yamazki

[yamazki]

SOFTLY — chris sturniolo

★ warnings: angst, cheating, making loveeee;) (nothing super explicit tho, sorry! first smut i'm working on it:)), lowk toxic!chris, reader needs to STAND UP, swearing... i think..., idk anymore!

a/n; srry . i'm in the masochist club unfortunately

You knew it should bother you. That it should tear you up inside, knowing he always went back to her. But it didn’t. Somehow, deep down, you knew—he couldn’t get enough of you. He always came running back, desperate, restless, needing your touch like it was the only thing keeping him sane. And somehow, that was enough.

It was always past midnight when he showed up, when she was fast asleep in their bed. You wondered what it was like to be her. If she ever kissed him goodnight. If she ever woke up in the middle of the night and noticed the empty space beside her. If she ever suspected—if she knew, deep down, the way you did, that she wasn’t enough.

You hated thinking about her. About her perfect face, perfect laugh, perfect life. You saw every girl you’d ever envied in her. And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel sorry for her. Not when Chris was everything. Every guy you’d ever been with was nothing compared to him. Not because he was someone else’s, but because he was him.

One look at him, and the world made sense.

One look, and anything felt possible.

A soft knock on the door. The sound was barely audible over the rain, but you heard it like a gunshot. Your heart dropped. It always did.

Did hers?

Did she feel the same jolt in her chest when he walked into a room? Did she ever wake up breathless, reaching for him, only to find him already gone?

You took a slow breath, smoothing your hands over your slip before crossing the room. Your fingers curled around the handle, hesitating for just a second. Then, you opened the door.

Chris was standing there, hood up, rain dripping from his hair—smiling.

Not a big smile. Just the ghost of one, something quiet and knowing, like he’d been waiting for this moment all night.

Like he’d been waiting for you.

Something twisted in your stomach.

You didn’t have to ask why he was here.

You already knew.

Because no matter how many times he told himself he wouldn’t, no matter how many times he sat in bed beside her, staring at his phone, he always came back. Maybe it was the way you looked at him. Maybe it was the way you understood him in ways she never could.

Or maybe it was because, late at night, when she was asleep and her phone would light up—Chris had seen the messages. He never said anything. Never asked. Never confronted her.

But he wasn’t blind.

And still, he was here.

He stepped inside without a word, without hesitation. And when the door clicked shut behind him, his hands were already reaching for you.

His hands are everywhere—gripping, trailing, learning you all over again like he hasn’t done this a hundred times before. Like he doesn’t already know every way to unravel you.

His lips leave yours only to move lower, mapping out a path along your jaw, down the column of your throat. You tilt your head back, breath catching, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt.

“Missed you,” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick, rough.

You hate how much you believe him.

The air between you is electric, charged with something too dangerous to name. He moves with purpose, pressing you down against the sheets, his weight grounding you, his hands teasing, lingering, like he’s savoring every second.

Your body responds instinctively, arching into his touch, craving more—needing more. And he knows. He always knows.

His breath is warm against your ear when he whispers, “Tell me you missed me too.”

You don’t want to. You want to pretend this is just about the moment, about the heat and nothing else. But when his lips find yours again, when his hands tighten around your hips, pulling you flush against him, the truth slips out in a sigh.

“Missed you.”

It’s all he needs to hear.

Clothes come off in slow, practiced movements—his touch never leaving you for too long, his eyes never straying from yours. He takes his time, like he always does. Like he’s memorizing you.

Your legs are wrapped around his waist, pulling him in closer, keeping him there like you’re afraid he’ll slip away too soon. His hands roam your body with a quiet kind of desperation, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, like he needs to.

“God, you feel so good,” he murmurs, voice strained, lips brushing against your jaw as he moves. His hands find your hips, holding you in place, his grip firm but reverent. Like he worships you. Like you’re something fragile and precious and his.

You whimper against his mouth, hands tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. He presses his forehead against yours, breath hot and uneven. “I need you,” he confesses, barely above a whisper. "Fuck, I need you so bad."

Your chest tightens. It’s too much and not enough all at once.

You smooth your fingers down his spine, nails scraping lightly over his skin. “Then don’t let go."

He shudders against you, his mouth capturing yours in a slow, aching kiss. He kisses you like he’s afraid this might be the last time. Like he’s trying to say everything he can’t put into words.

“Never,” he breathes against your lips, his hands gripping you tighter, like he means it.

You believe him. You always do.

His pace slows, dragging it out, making it last, making sure you feel every moment, every touch, every whispered promise.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, lips trailing over your shoulder. “Even your flaws—God, even the way you drive me insane. I love all of it.”

Your heart clenches. You know he doesn’t mean to say it, that it slips out in the heat of the moment, but it still makes your breath catch.

You want to ask him if he means it. If it’s real, or just another thing you’ll both pretend never happened once the sun comes up.

But you don’t.

Because right now, in the quiet of this hotel room, with his body pressed against yours and his hands holding you like he’ll never let go—right now, it feels real.

Chris doesn’t pull away. Not even when the sweat cools on your skin, not even when your breaths begin to slow. His hands stay on you, mapping your back, your sides, your hips, like he’s grounding himself in your presence.

You should feel exhausted, but you don’t. You feel alive.

Chris presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder, then another, his lips trailing up your neck. “Come with me,” he murmurs against your skin.

You shiver. “Where?”

He doesn’t answer. He just lifts himself off the bed, taking you with him. You let him, let him guide you toward the dimly lit bathroom. The light flickers on, casting a warm glow over both of you in the mirror. You don’t recognize yourself—hair mussed, lips swollen, body marked by him in ways no one else will see.

Chris stands behind you, arms circling your waist, eyes meeting yours in the mirror. He looks at you like you’re something unreal, something he’s scared to blink at in case you disappear.

You swallow. “What?”

His fingers trace your stomach, slow, teasing. “Just looking.”

You roll your eyes, but your body betrays you, leaning into him, needing him again already.

He smirks. “Yeah?”

You don’t answer—not with words. Instead, you turn in his arms, pressing against him, kissing him slow, deep, dragging him further under.

The shower is running before either of you register turning it on.

Chris steps in first, pulling you in after him. Warm water cascades over both of you, steam curling around your bodies, but it does nothing to cool the heat still simmering between you.

His hands roam again, slower this time, more deliberate. “Still want me?” he murmurs against your ear, voice rough, teasing.

You bite back a smirk. “Always.”

His breath catches. For a moment, something flickers in his eyes—something real, something dangerous. But then he kisses you, and the moment dissolves into sensation.

You don’t keep track of time. You don’t care. All you know is that his hands feel different like this—wet, slick, gliding over every inch of you with an addicting reverence. That his mouth is relentless, kissing everywhere, tasting, worshipping. That this time, it’s somehow slower, deeper, more intense.

By the time you step out of the shower, legs shaking, skin flushed, neither of you speak. You just towel each other off in quiet touches, lingering glances, soft sighs.

And then you’re back in bed, tangled together, and you wonder if he’ll stay this time.

Chris shifts beside you, his fingers trailing absentmindedly up and down your arm. The room is dark now, the only light coming from the neon glow of the city outside, casting shadows across the tangled sheets. He exhales slowly, like he’s bracing himself.

“I’ll leave her,” he says, voice rough.

Your stomach clenches. You turn your head to look at him, searching his face for something real, something solid. “Chris…”

“I mean it,” he insists, propping himself up on his elbow. His eyes flicker over your face, desperate to make you believe him. “I don’t love her.”

You swallow, hard. “You stay with her, though.”

“Not for long.” His jaw tightens. “She’s been talking to other guys. I’ve seen it.”

That catches you off guard. “You have?”

Chris nods, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “Yeah. I didn’t say anything, though. I think I wanted an excuse.” He lets out a breathless, humorless laugh. “How fucked up is that?”

You don’t answer. Because you get it.

Silence stretches between you, thick, heavy. He shifts closer, his hand finding your waist, fingers pressing into your skin. “I don’t want to sneak around anymore,” he murmurs. “I want to wake up next to you. Take you out without looking over my shoulder. I want it to be you, not just when the sun goes down.”

Your chest tightens. “Then do it.”

“I will,” he says, instantly, like he’s made up his mind. “I swear, I just need—” He hesitates. “I need to figure out how.”

You let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Right.”

Chris sighs, his forehead pressing against yours. “Please,” he whispers. “Just wait for me.”

[yamazki]

DON'T LET ME GO — chris sturniolo

part 2 to fresh out of love !

★ warnings: YEARNING, swearing, angst, use of marijuana, use of alcohol, mentions of cheating, douchebags, idk what else!

note: thank u guys for the feedback, i hope u guys like this one. <3 mwa mwa mwa <3 <3 send reqs too! -rinひ

The music was deafening.

It wasn’t just loud—it was suffocating, swallowing everything, distorting voices and turning the air thick with bass. Lights pulsed in erratic flashes, illuminating sweaty bodies, red plastic cups, and the hazy blur of smoke curling toward the ceiling.

Your chest felt tight.

Chris was gone.

You shoved past people, heart pounding. He was just here. Right next to you. Your hands had brushed, just barely, as if he was going to reach for you before he stopped himself. His face had been unreadable—cold, distant, like he was anywhere but here with you. But he had been here.

And now he wasn’t.

Your mind spiraled as you pushed through the chaos. He wouldn’t leave without saying something. Right? He wouldn’t just—

“Hey,” a voice slurred near your ear. A girl. Someone you barely recognized, her pupils blown wide, her lips curled into something between amusement and pity. “You’re looking for Chris?”

Your stomach dropped.

The girl gave a slow blink, her head tilting. “He’s… yeah, you should probably go check for yourself.”

A lump formed in your throat. “Where?”

She jerked her head toward the hallway, toward the darker part of the house where people disappeared into rooms they shouldn’t be in.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your hands shook as you turned the corner. The air felt heavier, thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and something artificial—perfume, maybe, cloying and sweet.

And then you saw him.

Chris sat on the edge of a couch, legs spread, a drink in his hand. But he wasn’t drinking it. His eyes were unfocused, his expression blank.

And then there was her.

All confidence and artificial charm, draped over him like she belonged there. Her fingers trailed up his arm, slow and deliberate, like she knew exactly what she was doing.

You stopped breathing.

Chris didn’t move.

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t touch her. But he also didn’t push her away.

Something cracked inside you.

You stepped forward before you could stop yourself. “What the fuck is this?”

Chris’s head snapped up.

For a second, something flickered in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or regret. But then his face went blank again, his jaw tightening as he swallowed.

The girl barely glanced at you. “Oh. Awkward.”

Your hands curled into fists. “Get off him.”

She smirked. “Why? We were just—”

Chris shifted, and finally, finally, he pulled away. The girl huffed, rolling her eyes as she leaned back.

You turned to him. “What is wrong with you?”

Chris exhaled slowly. “It’s not—”

“Don’t,” you snapped.

He didn’t say anything.

You shook your head, your throat tight. “You know what I went through. You know. And you still—” Your voice broke for half a second before you forced it steady.

Chris flinched. His jaw clenched, but he stayed silent.

You let out a shaky breath. “Fuck you, Chris.”

And then you turned and walked away.

2 hours later

The cool metal of the car pressed against your back, grounding you. The night air was crisp, carrying the muffled sounds of the party—laughter, music, the occasional shout—but out here, everything felt distant. Detached.

You crossed your arms, staring at nothing in particular, trying to steady your breath.

Footsteps.

Nick didn’t say anything at first. Just stopped a few feet away, hands in his pockets. Then, after a beat, he sighed and stepped closer, leaning against the car beside you.

“You okay?” His voice was quieter than usual.

You exhaled. “Do I look okay?”

Nick let out a low hum. “Not really.”

Silence settled between you. A comfortable one.

You could feel him watching you, like he was waiting for you to say something. But you didn’t know what to say.

After a moment, he spoke again. “He’s been looking for you.”

Your stomach twisted. You stared straight ahead. “I don’t want to talk to him. I can't look at him right now.”

Nick nodded like he expected that. He didn’t try to argue. Just shifted, kicking at the pavement lightly. “Chris… he’s not good at handling things the way he should. When he’s scared, he either shuts down or does something stupid.”

You let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Yeah. I noticed.”

Nick’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s a dumbass, but he never wanted to hurt you.”

You swallowed hard. “Yeah, well. He did.”

Nick didn’t push. He just stood there with you, the night air settling heavy around you both. After a moment, he nudged your shoulder lightly. “You don’t have to figure everything out tonight.”

You blinked, looking over at him for the first time. He just offered a small, knowing smile. One that reminded you why Nick had always been easier to talk to.

You let out a slow breath. “I just… I just wish it wasn’t him.”

Nick nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

A beat of silence. Then, he exhaled through his nose and said, “Matt’ll drive you home.”

Your throat tightened. You hadn’t even thought about how you were getting back. You just knew you couldn’t stay here.

You turned toward him, hesitating for only a second before stepping forward, wrapping your arms around his middle. Nick didn’t hesitate. His arms came around you, solid and steady.

For the first time that night, you felt like you could breathe.

PRESENT

“You’re just high, Chris.”

Your voice was even, but inside, you felt like you were breaking.

Chris shook his head. His voice was raw, urgent. “I mean it.”

Your breath caught.

There was something about the way he said it—like he was terrified you wouldn’t believe him. Like he was hanging onto you by a thread.

And for a second, you almost let yourself believe him.

But then—

The doorbell rang.

“Food is here!”

The moment shattered. The energy shifted instantly, people moving, laughing, rushing toward the house. You used the distraction to turn away, slipping inside before Chris could stop you.

The Taco Bell bags were already being torn open by the time you sat down. The living room was a mess—half-empty drinks, crumpled napkins, wrappers scattered across the table.

You felt him before you saw him.

Chris was across the room, sitting in silence. His eyes were on you.

You ignored him.

“About time you chilled out,” Carrington teased, handing you a nacho fry.

You forced a smirk. “Guess I just needed some tacos.”

“Everyone needs tacos,” Joe cut in.

Your stomach twisted at his voice.

You hadn’t paid much attention to him tonight, but now that you did, something about him felt off. The way he was watching you. The way his smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He took a sip of his drink, then raised an eyebrow. “What, no drink? No fun?”

You frowned. “I have a drink.”

“Barely touched it.” He tilted his head. “Guess it makes sense. You’ve been kinda boring tonight.”

You stiffened.

Carrington let out a laugh, trying to defuse the tension. “Bro, chill.”

Joe ignored him, his smirk widening. “Just saying. You’re usually different.”

You forced a neutral expression. “Different how?”

Joe leaned back, swirling his cup lazily. “I dunno. More fun. Less uptight.”

Your grip tightened around your drink.

Carrington rolled his eyes. “Dude, leave her alone.”

Joe huffed out a laugh. “What? I’m just trying to figure out if she’s single or what.”

Your stomach turned.

Joe shrugged. “I mean, are you?”

You hesitated.

It was such a simple question. And yet, somehow, it felt like a trap.

Joe smiled, slow and knowing. “You don’t have to answer.”

You frowned. “Then why ask?”

Joe grinned. “Just making conversation.” He glanced at Carrington. “Besides, my boy here has been talking about you all night.”

Carrington groaned. “Shut up, Joe.”

Joe wasn’t done.

He turned back to you, looking you up and down in a way that made your skin crawl. “But if he’s not gonna make a move, maybe I should.”

Your stomach twisted.

You set your drink down. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

You shut the door behind you and gripped the sink, your breath coming in uneven bursts.

Your reflection in the mirror was a mess—eyes glassy, lips pressed together so hard they ached. You blinked rapidly, trying to hold it in, but your chest was too tight, the weight in your throat too heavy.

A knock.

Then his voice.

He said your name, low and rough. Then, softer, “Let me in.”

You inhaled sharply, pressing your fingers into the counter. You didn’t want to. You shouldn’t.

You should tell him to leave. You should. But instead, your hand moved on its own.

The lock clicked.

Chris stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The second he saw you, he froze. His whole expression shifted—his brows knitting together, his lips parting like he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to start.

You quickly wiped your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, but it was useless. Your eyes were still wet. Your throat still burned.

Chris exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Hey.” His voice was softer now, almost careful. “Don’t do that.”

For a second, his hand almost moved toward you—like he wanted to touch your face, to ground you, to ground himself. But instead, he just dragged it through his hair again, letting it fall back to his side.

You let out a shaky breath. “I just—” You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, but it wouldn’t go away. “I just wish it wasn’t you.”

Chris stilled.

You let out a weak, broken laugh. “If it were anyone else, maybe it wouldn’t have hurt this much. Maybe I could’ve just walked away.” You lifted your gaze to him, eyes shining.

You stared at him, your chest tightening.

Chris let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. His voice was quieter this time. “You don’t get it.”

You frowned. “Then explain it to me.”

His jaw tensed. He hesitated for a second, like he didn’t know if he should say it, if he should open himself up like this. But then—

“You’re perfect,” he said, voice rough. “Even the parts of you that aren’t. Even when you’re mad, or stubborn, or overthinking things, or—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I loved all of it. I still do.”

Your breath hitched.

Chris rubbed at his jaw, eyes flicking away. “And that scared the hell out of me.” His voice was raw, almost hoarse. “You’re… you’re everything. And I kept thinking—what if I lose you? What if I mess this up?” He laughed, but it wasn’t amused. It was bitter. “I think I was expecting the worst from the start.”

You swallowed, your chest tightening.

And then, barely above a whisper—

“Am I that hard to love?”

Chris’s head snapped up. His brows furrowed, like he couldn’t believe you’d even think that. “No,” he said immediately.

You held his gaze, waiting for him to say more, to explain.

But he didn’t.

Silence stretched between you. Not empty, not cold—just heavy.

Chris shifted slightly, like he wanted to step closer but didn’t know if he should. His fingers twitched at his side. Yours did too.

Then—his hand brushed against yours. Just barely. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you. Like he needed to feel you there, but was too scared to reach for more.

You didn’t move away.

Neither did he.

Your fingers hovered, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, but not quite touching. The tension sat between you, thick and fragile all at once, like the wrong move would shatter whatever was left.

“So you thought what?” you asked, voice even. “That making me hate you first would be easier?”

Chris let out a dry laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Something like that.”

You didn’t say anything for a second.

Then—

“That’s stupid.”

Chris huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching like he almost—almost—smiled. “Yeah. It was.”

You sighed, tilting your head back against the mirror. “You’re an idiot.”

Chris let out a laugh with his signature squint, "Yeah."

Your heart dropped. You missed that sound.

Silence stretched between you.

Then, quietly—

“I miss you.”

Your stomach clenched.

Chris exhaled, stepping closer. His voice softened, almost hesitant. “Baby…”

You swallowed.

His hand reached out, fingers brushing yours, and for a second, you almost pulled away. Almost. But you didn’t.

Because no matter how much it hurt, no matter how angry you were—

You still wanted him.

Chris was watching you, waiting for something—permission, maybe, or a sign that you weren’t about to run. And when you didn’t move, didn’t pull away, he took that as enough.

He leaned in.

His lips barely grazed yours at first, hesitant, like he thought you might change your mind. And maybe you should have. Maybe you should have shoved him away and told him that sorry wasn’t enough.

But when his hands found your waist and pulled you closer, when his breath mixed with yours, when you felt the way he melted into you like he had been waiting for this just as much as you had—

You didn’t care.

So you kissed him back.

And this time, you didn’t stop.

── ★ @sophand4n4 @sinmiedoalamor

[yamazki]

FRESH OUT OF LOVE ? — chris sturniolo

part 2 here!

★ warnings: YEARNING, cursing, angst, use of marijuana, use of alcohol, mentions of cheating, ( i give up )

note: honestly wrote this cause i'm a certified yearner, so expect nothing!

You lean against a kitchen counter at another influencer’s house, contemplating whether to get a refill or not. You’re feeling a bit tipsy, but you know it’ll wear off in ten minutes if you don’t get another punch. Before you can decide, a familiar voice cuts through the low hum of the party.

“Oh my god, look who finally decided to show up!”

You barely have time to react before Tara wraps you in a quick but firm hug. She smells like vanilla and weed, her signature scent, and when she pulls back, she studies you with a smirk. “You good?”

You hesitate. It’s not a simple question, and you both know it. “Yeah. Just needed a drink.” You gesture vaguely to the half-empty cup in your hand.

Tara hums knowingly, leaning against the counter beside you. “Mm. I feel that. But I think what you really need is outside.”

You raise a brow. “Outside?”

She tilts her head towards the backyard. “Larray and Quen are out there. I know you’ve been in your hermit era, but you should come say hi. It’s chill, just a little smoke, a little catching up.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. You hadn’t planned to stay long. Just enough to show face, maybe let yourself pretend for a second that things were normal. But the thought of stepping outside, of letting the night pull you into something mindless and warm, is tempting.

Tara nudges your arm. “Come on. You look like you could use it.”

And she’s right. You don’t say anything, just let out a small sigh before pushing off the counter. “Alright. Just for a little.”

Tara grins, linking her arm with yours as she leads you through the crowd, towards the sliding glass door.

You push past the screen door into the chilly November breeze, immediately noticing the bright moon, followed by the smell of pot. You see a circle of people hanging out by a parked black Tesla, and you smile. Ready to finally let loose.

Until you see a familiar head away from the group.

A tousled sea of chestnut waves, each strand illuminated by the moonlight. Exactly what you dream of every night.

Chris.

He’s alone, leaning on the roof of the car. You can only see so much of his side profile. He takes a hit, gazing thoughtfully into the sky, seemingly relaxed and undisturbed. You notice that he’s growing his beard, and you frown a bit, knowing he doesn’t shave when he’s sad.

Then, someone—you don’t bother to check who—slurs your name.

You’re still fixated on Chris, and you see his demeanor shift imperceptibly; his eyes flicker downward and calmly freeze. You can’t look away, locked in a silent exchange of uncertainty.

Seconds pass.

Has he heard? Will he look around?

Then time unpauses. His head turns to your direction, meeting your gaze with furrowed brows. His face shows a mixture of surprise and confusion, while his blue eyes reflect the faintest hint of moonlight. You can’t read him, but he looks so beautiful.

You remain frozen, caught in the moment. And it just feels like it’s just you two there. Your mind feels foggy, and you notice you stopped breathing. You don’t know for how long, but you quietly inhale and exhale, releasing the tension.

You turn your head to Larray and Quen, clearly already out of it, and they shout your name excitedly, inviting you to join them.

You smile and greet them as you approach.

Larray begins, “Heyyy, I missed you! I haven’t seen you in weeks, girl.” He frowns as he opens his arms for a hug.

“Yeah… we missed you a lot.” Quen acts sad and gives a side-eye, but quickly, her demeanor changes. “But aye, we got da ‘za, hahahaha, smoke up, babe.”

You laugh. “Nah. I’m good. Just wanted to show myself before I leave. Been a day.” You shrug.

Larray and Quen try to convince you to stay, but you couldn’t—not if he’s here.

“C’mon, the hoes are leavin’, and we DoorDashing Taco Bell tonight for the munchies. It’s gonna be chill.”

You can’t help but look at him. His head is down, but a second later, he looks up at you.

And you look away immediately.

“Okay. Sure,” you mutter.

The joint is passed to you, and you hesitate before taking it, bringing it to your lips. The familiar burn fills your lungs, and you exhale slowly, letting the haze settle over your mind. The laughter, the voices, the music from inside—it all fades into background noise.

Except for him.

You can feel his presence like a weight against your chest. He hasn’t moved from his spot, but you know he’s watching.

Quen nudges you. “So, how you been?” She asks it casually, but there’s something beneath it. Something careful.

You glance at her, then at Tara, who’s watching you just as closely. They know. Of course, they know.

“I’m good,” you say, too quickly. The weed hasn’t hit enough to make you honest yet. “Been busy.”

Tara scoffs. “Busy avoiding us.”

Larray hums in agreement, taking another hit. “We get it, though. That whole thing was…” He waves a hand, searching for the word.

Quen finds it for him. “Messy.”

You swallow, suddenly aware of how dry your mouth is. You should’ve grabbed another drink.

“I don’t really wanna talk about it,” you say, voice quieter now.

Tara nudges your knee with hers. “We get it. But, like… you know he didn’t actually cheat, right?”

Your heart stutters.

You don’t respond.

Larray exhales a slow puff of smoke. “I mean, yeah, it looked bad, but…” He shrugs. “He didn’t do anything.”

You clench your jaw. “He almost did.”

Tara sighs. “Almost isn’t the same as doing it. You guys were in a shitty situation, all couples go through it. That wannabe–singer just took advantage of it—of him.”

You shake your head, your chest tightening. “It doesn’t matter. He still stayed in that room and he—”

Your words die in your throat because Chris is standing now.

Moving.

Walking toward you.

You freeze, eyes locking onto his as he stops a few feet away. The conversation around you dissolves. It’s just him. Just you.

“Can we talk?” His voice is quiet, rough.

And then it hits you—his scent. A mix of expensive cologne, clean laundry, and something distinctly him. It’s familiar, painfully so. It’s the scent that used to linger on your clothes after long nights together, the one that clung to your pillows after he left. You used to bury your face in his hoodie just to breathe it in.

Your heart flutters, just like it always used to. And you hate it.

You exhale, staring at him, searching for something—anything—that will make this easier. But all you see is him, looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

Like you always have been. And you hate that it still makes your heart ache.

You should say no. You should turn around, go back to Larray and Quen, pretend none of this is happening. But you don’t.

Instead, you nod. Barely.

Chris notices anyway.

He takes a step back, waiting for you to follow. And despite every voice in your head screaming at you to stop, to not give him this, your feet move on their own.

You follow him, past the Tesla, past the glow of the backyard lights, until you’re standing in the dim shadows near the fence. Far enough that no one can hear.

For a second, neither of you speak. The only sounds are the muffled bass of the party inside and the occasional burst of laughter from the group near the car.

Chris shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. He looks at you like he doesn’t know where to start.

You cross your arms, bracing yourself. “What do you want, Chris?”

He exhales sharply, like he expected you to sound angry but still hoped you wouldn’t be.

“I just… I just need you to know,” he says, voice low, hesitant. “I didn’t do it. I swear to God, I—”

Your stomach twists. “Chris.”

“I know what it looked like.” He steps closer, his voice almost desperate now. “But I didn’t touch her. I didn’t kiss her. I wouldn’t—”

“But you almost did.” The words slip out before you can stop them, your voice barely above a whisper.

Chris flinches, his brows knitting together. “I—” He stops, swallows hard. “I was drunk. I was stupid. And I fucked up, but not like that. Not in the way you think.”

You shake your head, looking away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.” His voice is firm now. “Because I can’t stand the thought of you believing that I wanted anyone else. That I ever could.”

His words make your chest tighten. You feel like you can’t breathe. Because this is exactly what you didn’t want—to hear him say things that make you want to believe him.

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly. His scent is still there, surrounding you, pulling you back into a place you swore you wouldn’t go.

When you open them again, you don’t try to keep the hurt from your voice.

“You know what I went through with…” You hesitate, but Chris already knows. His jaw clenches.

“You know. So you know how much this just brings me back, okay?” Your voice cracks, and you hate it, but you keep going. “Do you have any idea what it felt like to even think—for a second—that you could do the same thing to me?”

Chris exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he runs a hand through his hair. His whole body is tense, and when he looks at you, his eyes are burning.

“I’m not him,” he says, his voice hard and unyielding. “I’m not some stupid artist that fucks around and cheats like it’s in his contract.”

His words hang heavy in the air. You don’t say anything, just look at him, waiting.

Then, his anger cracks. His expression shifts into something else—something raw and tired.

“I miss you,” he says, quieter now. “I hate not talking to you.”

You inhale sharply, pressing your lips together, but he keeps going.

“Everywhere I go, I just—I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right.” He exhales, shaking his head. “I keep thinking I’ll turn around and you’ll be there. Like you always were.”

His voice is rough, a little unsteady. He looks down, exhaling through his nose before meeting your gaze again.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” he admits. “With missing you.”

The words settle between you, thick in the cold air.