ahn!!

One eye cracks open immediately.

You snort. "There he is."

A groan rumbles out of him, low and aggrieved, before he drops his face back into his arms. "'m resting."

"You're sleeping on a desk."

"Resting."

"Your neck is going to ache for a week."

"Future Varka's problem."

You roll your eyes so hard it's nearly audible. Moving behind him, you set your hands on his shoulders — and immediately feel it. Knots layered over knots, muscles wound tight as rope, the kind of tension that comes from too many battles and not nearly enough sleep.

"You're exhausted."

"I'm fine."

You press your thumbs in anyway.

The sound that escapes him is immediate. A low, involuntary rumble, like a mountain deciding to settle. Caught entirely off guard by his own relief.

"Thought you were fine."

"I am fine."

"Mm."

Another press earns another sound. His shoulders begin, slowly, to unknot beneath your hands. The rigid line of his back softens. The room quiets. It’s the kind of quiet that only comes when something very large finally stops moving.

"…Varka?"

No answer.

You lean forward. The man is asleep again, breathing deep and even, the crumpled report fluttering faintly with each exhale. Your lips twitch into something softer. Amused. And you pull away from massaging him.

This time, when you gently coax him upright and steer him toward the couch, he doesn't argue. Doesn't even fully wake. He simply lets himself be guided, dropping onto the cushions with the full, boneless weight of a man who has been running on fumes for weeks.

You settle beside him. Your fingers find his hair, brushing through it slowly, and with every gentle movement, you hum a soft note. A lullaby known to all, and Varka doesn’t point it out.

He shifts, and without opening his eyes, the giant of a man gravitates toward you, head settling closer to your lap. His body relaxes, like the addition of your voice had effectively calmed him down.

"You know," you hum,  more to yourself than him, "most knights don't need this much convincing to rest."

A sleepy exhale. Then, quiet and unhurried: "Most knights don't have you."

Your hand stills in his hair, completely taken off guard at his words.

His eyes doesn't open. The soft smile that curves his mouth, slow and unguarded, tells you it wasn't accidental.

Not long after, Varka is deeply, finally asleep — head heavy in your lap, the tension gone from every line of his face. For once, the Great Grandmaster stays still long enough to actually rest.

You let him.

Flins

Flins insists he isn't tired.

This would be considerably more convincing if he hadn't yawned five times in the last ten minutes.

"That was six."

"Was not."

"I counted."

"You miscounted."

You stare at him flatly. He stares back with the composed, unbothered expression of someone absolutely certain they're winning this argument — and then yawns again.

The silence that follows is tremendous.

Flins points at you. "That one was your fault."

"My fault." You ask, amused.

"Your presence relaxes me." He says it completely without shame, like it's a simple statement of fact rather than the most audacious deflection you've ever heard.

Heat climbs to your cheeks before you can stop it. Flins catches it instantly, because of course he does, and the smug smile that begins to form is frankly insufferable.

Then another yawn splits it clean in half.

You laugh. "Come here."

He eyes you. "Why?"

"Just come here."

Suspicion sharpens his gaze. Still, and perhaps that's the most telling thing,  he obeys, dropping onto the space beside you with the careful nonchalance of someone pretending they weren't going to do it anyway.

The moment he's close enough, you draw his head down gently onto your shoulder.

He goes rigid. "…What are you doing?"

"Helping."

"Helping." He repeats.

You roll your eyes at his suspicion. "Helping."

A huff. Quiet, unconvinced. But he doesn't pull away.

You give it a moment, then let your fingers drift into his hair. Once, slowly. Then again. The rhythm settles into something easy, unhurried — and you feel the shift happen gradually, the stiffness leaving his shoulders in increments, like something wound too tight finally being let go.

"…This is unfair," he mutters.

"What is?"

"You know exactly what you're doing."

You smile. "Maybe."

Another minute passes. Then another. The room breathes around you, soft and still, then quietly, you start humming. Enough for him to hear, his breath hitching slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. No quip. No teasing observation. No sardonic commentary delivered just to have the last word.

You glance down.

Flins is asleep. His face is tucked against your shoulder, expression open and unguarded in a way you almost never get to see — no sharpness to it, none of the careful composure he wears like a second skin. Just him, soft and still and finally resting.

It's rare enough that you hold your breath a little, not wanting to disturb it.

Then he shifts. His hand finds yours in his sleep — and without waking, without hesitation, he laces your fingers together.

You're effectively trapped.

Somehow, you don't mind at all.

Illuga

Illuga doesn't rest. Or rather — he knows how. He simply treats sleep like an inconvenience to be scheduled around, something to endure in the narrow gaps between responsibilities rather than something owed to himself.

Which is why finding him awake at an unreasonable hour isn't unusual.

What is unusual is the state of him.

Dark circles bruise the skin beneath his eyes. His posture has taken on the particular rigidity of a man running entirely on stubbornness. Even the way his gaze moves across the page of his book looks labored, like focusing has become a conscious effort.

"How long have you been awake?"

He doesn't look up. "Not long."

"Illuga."

A pause. The page doesn't turn. "…Two days."

You nearly choke. "Two days?"

"There was work."

"There is always work." You cross the room. "Sleep is also work."

"I don't think that's how that functions."

"It is now."

Before he can construct a rebuttal, and he would, he always does, much to your chagrin, you reach over and lift the book cleanly from his hands.

The look on his face is immediate and deeply offended. "That's mine."

"I know."

"Give it—"

"No."

The stare he fixes on you is the kind that makes seasoned soldiers reconsider their life choices. You've always found it more impressive than frightening. You pat the cushion beside you.

"Sit down."

"No."

"Sit."

"I said no."

You exhale slowly. Then, quieter, "Please?"

Something shifts. It's subtle, but you've known him long enough to catch it. The way the set of his jaw changes. The single breath he takes before his eyes cut away.

He sits.

You don't say anything about it.

Instead, you let the quiet settle before you raise your hand and begin carding your fingers through his hair, slowly, with no announcement and no ceremony. Just the same rhythm, over and over, unhurried.

He stills completely.

You keep going.

Whatever argument was building behind his eyes seems to dissolve before it can take shape. The rigidity in his shoulders, the practiced tension he carries like armor — it loosens, degree by degree, as if your hands are the one thing his control doesn't have a defense against.

His eyes close. Open. Close again, heavier this time.

The battle he's waging against sleep is honestly impressive. He's losing.

"Rest," you say softly.

"I am."

"You're fighting it."

A quiet exhale through his nose. "…I have responsibilities."

"They'll still be there after a few hours." Your fingers move through his hair again, slow and steady. "I promise."

Silence. Then, so gradually you almost miss it, his head tips sideways to rest on your shoulder.

Neither of you acknowledge it. You simply continue, fingers tracing the same gentle path, the room falling quiet around you both. His breathing deepens. The last of the tension drains out of him.

Eventually, it evens out entirely.

He would never mention it later, the way he had completely fallen asleep because of you. He would probably wake with his usual composure restored and his expression unreadable, like nothing had happened at all.

But the last thing he registers, just before he goes under, is your voice, low and unhurried, singing a low lullaby, something warm woven into the quiet of the room, made entirely for him.

He pauses in his cleaning, fully turning his head to look at you. 

"....Pardon?"

You just smile sweetly at him. "Can I smash one of the wine glasses?" You repeat, your hand reaching out to grab one of the wine glasses nearby.

Diluc is quick to take the glass away from you and quietly lets out a laugh at your pout as he shakes your head.

"No, my dear, you may not." He carefully puts the wine glass back in its cupboard. "However, you may join me in a picnic at Windrise, should you want to."

He sees the way you brighten up. "Wait- really? Oh my archons, yes please. I've been so bored out of my mind the past ten, thirty minutes."

You hop off the bar stool, and Diluc fixes the glasses behind the counter. You are hopping from one foot to the other, and Diluc thinks that he should have suggested the picnic earlier.

Though watching you lose your mind out of boredom was a bit entertaining.

XIAO

The thing about spending time with Xiao is that the silence is never uncomfortable.

It simply is. A constant, familiar thing — the kind that sits between two people who have learned each other well enough that words aren't always necessary. You'd grown used to it. Appreciated it, even. 

Which made it all the more unfortunate that you'd been sitting on the Wangshu Inn balcony for the past twenty minutes with absolutely nothing to occupy your hands, your eyes, or the increasingly unhinged corner of your brain that activated specifically when you had too much time and too little to do.

Xiao stood nearby. Keeping watch, as he always did — arms crossed, golden eyes scanning the stretch of Liyue beyond the balcony with the quiet vigilance of someone who had been doing this for thousands of years and had not once found it boring.

You envied that, a little. Because your brain is beginning to fry, and you really envy how Xiao doesn’t seem as bored as you feel at the moment.

Your legs swung idly over the edge. You stared at the drop below. And then, as these things tend to happen, a thought arrived. And who are you to not say it outloud?

"Hey, Xiao."

He doesn't look at you, but his attention tuned into you, with the way his posture straightened just slightly. "Hm."

"If I jumped from here—" you peer down with the casual curiosity of someone considering a mild experiment "—how many of my bones do you think would crack? Out of 360."

The silence that followed was a different kind than usual.

You glanced over.

Xiao was looking at you. Not his usual sidelong glance, not the subtle shift of attention you'd learned to recognize, but he was looking at you, with an expression that sat somewhere between a glare and something that, on anyone else, you might have called alarm. 

"...The human body has 206 bones."

You blinked. "What?"

"206." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Not 360."

A pause. "...Oh."

"Yes."

"Huh." You look back down at the drop, genuinely digesting this. "I was way off."

"That," Xiao says, with the particular tone of a man who has lived millennia and still finds himself unprepared for you specifically, "is what concerns you about what you just said?"

"I mean, the other thing's not happening, I was just thinking out loud—"

"Stop thinking out loud."

"I can't help it, I'm bored—"

"Then find something to do."

"There's nothing to do." You pout, and a muscle in his jaw moved. He looked away, back toward the horizon, and for a moment you thought that was the end of it — Xiao had a talent for closing conversations like shutting a window. 

Then, without looking at you, he said, quiet, a little stiff, but softer, the way he always sounded when he was offering something he hadn't quite figured out how to offer: "...I'll spar with you."

You perked up immediately. "Really?"

His gaze flickers to you, his head tilting slightly, “Yes, really. Do you want to or not?"

"Yes," you said, hopping to your feet perhaps a little too quickly. Xiao's gaze tracked the movement with the automatic vigilance of someone who had just watched you contemplate jumping off a balcony and was not yet fully over it.

He turned without another word, and you fell into step beside him, thoroughly cured of your boredom.

Though, privately, you thought it was a little funny — that out of everything you'd said, the thing that bothered him most was the wrong number.

You didn't mention it, because your attention has moved on to enjoying your boyfriends presence.

KAEYA

The thing about Kaeya is that he thrives in the atmosphere of Angel's Share.

The noise, the clinking glasses, the low hum of conversation — he moves through all of it like it was built specifically for him, which you sometimes suspect he believes. He looks perfectly at ease leaning against the counter, swirling his drink, the picture of a man entirely in his element.

You, on the other hand, have been sitting here for twenty minutes with nothing to do and an increasingly dangerous amount of thoughts forming in your head. Because it’s either you sit here, or leave, and you don’t like the latter because you’d much rather be with Kaeya– despite your growing boredom.

Kaeya notices the look on your face. He's been noticing it for the past ten minutes, watching the gears turn behind your eyes with the patient amusement of someone waiting for a very small fire to start.

"You have a look," he says.

"I have a look?"

"That look." He gestures vaguely at your face. "The one that means you're about to say something I'll either find funny or deeply concerning– and it’s usually out of boredom–"

You open your mouth. "...Can I steal your eyepatch?"

Kaeya stills.

Then, slowly, the grin spreads across his face — not his usual charming one, but the genuine one, the slightly disbelieving one that means you've actually caught him off guard. "...Come again?"

"Your eyepatch." You lean forward on the counter, resting your chin in your hands. "I just want to try it on. For like, ten seconds."

"Absolutely not."

"Five seconds."

"No."

“C’mon, Babe—"

"The answer is still no."

You slump dramatically against the counter, and he watches you with that same grin, taking a leisurely sip of his drink. There's a pause where you're both just looking at each other.

Then he sighs. It’s the the performative kind. Dramatic, long and suffering, then he leans forward to meet you at eye level.

"Tell you what." He tilts his head, something conspiratorial flickering in his eye. "Beat me at a round of cards, and we'll talk."

You sit up immediately. "Deal."

Kaeya already has the deck in his hand.

You lose spectacularly. He cheats, obviously. You accuse him of cheating. He looks offended in a way that confirms he absolutely cheated.

The eyepatch stays on his face.

You do, however, end up thoroughly entertained for the rest of the evening, which you suspect was his plan from the very beginning.

KAZUHA

Your boyfriend is, by nature, a peaceful person.

He finds contentment in the small things — the way the wind moves through the grass, the particular quality of afternoon light on water, the sound of his own flute carried out across an open deck. He is, in short, the kind of person who is never bored, because the world always has something quiet and lovely to offer if you know how to look.

You are not currently looking.

You are lying flat on your back on the deck of the Alcor, staring straight up at the sky, and you have been doing so for the last fifteen minutes with the vacant expression of someone whose brain has fully vacated the premises.

Kazuha is seated nearby, reading, and has been glancing at you periodically with the soft, patient expression of a man who finds you genuinely endearing even when — especially when — you are doing absolutely nothing.

"You've been quiet," he observes, turning a page.

"I'm thinking."

"Mm." A pause. "About what?"

You're silent for a moment. The ship creaks. Somewhere above you a seagull calls.

"If I rolled off this deck right now," you say thoughtfully, "do you think I'd hit the water or the side of the ship?"

The page stops turning.

Kazuha looks up.

You're still staring at the sky, expression completely placid, as though you just commented on the weather.

"…That's what you're thinking about."

"I'm bored, Kazuha."

He closes his book slowly. There's a quiet beat where he just looks at you, something warm and amused turning at the corner of his mouth, before he sets it aside and rises to his feet.

"Come with me."

You turn your head. "Where?"

He's already offering you a hand, the wind picking up around him the way it tends to, like it recognizes him. "The view is better from the bow. And—" a small smile, "—I'll play something, if you'd like."

You take his hand and let him pull you up.

"You're only doing this because you're worried I'll actually roll off the deck."

"I'm doing this," he says, lacing your fingers together as you walk, "because you're bored, and I have the means to fix that." A brief pause. "But also yes, a little because of the deck thing."

You laugh.

He squeezes your hand, and the wind follows you both to the front of the ship like it always does — like it's just as fond of the two of you as you are of each other.

Hannah and Allie are 100% aware of this fact, considering that they were there when you started massively crushing on the hockey player back in sophomore year, and were the ones who listened to you ramble about said hockey player early into the year when you found out he could cook.

Unfortunately, your two friends learning about this fact while also actively dating two guys in Tucker’s own friend group meant that you were now in the unique and deeply unfortunate position of being perceived. Specifically, being perceived by people who knew Tucker, liked Tucker, and had absolutely zero reason to keep your little crush under wraps. 

Allie, bless her heart, had lasted approximately three weeks before she'd accidentally let it slip in front of Dean that you thought Tucker was, quote, "disgustingly attractive and it's all because of the cooking thing." Dean, being Dean, had found this information deeply funny and had done absolutely nothing responsible with it, ultimately teasing you every time you and Tucker were in the same vicinity of each other, although thanks to Allie, had really did keep the teasing to just you. You still found the whole situation deeply mortifying. 

The only thing keeping you from burying yourself in gravel and suffocating was the knowledge that Tucker, as far as you knew, had not been told. Yet. 

You were choosing to believe the "yet" was still working in your favor.

It mostly meant that whenever Tucker showed up places that Hannah or Allie also happened to be, you developed an immediate and urgent need to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Bathroom. Kitchen. The parking lot. You were adaptable. Very much so.

"You're not even being subtle about avoiding him anymore," Hannah had told you once, watching you physically reverse direction in the hallway when you spotted Tucker heading your way. "Like. At all."

"I'm being incredibly subtle."

"You walked into a trash can."

"I meant to do that." 

She had given you a look that said, very clearly, that she did not believe you. You had chosen to ignore it on account of self-preservation.

The problem was that Tucker kept showing up. Outside the dorms when you'd come to hang out with Hannah and Allie. At the coffee shop near campus. At Malones — because you worked there and that was literally where the group hung out. At the rink when you'd come to watch a game and hadn't factored in post-game corridor hangouts. And every time, without fail, he was easy to talk to and warm and sincere in that genuine, unguarded way he had, the kind that felt less like a personality and more like a reflex — like being kind was just the thing he defaulted to, same as breathing.

It was even more annoying because he was always like that. Like the teasing from his teammates rolled right off him, and he just kept showing up with food and a good attitude and that small, steady presence that made you feel like whatever room he was in got a little calmer.

It was fine. You were fine. Everything was completely fine.

Which brings you here, to Hannah and Allie's kitchen, helping set up for a casual get-together that you had been assured would be small. Just a few people. Chill. Relaxed.

They were currently hosting eight people and counting, and Tucker's jacket was by the door when you arrived. Hannah had neglected to mention this when she'd asked you to come early and help with the food, even when you asked about the paper bag on the counter, which you later on learned was brought by none other than Tucker.

You were starting to think your friends were not entirely on your side, because the moment you arrived, Allie and Hannah started teasing you increasingly.

The thing is, you didn't know exactly when the conversation in the kitchen shifted to types in men (again), and your crush on Tucker. Which you tried very hard to keep his name as lowkey as possible. They find it amusing. You don’t.

Allie hands you the tablecloth then heads to the sink to wash the dishes left.  

Allie hands you the tablecloth then heads to the sink to wash the dishes left, humming something under her breath like she isn't the reason you're currently in this situation.

"So," she says, turning on the tap. "Hannah was telling me you nearly bolted out of the rink last week when Tucker walked into the corridor."

"I didn't nearly bolt. I had somewhere to be."

"You told us you had to go check on your laundry," Hannah calls from across the kitchen, not even bothering to look up from where she's arranging the snack bowls. "At eleven at night."

"Laundry doesn't have a curfew."

Allie snorts. You smooth the tablecloth aggressively.

"Can we not do this tonight?" you ask, with as much dignity as you could muster. "There are guests."

"There are guests because we invited them," Allie says pleasantly. "Including Tucker, who brought ingredients and is currently grabbing something else and will be back in a few, which I know you clocked the second you walked in."

You had, in fact, clocked it the second you walked in. You say nothing.

Hannah finally looks up, the picture of innocence. "You know, it's kind of impressive how much energy you spend avoiding someone you claim to just have a small crush on."

"It's a normal-sized crush."

"You once left through a fire exit."

"The regular door was blocked."

"By Tucker saying hi to you."

A pause. You smooth an already-smooth section of tablecloth. "It was a crowded hallway."

Allie turns off the tap, reaching for the dish towel with the serene expression of someone who is deeply enjoying herself. "All we're saying is that it might be time to, I don't know, exist in the same room as him for more than four consecutive minutes."

"I exist in the same room as him all the time."

"Without a planned escape route," Hannah amends.

You open your mouth. Close it. The tablecloth is extremely smooth at this point. You are doing a great job with the tablecloth.

"My type," you say finally, pivoting with what you feel is remarkable, amazing, grace, "is simply guys who can cook. That is a completely reasonable standard."

Hannah rolls her eyes at you, turning to set down a bowl of snacks while you finish wiping the counter. "Your type is guys that can cook."

“And? I think cooking is hot.” You miss the way Hannah’s eyes drift past you to someone behind you, busy wiping down the counter as you shrug. Your increasing embarrassment had made your tongue loose, and you had in fact given up on being vague. “Why else do you think I like Tucker?”

“Oh?” The voice behind you makes you freeze. Your hand stiffens on the tablecloth, eyes widening as you’re now suddenly acutely aware of the warmth behind you. “Is that so?”

You look up, and Hannah has a hand over her mouth, amusement dancing in her eyes as she speaks to you through your head.

"Hannah. Help me."

"Nah, girl. You got this. Go you."

Fingers gripping the tablecloth, you plaster a smile on your face and slowly turn.

Behind you stands Tucker, his eyes crinkling as he smiles at you. "Hey, Name."

Your cheeks warm. You are pretty sure that you are the definition of a tomato at this point as you clear your throat in an attempt to be nonchalant. "Heeey, Tuck."

His grin only widens, arms crossing over his chest. "So." His brow lifts, and you swallow. "You think I'm hot?"

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.

"I think," you say carefully, in the measured tone of someone carefully disarming a bomb, "that the cooking thing is hot. Objectively. As a concept."

"Uh huh." He doesn't look even remotely convinced, which is deeply unfair considering he's the one who snuck up on you. "And I cook."

"Lots of people cook, Tucker."

"Do they cook as well as me?"

You pause. And the horrible, traitorous, honest part of your brain supplies: no, actually, because you'd had his cooking twice now, once at a team dinner Allie had dragged you to and once when he'd brought food to the apartment for no stated reason, and both times it had been genuinely, annoyingly, unfairly good.

"That's not the point," you say.

His smile tips into something a little softer, a little more knowing, and somehow that's worse than the teasing. He takes one step closer, enough that you would have to actively crane your neck to look away from him, and doesn't say anything for a beat.

"I'll cook for you sometime," he says finally, like it's easy. Like he's offering to lend you a pen. "If that's what it takes."

You stare at him.

From somewhere behind Tucker, you hear Allie make a noise that she unconvincingly tries to smother with a cough. Hannah, you suspect, is still standing at the counter with that same hand over her mouth.

"That," you say slowly, "is the most confident thing anyone has ever said to me."

Tucker shrugs, that easy grin back in place. "I'm a confident guy."

"You're a menace."

"You think I'm hot."

"I think your cooking is hot."

Tucker laughs, saying your name in a way that makes your stomach flip as he tilts his head, and there's something warm in his expression underneath all the amusement. "Same thing."

You look at him for a long moment. He looks back, patient, like he has all night and fully intends to use it.

"Fine," you say, because apparently self-preservation has fully left the building.  Your face feels like a furnace, and you are hyper aware of every little sound Allie and Hannah makes behind you, plus thawing Tucker this close to you. "Yeah. Okay. I think you're hot."

The smile that breaks across his face is, genuinely, a little devastating.

"Cool," Tucker says. "I'll text you about dinner. This week?"

You're pretty sure your soul briefly vacates your body.

"This week," you hear yourself agree.

He nods, satisfied, like that's settled then. He glances over his shoulder at Hannah and Allie, who are both staring with the barely-contained energy of two people who have been waiting for this for approximately two years. "Ladies." Then, back to you, quieter, "Talk to you later?"

"Yeah. Yep. Sure." you say, a little helplessly.

Tucker smiles. Then he's heading back toward the living room, and you are left standing in the kitchen, gripping the tablecloth, staring at the middle distance, smiling widely.

A beat of silence.

"Look at you!”  Hannah says loudly, while Allie rounds the counter to throw her arms around you, giggling at your still flushed face.

"I hate both of you," you tell them, but the smile on your face doesn’t fade.

Dean started the whole thing.

It happened on a normal Friday night. Everyone had chosen to hang out that night, with the idea of movies, dinner and a few drinks. Soft music came from the living room while Hannah and Garrett argued over the movie considering it was their turn to pick that night. The rest were out on a beer run, and dinner fell on you and Tucker, as it usually did.

Tucker stood beside you at the stove while you chopped vegetables.

Neither of you had actually planned on cooking together.

It just sort of... happened. It was Tucker’s turn that night, and when you got tired of waiting in the living room, you got up and headed to the kitchen.

“Hey.” You sat on one of the stools, leaning forward as you watches him prep. Tucker looked up, and smiled. “Hey. You got bored?”

“Yeah. Doomscrolling while Han and Garrett argued over whether to pick a romcom or a horror movie was amusing only for the first ten minutes.”

Tucker snorted. You watched him grab a pan. “Not surprised. So, you decided to head here?”

“I think I’d much rather be here than there at the moment.” You chuckle. Then you eye the vegetables on the table. “What are you preparing?”

“Mac and Cheese. Probably a lot of it. And—” He gestures over to the vegetables. “Something with those. I haven’t decided yet.”

You hum, tilting your head. “Need help?”

His head snaps up to you, brow raising. “You don’t have to. It’s my turn tonight.”

“Yeah, but I want to.” You shrug, sliding off the stool to take the knife from his hand. “Now scoot over, you work on the Mac and cheese and whatever thing you’ll do, I’ll handle the prep.”

Tucker grins, letting out a laugh before moving to the stove. “Yes ma’am.”

Sometime in the middle of it, you settled in a familiar, but also not familiar routine.

You handed him ingredients before he asked for them. He moved aside before you needed the space. You knew exactly where he kept everything, and he knew exactly how much seasoning you liked adding.

At one point, Tucker held out his hand behind him without looking.

You immediately placed the spatula into it.

And Dean happened to walk in at that exact moment, arms full with six packs.

Both your heads snap up, at the sound of someone entering, Tucker’s hand still holding the spatula, and your arm still outstretched in the middle of handing it over.

The silence lasted three seconds, before a shit-eating grin spread on Dean’s face. “Oh my god.”

You and Tucker blinked at him

"What?" Tucker asked.

Dean stared.

Then he puts the six packs down on the counter, and pointed between the two of you again, the grin on his face not at all wavering.

“You guys are literally like— Mom and Dad.”

You make a face. “Dean, what the hell are you—”

“No, like. I mean, I did comment on it to Allie-Cat about how you two seem to have this flow in the kitchen but seeing it happen just solidified the whole thing.”

“You’re being weird, Di Laurentis.” Tuckers laughs, turning his attention back to the sauce, stirring it with the spatula while you work on what you decided to be coleslaw. You nod along, but Dean shakes his head.

“I’m serious. Wait Allie-Cat,” He calls for Allie who pops her head up from the couch she flopped onto the moment they returned from the beer run. “Agree with me here.” Dean gestures to you and Tucker. “Mama y Papa.”

Allie blinks, then grins. “Yeah, I see it.”

Dean looks back at the two of you. “See!” He points at you. “Mama.” Then to Tucker. “Papa.”

“Dean.” You groaned.

“No, no, it works.” Hannah piped in from her place next to Garrett. “I mean, we already call you Mom as a joke. And Tucker is Dad here. It just works.”

“Oh my god.” You sigh, and turn to Tucker, who doesn’t seem like he has a problem with the whole thing, grinning in amusement when he met your gaze.

“So, we’re calling them Mama and Papa now?” Logan interrupts as he heads down from, looking between the kitchen and living room. He eyes you and Tucker, before nodding. “I can roll with it.”

The nickname stuck, and spread in the friend group like a highly contagious disease. And with the nickname came the teasing.

-

“Oh good, Mama brought snacks.” You looked up from unloading grocery bags onto the counter to find Hannah already reaching for the chips.

"Hannah."

"What?" she asked innocently.

"You are twenty-one years old."

"Yeah."

"You can buy your own snacks."

"Why would I do that when Mama always remembers?"

"Han-Han."

"Love you too, Mother."

Across the kitchen while unloading the other grocery bag, Tucker tried not to laugh as loud at the incredulous look on your face.

You kicked his shin.

He ended up laughing anyways.

-

Then there was the movie night incident.

Everyone had crammed themselves onto the couch, fighting over blankets and snacks.

You'd gotten up to grab more popcorn, and when you returned, your spot had disappeared, because Dean just moved slightly to your spot, and you stared at him.

Dean only grinned, patting the spot where he once sat, which is conveniently, next to Tucker.

You glowered. “Dean.”

He grinned wider. “Sit beside Dad, Mom.”

You froze, and you catch Tucker visibly stiffen, his eyes flickering to you, then to Dean.

Dean looked between the two of you.

"What?"

"Dean," you warned.

"What? Married couples sit together."

"We are not married."

"Yet."

Your friends just exchange grins and teases, your face immediately going hot. You glance at Tucker, and ignored the way your stomach flipped slightly when he met your gaze, before burying his face in his hands at another tease.

He groaned into his hands. "You people are unbelievable."

This time, it was your turn to smile in amusement at his reaction.

Things only escalated by the end of the month with the road trip, which was a six-hour drive to a neighboring city for a random weekend getaway.

You had volunteered to drive the car, and Tucker offered to sit at the front and switch with you when you were halfway.

It was reasonable, so you agreed, and when the day came, it was Dean (again) who made a huge deal about it.

"Oh look."

"Dean." Tucker was the first to give Dean a pointed look while you sigh in the driver’s seat.

"The family car."

You eye him. "Dean."

"Mama and Papa taking the kids—"

"DEAN."

Needless to say, by the time you reached the hotel, your patience was hanging by a thread.

Tucker, unfortunately, thought your annoyed face was hilarious.

"You know," he said as the group unloaded bags, "you get this wrinkle right here when you're mad."

You stared.

He poked between your eyebrows, his grin widening when you nearly slapped his hand away.

"You’re testing my patience.” You glowered.

His grin widened, and he nudged you. "I’m just pointing things out.”

“I hate you.”

He shut the trunk door, and grinned. “Nah. You love me.”

Something in your chest tightens. You choose to instead huff and ignore the feeling, turning on your heel just as Logan comes by to grab the other bags.

-

Months passed, and you thought the joke would have died down along with it.

It kind of did. Because the joke stopped being a joke.

People stopped questioning it. Everyone stopped laughing every time, instead treating it like it was normal.

And it did, because at some point, becoming the Mom and Dad of the group became normal.

It became a fact. An accepted thing.

Which somehow made it ten times worse, because somewhere along the way, the joke stopped feeling entirely like a joke.

At least to you.

And judging by the way Tucker sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention—

Maybe not to him either.

You didn’t know when you started liking him. When it stopped being just a nickname to you. But you could pinpoint when things really started to change between you and Tucker.

It was another Friday night gathering.

Another Friday night where you find yourself in the kitchen with Tucker. Usually, you’d have the others clean up while you lounge in the living room after making dinner, but after another round of jests that Logan started this time:

“You both are disgustingly domestic. Just get together already.” He points out. Grace, new to the group but had already caught on and was definitely in on the whole thing, nodded along. “It’s cute. Like you’re married and all.” You didn’t shoot them your usual pointed glares, instead opting to look away, but Logan caught the flush in your cheeks and, like Dean, made a huge scene about it enough to get the attention of the others. “Oh my god you’re blushing.” Allie looked at Tucker, and grins. “Tucker’s blushing too!” “Oh my god this is new.” Dean cackles.

You sent them all out for snack and beer runs so that the house would be quiet from all their jests, but you didn’t think ahead far enough because now you’re alone with Tucker.

The silence between you in the kitchen is usually comfortable. Familiar. Easy.

But tonight, its different. Heavy and awkward, like the all of the teasing finally settled into something more real between you two.

You curse yourself for not thinking ahead, busying your hands with drying a plate. Tucker was putting the dishes away, and it was silent for a long time (a minute), until he finally broke it with by clearing his throat.

“So.”

At the same time, you also decided to break the silence, and looked up to face him. Both of your faces were flushed, embarrassment obvious on either of your faces.

“So.”

You both stare at each other for a brief moment, before you both burst into laughter.

The tension cracked immediately.

When the laughter dies down, Tucker nervously shrugs at you, shifting his weight. “So, like, you don’t mind?”

“Mind what?” You blink at him.

Tucker rubs the back of his neck, and gestures vaguely. “Well. The whole… Mama, Papa thing.”

You stare at him, before letting out a shy laugh. “No. Not really. I don’t mind…”

“You sure?” He eyes you for a moment, and the seriousness in his gaze makes your stomach flip. “I mean, I could always tell them to back off.”

You shake your head. “No.”

“No?” A brow raises.

“No.”

He meets your gaze, and you swallow. “I mean, I don’t mind.” You look down at the dishtowel in your hands, and mumbled quietly, “I think it’s cute.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

When you dared glance up again, Tucker was staring.

Not a hint of amusement or anything close to teasing in his gaze. Then he smiled.

It was soft, and dangerous, and you feel your heart stutter in your chest.

“Yeah?” He hums, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity makes you want to hide, but instead, you try to cover up the way your heart is pounding by looking away and grumbling, “Don’t make me repeat it.”

His grin widened. "I wasn't gonna."

"Liar."

"Maybe I was."

You rolled your eyes.

He laughed, and you lightly swing the dishtowel at him, earning an offended gasp and a “Hey!” from him. Your grins don’t exactly fade as you went back into the routine of wiping and putting away the dishes again, but something new has settled between you.

Something warm. Something hopeful. A quiet understanding about something that has been brewing there for months.

Dean noticed first. Of course he did. But it was mostly because neither of you were very good at hiding things. Or that neither of you was exactly hiding anything.

Tucker started sitting beside you more often, and you always saved the seat next to you.

He'd bring you coffee, meeting your outside your classes to walk you to your next one.

Sometimes, you'd drop by to bring him food.

You'd steal his hoodies. He'd let you.

Dean pointed it out to Allie. Allie told him to let it happen.

That wouldn’t stop him from commenting on it when he recognized the hoodie you were wearing after Hockey practice and you tagged along with Hannah and Allie.

"You guys are disgusting."

"Don’t be such a hypocrite, Dean." You poke at him. He scoffs, but doesn’t deny it. I mean why would he deny it, when Allie herself is wearing his hoodie?

You grin, "Exactly."

The funny thing is that neither of you were explicitly going out. No confession, no formal talk. It was just an understanding that settled after that one night, though you did think about actually doing the whole confession thing.

But it seemed like Tucker thought the same thing.

Because just a few days later, sometime around the early afternoon. It was just you and Tucker. A simple invitation to hang out, making lunch and all that.

You were helping Tucker clean up. Again.

Because apparently that was your thing. He was drying dishes. You were washing them.

Routine. Something normal. Comfortable.

"You know," Tucker suddenly said.

"Hm?"

"I think Dean might actually pass out if we started dating."

You nearly dropped a plate, glancing at him with squinted eyes.

"Tucker."

"What?"

"Tucker."

His laugh was warm.

You shook your head, but despite yourself, you smiled. “He would. Definitely.”

The room went quiet.

You glanced over.

Tucker was already looking at you.

The smile slowly faded from his face. Not like in a bad way, just in a manner that was softer. Serious. 

Your breath hitches. “Tucker…” 

He steps closer, “I’m not saying this because of the whole nickname thing.” He murmurs. “I’m saying this because I like you, and I'd really like to date you. If you'd let me.” 

The plate nearly slipped from your hands, but he catches it, setting it down in the sink. His gaze doesn't stray from yours, and you can feel your face heat up. "Tuck."

"Yeah?"

Your heart felt like it was trying to escape your chest.

"You have really terrible timing."

His grin returned.

"You saying no?"

You stared, then tilted your head back and laughed. A beat, and you shake your head with a chuckle, "No."

His expression softened immediately.

"No?"

"No."

The smile that spread across his face was blinding.

“This confirmation that I get to call you my girlfriend now?” You grin. 

“Yeah.” And when he leans in, you tilt your head up in response. It's gentle. Careful, and you’re both smiling into it, and just as you pull away, you couldn't help thinking that maybe Dean had been onto something all along.

The next day, you walked into the hockey house holding Tucker's hand.

The silence lasted long enough for everyone's gaze to flicker from your joined hands, then back to you.

“Are you guys actually…” Hannah tentatively asks, pointing from you to Tucker. 

You nod. He just smiles, simply squeezing your hand tighter, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Mama and Papa finally got together," Dean announced dramatically.

You just laugh, finding a seat on the couch. Tucker instead pulls you onto his lap, smiling widely, and for the first time since the nickname started—

Neither of you minded it at all.

“Oh my god you’re so cute.”

“Baby.”

“I want to bite you.”

“Oh god.” Tucker laughs, but he keeps his hand raised it like the distance would keep you away from him. It doesn’t, and you immediately corner him, hands on his cheeks while you squeal.

 “Look at you!”

“[Name]—”

“You have little wings!” You squish his cheeks.

“It is a bee costume.”

“You look so cute!”

“Yes, babe-“

“And your stupid face!”

“Stupid??” He sputters, but you interrupt him, pressing a kiss to his lips. Then his cheeks, forehead, and anywhere that you can kiss.

Tucker would only laugh, half-leaning into your touch, half trying to fight back by gently trying to pry you away, but its obvious that he isn’t against the kisses. “Guys.” He manages to call out to Dean and the rest in the kitchen. “Help she’s attacking me.”

“You look happy about it.” Dean snorts.

Logan lets out a laugh, patting Dean’s back. “Don’t help him, he’s exactly where he wants to be.”

Tucker finds himself in the corner of the kitchen, your hands on his cheeks while you aggressively shower him kisses, giggling about how cute he looks.

His cheeks are flushed, and he keeps getting knowing smiles and winks from the others when they walk by, none of them really helping him out, instead laughing at the sight of him being completely smothered in kisses by his girlfriend because she’s currently going through what you call cuteness aggression.

“Baby.” He huffs, but it’s quickly replaced by a smitten grin when you only peck his lips as you beam.” Oh, hush, Tuck.” You squeeze his cheeks, grinning widely as your chest tightens at the sight of him. “You’re just adorable in the costume, let me love you.”

“I know, but I’m pretty sure your lipstick is all over me.”

You beam. “It definitely is, but I’m not budging”

His retort is drowned out by the kiss you pull him into, complaints dying in his throat as his lipstick covered mouth only curls into a smile.