emily

you found out pretty early on in your life that the average little girl doesn't wish she could disappear from the earth forever everytime someone scolds her, just to make them feel bad and let the memory of her haunt them. the average little girl isn't left speechless everytime she receives an act of kindness, saying she hasn't done anything to deserve it.

when your first relationships came around, much later than they had for every girl your age you knew, you came to the harsh realization that maybe that wasn't what you were made for. you weren't someone who could be loved endlessly, you weren't someone that people craved to be around, someone who's company your loved ones cherished.

your first boyfriend, back in high school, dared to say the words 'i love you', and you still remembered clear as day the feeling of absolute void that the organs in your ribcage sank into. he didn't love you, he couldn't. he was lying, and liars didn't have a place in your life. the two of you never hung out again after that day.

the next handful of guys that had approached you afterwards were equally as untruthful, saying you were the most beautiful girl ever, saying your mind was brilliant, saying they'd die to get a date with you. lies, lies, more lies.

you weren't someone that people could ever want to pursue romantically, because the love you had to give would never be enough. because you would never be enough. why give your entire heart to someone that would just leave you at the realization that the world is filled with girls who are prettier, nicer, more easygoing?

that was not you. you were that gloomy presence that lingered too long in a room and made the fun atmosphere die down. flowers died in your wake, you brought destruction everywhere you stood. of course, that was your own perception of yourself, and it hardly ever matched what others thought of you.

you were objectively a trusted presence, always there listening and trying your best to give everyone a good piece of advice, but when it came to you, you closed up and shielded away your feelings from everyone. you were stoic, but far too much for your own good.

the life you’d learnt to live, with a tight circle and no romance whatsoever, was working out perfectly for you. after all, you never had to worry about feeling like you owed your partner something for simply bearing the burden that was your presence.

it was working, but that didn’t mean you didn’t lie awake in bed at ungodly hours at night, wondering what the fuck was wrong with you and why you couldn’t let yourself be in love.

that, until you met will.

the night your eyes met those blue irises that changed your life forever was a blur, bar hopping with your group as you passed around spliffs and different signature drinks to try. it was in a cozy, half-empty pub downtown, with wooden walls and yellow dim lights, that your gaze inevitably fell on him.

you had no clue whether it was the weed, the alcohol, or a fever dream, but you couldn’t stop stealing brief glimpses of that guy. you were entranced by those blond curls falling softly over his forehead, by the way his sleeves were rolled around his arms, by those wholehearted, wide smiles that he showed off to the people he was sitting with.

and, for once, your mind was at ease about your emotions. those same emotions that you usually felt so deeply that they nearly consumed you, leaving you isolating yourself from anything that you thought was slipping out of control. that night, you didn’t have control, and it felt fucking amazing.

before you could overthink it, your legs moved faster than your brain as you stood up from the wooden bench and approached him. you’d waited just enough for him to get up and reach the bar, probably getting another drink.

“hey.”

“hi there.” he replied, seemingly even more enthusiastic than you. that bright smile was now directed towards you, and your insides nearly melted at the sight.

he was so easy to look at, and even easier to talk to. in about half an hour, you returned to your seat, surrounded by your friends, with his contact in your phone and the promise of a text to set up a proper date.

text that, when you woke up the following morning, wasn’t there.

you’d let the buzz get to you, but with the newfound clarity that the early hours brought, you couldn’t help but wonder how you could’ve been so stupid, so foolish to think it could’ve worked out. nothing ever did, not with you, and maybe you deserved it.

you went on with your day as usual, not leaving behind the same old self-deprecating nonsense that swam around your head and refrained you from enjoying anything ever. then, at three pm, your phone buzzed.

you’d be lying if you said your hands didn’t almost drop it as you rushed to check where the notification was from, and you’d be lying if you said your heart didn’t skip a beat as your eyes read ‘will (bar guy)’ when the screen lit up.

‘morning! you busy tonight, let’s say, around 7? ;)’

your hesitation was replaced by pure delight, your lips curved into a soft smile and you chuckled at yourself for always being so damn catastrophic, for assuming the worse. maybe it wasn’t going to be bad, maybe good things were around the corner for you.

yet, calling will smith simply a good thing was minimizing.

after bringing you to his favourite restaurant for the evening, sharing so many stories about himself that made you feel like you were long lost friends, after going for a ride around town and reaching the best viewpoint of the area, stargazing on the hood of his car as you talked about girl scout cookies and snorkeling and your favourite punk-rock band, you felt like you were breathing fresh air for the first time in your life.

“so,” he mumbled quietly as he started the car, after offering to drive you back home. “when are we doing this again?”

your voice stuttered slightly while you tried your best to form a coherent sentence. “again? with me? like, this, again?”

his brows furrowed and he looked towards you briefly as he backed up from the parking spot and onto the dry and softly lit road.

“i thought we had a good time together, did i get the wrong impression?”

“no! i’m sorry, i enjoyed being with you, i’m just… confused. i didn’t- i mean, i wasn’t going to assume anything.”

what you’d meant to say was you didn’t think he’d want to see you again, but you realized that exposing such an insecure, vulnerable part of yourself after barely one date was most likely going to scare him away. you shook your head as you debated with your own head, and will chuckled as he stole occasional glances to you.

“i understand,” he nodded firmly, slight smirk still pulling at the corner of his lips. “but you don’t have to assume. i do want to go out with you again, i really, really do. if you do too, that is.”

and once again, when you were around him, all your rationality jumped out of the window. you could barely contain your excitement, a smile broke out onto your face despite your attempts to bite it back.

“yeah, of course i do.”

“great, i’ll call you, then.” he replied, car coming to a halt right below your building.

he leaned over towards the passenger side and, as if to seal the deal you’d just made, he pressed a kiss to your cheek, dangerously close to the corner of your lips. your stomach jumped, your heart fluttered. you took a deep breath, trying to regain your composure, before smiling politely and wishing him a good night as you unbuckled the seatbelt and walked out of the vehicle.

your friends couldn’t recall the last time they’d heard you talk about a date with such enthusiasm, but they could all see how radiant you looked as you blushed under their scrutinizing eyes whenever they tried to get some details out of you during brunch the following day. it would’ve taken approximately two years before you got into specifics.

however, as the hours passed and your phone buzzing never signaled a new text from him, your heart filled with doubt all over again. maybe that first date hadn’t gone as well as you’d thought, maybe he’d only said otherwise out of courtesy, to get rid of you without any questions. it wouldn’t surprise you that someone so amazing would have no interest real in you.

the spiral of sick thoughts swallowed you for the rest of the day, that you spent rotting in your own misery locked in the safe walls of your bedroom. it hadn’t even been twenty four hours, but you felt like your world was about to collapse. until your phone buzzed yet again and, after grabbing it unenthusiastically, after having given up on all of your hopes, a short text appeared in a notification bubble, in the middle of your lock screen.

‘sorry i’m late, practice killed me and i napped all noon. breakfast tomorrow? :))’

breath after breath, it was like your heartbeat had finally settled and stopped threatening to break free from your body. your lips curved involuntarily into a soft smile, one that felt freeing after spending the entire day with your usual overthinking.

you stood against the window, eyes darting at the dark sky and the sparkling stars scattered across it. then, the moon caught your attention, so bright and yet straying away from everything else. completely alone, all the time.

your tendency to stray away from affection seemed to fade, but never completely. after your first time together, still laying in bed entangled, a sudden wave of self consciousness hit you and led you to burst the bubble of comfort, just to drive back home and spend the entire night analyzing every action, every word that had come out of will’s mouth, almost desperately looking for something wrong.

but nothing was wrong. will was perfect in everything he did, especially when you were on the receiving end.

there wasn’t an exact breaking point, it was rather a slow succession of events throughout the months, those signs that you have to explain right away, because if you brooded over them even for an extra minute, they’d become too painful.

at first, it was a girl stopping him as the two of you were in the parking lot of the arena, right after a home game. the californian air was warm, the breeze on your exposed arm comforting as you and will walked across the broad expanse of concrete.

then, she approached you. well, she approached will.

you stared at her, not intimidatingly, just taking her in. the more your eyes stayed fixated on her, on the perfect way her hair curled at the ends, on the sultry smile she showed off to your boyfriend as she pulled out her phone to take a picture, the more you felt yourself fall back into the devastation that was your mind.

how easy would it be for will to find someone better than you? clearly, all he needed to do was step outside.

“babe, can you take it?”

will’s sweet voice pulled you out of the unbearable trance you’d put yourself into. your head barely shook, as to bring you back onto earth. you noticed the brunette’s hand - holding her phone - extended towards you, radiant smile still on her face.

you wanted to speak, say something, not seem like a rude person, but your throat was dry and coarse. you nodded, grabbed the phone and shot a couple of pictures. their arms were around each other, not in an inappropriate way, but it was enough to shoot a sharp pain into your chest.

the girl thanked you both with such kind manners that you tried with everything in you to smile at her, forcing a small beam.

will’s arm wrapped around your shoulders the way it had as you left sap center earlier, but it didn’t feel nearly as soothing. he seemed to notice the tension in your muscles, the way your face had gotten completely still and emotionless.

“baby, is everything okay?”

you nodded and hummed, lips slightly tilting in a hint of a smile as you quietly climbed into his passenger seat, praying he wouldn’t push it any further. he didn’t.

you thought it was because he didn’t care, but he was truthfully just trying not to overstep your wishes, and hopeful that you’d open up to him whenever you felt like it.

a couple of weeks later, with summer fast approaching, you decided to give yourself a chance to enjoy the offseason with him in his hometown.

the streets of the small town looked straight out of a movie, and you deeply enjoyed every little detail that will recalled as you two walked through them hand in hand: the kindergarten where he learned how to tie his shoes, the rink he practiced in for the first time, the cafe that had served him the best strawberry milkshakes of his childhood, every small memory he shared seemed to help you get even closer to him.

then, one evening, the two of you decided to tag along to a house party at an old high school friend’s house.

you probably should’ve seen it coming, but the crash down came so unexpectedly fast it knocked your breath out.

you befriended will’s childhood friends immediately, joining in on their conversations and group jokes with an ease that made will’s heart swell in his chest.

the party was about two hours in when someone sitting at your left stood up and called out a name, sarah. your eyes moved swiftly across the room, finally settling on what seemed to be her.

your gaze lingered a moment too long, but you couldn’t stop yourself: sarah was nothing short of a model, taller than you and with long blond hair that looked like they were taken directly from a barbie doll. her smile was contagious and her skin was soft, dazzling, perfect.

quickly enough, everyone around you greeted her warmly, like her mere presence had just reactivated something dormant within their soul. will hugged her, not tightly, not for too long, just a quick and easy hug between old friends, or so you thought.

he introduced the two of you, and you thought nothing more of it until you and will found your seats once again and his hand reached for your own. “you remember sarah, right? i did mention her.”

you looked at him confused, brows furrowed as you went back to every conversation you’d had in the past months. seeing your expression, he smiled softly and joked about your short-term memory.

“my first girlfriend? the one whose hamster i almost killed that one time?”

the words echoed in your ears like shards of glass. your smile faltered, you stood frozen at the table, wooden edge digging into your palm as you clung to it for support. that was his first girlfriend. you felt like a nobody looking at her, and she came first. it wasn’t just easy for him to find someone better than you, it was already done.

you’d known about her, but nothing could have prepared you for the burning sensation of inferiority that would settle in you at the sight of her, drop dead gorgeous and ridiculously nice. how could you even compare to that?

will’s mouth opened, like he wanted to add something else, but closed right after. his hand, still tangled with your own, delivered a firm squeeze under the table.

pushing aside the ache in your chest, you smiled like nothing had happened and nodded, like your vision wasn’t blurred by the anger and the sadness you were feeling. you continued to bond with the group with your usual joyful demeanour, without them knowing it was taking you an absurd amount of self-restraint to not scream and cry and leave.

when you returned from your trip to massachusetts, you avoided will for five days.

five days of being within a ten-minute drive from each other, and yet you kept making up different excuses as to why you couldn’t hang out with him. once it was your grandma who needed help with the tv, once you were too tired after a particularly intense workout at the gym, once you had to meet up with your friends for some well earned girl-time.

none of it was true.

you thought you’d been smart about it, that your fabricated justifications had been enough to fool him.

on the morning of the sixth day, a knock on your door startled you. you weren’t expecting anyone, you’d planned your entire day around your intention to cry and denigrate yourself while motionlessly laying in bed.

nothing could have prepared you for the way your stomach flipped when, on the other side of the wooden frame, the very familiar head of blond curls appeared.

as your gaze darted towards anything that wasn’t will’s tired face, with dark circles and messy hair and eyes full of concern, you felt like your heart was disintegrating from within you. you didn’t think it was possible but seeing him right there, showing up for you after you’d tried so hard to push him away, was making you feel worse.

he did everything he always did when he entered: he took off his jacket, put it on the second knob of the coathanger, grabbed the phone from the right pocket and shoved it in the front pocket of his sweats. when he finished his routine and you inevitably ran out of things around your entryway to observe, you were forced to face all of your worst fears and, finally, face him.

his eyes pierced into yours as he inhaled and exhaled slowly, like the movement was calculated rather than involuntary. he needed to say something that would’ve fixed the situation, something right, because he must’ve done something hurtful to push you away for so long, with little to no explanation.

he cleared his throat before speaking. “why are you hiding from me?”

“i’m not hiding from you.”

“you are.” he said, matter-of-factly, tone not raising one bit. “you’ve always said that even seeing each other for five minutes was enough, but it’s been five days since i’ve last seen you.”

“i’ve been bus-” you started, interrupting yourself when will shook his head firmly.

“there’s no way you haven’t had five spare minutes in the span of five days.”

he was right, you’d had an unreasonable amount of spare time that you’d spent calling yourself things that if will heard he’d go insane, crying yourself to sleep and waking up not even feeling fully conscious. you hadn’t just had five minutes, you’d had five full days to become the shell of yourself, because you knew your presence was irrelevant, that you could be substituted like nothing had happened. you’d seen it yourself.

you inhaled sharply at the recollection, biting the inside of your cheek to calm the nerves. “i don’t know what you want me to say, will. i just wanted some space, that’s all.”

“you want me to leave you more space? is that it?”

christ, no. that was the worst case scenario.

“that’s not what i mean.”

“then what do you mean?” a hint of irritation crept back into his voice. “what’s the problem? talk to me.”

you felt rushed. you felt cornered. you were in a situation where breaking free was impossible. that feeling of sheer panic got straight to your head, your chest felt tight as you cleared your throat, words suffocated while they left your mouth.

“i don’t think this relationship is going anywhere.”

will was stunned, his lips parted slightly as his breathing grew irregular. he felt his legs give up so he sat down at the dining table, hands resting in front of him, twitching and fidgeting.

“what are you talking about, baby?”

“there’s not much more to say.”

“are you kidding me?” he asked, eyes widening ridiculously. “there’s a whole lot to say. did i do something to upset you? what happened?”

you shook your head, nails digging into your sweaty palms as you tried not to cry, lying straight through your teeth. “i’ve been feeling this way for a bit now.”

he was incredulous, eyes blinking back tears as he scanned your face in search of something, anything that would’ve woken him up from that bad dream.

“that’s not true.”

his words were directed at himself rather than you, but it’s not like it made much of a difference; you were too caught up in your own head to pay any attention to what was happening in front of you. you stood there, in front of him, hoping he would just leave you alone and forget about you, go on to live a happy life without the insurmountable burden that you were.

you swallowed your saliva like you had rocks in your mouth, scraping along the inside of your throat and jagging whatever was left of the shell of your body.

“tell me you don’t love me and i’ll believe you.” will said firmly, eyes damp but still full of what could only be described as hope. “look me in the eyes and say it to me.”

“oh fuck you, will!” your venom-filled words fell on his deaf ears, but all he could focus on was the way your voice cracked, and the tears that pooled inside your eyes.

will blinked slowly once, twice, then he stood up from his chair and ran a cautious hand through his hair.

“let’s talk later.”

your brows furrowed with something that was a perfect mix between rage and confusion. “i don’t want to talk later.”

“we’ll solve nothing if we continue right now. let’s both blow off a little steam, yeah?”

he leaned over and pressed a small, burning kiss to your temple, before grabbing his jacket and leaving through the front door. you stood there, speechless and with your arms crossed in front of you, as to shield you from the external world.

you weren’t used to this level of calmness, to being understood without needing to say a word. at first, you thought it wouldn’t help, that your anger would stay boiling under your skin everytime sarah’s face appeared into your head. the more hours passed, the more your feelings shifted into rational thinking.

realistically, you couldn’t bring yourself to be the one to break will’s heart.

a part of you, the most egoistic and selfish part, wished he would walk back through the door and just stitch you up like nothing had happened, fix what was broken, whatever was wrong with you. you wished he could fix you with everything you had.

but he couldn’t. and, even if he tried, you would never let him. you wouldn’t let him near your decaying soul, you couldn’t let him rot with you.

your eyes were vacant, staring in the distance. your chest was rising and falling in shallow, rapid gasps as the debate within you seemed to never cease. you tried to be the bigger person, to end things and let him be, but the slightest resemblance of a pout on his face had been enough to stop you in your tracks.

scavenging through the depths of your mind in search of something that would ease the hurt in your soul, that would help you finally make up your mind and prepare the speech you were going to deliver to will, you could only find joyous moments and heartfelt words exchanged by the two of you.

you remembered the first time he said ‘i love you’, the wave of uncertainty that faded with time, replaced by trust and a newfound self awareness that you could actually be loved, and will did it so effortlessly. yet, at the slightest complication, everything fell apart.

it wasn’t because of will, it was solely and purely because of the twisted mind games you played on yourself.

the vortex of thought swallowed you and the concept of time that passed, and you only realized once you heard a new set of knocks on your door. he was back, and you were more of a mess than you were when he left. you had obtained no clarity, no calmness, nothing but chaos.

will’s demeanour, on the other hand, had completely shifted. as soon as your front door opened to let him in, he took the few steps that separated you and wrapped his arms around your shoulders, pulling you into a tight and much needed embrace. you inhaled, smelling his cologne and slight notes of your own perfume, which had lingered on his jacket for more than a week, just how he liked.

after days of barely hanging it together, harsh sobs rippled through you before you could stifle them.

“shh, it’s okay,” will mumbled, hands caressing your back like you were made of porcelain. “let it all out and then you can tell me what’s been bothering you.”

not sure where to start, you just let him take care of you for a while longer. he sat on the couch with you, grabbed a cup of water, held you close until your breathing went back to normal, until you finally managed to get words out.

it wasn’t easy to explain, you’d never revealed so much about yourself to anyone, especially not something that caused so much shame and so much suffering to you. will didn’t judge you, because he never did: he listened to your confused words as you tried to make sense of your deepest, most secret feelings, hand still entangled with your own. he nodded occasionally, squeezed your hand when needed, never interrupted.

those big blue eyes seemed to be staring directly into your soul, but never in an unsettling manner. if anything, you felt finally seen.

he reassured you in the best way he could, choosing his words carefully as he told you you deserved everything good that had been given to you, that every word and action that came from him always came from a place of pure love and adoration, that you didn’t have to worry about anyone from his past, that you were the one and only who could make his heart beat out of his chest. and you stood there, for once in your life really taking those words in, as he didn’t dare interrupt your thoughtful silence.

“you know,” you started, voice cracking after not speaking for a couple of minutes. “i’ve always felt miserable, in every relationship i’ve ever been in. now, i felt the most miserable when you left.”

“i don’t wanna leave, ever.”

“you don’t know that. i don’t know that, and the fact that i don’t makes me feel crazy, like one day i’ll just wake up and you’ll disappear because you got tired of me.”

“you think i don’t wanna be with you, that i’ll get tired of you?” he scoffed, not mockingly, almost like he was surprised. “you have no idea how hard it is for me to stay away from you, even for half a day.”

your eyes watered all over again before you could realize, not giving you a proper chance to fight it back this time. will promptly noticed, his hands took ahold of yours and his thumbs brushed your knuckles with the same care he put in everything that regarded you. his head shook slightly, before he spoke again.

“every time i drop you off at your place, i wish you could just stay with me forever. when i get home, i hug my pillow and wish it was you, because i can’t fall asleep otherwise. yeah, you might kick me and drool all over my shirt,” he said, interrupted by your breathless chuckles that brought a smile back to his own face as well. “but you’re my first thought every morning.”

he was looking at you with that dopey, sickening grin, the one that showed his teeth just enough to have you swooning. you inhaled deeply, corner of your lips shifting into a sincere smile in the middle of your tear-streaked face.

maybe back in your freshman year, when college didn’t feel so serious but rather a fun game to play to postpone adulthood. now, it felt as serious as ever as you were approaching your final year and still having to retake damn classes - a party on a wednesday night sounded stupid.

cozy nights were more your vibe lately, content indoors, especially when you had some new pyjamas, a face mask, fresh bedding and a new movie to watch - but especially because you were on your period, this just sounded 10 times more appealing.

by the time you got home, your back was sore, legs too, and your mood was just low in general. nothing had tipped you over the edge but you felt the urge to cry. throwing your bag on the floor, you stood in your room with a frown, unable to believe you had to get ready for this damn party brad was dragging you to.

your week so far hadn’t been the best - a new assignment in return for the one you’d just handed in, practice papers that needed to be done in a weeks time, an intense practice that left you tired and sore. brad had been having a rough time as well, so he wasn’t exactly comforting. he’d ranted to you yesterday about the dynamic of the team, how his coach wasn’t listening to him and he was sick of losing, how his touchdown on monday had been overruled, how he didn’t like his haircut, how he couldn’t drive his car, and when he came to hang out with you yesterday, you’d just topped off his god-awful, horrible week by telling him you were on your period in the middle of trying to coax you into bed.

he’d told you that you were going to the party, that you needed it and he refused to let you stay in and feel shitty about yourself. you’d told him you’d probably feel shittier by going, but he was adamant after a few drinks, you’d feel better about yourself and less stressed about the week you were having. ‘two hours at least’ and he’d take you home.

so, after a quick nap, you jumped in the shower. you washed your hair, scrubbed your skin, moisturised your entire body in that vanilla-coconut lotion that stuck to you for days. you blow dried and did your hair basic, threw on an outfit without much thought but as always - it was beautiful. so chic. an outfit without a lot of styling but worn in that simple, effective way that brought that 90s supermodel vibe to it. you accompanied it with a cute bag and shoes before texting brad you were on your way.

part of you did feel sorry for your boyfriend in having a shitty week too, you just wished he had the same idea as you when it came to doings things that would make you both feel better - to make you feel good.

you wished he’d jump into bed with you, turn the lights off and watch a silly movie in some face masks. tickle your arm and rub your back, keep you warm with the rain pouring down.

that wasn’t really brad’s thing though. as much as you tried, he was never one to chill in bed and watch a movie with you, unless he was hungover and dead asleep . . . or ignoring the movie completely and trying to slip his hand in your pants. no, his idea of letting loose had to involve drinking and a party, and a part of you dreaded the potential possibility of how pissed he was going to get tonight with the week he’d been having. you actually wondered if for a second, he’d wanted you to come so you could make sure he was ok — and by ok you meant pretty much babysitting him . . he gets so drunk he becomes unbearable and you’re pretty much the only person who can coax him to even leave.

standing there, it suddenly clicks what kind of night you’re in for, and all the more reason for why you don’t want to leave.

. . . but then you get a text from him, and it’s a photo of his beer next to your favourite seltzer.

brad ❤️

[1 image attached]

brad ❤️

got your favourite waiting for you ❤️

it’s the red heart that gets you, so, feeling endeared, you leave your dorm.

maybe you’re wrong. maybe you will have a really sweet night and you’ll be back in bed in two hours with him, watching that movie.

-

the place is packed. you’ve been here over two hours and it feels like more and more people are showing up.

the music is blasting and the garden has already been trashed. floors are sticky, there’s drink all over the counter, you heard a couple having sex in the bathroom on your way up the stairs and brad is nowhere to be seen.

well, that’s a lie - he was in the kitchen last you saw him, opening another beer while you settled for a diet coke.

it just wasn’t hitting. you knew it wouldn’t. you’re hot, irritated and desperate to go home.

brad calls you again, voice deep, words slurred. “y/n?! y/n?! babe??”

he does this. he calls you, you join him by his side, it’s fine, then he starts being annoying, you leave before you say something that starts a fight, he calls you back after 10 minutes - it’s a cycle. this is the third time and your patience is running thin. you seriously want to go home. you don’t even need to be here.

you feel like a spare body just standing in the corner, trying to stop the base of the music from giving you a headache. you can’t even mingle because he has a problem with how much people you leave him to go talk to, or shoots daggers to anyone who tries to do so, so you stay put.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry,” he smiles, opening an arm to have you tucked under again. he knows he’s being annoying, but he knows you’ll keep coming back if he apologises. “here, i got you this.”

he hands you another seltzer, and instead of telling him again you’re done drinking, you just pluck it from his hand and place it on the counter behind you with a thanks.

he’s talking to his friends, leaning against the oven, laughing and joking about different things. a box of 30 bud light cans is emptied amongst the four of them. brad’s arm stays secured around your waist, his touch starting to irritate you because he can’t stay still while the other swings his drink around, almost spilling over your shoulder.

he senses your quietness, and dips his head between you, his musky aftershave filling the air. “you ok?”

“yeah.”

“you’re quiet.”

you shrug, looking straight ahead.

he doesn’t say anything.

instead, he scans you from head to toe, eyes catching the pendant on your chest, down to your little short skirt, emphasising the length of your legs.

he then clocks your crossed arms and pouty lips, and nudges you a little rough, removing his hand. “fix your face.”

you pause, brows narrowing. “ . . . what?”

“i said fix your face - you’re standing here like you’re at a funeral,” he takes a swig of his beer, stunning you with his casualty.

“i’m standing here like i’m at a funeral because it feels like my fucking uterus has died,” you spit, watching him roll his eyes at your dramatics. “i didn’t want to come and you still forced me.”

“i didn’t force you to do anything.”

“you talked me into coming or you woulda been in a mood with me.”

his brow perks at your tone. “i didn’t want you to be miserable, staying in on your own, but i seem to be in a mood anyway with you here.”

“i told you i didn’t want to come.”

“right, because god forbid we do one thing i want.”

you stare at him. “one thing?”

“don’t.”

“you never want to do anything i want.”

“because all you want to do is lie in bed and watch movies.”

“so?”

“so? it’s fucking boring, y/n. sorry i’m not 80.”

it hurts more than it should. you look at him and then look away, gaze dropping to the floor.

“oh my god,” he says. “don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“that pouty thing.”

“i’m literally just standing here.”

“yeah, like a fucking raincloud.”

his friends laugh despite acting like they’re not listening.

your face begins to warm.

you shake your head, “i’m going home.”

you push off the counter, but his hand catches your elbow immediately.

“where are you going?”

“home,” you repeat.

“no you’re not.”

“i’m tired, brad.”

“you’re not going home.”

when you try to pull your arm back, his fingers tighten. “let go?”

“why are you being like this?”

“because i want to leave,” you almost stomp you foot.

“because you want attention.”

you stare at him, mouth falling open. “what?”

“you do this every time,” he says. “you get pissed off, then threaten to leave so i have to chase after you. i’m not doing it today.”

“i’m not threatening anything?”

“yes, you are.”

“i don’t want to be here?”

you seriously don’t understand the issue. you want to go home. he doesn’t need to follow you.

his hand slides further up your arm, grip tightening when you try and step away.

“stop it,” his large hand wraps around your arm.

you wince. “you’re hurting me.”

“stop pulling away then.”

your stomach twists and you go still.

he notices that too.

he also notices people watching you both.

his expression changes instantly - softer, calmer, like a switch. “baby,” he says, quieter now. “come on.”

you don’t answer.

“don’t do this.”

“i want to go home,” you repeat, refusing to look at him, your arm cramping in the position it’s in. “you don’t need to come, you can stay here.”

“okay,” he nods quickly, “no it’s fine. we can go home.”

you look up at him. “really?”

no hatred in his tone, no sulking. “yeah.” he rubs your arm where he’d been gripping it, thumb brushing over the skin, “if you wanna go, we’ll go.”

you stare at him, waiting. waiting for the next part.

he just tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear, dragging his eyes down your frame. “we’ll go back to mine,” he mutters in your ear, “watch a movie or whatever you want, yeah?”

you don’t say anything, he just slips his hand to your waist. “don’t be mad anymore,” his large hand gives your ass a pat.

you look at the floor. “i’m not mad.”

“good,” he smiles like you’ve said the right thing, “because you know i hate when we fight.” he presses a kiss to the side of your head, fingers digging into your hip just a little too hard. “go say your goodbyes. i’m gonna finish this drink and then we’ll go.”

you nod, and dismount from him, leaving for the stairs to use the bathroom. you didn’t know anyone here, not anyone you had to say goodbye to anyway.

your head spins.

you feel like shit now, dragging him home. he really doesn’t have to come, and to be honest, you don’t want him to come.

if brad thinks there’s any chance of you having sex tonight, he is so unbelievably mistaken. you’d rather him stay out than to have the argument and face his coldness when you turn him down - again.

you don’t know how he’s stuck you this long, considering he wants to have sex all the time and you just don’t. it’s not that you’re a prude, you’ve (unfortunately) lost your virginity, and every couple months, you give brad a little something, but only because you feel obligated to. sex with brad is exactly how you’d imagine - quick, rough, and anticlimactic - for you at least. he doesn’t know your body at all, and when you tell him what you like, he complies for maybe a minute before focusing back on himself, going at his pace, his rhythm, chasing whatever helps him finish.

you assume that’s just what sex is, how sex with guys is - jab, jab, jab, grop, squeeze, grop, maybe a hand on you neck for a second or two. you kind of just fake your turn when he comes, not bothered to let it continue any longer than it needs to. you don’t get the hype around sex, it’s absolutely not what they make out in the movies. there’s no head throwing, no loud cries - you’re actually pretty quiet in the bedroom.

you think you’re broken at times, weirded out that you don’t get horny or yearn for him to touch you like that, but then you do get hot and bothered, and the most you want is a hot and heavy kiss.

don’t get you wrong, you love the affection and can get giddy at times when his hands are all over you - the sex just feels uncoordinated a lot of the time. like you’ve lost your rhythm. sometimes when you’re drunk, you get a thrill, but lately you can’t imagine anything worse than having his fingers in your pants, your libido being the lowest it’s ever been in your whole life.

you don’t get the big deal about it. you don’t get this mind-blowing stigma around it. you grew up in a home you could say was big on the idea of traditional values: date to marry, only have sex after marriage, don’t have any kids before you’re married - it was your favourite excuse when you ran out of them when brad was trying to talk you in to doing something - telling him you feel too guilty and if he had a problem, you’d call your parents up and tell them why he wouldn’t be coming for dinner at the weekend - because you wouldn’t have sex with him.

brad drunk is just double that problem. he gets so drunk at times, he can’t even get his dick up and then wonders why you won’t do anything with him. it’s a wonder he hasn’t cheated on you yet. you really credit him for his loyalty, because he must love you some heck of an amount if he’s stayed with you this long.

you come back ten minutes later, your stomach cramping as you walk back downstairs. you push through people to get to the kitchen. brad has moved to the island now, two empty shot glasses behind him, and he’s pulling a face at his friend like what he said is on the money.

“—but she can be such a fuckin’ bitch at times, you’ve seen it yourself, man” he lets out a hearty laugh, “it’s hard work fellas.”

they laugh, and you stall.

“everyday, it’s something. it’s always something: she didn’t wanna come, she wants to go home, she doesn’t feel good—” he puts on a mocking voice, “can we just watch a movie?” laughter erupts amongst them. “no, i don’t want to watch the fuckin’ movie, fuckin’ . . suck my dick.”

they cackle, punching his arm for his audacity while you stand there, at the entrance, your mouth catching flies.

“—she doesn’t even remember what it looks like anymore, she’s always tired, she’s on her period, she’s got a headache, her stomach hurts—” he rhymes off, letting it all out to his boys. you don’t realize you’ve even moved ‘til his friends spot you first, and he turns to see what they’re all looking at.

his face doesn’t change, just perks a brow at your presence. “you ready?”

“you . . . are you serious right now?”

“what?”

“you—you were fucking taking about me?!”

“yeah i was,” he turns to fully talk to you, setting his bottle down.

no regrets, no remorse.

your eyes are wide, barely blinking. “wow.”

“don’t start, y/n,” he shakes his head.

“don’t start? you called me a fucking bitch?!” you scoff.

“‘cause . . you’re acting like one.”

you just stare with your mouth open, waiting for any backtrack.

there is none.

he takes another swig of his beer when you twist on your heel to leave.

he doesn’t let you get far, his hand catching your wrist. “don’t walk away from me,” his voice is calm, his grip effortless - yet, it holds you there.

“let go.”

“no.”

“let go brad!” you grit your teeth, but he only pulls you closer, his grip hardening. his jaw is clenched, but he talks through his teeth with a smile so no one picks up on it. “stop doing that.”

“i’m not doing anything!” you try to pry his hand off.

“no you do this every fucking time,” he says, huddling you both into the corner. “you push and push and push until i’m the asshole.”

“i didn’t even do anything.”

“exactly,” he laughs once, “you never do anything. you stand there with that fucking face and make everyone else miserable.”

your eyes sting. “brad . . . ”

“stop crying.”

“i’m not—”

“—yes, you are,” he leans in closer, “and i’m not doing this here.”

“then let me go, please,” you beg, pulling your hand back. you can feel your heart racing, your blood boiling, hands shaking. you can feel the edge of your fight or flight begin to teeter to fight . . .

you try to sidestep him, but he backs you up against the fridge, in one corner of the kitchen where you’re not really viable to anyone. it makes you nervous.

“what the fuck is wrong with you tonight?” he mutters between you.

“with me?!”

“yes, with you,” he laser focuses his attention on you, “you’ve been a fucking nightmare all night.”

“i didn’t want to come,” you repeat, voice steady.

“and i’m sick of hearing that.”

“the maybe you should’ve listened,” you snap, eyes burning.

his eyes darken, and he takes a step forward, looking down on you. “watch your mouth.”

you look away, unfavourable of his gaze.

he brings his hand to your jaw, fingers pressing a little too hard, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to, “look at me when i’m talking to you.”

you do.

you always do.

he holds your eyes, not allowing you the option to look elsewhere. “don’t stand there and act like i’m the bad guy, like i’m a bad boyfriend just because you’re too sensitive to take a joke. to—to get upset about something you weren’t even supposed to hear.”

“a . . . a joke?”

“yes. a joke.”

“you . . you called me a bitch?”

“because you are one,” his thumb presses harder into your face, eyes swallowing yours.

“brad,” you whisper, helplessly wrapping your hand around his wrist. “don’t . . .”

“then stop it,” he bites, “you’re making a scene and embarrassing yourself.”

you nod, giving up. “ok . . ok sorry, i—i just wanted to go home.”

he stares at you for a minute further, face in his hand before letting go. “you should be sorry.”

you nod, looking up at him through damp lashes, waiting for whatever he says next.

instead, he just reaches for the bottle he’d been drinking from earlier and lifts it back to his mouth like the conversation’s over already.

“we’ll go when i finish this.”

you blink. “no—you . . you can stay.” your hands lift instinctively, small, cautious motions like you’re trying not to set him off again. “you don’t have to come.”

“i’m coming with you.”

something in your stomach drops.

“no, no, i don’t— you don’t need to.” your words trip over each other now, too fast.

“i want to.”

your eye twitches faintly. he’s still not hearing you. not actually hearing you.

“i . . ” you swallow hard. “i don’t want you to.”

his eyes narrow slightly. “why?”

because he knows why.

because he’ll walk you back to your room acting soft and sorry, all gentle hands and quiet voices for ten whole minutes. he’ll tell you he didn’t mean it. tell you to stop crying. tell you he loves you — and then, eventually, his hands will start wandering again — up your thighs, under your shirt — and the second you tense or pull away, the irritation will come straight back like it never left.

you can’t do it tonight.

you want your bed. you want silence. you want him nowhere near you.

“because i said so . . . ” you mumble, wiping harshly at your nose with your sleeve. “i’m going now.”

he sighs through his nose, setting the bottle down before following after you anyway.

your panic spikes instantly.

his hand reaches for your arm and you whip around before he can touch you, yanking yourself back like his fingers burned.

“stop touching me,” you warn, voice sharp and shaking all at once.

“y/n—”

“STOP,” you snap louder this time, recoiling again at the brush of his fingertips against your wrist.

you take another step away, already feeling your breathing turn uneven — and then his hand lands against the small of your back, steering, like he’s decided for the both of you.

and something in you finally blows: “OH MY GOD, BRAD, GET OFF OF ME!” you shove him away from you.

everything stops.

everyone turns to look.

his friends stare.

someone by the cooker raises their eyebrows. people in the living room look in.

you’re breathing hard, shaking everywhere, and instantly you know how this looks.

crazy. hysterical. overdramatic.

brad just stares at you for a second before slowly lifting his hands, like he’s the reasonable one here. the calm one. “okay . . ”

“back. off,” your voice shakes violently. your eyes lock onto his — wild, wet, cornered-looking - like an animal that’s both scared and ready to pounce; tear him to shreds. he had a nightmare once that you did.

“okay,” he repeats carefully, “i just wanted to make sure you got home okay—”

“I DON’T WANT YOU TO!” you scream out loud. “I DON’T NEED ANYBODY TO?!”

“y/n—” one of his friend perk up.

“–NO!” you spin toward the room instead, frantic now, hands out like you can physically force everybody back. “everyone just leave me alone! oh my god!—”

“baby, you can’t walk home by yourself,” brad says softly, stepping back in with that patient tone that makes you feel ten times worse. like you’re a child throwing a tantrum. like he’s rescuing you.

“OH MY GOD!” you wrench yourself free so hard your shoulder stings. “I DON’T WANT TO GO HOME WITH YOU!” you shriek, wishing someone would get him the fuck away from you.

you’re about to seriously lose it. the kitchen window is looking seriously fucking appealing right now.

“—i’ll take her home.”

the room pauses.

so do you.

you freeze completely, eyes darting toward the new voice.

standing in the kitchen doorway is will, one hand still resting against the frame. navy jacket half-zipped, expression unreadable except for the fact he doesn’t look annoyed, but he doesn’t look entertained either. just . . normal.

“i can take her,” he says again, calmer this time.

you look at him, eyes still wide and glassy with panic. your whole body trembles with leftover adrenaline, chest tight with that awful feeling of being cornered — like the walls are closing in and every single person in the room has witnessed this ugly and humiliating act of yours.

the second you feel brad’s grip slacken, you yank your arm free. “fucking hell . . . who invited this guy?” he completely dismisses you, focused on the freshman.

will ignores him. “y/n—” he repeats, watching you make your exit.

you escape them all, pulling your sleeve as you brush past him and out the front door, surprised you don’t trip when you dash down the steps leading to the front yard.

“y/n!”

will’s voice is calm even as he yells. it doesn’t panic you . . . but you ignore him, too embarrassed to face him, to face anybody.

he doesn’t let you get too far. “y/n . . y/n wait up! i can take you home!”

“it’s fine, will.”

“no seriously, i’m completely sober, it’s—”

“—I SAID I’M FINE, WILL!” you raise your voice, storming on with your arms folded. “i’m NOT getting in your car!”

“then i’ll walk you—”

that makes you turn around, probably giving him the perfect view of your ugly makeup and psycho state. “i don’t need you to walk me! i’m not going home with you either now leave me alone,” you turn around.

will pulls a face as you strut on, but walks distantly behind you nonetheless. “listen y/n, i don’t care how you want to get home, but i’m not letting you walk by yourself. i have a sister and if i thought for one minute anybody would leave her to make her way home at this time of the night on her own in a vulnerable state, i’d probably smash every one of their faces in. so, if you don’t want to walk with me, i’m letting you know i’m still gonna follow you from a distance until i make sure you’ve made it home safe.”

that makes you pause.

you look at the walk ahead, the dark streets even with the street lamps on, and the leaves that blow invitingly into the distance.

“you have a lime on the bottom of your shoe by the way.”

you turn around, seeing will with his hands in his pockets, chilled, fully prepared to follow you back.

you take a step back towards him and watch, from a two-meter distance, him take a mirrored step forwards you.

you shoulders slump, and you shake your head. he waits for you to take a few steps back to him. you do.

you feel him staring as you come face to face, avoiding his gaze on the ground. “i . . . i promise i’m not a psycho . . .”

“didn’t say you were.”

“well, you sure looked at me like one . . .” you accuse, looking at the ground.

will pinches his brows at that, the second time you’ve offended him with assumptions. “i was looking at you ‘cause you were freaking me out. you were freaking out. was like watching a trapped animal not knowing where to run. i was worried . .”

you look at him unexpectedly, unfamiliar with his words. “well . . i’m fine.”

“yeah, you sure look it,” he takes a few steps closer, slow and calm, collected and natural. “are you . . are you okay?”

you don’t answer. just nod.

you just want to cry, to be honest.

“i can walk you home . . but it’s up to you: from a distance, or beside you . . . although i’ll probably just end up behind you, waiting for that lime to fall off your shoe.”

your eyes soften, but it’s enough for him. he smiles, and when you glance at the back of your heel, you see a tiny, baby lime, stuck to your sole.

you turn back to him, feeling at little more at ease. “i . . . we can take your car - if it’s ok - we don’t have to.”

he just swings his keys around his finger, smiling satisfactorily. “sweet. let’s go.”

his car is parked at the next house down from the party one, and he opens your door when walking past it before circling around to his own. you’re actually confused at first by the action, fully expecting him to get in the passenger seat.

the drive isn’t long. about ten minutes, but it’s a constant bend of streets and small stretch of roads that are empty at this time. will doesn’t talk to you, just keeps the car warm and quiet, knowing you probably have a lot going on in your head right now.

you feel so inconsolably heavy.

it feels like the weight of the word is on your shoulders, how low you feel right now, how tight and suffocating your throat feels while looking out the window. your chest hurts. your head hurts. your jaw and wrist hurts which only makes your chest hurt more.

that ugly, hallow, narrowing feeling that kind of feels like it’s trying to drag you to drown.

you don’t know how you’re going to get over this. how do you? where do you start? everyone just saw you have a total psycho meltdown and is probably telling brad right now how strong he is for coping with a girl like you.

you look at will, wondering what he thinks, what he heard when he found you, but he’s just looking straight ahead, kinda looking like he doesn’t have a single thought at all going on in his head. you turn back to the window, leaning your head on it.

you swear, you close your eyes for 20 seconds and it envelopes you into the deepest sleep that when will says your name, you don’t budge.

“y/n,” he repeats, touching your arm next.

you jump, eyes wide awake before looking at him, and he just holds his hands up in surrender, waiting for you to come around. “hey, it’s chill. it’s just me,” he points to your dorm building. “we’re here.”

you sit up with discomfort, scraping your hair back. “oh . .” you mumble, looking to unbuckle the belt. it pops with a click. you turn to him. “thanks will, i . . i really owe you one.”

“you really don’t,” he watches you rest your hand on the handle. “just wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

you nod. “i’m sorry for being a bitch. i know you were just trying to be nice. i was just . . . being a psycho.”

“you’re not a bitch, y/n.” he quickly shuts down. “‘n you’re not a psycho either.”

you try to smile. “yeah . . tell that to brad.”

will shakes his head. “the only psycho in that house is brad. anyone can see that.”

you furrow your brows at his comment, and turn slightly there to face him. “how long . . how long where you there? at the party?”

“a while,” he shrugged. “long enough to see you bored and on your own.”

“stalking me?” you use his line on him.

“i was in and out of the kitchen for drinks.”

“i thought you were sober?” you try to catch him out.

“water, gorgeous,” he winks, “i’ve got a reputation to upkeep, a future to secure, y‘know? can’t be drinking illegally,” his sarcasm makes you almost roll your eyes.

you know he’s joking, but it makes you blush when he uses the word ‘gorgeous’. you are definitely not gorgeous right now.

he watches you sit there, initially chuffed by his comment, and then it fades to flat, like he can see the reality hit of what your next step is for the night - a lonely night in, just you and your thoughts and the memory of what happened tonight, probably tearing yourself to pieces over it.

will doesn’t want you to be on your own. “is your uh . . is your roommate home?”

you shake your head, opening the door. “she’s at her boyfriend’s.”

he mentally grumbles. he doesn’t like the sound of that.

then a light bulb appears at the top of his head. “can i grab your file?”

it makes you pause, and when you realize what he says, you laugh a little. “sure.”

he follows you inside.

your room is dark when you walk in. you flick the lamp on and immediately feel embarrassed by how small it looks: messy bed from your nap, clothes on the floor, makeup in front of your mirror, pills for your cramps on your desk. you tiredly kick some stuff out the way. “sorry, it’s a mess.”

“it’s not.”

he waits at the door for while you hunt for the work, and when you hand him it, he wishes he’d came up with a better reason to come up here. “thanks,” he smiles, and feels the need to ask once more before he goes. “. . . you sure you’re okay?”

you nod.

he looks at you for a second, your voice still hoarse, eyes dull, “. . definitely?”

you pick your nails, “yeah, stop worrying.”

“you were shaking.”

oh.

that makes your throat tighten.

you look down at your shoes and self-consciously smooth your skirt. “sorry.”

“why are you apologising?”

you don’t answer, because you’re not even sure. you always apologise for things. “i—i dunno.”

he stands there, and you don’t know what to do with yourself.

you feel too raw. too tired. too embarrassed.

“do you . . want a drink of water?” you ask quietly.

“only if you’re getting some.”

you nod and busy yourself for a minute because it gives you time to think. will allows himself in, sitting on the end of your bed.

he’s quiet for a second, you both are, sitting opposite ends of the bed, deep in your thoughts.

will can’t keep quiet for too long.

“does he always talk to you like that?”

you look at him and hesitate, raising a shoulder. “sometimes.”

“sometimes?”

you shrug. “when he’s drunk.”

“he was drunk.”

“yeah.”

“and?”

you don’t know. you shrug again, “he just gets angry.”

“at you?”

“at everything.” you’re not lying, you know your boyfriend is a hot head, he gets riled up pretty easy when things don’t go his way - it’s what makes him play good in games, but you can get pretty angry too, it feels. “his moods can switch really quickly.”

will watches you observantly, hands tapping the bottle of water. you definitely don’t look like the bubbly, cheery confident cheerleader he sees strutting around campus with her head held high right now.

you look beat down and worn. “you looked scared.”

you hate how quickly your eyes burn. “i wasn’t.”

he doesn’t say anything, which makes you feel worse.

“i just—” you laugh weakly. “i don’t know. when he gets like that i just try not to make it worse.”

“worse?”

“he hates when i argue back.”

“so you just let him say whatever he wants?”

“it’s easier . . i’ll talk to him in the morning about it. tonight i just . . was overwhelmed or something. it doesn’t really bother me as much, i just had a long day.”

the second it leaves your mouth, you hate it. you know how pathetic it sounds, but it’s true.

he looks at you for a long second, not wanting to overstep, but he still says, “that’s not normal, you know.”

you fiddle with the plushie that follows you around the globe. “i know . . ”

“then why are you with him?”

the room is quiet.

“i dunno.”

“yes, you do.”

“i don’t.”

“you do.”

you let out a breath. “he’s not the worst person in the world . . when he’s nice, he’s really nice.”

will feels like it’s the equivalent to hearing nail scraping sharply down a chalkboard.

“–and i can be really difficult at times,” you continue, “i ask for too much, i know i do, and i think i can be hard on him when he’s got a lot going on. i know he loves me, and i do love him - it’s normal for couples to fight, of course. he’s a good guy, everyone knows that, everyone thinks he’s amazing.”

“everyone doesn’t think he’s amazing.”

you look at him.

he gives you a look.

“ok you don’t count.”

“i’m not the only one.”

you roll your eyes. “he just . . he makes me feel like i’m overreacting, but maybe i am.”

“you’re not.”

“he says i am.”

“he says a lot of shit. you definitely don’t overreact.”

you go quiet again.

there’s a lump in your throat that hasn’t gone away.

you don’t know what to say. talking to will about how great a guy your boyfriend is probably not the best choice . . .

“you know what one of my coaches said to me in middle school?”

“what?”

“he said if one person thinks you’re a horse, they’re probably weird. if ten people think you’re a horse, you should buy a saddle.”

you stare at him, lips tugging slightly, “. .ok?”

he laughs, “i spent, like . . a full week offended because i thought he was calling me a horse.”

you laugh despite yourself. “ok?”

“but he was saying if one person calls you something, maybe ignore them — if everyone does, maybe there’s something to it.”

“ok . . what does that have to do with me?”

“because one guy telling you you’re crazy doesn’t make you crazy.”

your smile drops slightly.

“everyone else in your life loves you. your friends love you. people like being around you.”

“you barely know me.”

“i know enough.”

“you know i’m a nut job.”

“i know you gave your drunk boyfriend three chances to stop being a dick before you finally lost it,” he pauses, “which, honestly, was generous.”

you laugh again, settling to silence with the little comfort he provides. “thanks will . . ”

he sends a small smile, embracing the quiet.

he watches you from across the room, fingers absently stroking the teddy’s fur while you avoid his eyes completely. you look deeply uncomfortable being part of the conversation, like this is the only topic that you’d pay money to get out of.

brad’s worn you down into something smaller over time, shaped you carefully around his moods, his wants, his version of you — and now you take every word he says as truth without even realizing it.

“he’s an asshole,” he says simply.

“i think i just make him angry. . ”

“you don’t have to keep defending him.”

“i’m not.”

“you are a little.”

“but i do,” you insist, “i know how to push him and i know when he’s in a bad mood and i still—”

“stop.”

you stop.

will actually hates how obediently you do stop. “this — none of this is your fault, y/n. you did nothing wrong. if you want to go home, you should be allowed to go without seeking for approval.”

it hits you, slowly, his words sinking slightly. it’s actually strange how simple it sounds on his tongue.

you drop your head to your hands, embarrassed. you’re even more embarrassed that it’s will, someone you don’t really know, a freshman who probably likes you no more than to look at - deal with you like this. be probably finds it so satisfying.

deep down - you know he doesn’t. you know that’s your insecurities sinking in, because you don’t know will - but you know him well enough to know he’s a kind person.

you think back to the encounter, to brad - the kitchen. his hand on your arm. the way everyone looked at you. the way he stood there calm while you felt insane.

“hey,” he says quietly.

you shake your head apologetically, “i’m sorry will.”

“y/n what are you apologising for? it’s okay?” he reaches for your arm, not wanting you to hide.

“i’m just embarrassed.”

“don’t be,” he stresses, and he sounds sincere.

“i literally screamed at him in front of everyone,” you croak, feeling him peel his hands from your face.

“because he was awful to you,” he reasons.

“everyone thinks i’m crazy.”

“nobody thinks you’re crazy,” maybe crazy to be with him in the first place, “and who cares what they think?”

you wipe your eyes with your sleeve. “easy for you to say.”

“seriously,” he leans forward, “you spent the whole night trying not to upset him and he still found a way to make you feel bad.”

you don’t say anything, because you know he’s right.

“you deserve better than that.”

the room goes very still.

you look down at your hands.

nobody’s ever said that to you before, not out loud - and not like they meant it. you don’t know how to respond. it sounds entitled if you agree.

so you shrug, barely giving a nod, “he was drunk,” you brush it off, “he gets annoying when he’s drunk.”

“drunk or not he shouldn’t’ve spoken to you like that.”

“he didn’t mean it.”

the second it comes out your mouth, you hate it, because it sounds rehearsed.

will looks at you like you’ve insulted him. “you know that’s bullshit.”

“well . . i can be difficult sometimes.”

will just scoffs and shakes his head, but you’re trying to burst this bubble of perfection he has stamped on you. “no really, i was probably asking for that fight.”

“from what i saw, you spent most of the night trying not to.”

you play with the stuffed animals arms again.

you realize you don’t like arguing with will, for real . . . especially when he’s right.

he reaches over, resting a hand carefully against your crossed leg. the contact sends a strange little jolt through you, enough to almost make you flinch, but he keeps it there anyway, thumb brushing lightly against your knee.

he can tell you’re upset - uncomfortable more than anything.

and even if he disagrees with you, even if he thinks you’re wrong, he needs to let you know this isn’t an argument. there’s no sharpness to it, no raised voices - it’s calm, it’s civil, no-one’s angry at anybody. it’s the kind of conversation that should feel safe, even if you’re not on the same page.

“seriously,” he says, “you looked like you were trying so hard to keep him happy.”

“i was.”

“i know,” he agrees, taking your word. the way he says it - not mocking, not pitying - but empathic like he understands. it makes you pause.

you look down quickly because suddenly your eyes sting again. hearing the truth in detail makes you uncomfortable, you almost squirm. “i . . yeah. i don’t know why i’m with him sometimes . . ”

will studies you.

you’re right — he doesn’t know you that well. not really. he doesn’t know what you’re like in a relationship, doesn’t know your habits or your worst moods or what you’re like when you love somebody - but he knows one thing for certain: you are not hard to be around. from personal experience, he feels like he even breathes better when you’re around.

he bets a lot of people on campus feel like that.

but then he watches you curl further into yourself at the conversation, visibly distressed by it, and he finally understands the real problem.

it’s not that you don’t see what brad’s doing, it’s that he’s spent so long convincing you that nobody else would tolerate you that now you instinctively defend him before anyone can challenge it. that being with you requires patience, tolerance and management.

so every time he hurts you, you end up believing you probably pushed him there somehow.

smitty can already see how this goes. you won’t leave brad after tonight. maybe you’ll ignore his texts for a few days, maybe you’ll make him panic a little first, but eventually brad will apologise in that soft voice of his, hold your face like he’s scared to lose you, and you’ll convince yourself it wasn’t as bad as it felt in the moment.

it’s comfort. it’s security. it’s familiar.

there’s no use in trying to open your eyes, will decides, it’s not possible. the more aggressively he tears brad apart, the more likely you are to shut down and start to pull away from him too, and selfishly, he doesn’t want that.

until you start seeing things for yourself, he knows its no use, not yet - not when you barely know him either. he considers the possibility you think he’s only here in hopes you give him something in return, which mentally makes him grimace and recoil.

so, he gives in for tonight, and decides to wrap up the conversation, for the sake of your comfort. “you stay because he’s good at making you think this is all you deserve,” a beat follows, “it’s not.”

you don’t say anything.

“you deserve somebody who actually likes you,” he says, voice quieter now, “not just when you’re fun, or pretty, or doing what they want . . . you deserve someone who wants to watch a movie with you because you’ve had a shit day. someone who takes you home because you don’t feel good and doesn’t make you feel guilty about it,” he tries to make it sound lighthearted instead of telling you off, despite his frustrations.

“that’s like . . bare minimum,” you mumble, picking at the blanket.

“exactly,” he says, “and he still can’t do it.”

your chest cracks. you wish he’d stop taking ‘cause it really fucking hurts.

you look at him for a second - really look at him.

the way he’s sitting on your bed, now kind of lying on it, comfortable with his legs up beside your torso, holding one of your decorative pillows to his chest. he’s laying there chilled, looking at you like you’re not crazy - like you’re not too much, like he actually means every word he’s saying and not even passive-aggressively.

he’s just having a normal, factual conversation with you.

it suddenly hits you that he’s almost filling in as one of the girls, being your therapist, listening to your problems right now at the end of your bed when he definitely didn’t plan on it being the reasoning he ended up in your bed. will perks up at your softening features, your relaxing shoulders and the grin that’s fighting so bad to not show up on your face. “what?” a smile breaks out onto his own face.

you let the laugh slip out, tiny but free, genuine. “sorry, you just . . i’ve ruined your night by holding you captive here . . you can go,” he watches you awkwardly rub your arm, still smiling, slightly blushing.

“you’re not holding me captive,” he pulls a face, “and if you were, i definitely wouldn’t be complaining about it,” his brow twitches playfully.

“smitt,” you throw the pillow at him, smiling with a roll of your eyes.

“there she is,” he grins, catching it.

the sight of him makes your heart burst, realizing just how endearing will smith is. such a kind and caring soul. you feel so much lighter than you were an hour ago.

you’re convinced he’s probably the only person able to do that.

you’re lucky to have crossed paths with him. “you can go if you want . . i’m not kicking you out, i’m just letting you know you can go back to the party and be done with my dramatics.”

“trust me, you’re not even close to the most dramatic thing i’ve seen this month.”

“oh?” you lean back into your pillows.

“last away game, one of the guys got dumped over facetime in the locker room.”

you grimace. “oof.”

“yup. full meltdown. punching lockers, saying she’d regret it when he made the new york rangers.”

you laugh so suddenly you nearly spill your water, “no.”

“yeah, and the worst part?—”

you raise your eyebrows.

“—he plays fourth line and gets, like, four minutes ice time.”

you laugh harder.

he laughs with you.

and for the first time tonight - the room doesn’t feel so small anymore. the night doesn’t feel so heavy. you’re still tired, your arm still hurts a little where you were grabbed, but you’re sitting on your bed in your dorm room at maybe like, two in the morning, laughing about some hockey player you’ve never even met.

for the first time all night, you don’t feel like you can’t breathe.

he tells you another story, and you tell him one back, and it snowballs from there, another hour passing of you both taking turns in recalling funny memories, laughing at nothing, revealing little crumbs at a time about your life outside college.

when you talk to will, you don’t feel like you have to say the right thing, or laugh at the right moment, or backtrack and add ‘i’m joking’ to every comment you make so that he doesn’t get annoyed at you – you just talk.

and he listens.

he even asks questions, asks to see photos. shows you photos in return, like the one of him dressed up as a leprechaun for one of his birthdays, or a pic of a nasty scar he got from playing basketball out his backyard.

by the time you glance at the clock, it’s way later than you thought. “oh my god,” you mumble, “you should go.”

“yeah, probably,” he agrees with a heavy breath, tucking his phone in his pocket. it sounds like he doesn’t want to, like the effort of now having to go home is draining.

you wish he didn’t have to either, but you refuse to be the reason he wakes up exhausted tomorrow just because you can talk forever.

he stands eventually, and grabs his keys from your desk, slipping his sneakers back on. “text me when you wake up tomorrow?”

you look up at him confused. “why?”

his mouth opens, and he almost responds shyly as he twists his ankle the shoe, “just . . wanna make sure you’re okay,” he says like it’s obvious.

your heart does a weird little thing.

“okay,” you say softly, “maybe let me know when you get home safe?”

“of course.”

you smile, and he smiles. “g’night y/n.”

“goodnight will,” you call after, getting a click of a closed door in return.

when you stand to lock it, you’re smiling crawling back under the covers, laying there in the dark for a second, staring at the ceiling.

the night still hurts, but not as much, not when you can still hear his laugh in your head, which makes you laugh to yourself as you snuggle in deeper to your mattress.

You run your hand through his damp hair and ask, “Tired?”

“Very,” he mumbles. 

You hum in response, and you feel him nod against your shoulder. For a while neither of you move, you’re just standing there in the middle of the kitchen while dinner cooks on the stove. 

Eventually he pulls back enough to look at you, and his eyes immediately drop to your hands on his waist. He grabs one and brings it up to look at. He’s looking at your nails. Again. 

You laugh, “What?”

“They still look nice,” he says, running his thumb back and forth over your fingers. 

“You've told me that six times in the past two days.”

“They do.”

He reaches for your other hand. Now he’s holding both your hands in his, and staring at them. Examining them like he hasn’t spent the past couple of days doing this exact thing. 

A small smile tugs at your mouth, “I’ve probably thanked you a million times already, but thank you for paying for them, you don’t have to do that.” 

“I know I don’t,” he says, “but I know you like having them done so why wouldn’t I?” 

You grin at him, reaching up to press a kiss onto his cheek. 

“Best money I've ever spent,” he says, smiling. 

You laugh, slowly backing away from him to turn the eye of the stove off and finish fixing the two of you dinner. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Later that night, he's stretched out across the couch. Not quite asleep, but very close to it. 

The apartment is dim now except for the lamps in the corner of the living room, and the glow of the TV not currently playing anything, but flashing slow ads for every movie and TV show imaginable.

You're tucked into the opposite end of the couch reading something on your phone, quietly. 

After a while, Macklin shifts his head up to look at you, then away, then back to look at you again. You notice it immediately, “What?” you ask. 

“Nothing.”

“Mack.”

Then he hesitates. Macklin hesitating either means he wants something or he has to talk to you about something serious. You assume it’s the former, because if it wasn’t you would've already had a conversation about whatever was on his mind. 

You set your phone down, “What do you need?”

His ears go a little pink, which you find cute because he almost never gets nervous to tell you or ask you something. 

“Can you—and you can say no—could you maybe…nevermind,” he says, and stuffs his face back into the couch cushion. 

You immediately start smiling, “Macklin.”

“I'm serious,” he mumbles, his words muffled by the couch. 

“Babe," you insist, trying to get it out of him. He looks back up at you, embarrassed now. "You got your nails done,” he says, cautiously. 

You stare at him, a little confused, but then it clicks, and you immediately understand. 

“Oh.”

His expression gets even pinker somehow, “Yeah.”

You laugh softly, “Oh, sweetheart.”

“Don't call me that,” he says, but he’s smiling. 

“You want scratches.”

He tries denying it, “No.” You raise an eyebrow, and he caves instantly, “...Maybe.”

The smile on your face becomes impossible to hide, because for all the confidence he has everywhere else in his life, asking for affection still makes him shy sometimes. 

"Come here,” you say. His entire face brightens, and he starts moving to your side of the couch. 

“You could’ve just asked, Mack.”

“What?” he says, stopping in front of you. 

“You could've just asked,” you repeat. 

“I did ask.”

"You looked like you were about to ask for something insane.”

He shrugs, “I didn't know if you'd want to.”

The fondness that hits you is overwhelming, because he’s so sweet. “I’d always want to,” you say. 

His expression flickers, almost confused. “Why?” he asks. 

You stare at him for a second, “What do you mean, why?”

He shrugs, suddenly looking very interested in a loose thread on the couch cushion. “I dunno. I just feel bad sometimes.”

Your heart practically melts. “Mack, you shouldn’t feel bad.”

He glances up.

You continue, “You know I love you, right?” 

His ears immediately turn pink, “Yeah,” he mumbles.

“Then why would I not want to do something that makes you happy?”

The blush spreads higher across his cheeks, and he grins. “I love you too,” he says, placing a kiss on the top of your thigh, before laying his head across your lap. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Five minutes later he's basically melted into you. His head is still in your lap, his eyes are closed. One of his arms has looped loosely around your waist while the other is running slowly up and down the side of your leg. 

Meanwhile your nails drift slowly through his hair, down the back of his neck, then lightly across his shoulders. 

Every now and then he’ll sigh, or nuzzle deeper into your lap. He just seems so content. 

“Good?” you ask quietly.

“Mhm,” is the only response you get, and you smile. 

His eyes don’t open, but he’s not fighting sleep like he was earlier, now he’s just completely relaxed. 

“You're spoiled,” you say, joking lightly. 

He protests, “No.”

“You absolutely are,” you argue. 

He shakes his head against your legs. 

You give him a look, even though he can't see it, “Baby.”

Finally one of his eyes opens. “I buy you flowers," he says. 

“That's true,” you say, smiling

He continues, “I make you coffee, and I paid for the nails.”

You start laughing.

“I think I'm entitled to some benefits,” he says. 

You shake your head. He's ridiculous. But he's also visibly relaxing under your hands with every passing minute, all the tension he came home with from practice is slowly disappearing the longer the two of you lay here. 

His shoulders are loosening, his breath is evening out; and that’s exactly when your phone rings. 

You glance at the screen to see who’s calling: Mom.

“Sorry, one sec,” you say as you take your hand off his back to reach for your phone. Immediately the scratches stop, and surprisingly Macklin doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even open his eyes at first, he just waits. 

Then after about thirty seconds you feel him shift, and a minute later he opens his eyes, looking up at you expectantly as you listen to your mom talk about things going on back home. 

He’s looking at your hand, then he’s looking back at you. You almost laugh. Right now he’s reminding you of a puppy watching it’s favorite thing be taken away. 

His expression is so sad, not manipulative, he looks genuinely disappointed. 

You take the phone away from your ear for a second, “You okay?”

He nods, but then he pauses. “You stopped,” he says quietly. 

Your heart nearly stops because he looks upset that you stopped. Once you give him a sympathetic look, he immediately looks embarrassed. 

“No, it's fine,” he insists. 

Your brows furrow, confused. He just nods. 

He pauses again, looking like he wants to say something else, he finally does, “But when you're done, can you...” he trails off and gestures to your hand and then his head.

You smile so hard your cheeks hurt, and without missing a beat, you move your free hand back into his hair. The relief on his face is immediate. His eyes close again, and his entire body relaxes. 

By the time your phone call ends ten minutes later, he's completely asleep in your lap. Still holding your waist, still resting his other hand on your leg, and you don’t stop moving your nails across his back. When you look down at him, all warm and comfortable and completely content, you can't help thinking: Maybe he wasn't lying when he said paying for the nails had been the best money he'd ever spent after all.

The team dinners at Charlie and Kiley's house had become one of those things everyone looked forward to.

Every player brought enough food for fifteen people. The wives and girlfriends somehow brought even more. Kids ran through the house at full speed like tiny hockey players in training, and every available surface ended up covered in drinks, snacks, desserts, jackets, purses, and somebody's forgotten phone.

It was always reminiscent of a family reunion, and tonight was no different.

The second you and Fraser walked through the front door carrying two large trays from your bakery, Charlie practically materialized out of thin air.

His eyes immediately locked onto the desserts. "Tell me those are brownies."

You laughed. "Hello to you too, Charlie."

"Brownies first. Greetings, second."

Fraser snorted beside you while Charlie shamelessly tried to peek beneath the foil covering the trays.

Before he could get a better look, Pasta appeared from the kitchen like he'd sensed dessert entering the house.

"No touching."

Charlie looked offended. "I live here."

"Doesn't matter."

"It absolutely does."

"It does not."

You were still laughing when Kiley rescued the trays from both of them and carried them into the kitchen.

One tray contained the protein brownies you made specifically for athletes, the other contained normal brownies.

The protein brownies disappeared first, then the regular brownies disappeared second, which, honestly, both impressed and shocked you.

Over the last few months, the Bruins had essentially become your unofficial taste-testers, and if there was one thing you'd learned, it was that hockey players would eat absolutely anything placed in front of them.

For the first hour or so, everything was easy.

You stayed mostly attached to Fraser's side while everyone filtered in, mostly because being around him felt comfortable there. You always get easily overwhelmed during large gatherings, and thankfully, your relationship had settled into something comfortable and natural months ago.

Neither of you had to think about it anymore. If Fraser sat down somewhere, eventually you'd end up beside him. If you wandered into another room, he'd unconsciously drift that direction eventually.

So for most of the evening, you were exactly where you always were. Next to him.

Talking with Jeremy about a new coffee shop he'd found. Listening to Charlie complain that protein brownies should somehow count as a vegetable. Watching Pasta steal food directly off other people's plates like an overgrown raccoon, but you never said anything because you thought it was silly.

Normal Bruins behavior.

The problem started when one of the other girlfriends sat beside you. Then another joined. Then someone else asked you a question about the bakery. Then somebody wanted wedding cake recommendations. Then another person wanted the recipe for one of the desserts, which you never give out, so you offered to make her a batch whenever she needed, and before you really realized what was happening, Fraser had gotten pulled into a conversation across the room while you found yourself planted on a couch surrounded by six different people.

Normally, that wouldn't have bothered you. You liked all of them, genuinely, you did.

Everyone had been incredibly welcoming from the beginning. The issue wasn't the people; it was everything else.

The longer the night went on, the louder the house became, the music got turned up, the kids somehow got more energetic, and more conversations started happening simultaneously.

The television was playing in the background, somebody dropped something in the kitchen, Charlie’s dog started barking, and laughter erupted from another room.

The sounds began stacking on top of each other until it felt like every noise was competing for space inside your head.

You tried to stay focused. You really did, nodding along to the conversation, smiling when someone spoke to you, and you answered questions as best you could, but little by little, you could feel yourself becoming overwhelmed.

Not enough for anyone else to notice, in fact, most people probably would've thought you looked completely fine, but Fraser had spent enough time with you to recognize the signs long before they became obvious.

Your fingers disappeared inside the sleeves of his hoodie, which you stole. A habit you'd never managed to break. You started twisting the fabric between your hands, your responses became slightly shorter, and your shoulders gradually tightened, and eventually, without even realizing you were doing it, your eyes started searching for him.

Just little glances around the room, looking for the one person who always made everything feel quieter.

Across the house, Fraser was standing near the kitchen island with Jeremy, Charlie, Elias, and a few of the other guys.

At least, that was where his body was. His attention, however, had never completely left you. He was half-listening to Charlie tell some story, or at least pretending to because somewhere in the middle of the conversation, his eyes drifted toward the living room.

He noticed the way your hands were tucked inside your sleeves, the way your smile wasn't reaching your eyes anymore, the way you kept glancing around the room, and he could see your eyes looking for him.

The tiny flicker of relief that crossed your face when you did find him, and your shoulders dropped slightly, like you'd finally located your exit strategy.

Fraser's expression softened.

Charlie noticed mostly because Fraser had completely stopped listening. "Dude."

No response.

"Fraser."

Still nothing.

Jeremy followed Fraser's line of sight. His expression changed. "Oh."

Charlie looked too. Then smiled. "Go."

Fraser didn't even pretend to argue; he set his drink down, mumbled something about being right back, and crossed the room to you.

The moment you saw him heading toward you, you felt yourself relax a little.

One of the girls scooted over to make room, and Fraser thanked her before dropping onto the couch beside you.

His thigh pressed against yours, the familiar scent of his cologne replacing some of the noise in your head. You leaned into him slightly without even thinking.

His arm settled behind you on the couch. "Hey, Ducky." The nickname came out soft, barely above a murmur.

You looked over. "Hi."

His eyes searched your face for a second. "You okay?"

You hesitated, then gave a small shrug.

Fraser understood that you were overwhelmed, not upset, or ready to leave, just overwhelmed. Without another word, he reached into his pocket.

You frowned. "What are you doing?"

Instead of answering, Fraser pulled out a black pen.

Your entire face changed to one of confusion. "Fraser."

"What?" The smile pulling at his mouth told you he already knew exactly what you were about to say.

"Why do you have a pen?"

He looked genuinely confused. Like the answer should've been obvious. "For you."

Your heart practically folded in half. "Fras..."

"Well, I figured you forgot yours because you brought the small bag, and that only fits your wallet and meds."

"I didn't tell you that."

"You checked your purse four times."

You stared at him. "You counted?"

"Ducky, you checked it four times in ten minutes."

Then, as casually as breathing, Fraser placed the pen in your hand, then he turned his wrist over, and placed it gently into your lap.

His hand rested comfortably against your leg. Large and warm.

Your throat tightened slightly because nobody had ever done things like this before. You’d been with Fraser for almost 2 years, and he was still finding ways to surprise you.

Nobody else had paid attention to the tiny details or noticed things before you even said them out loud, but Fraser always did.

You uncapped the pen and started drawing.

The first few lines came naturally, tiny stars scattered across the side of his hand, then clouds and flowers.

The repetitive movement quickly began calming your racing thoughts by giving your brain something simple to focus on.

Across from you, the conversation continued. People laughed and talked while kids ran through the room, but it all felt farther away and much less overwhelming because your attention wasn't being pulled in twenty different directions anymore.

It was focused entirely on the hand resting in your lap.

At some point, Jeremy wandered over and started laughing. "Oh, we're drawing tonight."

Fraser didn't even look up. "Yep."

Charlie followed a minute later, then Pasta.

Soon, half the guys had migrated toward the couch.

Not because anything exciting was happening, just because that's what teammates did; they gathered, they chirped each other, they always occupied the same space, and instead of making things more overwhelming, it helped because Fraser was there.

Every few minutes, he'd glance down at whatever you'd added next with the proud expression of a man admiring fine art, even though his hand now featured a shakily drawn duck wearing a hockey helmet.

By the time you finally capped the pen, nearly forty minutes had passed, your anxiety was gone, the tension in your shoulders had disappeared, and Fraser's hand looked ridiculous, covered in doodles.

"What's this one?" he asked, pointing toward a squiggly shape near his wrist.

You stared at it. "...I genuinely don't remember."

Jeremy nearly choked on his drink. "You drew it."

"I know." You nodded.

"You don't know what it is?" He asked incredulously.

"No." You shook your head,

Jeremy looked horrified, and Charlie laughed so hard he had to put his plate down.

Fraser simply nodded. "Cool."

"You don't even know what it is!" Jeremy said 

"Doesn't matter." You rolled your eyes.

"You're impossible," Jeremy groaned.

Fraser went right back to admiring it.

The duck was the centerpiece. You spent nearly three minutes perfecting the tiny hockey helmet.

Fraser had watched the entire process with the seriousness of a man observing open-heart surgery.

When you finally finished it, he held his hand up to inspect it. "Oh, that's sick."

The duck was not sick; the duck looked concussed; its helmet was too large, one eye was bigger than the other, the stick looked more like a pool noodle, but Fraser acted as if you'd just unveiled a mural.

Pasta leaned over, and his face lit up. "Oh my God. The duck."

"The duck?" Jeremy asked

"The duck." Pasta pointed. "That one's my favorite."

"You would pick the duck," Charlie said, rolling his eyes.

"Obviously," Pasta said

"Why?" Jeremy said, confused.

Pasta looked genuinely offended by the question. "Because he's just a little guy."

That statement caused another round of laughter from everyone sitting nearby. Even you couldn't help but laugh, Fraser smiled, thankful you looked like yourself again.

Comfortable, relaxed, and happy, the difference was impossible to miss. Still, Fraser never pointed it out; he simply stayed where he was.

Letting you draw.

Letting you lean against him.

Letting the moment happen naturally.

By the time you finally clicked the pen shut, nearly forty minutes had passed.

You hadn't even realized it.

The conversations around you had blurred into comfortable background noise. The knot in your chest had disappeared, the tension that had been sitting between your shoulders all evening was gone, your breathing had slowed, and your hands had stopped fidgeting.

Just like that, everything else seemed to fade into the background because the look on your face now was completely different from the one he'd seen nearly an hour ago.

You were smiling and leaning comfortably against him, and that alone made his chest ache in the best possible way. 

So while everyone else laughed at the ridiculous artwork covering his hand, Fraser couldn't bring himself to care because they weren't really looking at what he was looking at.

Where they saw silly little doodles, he saw proof that you were okay, and if carrying a pen around every day meant he could help you get back to that place? If it meant giving up his hand as a human sketchbook whenever you needed it? 

If it meant walking into Bruins practice tomorrow with a shittily drawn duck in a hockey helmet drawn across his wrist?

“Fine, did you put Nutella and strawberries in here like I asked? Last time you were very skimpy on Nutella.” You raise an eyebrow. 

“I did, but you didn’t check the bowl when I gave it to you, did you?” He picks the bowl up off your bump and urges you to sit up. 

“No, I just let you set it on my bump, and I thought it would be fun to see how long it would stay.” You smile sheepishly and take the bowl back. Taking a peek inside, you see there is a generous amount of both strawberries and Nutella on the oatmeal. “I’ll eat it now.”

“Thank you.” Nathan watches you take a bite before kissing your forehead and getting up. “I’ll be back around noon, then we’ll finish up the nursery. Please don’t touch it while I’m gone. I can’t have you getting hurt.”

“I won’t, I’ll probably watch something.” You shrug. “There are some shows I want to start.”

“Whatever keeps you out of the nursery.” He agrees and walks to grab his gear. 

“This oatmeal is really good, babe.” You hum and take a few more bites. 

“All to your liking?” 

“Yeah, perfect amount of Nutella this time.” Nathan comes back with his backpack slung over his shoulder. 

“I’m glad, I’ll be back to make lunch.” You smile over at him, and he sits on the arm of the couch.

“Okay. I’m coming to the game tonight, though. I can’t keep staying in this fucking house, or else I’ll lose my goddamn mind.” You sigh and lean your head into your hand. 

“I don’t want you to lose your mind staying in this house.” He chuckles.

“Oof.” You put a hand on your bump as your baby girl kicks. “She’s active today.”

Nathan reaches down and places a hand on the curve of your stomach. “Very active, be nice to your momma, baby girl. I have to go now, or I’m gonna be late. I'll see you in a few hours.”

“Drive safe.” He nods and cups your cheek, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth. 

“I will.”

“Good. Now I can’t have my baby daddy being late to practice.” You peck his mouth again. 

“Baby daddy? I’m your husband.” Nathan scoffs, and you laugh. 

“My husband, who is going to be late. You have full permission to blame me, and tell Bednar to call me.” 

“You’re in a silly mood this morning. I love you, my beautiful wife, who is doing such a good job keeping our baby safe. I’ll be home later.” He kisses you one last time. 

“I love you too.”

Nathan leaves for practice, and you settle back into the couch with your oatmeal. You try to get comfortable watching a show, but the thought of the still unfinished nursery. You know Nathan would kill you for even setting foot in there. However, your mind keeps wandering, and the trash TV show you’re watching does nothing to distract you. Your eyes flick up the stairs, and you sigh. Pushing yourself off the couch, you waddle up the stairs. God, you hate fucking waddling. 

The nursery is almost finished, the crib is halfway built, the walls are painted to a pretty light blue, and all of the clothes, toys, and diapers need to be organized. It’s all so disorganized, and you need to do something about it. 

Your phone rings on the changing table, another thing that needs to be finished, you grab it and press it to your ear. 

“Hey Y/N, how are you doing today?” Melissa Landeskog says cheerfully over the line. 

“Nate’s gonna kill me.” You sigh and open the boxes of baby clothes and stuffed animals. 

“I'm sure whatever you're doing wouldn't warrant that.” 

“It’s been about twenty minutes since he left for practice, and I did the one thing he asked me not to do.” You want to turn around and walk away from the room, but you just can’t. “I’m in the nursery, and I just keep on thinking about all the things that need to be done in this house before the baby gets here. God, I think I’m going crazy, like I’ve been home for what? Three days? And I already have cabin fever.”

“Slow down, honey. Do you need me to come over and help you sort everything out? I would happily do that.” Melissa offers generously. 

“No, I can’t do that. Nate already said he would help me once he got back from practice. I just can’t seem to sit still.” You slump into the rocking chair placed in the corner of the room.

“You’re normally so busy, Y/N, it’s fine that you’re feeling this way. But you’re having a baby, honey.” 

“I know I am, I just feel so useless.” You rock slowly back and forth, hand resting on your belly.

“You’re pregnant, not useless.” Melissa chuckles. 

“Well, it doesn’t feel that way, I mean, my attending benched me from all surgeries, so I was doing scut work as if I’m not a goddamn doctor.” You feel tears burning at the back of your eyes, “I’ve just been doing so much since the moment I left home at 18, that being told to sit back and relax makes me want to say damn them all and do everything. Sorry, I’m just emotional right now.”

“Never apologize, you have every right to feel this way. But I have to ask, have you told Nathan any of this?” Melissa is a voice of reason, like an older sister who knows just what to say. “I’m taking your silence as a no.”

“I just don’t want to bother him with it, he’s stressed about making the playoffs, and I’m 36 weeks pregnant. He has enough on his plate.” You rub your temples.

“You are his top priority, like the utmost important thing in his life right now. Playoffs be damned, he wants you to be safe. So telling him how you’re feeling is something he deserves to know.” Everything Melissa says makes you realize how in the dark you’ve been keeping him. All for the so-called sake of protecting him, but have you really?

“Thanks for this, Mel. I should talk to him.” You come to the conclusion easily. 

“You should. If no one has told you yet, you’re doing great. You and Nate are going to be amazing parents.” The words catch up to you, and a tear rolls down your face. 

“Thank you, it really means a lot.”

“It’s really no problem,” Melissa guffaws, “Will I see you at the game later?”

“Yeah, you will.” You sniff and wipe at your eyes. 

“Good, I’ll see you then. Bye Y/N.” Melissa says. 

“Bye Mel.” 

The phone call ends, and you drop your phone into your lap with a sigh. You don’t really feel like getting up from the chair, and there’s a box of toys next to you. You pick up a dog plush that someone got you for the baby shower. You stroke its head and set it on the curve of your bump. Baby girl kicks, and you let out a watery laugh. 

“Like the dog baby girl?” You ask, and the flutters come back, “I guess so. It’s all yours, girly.”

You keep on rocking back and forth, cradling the plush against your chest. Your eyes begin to close, and sleep overtakes you. 

•••

“Y/N!” Nathan yells, and you’re awoken from your nap. “Baby, where are you?”

You clear your throat, “I’m up here.” 

You hear him walk up the stairs and peer into the doorway of the nursery, the worry is clear on his face. “I told you I would be back to help.”

“I didn’t touch anything. I just got anxious, but Mel and I talked for a bit, so that took my mind off things. Then I fell asleep.” You feel bad because Nathan looks extremely concerned. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He crouches in front of you. “Do you want to get this done now or have lunch first?”

“Lunch.” You agree. 

“Alright.” He helps you up from the rocking chair and places a hand on your lower back. “What did Mel have to talk you down from?”

“I guess I should talk to you about it.” You look over your shoulder at him. “I’ve been feeling pretty useless lately, like yes, I went on maternity leave three days ago, but I was feeling useless at work for weeks too. But I didn’t want to bother you because you have games, road trips, and the playoffs to think about, so I didn’t tell you.”

“Y/N…”

“I know, I know. I should have told you.” Nate sits you down on the stools underneath the kitchen island. 

“Yeah, you should have. We’ve been together for 7 years now, baby, married and not. I want to know about everything that concerns you, tell me everything.” You nod and lean into the hand he has pressed to your cheek. 

“I will promise.” You agree, and Nathan smiles. 

“Good, now what do you want to eat?”

“Like a crispy sandwich, pesto, cheese, prosciutto, arugula, and focaccia. We should have everything for that. I bought some when I went to the store yesterday.” You pat his ass as he walks into the kitchen. 

“Yeah, it looks like we have everything. Do you want to drive with me to the game? I’d feel better if we could arrive and leave together, not that you can’t drive.” Nate pulls out all of the ingredients. 

“Three hours is a long time to wait at the arena. Maybe you could drop me off at Landy’s house, and I can go with Melissa.” You hop off the stool and round the island to the other side of the kitchen.

“Sounds good, then we can leave together, and we don’t have to worry about a second car.” He watches you waddle around prepping ingredients. “I can make you lunch, you don’t need to help.” 

“We just had a conversation about me feeling useless. I haven't had this much time off since our honeymoon, so sitting still is not appealing to me.” You slice open the bread and start to spread butter on it. 

“Right, sorry, umm…I’ll get started on the arugula topping.” Nathan backs down, honoring your need for autonomy. 

“Perfect.” You hum, and the two of you get to work. 

You both work in tandem perfectly, making lunch and eventually working your way upstairs to the nursery. Nathan finishes the crib, and you begin putting away the onesies, toys, and other accoutrements that are perfect for a newborn baby. 

“She kicked when I put this on my bump.” You show Nate the dog plush that causes the flutters from your baby. 

“Did she?” He takes the stuffed animal with a grin. “Just like her dad.”

“She better have some of me in there.”

“She should get your smarts, cause everyone knows that you’re leagues smarter than me.” He kisses your head and places the plush into the crib. 

“Very true, I can say I’ve never had a concussion.” You jab at him. 

“And I’ve had more than I can count.” He chuckles. 

“I know, your nose didn’t always look like that.”

“Hey, it has charm.” He touches his nose, and you smile. 

“It does.” You press your head to his shoulder. “We should start getting ready. This is the best we can do for now.”

“Yeah, we need to get going here soon. I have to be at the arena by 4, so I’ll need to drop you off soon.” He agrees, and you turn off the light in the nursery and make your way to the master bedroom. 

“What to wear, what to wear.” You hum and rummage through your closet. 

“Be comfortable.”

“Believe me, I will.” You pull out the only maternity jeans you own and try to pull them on. “Help.”

“Come here, sit on the bed.” He chuckles as you sit down on the bed and Nate helps you into the jeans, “and how about a sweatshirt?”

“Yes, please, I want the maroon one, the one the WAGs got for Christmas.” You watch him walk back into the closet, half-dressed in a suit.

“This one?” You nod, and he hands it to you. “What about a shirt underneath in case you start to get hot?”

“Alright.” You take off the baggy shirt you were wearing and grab a long tank top that fits over your bump. You put the sweatshirt on over top and fall back onto the bed, feeling slightly winded. “Why is it so hard to do that?”

“Because you’re pregnant?”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” You laugh and watch him get ready, eyes trailing up and down his body. “Fuck if I wasn’t pregnant already, I’d let you get me pregnant.”

“Jesus Christ, woman, you can’t just say things like that.” Nate blushes hard.

“What? That I think my husband is hot?” You sit up and flutter your eyes at him, making him blush again. “Can I not say that?”

“No, you can.”

“But you have to focus, be ‘Nathan MacKinnon’ right now to get into the mindset, and I’m distracting you.” You track him around the room with your eyes. 

“You are extremely distracting, sitting there pregnant with my kid and saying you’d let me get you pregnant again.” Nate stops fixing his collar and looks at you like you personally offended him. “Recipe for distraction.”

“Caveman.” You tease, and he does the final button on his shirt. 

“No, just completely devoted to you.”

“Don’t I know it.” You push off the bed and pad around looking for the perfect shoes to wear with your outfit. 

“Alright, I’m ready to go. I’ll meet you downstairs?” He peeks into the closet, and you give a nod. 

“I’ll be a second.” You grab a pair of white sneakers with maroon accents and take a few seconds to put them on. “Is my purse down there?”

“Yeah, it’s on the counter!” Nate yells up the stairs, and you begin your slow descent down them. Taking a step at a time, trying not to throw your balance.  

“Let’s go, you have pregame prep to do.” You take your purse from his hands, and both of you get into the car. 

•••

You and Melissa get to the arena around 6:30. Both of the Landeskog children are with a babysitter, so a child-free night was upon you both. Well, other than the nearly fully formed child inside of you. Security lets you in easily, and you both walk to the family suite. 

“You’re literally glowing.” Melissa holds the door open for you.

“Really? I just feel huge, like I’m actually waddling around and shit.” You sit down on the seats closest to the glass of the suite. 

“Normal part of pregnancy, hon, the waddle gets to everyone eventually.” Melissa grins. 

“Ugh, I know, it still sucks.” You settle into the chair. “My street cred in the hospital is gone.”

“You’re funny.”

“No, seriously, all these new interns come in and the first impression they have of me as a senior resident is me pregnant.” You sigh and lean into your hand. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m so excited to have this baby, because I wanted kids eventually. But I wanted to have kids after I became an attending.”

“You and Nate got this, I promise. And we’re all here for you both. Let me know if you need anything.” Melissa touches your shoulder. 

“I will. Nate’ll take some coaxing, but I’ll reach out, don't worry.” You joke, and Melissa laughs with you

“Good. Now, do you need anything like water or food?” She asks, and you shake your head. 

“All good for now, but thank you.” 

“Alright, just let me know.” She touches your shoulder.

“I will.” You nod and feel your phone buzz in your purse. You pull it out, seeing Nathan’s contact on your screen. “It’s Nate, I'll be right back.”

“Yeah, yeah, go.” Melissa shoos you off, and you press the phone to your ear as you get up out of the seat. 

“Hey, baby.” You speak sweetly into the phone.

“Hey, yourself, did you get to the arena okay?” 

“All in one piece, both me and baby.” You tease, and Nate sighs at your bad joke. 

“Good, let’s keep it that way.” He lets out a soft chuckle.

“Sir, yes, sir.” You snicker and lean into the wall next to you. 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“Yeah, but you married me.”

“That I did, and I don't regret it.” His tone is sincere and warms your heart.

“Better not, 'cause you’re stuck with me, MacKinnon. For the next 18 years, then we can reevaluate.”

“I think I’ll need more than the next 18 years with you.” Despite your many attempts at teasing, he always says something so heartfelt that your chest wants to burst. “How does forever sound?”

“Hmm…forever is a long time.” You try to keep up with your previous antics, but you’re melting by the second. 

“Yeah, maybe, but you’re worth it. Both you and the baby.” You’re going to cry, like burst out in tears. 

“Stop being sweet right now, Nathan Raymond MacKinnon. You have a game to play, and I cannot cry before puck drop.” You scold him, not doing a very good job at hiding your watery voice. 

“Government named? You’re being very serious, alright, I’ll stop.” 

“Thank you. Now, go play a good game. I love you.” You dab at the corner of your eye. 

“I love you too. See you after the game.”

“See you after the game.” You repeat, and the call ends quickly after. You sit back down next to Melissa, and a couple of other WAGs that joined you two in the suite. 

“Y/N! You look amazing.” Tracy Makar, places a soft hand on yours. 

“Oh, thank you, getting bigger and bigger by the day.” You settle back into your chair, trying to get comfortable. 

“All a part of the process is what I’m trying to tell her.” Melissa nudges your shoulder, and you roll your eyes. 

“You and everyone else. But my body was not prepared for this baby at all. She is really comfortable.”

“I bet you two have picked out names?” Kerry Toews, the other wife that joined you, asks. 

“We actually have her whole name picked out. My mom got stuff monogrammed for the baby shower, so you’ll have to see it then.” You and Nate had picked out the name months ago. A combination you both loved and has sentimental value to make it feel special. 

“Ooo, I’m excited. You have great taste, so I trust you picked out something that will suit your little girl perfectly.” Tracy clasps her hands together with a wide grin. 

“We love it.” You feel her kick and rub the spot gently. 

“Take these last weeks in, soon your life will be all baby and nothing else.” Mel pats your hand, knowing full well what’s coming for you and Nate. 

“Oh, I know, it's not ideal to have the baby right near the end of the regular season, but we’ll have to make do.”

“Oh, for sure, but like Mel said, we’re here for you.” Kerry reiterates, and you take a deep breath. 

“Thank you, guys. Wait, did you get the invites for the baby shower?” You look at the other three women, panic rising for a second.  

“Yes, they were adorable. I should have sent back the RSVP.” Tracy nods, and you calm down. 

“I should check that. Should’ve probably been the first thing I did.” You shake your head. 

“You’re all good, Y/N.” Mel pats your arm. “Oh, the game is starting.”

All of you move to the edge of your seats and watch the Avs skate out onto the ice. You see #29 move around on the ice, Nathan looks up in your direction, and you give a small wave. Your baby girl kicks at the same time, and you laugh in awe that she’s able to understand. 

The game starts, and you settle back into your seat. 

•••

“That was a bullshit call!” You yell, knowing full well the refs can’t hear you. You plop back into your seat. There are 45.2 seconds left in the third, and the Avs are only up by one. Baby girl is rolling around from excitement, and every so often, one of her limbs catches on a rib or your bladder. “This is ridiculous.”

“The refs are on something tonight.” Mel shakes her head. “If this game goes to overtime, I think I’m gonna head out. Beat the traffic and say good night to the kids.”

“Yeah, I’m so tired.” You agree. “But Nate has the car keys and would be left stranded if I took them.”

“I can take you home if you need. It’s no big deal.” Mel offers. 

Normally, you would decline, but being pregnant has you yearning for your cozy bed. “That would be amazing, thank you so much.”

“No problem.”

You continue to watch the ice, waiting for the confirmation that this game wouldn’t go to overtime and the Avs would get the win. Your eye is starting to twitch a little from being so tired, and the need to rest your eyes is becoming more prevalent. 

The goal horn goes off, and you’re immediately more alert. The Avs score a goal and win the game, you sigh in relief. You won’t have to stay at Ball Arena for longer than necessary, and you get to go home with your husband. Falling asleep in his arms sounds like literal heaven right now. 

“It was a good game, but I’m not staying here longer than I have to. I’ll see you, ladies soon?” Melissa says as all four of you stand up.

“Yes.” You give her a quick hug, and she does the same with Tracy and Kerry. 

“Do you still want a ride back?” Mel asks as she circles back around to you. 

“No, I’m good, no overtime, so I’m going home with Nate.” You shake your head.

“Alright, rest up, honey.” 

“I will.” Melissa heads out, leaving the rest of you to walk to the family room. 

There are a few other families that probably sat in the stands, waiting to see their respective players. You settle on a chair, your hips and back aching from the length of the day, and your eyes drooping with the heaviness of sleep. If Nate doesn’t get out of media soon, you’re probably gonna fall asleep in the room. 

You luckily don’t have to wait too long. Nate walks through the door back in his game day suit. His eyes search around before landing on you, a smile spreading across his face. 

“Hi darling.”’ Nate can see the need for sleep written across your face. “Ready to go home?”

“Please, I’m gonna fall asleep on my feet here soon.” He pulls you up out of the chair, and you step closer into his side. Pregnancy and tiredness make you clingier.

Nate lets his arm fall over your shoulder, and the two of you walk out of the room. Comfortable silence makes its way between the two of you. Nate played a good game, and you’re too tired to talk about anything other than getting in bed. He’s practically guiding you to the car at this point, places are fading out of view as you possibly fall asleep on the walk there.

Nate helps you into the car and buckles your seatbelt. “Wait, I didn’t say goodbye to Tracy and Kerry.”

“I said goodbye for you, they know you are tired.” He eases your worries. 

“Okay, good.” You nod slowly, and he shuts the door. 

Nate starts the car, and the hum of the engine has your eyes fluttering closed for a second. A short moment. Or what you think is only a moment, but when you open your eyes again, the car is pulling into the garage. 

“Oh my god, I fell asleep.” You run a hand through your hair, blinking the sleep out of your eyes. 

“You needed it.” Nate chuckles and turns off the engine, “Head inside I’m gonna grab a package I saw on the front porch.”

“Okay. It might be the stuff my mom got for baby girl.” You tell him and get out of the car. 

“We can take a look.” 

“Okay. Wait for me to open the package.” You toe off your shoes and wait in the kitchen for Nate to come back.

You hear the garage door close, and Nate walks in with a box underneath his arm. He places the box on the counter, letting you read the label.

“Yeah, this is the baby bag, blanket, and onesies that she got monogrammed.” You tap your fingers on the box, “She thinks it would be cute to have it set up on a table at the baby shower and have people try to guess her name from the initials.”

“Let’s take a look at them.” Nate grabs a pair of scissors to cut the box open. 

You take out the tissue paper and pick up the diaper bag with your soon to be daughters initials on it. NRM is written in pretty white cursive, standing out from the black fabric of the bag. Nate takes it from your hands and runs his fingers over the letters, the same ones derived from his own name.

“People won’t think I’m conceited for giving my daughter my own initials, right?”

“If they do, I don’t care, because I love the name we picked out for our child.” You place a hand on his bicep. 

“You’re right.” He nods and moves to look at the other things in the box. “This blanket is cute.”

He pulls out a pink floral blanket with your baby’s first name written on it. “Oh, it’s just darling.” You smile and take it into your own hands. 

“I can’t wait till we have her actually in our arms, holding her in this blanket. Being able to use these onesies and this bag.” He places a hand on your bump, and your baby girl kicks softly. You know Nate feels it from the smile that spreads across his face. 

“I know, we’re so close. 6 or so weeks, then we get to hold her, and she’ll be real and all ours.” You place your hand over his. Nate leans down and kisses your mouth softly. 

“I can’t wait. Until then, you should get into your pajamas and go straight to bed.” He rests his forehead against yours. 

“Yes, please, my back and hips are killing me.”

“Anything I can do for you, baby?” His hand drifts to your lower back, rubbing up and down your spine. 

“Not right now, I just need to go to sleep.” You shake your head and slowly climb the stairs. 

“I agree. You were out in the car, like there was some traffic and people were honking, but you stayed asleep through all of it.” Nate says, following behind you. 

“I’m really tired right now. Growing a baby takes it out of me.” You make eye contact with the bed, and all of a sudden, there’s a gravitational pull. It has you making a beeline for the plush blankets and soft mattress. 

“Not yet, if you get in bed now, I won’t be able to get you out. Wash your face and brush your teeth, and I’ll get your clothes set out for bed.” He steers you in the direction of the bathroom, and you grumble, even though you know Nate is right. 

“Fine.” You huff, the tiredness in your bones makes everything feel slower and heavier.

You pull your hair away from your face and grab your skincare. Washing your face and freeing it of the makeup you had on makes you feel fresher. You catch a glimpse of Nate folding a pair of shorts and a large shirt for you to wear onto the bed, as you grab your toothbrush. You smile at his meticulous preparation of your sleep clothes before squeezing a generous amount of toothpaste and beginning to brush your teeth. 

“Your sleep clothes are on the bed. I’m gonna shower quickly, and then I’ll join you in bed.” Nate joins you in the bathroom, and you give a nod while continuing to brush your teeth. 

You rinse off your toothbrush and wipe your mouth as steam starts to fill the bathroom. You let Nate shower in peace while you free yourself from the maternity jeans and sweatshirt you’d been wearing. Slipping into bed, you prop yourself up with the pillows. Normally, you’d be able to fall asleep just fine without Nathan in the bed, but right now you need him to be near you.

He’s true to his words, and the shower turns off minutes later while you're burrowing into the covers. He emerges from the bathroom hair damp and wearing sleep shorts. 

“I thought you’d be asleep by now.” He says quietly, climbing into bed.

“Just waiting for you.” You move closer to him, and Nate pulls you into his side. 

“Well, I’m here now, and you can go to sleep.” You nod, eyes drooping, heavy with weariness. 

“Okay, g’night, Nate. I love you.” You mumble. 

“Goodnight, baby, I love you too.” He kisses your forehead and wraps his arms around you. A hand lands on the curve of your stomach and says so softly you almost don’t hear. “Goodnight, baby girl, we can't wait to meet you.”

You smile softly, eyes too heavy to open, but in your heart, you know your baby girl will be so loved. You can’t wait to bring her into the world. 

Soon. Really soon.