wally clark that knows the rules, he learned them the hard way after decades of the afterlife. he knew dating was messy, especially when there was no way in hell avoiding his ex would be possible when they’re both doomed to haunt the halls of split river high for all eternity.
wally clark that can’t keep his eyes off you the more you show up to the afterlife support group, slowly feeding him the group more and more information about yourself, how you died, if you ever had a boyfriend.
wally clark that knows it’s a bad idea to try grab your attention, that knows he’s fucked the moment he catches himself smiling at your laugh, that knows when rhonda sarcastically mentions someone that looks like a “lovesick puppy” she’s talking about him.
wally clark that’s been warned to leave you alone by mister martin, getting a lengthy lecture when his heart eyes grew more obvious as time passed. deep down he knew he was right, that if things went wrong you two would be forced to face it every time you saw each other. if things went wrong.
wally clark that drags you into an empty classroom as you lurk the halls, avoiding prying eyes as he attacks your face with kisses. “hate that we can’t be like this all the time,” wally clark that waits down the empty hallways in the middle of the night so you can meet up and sneak away for a ‘date’.
wally clark that can’t keep his mouth shut, bragging to charley under the bleachers about ‘his baby’ for as long as he’ll let him, unaware of the fact that you and rhonda were eavesdropping, quietly laughing behind your hands as you listen to him ramble on.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
the flash of cameras was dizzying, but you’d gotten used to it. being part of the zombies movies meant red carpets, fan events, interviews, and smiling until your cheeks ached. tonight was no different — another promotional event, a stage lit up with pink and green, walls plastered with posters of zombies 3.
but this one was bigger. fans lined the barricades outside, screaming your name, holding posters, waving signs with your face and… milo’s.
and that’s when you saw it.
a giant glittery poster in the crowd that read: “Y/N + MILO = ENDGAME 💚.”
you laughed under your breath, shaking your head. fans had been shipping you and milo since the very first press junket, when you accidentally finished each other’s sentences in an interview. it only got worse after bloopers leaked of the two of you clinging to each other during rehearsals. “chemistry” was the word people used.
and, okay… maybe they weren’t wrong.
“hey,” a familiar voice murmured beside you. milo stepped up, sharp in a black suit that made his green eyes stand out, his easy grin flashing as he leaned close. “you see that sign? think we should tell them we’re secretly married already?”
you swatted his arm, laughing. “stop.”
but he just smirked, soaking in the blush that rose to your cheeks.
onstage, the energy was electric. the cast sat in a row of chairs for the panel, but somehow you and milo ended up side by side. every time the moderator asked a question, you found yourselves glancing at each other, like you couldn’t help it.
when someone asked what it was like filming the final dance sequence, milo leaned into his mic. “honestly? i almost tripped like five times, but y/n saved me.”
you laughed. “you’re exaggerating. it was only three.”
the audience erupted into screams and chants, phones snapping nonstop. you shook your head, but the warmth in your chest stayed.
and then a fan asked the question you knew was coming.
“do you guys… have chemistry offscreen, too?”
the crowd roared. milo raised his brows, glancing sideways at you, clearly trying not to grin. you covered your face with your hand.
“define chemistry,” you said, playing it off with a laugh.
milo leaned closer, voice dropping just enough for only you to hear: “they’re not wrong, though.”
your breath hitched, and you turned just enough to see the way he was looking at you — not as a costar, not as part of the act, but as you.
after the panel, the two of you slipped backstage while the rest of the cast handled press. the air was cooler, quiet, the muffled screams of fans echoing through the walls.
you leaned against the wall, exhaling. “that was insane.”
milo chuckled, running a hand through his messy curls. “yeah. but fun.” then, softer, “you’re fun.”
you rolled your eyes, but the blush crept in anyway. “you’re impossible.”
“nah,” he said, stepping a little closer. “i just like hanging out with you. and apparently, so does half the internet.”
you laughed, but the sound caught when you realized how close he really was. his smile faded into something softer, his eyes holding yours for a beat too long.
“you know,” he said carefully, “i used to think the whole shipping thing was just fans being fans. but… maybe they see something we don’t want to admit.”
the world seemed to pause — the lights, the noise, everything fading except him.
“milo…” you whispered.
his grin returned, crooked and hopeful. “don’t worry, i’m not about to propose in front of a thousand people. but maybe after this event, we ditch the press party and just… go get burgers? just us?”
you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “like a date?”
his eyes lit up. “exactly like a date.”
from the hall, someone called for both of you to head to the meet-and-greet. but for a moment, neither of you moved. you just stood there in the quiet, the air buzzing with something unspoken, undeniable.
finally, you nodded. “burgers after.”
milo’s grin spread wide, and for the first time all night, it wasn’t for the cameras. it was for you.
the city streets were quieter now that the event was over. neon signs flickered, streetlights casting a soft glow on the sidewalk. you and milo walked side by side, shoulder brushing shoulder, laughing about the chaotic press questions and fan signs.
“i still can’t believe someone actually made a glittery poster that says we’re married,” you said, shaking your head.
“hey, it’s accurate, isn’t it?” he teased.
“not yet,” you countered, nudging him playfully.
the burger joint was small, cozy, and smelled like fries and grilled onions. you found a booth in the corner and slid in across from him, still buzzing from the night.
“so,” milo said, leaning back with that grin that made your heart skip, “if we’re going to be shipped this hard by the internet, we should probably practice being cute in public.”
you laughed, rolling your eyes. “practice, huh?”
he leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “obviously. gotta make it believable.”
and for the rest of the evening, it was just that — laughing, teasing, sharing fries, joking about fan theories, and stealing glances across the table that were way too long to be innocent.
as the night went on, the neon lights outside flickered over your faces, making the city feel like it was yours alone. at one point, milo brushed a strand of hair from your face, his hand lingering longer than necessary.
“so… how did we go from being co-stars to this?” you murmured, voice soft.
“i guess the fans were right all along,” he said, his smile crooked and hopeful, “they just knew we needed a little push to notice it ourselves.”
you leaned back, letting the warmth of his hand still resting near yours settle in. “i think… i like their taste.”
“yeah?” he teased, eyes twinkling. “me too.”
when you finally left the burger joint, bellies full and hearts racing, milo slipped his hand into yours. “so… date night complete?” he asked softly.
“best date night ever,” you whispered, squeezing his hand.
and as the two of you walked through the quiet streets, the city lights twinkling around you, you knew that the fans weren’t just shipping a fantasy. you and milo? the chemistry, the laughter, the stolen glances — it was real. all eyes might have been on you tonight, but for the first time, it didn’t matter. because all you could see was each other.
wanings: just fluff, and the slightest bit of spice :3
a/n: my first milo fic!!! this one’s been cooking for a while 🤭 hope you love it as much as i do!
it was a lazy day for the two of you. for the first time in a long time, your and milo's schedules had finally aligned. and with that was the unspoken rule that today would be a day for staying at home. today was a day to enjoy your boy.
spending half an hour lost in milo's beauty, you found it hard to tear your gaze away. he looked so pretty as the rays of sunshine poured through the sheer curtains, all his brown and gold undertones accentuated. you weren't sure you could love anyone more.
after working up the courage to leave his sleeping figure, you gently slipped from his grasp. you made sure to be as quiet as you could, wanting your lover boy to get as much rest as he deserved.
it was when you were sitting on the couch mindlessly scrolling through your phone when you caught sight of him. milo, clad in sweats and a hoodie, with his favorite throw blanket wrapped around his lanky frame. you couldn't help but smile to yourself as you saw his curls peeking from the blanket every which way. there was something so innocent in the way he looked, so boyish and precious.
"hi," you say softly. it was simple, but that was all that was needed to meet his sleepy grin. “hi,” he responds back, voice dripping with sleep.
you open your arms, hands signaling to him to plop down on your lap. without hesitation, milo does so. the smell of faint cologne and shampoo hits your nose as he lays his head on your lap. everything about him was perfect.
“what did you wanna do today, mi?” you ask, your hands immediately finding his hair. he had rested his eyes and soon as he laid down on you. his eyelashes looked so delicate against his cheeks. you could spend forever counting them.
with his eyes closed, he softly responded with “absolutely nothing,”. a smile crept upon your face. he matched you.
you needed to wake your sleepy boy up before he could think of what he wanted to do today. you gently shifted him, bending down until your head reached his. you felt his breath tickle your cheeks as you lay about one thousand kisses on him.
“okay i’m up, baby.” he says, chuckling softly. his eyes open slowly, bringing his hands up to rub the sleep from his eyes. you could cry at how precious he’s being.
his hand comes up softly to your face, gently grazing it. you’ve spent countless night missing his touch. you’ve longed for it, and you were happy you finally had it.
“i miss you” he says, his eyes becoming more serious. his look made your heart skip a beat. he knew exactly what to say to take your breath away. “i’ve missed you, my love.” you respond, voice full of admiration.
the gentle pitter patter of the rain against the large windows finally catches your gaze. you turn to your lover boy and simply say “it’s raining,”
he sits up excitedly, no trace of sleep in his eyes due to the idea of the sudden change of weather. he turns to you with a cheeky smile, “ i know what we could do.”
milo sits up, the fluffy blanket falling off his frame. you were none the wiser about his next step.
he offers you a gentle hand. you reluctantly stood up from your cozy spot on the couch and took his hand, wanting to just be lazy with your handsome boy.
“what are you up to, mi?” you ask, your eyes squinting slightly at him playfully. you couldn’t help but smile at him.
he flashes you that charming smile of his, the one that makes your stomach flip. he’s always so playful, always keeping you on your toes.
milo quickly guides you through the layout of your shared home, the place you adore most because of him.
milo stops at the back door, excitement evident in his face. “are we-“ you start. he cuts you off by opening the door wide, proud of his next thought. “follow me,” he says slightly under his breath. grabbing your hand harder, milo leads you down the short stone path that leads to your backyard.
stepping outside, the gentle flutter of raindrops hit your skin. the cold droplets are a welcoming feeling against the sticky humidity that surrounds you.
milo tugs his hoodie off of his fluffy curls. he turns to face you, raindrops quickly soaking his hair. he looked so cozy. and as his deep brown eyes bore into yours, you couldn’t help but smile at him.
finally breaking the silence, you say “what are we doing out here, mi?”. looking up at the sky, you flinch as you try to look at the grey overcast, raindrops hitting your face.
pulling your now drenched hair away from your face, milo draws your attention back to him.
“you’re beautiful,” he whispers. you watch as the words leave his mouth, sounding even sweeter as your gaze catches his lips. flicking your eyes up to his, you find you breathing become labored.
milo slides his hands over your arms, and you feel yourself turn into a puddle underneath his touch. gently grabbing your hands, he drapes each arm over his broad shoulders. linking your fingers behind his head, you give him a shy smile. his hands glide over your torso, the familiar feeling never failing to make you shudder. his calloused hands stop at he small of your waist, fitting just right. his touch is addictive.
milo begins to hum a familiar tune as you rest your head on his chest. the rain envelopes you both as you gently sway. the vibration of milo’s voice soothes you; the song you shared your first kiss to all those years ago. he’s such a lover boy.
nothing in the world mattered right now but you and him. and you wished it stayed that way.
the sounds of rolling thunder echo through the sky, making you jump at the sudden noise. your body tenses, but soon finds solace in milo. your body automatically finds ease as milo wraps his arms tighter.
the rain now pelts against your skin as the harsh gusts blow around you. yet still, milo makes you feel safe. “it’s okay, baby, let's head inside,” he says gently as a flash of lightning catches the corner of your eye. he hurries you inside, a slight giggle leaving your mouth. reaching the warmth of the house was just as comforting as milo’s touch.
as soon as you turn to lock the back door, milo’s hands are on you, eager. he has no trouble finding the hem of your shirt, his fingers burning against your skin.
“mi, what are you-” you start to question as his soft lips silence you. this kiss was just intoxicating as the first. leaving you in a haze, milo reluctantly pulls away from you, a shit eating grin upon his lips.
peeling your shirt off quickly, he responds, “having the best off day ever”.
Synopsis: in which Wally gets offered a better position at a school to play football. It’ll get him out of town, away from Split River, away from you. But you would never ask him to stay… would you?
Notes: Angst!! Happy endings!
The news comes casually, like it’s not about to rip your world apart.
“So, yeah,” Wally says, scratching the back of his neck. “I got the offer.”
You blink. “What?”
He shifts on his feet, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “It’s nothing, really. Just… a chance to leave. Something new.”
Something new. Something that isn’t this town. Something that isn’t you.
Your stomach twists, but you force yourself to nod, to play it cool. “Oh. That’s—” Your voice catches, so you clear your throat. “That’s great.”
Wally hesitates. “Yeah?”
You don’t meet his eyes. “Yeah.”
A long silence stretches between you. You’re standing outside your house, the porch light casting a dim glow over you both. It’s late—later than he usually stays. Maybe that’s why he’s telling you now, when everything is quiet and there’s no one around to hear the way your heart is breaking.
“You don’t sound like you mean that,” Wally says, and there’s something in his voice—something careful, like he’s stepping around glass shards.
You swallow hard, crossing your arms. “I do. Really.”
For once, he doesn’t joke. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches you, the muscle in his jaw ticking.
“If you told me to stay…” He trails off, shifting closer. “I think I would.”
Your breath catches.
The words are there, right on the tip of your tongue. Stay.
But you don’t say them.
Because who are you to hold him back? Who are you to ask him to stay in this town, where nothing ever changes and the walls feel like they’re closing in? Wally’s always wanted more. You can’t be selfish.
So you say nothing.
And that’s what makes him go.
—
The first few days without Wally are hollow.
You feel the absence of him like a missing limb—reaching for your phone before remembering there’s no reason to. Walking past his locker at school and instinctively glancing over, only to find it empty. Your world feels quieter without him in it, like the color’s been drained from everything.
Dawn and Maddie notice, of course. “You’ve been weird lately,” Maddie says at lunch, nudging you with her foot under the table. “I mean, weirder than usual.”
“I’m fine,” you lie.
Dawn gives you a knowing look. “Have you heard from Wally?”
Your chest tightens. “No.”
Not since that night. Not since you let him walk away.
You pretend it doesn’t bother you. Pretend you don’t wonder if he’s already settling into his new life, already forgetting about you.
But late at night, lying in bed, all you can think about is the way he looked at you before he left—like he was waiting for you to stop him.
—
When Wally comes back, it’s unexpected.
It’s a Friday night, and you’re sitting on your front steps, staring out at the street without really seeing it. The autumn air is crisp, the smell of burning wood lingering from someone’s fireplace. You don’t know why you’re out here—maybe because the house feels too quiet, maybe because part of you still hopes—
Then you hear footsteps.
Your heart jumps before you even see him.
And then there he is.
Wally stands at the bottom of your steps, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, looking like he’s been through hell. His hair’s a mess, his eyes tired, but it’s him. And suddenly, you can breathe again.
You scramble to your feet. “What—” Your voice cracks. You swallow. “What are you doing here?”
He exhales, shaking his head like he doesn’t know where to start. “I—” He hesitates, then steps closer. “I couldn’t do it.”
Your breath hitches. “Do what?”
“Leave.” His voice is quiet, raw. “I thought I could. I thought it was what I wanted. But then I got there, and everything felt wrong.”
You just stare at him, heart pounding.
Wally takes another step up, closing the space between you. His hands are shaking. “I missed you,” he says, voice thick. “I missed this.”
Your throat tightens. “Wally…”
His eyes search yours, desperate. “Tell me to stay.”
Your heart is racing, and suddenly, it’s not about being selfless. It’s not about holding him back. It’s about the fact that you don’t want to be without him, that every day without him felt like something was missing.
“Stay,” you whisper, the word slipping out before you can stop it.
Wally exhales sharply, like he’s been waiting to hear it this whole time. Then he’s closing the distance between you, arms wrapping around you, holding on like he’ll never let go.
“I’m staying,” he murmurs, burying his face in your hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: y/n hadn’t been coping since the breakup and everyone could tell. so she went out with the girls to try and clear her mind but it doesn’t exactly go as planned
Song rec - Hits different by Taylor swift
The girls’ night out had started the way they all hoped it would—filled with laughter, loud music, and the sweet sting of cocktails. Payton, Rainbow, and Sarah had practically dragged Y/n out, determined to pull her from the wreckage of her heartbreak. They wanted her to feel alive again, to remind her that she wasn’t just the girl who cried in the bathtub to Love Is a Losing Game every night since Milo left.
For a while, it worked.
The drinks were strong, the music was loud, and for a few fleeting hours, Y/n almost believed she could forget.
Until the inevitable happened.
"So," Rainbow started cautiously, swirling her drink. "How are things with...you know, Milo?"
The name alone sent a ripple through Y/n’s chest. Her forced smile wobbled for just a second before she steadied herself. "I don’t want to talk about him tonight."
"Good," Payton said firmly. "Because tonight is about fun. No sadness, no exes—Milo’s name is officially off-limits."
They clinked glasses, a silent agreement to leave the past where it belonged. But as Y/n threw back her drink and let the burn settle in her throat, she knew—forgetting wasn’t as easy as they made it sound.
Hours later, the alcohol had done its job, numbing the edges of her heartbreak. The beat of the music pulsed through her veins, and before she knew it, she was on the dance floor, swaying, laughing, existing.
That’s when she saw him.
Not him—not Milo.
A stranger. A handsome guy at the bar, watching her with interest.
She let him.
One drink led to another, and suddenly, his lips were on hers. She let it happen, let him pull her close, let herself believe for a fraction of a second that this was what moving on looked like.
But the second his lips met hers, nausea rolled through her. Not from the alcohol.
It was wrong. The touch, the taste, the feel of him against her—none of it was right. None of it was Milo.
She yanked herself away, muttering an apology before stumbling towards the bathroom, her breath coming fast and uneven.
The second she locked the door behind her, she crumbled, mascara staining her cheeks.
"Y/n?" Payton’s voice came from outside, gentle but firm.
She didn’t answer right away, just stared at her reflection in the mirror, her red-rimmed eyes and smeared lipstick a stark reminder that no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t escape him.
With shaking hands, she opened the door.
Payton took one look at her and sighed. "Let’s go home."
The air outside was sharp and sobering as they walked to meet Jacob, Payton’s boyfriend, who was picking them up. Y/n scrolled absently through her phone, her vision blurry, fingers clumsy.
And then she saw it.
Milo’s Instagram story.
It was nothing—just a set photo, a behind-the-scenes shot of him sitting next to her. A girl Y/n didn’t know. A girl who wasn’t her.
The impact was immediate. Her stomach twisted violently, her breath hitched—before she even had time to process it, she was doubling over, throwing up on the sidewalk.
"Jesus," Rainbow gasped, pulling her hair back. "Okay, we’re done for the night."
They kept walking, Y/n wiping her mouth, her body shaking. And then, as if the universe hadn’t been cruel enough, they passed by a bar blasting their song. "You belong with me."
She broke.
Sobbing, clutching onto Payton as the weight of everything she had been trying to suppress came crashing down.
The girls tried to soothe her, tried to say all the right things. But nothing felt right. Nothing felt right.
She whispered his name through her tears, slurring it like a prayer, like a curse.
By the time they reached Jacob, she was still crying. He didn’t say a word, just opened the car door and let her in while the others talked outside. Y/n curled into herself in the backseat, silent tears streaming down her face as she stared out the window, lost in a storm of memories she couldn’t seem to outrun.
When she got home, she found them.
The artifacts.
A hoodie he left behind, the ticket stub from their first movie together, the stupid baseball cap he always wore but never took back.
She sat on the floor, holding the cap in her lap, tears slipping down her face.
"He was the one," she whispered to no one. "I loved him. And he just...left."
Payton sat beside her, leaning her head against Y/n’s shoulder.
Y/n let out a shaky, bitter laugh. "You know, this is why they shouldn’t kill off the main guy."
Payton smiled sadly. "Bet you could still melt his world. His argumentative, antithetical dream girl."
Y/n just sniffled, closing her eyes. "I dream about him, you know?" she whispered. "His hair, his stare, the way he used to believe in me."
Payton squeezed her hand. "Maybe he still does."
The next morning, Y/n lay in bed, eyes swollen from crying, heart still aching.
And then—
The key in the lock.
Her breath hitched.
Her heart pounded.
Milo?
She shot up in bed, staring at the door down the hall, waiting, waiting, waiting
But it wasn’t him.
Of course, it wasn’t.
She collapsed back into her pillows, fresh tears burning her eyes.
Until her phone rang.
Her heart stopped.
It was him.
With trembling fingers, she answered.
A beat of silence.
And then, his voice, raw and quiet.
"I miss you."
Silence hung between them, thick and heavy, stretching across the distance that neither of them could seem to cross.
Y/n swallowed hard, gripping her phone so tightly her knuckles ached. Her breath felt uneven, like she’d just run a marathon, but she hadn’t moved an inch.
"I miss you."
Two simple words. Ones she’d wanted—no, needed—to hear for weeks.
But now that she had, she didn’t know what to do with them.
She let out a slow, shaky breath. "You don’t get to say that, Milo."
A pause. Then, a quiet sigh on the other end. "I know.
"Then why did you?" Her voice cracked, and she hated herself for it.
"Because it’s true."
She squeezed her eyes shut, fingers trembling around the phone. "No. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to walk away and then—then call me in the morning like I’m supposed to just—" She broke off, biting her lip so hard she nearly tasted blood.
"Y/n…" His voice was softer now, pleading in a way she wasn’t sure she’d ever heard before.
"Why are you calling me, Milo?"
Another pause. She could hear him breathing, like he was debating what to say.
"Because I can’t stop thinking about you."
A tear slipped down her cheek. She brushed it away angrily. "That’s not fair."
"I know."
"You always do this," she whispered. "You always come back just enough to make it hurt again."
"I don’t mean to."
"But you do."
Another beat of silence. Then, quietly—"Did you see it?"
She knew exactly what he meant. The photo. The girl. The thing that sent her spiraling into the worst night of her life.
"Yeah," she admitted, voice small.
Milo exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding his breath.
"It wasn’t—she’s no one, Y/n. Just a co-star. It was just set stuff, you know that."
"That doesn’t change how it felt."
"I know," he murmured. "I hated it too, if that makes you feel any better."
"It doesn’t."
Another long pause. She could picture him now—probably running a hand through his messy hair, jaw clenched the way it always did when he was frustrated.
"You’re still mad at me," he said finally.
She let out a bitter laugh. "Of course I’m mad, Milo. You broke my heart."
The words hung between them, heavy and painful.
His voice was barely a whisper. "I know."
She closed her eyes, hating how much she wanted to believe that he regretted it.
"Why did you do it?" she asked, voice raw.
She heard him inhale, then exhale slowly. "Because I was scared."
She frowned. "Of what?"
"Of how much I loved you."
Her breath caught.
"Of how much I still love you," he corrected.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, trying to hold in the sob that threatened to escape. "Milo…"
"I know I don’t deserve to say it," he admitted. "Not after what I did. But I—God, Y/n, I don’t know how to exist in a world where you’re not mine anymore."
Her heart ached so badly she thought it might shatter completely. "You let me go."
"I thought it was the right thing to do," he confessed. "I thought—I don’t even know what I thought. I just know that I was wrong."
She let out a shaky breath. "Do you think that just saying this fixes everything?"
"No," he said immediately. "I don’t. I know I have no right to ask for anything. But I had to call. I had to hear your voice."
Tears slipped down her face, one after another.
She didn’t know what to say.
"I miss you," he said again, softer this time. "And I know I don’t deserve you, but if there’s even a chance—if there’s anything left—"
Notes: mentions of smoking! mentions of jealousy! drinking!
You weren’t expecting Wally to be here.
Then again, maybe you should have.
The party was already in full swing by the time you arrived, music thumping through the walls, the smell of cheap beer and too many different colognes thick in the air. People packed into every corner of the house, red cups in hand, laughing, shouting over the music.
You’d barely made it through the front door when you felt it—that prickling sensation creeping up your spine, like you were being watched.
And then, there he was.
Wally Clark, leaning against the wall near the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest, an unreadable expression on his face. His usual smirk was nowhere to be found. Instead, his dark eyes tracked your every move.
Your stomach flipped.
Your date—Ryan, sweet, safe, boring Ryan—didn’t seem to notice the sudden shift in atmosphere. He laced his fingers through yours, tugging you further inside. “Come on,” he grinned. “Let’s grab a drink.”
You hesitated, but nodded.
Wally didn’t look away.
Fifteen minutes later, you were perched on the arm of the couch, laughing at some story Ryan was telling. Or at least, pretending to laugh.
Because you could still feel him.
Every time you glanced up, Wally was there—lingering near the kitchen, posted up against the back wall, watching.
Your stomach twisted.
He was never this quiet at parties. Never this still.
Ryan’s hand landed on your knee, snapping you back to the conversation. “So,” he said, giving you a playful smirk, “why’d you finally say yes to going out with me?”
You forced a smile. “Figured I’d give you a chance,” you teased.
Before he could respond, a shadow fell over the couch.
Your heart stopped.
You didn’t even have to look up. You knew.
“Didn’t think you were coming tonight, sweetheart,” Wally drawled, his voice smooth, laced with something dangerous.
Ryan blinked. “Sweetheart?”
You knew Wally was trying to get a rise out of you. You knew he was doing this on purpose. And yet, your skin burned under his stare.
“You didn’t tell me you’d be here,” Wally continued, tilting his head, a slow, smug smile finally curling on his lips.
You clenched your jaw. “Didn’t think I had to.”
Wally chuckled, low and slow. “Right. Of course.” His gaze dropped, sweeping over you, pausing on the way Ryan’s hand still rested on your knee.
And just like that, his smirk vanished.
Ryan cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. “Uh, do we—do we have a problem, or…?”
Wally finally looked at him. “Nah,” he said, too easily. “No problem.”
Ryan nodded, obviously unsure. “Cool, cool.” He turned back to you. “So, you were saying—”
Wally moved.
Not much. Not even close enough to touch you. But just enough to make his presence undeniable.
Just enough to make Ryan notice.
Just enough to make you hold your breath.
Your fingers curled into fists. “Wally.”
His eyes flicked to yours, dark and unreadable. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
Ryan sat up straighter. “Okay, man, seriously. What’s going on here?”
Wally smiled, but it was sharp, predatory. “Nothing. Just making sure my good friend here is enjoying herself.”
You wanted to strangle him.
Ryan exhaled. “Right. Well, we were.”
Wally hummed. “Yeah?” He leaned in slightly, dropping his voice low enough for only you to hear. “You havin’ fun, sweetheart?”
Your stomach flipped.
Ryan frowned. “Dude, do you mind?”
Wally looked at him, slow and deliberate. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached out—fingers just barely grazing your wrist before you yanked it away.
Ryan noticed.
He wasn’t stupid.
His mouth parted slightly, realization dawning. “Oh,” he muttered. “Oh.”
You could feel Wally’s smirk without even looking.
Heat rushed to your face. “Wally. Go away.”
Wally exhaled through his nose, finally—finally—stepping back. “Sure thing, sweetheart.” He flashed a grin, turning toward Ryan. “Good luck, man.”
And just like that, he walked off.
Ryan let out a breath. “Okay,” he said slowly, looking at you. “What the hell was that?”
You rubbed a hand over your face. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
You found Wally outside, leaning against his truck, flicking a cigarette between his fingers.
“You are such an asshole,” you snapped.
He barely glanced up. “Nice to see you too, sweetheart.”
You stomped over. “You just embarrassed me in front of my date!”
Wally smirked. “Date?”
Your face burned. “Yes! My date!”
He hummed, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. “Looked more like a charity case to me.”
Your jaw dropped. “Are you serious right now?”
He shrugged, exhaling smoke. “I mean, come on, sweetheart. We both know you weren’t into him.”
You clenched your fists. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Wally chuckled, shaking his head. “Please. If you actually liked him, you wouldn’t have let me get under your skin so easy.”
Your stomach twisted.
Because he was right.
And you hated that he was right.
“You’re jealous,” you accused, crossing your arms.
Wally tilted his head, his smirk sharpening. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice lower now. “I am.”
You weren’t expecting that.
He stepped closer, flicking his cigarette away. “Hated watchin’ you sit with that guy,” he murmured, eyes flicking over your face. “Hated him thinking he had a chance with you.”
Your heart pounded.
“Wally—”
“You wanna know why?” he interrupted, voice quiet.
You swallowed. “No.”
He ignored you.
“Because that should’ve been me sitting next to you.”
Your breath caught.
Wally’s hands slid into his pockets, his expression unreadable. “Tell me I’m wrong,” he said softly.
You opened your mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because you couldn’t.
And he knew it.
Wally exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
And then, before you could even process what just happened, he turned—walking away, leaving you standing there, heart in your throat, knowing nothing between you would ever be the same.
wally clark that writes you notes and leaves them in your locker for you to find later in the day.
wally clark that gives you his beloved varsity jacket every chance he can get because “it looks better on you”
wally clark that giggles and presses a messy kiss to your cheek, ignoring your complaints that he’s going to mess up his face painted number that you painted across your face for his game.
wally clark that lifts you every time you hug, picking you up from your feet and hugging you so tight you feel like you won’t be able to breathe much longer.
wally clark that is completely and utterly obsessed with you and isn’t afraid to show it regardless of where you are.
Summary: Milo hates your boyfriend for many reasons. He’s always pushed those feelings down but tonight they all came crashing out.
Song rec - Figure you out by VIOLÀ
Y/n and Milo had been inseparable for since they were 14, their bond formed on movie sets and a shared apartment and built on countless late-night talks, laughter, and quiet moments. But there was a problem Milo had carried with him all along—he was in love with her.
He had always been there for Y/n, but it hurt to watch her with someone else. Tonight, like so many other nights, he could feel the sting in his chest as she laughed and joked with her boyfriend, Matt.
Y/n and Milo were walking to the bar, the cool night air brushing against their faces as the city buzzed around them. Their friends were already there, waiting, but for some reason, Milo had been distant all day. Y/n noticed it, but she didn’t know why. He was quiet, lost in his thoughts, and it made her wonder if she had done something to upset him.
"Hey, what’s wrong with you?" she asked, nudging him with her elbow as they walked side by side.
Milo didn’t immediately respond. He just shook his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Nothing," he muttered, but she could hear the edge in his voice. It wasn’t nothing. It never was.
Y/n raised an eyebrow. "Milo, don’t give me that. You’ve been off all day."
He looked at her, his expression unreadable. "I’m fine," he said, though his voice didn’t convince her. "Let’s just get to the bar.”
But she could feel it—the tension building up in him. And when they arrived at the bar and met up with the group, it didn’t get any better. Milo stayed quiet, but his eyes never left Matt, her boyfriend, who was talking animatedly to everyone around him. Y/n was laughing at something Matt had said when she noticed Milo’s tense posture. His jaw was tight, his fists clenched at his sides. The irritation rolling off him was so thick it was almost palpable.
"Is he okay?" Payton asked, leaning toward Y/n as they stood near the bar.
She glanced at Milo, then back at Payton, her voice quiet. "I don’t know. He’s been weird all day."
Payton gave a little shrug. "Maybe it’s Matt. He’s been a little... off with Milo recently."
“I doubt it that… I know they don’t get on but Milo isn’t like that, I expect that from Matt maybe but not from Mi.”
Payton nodded telling y/n she was gonna go check in on Milo
“What’s up with you?” Payton asked.
Milo hesitated, his gaze flicking to Y/n and Matt, her laughter ringing in his ears.
“He’s what’s up with me,” Milo muttered, barely holding back the bitterness in his voice.
“Matt?” Payton asked.
Milo’s fists clenched. “I know he’s her boyfriend, but the guy’s annoying,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “It’s like he doesn’t even care about her.”
Payton let out a frustrated sigh. “You’re only annoyed by him because you’re in love with her,” he said, his tone blunt.
Milo’s head snapped up, glaring at Payton.
“So what?” he spat. “He treats her like crap, and you know how many times I’ve had to pick her up after he’s made her cry? It’s endless.”
Payton frowned, shaking her head. “I know, Milo. But she’s with him.”
Milo’s jaw tightened. “Don’t know why,” he muttered.
It didn’t take long for Milo to snap. As Matt was talking about something he was studying in college, Y/n asked, genuinely trying to understand, "Wait, what? I don’t get it."
Matt looked at her with a smirk. "It’s college talk, Y/n. Don’t get your pretty head all confused over it."
Y/n blinked, taken aback by the condescending tone. "Excuse me?"
Milo immediately tensed beside her. He spun around, glaring at Matt, his voice tight. "Just because she didn’t go to college doesn’t mean shit."
Matt rolled his eyes. "It’s not that deep, man."
Milo’s frustration boiled over. "It’s not a joke, dude," he snapped. "Calling her dumb isn’t funny."
Matt leaned in, smirking like it was all a game. "I didn’t call her dumb."
"You implied it," Milo growled, his fists clenched, his entire body rigid.
Payton stepped in, sensing where this was going. "Will you two cut it out?" She said, her voice rising slightly.
Matt wasn’t backing down, though.
"What the fuck is your issue, man?" he asked, his tone challenging.
Milo’s temper exploded. "You’re my issue," he spat, his voice low and furious.
Matts grin faltered, and he took a step toward Milo. "Oh, grow up," he sneered, the words a clear provocation. “she’s my girl dude she knows I’m joking.” He emphasised the ‘my girl’ knowing it would get under Milo’s skin
“She’s not your girl you don’t own her.” Milo spat back at him he was so close to snapping
“Neither do you buddy, it was a joke chill.” Matt warned
“Calling her dumb isn’t a joke dude so no I won’t chill.”
“Shut up man.” And that was it. Milo’s fist flew out, connecting with Matts jaw.
The bar seemed to freeze for a moment, but then chaos erupted. Matt staggered back, but he came back swinging, the fight between the two of them turning into a blur of punches and shoves. Y/n screamed at them to stop, but neither seemed to hear her as they collided again and again.
She rushed toward them, grabbing at Milo’s arm, trying to pull him away from Matt. "Milo! Stop it!" she yelled, but it was like talking to a wall. Her voice got lost in the noise of the fight.
Matt threw a wild punch, landing a hit to Milo’s side. Milo retaliated with a hard jab to Matt ribs, pushing him back. By now, the two of them were getting physical with one another, shoving, swearing, fists flying, as the group stood in stunned silence.
Finally, Spencer stepped in, trying to break up the fight, but it only escalated further. Spencer anger flared, and suddenly, he was in the middle of the mess, yelling at Milo. "What the hell is wrong with you, man?!" Spencer shouted.
But nothing
“Mi Stop it!” Y/n yelled
It was enough to stop the fight, but only just. Milo stood there, panting, face red with fury. Y/n was standing in front of him, her face pale, her heart hammering in her chest.
“Y/n, let’s go,” Matt said harshly, glaring at Milo.
Y/n looked at him, her expression torn. Milo was breathing heavily, looking over at her, eyes pleading. She didn’t move, her eyes locked on Milo. She couldn’t understand what was going on with him. He was acting so strange tonight, so unlike himself.
Matts frustration came to a head again. "Y/n! I said let’s go!" His voice cracked as he shouted at her.
Y/n flinched at his tone, something in her gut turning over with hurt. It wasn’t just the fight—he was mad at her, too.
"Don’t yell at her," Payton intervened, pushing Matt away from Y/n.
Milo turned to face her, his face twisted with regret. "I’m sorry," he said, his voice quieter now. "I don’t know what came over me."
Y/n didn’t even look at him as she grabbed his arm and started dragging him toward the door. "Keys," she ordered, her voice cold.
Milo hesitated, then handed her the keys, the weight of his actions finally dawning on him. He knew he was the one who’d messed up, but he couldn’t take back the anger that had bubbled to the surface. They left the bar in silence, Y/n’s anger burning in the pit of her stomach.
They made their way back to their apartment, the tension between them palpable. When they got inside, Y/n didn’t even give him a chance to explain. "Sit down," she ordered, her voice hard.
Milo obeyed, slumping into the couch, feeling like a kid who’d just been scolded. Y/n paced around the room, grabbing things to tend to his injuries. When she handed him a bottle of water and painkillers, she sat down in front of him, her gaze piercing.
"Do you know how fucking stupid that was?" she asked, her voice shaking with frustration.
Milo winced but didn’t look away. "I know, Y/n," he mumbled. "I’m sorry."
She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "Did I say you could speak? No, Milo," she snapped. "You don’t get to apologize like that. You don’t just act like a goddamn maniac and then say sorry. Do you realize what you did? Do you even care?"
Milo opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a hand. "No, I’m talking now." Her words were sharp, cutting through the air. "You made me feel like shit tonight. You got so angry, and I didn’t even know why. You’ve been pushing me away all day, and I didn’t even know what I did. You’re mad at Matt, sure, but you need to stop taking it out on everyone else."
Milo swallowed, his chest tight, but he knew she was right. "I’m sorry," he said again, his voice small.
"Sorry doesn’t fix this, Milo," she replied coldly. "You think just because you’re my best friend, you can behave however you want? That’s not how it works. I’m not here to pick up the pieces after you lose your temper. I’m not just here when it’s convenient for you."
Milo looked down, unable to meet her eyes, his hands shaking.
Y/n took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "I’m tired of you treating everyone like they don’t matter, like their feelings don’t count. What happens when I’m the one who’s fed up? What happens then?" She leaned in, her voice soft but firm. "I need you to take a step back and think about your actions, Milo."
Milo stayed silent, nodding slowly. He didn’t have anything to say. He just sat there, feeling the weight of her words settle over him like a cloud.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she sighed, rubbing her face. "You’re lucky I’m still here. I’m so angry right now, but I care about you too much to walk away. But you need to fix this. You need to stop letting your anger control you."
Milo looked at her, his heart in his throat. "I know," he whispered. "I’ll fix it. I swear."
She nodded, finally softening just a little. "You better. Because if you don’t, I don’t know how much longer I can stand by and watch you destroy yourself over someone who doesn’t even care about you."
Milo stayed silent, his mind racing. "I’m sorry," he said again, quieter this time.
Y/n stared at him for a long moment before speaking.
"Good. Now sit there and think about what I said." She stood up, gathering the ice pack to help with his hand.
He watched her, a mixture of guilt and relief flooding him. "Y/n," he whispered, looking at her with a sincerity that made her heart ache. "Thank you."
When she walked back into the room while was looking up at her with puppy dog eyes “I’m sorry, Y/n,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t okay for me to do that. I crossed a line.”
Y/n sighed, her gaze softening just a little. “Yeah, you did.”
Milo reached for her hand, his fingers trembling. “Part of me is glad you did, though,” she said, her voice small. “His comment made me feel like shit, and it’s nice to know I have someone in my corner.”
Milo’s heart swelled. “Always,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He was so close to her now, he could feel her breath on his skin. She brushed a strand of hair from her face, and he leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss.
Y/n pulled away slightly, her face flushed. “You’re gonna wanna ice that,” she said, handing him the bag of peas.
Milo smiled softly as she sat next to him again. “Y/n,” he whispered, his voice low and earnest. “Brake up with him.”
She raised an eyebrow, glancing at him.
“Was planning on it.”
Milo's hand found her cheek, his thumb gently brushing over her skin. “Good,” he said, a grin playing on his lips. “Because it means I can do this a hell of a lot more.”
He kissed her again, his lips soft and tender. She melted into him, a mix of emotions flooding her. “Milo,” she murmured, her voice trembling.
“We shouldn’t,” she said quietly, breaking the kiss reluctantly. “You know we shouldn’t.”
“I know,” he whispered, her face flushed. “But you make it so hard not to.”she laughed, a soft, breathless sound.
“Fine, fine. I won’t kiss you again. You’re right—we’re friends, and we shouldn’t cross that line.”
She pouted slightly, and he couldn’t help but smile. “Don’t give me that look,” he said.
“What look?” she asked, feigning innocence.
“You’re pouting.” He grinned, running his thumb across her lips.
“I’m not,” she argued
“You are too! So, what’s it gonna be, pretty? Can I kiss you or not?” Her eyes softened, and she leaned in.
“Maybe a little more.”
“That's what I thought,” he said with a grin, pulling her into his lap. And they kissed again—again and again—until the world outside didn’t matter, only the feeling of each other’s lips and the promise of what might come next.
“You’re so pretty, you know that?” he murmured.
“Oh, stop it,” she teased.
“My smart, pretty girl,” he whispered against her lips.
IN WHICH … you’d sworn off love after your last heartbreak. but during filming a rom-com in london, you start to feel things you don’t wanna assume.
warnings ; fear of intimacy, past heartbreak, slowburn, fluff !!!, sweetheart!milo x avoidant!reader
The script had called for London in the autumn. The director, a wildly eccentric British man, had insisted on authenticity. “None of that Hollywood backlot pissing about,” he’d declared in your first Zoom meeting. “I want the real damp, the real chill, the real, glorious grey of my city.”
And so, here you were. In London. For three months. Filming a romantic comedy where you played a cynical American bookstore owner who falls for her charmingly chaotic rival, played by none other than Milo Manheim. The irony was so thick you could have choked on it.
Just six months ago, your own love story had imploded in a spectacular, soul crushing fashion. You’d found out the man you thought you were building a life with was, in fact, building a second, secret life with someone else. The discovery had hollowed you out, leaving behind a bitter, guarded shell. You’d sworn off love, relationships, and men in general. You built walls around your heart so high and thick, you figured they were impenetrable. This job was supposed to be your escape. A new city, a new project, a fortress of solitude where you could lick your wounds and pretend you were fine.
Then you met Milo.
He was a hurricane of sunshine. A human exclamation point. On your first day at the table read, he’d bounced into the room before tripping over a chair leg, all while grinning like he’d just won the fucking lottery. He was loud, and funny, and so unbelievably, genuinely sweet that it set your teeth on edge. Your carefully constructed defenses went on high alert. He was a threat.
A beautiful, big brown eyed, perpetually smiling threat to your misery.
You’d tried to keep it professional, you really had. But Milo was relentless. He’d learn your coffee order after the first day. He’d find obscure little bakeries near your hotel that sold the ridiculously specific pastries you’d once mentioned you liked. He’d make you laugh on set, proper, ugly, snorting laughter, until the makeup artists had to descend on you for touch ups. He slowly, methodically, and with absolutely no agenda other than his own innate kindness, began to dismantle your fortress brick by brick.
“Road trip tomorrow?” he’d asked one Friday after you’d wrapped for the week. “I wanna see the countryside. I’ll even brave the whole– you know.” He mimed driving on the wrong side of the car, his massive hands comically gripping an imaginary steering wheel.
You’d hesitated, every alarm bell in your body screaming danger. But you were also lonely and tired of your own company. “Fine,” you’d sighed. “Just– don’t kill us. Left side of the road, okay?”
“Got it,” he’d grinned.
And that’s how you found yourself in the passenger seat of a rented Range Rover the next day, speeding out of the city. It was one of those rare, perfect autumn days where the sun burned through the mist, turning the countryside gold and crimson. You were driving on the left side road, and it felt as wonderfully strange as everything else did around him. The air was cold enough that you’d stolen the massive, ridiculously soft navy blue hoodie he’d left in the back seat. It smelled like him; some clean, woodsy scent and a faint hint of the mints he was always chewing.
He glanced over at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. “You’re pretty wearing my clothes,” he said, his voice a low, warm rumble over the sound of the engine.
Your breath hitched. It wasn’t a line. It wasn’t flirty or performative. It was just a fact he was stating, as easily as if he were commenting on the weather. You ducked your head, a blush creeping up your neck. You propped your feet up on the dashboard, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie down over your hands, a pathetic attempt to hide how much his simple words affected you.
You watched his hands on the gear stick. They were huge, with long, elegant fingers and neatly kept nails. Strong hands. Those hands that make hell seem freezing cold. But right now, resting lightly on the shifter, they looked gentle. He turned the radio up, humming along to some old rock song you didn’t know, his profile sharp against the passing scenery.
He looks like a poem. A poem I wish I wrote, you thought, the sentiment so sharp and sudden it felt like a punch to the gut. You quickly pushed it away, burying it under a layer of well practiced cynicism.
Weeks bled into one another in a montage of filming, exploring, and laughing. Mostly laughing. Your friend from back home, Sarah, had called you out on it during a FaceTime call last week.
“So, how’s London?” she’d asked.
“Oh my God, it’s amazing. Milo and I found this incredible Indian place, and he tried to order the spiciest thing on the menu, and his face turned the color of a fucking tomato, it was hilarious. And then yesterday, he bought this ridiculous tweed flat cap because he said he wanted to ‘look more British,’ but he just looked like a giant paperboy. He’s been reading this collection of short stories by–”
Sarah had cut you off, a knowing smirk on her face. “God, you’re so boring and you’re so rude!” she’d teased. “Can’t have a conversation if it’s not all about Milo? What about you? How are you doing?”
You had faltered. How were you doing?
You were.. happy. And the happiness was so deeply intertwined with him. The way he dresses, and the books he reads. It was all consuming.
“Uh-huh,” Sarah had said, not buying it for a second. “You sound like you’re not getting much sleep.”
She was right about that, too.
You really love your bed, but it’s hard to sleep when he’s with you. Not in a literal sense, not yet anyway. But he’d taken to knocking on the adjoining door between your hotel rooms late at night, holding up scripts. “Wanna run lines?” he’d ask, his hair all messy, a hopeful look in his puppy dog eyes. And you’d let him in, every single fucking time. You’d run lines for twenty minutes, and then you’d spend the next three, maybe five hours just talking. Talking about everything and nothing, stretched out on your couches, until the London skyline started to turn a pale, pearly grey. And after he’d leave, you’d lie in your bed, your mind buzzing, his laughter still echoing in the room, and sleep would feel like a waste of time.
Tonight was one of those nights. You’d had a grueling day on set, a big, emotional scene that had left you both drained. Your director had finally called a wrap around 10 PM., and instead of retreating to your respective rooms, Milo had nudged you.
“I’m starving. I saw a kebab place on the walk here. You in?”
You were ‘too tired’ to say no.
The twenty minute walk through Soho woke you up. It had just rained, and the streets were slick and black, reflecting the gaudy neon signs of the theaters and pubs. The air was cool and smelled of wet pavement, exhaust fumes, and fried onions. It felt alive.
The kebab shop was a tiny, fluorescent-lit hole in the wall, blasting music that must’ve been ten years out of date. The man behind the counter was a whirlwind of motion, his accent so thick and fast it was practically a different language.
“Alright, what can I get for ya?” he chirped, looking at Milo.
Milo, ever the confident American, stepped forward. “Hi! Uh, can I get one lamb doner, please? With, um– all the salads? And– is that chili sauce very spicy?”
The man rattled off a response so quickly you only caught about every third word. Something about “a proper kick” and “not for the faint of heart, sunshine.”
Milo’s face was a perfect mask of polite confusion. He blinked his big, brown eyes. “I’m– I’m so sorry, can you say that one more time?”
The guy repeated himself, even faster this time, gesturing with his tongs.
Milo leaned forward slightly, cupping his ear. “My– my apologies. The music is a little loud. One– one more time?”
And that’s when you snorted, which you then tried to disguise as a cough. But it was no use. A bubble of pure, unadulterated hilarity rose up in your chest and burst out of you. You were laughing. It was so stupid. It was just an accent. But seeing this giant, usually so poised actor look as lost as a tourist at Times Square, it was the funniest fucking thing you had ever seen.
You’re both just so American for London.
Milo looked from the exasperated kebab guy to you, his own confusion melting away as he saw the state you were in. A slow grin spread across his face, and then he was laughing too. He leaned against the counter for support, his whole body shaking with it.
“Oh my God,” you gasped, wiping a tear from your cheek. “Just– just get two of whatever he said and pay the man.”
He finally managed to complete the transaction, and you stumbled out of the shop and into the cool night air, clutching your warm, paper wrapped parcels. You huddled under the cheap neon sign of the shop next door, a blinking pink and blue disaster that bathed you both in an unearthly glow.
You took a huge bite of your kebab, the spicy sauce a welcome shock to your system. Milo was still chuckling beside you.
“That was brutal,” he said, shaking his head. “I genuinely had no fucking clue what he was saying.”
You started laughing again, a quieter, more breathless kind of laugh this time. He was looking at you, not at his food. The neon light caught the warmth in his eyes, turning them the color of rich, dark chocolate. He laughed at all your jokes. Even the ones that weren’t funny. Especially when the joke was on him.
He nudged your shoulder with his. “You’re so American,” he said, his voice soft, the words laced with an affection so potent it made your heart ache. “Your laugh. It’s so– loud.”
“Hey!” you protested, but there was no heat in it.
“No, it’s a good thing,” he insisted, his gaze so intense it felt like he was seeing straight through you. “It’s my favorite sound.”
Oh God, it’s just not fair of him. To say things like that. To look at you like that. To make you feel this fucking much.
And standing there, under the tacky neon lights on a damp London street, with the taste of cheap food in your mouth and the sound of his voice in your ears, you felt it happen. A gentle, silent surrender. The walls you had so painstakingly built around your broken heart, the ones you had sworn were permanent fixtures, just dissolved. They crumbled into dust and were washed away by the misty London air, leaving your heart exposed, and vulnerable, and beating so fucking hard you were sure he could hear it.
You felt a dizzying terrifying sense of freedom.
You’d go anywhere that sweet dipshit goes. You’d follow him to the literal ends of the earth if he asked you to.
He was still smiling that stupid perfect smile.
Oh God, you’re gonna marry him.
If he keeps this shit up, you might just marry the fuck out of him. If he keeps looking at you like you’re the only person in the world, and laughing at your stupid jokes, and making you feel this safe and this seen and this stupidly, incandescently happy.. you might just be in love.
The walk back to the hotel was different. The boisterous energy had settled more softer and intimate. The space between you crackled. As you crossed a quiet street, Milo’s hand found yours, his fingers lacing through yours like they were made to be there. His palm was warm and a little calloused, and it anchored you to the spinning world. He didn’t say anything, just held your hand, and it was enough.
When you got to your hotel room doors, he finally stopped and turned to face you. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice low. He’d seen the shift in you, the moment the laughter had died in your eyes and been replaced by something else. Something raw.
You nodded, your throat suddenly tight. “I’m more than okay.”
A small, knowing smile touched his lips. “I’m glad,” he said. “When we first got here.. you had this– look. Like you were waiting for the other shoe to drop all the time. I haven’t seen that look in a while.”
He was so perceptive it was unnerving. He reached up with his free hand and gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing against your cheek. The simple touch sent a jolt straight through you. The air thickened, buzzing with everything you both weren’t saying.
You took in the gentle curve of his smile, the kindness in his eyes, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead. A poem you wish you wrote.
He leaned in slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away.
You didn’t. You couldn’t. You met him halfway, rising onto your toes as his lips met yours.
It was soft and sure. It was a question and an answer all at once. It tasted faintly of chili sauce and mint, and it tasted like coming home. It felt like the final brick of your fortress turning to sand.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your skin. His brown eyes searched yours, full of a quiet, hopeful light.
You looked at this boy, this ridiculously wonderful, giant hearted, life altering boy, and the truth of it all settled deep in your bones, as solid and real as the ground beneath your feet. The fear was gone, replaced by a terrifying, exhilarating certainty.
But ain’t it love?
Fuck, you thought, a slow, stupid grin spreading across your own face. Think you’re in love.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
What about Wally Clark with a reader who’s kind of the opposite of him. Like he’s very outgoing and friendly but she’s very reserved and quiet. She doesn’t like socializing much and kind of stays to herself, so when she dies at Split River no one really noticed, which did upset her but she also doesn’t talk about it. Then one day after a session with mr martin, Wally overhears him talking to Janet about how he feels like she really wont open up and that its a little concerning. So Wally decides to build a friendship with her, which proves to be really difficult at first since she doesn’t like to socialize at all. But after a bit he starts to kind of naturally gravitate toward you, and gets you to actually open up to him which makes him very happy.
In the Silence
Synopsis: In which Wally Clark doesn’t give up on you, and his hard work pays off.
The thing about Wally Clark was that he never gave up.
It was something everyone in Split River knew about him, something that stuck even after death. He was persistent, always moving forward, always finding a way to make people laugh, to bring people together.
And then there was her.
She was quiet. Kept to herself. The kind of person people didn’t really notice, even when she was alive. And after she died? It was like she had never existed at all.
She didn’t talk about it, but Wally knew. He heard things. Overheard things. Like today, after Mr. Martin’s session, when he lingered near the door just long enough to catch his voice drifting through the walls.
“She won’t open up,” Mr. Martin said. “It’s concerning.”
“Some people are just like that,” Janet replied, but there was something in her tone—like even she wasn’t sure.
Wally frowned.
He had never spoken to her much. Not because he didn’t want to, but because she made it clear she didn’t want anyone to. She was like a shadow, always on the edges, always looking like she had more to say but never saying it.
But Wally liked a challenge.
So the next day, he found her sitting alone near the bleachers, staring out at nothing in particular.
“Hey, stranger,” he said, grinning.
She barely acknowledged him. Just a slow blink, a flicker of surprise before she turned back to whatever she was thinking about.
He sat down next to her anyway.
“You come here often?” he teased, nudging her lightly.
Silence.
Wally was used to people talking back, laughing, meeting his energy. She didn’t. She just sat there, arms wrapped around herself, making it very clear that this was her space, and he was intruding.
But Wally Clark didn’t scare easy.
So he kept trying.
⸻
It wasn’t easy.
She didn’t talk much, and when she did, it was short answers. Simple. To the point. If she had her way, she probably would’ve ignored him forever.
But Wally had patience.
He started sitting with her whenever he could, whether she liked it or not. He talked, and she listened. Told her stories about his life, about football games, about dumb things he and the guys used to do. He didn’t know if she actually cared, but she never told him to stop.
And somewhere along the way, it became natural.
She never talked about herself, but she listened. Really listened. And for someone like Wally, who was always loud, always laughing, always the center of attention—it was kind of nice.
So he kept talking.
Kept filling the silence.
And then, one day, everything changed.
⸻
They were sitting on the bleachers again. Wally had been talking for a while—about practice, about parties, about the way death hadn’t really hit him until he realized he’d never actually get to grow up.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You ever think about that? Like… what you would’ve done if you had more time?”
She didn’t answer.
Didn’t even look at him.
Her hands were clenched in her lap, fingers digging into the fabric of her sweater. Her shoulders were stiff, like she was holding something back.
Wally hesitated.
“You okay?” he asked, voice softer.
That was all it took.
She broke.
It wasn’t just a few tears. It was everything. A flood of emotions that had been buried for too long, crashing down all at once. Her shoulders shook, and before Wally even knew what he was doing, he moved closer, pulling her into a hug.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, holding her as she sobbed. “You’re okay.”
She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. She just held on, gripping his shirt like he was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.
And for once, Wally Clark didn’t try to fill the silence.
Notes: modern ish! alive wally! slow burn ish! wally clark x reader! lots of tension!
The bet started as a joke.
You and Wally Clark had always been toeing the line between friendship and something more—the lingering touches, the loaded glances, the way conversations stretched too long into the night. But neither of you ever said it. Neither of you ever admitted what was obvious to everyone else.
So, naturally, Wally turned it into a challenge.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he had said, his signature smirk tugging at his lips, “let’s make it interesting. First one to admit they like the other loses. Winner gets bragging rights forever.”
You had rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “That’s stupid.”
“Oh? Scared you’ll lose?”
You scoffed, leveling him with a glare. “I just don’t see the point.”
“The point,” Wally had leaned in, his voice lower, teasing, “is that one of us is eventually gonna crack, and it sure as hell ain’t gonna be me.”
You had smirked back at him. “We’ll see about that.”
And that was that.
Now, weeks into this ridiculous bet, things were getting… complicated.
It started with the subtle things.
Wally had always been flirtatious, but now it was calculated. The way he’d lean in just a little too close when he talked to you, the way he’d let his fingers brush against yours when handing you something. He’d call you “sweetheart” with that lazy drawl of his, his lips curling in satisfaction every time you glared at him in response.
But two could play at that game.
You started showing up looking just a little too good—tight jeans, low-cut tops, whatever would make his gaze linger for a second too long before he forced himself to look away. You laughed at his jokes in a way that made him watch you, his smirk faltering just a fraction.
It was a slow, torturous battle of wills.
And neither of you were winning.
One particular evening, you found yourself at a party—some mutual friend’s house, music blasting, drinks flowing. You weren’t surprised to find Wally already there, sprawled out on the couch like he owned the place, chatting with a couple of girls.
When he noticed you, his lips quirked into that infuriating smirk.
“Well, well,” he drawled, standing up and making his way toward you. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Why? Afraid I’ll ruin your fun?”
“Sweetheart, you are my fun.”
You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched. “Weak attempt, Clark. Try harder.”
He tilted his head, watching you. Then, suddenly, he reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing your skin. The action was so casual, so effortless, but it sent a jolt of heat down your spine.
“That better?” he murmured, voice lower now, amusement flickering in his eyes.
You didn’t let yourself react. Instead, you leaned in, close enough that your lips were just inches from his ear.
“You’re gonna have to do a lot more than that to make me crack,” you whispered.
Then you pulled back and strutted away, leaving him standing there, blinking.
Score: You – 1, Wally – 0.
But Wally was nothing if not persistent.
One night, after yet another long, tension-filled hangout, he walked you to your door, his hands in his pockets, his gaze flickering to your lips more than once.
“You sure you don’t wanna just give up now?” he asked, voice smooth. “Save yourself the trouble?”
You smirked. “In your dreams, Clark.”
He let out a chuckle, shaking his head. Then, without warning, he stepped closer—too close, his breath warm against your skin.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Then tell me this.”
His fingers ghosted over your wrist, barely touching but enough to make your breath hitch. His gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, the teasing was gone. It was just him—earnest, intense, searching.
“If I kissed you right now,” he said slowly, “would you stop me?”
The air between you went taut. Your heart pounded.
For a brief, fleeting second, you almost caved.
Almost.
Instead, you smirked, stepping back and breaking the moment. “Nice try,” you said, voice steady even as your pulse raced. “Better luck next time.”
You saw the way his jaw clenched, the flicker of frustration in his expression before he masked it with a smirk of his own.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he murmured, shoving his hands back in his pockets. “You win this round.”
But you both knew the war was far from over.
It all came to a head one rainy night.
The two of you had been out—just another late-night drive, another excuse to spend time together without acknowledging what it really meant. But then the storm rolled in, and you ended up at his place, both of you soaked from the downpour.
You stood in his living room, shivering slightly, watching as he tossed you a dry hoodie.
“Here,” he said. “You’re gonna catch a cold looking like that.”
You hesitated. It wasn’t the first time you’d worn his clothes, but somehow, this felt… different. More intimate.
Still, you took it, pulling it over your head. It was warm, soft, and smelled like him.
When you glanced up, Wally was staring.
His usual teasing expression was gone. There was something else there now—something raw.
“Wally?” you asked, suddenly breathless.
His hands flexed at his sides. “You’re killing me, sweetheart,” he muttered.
You swallowed. “What?”
“This damn bet,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re killing me.”
Your heart pounded. “You could just admit it, you know.”
“So could you,” he shot back.
Neither of you moved.
The air between you was thick, electric. You could hear the rain pounding against the windows, but it was distant, unimportant. All that mattered was him—his gaze locked onto yours, the tension between you nearly unbearable.
Then, suddenly, he let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head.
“You know what?” he said.
Before you could react, he reached out, cupping your face in his hands.
“Screw it,” he muttered.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t careful. It was everything—all the pent-up frustration, the teasing, the tension that had been building for weeks. His lips were warm, urgent against yours, like he had been holding back for far too long.
For a moment, you were too stunned to respond. But then, instinct took over, and you kissed him back, your fingers tangling in his damp hair.
When you finally pulled away, breathless, he pressed his forehead against yours, chuckling softly.
“Guess that means I lose,” he murmured.
You smirked, still dazed. “Yeah. You do.”
He grinned, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Worth it.”
And just like that, the game was over. But somehow, you both knew—this was just the beginning.
Tyler jumped out of the truck and looked around with a smirk on his face. He put on his hat and studied the horizon.
"Damn," he chuckled, "I love storm weather."
"It's gonna be a good one," Boone laughed as he joined him. "Look at those clouds!"
"We need more beer," Dex said, walking out of the trailer.
"Then go get it," Tyler laughed as he nodded toward the convenience store. When his eyes glanced at the store, he froze. His eyes landed on the last girl he thought he'd see again.
Standing inside the convenience store was Y/N. As soon as his eyes landed on her, he couldn't look away. Tyler tried to think about the last time he saw Y/N. Realizing that it wasn't the best memory he had, his mind focused on the happy memories he had with her.
His eyes followed her as she walked around the convenience store, and all he could think of was how much he had loved her. The longer he stared at her, the more he realized he had never fallen out of love with her. Something just got in the way.
If it wasn't for that one thing, Tyler would have married that girl.
"Do you know her or something?" Boone asked him, snapping him out of his memories.
"Know who?" Tyler asked, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.
"That girl," Boone chuckled, nodding his head toward the store. "The one you've been staring at for a solid three minutes."
"I wasn't staring at anyone," he stuttered as he put on his sunglasses and readjusted his hat.
Before Boone could keep pushing, Tyler busied himself with checking a few of the new advancements on the truck. He couldn't help but continually glance toward Y/N. Once she had finished up in the convenience store, she walked back outside.
Tyler's eyes followed her the entire way to her friends. He couldn't pull his eyes away from her as she smiled and laughed with them. As he watched her, he wished he was right next to her, laughing with her, with his arms wrapped around her.
"Alright!" Dex yelled, snapping Tyler out of his memories. "I talked to the guy in the convenience store. He said there's a motel not too far from here."
"Let's go!" Boone laughed as he clapped repeatedly.
Tyler didn't move. He didn't want to leave. He wanted to see if Y/N still loved him. He wanted to see if she would react the same way he was reacting by simply seeing him. So, he decided to test it out.
"Before we go," he said, sending Boone his 'film this' look. Boone caught on and instantly grabbed the camera.
"Smile," Boone laughed. "Science is fun."
Some of their fans noticed as Tyler jumped up onto the side of the truck.
"Hey, T!" Boone yelled. "We are live. Tell the folks how you're feeling."
"I'm feeling pretty good, Boone," Tyler laughed. "And if you feel it. . ." Tyler started his iconic line, waiting for the crowd to finish it.
"Chase it!"
"I said, if you feel it. . ."
"Chase it!"
Tyler laughed as he jumped down. Boone instantly appeared at his side, wrapping his arm around Tyler. "Oh, it's a beautiful day," Tyler said as Boone turned the camera to film the two of them.
"Beautiful day!" Boone yelled, looking at the camera. Tyler looked away, looking toward but not at Y/N. His heart jumped, and he felt a little hope when he noticed that Y/N and her friends had been watching.
* * * * *
"You want to tell me the truth?"
Tyler looked over to see Boone smirking at him in his doorway.
"The truth about what?" Tyler lied.
"That girl you saw at the gas station," Boone sighed. He walked in and shut the door. "Come on, man. The minute you saw her, you froze. And your face drained of all color. Who was she?"
"Her name is Y/N," Tyler sighed, clearing his throat as he sat on the edge of his bed. "We grew up together. Our parents were really close, so naturally, we became inseparable. So much so. . ."
"So much so that you fell in love with her," Boone finished for him.
"We fell in love with each other," Tyler corrected. "We started dating in high school, and I was convinced that I'd spend the rest of my life with her."
"What happened?" Boone asked, his voice soft and serious.
"I started riding bulls," Tyler mumbled, his voice full of anger directed at himself. "I started putting my life at risk."
"And I'm guessing, she didn't like that," Boone said, slightly clearing his throat.
"Y/N was always in the audience," Tyler defended her. "Even when I started acting stupidly, she was there. But I kept taking bigger and bigger risks. At one point during senior year, I got injured pretty badly. More than just a usual concussion. My injury. . . It scared her. Y/N visited me at the hospital and ended up staying the night with me. She asked me if I was going to stop riding after getting hurt, and I told her I would go back once I was healed. She tried to convince me to take the rest of the season off."
"You didn't," Boone said, catching on.
"I took a month off," Tyler tried to make the whole situation seem not as bad. "When I went back to riding, though, Y/N didn't come to the shows. After my first one back, I went over to her house to talk to her. She told me that she loved me, but she couldn't sit back and watch me risk my life."
"She broke up with you?"
"No," Tyler answered instantly. "I thought she did. I begged her to stay with me. She told me that she wasn't breaking up with me. She explained that she couldn't sit in the audience while I'm in danger. She begged me not to ask her to come to the shows anymore and to call her every night after I got home."
"Then what happened between the two of you?" Boone asked, studying his friend. The more he learned about Tyler and Y/N, the more he connected the dots.
Over their years of chasing, Tyler has had lots of women throw themselves at him. He never caught them or gave in to them. Now, Boone knew why.
"It was after the first storm that I chased," Tyler said, sounding like he was lost in his memory. "Storm chasing. . . It was a bigger risk than riding bulls. It was too dangerous for Y/N. She couldn't sit back and. . . So she walked away. She was the one storm that I couldn't wrangle. I couldn't hold onto her."
"Damn," he mumbled. "I'm sorry, man. Maybe you could try to. . ."
"I should go to the nearby store," Tyler cut him off. He stood up and grabbed his hat and jacket. "We need a few things before we take off tomorrow."
"You know," Boone followed him to the door, "we could stay a few extra days."
"Why would we stay a few days?" Tyler asked, throwing on his coat.
"Well. . ." Boone hesitated. "Maybe staying a couple of days would give you the chance to reconnect with Y/N."
"Even if I did reconnect with her," Tyler mumbled as he walked out the door, "it doesn't mean she's going to stay with me. I'm still chasing."
* * * * *
Tyler walked numbly through the store, grabbing a few things that he knew they needed. He froze when he looked up, his eyes instantly landing on her.
"Y/N," Tyler gasped.
"I thought that was you at the gas station," she smiled as she walked closer to him.
"You saw that," he chuckled, pretending to be embarrassed.
"Lots of people saw it," she chuckled. "Isn't that the point of your Tornado Wranglers?"
"Kinda," he smirked. His smirk slowly fell as they stared at each other. "How have you been?"
"I've been good," she shrugged.
"My mom told me you became a teacher," Tyler said, not looking away from her. "You replaced Ms. Louis?"
"I did," she smiled. "Hopefully, I'm a better teacher than she was."
"I guarantee that you're a better teacher than she was," Tyler laughed. "She used to put up all of our tests on the board so everyone could see each other's grades."
"Didn't she use to scribble out our names?" Y/N said, trying to stop her laughter.
"She barely scribbled our names out," Tyler smirked. "You could still see whose test was whose. Please tell me you don't do that, Y/N."
"I don't," she giggled.
"Good," Tyler smiled at her. He could easily imagine Y/N as a teacher. It wasn't too difficult. She is the reason he graduated high school. She spent hours tutoring him.
He cleared his throat when he looked down and saw the small shopping basket in her arms.
"Want to shop. . . together?" He hesitantly asked. "We could continue catching up."
"I'd like that," she smiled. Tyler let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding as she started walking with him.
As they walked around the store, he asked her questions. He noticed that she hadn't asked about the Tornado Wranglers. And he didn't care. He didn't want anything to ruin his chance with her again. After checking out, he walked her to her car.
"Y/N, wait," he said, gently grabbing her elbow before she could get into her car.
"Yeah?" She asked, turning back toward him, making his breath get caught in his throat.
I still love you. I never want to be without you. The past few years have been completely empty without you, Y/N. I love you.
He didn't say that. It got stuck in his throat. Instead, he forced out, "It's been fun shopping together."
"It has," she smiled, her voice soft.
"I've missed us," he said, putting emphasis. The look in her eyes slightly changed.
"I've missed us, too," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I think about you all the time," he continued. "I think about the life we had together. I think about how stupid I was to let you walk away that day."
"I still think about how you looked after your first storm," she whispered. "Your clothes were torn, you were limping, and there was dried blood all over you."
"I know," Tyler stuttered.
"Seeing you like that. . . It got too much, Tyler." She cleared her throat when her voice broke. "It was hard enough in high school, watching you get bucked off a bull. But chasing uncontrollable storms?"
"Y/N. . ." Tyler tried to comfort her, but nothing came to mind.
"And you're still chasing," she said, her voice dropping. "You're still risking your life, following storms."
"I know," he stuttered again. "But I still love you."
"Tyler. . ." It was her turn not to be able to say anything.
"Any chance you still love me?"
Y/N's heart broke at Tyler's question. "Of course I still love you," she said, her voice breaking. "I knew I still loved you the minute I saw you."
"That's all I need," he said, matter-of-factly. He grabbed her waist and pulled her into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her waist as he pressed his lips to hers.
It took her a second before she started kissing him back. When she did, she slowly slid her hands up his chest and wrapped her arms around his neck. Tyler loved it when she did this. It brought back so many memories that he didn't dare push down.
Not anymore.
Those memories made him deepen the kiss. Soon, it seemed as if neither one of them could hold back their feelings anymore. They each tightened their arms around the other, holding each other close. As they kissed, it felt as if no time had passed since they were last together.
But, because nothing good lasts forever with them, an alarm interrupted.
"What. . . What is that?" She stuttered, still lost in the kiss. Tyler snapped out of his bliss instantly. He didn't have to think about what that sound was. He knew what was going on.
"Tornado warning."
Without thinking, he grabbed Y/N's hand and pulled her with him. He instantly ran her back toward the store. He didn't let go of her hand as they followed the workers around the back of the store to the storm cellar.
"Is this safe?" Y/N stuttered as they waited for the workers to get the cellar open. Tyler turned toward her, slightly pulling her closer.
"It is," he tried to reassure her. It didn't work, so he reached up to gently hold her face with both of his hands. "I am right here, Y/N. You are safe. I promise."
"Everybody, inside!" One of the workers yelled. "Let's go!"
Tyler instantly wrapped his arms around Y/N and led her into the storm cellar. He took her as far away from the door as he could. Once they were far enough, he pulled her so they were sitting. He didn't miss his heart skipping a beat as she tucked into his chest.
They were in the storm cellar for a few hours before they got the 'all clear'. As soon as things were safe, Tyler escorted Y/N out of the cellar.
Tyler looked around, letting out a sigh of relief when he saw that this storm wasn't too bad.
"It doesn't look to. . ." Y/N started to say, slowly finding her words.
"It must have changed directions before it could get close to us," Tyler said, subconsciously tightening his arms around her. He looked down to see Y/N's eyes still scanning the area. "You okay?"
"I hate tornado season," she mumbled. "I've always hated it. It's scary and uncontrollable and. . . I don't know how you do it."
"It's different when we're prepared," Tyler said softly. He watched as she slowly looked up at him. "Plus, it's different being in the storm when the woman you love is in your arms."
"I felt safe," she whispered.
"You did?" He asked, slowly letting go of her. He grabbed her hands, turning her toward him. "You felt safe with me?"
"I've always felt safe with you," Y/N shrugged. With a smile on his face, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. Before she could get too lost in the kiss, she needed to get something off her chest.
"What's wrong?" He asked as she broke the kiss.
"I don't know if I'm ever going to be okay with you chasing tornadoes," Y/N said after she had gathered enough courage. Tyler opened his mouth to defend his hobby, but she continued, "But I need you in my life, Tyler. These past few years without you have been miserable. It didn't matter that I had started teaching or that I had gotten a house. . . I didn't have you."
"You've always had me," he chuckled as he leaned in.
"Have I?" She asked, her voice breaking. "Really?"
Tyler gently grabbed her hands, staring directly into her eyes as he promised, "Even though we've been apart, I've always been faithful to you, darling. I could never be with anyone else. Not with how crazily in love with you I have been my entire life."
"I've been crazily in love with you my entire life," Y/N said. Tyler let go of her hands and gently grabbed her face. As he pressed his lips to hers, she grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer. He broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against hers.
"You are the one storm I thought I hadn't wrangled," he whispered. "But you're the one storm I will never run away from. I promise."
Oooooo... if there is still space (hehe, excuse the pun) can I request a moodboard drabble for To the Moon and Back Jake? I love that man
The first thing you do when the shuttle lands is unclip the chain hanging around your neck, and slip Jake's engagement ring onto your finger. You'd promised him you'd wait until you got back to Earth before making your mind up, but really you would marry him anytime and anywhere.
As promised, he's waiting on the tarmac, alongside the reporters and NASA officials. There are hundreds of cameras trained on you, and yet you immediately drop all your gear, and break out into a sprint.
Jake meets you halfway, arms wrapping around your waist as you throw yourself into his arms.
"How was the moon, pretty girl?" He murmurs into your hair.
"Incredible. Doesn't feel as good as seeing you, though," You grin, peppering kisses across his face. Journalists have swarmed round you both trying to ask questions, but it's like nobody else but Jake exists in the world.
"Aw shucks, honey - you're gonna give me a big head if you keep goin' round saying things like that."
"S'true," You insist. "Can't compare."
At this, you wave your left hand in his face, diamond ring glinting in the sunlight. His smile grows even wider, if possible. "You've made your decision then."
"I made my decision the second you asked me, Jake."
summary; Jake is completely bewitched by the calmest four-year-old and her single mother in a four hour flight from New York to Texas.
word count; 3.3k
warnings; FLUFF FEST
a/n; this one came to me in my sleep, i love girl dad jake in any way i can get it honestly, let me know what you think! read part two here
masterlist
Jake Seresin really should’ve booked the later flight.
He’s still a little hungover, the kind that hums behind his eyes and makes his stomach tilt every time the plane jerks with another passenger shoving a bag into the overhead bins. His back aches from the too-soft hotel mattress, and the starched collar of his shirt itches against his neck.
He runs a hand down his face as he steps into the narrow aisle, the low hum of pre-flight chaos buzzing around him. The air smells like coffee, recycled air, and too many people in too small a space.
He’d spent the weekend in New York for a buddy’s wedding — a good time, sure, but too much whiskey, too many late nights, and way too much small talk. He’s ready to go home. Ready for quiet.
“Eighteen C,” he mutters under his breath, glancing at the numbers overhead as he lugs his carry-on down the aisle.
He’s one of the last to board, so everyone’s already settled in — headphones on, blankets pulled up, the lucky ones already half asleep. His luck? Historically bad.
He spots his row halfway down the cabin and feels that familiar pinch of dread in his gut.
Window seat’s taken.
Middle seat too — by a tiny girl in pigtails, her legs swinging as she hums softly to herself.
Jake exhales through his nose, amusement and exasperation battling somewhere behind his tired eyes. “Of course,” he mutters under his breath.
A four-year-old. For a three-and-a-half-hour flight. Fantastic.
She’s got a white tracksuit on, the hood shaped like little bunny ears. Her pink backpack is open on her lap, stuffed with crayons and snacks, and she’s so focused on her coloring book she doesn’t notice him right away.
He shifts his bag on his shoulder, preparing himself for the inevitable chorus of “I’m bored” and “Are we there yet?”
Then the girl looks up.
Her eyes are big and bright, her expression open — the sort of kid who’s been raised to look people in the eye. “Hi, sir! Are you sitting here?”
Jake blinks, momentarily thrown. “Uh… yeah. Looks like it.”
She nods solemnly, like this is an official transaction. “That’s okay. I don’t mind.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh despite himself. “Glad to hear it, sweetheart.”
The girl beams, turning a little to point toward the woman in the window seat. “Mommy, he’s here.”
Jake follows her gesture — and for the first time, really sees you.
You’re half-turned toward the aisle, hair loosely pulled back, one hand resting protectively on your daughter’s knee. There’s a softness to you that stops him for a second — not flashy, not showy, just… gentle. A quiet kind of pretty that sneaks up on him.
“Sorry,” you murmur, offering him an apologetic smile. “We were trying to keep her things out of the way.”
Jake shakes his head, suddenly more awake than he’s felt all morning. “You’re good. No trouble at all.”
He slides into his seat, careful not to bump either of you, his arm brushing the side of the little girl’s chair for just a moment. The contact is barely there — but he feels it.
And the kid’s not shy, that’s for sure.
As soon as Jake clicks his seatbelt, she turns toward him again, tiny legs still swinging. “Are you going home or going somewhere new?” she asks, bright and curious, like they’ve known each other for years.
He blinks, startled by the directness, then chuckles. “Uh… home, I guess. What about you?”
“I live in Texas,” she announces proudly, “but we went to New York for Mommy’s work. I got to see tall buildings and ride in a taxi and eat a pretzel as big as my face.”
Jake grins despite himself. “That so? Sounds like a good trip.”
“It was!” she says, emphatically. “Except the taxi smelled like feet.”
“Ivy,” you murmur softly, a quiet warning.
She glances up at you, guiltless and sweet. “It did, Mommy.”
Jake’s shoulders shake with a suppressed laugh. You catch it, and your eyes flick toward him — that shy little smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. He feels the back of his neck warm.
You lean slightly forward, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m sorry, sir. She can get a little talkative.”
He waves it off easily, shaking his head. “She’s fine. Really. I’ve had worse seatmates.” He smiles down at Ivy. “You’re not bothering me, sweetheart.”
That earns him a delighted grin and a small, “Thank you, sir.”
You mouth another quiet sorry as the flight attendants start their pre-takeoff checks. Jake only smiles back, settling into his seat as Ivy obediently faces forward.
The hum of the engines deepens. The usual rustle of belts and bags, the clipped voices over the intercom — all of it routine. He glances sideways, expecting at least a little squirming or noise from the kid, but Ivy’s sitting calmly, hands folded in her lap, expression serious.
You lean over her, gentle and practiced, slipping tiny pink earplugs into her ears. “There,” you murmur. “All set, baby.”
Jake watches the whole thing — the ease of it, the quiet assurance in the way you move. Ivy doesn’t fuss, doesn’t whine. Just blinks, takes your hand, and squeezes once. Like she’s done this a thousand times.
He’s… kind of impressed.
Most adults he knows get twitchy the second a plane door closes. But this four-year-old? Cool as can be.
When the plane starts to lift, Ivy presses back into her seat, clutching her little stuffed rabbit — a floppy-eared thing wearing a bow — and hums under her breath again. The sound’s soft, soothing somehow.
Jake finds himself smiling, eyes flicking to you when the seatbelt light finally dings off.
You exhale quietly, relaxing into the seat, and reach for the tote bag at your feet. “Good job, honey,” you tell Ivy, fishing something out. “You can play for a little while now.”
She perks right up, accepting the thin booklet with reverence. Jake catches a glimpse — it’s one of those sticker books, with pages like empty rooms and little sheets of people and furniture to decorate them.
“Which one’s that?” you ask her, smoothing the page open.
“The coffee shop,” Ivy says. “I’m gonna make it fancy.”
You hum approvingly. “Good choice.”
It’s then that you notice him watching, elbow resting on the armrest, that small, crooked smile on his face. You tilt your head, half-apologetic again. “She loves those. I think I’ve bought a dozen at this point.”
“Yeah?” Jake says softly. “She looks like she’s got it down to a science.”
You glance at Ivy, who’s busily arranging tiny sticker croissants in a display case, tongue poking out between her teeth in concentration. “She could play for hours,” you admit. “It keeps her happy when we travel.”
Jake hums, still looking — but not at the sticker book. At you. The way you talk about your daughter, the warmth in your voice, that mix of exhaustion and affection. He feels that unfamiliar tug again — not lust, not quite — something gentler. Something that makes him want to keep watching.
They’ve been in the air maybe half an hour when Ivy suddenly looks up from her sticker-covered page, expression bright and decisive.
“Mommy,” she says, “can I have another book from the bag?”
You glance up from your Kindle, a faint smile already forming. “Another one? You’re not done with your coffee shop yet.”
“I want to make one with…” Ivy pauses, looking straight at Jake. “With him.”
Jake blinks. “Me?”
She nods, serious. “Yes. So we can have a competition.”
You glance between them, torn between amusement and embarrassment. “Sweetheart, I don’t think the nice man wants to—”
But Jake’s already chuckling, leaning forward to grab the tote from under the seat. “You kidding? I never turn down a good competition.”
You freeze for a second, surprised, as he pulls out another sticker booklet and passes it to Ivy. His grin’s a little lopsided, charming in that lazy way he probably doesn’t even realize.
“What’s the game?” he asks, flipping open the first page.
Ivy’s thrilled. “We both make our coffee shops, and Mommy’s the judge. You can’t copy me, though. That’s cheating.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says solemnly.
You can’t help laughing, soft and breathy. “You really don’t have to—”
But he looks over at you then, eyes glinting, voice dipping lower. “Trust me, darlin’, I’ve survived Navy flight school. I can handle a four-year-old with stickers.”
Your face goes warm instantly. You look away, shaking your head, pretending to be exasperated — but you’re smiling.
So they start.
Ivy’s methodical — she narrates every choice: where the counter goes, what kind of muffins she’s “selling,” the people waiting in line. Jake, meanwhile, takes it as seriously as any mission he’s ever flown. He turns his page sideways for “better layout options” and mutters to himself about the placement of the espresso machine.
Every few minutes, Ivy leans over to inspect his work and announces, “That’s actually pretty good.”
Jake grins at that, his heart doing a strange little flip at her approval. “Thanks, partner. You’re a tough critic.”
You’re watching from beside them, one arm draped protectively over Ivy’s seat, your lips curved in a quiet smile you probably don’t even realize you’re wearing. There’s something in the way you look at them — at him — that hits him right in the chest.
He wasn’t expecting this flight to feel… like this.
Not when his head still throbs faintly from last night’s whiskey, and his back’s sore, and he’d been fully prepared to endure four hours of crying or chaos.
Instead, there’s this — the soft hum of the cabin, a kid’s laughter, your eyes meeting his over the aisle armrest.
He clears his throat when Ivy declares she’s finished and spins her page toward you. “Mommy, we’re ready!”
You play along beautifully, taking the role of judge with exaggerated seriousness. “Alright,” you say, folding your hands. “Let’s see what we have here.”
Ivy goes first, pointing out every detail. Jake listens like it’s the most important briefing of his life, nodding solemnly at mentions of pastries and tables.
Then it’s his turn. “Mine,” he says, flipping his book around, “is less about efficiency and more about atmosphere.”
Ivy gasps. “You put a piano!”
“Sure did. Live music every night.”
She narrows her eyes, impressed but determined. “Mommy, who wins?”
You take a long, thoughtful pause — partly for effect, partly because both are honestly adorable. “I think…” you say slowly, “…it’s a tie.”
Ivy lets out a triumphant laugh. “A tie!”
Jake puts his hand over his heart, mock-relieved. “Fair call, judge.”
When you glance at him, there’s a spark of something in your expression — warmth, amusement… maybe a hint of curiosity.
He gives you that soft, easy smile again. “Told you I could handle her.”
You smile back, cheeks pink. “You did more than handle her.”
For a second, neither of you looks away.
Then Ivy breaks the spell with a small yawn, curling sideways in her seat and resting her head on your arm.
Jake leans back, watching as you brush a few strands of hair from her forehead, your hand lingering there. The way you look at your daughter — soft, full of love — tugs at something deep in him.
He doesn’t even notice he’s still smiling.
When Ivy starts rubbing her eyes and fidgeting, you pull a pink iPad out of your tote bag and queue up Tangled. She’s practically giddy as you slip the comically large headphones over her head — they look like they belong to someone twice her size.
Jake grins at the sight. The headphones tilt slightly to one side, almost slipping off, but Ivy doesn’t seem to mind. Within minutes she’s completely engrossed, mouthing along to the songs like this is a regular ritual.
“She’s got taste,” Jake murmurs. “Tangled’s the best one.”
You glance at him, smiling. “We’ve seen it… I don’t know, a hundred times?”
“I can see why,” he says, settling back. “Pascal really carries the movie.”
You laugh softly, and he feels that sound bloom somewhere in his chest — like a small, unexpected spark of sunlight through the window.
He thinks that’ll be the end of it, that you’ll dive into a book or close your eyes for the rest of the flight. But you don’t. You’re quiet, your focus half on your daughter, half on the screen ahead — and Jake finds himself wanting to know more.
“So,” he starts, voice casual, “what do you do, when you’re not running coffee shop competitions at thirty thousand feet?”
You smile at that, the kind that’s half shy, half amused. “I’m an architect. I do mostly residential projects — smaller firms, family houses.”
He whistles low under his breath. “That’s impressive. You the creative type, then?”
You shrug, a little bashful. “I guess. I like the process. Turning something that’s just lines on a screen into someone’s home.”
“Home,” he repeats softly, like he’s tasting the word. “That’s a nice way to put it.”
Your gaze flickers to him, just briefly, and then you look back to Ivy, as if to ground yourself. “What about you?”
He smiles, a little lopsided. “Fighter pilot. USA Navy.”
You blink. “Oh. Wow. That sounds… intense.”
“Sometimes,” he admits. “But not as intense as three hours next to a four-year-old with stickers.”
You roll your eyes, trying not to laugh. “You handled that very well.”
“I’ve had tougher cases,” he says, deadpan, and that earns him another small laugh — the kind that makes him want to keep going, just to hear it again.
Then, after a moment, he nods toward Ivy. “She’s great, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a kid that age sit still for this long.”
You glance down at your daughter, her tiny legs tucked under her, the light from the tablet washing her face in soft color. “She’s… she’s my calm in the storm,” you admit. “I lucked out with her. My mom helps a lot too, so I get to breathe sometimes.”
Jake hums quietly. “You doin’ this on your own?”
You hesitate for just a second — barely noticeable, but he catches it. “Yeah,” you say finally, soft but certain. “It’s just us.”
He nods, not prying further. There’s something he admires in your tone — not defensiveness, not self-pity, just quiet strength.
He should leave it there, but the way the sunlight cuts through the small window, landing on your cheek, makes it hard to stop himself.
“You know,” he says, voice dropping just slightly lower, “you’ve got a really pretty smile.”
You turn to him, startled. “What?”
He grins, unbothered. “Just sayin’. I’ve been on a lot of flights, but this one’s got the best company I’ve had in a while.”
Your cheeks go pink instantly. You try to busy yourself with Ivy’s tablet, adjusting the volume even though she’s fine, mumbling something about how kind that is.
Jake bites back a chuckle. He’s always liked flustering people — but with you, it feels less like a game and more like gravity pulling him in.
He angles his seat a little closer, his knee just barely brushing Ivy’s kicking feet. “You blushing, sweetheart?”
You exhale a small, nervous laugh. “You’re flirting with me?”
“Maybe,” he says, grin widening. “But you’re smiling again.”
You are — and it’s soft and unguarded, the kind that makes him want to lean in, to keep you talking for the rest of the flight.
So he does.
You talk about nothing and everything: Ivy’s favorite movies, his favorite cities, how you hate small talk but somehow this doesn’t feel like that. Every time he says something teasing or calls you darlin’, your pulse stutters — and every time you look up at him through your lashes, Jake feels it too.
By the time the captain announces the descent into Dallas, he realizes he hasn’t thought about his hangover or his aching back in hours.
Just you. And the tiny, headphone-wearing four-year-old between you who, unknowingly, might’ve just introduced him to his favorite person on a plane.
The moment the wheels hit the runway, Ivy claps her little hands like they just landed on the moon. Jake can’t help but laugh — she’s so effortlessly joyful that even the people in the row ahead turn to smile at her.
You thank him again for helping with the overhead bag, but he waves it off, brushing a hand through his blond hair. “Please. I’ve faced worse challenges than a carry-on and a four-year-old.”
“I’m sure,” you tease lightly, hoisting your tote over your shoulder as people start filing out.
It takes a few minutes to deplane, and Ivy keeps glancing up at him like she’s thinking something very serious through. Then, right before they step into the jet bridge, she tugs on his sleeve.
She unzips her tiny backpack with great ceremony, digs through it, and pulls out a small sheet of stickers. “This one’s for you,” she says, peeling off a sparkly golden star and sticking it on his hand.
Jake stares at it for a second — the little glimmer of foil shining under the airport lights — and feels a ridiculous warmth spread in his chest. “A gold star, huh? That’s high praise.”
“You were a very good passenger,” she informs him with complete seriousness. “And you helped Mommy.”
You’re instantly flustered. “Ivy—”
But Jake’s already smiling. “Well, thank you, ma’am. I’ll wear it with pride.”
They reach the baggage claim, and he waits with you — partly because he’s a gentleman, but mostly because he doesn’t want to walk away just yet. You make small talk about Texas heat, and Ivy tries to stand on the luggage carousel (“absolutely not,” you say, gently yanking her back).
When your suitcase finally comes around, Jake grabs it before you can move, setting it upright beside you. Then he hesitates, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
“So… listen,” he starts, a little awkward now that there’s no plane seat holding him there. “Would it be crazy if I said I wanted to see you two again?”
You blink, startled — and blushing, of course. “Oh. Um. I don’t—”
“I mean it,” he says, soft but steady. “You don’t have to decide right now, but… maybe coffee sometime? No stickers required.”
That makes you laugh, the sound easing the nerves from your shoulders. “Coffee sounds… nice.”
He hands you his phone, open to a new contact. You type your number quickly before you can overthink it.
Jake’s grin is slow and genuine. “Guess I’ll call you then.”
He takes a few steps back, blending into the stream of people heading for the exits, and you turn to lift Ivy onto your suitcase handle, her little legs swinging.
But then it hits you — you don’t even know his name.
“Wait!” you call, and your voice echoes lightly through the hall.
Jake turns, that same easy smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah?”
“I don’t even know your name!” you say, half-laughing, half-mortified.
He chuckles, taking a few steps backward but keeping his eyes on you. “It’s Jake,” he calls out. “But you can call me anything you’d like, sweetheart.”
Ivy giggles, perched on your suitcase, her small hand waving wildly as Jake lifts his in return.
You’re still smiling when he disappears into the crowd — the kind of smile that lingers even as you step out into the Texas sun, a golden star still stuck to his hand somewhere in the airport.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
summary; You and Jake Seresin have been inseparable since childhood—two halves of the same heartbeat, growing up side by side through every scraped knee, late-night secret, and long-distance phone call. Somewhere along the way, friendship blurred into something deeper, something neither of you dared to name, and two lifelong best friends learn that sometimes the person you’ve been searching for has been standing right in front of you all along.
warnings; childhood best friends to lovers, slow-burn, no use of y/n, idiots in love, astronomical levels of pinning and longing and yearning, fluff with some angst
ask me anything | status: COMPLETED | total word count; 33.7k |
part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
part 6
epilogue
sorry for disappearing on y'all but i spent every free moment i've had the past month in this series and i didn't want to post it until it was ready!! hope you love it <3
summary; You and Jake Seresin have been inseparable since childhood—two halves of the same heartbeat, growing up side by side through every scraped knee, late-night secret, and long-distance phone call. Somewhere along the way, friendship blurred into something deeper, something neither of you dared to name, and two lifelong best friends learn that sometimes the person you’ve been searching for has been standing right in front of you all along.
word count; 1.2k
a/n; i forgot to post this 😭😭
series masterlist //masterlist
The California sun is soft and golden, the way it always is when it begins to set — bleeding honey and rose into the horizon, the kind of light that makes everything look like a memory you want to live inside forever.
A year.
It’s been a whole year since everything changed.
You never went back to Texas. You’d packed some of your things that night, telling yourself it was only for a couple of weeks — enough time to clear your head, to breathe somewhere that didn’t smell like heartbreak and old arguments. But Jake Seresin had a way of turning borrowed time into permanence.
Now, there’s no trace of temporary.
The house by the beach looks lived in, loved in. There are framed photos lining the hallway — one of you and Jake at the Hard Deck with the Daggers, another of him holding you against his chest on some random Tuesday morning, his grin wide and sleepy while your hair’s a mess. There are flowers on the kitchen counter, always fresh because he insists you deserve them. His Navy cap sits beside your favorite mug, a quiet testament to the life you’ve built together — steady, unhurried, full of warmth.
Jake kept his promise. From the moment you kissed him that night, he made it his life’s mission to love you in every way there was to love a person. You’ve never had to wonder if you were enough. He told you every day — with his words, with his hands, with the little notes he leaves tucked into your planner or the way he brings you coffee just the way you like it before work.
You’re spoiled rotten and loved to death, and Jake Seresin wouldn’t have it any other way.
And today, a year later to the exact date, you’re standing barefoot in the sand, the same waves that whispered against your window now brushing against your ankles. The breeze smells like salt and sunscreen and everything you’ve come to call home.
Jake’s in front of you, fidgeting with something in his pocket, his heartbeat practically visible in the pulse of his throat. You tilt your head, curious, smiling, because you already know that look — the one he gets when he’s about to do something big, something reckless, something him.
“Georgie,” he starts, and even now the nickname makes your chest flutter. His voice cracks a little, but his eyes never leave yours. “You remember what I told you that night outside the restaurant?”
You laugh softly. “Which part? The part where you yelled at me or the part where you said you loved me?”
He grins, that crooked grin that still makes your stomach flip. “Both, I guess.” Then he takes a deep breath and steps closer, pulling something from his pocket. “You made me the happiest man on this planet when you said you loved me back. And since then, I’ve spent every damn day trying to make sure you never forget how much I love you.”
Your smile wavers, tears already threatening, and before you can say anything, Jake drops to his knees — both of them.
“Jake,” you whisper, choking on a laugh and a sob all at once. “You’re supposed to go down on one knee.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, looking up at you with those impossibly earnest green eyes, “I figured you deserve more than the usual.”
You’re laughing through tears now, your heart pounding so hard you can barely breathe.
He opens the small velvet box, and inside, the ring catches the dying sunlight — an oval diamond set on a delicate gold band, simple, timeless, perfect.
“Marry me,” he says, voice low but steady. “Let me love you for the rest of my life, Georgie. Let me give you the world, even if it takes me the rest of forever to do it.”
And somehow, even though you’ve imagined this moment a thousand different ways, none of them come close to this. The waves, the warmth in his voice, the sand clinging to his jeans, the man who once thought he wasn’t capable of loving anyone this much looking at you like you hung the moon.
You nod before your voice even catches up. “Yes,” you breathe. “Of course I’ll marry you.”
Jake’s laugh is wet and shaky as he slips the ring onto your finger, then stands, wrapping you in his arms and kissing you like he did the first time — full of promise, full of forever.
When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to yours, whispering, “You’re stuck with me now.”
You grin, tears still streaming down your face. “That was the plan, Seresin.”
—
He leads you up the beach afterward, your hand warm in his, the cool sand between your toes. You’re still dizzy with happiness when you realize where he’s taking you — the familiar glow of string lights, the faint hum of laughter.
The Hard Deck.
Jake guides you through the door, and as soon as you step inside, a cheer erupts.
“Surprise!”
Penny’s behind the bar, beaming, holding two glasses of champagne. The Daggers are scattered across the room, some with cameras, others already reaching for drinks. There’s a banner that reads SHE SAID YES! in big gold letters, and Coyote’s the first one to pull you into a hug while Rooster’s already clapping Jake on the back.
“I knew it!” Phoenix crows, grinning like she personally orchestrated this moment. “I told you she’d say yes!”
“You’re welcome,” she adds smugly when you give her a teary laugh.
Jake raises a brow. “What do you mean you told me?”
And that’s when it happens — all of them laughing, tripping over each other as the story spills out. How the dinner a year ago wasn’t just a coincidence. How the Daggers had planned it, every detail. The fake group dinner, the perfect restaurant, the conveniently timed “no-shows.”
Phoenix leans back in her chair, smug as ever. “Told you the plan would work.”
Fanboy raises his glass. “To the best accidental love story of all time.”
Jake’s arm finds its way around your shoulders, tugging you close, pressing a kiss to your temple as everyone cheers again. You look up at him, the lights of the bar catching in his eyes, and smile through your tears.
And when Jake looks down at you, fingers brushing the ring he slipped onto your hand just an hour ago, his smile is soft and sure.
Home.
That’s what he feels like.
“You know,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that only you can hear, “I’d get down on both knees all over again if it meant getting to see that look on your face.”
You laugh, wiping at your eyes, your heart full to bursting.
“Good thing,” you whisper back, “because you’re never getting rid of me.”
And somewhere between the sound of waves outside and your friends’ laughter echoing through the Hard Deck, you realize that the two of you — the boy who once thought he couldn’t love, and the girl who once thought she was unlovable — had somehow built a life that was nothing short of extraordinary.
