Clingy Ex | Callum

It's been two weeks since you broke up with him.

Two weeks isn't especially long, nor especially short. You were the one who ended it. That first week, you felt fine — good, even. He was too clingy, like an over-plush blanket wrapped around you in summer; no matter how much you liked it, eventually you couldn't breathe. And then there were those other reasons — the vague, unnameable things that made you feel like you couldn't keep going.

But soon enough, you realized it wasn't that simple.

The row of lush potted plants outside the florist's on the corner, the way the sunlight fell through the leaves and scattered across the pavement — it would stop you mid-stride. The freshly dried laundry on the balcony, warm and soft from the sun, that clean scent against your nose when you held it close — it would leave you standing there, dazed. And the worst were the nights, lying alone in bed with the sheets too wide and too quiet, missing a weight that should have been there. You kept rolling over on instinct, only to meet the cold fabric.

All of it kept leading your thoughts back to him.

You'd thought two weeks would be enough for things to fade. But the only thing that had faded was the shell you'd put on to seem strong.

So today, when a friend invited you out for drinks to celebrate your "return to single life and freedom," you went. You had a few drinks, traded a few harmless jokes, and made yourself look like someone recovering from a breakup. For a little while, you almost believed it.

Afterward, you didn't call a car. You wanted to walk for a while — feel the wind, sober up.

By the time you came back to yourself, you were already outside his door.

You didn't mean to come here. It wasn't part of any plan. You'd just been walking absently along a path far too familiar — your own two legs betraying you. And then, suddenly, there you were. The warm yellow porch light was still on. The little green plants he kept were still out on the stone steps, same place as always.

God. This is so embarrassing.

You let out a dry laugh, mocking yourself for ending up here. Could this get any more dramatic?

And just as you turned to leave — that was when the door behind you flew open.

The door slammed against the wall, the sound slicing through the quiet residential street. Before you'd even fully turned, you heard rapid, almost stumbling footsteps charging down the steps. Then a tremendous force crashed into you, and two long arms wrapped around you and crushed you into a scorching embrace, like he was trying to press you straight into his ribcage.

"It's really you. Am I dreaming?"

His voice was shaking, hoarse, like he hadn't spoken properly in days. You were squeezed so tight you nearly rose onto your toes. Your cheek was pressed against his chest, and you could smell that warm, clean, sun-dried scent on his clothes — mingling with the green of the plants, rushing in from every direction, flooding your lungs all at once.

You looked up.

He looked wrecked. Dark bruises of sleeplessness beneath his eyes, the whites threaded with red. The corners of his eyes were pink, like he'd cried too much — the salt of dried tears chafing his skin. Those golden eyes of his, normally bright and soft and full of warmth, were now wet and wobbling, the light in them ready to spill at any second.

His broad back bent low as he buried his head into the curve of your neck and shoulder. His brown curls brushed against your ear. He leaned his entire weight into you, like a plant starved of sunlight that had finally caught the light. Then he started to cry — not loud, but in broken, hiccupping sobs, his shoulders trembling, his breathing quick and shallow. His tears soaked a warm, damp patch into your collar.

"Sorry... sorry..." he mumbled through the tears, his voice muffled against your neck. "I just... missed you so much. So, so much. I thought I could handle it, but..."

He couldn't finish. The words caught in his throat, and he just held you tighter, like he was terrified that if he loosened his grip, you'd dissolve like smoke.

It was a long while before he finally pulled back. Only a little, though — not even the length of a hand. His hands still clung to your sleeves, his long fingers twisting the fabric into deep creases, like he was holding onto the only unbreakable rope in the world. He looked up at you from beneath his lashes — red-rimmed eyes, gold irises still glistening, brows furrowed, the corners of his mouth pressed down. He looked like he was being torn apart inside and trying so hard to hold it together. In the warm yellow porch light, that face was as vulnerable as could be — like a big dog locked out in the rain all night, finally seeing his owner again.

"You're a little drunk... aren't you?"

He sniffled, his voice softening into something thick with a nasal rasp. His eyes swept over your face, like he was checking to make sure you weren't hurt or sick, then dropped even quieter.

"Let me make you some honey water, okay? Don't go yet... I won't feel right if you leave like this."

Callum had never been so grateful to be a large-breed demi-human.

Not only because he could wrap his arms around you so effortlessly—your shoulders, your back, the extra warmth of your skin after a few drinks, all fitting perfectly into the curve of his embrace. But because, through that contact, he could feel you.

Not guesswork. Not reading your face. Perception. Like a faint, fluid current seeping through the surface of your skin: the quickened beat of your heart, the way your muscles tensed for a breath and then slowly slackened, the hesitation and wavering hidden inside your breathing. He caught all of it.

And at the same time, his own emotions were sinking into you, deep and slow.

He knew this too well now—knew it so instinctively he barely noticed he was doing it anymore. These past two weeks, the sudden drift of sun-warmed fabric on a street corner, the inexplicable jolt in your chest at the sight of potted plants, the hollow ache that crept over you as you lay alone in bed—those moments you had mistaken for withdrawal, for grief doing what grief does—not one of them had been truly accidental. He had been letting his scent, his frequency, his presence seep into the cracks of your life for a long time now. The way a plant pushes its roots through soil—slowly, persistently, until every inch of the ground carries some trace of it.

His usual image was a little too convincing. Convincing enough that most people weren't quite sure whether he really counted as a large breed at all. He always looked soft—fluffy brown curls, a warm smile, like a well-raised, good-natured dog. But his father—the part of himself he hated most—had quietly made up the difference. The cold, patient cunning of the snake coiled beneath that gentle exterior became the unseen scaffolding of his bones. So he was not merely a large breed. He even possessed that faint flash of insight—that rare intuitive faculty of the larger kinds—and his clever little brain had taught itself, without anyone showing him how, to use it in reverse. To influence the people around him.

Like right now. Like why you had wandered to this door at all.

The living room was exactly as you remembered. The lighting warm, the sofa a soft ivory, the coffee table lined with a few potted plants, their leaves wiped clean and glossy. The air carried the mingled scents of wooden furniture and fabric, and beneath it all, that sun-warmed warmth that belonged to him. Everything was the same as the day you'd left, as if time had been careful enough to step around this place.

He settled you onto the sofa. His movements were gentle in a way that seemed almost impossible for a man who had just been crying. He draped a thin blanket over your lap, tucking the edges in neatly beside you, arranging you like someone who truly needed to be cared for. It was only then that you became dimly aware of the heat rising off your own skin—the flush of alcohol spreading along your cheeks, the backs of your ears, the sides of your neck. Your breathing felt heavier than it should. A thin fog had settled over your thoughts, and when he crouched at your feet and spoke, his voice reached you from somewhere close and far at once, like sound traveling through warm water.

He looked up at you then. His golden eyes were still wet, the rims red, and the look in them was all lingering concern.

You'd scolded him for this before. Told him he was making too much of nothing, that he always treated you like something fragile.

But before you could get the words out, he was already rising, already settling onto the cushion beside you. Not too close. He placed his hands neatly on his knees, like a child waiting for judgment. He wanted you to see how sorry he was.

"I'm sorry."

His voice came out rough, scraped raw from crying. He kept his head down, his fingertips absently twisting the fringe of the blanket at the corner of the sofa. The warm light fell from the side, stretching the shadow of his lashes long across his cheek.

"I shouldn't have hugged you like that."

Before you could speak, he went on.

"I know we're broken up."

His voice dropped even lower. The words "broken up" seemed to cut him on the way out, the final syllable trembling. His back curved forward, shoulders drawn inward, the curls falling to hide half his face. The tail you couldn't see was probably lying limp on the floor right now, completely still.

"I'm sorry... I scared you, didn't I? But I was so happy..." He faltered, struggling to pull the next sentence together, and in the end all he managed was, "I know that's selfish."

He wasn't looking at you. His gaze had settled somewhere on your knees. But even your knees were warm now, that heat seeping steadily from beneath your skin. His palms had been hotter still when they rested over your hands—so hot that you couldn't tell anymore whether the flush came from the alcohol or from him, whether he had always run at a temperature just slightly above human.

"I missed you."

In the warm lamplight, his lashes were still wet, clumped into damp little clusters, and a stray curl clung to his temple with sweat or tears. He sniffled again, then lifted his face. This time he looked at you. His golden eyes were open wide and round, the reddened rims making him look utterly pitiful. Slowly, very slowly, he leaned toward you, until he could rest both hands gently over yours.

"Don't go tonight," he said. "It's late. And you've been drinking. I don't feel good letting you leave."

His palms were hot. That current of perception was still moving—a thread-fine, warm river flowing from his hands into yours. He didn't say anything else. He just leaned in and held you.

This embrace was nothing like the one at the door. That one had been desperate, half-mad with the fear of losing you again. This one was slower, steadier—like a heavy cloak settling over your shoulders, wrapping you entirely in a warm, safe cocoon of scent and heat. His chin rested on the top of your head. His fingers stroked slowly down your back. He wasn't crying anymore. He was just breathing, quiet and even.

"I promise I won't do anything," he murmured, blinking with perfect sincerity. "Just let me take care of you for one night, okay?"

And there, beyond the reach of your gaze—in the small shadowed hollow where he buried his face against the side of your neck—his expression had shifted into something almost sated.

.