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When Brad and Nicole come together,
it feels like sinking into the sweetest poison,
a high that burns through their veins,
leaving destruction and divinity in its wake.
She’s a drug he’s never meant to take,
but now that she’s inside him.
coursing through every nerve,
he knows there’s no going back.
Her touch is wildfireー
dangerous, all-consuming,
something he should flee from but never will.
Her nails rake down his back,
leaving marks he swears he can feel from under his skin,
etched into his very marrow.
Her breath against his neck is smoke in his lungs,
thick and suffocating,
and yet, he inhales her like oxygen.
Her body is a needle,
each thrust piercing something deeper,
delivering a high so sharp it’s painful.
But he doesn’t flinchーhe leans into it,
craving the sting, the ache,
because every second with her
pulls him closer to something he can’t name,
something he can’t live without.
Nicole is his addiction,
and every moan, every gasp,
every tremor of her body beneath his
is the hit he can’t stop chasing.
She wrecks him,
again and again,
her touch untwisting him
until he’s nothing but a man on his knees,
begging for one more taste.
Her lips, swollen and red,
leave bruises he carries like scars.
Her eyes, dark and heavy with want,
are a trap he falls into willingly.
And the way her body clings to his,
tight and desperate,
feels like a craving finally sated
but never satisfied.
If this is addiction, Brad thinks,
let it take him. Let it drown him.
He’ll give up everything for another second of her,
another chance to burn in the fire she lights inside him.
Her name leaves his lips like a confession,
a promise,
a plea.
And when she cries out his name in return,
it feels like the only absolution he’ll ever need.
Nicole doesn’t just consume him—
she becomes him.
Her touch is in his bloodstream,
her voice etched into his bones,
her breath lingering in the hollows of his chest.
He knows this isn’t healthy,
knows he’s gone too far,
but her taste is on his tongue,
her heat is in his veins,
and there’s no turning back now.
She is his overdose,
his sweet, agonizing death.
But god, what a way to go—
wrapped in her fire,
her body,
her everything.
Brad doesn’t want to quit her.
He doesn’t want to heal.
He wants to sink so deep into her
that nothing else exists.
Because in her arms,
in her moans,
in the way she pulls him apart and puts him back together,
he finds not ruin,
but life itself.
When Brad comes up from between her legs,
when the fire cools and the room fills with soft breaths,
it doesn’t feel like the end of something.
It feels like free fall,
like his soul is tumbling from a height so great
he might never land.
Because loving Nicole isn’t light or easy—
it’s heavy, crushing,
a weight he gladly carries,
even as it threatens to break him.
Her body still trembles against his,
her skin damp, her chest rising and falling in shaky breaths.
He looks at her like she’s the only thing he’ll ever see,
and maybe she is—
because no one else could ever exist in his world again.
“Nicole,” he whispers, her name barely a sound,
like it’s too much for his lungs to hold.
Her head turns slightly, her tired eyes meeting his,
and something shatters inside him.
He loves her too much.
It’s too much.
It claws at his ribs,
leaves him raw and aching,
a man undone by the weight of his own devotion.
He traces her cheek with trembling fingers,
like she might disappear if he touches her wrong,
like she isn’t real,
like she isn’t his.
Her lips twitch, tired but soft,
and she leans into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed.
And that—god, that kills him.
The way she trusts him so effortlessly,
the way she lets him hold her even when she’s wrecked,
when she’s vulnerable,
when she could break so easily in his hands.
He presses his forehead to hers,
his breaths uneven as his chest tightens with something
he doesn’t have words for.
It’s love, but it’s more than love.
It’s desperation, it’s hunger,
it’s the ache of knowing that no matter how close he holds her,
it will never be close enough.
Her hand finds his, weak but steady,
and she squeezes softly, grounding him even as she lies there, spent and undone.
He presses a kiss to her knuckles, reverent, aching,
and he feels like he’s praying to something he doesn’t deserve to touch.
“I love you,” he says, the words heavy and raw,
because they aren’t enough—they’re never enough.
He feels like he’s pouring his entire soul into them,
and still, it doesn’t come close to what’s inside him.
Nicole opens her eyes, her gaze soft but piercing,
and when she looks at him,
he feels like he’s being seen for the first time.
“I love you too,” she whispers,
and it’s so simple, so quiet,
but it cracks his chest wide open.
It’s too much.
It’s everything.
Brad kisses her then, slow and aching,
his hands cradling her face like she’s the only thing keeping him alive.
And actually, she is.
Because without her, there’s nothing.
Just silence. Just emptiness. Just him.
This is love so big it hurts,
so deep it consumes.
It’s everything he’ll ever need,
wrapped in the body and soul of the woman who has him—
heart, mind, and every single piece of himself.
But love with Nicole is never simple.
It’s cruel, jagged, an addiction laced with poison,
and Brad swears he doesn’t care how it ends
as long as she’s his in the moments in between.
They’ve done this before—
come together in the heat of desperation,
only to tear apart in the cold light of reality.
But right now, none of that matters.
Right now, she’s in his arms,
and that’s enough.
Loving Nicole feels like holding fire.
It’s impossible to grasp without burning,
but the warmth, the light—it’s so fucking worth it.
Every time they crash,
every fight, every cut and bruise they leave on each other’s souls,
it’s all worth the high of having her like this.
When she’s in his arms, trembling and undone,
when she’s looking at him like he’s her entire world,
Brad thinks he’d do it all over again,
even if it destroys him.
He’s addicted to her in the worst, most toxic way.
The way her body moves against his,
the way her sharp tongue cuts him one moment
and begs for him the next.
It’s a cycle of destruction they can’t seem to break,
but Brad isn’t even sure he wants to.
“I hate you sometimes,” he says, the words slipping out uninvited,
his fingers brushing over her cheek with a tenderness
that betrays their weight.
“I hate the way you make me feel,
like I’m losing my fucking mind.
But I’d rather hate you than not have you.”
Nicole’s lips twitch into a faint, bitter smile,
her hand moving to grip his wrist weakly.
“I know,” she murmurs. “It’s okay.”
But even as she says it, her eyes soften,
and she pulls him closer, her body melting into his like it always does.
Their hate is a lie,
a shadow of the love that burns so fiercely between them
it leaves them both scarred.
Brad kisses her like it’s the last time,
like it always feels like the last time,
his hands tangling in her hair as he pulls her closer,
desperate to keep her from slipping away.
And when she kisses him back,
her nails digging into his skin,
he knows this is what they’ll always be.
Nicole clings to him like he’s the only reason she's breathing,
but her grip is trembling, weak,
as though even her will is breaking.
Her lips move against his, slow and aching,
as if they’re trading something more than breath,
as if they’re trying to fill the hollow spaces they’ve left in each other.
“You hurt me,” she whispers between kisses, her voice so soft, so broken,
it feels like it’s meant for the air rather than his ears.
Her hands curl against his shoulder, desperate to anchor herself,
even as the words twist the knife deeper in both of them.
Brad pulls back just enough to look at her, his eyes searching hers,
dark and heavy with the weight of everything they’ll never say.
“You think it’s easy for me?” he rasps, his thumb brushing over her damp cheek
with a tenderness that cuts her more than his anger ever could.
“I can’t breathe without you, Nicole. You’re in my fucking veins.”
Her chest tightens at his words,
her lips trembling as she presses them back to his,
her kiss a contradiction of love and desperation.
It’s sweet, so painfully sweet,
but every movement is an apology for the ways they’ve destroyed each other.
She’s nothing but a shadow now,
a bruised and battered reflection of him.
Her soul aches, hollowed out and replaced with his touch, his voice,
his anger, his love.
He’s consumed her, burned her to the ground,
and she’s let him— wanted him to.
Nicole doesn’t know who she is without him.
She doesn’t think she’ll ever find out.
Because even as her soul aches,
even as her body trembles with the weight of him,
she knows she’ll come back every time.
And he’ll be waiting.
The sweetness is fleeting,
a cruel reminder of how much they’ve broken each other,
how much they’ll keep breaking each other just to stay.
Their bodies are tangled in a storm of contrarieties,
desperation and obsession crashing together in waves.
Nicole’s hands claw at Brad’s shoulders, her nails biting deep,
leaving streaks of red that bloom into blood,
but her lips against his are soft, unbearably soft,
like a quiet apology for every mark she leaves behind.
Brad grips her wrists, his hands large and firm,
holding her steady even as his fingers press into her skin,
leaving bruises that will flower into blue and purple.
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t loosen his hold—
not because he wants to hurt her,
but because he can’t let her go.
“I’m yours,” he whispers against her lips,
his voice low, raw, trembling with need.
“I’ll always be yours, Nicole.”
Nicole’s breath hitches, her body arching into his,
her legs tightening around him as she shifts, pulling him under her.
Her lips press back to his, gentle, careful,
but the way her body moves is anything but.
Her nails scratch at his chest now, trailing lines of fire over his skin,
and Brad groans, his hands moving to her hips,
his grip firm enough to leave her marked with him.
Her kiss is full of air, soft and desperate,
but the way she moves is a demand, a plea,
and he can’t fight it. He won’t.
In a sudden motion, he flips them,
pinning her beneath him, his hands framing her face so gently
it feels at odds with the bruises his fingers have already left.
Nicole’s hands find his shoulders again, trembling but defiant,
her nails raking over the wounds she’s already made,
and Brad’s jaw tightens as the pain flares, grounding him in her.
Her fingers curl into his skin, sharp and desperate,
pulling him closer, deeper, as if she’s trying to carve herself into him.
He presses his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling,
his lips brushing hers in a kiss so soft it feels like a lie
against the violence of the way they’re holding each other.
“I’m yours,” he says again, his voice trembling as his hands move down,
gripping her wrists again, pressing them into the mattress with enough force
to leave her marked, bruised and battered in all the ways she lets him.
“All of me, Nicole. Every part of me is yours.”
Her body arches beneath him, her breath catching in a soft, broken sob,
and her lips find his again, trembling and gentle,
but her thighs tighten around him, her body demanding more.
“Take me,” she breathes, her voice cracking.
“Break me if you have to. Just don’t stop.”
Brad’s hands grip her wrists tighter, his lips brushing over her cheeks,
soft and worshipful, as if he’s trying to soothe the very pain he’s inflicting.
Every lovebite, every hickey,
they each receive their own soothing lick.
Her lips tremble against his, their kiss turning softer, slower,
as if they’re trying to find something pure in the wreckage they’ve created.
But their bodies are relentless, demanding,
tangling together with a need so raw and destructive it feels like a war.
They’re bruised, beaten, bleeding,
their love carved into their skin in shades of red and purple and blue.
It hurts—it always hurts—but they don’t stop.
They can’t.
Brad moves inside her like he’s sculpting himself into her soul,
slow and deep, pausing between each thrust
as if he’s afraid the moment might break under the weight of them.
It’s not sex, not really—
it’s the closest they’ll ever get to unmaking themselves
and becoming one.
His hands glide over her skin like he’s drawing constellations,
mapping her body with touches so soft they hurt.
Nicole’s nails drag down his back,
leaving streaks of fire,
marks that burn as much as they claim.
Her lips find his neck, his jaw, his mouth,
painting silent promises in the spaces he leaves behind.
“I’m yours,” she whispers, her voice trembling,
like it’s not a choice but a truth carved into her bones.
Her hands clutch at him, pulling him closer,
closer still,
as though she could press him into her so deeply
he’d never leave.
Their movements are unbearably slow,
each thrust a tide pulling them further into each other,
and when he stills, buried so deeply inside her
it feels like he’s found the heart of her,
her breath catches, her hands trembling against his chest.
Her thighs tighten around him,
her body arching into his,
and her voice is a broken sigh when she whispers,
“Stay here. Stay in me. I don’t want to be alone.”
“I couldn’t leave if I tried,” he says,
and his voice is heavy, trembling with the weight of his surrender.
He moves again, so slow it feels like time itself is holding its breath,
and her hands slide down his back,
her nails pressing into his skin,
her body trembling like she’s trying to hold him inside forever.
Their love is scrapes and whispers,
a canvas of blues and reds and purples,
painted in strokes of lips and hands,
in breaths that stutter against damp skin.
It’s toxic, yes,
but it’s the only thing they know how to be.
They move together like they’re falling,
slow, inevitable,
crashing into each other over and over
until there’s nothing left but them,
their bodies tangled, their souls bleeding,
a love so painful and beautiful
it leaves no room for anything else.
Nicole's voice is a whisper,
fragile and trembling, but laced with fire.
“Make it hurt,” she breathes,
her hands clutching his shoulders like an anchor,
her nails ghosting over the wounds she’s already left.
“Please, Brad. Make me feel it.”
He moves as though he’s etching his name into her bones,
each thrust impossibly deep,
his body pressed so tightly to hers
it feels as though he’s reaching for her heart,
trying to touch the place where she keeps him buried.
His lips find her neck, soft as a prayer,
but his hands are hard on her hips,
fingers digging into her flesh like he’s holding her together
even as they come apart.
He loves her like a storm,
violent in its beauty,
unrelenting in its need to leave a mark.
“Do you feel me, Nicole?” he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked,
his breath warm against her ear.
“Every part of me. All of me. I’m yours—only yours.”
Her breath catches, her body arching into his,
and her tears slip down her heart like rain on glass,
soft and quiet,
yet devastating in their weight.
“I feel you,” she whispers, her voice breaking.
“I feel everything.”
His thrusts are slow, willful,
a cruel, beautiful denial.
Every movement is a promise and a punishment,
a gift wrapped in pain,
and she welcomes it with open arms,
her hands gripping his back like she’s holding on for dear life.
Her body trembles beneath him,
her breath hitching as the tension coils tighter,
an unbearable sweetness that feels like a toxin.
It’s too much, too deep,
but she doesn’t want it to stop.
She can’t.
When the climax comes,
it builds like a storm gathering at sea—
slow at first, a gentle pull,
waves cresting higher and higher,
each one threatening to drown them.
His thrusts deepen,
a rhythm that breaks and builds all at once,
pushing her closer to the edge,
closer to oblivion.
Her breath catches,
a gasp that turns into a moan,
that turns into a cry,
that turns into silence,
as her body arches,
tightens,
shatters.
It’s the crack of lightning splitting the sky,
a thunderous crash of pleasure so loud
it drowns out everything else.
Her body trembles like trees bending in the wind,
his name falling from her lips like rain.
And Brad—he follows her,
pulled under by the same tidal wave,
his voice breaking into a low, throaty groan
that feels like it’s torn from somewhere deep.
They fall together.
They rise together.
The storm peaks,
exploding into chaos before fading into the calm after.
They shatter together, their breaths ragged,
their bodies trembling as the high consumes them,
sickeningly sweet,
painfully addictive.
They cling to each other in the aftermath,
their bodies fluttering, their breaths uneven,
their skin slick with the remnants of something primal and holy.
Nicole’s arms curl around Brad’s neck,
her fingers tracing lazy patterns along his damp skin,
as if trying to stitch herself into him.
They are a storm, unrelenting and destructive,
their bodies tangled in waves of need and desperation.
But they are also the sea after it calms,
their breaths soft and steady now,
the salt of their tears mixing with the sweat on their skin.
Nicole’s nails, sharp and unyielding,
leave trails of red down his back,
but his hands are soft against her sides,
tracing the bruises he’s left as though he can erase them
with the gentleness of his touch.
“I love you,” she says, her voice barely audible,
as if saying it might tether her to him forever.
His lips find hers, slow and lingering,
their kiss soft in a way that feels at odds
with the bruises blooming on their bodies.
“I love you,” Brad whispers between breaths,
and his voice is trembling now,
so full of everything he can’t say.
They are a hurricane and a sunbeam,
violent and quiet, their love a contradiction that hurts as much as it heals.
His body shifts over hers,
as though every move is a promise,
as though he’s trying to fill the spaces between them
with something more permanent than words.
Nicole’s tears spill freely now,
her voice breaking as she murmurs,
“I love you, I love you,” over and over again,
like it’s the only thing keeping her together.
Brad holds her closer, his hands cradling her face,
his thumbs brushing away her tears as his own threaten to fall.
“I love you,” he says, his voice raw, almost pleading.
They are silk and knives,
a polarity of softness and sharp edges,
their love carving itself into their bodies with every touch.
Her bruises blossom like wildflowers under his hands,
and his skin is streaked with the marks of her devotion,
red lines that sting but ground him in her.
In the stillness, as their breathing slows,
they don’t let go.
Their lips meet again, gentle and lingering,
and their whispers fill the silence,
three words spoken over and over,
woven into their skin,
their bodies,
their souls.
Nicole stands in front of the bathroom mirror,
her eyes tracing every bruise on her body—
the purple blooms on her thighs,
the blue halos on her wrists,
the faint indentations of his fingers pressed into her hips.
She should feel battered, broken,
but instead, she feels whole,
like every mark is a thread hemming her back together.
Her fingers ghost over a bruise on her collarbone,
and she exhales shakily,
her chest rising and falling with the weight of everything they’ve done,
everything they are.
She believes she resembles a painting
that Brad created solely for admiration.
Brad steps in behind her, silent,
his presence as steady as the warmth of his hands
as they slide around her waist.
He doesn’t say anything at first—he doesn’t have to.
His lips press softly to her shoulder,
the gentlest touch in the aftermath of their storm.
Nicole looks up, meeting his reflection in the mirror.
His arms wrap tighter around her,
his skin marred with streaks of red,
lines her nails left in her desperate need to keep him close.
They look like battle scars,
but they feel like love.
“You’re good?” he murmurs, his voice low and careful,
his eyes searching hers in the glass.
She nods, her lips twitching into the faintest smile.
Her hand lifts to cover his,
their fingers tangling over the curve of her stomach.
“I’m good,” she whispers.
And she is okay. Really.
Even if this love isn’t soft—it’s sharp.
It’s needles and swords,
roses with thorns that prick and cut,
rainbows that stretch across skies torn apart by storms.
Brad’s lips move from her shoulder to her neck,
pressing slow, tender kisses along her skin,
as if he’s trying to soothe away the bruises he left,
as if love could ever be that simple for them.
“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly,
his breath warm against her neck.
“And I love you. More than anything.”
Nicole exhales softly, leaning back into him,
her body fitting against his like they were always meant to be this way.
Her eyes rake over the marks they’ve left on each other,
the bruises on her body,
the streaks on his arms,
and she knows this love is anything but simple.
It’s violent and beautiful,
destructive and healing,
a collision of opposites that leaves them bleeding and breathless,
but always coming back for more.
“I love you too,” she whispers, her voice steady but trembling at the edges.
And as Brad’s arms tighten around her,
as his lips press another kiss to her skin,
she lets herself sink deeper into him,
knowing this love will never be easy,
but knowing she could never want it any other way.
They’re not unhappy.
Not even close.
Nicole lies in bed, her body tangled with Brad’s,
his arm draped over her waist,
his breath warm against the back of her neck.
The room is quiet, the kind of quiet that settles after windstorms,
heavy and calm all at once.
She isn’t convincing herself that she’s happy.
She doesn’t need to.
She knows it—deep in her bones,
in the way her heart beats a little faster
when he looks at her like she’s his entire world.
She’s never been happier.
It’s just that happiness doesn’t erase the weight of it all.
Not the sharp edges of their fights,
or the bruises left on her soul as much as her skin.
And in moments like this,
when the adrenaline fades and the quiet settles,
she feels tired.
Simply tired.
A little sore. A little raw.
Not unhappy—never that.
But worn out,
like love is a marathon and they’ve been sprinting for miles.
Brad shifts behind her, his arm tightening around her waist,
pulling her closer as if he can feel her weariness in the way her body tenses.
His hand brushes over her hip, soft and soothing,
and she exhales slowly, her fingers grazing his.
“You okay?” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep but full of care.
Nicole nods, her eyes closing as she presses herself deeper into him.
“Yeah,” she whispers. And she means it.
She’s okay. She’s happy.
She’s just tired.
Because their love isn’t easy.
It’s heavy, consuming, like a fire that never stops burning.
It lights up every part of her,
but sometimes, the heat leaves her singed at the edges.
But even then, even in the moments when she aches,
when she feels the weight of them pressing down on her,
she knows there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.
Brad’s presence steadies her,
even when it’s chaotic.
And as his hand strokes her hip,
his breath evening out against her neck,
Nicole feels a pang of tenderness,
something soft and deep that reminds her
this love is hers,
even when it’s messy.
She doesn’t feel unhappy.
Not at all.
She feels tired, yes—
a little hurt, a little worn—
but still whole,
still his,
and still deeply, irrevocably happy.
Brad doesn’t hurt her on purpose.
He couldn’t if he tried.
His hands, so steady and strong when they hold her,
could never raise against her.
But his anger—it’s a force of its own,
a wildfire he can’t control,
and when it flares, it injures her heart so deeply
it feels like her very soul is tearing at the seams.
Nicole knows this.
She knows he doesn’t mean it,
knows it’s never intentional,
but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
And sometimes, when the storm inside her rises to meet his,
she loses herself, too.
Her screams pierce the air like glass shattering.
Her hands push at him,
shoving at his chest like she’s trying to move a mountain,
her palms hitting harder than she intends—
but not to hurt. Never to hurt.
She just doesn’t know where else to put it,
all this anger, all this pain.
And Brad takes it.
Every shove, every broken plate,
every tear-streaked word spat in the heat of the moment.
He takes it because he understands—
because he’s as lost in her as she is in him.
“I’m sorry,” they'll whisper sometimes,
when their hands fall limp at their sides,
their chest heaving from all the fight they've thrown at each other.
Their voice cracks like it’s breaking under the weight of it all.
“I didn’t mean to get mad.”
And they know. They know.
But it doesn’t stop the tears,
doesn’t stop her from burying her face in his chest,
her sobs soaking into his shirt
as his arms wrap around her like they’re trying to hold her together.
“I love you,” she’ll say then, her voice muffled and raw.
“I love you so much, Brad. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
But there’s nothing wrong with her,
and he’ll tell her that,
kissing the top of her head, her temple, her cheek,
his touch so soft it feels like a balm
for every word they’ve thrown at each other.
And she’s ashamed to admit—
ashamed even to herself—that she thinks he loves her more.
That his devotion is deeper,
more consuming,
more unrelenting.
She loves him so much it aches,
so much it feels like her heart might burst under the weight of it.
But his love—his love feels like something else entirely.
It’s the way he always forgives her first,
the way his hands are so careful,
even when hers are clumsy with anger.
It’s the way he looks at her when she isn’t looking,
like she’s the only thing that matters in a world
that keeps breaking them apart.
And she’s happy.
Not in the easy, airy way other people talk about happiness,
but in a way that’s heavy and full,
a happiness that feels like it’s been fought for,
earned in the moments after the storm,
when his arms are around her and his voice is steady,
telling her again and again,
“I love you, Nicole. I love you more than anything.”
And she believes him.
She knows it’s messy.
Knows it hurts.
Knows they’ll hurt each other again.
But in this moment, wrapped in his arms,
she feels it—
love so deep it drowns out everything else.
And she’s happy.
She loves him when he’s yelling,
his voice rough and raw,
spitting fire in a way that makes her chest ache and her hands shake.
She loves him when his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel,
when the car speeds too fast,
teetering on the edge of chaos,
and she thinks, just for a second, that they might crash.
But she loves him anyway.
He'd never let the car crash,
he'd never let her be hurt.
She loves him when he’s soft,
when his hands are steady as they dice onions in the kitchen,
his face breaking into that crooked smile
when he sees her watching him.
She loves him when he’s plating her favorite dinner,
setting it in front of her with a playful bow,
making her laugh so hard her ribs hurt.
She loves him when he’s on his knees,
his head buried between her legs,
his lips and tongue tracing worship into her skin,
his hands gripping her thighs like he can’t get close enough.
She loves the way his name falls from her lips,
the way it feels like he’s devouring her and giving himself all at once.
And she loves him when his fist hits the wall,
when the drywall cracks under his knuckles,
when his anger bleeds out in the form of bruises on his skin instead of hers.
She loves him when his chest heaves afterward,
the way he turns to her, eyes wide and broken,
muttering, “I’m sorry,” like it’s the only thing holding him together.
Nicole loves him in all his extremes—
when he’s fire and when he’s water,
when he’s the storm that rages
and the calm that follows.
She loves him when he’s reckless,
when his temper flares like an uncontrollable flame,
and when he’s careful,
pressing soft kisses to the places he’s unintentionally hurt.
Her love for him isn’t conditional.
It doesn’t waver in the heat of his anger
or soften only in the glow of his tenderness.
It’s constant, unrelenting,
a force she doesn’t know how to stop,
even when it burns her.
Because it’s him.
It’s Brad.
And she loves him for all of it—
the chaos, the care,
the highs, the lows,
the moments that break her,
and the ones that put her back together.
Brad, though, doesn’t love her when she yells.
In those moments, he hates her.
He hates the way her voice cuts through him like shards of glass,
the way her words sharpen into daggers that find every vulnerable part of him.
He hates her bitter laugh,
the one that’s so cold, so empty,
it makes his chest ache in ways he doesn’t know how to fix.
He hates the way she paces the apartment like a hurricane looking for something to destroy,
and how he always follows her,
like a loyal dog trailing after its master,
unable to stop himself,
even when every step feels heavier than the last.
But he loves her real laugh.
Her soft, carefree laugh that makes him forget the rest of the world exists.
It’s his favorite song,
a melody he plays in his head when things get too quiet.
It makes him float,
makes him believe there’s still light in the parts of them that feel so dark.
He loves her when she’s gentle,
when her fingers weave through his hair like it’s her only job in the world.
When she kisses his face over and over,
pressing her lips to his cheeks, his jaw, the corners of his mouth,
whispering his name like it’s something holy.
He loves the way her fingers trace the bump on his nose,
the one he grew up hating,
the one that made him avoid mirrors during his teenage years.
But she touches it with such care, such quiet adoration,
that he loves it now too.
Brad hates her when she flirts with guys, though.
Hates the way her eyes gleam with that sharp, teasing edge,
the way her smile curves just so,
knowing exactly how to make his blood boil.
He hates the jealousy that twists in his gut,
the way it turns him into someone he doesn’t recognize,
someone who wants to grab her and remind her,
loudly,
who she belongs to.
But he loves how she always comes back to him afterward,
how she curls into his lap, her hands on his chest,
her voice soft, promising,
“I’m yours, Brad. Always yours. You’re the only one.”
Brad’s love for her is a mess of dichotomies.
It’s the way he hates her when she’s screaming at him,
but loves her when she’s humming softly,
her head resting on his shoulder.
It’s the way she makes him feel untouchable one moment,
and completely destroyed the next.
He hates her sometimes.
He loves her all the time.
Brad thinks, sometimes, that Nicole loves him more.
She’s never said the word hate.
Not even in the heat of their worst fights,
not when she’s screamed until her voice cracked,
not when she’s shoved him,
or broken a plate just to make her point louder.
She’s never thrown that word at him,
and it lingers in the back of his mind,
this quiet guilt that gnaws at him when the storm has passed.
How could he love her more
when there are moments—fleeting, bitter, searing—
where he hates her?
He hates the way she knows how to hurt him with a glance,
a laugh, a sore word tossed over her shoulder.
He hates the way she tests his patience,
pacing the apartment, arms crossed,
forcing him to follow her like a man desperate for her attention.
And he hates the way she makes him feel small,
just for a moment,
when her anger rises like a tidal wave he can’t stop.
But as deep as that hatred can sink into his chest,
his love for her drowns it every time.
His adoration swells a million times stronger,
filling every crack she’s left in him,
spilling out in the quiet moments when she doesn’t even know
how much she’s holding him together.
Now, as he spoons her,
his arm draped over her waist,
his lips pressing lazy, lingering kisses to the back of her neck,
he loves her so much
it swallows him whole.
Her breathing is slow, even,
her body warm and soft against his,
and he feels the steady rise and fall of her chest,
the way her fingers lightly rest on his wrist.
And he can’t remember ever thinking about hate.
All he knows is this—
the smell of her shampoo, faint and familiar,
the curve of her shoulder under his lips,
the way her hair falls across the pillow,
the way she makes him feel like this is it—
the life he wants,
the only one he’ll ever need.
“I love you,” he whispers against her skin,
his voice so soft it almost feels like it isn’t meant for her to hear.
But she shifts slightly, pressing back into him,
and even half-asleep, she murmurs,
“I love you too, Brad.”
And she loves him too.
God, how she loves him.
It’s the kind of love that crawls under her skin,
settles in her bones,
becomes a part of her in ways she can’t untangle,
even if she wanted to.
She doesn’t mind the scars—
not the ones on her heart,
not the ones that feel like bruises blooming deep inside her.
Every fight, every sharp word,
every moment where the storm between them threatens to rip her apart,
it’s all worth it.
It’s all worth it for this.
For the way he holds her now,
his body wrapped around hers,
his arm heavy across her waist,
his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses to the back of her neck,
like he’s trying to say everything he can’t with words.
Nicole knows the fights will come again.
She knows the yelling, the tears,
the slammed doors and the way his voice cuts through her
like a blade she’s learned to welcome.
But she also knows this:
that he’ll hold her afterward,
every night, without fail,
his body warm and steady against hers,
his touch soft in the way only he knows how to be.
And she’s ready for it.
Ready for the chaos,
the anger,
the pain.
Because she knows, deep in her soul,
that he’s worth it.
Every fight, every scar,
every moment when she feels like she’s falling apart—
it’s all worth it for the way he whispers her name
like it’s sacred,
for the way his hands glide over her skin,
for the way he says, “I love you, Nicole,”
like it’s a promise he’ll never break.
Nicole knows she’d take every fight,
every tear, every storm,
just to feel like this in his arms.
Brad’s lips press softly against her neck,
unhurried and purposeful,
pausing to move her hair aside, his fingers brushing it back
like he’s uncovering something sacred.
His breath is warm against her skin,
and his voice is low, tender,
as he whispers sweet nothings that feel like they’re filling every crevice inside her.
Nicole closes her eyes, her chest tight with something heavy and warm.
She thinks, for a fleeting moment,
that she’s just dramatic.
It’s never painful, not really.
How could it be,
when this is Brad?
A man who kisses her neck like she’s made of gold,
who holds her like she’s the center of his universe,
who whispers, “I love you,”
like it’s a truth older than time itself.
How could someone who loves her this much ever hurt her?
It doesn’t hurt.
She’s dramatic.
She’s only trying to win their arguments
when she believes it does.
This isn’t toxic.
It’s Brad.
And she loves him.
And he loves her.
The marks he’s left on her skin aren’t bruises,
they’re love marks,
soft reminders of the way his hands held her too tightly,
not to hurt,
but because he doesn’t know how to love her without holding on
like she might disappear.
Nicole turns in his arms,
her hands sliding up to his face,
her fingers brushing over his jaw, his cheeks.
Her lips find his,
and she kisses him more softly than she ever has,
a kiss so quiet, so full of unspoken words,
it moves mountains.
It calms the typhoon inside them.
When she pulls back, her eyes meet his,
tired but unflinching,
and her voice shakes as she whispers,
“Promise me.”
Brad frowns slightly, his hands tightening on her waist.
“Promise you what?” he asks, his voice rough but steady.
“Promise me you’ll never leave,” she says, her words breaking as they fall.
“No matter what I say. No matter if I beg you to.
No matter if I try to force you, or if I walk away.
Promise me you’ll stay, Brad. Please.”
He stares at her, and in her tired eyes,
he sees the entire universe—
all the chaos and the beauty and the weight of her love.
His chest tightens,
his breath catches,
and he leans forward, his forehead resting against hers.
“I promise,” he says softly, his voice cracking with the weight of it.
“I’ll never leave you, Nicole. Not ever. Not for anything.”
And she believes him.
She believes him because his hands hold her like a lifeline,
because his lips press to hers again, soft and desperate,
because in his arms, even in their mess,
she feels whole.
Brad loves her like she’s the only star in the night sky,
and as he whispers his promise again,
she knows she’ll never stop loving him,
no matter how dramatic she thinks she is,
no matter how hard it gets.
Because this isn’t toxic.
And in three years, when they finally walk away,
it’s not because of the bruises,
the shouts,
or the things thrown and broken in the heat of their storms.
It’s not because Nicole threw a glass and missed,
or because Brad punched the wall so close to her head
she could feel the tremor in her bones.
It’s not because she shoved him so hard against the wall
he hit his head,
or because he held her arm so tight when she tried to leave
that her skin turned purple and sore.
They don’t leave because of that.
They leave because their love is too much—
too heavy,
too consuming,
too wild for two people who never learned how to set it down.
They leave because it becomes unbearable
to carry the weight of what they were
and still keep standing.
And when Nicole sobs into her pillow,
her chest heaving with the weight of him,
or cries into Bridgette’s shoulder,
or buries her face in her hands in the quiet of her apartment,
it’s not because she’s angry,
not because she’s hurt.
It’s because she doesn’t know how to exist without him.
Brad is in her veins, in her breath,
and now that he’s gone,
she’s gasping for air that doesn’t taste like him,
and it’s choking her.
And Brad—
Brad doesn’t cry, not where anyone can see.
Instead, he finishes into another faceless girl,
another woman with hair too similar to Nicole’s,
but a laugh that doesn’t fill the room the same way.
He finds them at bars,
on apps,
in the backseats of cars and hotel rooms
that will never feel like home.
He doesn’t mark them.
He doesn’t hold them the way he held Nicole,
his hands firm and desperate,
pressing her against him like she was the only thing keeping him alive.
He doesn’t kiss them, not really,
not like he kissed Nicole,
slow and soft and full of something he didn’t know how to name.
He doesn’t love them—he can’t.
But it’s not because he’s hurt she’s gone.
It’s because, for a few fleeting moments,
he can close his eyes,
hear someone else’s breathy moans,
and pretend Nicole never left.
Pretend she’s still his,
her body tangled with his,
her voice whispering his name like it’s the only word she’s ever known.
But even apart,
even in the quiet spaces where Nicole sobs
and Brad pretends,
they are still marked by each other.
Every laugh, every touch, every breath
is a memory of the love that was too big to stay,
but too strong to ever really leave.
And even when Nicole quits the bistro,
her hands shaking as she hands in her resignation,
she swears it’s not because she can’t see Brad every day
without something inside her breaking apart.
She tells herself it’s for a fresh start,
a new chapter,
a lie so brittle she barely believes it.
And even when Brad spends weeks
trying every restaurant in Los Angeles,
eating food he doesn’t taste
just to catch a glimpse of her,
it’s not pain that drives him.
It’s addiction.
The kind that gnaws at your bones,
leaves you shaking and sobbing
and angry and hurt and confused,
craving a high you know you’ll never feel again.
It’s withdrawal,
and it’s the worst kind—
the kind that makes the world quieter,
colder,
emptier than it’s ever been. Cruel.
And no one tells you how long it lasts,
how it can stretch across years,
turning every moment into a slow ache,
every night into a void.
Three more years later, they meet again.
Not on purpose. Not in some dramatic, scripted moment.
It’s a grocery store, of all places,
fluorescent lights buzzing overhead
and shitty pop music playing through crackling speakers.
Nicole is in the pasta aisle,
her hand reaching for a box of shells,
her hair tied back in a way that makes Brad’s chest ache,
because it’s too familiar, too her,
and he thinks, for a moment, that he’s dreaming.
Her face—god, her face—
isn’t sunken like he feared it might be.
She looks like the Nicole he first met,
the one who laughed easily,
who teased him about his car,
who lit up rooms without even trying.
His heart doesn’t stop because he’s surprised to see her,
to see her alive and well
and not the shattered, hollow shell
he’s been carrying in his mind all these years.
No, his heart stops because of what happens next.
A man turns towards her,
trying to grab the box of pasta from her hand,
and he laughs, soft and warm in a way that feels
too intimate, too natural.
“Babe,” the man says,
his voice gentle, like he’s said it a thousand times.
“I keep telling you—bow ties are better than shells.”
Nicole giggles then,
a laugh that’s too real,
too happy,
and it feels like a knife twisting in Brad’s chest.
He doesn’t even notice the way his hands clench at his sides,
doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath
until his lungs burn.
It’s not jealousy, not really.
It’s not anger, not fully.
It’s something deeper,
a wound that never really healed,
a reminder that no matter how much time has passed,
Nicole still has the power to destroy him
without even looking his way.
And when she finally turns, her eyes meeting his,
her face freezes for just a second.
Her lips part, like she might say his name,
but she doesn’t.
Not yet.
Instead, she blinks,
her expression unreadable,
and Brad knows—
she’s moved on.
But his heart doesn’t believe it.
His heart stays stuck in the past,
stuck in her laugh,
stuck in the sound of her saying
that she’s his.
And when she says his name,
“Brad?”
it’s like the universe folds in on itself.
Her voice—it’s the same voice that once whispered I love you into his ear,
the same voice that screamed his name in anger,
the same voice he’s replayed in his head
a thousand times in the quiet of his nights.
Hearing it now, after all these years,
is like he’s relapsed into the addiction they swore to leave behind.
Brad freezes.
His heart stutters and his breath catches,
and he doesn’t know what to do.
Walk away? Say hi?
Shake her hand, like they’re strangers?
Kiss her, like no time has passed?
Scream at her for leaving?
Cry because she’s here, in front of him,
and all the time in the world hasn’t dulled what he feels?
Before he can decide, the man—the boyfriend—
steps closer, his arm resting casually around Nicole’s waist.
He looks at Brad, polite and curious,
completely unaware of the hurricane between them.
“Is he a friend?” the man asks, his voice easy, light,
as if the weight of the question doesn’t feel like it’s crushing Brad’s ribs.
Brad doesn’t look at him at first.
His eyes stay fixed on Nicole,
on the way her lips tremble,
on the way her eyes glisten with unshed tears
that she’s fighting so hard to hold back.
The familiar look of almost sobbing.
He knows it well.
He caused it one time too many, and now he’s the reason for it again.
“Something like that,” Brad says finally,
his voice low and even,
though it feels like the words scrape their way out of his throat.
“Old friends.”
The man offers his hand, smiling politely,
and Brad takes it,
his grip firm and quick,
but his eyes never leave Nicole.
He doesn’t even notice the man’s name.
And Nicole—
god, Nicole.
Her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something,
but no words come out.
Her hand rises, almost instinctively,
then drops again.
Brad swears the look in her eyes doesn’t stab him ten times in the chest.
He swears the sight of her now,
older but somehow the same,
doesn’t make him want to grab her hand,
pull her away from this aisle,
this man,
this life that isn’t his.
“Nice to meet you,” Brad mutters,
but it’s hollow, automatic,
his voice as lifeless as he feels.
The boyfriend dittos him,
makes some offhanded joke about how “ Nicole’s always bumping into people she knows,”
and Brad manages a tight, humorless smile.
But his eyes—his eyes stay on Nicole,
on the way she bites her lip to keep from trembling,
on the way her hand clutches the box of pasta
like it’s the only thing holding her together.
And just before Brad turns to walk away,
she whispers,
“Brad…”
And it sounds like goodbye.
Four months later, Nicole calls Brad in the middle of the night.
Her fingers tremble as she holds the phone to her ear,
the silence stabbing her like a knife as it rings,
and she swears to herself it’s not because seeing him that day
had turned her entire world upside down.
She swears she didn’t break up with her perfectly fine,
amazing, sweet boyfriend because of Brad.
She swears she didn’t walk away from her healthy, steady relationship
because seeing him in that grocery store aisle
has warped her back into the chaos of what they were.
But when Brad sees her name flash on his screen,
his heart slams into his chest so hard it leaves him breathless.
He stares at it for a long moment,
his mind racing through every possibility.
He has to make sure he’s not drunk and misreading,
his vision swimming.
He blinks hard, but her name is still there.
He pinches himself, wondering if he’s high,
if he’s hallucinating her back into his life.
But no—his mind is clear, the room steady.
He runs a hand over his face,
realizing this isn’t a dream.
It’s real.
And when he finally picks up,
when he hears her breath on the other end of the line,
it’s like something cracks open inside him,
something that’s been waiting, dormant, for three long years.
“Hi,” she says softly, her voice trembling.
“Nicole,” he breathes, her name like a balm and a wound all at once.
And when they meet again, when they try again,
it’s nothing like before.
The fights are gone, burned out by time and distance.
They’ve grown in their years apart,
learned to love softer, quieter,
without the fire that once consumed them both.
It’s sweet now, so sweet it almost aches.
Brad runs his fingers through her hair as she reads on the couch,
Nicole rests her head on his chest during lazy mornings,
their bodies tangled together like they never learned to let go.
It’s picture-perfect.
No broken dishes.
No slammed doors.
No bruises that bloom on their skin,
just gentle hands and soft laughter,
and the kind of love they used to think was impossible for them.
But that sweetness becomes their undoing.
Two years later, they part again.
Not because they don’t love each other—
god, they love each other so much it hurts.
But because they’re not built for this version of love.
They’re not used to existing together without tearing each other apart.
They miss the fights, the chaos, the fire.
They miss the heat of it,
the way their anger felt as consuming as their passion.
This quiet love—
it’s beautiful, but it feels foreign.
Like a song sung in the wrong key,
familiar but just off enough to make it ache.
And so, one night, when Nicole softly whispers,
“I think we’re better apart,”
Brad doesn’t fight her.
He kisses her forehead, his lips trembling,
and he lets her go.
They run into each other at a club about a year later,
neither of them expecting it,
neither of them prepared.
Nicole’s dress clings to her body like sin,
her smile sharp but distant,
and Brad’s eyes catch her from across the room
like a magnet he’s spent months trying to turn off.
But it’s still there,
that pull,
that unrelenting gravity
that neither of them has ever been able to escape.
His girlfriend is somewhere else in the crowd,
but in this moment, she’s a ghost.
It’s just Nicole—
just her laugh, her eyes,
the way she tilts her head back as if she doesn’t see him
watching her every move.
Brad swears he doesn’t miss her.
Swears he’s happy in his new life,
with a woman who is steady, calm,
everything Nicole never was.
But when their eyes meet,
when Nicole smirks and tilts her drink in his direction,
he finds himself walking toward her,
his steps heavy with something he refuses to name.
Their words are clipped at first,
sharp-edged and playful,
both of them pretending it doesn’t feel like suffocating air
to be this close again.
But then, they’re in the bathroom.
Pressed against the wall,
her legs around his waist,
his hands gripping her hips so tightly
they’ll leave marks she’ll feel in the morning.
“I didn’t miss you,” Brad mutters against her mouth,
his lips hot and rough,
and Nicole lets out a low laugh,
her fingers threading into his hair.
“Good,” she breathes,
her voice trembling as his teeth graze her neck.
“Neither did I.”
But his kisses linger,
slower than they should,
almost reverent, almost worshipful,
and he swears to himself that they’re not.
It’s just heat.
Just lust.
When he thrusts into her, hard and deep,
when her back arches and her nails scrape his shoulders,
he swears it’s just because she’s hot,
not because he needs to feel as close to her as humanly possible.
Not because he’s spent the last year pretending
he doesn’t remember every inch of her.
When he moans her name,
low and desperate,
he swears it’s not because it still tastes right on his tongue.
Not because it’s a song he’s been singing in his head
since the last time he had her.
Nicole swears too.
She swears her kisses are casual,
just the reunion of old friends,
just something to do in the heat of the moment.
Her hands grip his shoulders,
but it’s only to steady herself,
not to feel the familiar lines of his body under her palms.
When she pulls him closer,
her legs tightening around him,
when she whispers his name into his ear
like it’s a secret she’s kept for too long,
she swears it’s nothing.
Just a night.
Just old memories.
And when they’re done,
when her dress is crooked and her lips swollen,
when she looks at him and says,
“Come over,”
it's just politeness.
Not need.
Not the aching, hollow pull
that’s been clawing at her chest for months.
It’s not because she needs his arms around her to fall asleep.
It’s not because she needs to wake up to his kisses in the morning
just to feel like herself again.
They’re both swearing,
both lying,
both drowning in the addiction of each other,
pretending it’s just a relapse,
when they know deep down—
they’ve never truly quit.
When they wake up together,
the light filtering through the blinds feels too soft,
too golden,
like it’s painting them into a memory they’ve lived before.
Nicole stretches beside him, her bare shoulder brushing his chest,
and for a moment, it feels like they never left each other.
Brad turns his head to look at her,
the familiar mess of her hair,
the way her cheek presses into the pillow,
her lips slightly parted.
It’s everything he’s missed,
everything he pretended he didn’t need,
and now it’s here,
right next to him,
as though no time has passed.
“Should we try again?” he asks, his voice low, unsure.
Nicole laughs softly, her eyes still closed.
“Shouldn’t you talk to your girlfriend first?” she teases,
but there’s a bitter edge to her tone
that twists something inside Brad.
“I’ll leave her,” he says quickly, firmly,
like it’s not even a question.
“For you, Nicole. I’d leave her right now.”
Nicole opens her eyes,
turning to him with a look that’s both tired and amused.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says softly.
But then, after a pause, her voice dips into something quieter,
something raw.
“I miss you.”
Brad’s throat tightens,
and he shifts closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“I never stopped loving you,” he murmurs.
Nicole’s breath catches,
and her fingers graze his cheek,
her lips trembling into a small smile.
“I want to try again,” she affirms, her voice almost a whisper.
Brad exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath for years.
“I’d marry you right now if you’d take me,” he says,
his words spilling out, heavy with everything he’s been holding back.
Nicole laughs then, a real laugh,
soft and disbelieving.
“You’re so stupid,” she says,
shaking her head as she presses her lips to his shoulder.
Two days later, the cracks already start to show.
They’re in her kitchen when the fight starts,
her voice rising as she paces barefoot on the tile,
the same old fire in her eyes.
“You haven’t even told her, have you?” Nicole accuses,
crossing her arms like she’s daring him to lie.
Brad runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.
“I’m going to,” he says, his voice sharp.
“Just give me some fucking time.”
“Time?” Nicole snaps.
“You’ve had two days, Brad. Two days, and you’re still—”
He interrupts her, stepping closer,
his hands on her hips, pulling her to him despite her resistance.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” he says, his voice low, dangerous.
“With you. That should tell you everything.”
And she hates it—hates that he’s right,
hates that her body responds to his touch
even as her mind screams at her to push him away.
The fight is familiar,
thrilling in the way only they can make it.
Their voices rise, overlapping,
their words cutting like knives
before their hands find each other,
before the heat takes over.
They’re on the counter within minutes,
her legs wrapped around him,
his hands gripping her waist so tightly
it feels like he’s trying to keep her from slipping away again.
It’s messy, desperate,
and when it’s over,
when they’re both breathless and trembling,
Nicole grips his face, her eyes fierce.
“Promise me,” she says, her voice cracking.
“Promise me you won’t hurt me this time.”
Brad’s hands slide to her wrists, holding them gently,
his forehead pressing to hers.
“I promise,” he whispers, his voice unsteady.
“But you have to promise me the same.”
Nicole nods, her lips brushing his softly,
her voice barely audible as she murmurs,
“I promise.”
Brad breaks up with his girlfriend that night.
No hesitation, no drawn-out speeches.
He just looks at her, apologetic but resolute,
and tells her, “It’s over. I’m sorry, but it’s her. It’s always been her.”
Later that evening, he takes Nicole out to dinner.
It’s not fancy, but it’s perfect—
a small, candlelit table tucked into a quiet corner of a restaurant
where they can sit close enough to touch.
Their laughter feels like a melody they forgot how to sing,
soft and familiar,
and their eyes meet over wine glasses,
the air between them buzzing with something electric,
something they’ve never been able to name.
Nicole leans forward, her chin resting on her hand,
her lips quirking into a teasing smile.
“Have you ever loved anyone as much as you love me?” she asks,
her voice light but curious,
her eyes holding something heavier.
Brad doesn’t even think about it.
“No,” he says simply,
his voice steady and sure.
“Not even close.”
She swallows, her cheeks warming,
and after a moment, she tilts her head.
“Have you ever fought with anyone
as much as you did with me?”
Brad smirks, leaning back in his chair.
“No,” he says again, grinning.
“And I don’t think I ever will.”
Nicole laughs softly, shaking her head.
“Good. I wouldn’t want anyone else to experience that kind of hell.”
Their legs brush under the table,
and Brad doesn’t move his away.
Instead, his knee presses lightly against hers,
his foot finding hers and trailing up her calf.
“You know,” he says casually,
his voice dropping just enough to make her stomach flip,
“I could crawl under this table right now.
Make it the best dinner I’ve ever had.”
Nicole’s eyes widen slightly before narrowing in playful warning.
She kicks his shin lightly under the table,
her lips curving into a smirk.
“Behave,” she says,
but there’s a glint in her eyes that tells him she’s not entirely opposed.
Brad leans forward, his elbows on the table,
his grin lazy and confident.
“Later, then?” he teases, his voice low enough for only her to hear.
Nicole rolls her eyes, biting back a laugh.
“Later,” she says,
her tone playful but laced with something heavier,
something that makes his pulse quicken.
They’re fighting again,
and it’s loud, messy, the kind of fight
that drags up everything they’ve tried to leave buried.
Nicole’s voice is sharp, cutting through the air,
her eyes blazing as she shouts,
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Brad?
You think you get to call me that?!”
Brad stands there, his jaw clenched,
his hands at his sides,
but his eyes are full of something he can’t contain.
“It just slipped out, Nicole!” he snaps back,
his voice louder than he intended.
“I didn’t mean it!”
“Slipped out?” Nicole spits,
her hands coming up to shove his chest,
hard enough to make him take a step back.
“Calling me a slut just slipped out?
Do you even hear yourself right now?”
Her fists hit his chest again,
not hard enough to hurt,
but enough to make her anger known.
And Brad grabs her wrists,
his grip firm but careful,
holding her still as she struggles against him.
“Stop,” he says, his voice lower now, softer.
“Nicole, stop. Please.”
But she doesn’t.
Not yet.
Her body trembles as she yells,
“You don’t get to judge me for what I did after you—
after we —broke up!”
Her voice cracks,
and Brad feels it like a punch to his gut.
“I’m not judging you,” he says quickly,
his tone desperate, his hands still holding her wrists.
“I swear to god, Nicole, I’m not. I just—”
He exhales sharply, his grip tightening briefly before loosening.
“It came out wrong. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Nicole’s chest heaves, her breaths sharp and uneven,
and her struggles weaken as her anger gives way to something else.
Her eyes glisten, her lips trembling,
and Brad feels his heart twist in his chest.
He doesn’t tell her how many girls he got with.
Doesn’t tell her how he drowned himself in strangers
just to forget the way her name tasted in his mouth.
He doesn’t say a word,
because it would only make it worse.
“Fuck you,” she whispers,
her voice breaking,
and Brad lets go of her wrists,
his hands moving to cup her face.
“Stop,” he says, his voice trembling.
“I’m sorry, Nicole. I didn’t mean it.”
Nicole stares at him, her eyes wet,
her breathing still uneven.
And slowly, she stops fighting.
Her hands fall to her sides,
and Brad leans forward, pressing his forehead to hers.
“I love you,” he whispers,
the words soft and heavy with guilt.
“I love you so much. Please don’t let this be the thing that ruins us.”
And when she finally nods, her tears slipping down her cheeks,
Brad kisses her.
It’s not rushed or rough—it’s slow, tender,
his lips moving over hers like he’s trying to erase every awful word
he’s ever said to her.
Nicole kisses him back, her hands curling into his shirt.
This time around, they don’t fight as much.
They’ve learned how to hold their tempers,
how to pick their battles,
how to keep the peace.
But when they do fight—
it’s nuclear explosions and fire.
It’s shouting that echoes off the walls,
doors slammed so hard the frames rattle,
and words flung like grenades,
sharp and cutting,
tearing into the tender places they swore to protect.
And it always, always, ends in sex.
She pushes him first,
her hands shoving at his chest,
and he grabs her wrists,
their bodies colliding like storm fronts.
Their mouths meet in a clash of teeth and lips,
their anger burning into something primal,
something neither of them can fight.
Afterward, in the quiet,
he buys her flowers,
small bouquets he picks up without thinking,
holding them out like a peace offering
when she opens the door.
He plays with her hair when they lie in bed,
his fingers combing through the strands
as though trying to soothe away the tension
left behind from their fight.
He draws on her skin with his fingertips,
tracing lazy patterns over her arms, her back,
leaving invisible lines that say,
“I’m sorry,”
over and over.
Nicole has her own way of apologizing.
She brings him knick-knacks,
tiny things that make her think of him—
a mug with a sarcastic slogan,
a book he mentioned once,
a dumb little keychain that makes him laugh.
She stays when he works out,
sitting cross-legged on the floor of his living room,
watching him lift weights or punch the bag,
her eyes tracing the lines of his body
as though she’s memorizing him all over again.
When he’s done, when his skin glistens with sweat,
she kisses him.
Every inch of him.
She starts at his jaw,
moves to his collarbone,
his shoulders,
his chest.
Her lips trail lower, slower,
pressing warmth and love into every place
her hands can reach.
One night, Nicole asks him, her voice soft in the dim glow of the lamp,
“Have you actually thought about marriage?”
Brad looks at her, his hand resting on her thigh,
his thumb idly stroking her skin.
“I don’t want kids,” he says after a pause,
his voice steady, like he’s thought about this a hundred times.
“Me neither,” Nicole replies,
almost immediately, almost too casually.
Her fingers toy with the edge of his shirt,
her eyes flickering to his face.
A moment of silence stretches between them,
but Nicole breaks it.
“Okay, but… what about marriage?”
Brad exhales, leaning back into the couch.
“I don’t know,” he admits,
his voice quieter now.
“I’ve never really thought about it like that.”
Nicole shrugs, her lips quirking into a faint, wry smile.
“Yeah. Me neither.”
But a few minutes later, she looks at him again,
her expression softer, more thoughtful.
“But if you did… if you would, ” she says carefully,
“would you marry me?”
Brad doesn’t even blink.
“Yes,” he says, without hesitation, without thought,
like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Nicole feels something twist and bloom in her chest,
and she tilts her head, her smile turning teasing.
“What kind of ring would you buy me?”
Brad grins, his hand moving up her leg.
“Oh, something obnoxious,” he says.
“Something big and sparkly. Something everyone would stare at.”
Nicole snorts, swatting his chest.
“You’re such a show-off.”
Then her voice softens,
“What about the wedding? What kind would we have?”
Brad thinks for a moment,
his hand tracing slow, lazy circles on her skin.
“Small. Just us and a few people we care about. Nothing too big.
You’d hate anything over the top.”
Nicole nods, a dreamy smile creeping onto her face.
“You’re right. I would.”
She leans into him, her hand resting on his chest.
“And I’d want something simple for the dress. Nothing too poofy.
Something sleek, maybe satin.”
“White?” Brad asks, his voice playful, his lips brushing her temple.
Nicole rolls her eyes, laughing.
“Obviously. I’m not that unconventional.”
Brad hums, his hand sliding up to tuck her hair behind her ear.
“You look beautiful in anything,” he says softly, his voice sincere.
“You'd look like a dream in a wedding dress.”
Nicole feels her cheeks flush,
and she laughs to cover the sudden rush of warmth.
“Okay, shut up,” she teases,
but her voice is softer now, her fingers curling against his chest.
“What about the honeymoon?” she asks,
her tone playful, but there’s curiosity there too.
“Where would we go?”
Brad grins, tilting his head as he thinks.
“Somewhere warm. With a beach. Somewhere we can disappear for a while.
Just you and me.”
Nicole nods, her eyes distant,
already picturing it—the sand between her toes,
the sound of waves crashing,
his hand in hers as the sun dips below the horizon.
“That sounds nice,” she murmurs.
“Somewhere we don’t have to think about anything else.”
“Do you think we’d fight less if we got married?” Nicole asks suddenly,
her voice half-joking, half-curious.
Brad laughs, his chest rumbling under her cheek.
“Probably not,” he admits.
“But maybe we’d learn to fight better.”
Nicole hums, her lips curving into a small smile.
“Maybe,” she says softly.
Brad doesn’t answer,
but his hand tightens slightly on her leg,
and she knows he’s thinking the same thing.
Maybe we’d learn to love better too.
They spend the night like that,
dreaming of a future they’re not sure they believe in.
Soft smiles, teasing touches,
his hand warm on her thigh,
her head resting on his shoulder.
It’s sweet.
It’s easy.
It’s unlike them.
But three months later, it’s over.
For good this time.
There’s no nuclear fight, no explosion.
Just the quiet realization that no amount of dreaming
can fix the cracks between them.
Brad takes his stuff,
and Nicole lets him go.
And when she stares at her bare hand in the weeks that follow,
she wonders what ring cut he might have bought her.