever be somewhere he’s not involved. As if you haven’t always traced your decisions back to him. As if the only reason you even know how to like someone else is because Erwin once taught you to love without expecting anything in return.

Months later, you manage to sit across from him again—coincidentally at first but finally, at last—and there’s a strange calm over you both. You’ve returned to a fragile sort of balance thereafter: dinner, drinks, casual talk over academic updates. Almost like before.

Almost.

You swirl your glass halfway through the meal, “He still hasn’t said anything concrete.”

Erwin looks up. You don’t say a name. You don’t need to.

He waits. You sigh.

“I don’t know, I think he’s still hung up on someone. I mean… not intentionally. But it lingers in the way he hesitates. And in the way he talks about moving on like it’s a chore rather than a choice,” you laugh bitterly. “He tells me he enjoys talking to me, though. That I make things lighter.”

You don’t notice Erwin’s eyebrows furrow slightly.

“Do you believe him?”

“I want to.”

“And even if it’s true, would you be willing to take that?”

You hum, “I��ve been through worse.”

His gaze lowers back to his plate. Well, it was indeed worse for you back then—back when you were still chasing Erwin.

“You deserve something steady,” he says, then corrects himself, “someone steady.”

“Well… I want that, too, but I suppose it’s not that simple.”

“It should be.”

He meets your eyes briefly. You clear your throat and change the topic.

Since then, he hasn’t pulled away anymore. He makes dinners more frequent with you. The coffee runs become an everyday routine. The way he passes your desk with quiet questions, the way he always stares a second longer than necessary when you smile back—all of it.

And oh, dear.

Something is different. It’s the way he looks at you now, like someone trying to memorize the lines of a painting he was never allowed to touch. Like someone who once let go of something beautiful, now realizing too late that he never truly did.

What is happening? You ask yourself but realize eventually that you’re too scared to go down that hill again.

You mention Moblit again one evening as the two of you wait for the kettle to boil in the shared office kitchen. You seek Erwin’s advice not because you want to but because you need to hear what he objectively thinks as someone who has been with Moblit for longer than you did.

“I’m still trying,” you murmur. “I know it’s foolish. But I thought that maybe… if I matched his pace somehow, he’d meet me halfway.”

Erwin doesn’t respond.

You continue, “Maybe I’m just scared of starting over.”

His hands are steady as he pours your drink. “Or maybe,” then he places the mug in front of you, “you’ve gotten used to waiting for people who don’t choose you.”

Okay, that one hurt.

“Is that what you think I do?”

He doesn’t flinch. “I think you don’t know how much you’re worth.”

There’s silence. The kettle clicks off.

You don’t speak for days. You feel a bit petty for holding a grudge. Why, when Erwin didn’t say those words that day to ridicule you? He has always been careful with his articulation; it has always been in good faith. It appears you’re the only one disgruntled about it, though, because as if nothing happened, he knocks on your office door the following week.

“You’re free tonight, right?”

You raise an eyebrow. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether I’m being invited out of obligation or preference.”

He doesn’t answer. He just tilts his head in a way that says, “You already know.”

“Say you’re sorry, then.”

He smirks faintly.

“I can’t. As much as I know it upsets you, I stand by my word.”

You huff. That was enough of an answer. You pack your stuff and walk towards him defeatedly. When he chuckles, you can only roll your eyes.

The restaurant is quiet, the kind of place people go when they don’t want to be found. You order simple food and share a bottle of wine. You talk about conferences, research deadlines, and Mr. Pixis’ latest disaster of a presentation because he came to present his research after whiskey.

And for a while, it’s easy. It is until you break the lull with a soft, unsure voice.

“What if he never lets her go?” You don’t say who. It doesn’t matter.

Erwin breathes slowly, measured. “Then you’ll spend years convincing yourself that fragments are enough,” he pauses. “Until they’re not.”

You bite your lip, “I don’t want to start over.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then, carefully, “You don’t have to start over. Just don’t stop for someone who isn’t willing to walk with you.”

“He’s a good man.”

“I never said he isn’t.”

It’s nearing midnight when you both leave the restaurant.

The street is dim; streetlamps dampen your mood further. It’s good that you and Erwin walk closely, your coat brushing his, and somehow, it feels as though Erwin’s warmth is the needed solace amid your cold yearning.

Your voice is small. “He’s a good guy—Moblit—he’s just...” you sigh. “I don’t know.”

“Again, I never said he’s not.”

“You see, whenever I talk to you about him, I can see the flinch and disappointment in your face.”

“Why not, when he’s a grown man who seems to not have developed enough maturity to be decisive?” Erwin chuckles. “Had I been Hange, it would be an over-the-top ‘you-either-let-that-man-go-or-I’ll-crush-him-to-pieces’ kind of talk.”

You sigh, tired. That much you know.

“I wonder if I’m only trying so hard because I don’t want to admit I haven’t moved on.”

He stops walking.

You halt too. His face is unreadable.

“Moved on from what?”

You swallow, suddenly doubting if this is the right time to say it. But then, maybe it is.

Erwin clearly moved on from you, after all—he’s able to establish that much. He has put his romantic love someplace safe and instead chose to love you in a manner that’s comfortable, fit, and professional this time around. And if he wants to be some sort of a guardian, then you can only hope he’s here to help you now.

“I may be trying so hard because I don’t want to admit that I hadn’t moved on from you.”

There it is. Soft and honest, thinking you’re safe to say that out loud.

However, the silence starts stretching. When Erwin steps closer—just enough that you can see the exhaustion in his eyes—that’s when you realize you’re utterly wrong in that regard.

“Then don’t,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

Oh,

Oh god.

“What?”

There, in those very eyes, you realize that putting the love someplace safe is nothing but a metaphor at the end of the day. Holding. Grasping. Squeezing your feelings tight in a jar so they wouldn’t slip is impossible. It might indeed be captivating to put it that way, but love and sadness aren't things you can compartmentalize just easily; they're feelings. Feelings are supposed to be felt, to be expressed, and to be given in all their forms. If you confine them in any place or in any way, you will have problems.

Erwin is doing exactly that. How foolish of you to only realize it now.

“If you’re going to love someone who’s unsure…” he murmurs, gaze not wavering. “Then you might as well keep loving the one who never stopped.”

You stand there stunned.

“Oh please, don’t do this to me…” You shake your head in both appallment and disappointment. “That’s not fair. You’re not allowed to say things like that now. Not after everything.”

“I know,” Erwin looks away. “I know I don’t have the right.”

But, you see, regardless of how perfect Erwin can pose himself, he is, after all, a mere human. One who got riddled with guilt back then for wanting to have you in a time where you can shine best if left alone, and one who now couldn’t accept the fact that he was able to let you go, only to see you going for someone who couldn’t even bother to keep up with the standards of how Erwin Smith’s dearest girl should be loved. How dare Moblit not give you what you rightfully deserve?

“No, you don’t understand,” you glower. Tears start to build up in your eyes. “You let me go. You made that choice.”

“I did,” he says. “Because I thought that meant you could be happy.”

“Well? As if I hadn’t registered enough back then that I would be the happiest if you just didn’t hold yourself back and gave all the love you think I deserve instead!”

Erwin falls silent in quite a surprise, drenched in cold water that he has indeed been making excuses. Is he getting so old that he has forgotten how much he had hurt you with his words, with his rejection? Can’t he remember that years ago, he told you he’d rather die than act upon your feelings?

Your statement catches you off guard, too. What does that even mean? You didn’t expect yourself to still hold a grudge on that.

And when he steps nearer, that’s when you realize that you should’ve kept that to yourself.

“Indeed, you know what kind of love you deserve to have. You’re bright like that,” he clarifies. “And yet you’re pouring yourself into someone who can’t even return half of what you give.”

“You have no right to tell me that.”

“Yes, because I did the same back then…”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“…and I realized that it’s not worth letting you go and holding myself back if you’re just going to end up with him.”

“This is not what it is!”

“Then what is it?”

You don’t answer.

The wind passes between you. The night is too quiet. You swear that it could choke you to death—it would. Hell, it would.

“You know where I’m going, don’t you?”

You don’t answer.

Erwin breathes, “Tell me you don’t want me to say it.”

“What?”

“Tell me I shouldn’t. And I’ll keep pretending I never felt a thing.”

What a selfish, bastard of a man, making you decide every time this happens.

“Erwin—” you let out an exasperated sigh. “I won’t do that.”

You look at him—at his eyes, more vulnerable now than you’ve ever seen. But then again, regardless of the situation, he'd lose his head just with a push of your fingers. What a poor man he is, to work so hard all his life and reach where he is now, and yet be so fragile under your lovely hold.

You then see his bright blue eyes seeking affirmations he apparently needs now more than ever, “Make me say it, then.”

It seems like his vulnerability is transcending through his voice now. One more push from you and he'd lose himself.

“Say you want to hear it. Say you need to. Or tell me to walk away again, and I will.”

You falter. Your lips part, but no sound comes. You didn’t say the needed affirmation, but you hesitated.

And your hesitation, it seems, is all he needs.

His voice is not loud when it comes. Not unsteady. But it is raw—raw in a way Erwin Smith rarely allows himself to be. “I have loved you from the moment I realized you could undo me. Not with charm, not with defiance, but with the way you stayed. The way you worked beside me. The way you kept choosing to understand, even when I gave you nothing to work with.”

“Erwin—”

He catches his breath, carefully, as though every word costs him.

“I let you go thinking I was preserving something. But all I did was delay the inevitable. I watched you try to heal with someone who was only ever halfway present, while I remained a coward dressed in principle.”

He finally reaches for you, hand brushing your cheek, trembling now, openly. Never in your life had you imagined Erwin Smith becoming this fragile while holding you. Like you’re a brittle glass that’d break once he fills you up with all his love.

“Erwin, please—”

“If this is where it ends—if this is the version of you I must lose to someone else—then let it not be said I remained silent.”

He leans closer, his head nearly touching yours. He looks straight into your eyes. So bright, so blue that you can almost see yourself reflected on it.

“I have loved you in silence, in absence, in fear. If this is no longer the time for silence, then hear me now…” His hands tighten around your cheeks, voice low and final. “If I let you go again, it will not be with dignity. It will be with ruin. So please, for both our sakes… let me make up for it.”

Would you not let him, though? Are you capable of doing exactly that?

Your chest aches. Your eyes burn, not from rejection, but from the clarity of something you’ve spent years trying to bury. The poor man is already breaking, and yet he’s looking at you like you are salvation.

And you? Turns out you’re still the same girl who once begged him to stay. Still the same woman who followed him halfway across the world just to be desks away. Still the same heart that decided, despite the reason, to keep loving him even when he refused to be loved.

So no, you won’t ask him to let you go. Not now. Not ever again.

Your voice is faint when it finally breaks through the air. “Then don’t. Make up for it and don’t let me go.”

Your affirmation stuns him—you see that much in the slight widening of his eyes, in the sudden tension in his jaw, as though he never dared to hope you’d answer that way.

But you take it further.

“That’s who you are to me, apparently. Just a snap of your fingers and I’ll come back,” you whisper. “Even if I try to move on—even if I think I can outgrow this—no one else ever stood a chance.”

Erwin exhales—a sound you’ve never heard from him before. Like something inside him finally loosened.

“Oh, dear.” His arms hopelessly wrap around you with remorse and reverence, as if he still can’t believe you’re real, and he had hurt you way more than he inteded. But you are, and he did. Years of silence found their voice and dissolved in the warmth of your closeness. And now, finally, he lets himself hold you like he means it. “Please forgive me for doing you like this.”

“I won’t for—” You hold your tears back, eyes adamant and reprimanding. “I won’t forgive you.”

“Then let me make up for it,” he repeats, then reaches for your hand and brings it to his lips, “for the rest of my life…” The way he looks at you—so ardently in love—is enough of a reply to your unforgiving eyes. It is with a plea that you grant a man like him the chance he never deserves but nonetheless desires. “Let me make up for it and give you the love I know you deserve.”

No half-measures. No unspoken boundaries. No lingering goodbyes in the margins.

Just this. Just him. Just you.

The glass didn’t break. It overflowed.

And in that flood, both of you finally learn how to drown in one another.

When his mouth finds yours, it isn’t hesitant.

It’s hungry. Unforgiving. Years’ worth of restraint poured into a kiss that tasted like every word he never said, every touch he never let himself give. It burns against your lips, against your teeth, against the whimper that escapes you when his fingers slide along the curve of your jaw as though he’s trying to memorize it. You gasp into him, but he doesn’t stop; instead, he lets his tongue in. He presses you closer—body to body, chest to chest—as though even skin isn’t close enough. As though the space between molecules is something he needs to erase.

Erwin kisses you like he is trying to undo time itself.

And you feel yourself drowning in him: his warmth, his breath, his grip on your waist tightening like you’ll vanish if he dares let go. This is no longer the man who held back for your sake. This is a man who has snapped, who wants nothing between you and him—not years, not words, not fear.

And you let him—helplessly so—as you’d always do.

Because you will always be the only glass he will pour all his love into.

You are breathless when he finally breaks the kiss, but he doesn’t pull away. His forehead rests against yours, and for a moment he says nothing—just exhales again and again as though it pains him to come back to reality.

“I’m tired.” His voice is quiet, almost reverent. “If selfishness means having you like this, then let me be ruined by it. I’ll bear that sin gladly.”

You smile, “I’d kill anyone who dares tell you loving me is a sin.”

⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄,

You don’t ask where he’s taking you. You already know. When the cab stops, it’s in front of his apartment complex you used to pass by on slow walks home together. Sometimes you argue whenever you try to drop him off, but he’d adamantly digress and demand that he walk you to your abode because he needs more air.

In the elevator, he doesn’t kiss you. He just looks at you—like he needs to memorize you before he does something unforgivable.

He holds the door to his unit open like a habit, but the way his fingers graze the small of your back when you step past him makes you realize that his touch isn’t polite tonight. It isn’t professional. It’s possessive—trembling with restraint undone.

The door barely clicks shut before your back hits it with a soft thud, and he’s on you.

His forehead rests against yours, breath tangled in the small space between, and you can feel it—the breaking. The surrender. He had held back for so long that now, there’s no containing it. When his mouth finds yours again, it’s not soft. Not careful. It’s consuming. It’s hungry. It’s him, finally unbound.

You gasp into him, and he doesn’t pause. He groans, deep and guttural, like your voice is something he’s chased through dreams and is only now allowed to touch. One hand cradles the back of your neck; the other grips your waist, guiding you clumsily to his bedroom.

He kisses you like a man who’s starved. And you kiss back like you’re the feast, albeit it's not just hunger. It's grief. Years of quiet heartbreak, of choices made in the name of dignity and distance and denial. And now, it's spilling out of him like he can’t stop the flood.

Your coat slips from your shoulders, followed by your scarf, and his hands are already beneath your blouse—rough from restraint, reverent from longing.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasps again, voice breaking against the hollow of your throat.

You harshly break the buttons of his polo to let him bare before you, lack of patience evident when you glare, “Don’t you dare stop, Erwin."

You’ve spent too long pretending you could live without this.

And now, it’s here. And it’s him.

As if that was the needed confirmation, Erwin lifts you without ceremony as soon as you enter his bedroom. You wrap your legs around his hips and then he lays you down gently on his bed. The look in his eyes, however, is anything but gentle. There’s agony there. Relief. Worship. Overwhelming adoration.

“Years,” he says, hovering above you. “I denied myself years of this. Of you.”

You reach up, brush his cheek with your fingers, and say, "Something you brought upon yourself."

Erwin chuckles and kisses your forehead in apology, “Something I will pay for the rest of my life.” Your clothes fall away under his hands, your body barely covered by your undergarments blooms open beneath his touch.

You moan when his lips reach your throat. As he showers your neck with wet kisses, he unclasps your bra—not delicate but thorough—as if he’s a man determined to learn everything he was once forbidden to know.

When his mouth is done leaving trails of heat down your neck, he showers your breast with ardent adoration next. He starts pleasuring the softest, most vulnerable places of your chest, all with your eyes closed. You feel him smile when you grip his hair with a moan.

“Erwin…”

He pauses, eyes suddenly attentive. “Yes, my love?”

You glide your fingers to the corner of his lips, shiny and wet from relishing your mound. “We have no time left.”

“What do you mean by tha—oh!”

You start grinding your hips against his thigh as he can barely restrain himself.

“I won’t be able to forgive you like this, you know?” You stutter, face all flushed, eyes lidded. “Y-you said, you’re gonna—hah—you said you’re—”

“But dear,” Erwin calmly hums, or so he tries, because he also starts grinding his hips back, “I need to prepare you—”

“Fuck that. I’ve been—” You were cut off when Erwin discarded the rest of your undergarments. “You should’ve done this long ago, and yet—hah—” You let out another moan when you feel his shaft between your legs, only realizing then the reason why he wants to prepare you. Nonetheless, you plead, “I’ve been waiting for you for so, so long. Don’t deprive me anymore, please.”

You see in his eyes then that any semblance of restraint has left him for good. When he finally thrusts into you, it’s with a gasp—yours and his—in perfect, fractured harmony. There is no pause, no moment of stillness to adjust. Because this is what you’ve always wanted. This is what you always knew existed beneath his restraint. You welcome it—the way he loses himself and tries to hide it by burying his face in your neck and biting back curses. The way he thrusts harder when you moan his name as if the sound of it fuels him.

He presses forward like a man breaking open, hips snapping into you with a hunger that feels centuries old.

Your back arches, legs locking around his waist as you feel the high about to come.

His rhythm is desperate, relentless as if he’s indeed trying to make up for every lost moment, every missed chance, every lie he’s told himself and making you suffer along the way.

You whimper beneath him, overwhelmed, and he groans when he feels you clench on him. “I—hah—Erwin… I’m… hah… don’t stop–”

“I know, I know,” he pants, clearly overwhelmed as well, and yet he still brings it in himself to comfort you. “Come on, my love. I won’t stop until you say so.” He shut his eyes when the clenching got harder. “T-that’s what you want, right? And I’ll give—hmm yes—I’ll give it to you. Gonna give my girl all that she wants.”

Your breath hitches, then spills out in a cry as everything inside you is released under his lovely touch, his sweet nothings, and more.

It takes all his willpower to pause after you come. He cups your cheeks and asks if you’re okay.

How surprised he is when you beg him to do it again. “Too much. It’s too much. But I can’t stop.” Amidst the stimulation. Amidst the overflowing sensations.

Time starts splintering. Thought has blurred. All you know is the sound of your name on his lips when he pushes your hips and slides himself in again. Even when it starts overwhelming you, you meet him thrust for thrust, nails dragging down his back, eyes wide with devotion. You cry out again, and again, and he’s there for each one. You let him see what he does to you. You let him have it.

He deserves this as much as you do.

He kisses you between gasps—on your lips, your throat, your temple. “I love you,” he whispers, about to come. “God, I love you.”

And you sob his name when you feel him unraveling, pouring out his love inside you with a guttural moan, holding you so ardently as if very careful of not breaking you apart as he floods you with all that he had held back.

Feeling him spill inside is more than enough to coil the pleasure in your body. It crashes like a wave for the second time around. He feels you tighten yet again and groans, deep and broken before his thrusts slow down. Little by little, and then he stops. He collapses on top; you catch him in shaking arms.

Breathless.

Almost shattered.

Home.

But even then, he couldn’t bring it in himself to let go and clean you up. His body craves it—with the force of having finally allowed himself to want. And take. And keep. So he stays inside you, even as he softens. His hand cups your cheek, and you lean into it.

He presses his forehead to yours and whispers, as though it needs no ceremony, “Can we have another one?”

You laugh loudly; he smiles a bit, not embarrassed at all. In fact, he wants to laugh with you only if he’s not so serious about it.

When your laughter dies down, you figure there is no need to speak. You kiss him then, softer this time around, as a confirmation. It is no less desperate, though, that much you realize when his hand slides down to the curve of your hip, then lower still, enough to establish that even after everything, he won’t be done giving you all of him anytime soon. You part your lips against his and sigh into his mouth when he rocks into you again.

It’s slow this time, almost reverent. You hold onto him as he moves, and this time, every kiss is a promise. Every thrust is an apology. Every breath is a vow.

He says your name again and again, as if afraid to forget it.

And when you reach your peak yet again—with his mouth at your throat, his hand twined with yours, his body trembling above you—you feel yourself come apart harder than you’ve ever known, as if you’re breaking open for the first time.

Erwin ends by spilling his love inside yet again. You don’t move; not that you need to.

Then he lies down to your side, his hand rests on your stomach, and when he feels your abdomen so full of him—his love—he lets out a smile.

What a sneaky bastard, all-knowing of the consequences of this—yet you’re as elated as he is. You can’t wait to see the future unfold yourself.

Much to your surprise, after a nap, you wake up seeing him atop you again, a silent indicator that it’s not the end. Not for him. not for you, because something in him has broken open—something wild and long-caged—and now that he has tasted you, has you all for himself, he cannot stop.

He takes you again. And again. And again.

On his back, with your body rising over him like a vision he never deserved. On your knees, as he worships you from behind, breathless with praises and words like mine, and finally, and take everything I have. Then again, he’s on top, thrusting, groaning your name like a poor man. His hands grip your cheeks firmly, like you’re all he ever needed to hold onto.

Each time is different. Each time is more. And you let him. You let him lose himself. You let him fill every silence you once ached through. You let him take and take and take—because you’d waited years to give him this. He doesn’t stop until you both cannot anymore, trembling and drenched in sweat, too exhausted to move, too full of each other to stay awake. Until his voice was hoarse and your body ached, and even then, he stayed inside you, like he couldn’t bear to be apart by even a breath.

Because in the end, he became selfish instead. For once in his life, he is, for you.

Indeed, mere droplets of water can still make a glass full.

<<< PREV CHAPTER

i made this fic back in 2023 because of a crush i've had on my professor, and i only managed to finish this when i felt another gut-wrenching crush on someone who seems to have not fully gotten over their previous situationship. lollllllll

thanks for reaching this far. love u.

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