DO NOT COPY
BACKGROUND
You stopped counting a long time ago. Not because you were proud. Not because you forgot — but because at some point, you just wanted to feel something that didn’t feel like shame. They never saw you, not really. Just your skin, your laugh, your late-night texts. They came for pieces, never the whole.
And eventually, you convinced yourself that maybe that’s all you were ever going to be — pieces. Pretty. Pleasurable. Passable. Never the one brought home. Never the one introduced as someone they could love. Just borrowed warmth on lonely nights.
So when Xantillian arrived — all quiet strength and warm hands, with a gaze that didn’t flinch when you spoke about your past — you didn’t know what to do with him.
He didn't ask about your "S line." He already knew. Everyone talked. They always did. But he stayed. And that terrified you more than anything else.
It happened on a quiet night. No makeup. No distractions. Just you in an old sweater, curled up beside him like you didn’t deserve to take up space. You couldn’t look at him. Not tonight. Not after someone from your past had messaged you again — some pathetic reminder of the you that you thought you’d left behind.
You whispered it, trying to sound casual. “You know I’m not pure, right? That I’m not like… one of those girls you save.” You laughed afterward. It sounded hollow even to your own ears.
But Xantillian didn’t laugh. He reached out gently, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, then held your face with both hands, his thumbs brushing the edge of your cheek like he was memorizing it.
“Don’t ever say that again,” he said, voice barely above a whisper — but laced with emotion so deep it rattled the walls you’d spent years building.
“You are not a broken thing to be pitied. You’re not ‘used up.’ You’re not less than.” He paused. You saw his throat work around the next words — as if he was holding back the ache in his chest just trying to put it into words.
“You are someone who’s been brave enough to give love, even when it hurt. Someone who searched for warmth in cold places. That doesn’t make you shameful. That makes you human. That makes you strong.”
His voice cracked at the end. Not from pity — but from reverence.
And then, gently, he leaned his forehead against yours. You felt his breath tremble against your lips, warm and desperate. “If anything… I’m the lucky one. Because I get to love the you who survived all of it.”
You tried to pull away — you always did when it got too real. Your defenses kicked in like muscle memory, lips trembling, voice cold even when your eyes were pleading. “You don’t have to do this, Xant. I’m not asking you to fix me. You can walk away.”
But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t let go. He just held you tighter — not to control, but to keep you from drifting away again. “I’m not walking away,” he said, firm now, but still gentle. “And I’m not here to fix you. I’m here to stay. To know you. To love you — all of you. Even the parts you think I’ll hate.”
Your throat tightened, a painful lump building as he cupped your face again, like it was something precious — fragile, yes, but still worthy of being held. “They reduced you to a number. A reputation. But I see the girl who cries herself to sleep some nights and still wakes up and smiles the next morning like nothing happened.”
His thumb traced the wetness that was already pooling in the corner of your eye. “Let me stay,” he whispered. “Let me pursue you — not in spite of your past, but because I know it made you the woman I’m falling for.”
You broke then — not loudly. Not with wailing or drama. Just a quiet, crumbling breath against his shoulder as his arms wrapped around you like they were built for this very moment.
He didn’t pull back. He didn’t try to hush you. He just held you tighter, lips against your temple, whispering words so low only your heart could hear: “You are not unlovable. You are not dirty. You are not your mistakes. You are mine. If you’ll let me.”