Notes: Sorry, this isn't a new update. I ended up deleting the beginning because I didn't like some parts of it. I might tweak it a bit and add it later, but for now it's deleted. If you happened to read the original sixth chapter, you don't have to read this again because it's still, more or less, the same. I'm currently working on the new update though. Feel free to comment if you'd like to see something specifically, and I'll try to see if I can fit it in. I'm also working on two other one-shots; one is angsty, the other is fluffy and family-related, featuring their kids, so if you're tired of reading this story, let me now, and I can update something else instead.

There are mentions of suggestive themes near the end of the chapter. If that's not your cup of tea, then, please, don't read it. It's nothing explicit, mostly just alluded to, but I thought I'd give you a heads up.

Lastly, but definitely not least, thank you for all your sweet reviews and messages! You are all lovely, and I don't deserve you.

Only You

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Chapter VI

It had rattled her, the first time she'd ever seen her parents fight.

Her mother had become more and more distant, always away, for one reason or another—an unforeseen assembly meeting, a luncheon at a private yacht club, a trip to a resort village—it didn't matter what the occasion, she was always out of reach. Her father, however, had put more effort in spending time with her. Every weekend, when she was a little girl, he'd take her on long walks to the park, and they'd stroll hand in hand, get ice cream from the nearest ice cream truck, watch the sun set over the treetops, and stop at a bench before heading back home.

Stella could see one particular time, clear as the daylight inside her mind. That day she'd stared hard at her chocolate chip ice cream cone, perched atop the same wooden bench her father and her always had, and it had only been then that she'd found the courage to ask the question that had been sitting at the back of her mind for the longest time. "Mom is never going to come back, is she?"

Her father had gone rigid beside her, and she had almost regretted asking the question. They had lingered a moment in the thick, tense silence, neither one speaking. The silence had been long and wide, and when she hadn't been able to stand it any longer, she'd anxiously peered up at his face, noticing her father had taken to staring blankly ahead of him.

"Daddy?"

Her father had recoiled, eyes widening, as though remembering right then and there where he was and who he was. Straightening his posture, he had sighed, a sad, forlorn sound that had tugged at her heartstrings. He'd then turned to her and tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. "Sometimes people have to go away for a little while. That way they can learn to love themselves first in order to love others."

Stella had frowned. "Mom doesn't know how to love?"

Her father had smiled, a small, wistful one, bringing out a handkerchief to wipe at the melted ice cream on her fingers. "It's not that simple, sweetheart. Love is not just a feeling. Love is a choice. Your mother—well, she is choosing to love you better by getting the kind of care she needs. It takes a lot of courage to do that," he explained. "You don't have to understand that now, but I can promise you there's not a single thing in the world your mother loves more than you. All we can do right now is be patient."

But she had never been a patient person. Stella hated waiting, hated staying put. Still, she had waited and waited and waited, but her mother had never come back to stay, to settle down.

Was she not even worth of an explanation, a reason, a chance?

Was she not good enough?

Standing in front of the apartment building the boys had rented, she couldn't help but feel the hypocrisy in criticizing how her mother had ducked out of a life that had become too much for her, when, in a way, she was doing the exact same thing.

It wasn't as though she wanted to avoid him, but she had to admit, if only to herself, that she was a runner: one for evading the tough conversations, happier to avoid than to confront—just like her mother, she thought to herself bitterly. It was cowardly, she knew, but she also knew she always made a big mess of things, always had her head up in the clouds, and she did not know how to trust herself, at least not where he was concerned.

Stella began to wonder if coming here at all had been the right move, the right choice. But then she clutched at the letterman jacket she was holding against her chest and reasoned that she had only come to return it. Or, at least, that was what she told herself. If the tightness around her throat, or the churning feeling in the pit of her stomach were anything to by, she suspected it was nothing more than a blanket excuse to come over, to talk things through.

And maybe it was.

Maybe she had always relied on smoke and mirrors, and maybe it was time she lifted the veil of fog.

Her fingers pressed against the column of her neck, like she was trying to catch her heartbeat, to seek a modicum of control over her emotions—another thing that reminded her too much of her mother, and she snatched her hand away, fingernails curling inside her palm.

Cool, cool, cool. She could be cool. She was cool. She was her father's daughter.

Rolling her shoulders back, she took a low, long breath and stepped forward. Green pumps clicked on the tiled floor in the movement, carefully manicured hand raised to press the doorbell. With another steadying breath, she pressed the bell, stepped back and waited. Dread knotted her stomach. Her eyes drifted back to the spiral staircase in spite of herself, and suddenly she got a half a mind to run again.

But then the chain slid, the lock clicked, and her heart nearly stopped.

"Stella?"

Her heart fluttered in her chest, then caved in at the sight of him. He hadn't been expecting her, she could tell. His eyebrows were raised in surprise, his mouth slightly parted in a question. Her gaze swept down from his face to the rest of his body, taking in the way he stood before her, bare-chested, with a towel loosely draped around his neck. Water drops gleamed on his chest, wet curls falling across his forehead, indicative of the fact that he must have just come out of the shower. Her chest squeezed. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him like this—all defined lines and chiseled muscles and shirtless—and the realization weighed down her chest like a ton of bricks.

Brandon pulled the door open wider, but she stayed rooted in her spot.

"Your jacket," she blurted out, at last, in a sudden burst of recollection, thrusting the jacket into his chest.

She became anxious to leave, and she made to move, or attempted to, but his hand darted out, encircling around her wrist before she could take a step. He didn't pull yet. He just kept her there, and when she looked up, his brown eyes were full of some unnamed emotion, silently pleading with her. "Can we talk?"

She pressed her lips together. "I can't stay."

"Why not?"

Stella blinked, lightheaded, scrambling for an excuse. But no excuse would manifest itself in her mind in the face of reality, and instead she blurted out, "'Cause you're not wearing a shirt."

His expression morphed into one of confusion. He opened his mouth to respond, but she had already tuned him out, palms to his chest, lips set in a determined line, shoving him inside the apartment. "What are you doing—"

But she wasn't listening. "What, you think you're in some swimwear ad?"

"Huh?"

"Just go put on a shirt!"

"Why—"

"Don't question it, just do it!"

Once inside his room, she let go of him and strode toward his drawers, yanking each one open. She scoured through the contents until her eyes landed on something that could only be described as utterly horrendous.

"Why do you still have this?" Stella wrinkled her nose, holding up one of his shirts in the air. Without a second thought, she tossed it away and continued to rifle through his clothes. "Didn't I tell you muscle shirts are over? Do you listen to anything I tell you—oh, my God, when did you get this shirt? Why haven't I seen you wear this wear before? It's cute. I approve."

"Stella, what are you—"

"And look at this—" here she replaced a pinstriped button-down shirt with a green vest, examining the piece of clothing with unusual scrutiny, "—actually, no, let's not look at this one. This is a big no-no," she deflected, shaking her head as she threw the article of clothing over her shoulder. "Sweater vests are most definitely not in this season. They make everything look tacky. We seriously need to upgrade your wardrobe."

"Stella."

But she couldn't hear him, still blabbering on and on, with her back to him. "Too many plaid shirts, too few dress shirts. Maybe throw in some vintage pieces and cashmere sweaters in the mix. Oh—and don't forget to include dark denim in your wardrobe; having plain denim just doesn't cut it anymore," she advised, absentminded, digging through another drawer now. "Neck scarves are making a comeback and you barely have any of them in—"

His hand clamped around her wrist, and she stopped in mid-rant, a black graphic T-shirt raised high in her poised hand.

Her face was confused. "What?"

Brandon sighed, plucking the shirt from her grasp. Stella watched as he crumbled it up and tossed it aside on the floor. "What's going on?" he asked, turning to look at her. "I doubt you came here with the intent to lecture me on my fashion choices."

Stella gave a nervous laugh, hearing how airy and false it sounded. "Why else would I be here?"

"I don't know," he said, his gaze trained on her, steady. She felt like he was quietly assessing her, like he saw past the façade she put on. "I was kind of hoping you'd tell me."

When she couldn't handle him looking at her like that anymore, she lowered her gaze to the floor. She had braced herself for this moment, this talk, but it still put her on edge, and she did not like it. Fiddling with the hem of her sundress, she picked at the end of her strapless dress. "Fine. I came to see you," she said, too tired to pretend anymore. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

He didn't say a word, didn't move, didn't reach out. Waiting for him to speak made her uneasy, and so she dropped her gaze, anxiety sweeping through every inch of her skin, eyes following the intricate lace detail her fingers were grasping at. When she finally chanced a glance at him, he was still looking at her.

Then faintly, almost imperceptibly, the left side of his cheek lifted, and something inside her fluttered.

"C'mere."

With that, Brandon dragged her toward his chest and gathered her into his arms. Her heart leapt into her chest, breath catching in her throat. His forearms crossed over one another, bringing her tightly to him, and she closed her eyes as she slipped her arms around him, tucking her face into his neck. He felt so warm, so safe, so familiar—like a security blanket one would hold onto as a child in times of troubles. All heat and weight and comfort. Knots loosened in her stomach, and she allowed herself to relish in the way his body fit against hers, so right, so perfect, for the first time in far too long.

"I was just getting ready to drop by your place," he murmured, his voice muffled by her hair. "I wanted to see you, too."

Face pressed to the crook of his neck, she clutched at him and burrowed herself into his warmth. There was something about the peace of being held in his arms that took the edge off the last of her nerves. They stayed like that for a while, not saying a word, not making a move, as time stood still. He did not try to force anything out of her. He just let her be, let her take her time.

"I don't want to fight anymore," she whispered. There was a tremor to her voice, and she hated it. She bit her lip against the oncoming onslaught of emotions, breath rattling in her chest, as she continued, "Make it stop, please. Just do something, Brandon. It's been weeks, and I—I don't know how to make it stop."

"Hey, now." His arms tightened around her. "Shh. It's all right."

She sank further into his chest, swallowing a shaky breath. "I just want it all to stop."

"All right," he said, pushing her back gently. His hands stretched toward her parted bangs over her forehead, tracing the frame of her face, and he looked at her with an intensity that dissipated all thought. "Tell me what to do, and I will, I will do it—tell me, and I swear, I'll do it."

Her throat tightened, the corners of her eyes stinging at the intimacy of his words.

He softened. "Baby, don't cry. God, I'm so sorry."

"I'm not crying." She immediately fixed her features into a stubborn pout, blinking back tears, as she pressed the heels of her palms over her eyes. "It's just the dust in here," she offered lamely.

There was a twitch to his lips; faint, but still enough to humor her. "Good," he said, "because I don't particularly like the idea of seeing you cry." His expression sobered then, and she thought she saw something flash in his brown eyes before he looked away, removing his hands from her face and running a hand through his hair. "I also don't want you to think that you can't trust me."

Stella immediately picked up on the hurt in his voice, and her heart squeezed with guilt. "I trust you," she insisted, catching his hand in hers. "I trust you more than anyone else."

He turned his head to look at her. "Do you?"

"Of course, I do."

Stella could see in his eyes that he still did not completely believe her. So she said after another pause, "I trust you," and cleared her throat before recovering to add, "I mean, I know I might have said some things that I didn't mean, but that was only because I was mad at you—or, you know, whatever. It doesn't matter. I don't want to talk about—" and she pressed her lips tightly, nose scrunched up in a grimace, before she forced herself to finish her sentence, "—her."

"She isn't bothering you anymore, is she?" he asked, and she heard the concern in his voice.

She shook her head. "No," she admitted, squeezing her arms over her chest. Her sigh was strained, exhausted. "I just—I didn't like how you acted around her. You made it seem like she had a chance with you. And I thought—well, I don't know. I didn't like it." She bit down on her tongue at the last comment, not intending to confess such a thing aloud, however true.

But he didn't tease her, nor did he judge her.

Instead, he stepped closer and hooked a finger under her chin, lifting her face up until her eyes met his, and she faltered a little under his gaze. "It was never like that, all right? And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I let you leave that day the way I did. I'm sorry I didn't realize what was going on sooner. I thought I was doing the right thing—the noble thing. It was dumb, I know, and I should've known better, but I'd hoped," he paused between each word carefully, looking at her with the kind of honesty that made her heart stutter inside her chest, "I'd hoped you had talked to me, told me it bothered you. 'Cause the thing is, Stella, you know you can always come to me, whatever the matter. I would never think anything less of you, and it would never change the way I feel about you."

Tongue-tied, she could only nod, uncertain of how to move forward now. All her life she had witnessed people crash and burn, struggling to make things right, failing to meet in the middle, and she had never quite known anything more suffocating. It was like watching a star collapse in on itself until it ran out of its fumes and threw everything out of kilter, with nothing to salvage.

But this was different. This felt a lot like coming up for air.

His voice was gentle. "Stel, hey. Look at me."

Then, without hesitating, he reached out to take her face between his hands. His hands were warm and welcoming against her skin, but she couldn't bring herself face him, and it confused her. Maybe it was her inability to rise above emotional situations, or maybe her tendency to avoid difficult conversations, or maybe her stubbornness and his naivety, all the things that had kept them apart, so much so that she'd almost forgotten about the familiarity of the rose-tinted times where they had never been at odds with one another.

Very gently, she felt him tilt her face up, and in the next moment her eyes found his.

He smiled, good-natured. "Guess what?"

She blinked, brows furrowed. "What?"

His thumb stroked the curve of her cheekbone, just above the rise of her cheek, and she looked at him with clear eyes, hazel eyes flicking back and forth between his brown ones, searching his gaze. He rested his forehead against hers, his hands moving down to trail the slope of her shoulders. "I have always loved you. Since we were sixteen. I still do. I always will. You're the only one for me, Stella. I don't want you to ever doubt that. I don't want you to ever worry about any other girl because this—" and he lowered one of his hands on top of hers, placed it right in the center of his chest, right where she could feel his heart thumping underneath her flattened palm, "—is all yours. Only yours."

It was the sincerity in his voice, or the look in his eyes, that did it, that emptied everything from her, that made every last vestige of her guard melt away.

And then suddenly her arms were around his neck, dragging him down to her level, and in the next instant he was stumbling backward across the floor, colliding into her in a crushing embrace, and in the next moment she was home, her lips crashing against his.

They knocked into the corner of the armchair and almost tripped and collapsed over the chair until he caught himself and steadied them both, hands dipped into the bend of her waist, tugging her up to him, kissing her tight. Her hands dove behind the back of his head, pulling him in closer, harder, because she needed this to be something solid, because she had always craved that sense of grounded stability in her life. He pressed back and secured her in place, one hand catching the ends of her long, silken tresses, the other grasping at her waist.

It was all touch and taste and crashing heartbeats thereafter. He freed his hand from her waist and lifted it to cup the side of her jaw, tilting her head for a better angle, and she complied with his unspoken request and parted her lips. She barely managed to suppress a moan when his tongue brushed past her bottom lip, entering her mouth, and he groaned as he tasted her, his grip tightening on her.

Her fingertips skimmed along the contours of his chest, grazing over his abs, savoring each and every sinewy line, and she was kissing him so hard, so deep, she was certain she was bruising them both. But he didn't seem to care because his lips were just as hard and unyielding against hers, his hands just as eager, working at the zipper of her dress.

On the edge of her awareness, she felt him whirl them around, walking her backward, and she was too distracted to do anything other than let him. Her mind was stilled a fraction of a second later, her back pressed against the wall. His hands were everywhere, his body lined up against hers, his mouth tracing its way down her neck, and she grabbed, she pulled, she reciprocated, but this wasn't just about lust. This wasn't about a loss of control. It was him and her, their hearts and their feelings, out in the open, leaving behind hurt and pain, making up for the lost time. She never wanted to let go of this moment, never wanted it to end. So she clung onto him, like this was forever.

One of his hands glided over the expanse of her thigh, running along the length of her leg with practiced ease, and her breath hitched in her throat. Stella felt his lips curl into that knowing smile against the base of her neck, and he brought his hand back to her leg, his fingers leaving a trail of hot frissons in their wake as he nipped at the side of her jaw. She was breathing low now, and he was trailing kisses back to her mouth, and there was a breathless sort of yearning in the way he spoke her name against her lips, and she felt her heart soar.

"Brandon," she responded in kind, voice all breath. Burying her fingers through his locks, she gripped at his hair in a way that she knew made him feel intoxicated.

Brandon groaned, capturing her lips beneath his in a hard kiss. "God, I missed you."

His next words disappeared into her mouth as his hands closed around the crease above her hips, lifting her off the ground, and she clutched tightly onto the nape of his neck, legs anchored on his waist. Kisses like these deprived her from oxygen, made her hardly think straight. But she couldn't bring herself to care. Her fingernails on his skin and his mouth against hers, and his hands on her waist and her heart on her sleeve, she was doing nothing but feeling and touching—and, God, flying. She was flying.

Stella didn't realize it until the moment it happened, when his lips left hers, and her back landed on something soft and springy, and the next thing she knew she was pinned down to the bed with him half hovering over her, catching his breath. When she opened her eyes again, their eyes locked, and the universe came into existence again. His eyes were darker than before, gaze half-lidded, holding hers for several more seconds, looking at her with a fierceness that set her full heart on fire. But he didn't have to say anything; she felt it, too.

They grappled for another kiss, rushed and frantic, sinking further down onto the mattress and into one another.

Notes: We're finally getting into the happy bits, guys. I hope this chapter wasn't too disappointing. There were some mixed reviews centered around who was to blame for the situation, and I had a long post prepared, explaining each decision I've made thus far, but I think I'll save it for the next chapter because there are still some plot holes to be filled, and I'd like to focus more on Brandon since this chapter was all about Stella. That said, if there's a line, a paragraph, a scene, that is confusing, do not hesitate to ask. And if you've got any other questions, I'll answer them, too, in the next chapter.

As for people asking for more fluff: I've got you. There'll be lots of fluff to come, and I hope you'll stay tuned. Until then, please stay happy and healthy.