Don’t Go
YUNGBLUD
I don’t sleepmuch after she tells me she didn’t take the apartment. Not because I’m shocked anymore, but because I can’t stop thinking about what I almost lost. She’s curled against me, breathing steady, one hand resting over my ribs like she always does when she’s half asleep. The weight of it feels different tonight. Not fragile. Not temporary. It’s a choice.
The apartment. The spiral. The tequila. The blanket. Fuck. I almost wrecked this because I was afraid to say one sentence out loud;I want this.Not the version I can walk away from. The realization doesn’t hit like panic anymore. It lands like truth.
My hand slides into her hair, slow and deliberate. No hesitation this time. When she stirs, I don’t pull away. Her lashes flutter. She looks at me without confusion now. Just softness.
“You’re thinking loud,” she murmurs.
“Yeah.” I nod even though she can’t see it.
Her fingers trace along my collarbone, patient. Waiting.
“I’m not gonna do that again,” I admit quietly. “Like I’m bracing for you to disappear.”
Her expression shifts. It’s not hurt. Not defensive. Just open. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I swallow. “I know.” But knowing and believing are different things.
She shifts closer, palm sliding flat against my chest. “I want to be here.” The words settle between us like something sacred.
I kiss her then. Not urgent, but slow. Deliberate. My hand moves to her waist, then her hip, like I’m memorizing instead of claiming. She opens to me easily, like this isn’t something we have to fight for anymore.
When we come together, it’s not frantic like the other night. It’s quiet and intentional. Every movement measured. Every breath shared. She keeps her eyes open at first, watching me like she’s making sure I’m here with her and not in my head somewhere else.
I am with her. Completely. And when she trembles against me, it feels like relief instead of release. When I follow, it feels like grounding instead of escape. After, she stays on top of me, her cheek resting over my heart.
“Mikey?” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
“You’ll never be second. Not with me.”
My throat tightens. We don’t rush out of bed. Sunlight shifts across the wall slowly while we talk about nothing important; the wedding dress shop, the muffins, the fact that I apparently snore when I’m stressed. Normal things. It doesn’t feel fragile anymore.
Eventually she slips out of the bed to shower. I stay where I am for a second longer, staring at the ceiling. I could still mess this up. Or I could not. That choice feels clearer than it did a week ago.
When I step into the bathroom after her, I notice something small. Her toothbrush is now tucked beside mine instead of in her travel bag. Her shampoo is pushed forward.
Without thinking, I shift my stuff over more. Clear half the counter and make room. It’s quiet but deliberate.
She notices. “You reorganizing?” She leans against the doorway with damp hair over one shoulder.
“Making room.”
Her mouth curves. She understands what I’m saying without me having to say it.
The air in the studio feels different today. Not lighter, just more, clear. I’m not trying to drown out noise anymore. I’m not fighting something invisible. When we run through the new track, I play steady. Not because I’m holding back. Because I know exactly where I am now. Not restrained, but intentional. Luc watches me through the glass. When we finish, he nods once.
Dean tosses me a bottle of water. “You’re better today.”
“Yeah.” I shrug.
He studies me. “You look less murdery.”
I huff a laugh. “I was being an idiot.”
