brightness & gratitude @fallinallincurls - Tumblr Blog

fallinallincurls

Jun 23

angelsuecult

bags | s. crosby

“can you see me?

i'm waiting for the right time”

warnings: crude jokes, harsh language

summary: sidney’s distance leaves you anxious.

request: Can we get one where Sid’s nervous about proposing and making sure everything goes right but she thinks he’s like avoiding her

word count: 12.3k

song: bags - clairo

a/n: okay here we go guys, terribly sorry for the delay😭😭 anyway enjoy it!! original asker if u are still there, let me know how you like/hate it <3 also there was another request for a proposal if that was you please let me know if you’d prefer something else, please please please let me know!

—

It started before you realized it. A small thing, a nothing moment, barely even noticeable at the time.

But now you couldn’t stop it.

It was late December. You and Sidney were back in Nova Scotia for the holidays, tucked into the soft quiet of his parents’ house. It was the kind of cold that stayed clinging to your skin even when you were inside. A kind of stillness that only ever seemed to settle over places you’d known for too long.

The visit had been good. Calm, full of soft mornings and bundled walks, way too much food. There was one afternoon that stuck in your mind more than the rest. You were out shopping with one of his oldest friends, and he’d asked for your help picking a ring for his girlfriend. He said he had no idea what he was doing and trusted you. You’d been flattered, honestly. Nervous too. You’d wandered glass cases while Sidney stood nearby, quiet but supportive, chiming in only when he saw you really hesitate.

You’d said something like, "God, if anyone ever gets me something like that, I better be unconscious when they pay for it."

And Sidney had just smiled. A real one. Soft around the edges.

You didn’t think much of it then. You’d talked about marriage before. He’d said, more than once, that he wanted it with you. That you were it for him. That he couldn’t imagine anything else. There was no big speech, no dramatic moment. Just quiet declarations over dishes in the sink. Hands brushed together while making the bed. I want to marry you, one day. Like it was a given. Like he was sure.

But since coming back to Pittsburgh, something’s been off.

Not in a way that screams wrong, just in a way that doesn’t feel right. Not entirely. Not completely.

You’ve been trying not to let it get to you. Because it’s not like he’s pulled back completely, he still kisses you goodbye in the morning, still tells you he loves you. But it’s different now. Off-center. Like something is happening to him, and he won’t let you know what it is.

There’s a kind of presence people have when their thoughts are elsewhere. You know it. You can feel it. That’s what it’s been like with Sidney lately.

He's still Sidney. He still folds your socks when he does laundry, still brings you a cup of tea when you're curled up in the corner of the couch. But when you speak, sometimes he answers with a delay. And when you're quiet, he doesn't always notice.

He's careful with his phone now in a way that he never used to be. Always screen down. Always locked. Once or twice, you’ve walked into the room and he’s slid it under a blanket or held it a little too long before setting it aside. Not sneaky, maybe, just strange.

You haven’t said anything. Not yet. You don’t know how to ask what you're even afraid of. You don’t know how to say hey, can you please stop avoiding me because it’s slowly killing me, because what if that’s too much? What if that pushes him away more?

He’s tired. You know the season has been weighing on him. You’ve been together long enough to know how he gets around this time of year. When the schedule picks up, and the pressure climbs, and his body starts to feel a little heavier, game after game. You’re trying not to make it about you. You’re trying.

But it’s hard, sometimes.

Because you live with him now. A year and a half of shared space, shared grocery bills, shared soft piles of laundry, and shoes by the door. You know his routine down to the minute. You know what kind of tea he makes when he’s in a good mood versus the coffee he drinks when he’s trying to stay awake through a slump.

And lately, it’s been the slump coffee. Every day.

You keep telling yourself it’s fine. That he’ll come around. That maybe he’s just holding tension in places you can’t reach. You don’t want to be the reason he feels even more pressure. So instead of confronting it, you’ve started making little adjustments.

You stopped asking him to pick dinner. You don’t lean on him as heavily at the end of the day. You kiss him goodnight a little quicker. Not because you want to, but because you’re afraid that if you linger, he might pull away.

It’s a Tuesday night now, exactly one week before your anniversary, and you’re standing barefoot in the kitchen, stirring a pot of pasta sauce that’s starting to bubble a little too aggressively. You adjust the heat, shake the wooden spoon, and glance at the clock.

He should be home soon.

You’ve kept the day low-key. Didn’t text him much. Didn’t ask when he’d be done. You’re just trying. Trying to give him space without feeling like you’re losing something in return. Trying not to fall into that sticky headspace where every pause in conversation feels like an omen.

The table is already set. Nothing fancy, just two plates, two forks, water glasses filled halfway. You even sliced some bread, not because he asked, but because you know he likes it toasted and a little burnt on the edges. You do that for him. Even now.

You reach for your wine glass–only half-full. You haven’t even taken a sip yet. You’re trying not to drink too much on the nights where things feel like this, because you don’t trust your mouth not to spill all the questions you’ve been trying so hard not to ask.

Something like…

Is it over?

Are we okay?

Do you want space?

Am I too much?

The front door clicks.

You hear the shuffle of his keys, the soft thud of his shoes, and then his voice–low, tired, familiar.

“Hey, babe.”

You turn, soft smile already in place. “Hey. You’re home just in time.”

He walks in slowly, his movements not rushed, but not easy either. You watch him scan the room, watch his eyes land on you, and hold for only a second longer than necessary. Then he’s pulling his jacket off, folding it over the back of a chair.

“Smells good,” he says, not looking at you.

You hum. “Hope it tastes good.”

He walks over and kisses the side of your head. His lips linger. Just long enough for your breath to hitch, for your heart to kick a little harder in your chest. And then he’s moving past you, grabbing the plates, starting to serve.

It’s still him. But something is missing. Not gone. But held tight behind his ribs where you can’t reach.

You sit across from each other, knees nearly brushing under the table, and talk about nothing. The game tomorrow. A grocery list. Some weird video your friend sent you. You talk like roommates. Like friends. Like people who are both trying not to name what’s wrong.

He laughs once. Smiles twice. And when he reaches across the table to take your empty plate, his fingers graze yours–and he flinches.

Just slightly. Like he wasn’t expecting the contact. Like touching you startled him.

He catches himself quickly, clears his throat, and stands. “I’ll do the dishes.”

You nod, already shrinking inside yourself. “Okay.”

You sit there for a minute too long after he turns the faucet on. You hear the water running. The clink of silverware. And silence between you.

You should say something. You should. But instead, you pick up your wine glass, drain the rest, and wonder how much more space you’re supposed to give someone before you start feeling like you’re no longer there.

It’s only Tuesday. A week before your anniversary.

And you’re already afraid of what next Tuesday will feel like.

Wednesday came and went like any other midseason day. Familiar. Routine. Tired.

You woke up alone, which wasn’t uncommon on game days. Sidney had already slipped out–probably hours before–and left the faint scent of his cologne behind on the pillow and the sweatshirt he’d tossed at the foot of the bed. You laid there for a few minutes after your alarm went off, eyes open but not really seeing anything, just letting the silence crawl over you. Eventually, you dragged yourself out of bed and into the kitchen.

The house was still. Kind of cozy, in a way. Cold morning light spilled through the windows, stretching across the hardwood floors and bouncing faintly off the countertops. You liked mornings like this–quiet, slow. But it didn’t escape you that they used to feel different. Fuller, maybe. Warmer.

You texted him sometime mid-morning.

You: Morning. What times puck drop tonight?

He replied quickly, which you appreciated.

Sid: 7. Doors at 5:30. Should be quick.

You almost replied with want me to come? but stopped yourself. You hadn’t gone to every home game lately. You used to–almost religiously–but things had changed. Not bad changed. Just evolved. You were both busier, and if you were being honest with yourself, it had started to feel like he preferred going through game day alone.

Instead, you grabbed your keys and headed to the grocery store.

It wasn’t even busy, which felt like a miracle. You wandered the aisles slowly, only half-focused on your list. Picked up more snacks than you needed, spent far too long in the produce section staring at a mango you didn’t even end up buying. You even got those cookies Sidney likes–the ones he pretends are “just okay” but finishes in one night. Just in case.

Back home, you put everything away and scrolled through your phone while sitting on the kitchen counter. That’s when the text from your mom came in.

“Just found this again,” your mom wrote. “You two are my favorite people.”

It was a photo of you and Sidney. Probably two years old. You were back home, you remembered that much. He was behind you, arms slung around your waist like it was the easiest thing in the world, chin on your shoulder while you laughed. Not smiled–laughed. Your eyes were crinkled, mouth open, head tilted toward him like you were incapable of existing anywhere else but in that moment. He wasn’t even looking at the camera. Just at you.

You stared at it for too long.

You saved it. Didn’t say anything back to your mom. You weren’t sure why she sent it, but you weren’t in the mood to unpack it either.

That night, you laid low. Made yourself dinner–frozen pizza and a salad you didn’t really eat–and climbed into bed early. You tried to stay up to wait for him, but the moment your head hit the pillow, the weight of the day finally caught up with you.

You were asleep by the time he got home.

You didn’t feel him slip into bed, but somewhere deep in your half-conscious state, you felt him press a hand to your hip. Maybe a kiss to your shoulder. Or maybe you dreamt that. You couldn’t be sure anymore.

Thursday was quiet.

You woke up to the sound of Sidney getting dressed. Still half-asleep, you reached for him instinctively, hand curling into the fabric of his shirt just above his waistband. He glanced down, then leaned over and kissed your forehead.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmured, voice scratchy. “I’ll see you after skate.”

You grunted in response, letting him go even though your chest pulled tight when he left the room. He closed the door softly behind him. You rolled to his side of the bed, buried your face in his pillow, and tried not to overthink the sudden absence of his usual I love you.

You spent most of the morning cleaning. Tidied up the kitchen, did a couple loads of laundry, reorganized a drawer you hadn’t touched in months just because the silence in the house was starting to itch at your skin. By the time your phone rang, you were elbow deep in the back of the linen closet and had forgotten how to breathe normally.

It was your sister.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, hitting answer and tucking the phone between your shoulder and cheek. “I thought you died or something. You haven’t texted me in days.”

“I was giving you space!” she shot back immediately. “God forbid you spend a few days without me breathing down your neck. What’s up? You sound grumpy.”

You paused. Then shrugged, even though she couldn’t see it.

“Nothing. Just been quiet around here.”

She went quiet for half a second. Long enough for you to know she knew something.

“You and Sid okay?”

“Yeah,” you answered too quickly. “I mean—yeah. He’s just been tired. Lot on his plate. You know how it gets this time of year.”

“Sure,” she said lightly, though you could hear her skepticism. “Well, how about you get your ass out of that house this weekend and let me spoil you for once?”

You blinked, shifting your weight. “Spoil me?”

“Yeah. Like a little self-care day. Nails, coffee, maybe some shopping. You look like someone who could use a little attention.”

“I do not look like anything right now,” you argued, dragging a blanket off a shelf. “I’m in sweatpants and haven’t worn a bra since Monday.”

“Exactly,” she said. “You're practically begging me for an intervention.”

You huffed a laugh, grateful for her. “Okay. Yeah. That actually sounds good.”

“Good! Saturday, I’m kidnapping you. No arguing.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you said. “Though if you try to make me get short almond-shaped acrylics again, I’m out.”

She laughed, full and real. “Please. We’re going short and square. You’ve traumatized me with those talons.”

“I scratched my own face with those last time.”

“You scratched my face.”

That night, you brought it up over dinner.

Sidney had picked up Italian food on the way home from the game. It was a small thing, but one that landed. You lit a candle on the table–not because the moment needed it, but because it made you feel like you were trying.

You took a bite of your food, then looked at him across the table. His hair was damp from a shower, skin flushed from the heat, a few drops of water still clinging to the collar of his t-shirt.

“So,” you started casually. “I made plans with my sister for Saturday.”

He looked up, fork stilling. “Yeah?”

“She’s insisting on a self-care day. Nails, coffee, possible emotional breakdown in a changing room, the works.”

His mouth pulled into a smile. A real one. Not that tired, distracted one you’d grown used to over the past few weeks. “That sounds good. You deserve that.”

You tilted your head, surprised by how relieved he looked. “You okay if I’m gone most of the day?”

“Of course.” He waved a hand. “Take your time. Have fun. You need a day to let someone else take care of you for once.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. That sounded dangerously close to romantic.”

He smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”

“You’re so lucky I’m not making you get a pedicure with me.”

“I’d rather fight a bear,” he deadpanned, taking another bite of pasta. “You know how ticklish I am.”

You grinned, cocking your head. “I do know that. Interesting how that only comes up during pedicure season and not during—”

“—Do not finish that sentence,” he warned, pointing his fork at you.

You laughed so hard you almost choked.

He reached over, hand brushing your wrist, and for a moment the distance between you flickered. Gone. A heartbeat of something familiar.

“You sure you’re okay?” you asked gently, not pushing. Just enough to let him know you were still paying attention.

He nodded, maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

You smiled at him. Not all the way. But enough.

“Okay. But if you die before our anniversary, I’m putting that on your gravestone. ‘He was just tired.’”

He groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “Please don’t.”

“Oh, it’s already happening. I’ll even add your stats.”

“I’m taking your name off my emergency contact form.”

“Too late. You’re stuck with me.”

You said it with a joke in your voice.

He didn’t laugh that time.

He just looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes, then reached across the table and tangled your fingers with his.

“I know,” he said softly. “I know I am.”

Friday started soft.

Sidney had an off day, which meant no early alarm, no half-awake shuffle into the kitchen, no lukewarm kisses before he disappeared into the cold for skate. Just the two of you, blinking awake in the gray morning light, limbs tangled beneath the sheets and the blanket kicked half off the bed. You’d stirred first, your cheek still warm from where it had been pressed to his chest.

He grumbled something when you moved. Probably a “Don’t go yet,” or a “Five more minutes.” You couldn’t tell–his voice was still sleep-rough and gravelly, and you were too distracted by the arm he slung back around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“You hungry?” you eventually whispered, even though you knew the answer.

His hand was already sliding up the hem of your sleep shirt, fingers warm against your skin.

“Not for food,” he murmured.

You snorted and slapped his chest. “You’re disgusting.”

He just grinned against your shoulder and didn’t let go.

Eventually, the promise of coffee and bacon became more tempting than groping under the covers, and you both dragged yourselves to the kitchen. You worked together like always–him at the stove, you chopping fruit, leaning on each other like second nature. The radio was on, your favorite station, humming low in the background between clinks of plates and the crackle of eggs in the pan.

Breakfast was easy. You sat on the counter and fed him pieces of toast while he stood between your knees, shirtless and smug. You bickered about how much butter was too much butter. He tried to sneak his hand under your thigh when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

“I will stab you with this butter knife,” you warned, mouth full.

He licked jam off his thumb and winked. “Not the worst way to go.”

By late morning, he’d retreated into the living room to watch film on his laptop, headphones in, posture tense in the way it always got when he was trying to anticipate every possible play that might go wrong. You left him to it, heading into the backyard with your headphones and your little gardening gloves, determined to fix the planters that had been bugging you all week. You spent hours pulling dead leaves, repotting herbs, humming to yourself as you wiped dirt from your face and cursed at a stubborn root.

The two of you barely saw each other all afternoon, passing in and out of the kitchen at different times. He’d touch the small of your back when he walked by. You’d kiss the crown of his head when he didn’t notice. But neither of you really talked much.

It wasn’t until around four, after you’d showered and changed into a pair of fresh sweats, that you finally collapsed onto the couch and let yourself melt into a rom-com marathon. You didn’t plan the theme–it just happened. My Best Friend’s Wedding came on, and you didn’t have the heart to change it. You curled into a blanket, let your body relax fully into the cushions, and tried not to think too hard about anything.

Sidney wandered in sometime during Runaway Bride, earbuds hanging around his neck, a protein bar half-eaten in his hand. He stood behind the couch for a beat, watching the screen with vague interest.

“You watching a wedding movie?” he asked, amused.

You peeked back at him, pillow tucked under your chin. “Don’t act surprised. I’m always watching wedding movies.”

“That’s true,” he muttered, dropping down beside you. “You’re probably secretly planning ours through movie references.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, okay. Let me just call Diane Keaton real quick, get her on board.”

“She’d officiate the hell out of it.”

“Only if we let her wear shoulder pads.”

He chuckled and reached over to steal part of your blanket. You didn’t even complain when he did. Just scooted a little closer, letting his arm rest behind you on the back of the couch, his thigh pressed warmly against yours. You felt him kiss your temple not long after. Gentle. Familiar.

And then during 27 Dresses, you caught him staring.

Not once. Not casually. Over and over again.

You’d laugh at something and glance at him–only to find him already looking at you. When you turned fully, he’d play it off. Pretend he was watching the movie. Sometimes, he’d reach over and brush your hair back or squeeze your thigh gently. You didn’t say anything, but the knot in your chest started to pull a little tighter.

He wasn’t distant tonight. Not like the other nights.

It was good. So good. And that’s what made it almost unbearable.

Because it wasn’t consistent. It was like watching the sun come out for an hour after a week of clouds–just long enough to make you miss it more once it’s gone.

“You okay?” you whispered sometime near the end of the movie.

He nodded, eyes still on the screen. “Yeah.”

But his voice caught a little. Just barely.

You let it go. Because what else could you do?

Saturday morning came early.

Your sister showed up at your door like a damn hurricane in yoga pants.

“Let’s go, we’ve got nails to ruin and baristas to confuse with our orders.”

You laughed, slipping into your shoes. “Wow, so chipper for someone who didn’t even bring me coffee.”

“I am the coffee.”

“Okay, well I’ll be vomiting now.”

Sidney was in the kitchen, finishing his smoothie, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed as he watched you. You grabbed your jacket and kissed his cheek.

“Be good,” you teased.

He smirked. “No promises.”

Your sister waved at him as you dragged her out the door. “Take care of your woman, Crosby. She’s fragile.”

“I’m standing right here,” you muttered.

“Emotionally fragile,” she corrected. “Physically? You could probably kill me.”

You snorted and shoved her toward the car.

At the salon, you sat across from her, hands soaking, brain buzzing. You told her everything. Not all at once, but in pieces.

“Like, I don’t think he’s cheating. I hope. Really, I hope. Or anything dramatic. I’m not worried—just confused.”

“Because he’s acting weird?”

“Yeah. Like—he loves me. I know he does. He just hasn’t really been there, lately. It’s like he’s next to me, but his head’s somewhere else.”

She watched you carefully, nodding.

“I asked him if he’s okay the other night. He said he’s just tired. But I don’t know if that’s true anymore.”

“It’s probably just hockey,” she offered, sweet and easy. “He gets weird when he’s stressed, right?”

“Yeah. He does.”

“You’re probably just being sensitive.”

“I am sensitive,” you agreed. “It’s one of my best qualities.”

She laughed, then pointed at your swatch card. “Okay. Nail color. What are we thinking?”

You eyed the bold red that always caught your attention. “I was kinda thinking red? Like a really rich, hot one.”

Her eyes widened slightly–just enough for you to notice.

“Maybe not red,” she said quickly. “Could be bad luck?”

You frowned. “Bad luck?”

She shrugged, all fake nonchalance. “You said things feel off. No need to tempt fate, right?”

You eyed her, skeptical. “You’re full of shit.”

“Absolutely,” she grinned. “But I’m also right.”

You sighed and pointed to a soft white instead. “Fine. Something neutral. Like my slowly deteriorating emotional state.”

“Beautiful choice.”

You got home around five, bags in hand, and called out the second you stepped inside.

“Baby, your sugar mama’s back!”

Sidney appeared from the living room, rubbing the back of his neck, wearing an old hoodie and gym shorts that made your stomach do a weird little flip. He looked soft. Comfortable. A little nervous.

You held up your hand, fanning your fingers. “White. Like a fresh start. Or snow. Or surrendering to a hockey boy who refuses to tell me what’s wrong.”

He took your hand and examined your nails like they were a rare gem. Kissed your knuckles. “They look good. Really good.”

You grinned, shrugging your jacket off. “I also went shopping. Bought you a couple things.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm.” You tossed the bag at his chest. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

He peeked inside, pulling out a new sweatshirt and a dark blue polo. He blinked, caught off guard.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to. I saw them and thought of you.”

He looked at you, quiet for a moment, before stepping forward and wrapping his arms around your waist. He didn’t say anything at first. Just held you. Face buried in your neck.

You hugged him back, threading your fingers into his hair.

“Hey,” you murmured. “Whatever it is we’re okay. Right?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes searching your face.

“Yeah,” he said. “We’re okay.”

The way his throat moved when he swallowed said more than the words ever could.

Sunday started off tense in your chest, even if you couldn’t quite say why. You got up early, earlier than usual on a game day, and took your time getting ready. Showered, did your hair, put on just enough makeup to feel like you were trying without making it a whole thing. You picked out an outfit that was comfortable but cute. Appropriate for an arena. Appropriate in case someone caught a glimpse of you beside Sidney.

You hadn’t gone to a game in a long while. The distance–or whatever it was–had made you hesitant. But today was the last one before a short break in the schedule. He hadn’t said you should come. He hadn’t said you shouldn’t either. And you figured maybe showing up would say more than pushing with words ever could.

He looked surprised to see you in your usual seat, in the way his eyes crinkled just a bit and his mouth quirked when he spotted you. Not wide-eyed or stunned–just relieved. Like maybe he’d needed you there too.

They won. The team looked sharp. Sid played like he had something to prove. A fire under his feet, that kind of dangerous focus that made the whole arena hum. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. Couldn’t stop yourself from smiling when he skated past the glass, wiping sweat from his brow, mouth tight with adrenaline.

He didn’t text you right after. Just sent a little heart emoji when you messaged him: "Good game. You were fucking ruthless."He sent a wink too. You knew what that meant.

By the time he walked through the front door of the house, freshly showered and still pink from post-game heat, he looked good. Too good. Smug and warm and easy in his own skin.

“Hey, baby,” he called, tossing his things in the corner like he’d lived there all his life. “What’s for dinner?”

You narrowed your eyes from your spot on the couch. “What am I, your housewife now?”

“I mean, I’m open to it. You’d look hot in an apron.”

“Don’t need the apron. Just heels.”

He groaned and collapsed beside you. “Fuck, don’t start. I’m already half-hard from the goal.”

You snorted. “You're disgusting.”

“Only for you.”

You turned to him, knees tucked under you, watching as he leaned his head back, the muscles in his neck soft and lazy now. You didn’t even realize how tightly you’d been holding yourself until you let your hand rest on his thigh and felt him lean into it.

“What?” he said eventually, glancing at you from under his lashes.

“Nothing,” you said softly. “You just seem… good today.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, “I am good today.”

You waited, hopeful.

He reached over and played with the hem of your sweater. “Actually… I was thinking.”

“That’s always dangerous.”

He flicked your thigh. “I was thinking—what if we took a trip?”

You blinked. “A trip?”

“Yeah. Just… get out of the city for a bit. Go home.”

“Home?”

“Nova Scotia,” he said, like it was the simplest thing. “Back to the lake house. It’s been a minute since we were there.”

Your stomach fluttered.

The lake house wasn’t just a vacation spot. It was the place. The place he brought you when things got too loud. The place where he kissed you for the first time under the stars. Where you had sex in a freezing car because you were too impatient to wait until the heat kicked in. Where he told you he wanted to build a life with you–when you weren’t even sure he meant it yet.

It was a safe place.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Fuck, yes. Please. Let’s go.”

He smiled. A full one. Like he’d been holding it in for days.

“We fly out tomorrow. Noon.”

You blinked. “Wait—you already booked it?”

He kissed your cheek. “Yep. Had a feeling you’d say yes.”

Packing was easy. You didn’t overthink it. Somehow, the anniversary slipped your mind entirely–buried beneath the glow of him being warm with you again, of the idea of leaving the city behind for a few days and just being. He helped you fold sweaters, tucked your thick socks into the corners of your suitcase like he always did. You grabbed the book you hadn’t finished and two bottles of wine, just in case.

When Monday came, you were ready and excite.

The flight was smooth. Private, quiet, no press. Just the two of you and a shared playlist on his headphones. He let you nap against his shoulder, rubbing lazy circles into your thigh while you dozed, your mouth half-open and your legs tangled with his.

When the wheels touched down, the nerves came back–not in a bad way, just a buzz under your skin. Familiarity. Nostalgia. His hand found yours easily.

By the time you pulled up to the house, it was already golden hour–light flooding the porch and scattering across the surface of the lake like something out of a dream. The windows glowed warm. Everything looked the same.

You kicked your shoes off the second you stepped inside. The scent of the place hit you all at once–wood and clean linens and something that always lingered from last time. Him. You ran your fingers along the entryway table where you’d once dropped your wet swimsuit, the one he’d peeled off you on the stairs, laughing as you’d slipped.

Sidney followed you in with the bags, dropped them, and wrapped his arms around you from behind.

“You remember the time you tried to seduce me with s’mores out back?”

“You mean the time I successfully seduced you with s’mores?”

He hummed, lips on your neck. “You were wearing those stupid little pajama shorts. What was I supposed to do?”

“Exercise some fucking restraint.”

“I was exercising. You should’ve seen the cardio I got from hauling your ass inside.”

You laughed so hard you nearly fell forward.

Dinner was surprisingly romantic.

Sid took the reins, told you to sit and let him handle it. You kicked your feet up on the armrest of the couch and watched him chop garlic like he was auditioning for a cooking show. He didn’t let you help, even when you offered–just handed you a glass of wine and told you to relax.

“You’re trying to get me drunk,” you teased.

He looked over his shoulder and winked. “What gave me away?”

“I dunno, maybe the full pour.”

He plated pasta and seared chicken, added roasted vegetables and that garlic bread you always begged him to make. You were genuinely touched. Even the napkins were folded.

“Jesus Christ,” you said when he set the table. “Did Martha Stewart possess you?”

He smirked. “I just thought you deserved a nice dinner.”

You sat across from him and twirled your fork slowly through your pasta, still watching him with a kind of disbelief.

“You’re being really fucking nice to me today.”

He froze for a second. Just a flicker. Then softened.

“Maybe I’m always nice and you’re just mean.”

You scoffed. “You were absolutely planning to avoid me all week until I spontaneously combusted. Don’t act innocent.”

He reached over the table, took your hand. “I’m sorry I made you feel like that.”

Your throat tightened. The food suddenly felt too hot in your mouth.

“You didn’t… I mean… maybe a little.”

“I know I’ve been in my head.”

You didn’t push for more. Just nodded. Grateful that he acknowledged it at all.

The rest of dinner was quiet, warm. He kept stealing bites from your plate and you let him. You poured him the rest of your wine and he grinned like you’d handed him the keys to your soul.

Afterward, you took turns doing the dishes, flicking soap bubbles at each other like you were sixteen again.

You were halfway through drying the last plate when he came up behind you, hands on your hips.

“Remember the time you bent over the sink and asked me to fuck you like we were strangers?”

You barked a laugh. “That was because we were drunk and you were wearing your captain jersey.”

He nipped at your ear. “Still the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You turned, face flushed, drying towel still in hand. “Sid.”

“What?”

“You’re not slick.”

He smirked. “I know.”

You leaned into his chest, burying your face there for a moment, letting the feel of him ground you. He smelled like garlic and cologne and something warm. Something safe.

He kissed the top of your head and didn’t let go.

The night had ended slow and sweet.

You’d both ended up in bed around nine, full from dinner, half-tipsy from a third bottle of wine Sidney insisted you had to open because, “we’re on vacation, babe, live a little.” You’d curled into each other with The Wedding Date playing–your pick, obviously. Sidney only groaned about it for like twenty seconds before giving up and letting his hand sneak up your shirt instead, palm splayed against your stomach, thumb rubbing lazy little circles under your ribs.

“Can’t believe you’re making me watch Dermot Mulroney seduce Debra Messing,” he mumbled against your collarbone.

“You’re just mad no one’s asked you to be a fake boyfriend for money.”

He laughed and kissed your shoulder. “I’d pay you to let me fake date you.”

“You already do. It’s called buying me dinner.”

He grinned against your skin and squeezed your hip. “Fuck, you’re right.”

You were out cold before the third act. The kind of sleep that wraps around you thick and warm, the way your body just gives in when you feel safe and fed and loved. You barely remembered the end of the movie.

The bedroom was dim and quiet when you woke the first time. A soft glow came from the TV on the dresser, the loading screen of the movie rolling with gentle music as Dermot Mulroney whispered something smooth to Debra Messing–something you would’ve melted for if your heart wasn’t suddenly pounding from the empty space beside you.

Sidney wasn’t in bed.

You blinked groggily, reached out across the sheets. The dent was still warm. You could hear movement, subtle but unmistakable–fabric rustling, a soft thump like something being set down too fast. From the closet.

You didn’t say anything.

Didn’t want to startle him. Maybe he was looking for something. Maybe he couldn’t sleep either.

You closed your eyes and tried to melt back into the blankets, ignoring the ache in your chest that came every time you woke up alone lately. After a few minutes, he returned. The mattress dipped under his weight. And then there was warmth–his arms slipping around you from behind, the familiar feel of his face burying into your hair.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmured against your temple. “I got you.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t want to risk sounding uncertain, or needy, or worse–suspicious. So you just nodded, or maybe twitched your fingers over his arm, hoping it passed for comfort.

This happened twice more. Each time, he got up quietly, tried not to wake you. You heard the soft creak of the closet door, a faint zip. And each time, he came back more energized, more electric.

The third time, you felt his lips against your hairline.

“You’re so fucking cute when you snore,” he whispered.

“I don’t snore,” you muttered, not even opening your eyes.

“Babe,” he said, voice smiling. “You literally make whale sounds when you’re dreaming.”

You sighed, barely holding back a laugh. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, and kissed you again.

You woke to more kisses–soft ones, warm ones, trailing along the edge of your jaw until they reached the corner of your mouth. You stirred, felt his weight hovering over you a little, one arm braced on the mattress, the other tracing light patterns on your stomach under the blanket.

“Morning, baby,” he whispered. “Happy anniversary.”

You opened your eyes, bleary and confused for a second, then blinked fast. “Oh shit. That’s today?”

He grinned, eyes dancing. “Smooth.”

You groaned, covering your face with both hands. “Nooo. I thought it was—fuck, I thought it was tomorrow. I swear.”

He kissed the inside of your wrist, then your cheek, then your neck. “It’s today. And I’m taking you out. So get your ass ready.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “Out where?”

“It’s a surprise,” he said, dragging the word out like he was dangling a steak in front of a starving dog. “So dress like you know it’s your anniversary and you might get lucky.”

You threw a pillow at his head. “You will get lucky, dipshit. That’s the bare minimum.”

He caught it easily, tossed it back, and then leaned in again, voice low against your ear. “I’ll take care of you tonight, babe. Promise.”

Your cheeks flamed. You smacked his chest. “Sidney!”

He just grinned, smug as hell, and stood up to stretch–shirt riding up slightly, revealing the sliver of toned stomach you’d gotten very acquainted with over the years.

“God,” you muttered. “You’re such a slut.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You got dressed after a long shower, letting yourself move slowly through your skincare, hair, the soft shimmer of a body oil that smelled like flower blossoms and vanilla–something that reminded you of warm months, good memories, lighter times.

You pulled on a white blouse. Your skirt was long, floral, hitting down to your toes with a flirty slit up the side–barely noticeable until the breeze hit it just right. You added your favorite sandals, the strappy ones he once said made your feet look “illegal.”

When you stepped out into the hall, he was waiting by the front door.

And he looked good.

Dark jeans, dark blue polo, the one you’d bought him, underneath an open overshirt–light blue-gray, almost slate. The kind of look that was understated but somehow devastating. Like he hadn’t tried too hard, but you knew he definitely had.

His eyes lifted when he saw you. Stayed lifted.

“Holy shit,” he said, slowly. “Are you trying to kill me?”

You smiled, fiddled with the sleeve of your blouse. “Just figured you might like me to try today.”

He walked over, hands landing softly on your waist, eyes warm. “You could wear a trash bag and I’d still trip over myself.”

You smirked. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

His brows lifted. “Babe. I slipped once—”

“You fell trying to take off my bra. In socks.”

“That floor was waxed like an ice rink and your bra was—”

“Fort Knox?”

He groaned, pulled you in tighter. “Why do I tell you anything?”

You laughed, pressing your forehead to his chest. “Because you love me.”

He kissed your hair. “That’s the only reason I haven’t buried you in my backyard.”

You smiled. But there was something in your chest, tight and delicate, like a string pulled taut across your ribs. You didn’t know why. Everything felt… right. But it also didn’t. Not completely.

He was jittery, still. But not distant. Not like before. He was warm again, present. Almost vibrating with something unspoken.

Maybe it really was just the anniversary. Maybe he’d been planning something all along. Maybe it was you who’d been losing your mind, not him.

Maybe.

“Where are we going?” you asked again when you got in the car.

“Still a surprise.”

You sighed dramatically. “You know I hate not knowing things.”

He leaned over, kissed the side of your neck, just under your ear. “You’ll like it. Promise.”

And you believed him.

You had to.

Because if you didn’t believe him now, you didn’t know if you’d survive what that meant.

The drive felt familiar, but not quite. You kept catching landmarks out of the corner of your eye–places that used to mean something when everything was new and stupid and thrilling, when Sidney was just that guy from your orbit who'd become your favorite gravitational pull. But the turns weren’t exact. The timing was off. This wasn’t the route to any of your usual haunts–no trails, no hidden lookouts, no seafood shacks or tiny cafés with mismatched chairs and old regulars who knew Sidney by first name.

He had one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh, thumb rubbing light circles just above your knee, skin warm under your skirt. The windows were cracked slightly; the scent of salt and pine drifted in with the cool breeze. Somewhere behind you, the lake sparkled under the patchy sunlight, half-shadowed by a mix of late spring clouds and the stubborn remnants of chill air that hadn’t quite released its grip on Nova Scotia.

“Hey,” he said softly, glancing over at you like he’d been sitting on the question for miles. “You remember that place—the first one you agreed to go out with me?”

You turned your head toward him slowly, lips quirking. “The Italian place with the weird-ass candle holders?”

He laughed. “God, yeah. Those things looked like melted lava.”

You nodded, smiling. “And the servers wore all black like it was a funeral.”

“But the food was good.”

“The food was amazing,” you agreed. “That ravioli? I still think about that ravioli.”

Sidney grinned. “I knew you were the one when you practically licked the sauce off the plate.”

“Oh fuck off,” you laughed, smacking his arm. “It was truffle cream, I’d do it again.”

“Honestly? Me too.”

You chuckled softly, letting your fingers trace little patterns where his hand rested on your leg.

“But didn’t it close?” you asked after a beat, eyes narrowing as you glanced out the window again. “Wait—are we headed that way?”

He shrugged, a little too casually.

“I thought it shut down years ago.”

“It did,” he said, flicking on his blinker for a left turn. “But… there’s a new place there now. Same building, different owners. My buddies said it’s actually better.”

You blinked. “Better than that ravioli?”

“That’s what they said.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Who are these mysterious food snob friends you’re suddenly listening to?”

He just smirked. “Guys I trust. Guys who also wanted to lick their plates.”

“Oh, well then,” you said, dry as hell, “in that case, take me immediately.”

He laughed again and squeezed your leg. “Figured since we’re here and it’s our anniversary, might as well indulge a little.”

You smiled but didn’t say anything, just let yourself sink back into the seat. You stared out the window again, the scenery a mix of small-town charm and rugged natural beauty. Trees dense and heavy with summer promise, houses scattered like secrets, and glimpses of the lake flashing like coins tossed into the wind.

The closer you got, the more your chest tightened. Not in a bad way–at least, not entirely. Just that strange, thick feeling that always came with returning to your beginnings. The restaurant. This town. Him. You.

He had to park a little farther than usual. The lot close to the restaurant–new or not–was already packed. Sidney muttered a few curses as he circled once, then twice, before finally sighing and settling into a spot down a narrow side street with cracked pavement and overgrown shrubs clawing the sidewalk.

“Perfect,” he said, clearly unimpressed. “Romantic walk through the fuckin’ wilderness.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh no, not walking. On our legs. However will we survive.”

“I should’ve packed a wagon,” he deadpanned, slamming the door shut and rounding the car to meet you.

“You act like you don’t have the stamina of a mountain goat.”

“That’s in bed, babe.”

You snorted, linking your fingers with his as you started walking. “You’d know.”

He bumped your hip with his. “Damn right I would.”

The walk was actually beautiful.

The chill caught you off guard at first–your skirt fluttered against your legs, hair lifting slightly in the breeze, the scent of lake water and cedar fresh and sharp in your nose. But the sun was trying, really trying, to break through the clouds. And when it did, it lit everything in this hazy, golden way that made even the cracked sidewalk and crooked fencing look poetic.

Sidney walked close, his hand wrapped tight around yours like he was anchoring himself. Or maybe you. You didn’t know anymore.

“You okay?” you asked after a few quiet blocks, glancing up at him.

He looked down, eyes soft. “Yeah. You?”

You nodded. “I think so.”

You didn’t push further. He didn’t either.

Instead, he pointed out a corner market that used to sell weird European candy, and you told him about the time you bought expired gummies there on accident and were sick for three hours.

He laughed so hard he almost tripped over a loose brick.

By the time you reached the restaurant, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

The building was the same, technically, but it felt completely different now. Gone were the dark, heavy curtains and gothic candle holders. Now it was light, bright–big windows, soft white lights strung around the perimeter like fireflies, flowers in small glass vases on every visible table. A chalkboard sign out front read the day’s specials.

It smelled like garlic and lemon and wine.

You looked up at him. “Okay, your mysterious plate-licking friends might be onto something.”

He smirked. “Told you.”

“Still want ravioli though.”

“They’ve got it,” he said, pulling open the door for you. “But don’t lick the plate this time. We’re in public.”

“No promises.”

He leaned in close, breath warm against your ear. “You lick anything in public tonight, I’m gonna make you pay for it later.”

Your breath caught.

“Sidney—”

“You started it,” he said, eyes sparkling, smug as hell.

You just shook your head, walking into the restaurant, heart pounding. The kind of pounding that came from anticipation. From hope. From something else you couldn’t name, not yet.

You were warm from the walk, and colder now that he’d let go of your hand.

But the inside was cozy. The lighting was perfect. And he was here.

You told yourself, quietly, carefully, not to expect anything. Just to enjoy this. Just to breathe.

But the truth curled in your stomach, like the sun behind the clouds, aching to break through.

Please, you thought, as the hostess led you to your table. Please let tonight be the start of something again.

And sure enough, breakfast had been nothing short of perfect.

You’d both ordered too much, like always–Sidney going for some loaded breakfast sandwich monstrosity that required two hands and a strategy, while you’d gone full brunch mode with lemon ricotta pancakes and a side of crispy bacon, “for balance.” You shared a fruit plate that you both ignored, sipped fresh coffee and laughed about stupid things–the server’s deep confusion over Sidney’s name spelling, your ongoing debate about who was better at Wordle, the fact that your bacon was suspiciously shaped like the province of Alberta.

He paid, of course. You tried to argue, also of course. It was tradition by now. You teasing, him grinning, saying “Babe, please. Let me pretend I have my shit together.”

Now, full and warm and the good kind of sleepy, you found yourself wandering the street just off the restaurant’s patio, your hand in his, your head still buzzing a little from how good it felt to just be near him like this again.

The rain was just beginning to come down. Not quite a drizzle, but not a full downpour yet either. A whisper of mist that clung to the edges of your sandals and kissed the tops of your bare shoulders. Goosebumps chased up your arms, and before you even said anything, he was shrugging off his overshirt.

“Here,” Sidney said, draping it over your shoulders with a sort of rough gentleness that always made your throat close up. “Don’t need you catching pneumonia on our anniversary.”

You snorted, slipping your arms into it. It smelled like him. Clean cotton and aftershave and something a little woodsy that you could never name but always knew. “I think it’s just rain, not the plague.”

He gave you a look. “You sneeze once and I’m calling in a med evac.”

“Jesus, dramatic much?”

“Excuse me for loving you.”

You smiled, the kind of smile you couldn’t stop if you tried, the kind that pulled at your cheeks and made your heart feel way too big for your chest. You didn’t say anything. You just reached for his hand again and gave it a squeeze.

The street was cute–old cobblestone patched with newer asphalt, flower boxes under window sills, string lights still up even though it was midday. Most of the shops were boutique-y: a bakery with handcarved signs, a tiny bookstore that looked like it might actually be someone’s converted living room, a shop that only sold local honey and jam, apparently.

You pointed at a little ceramic penguin in a window display of what looked like a gift shop run by someone’s kooky grandmother. “That’s you,” you said, poking the glass with a grin.

Sidney raised an eyebrow. “The penguin?”

“Yeah. Look at his face. He’s serious. He has a job to do. But he also probably makes great banana bread.”

He stared at it, squinting. “…I hate how accurate that is.”

You laughed and pulled your phone out of the overshirt pocket–his pocket, big and worn-in–and snapped a picture. Then another, of the little crooked birdhouse hanging off a streetlight. Then another, of the puddles catching reflections of the cloudy sun.

He watched you like he always did when you didn’t think he was watching–soft-eyed and a little dazed, like you were the only thing in the world that made sense to him.

“You’re such a nerd,” he said, quietly.

You glanced back at him, smirking. “Why?”

“Pictures of puddles?”

“They’re pretty. Shut up.”

“You’re pretty,” he muttered.

It was under his breath. But you caught it anyway. Your stomach flipped.

“You’re such a sweetheart today.”

He rolled his eyes but he didn’t deny it. Just gave your hand another squeeze and pulled you a little closer as the drizzle started to pick up.

By the time you got halfway down the block, the rain had gone from a light mist to something steadier–thicker drops that tapped off your sandals and left tiny dark marks on the floral fabric of your skirt. But the air was still warm, and the sun, somehow, was still breaking through above the clouds, giving everything this weird magical glow.

You paused outside a little flower cart and leaned in, brushing your fingers over some tulips. “We should get some for the house,” you said.

“You trying to kill another batch?”

“Excuse me, I kept that orchid alive for three months.”

Sidney raised his eyebrows. “That orchid was already dead, babe.”

“You’re dead.”

“Okay.”

You grabbed a photo of the cart too–pastels against the gray sky, your phone case slick with mist now. And that’s when you felt it–a heavier drop, then another, then a whole series of them thudding against your skin like a warning.

“Shit,” you muttered, blinking up at the clouds. “It’s getting worse.”

Sidney looked up too, then back at you. His hair was already damp, curls starting to lift. Water streaked the bridge of his nose. He looked stupidly hot in the rain. Unfair.

You tugged at the collar of his overshirt, clinging a little tighter to it. “We can head back,” you offered. “It’s not like I need to get pneumonia to feel loved.”

But he just shook his head.

“Nah. You’re still exploring. And rain won’t kill us.”

You blinked at him. “You’re the one who was just calling in a med evac two seconds ago.”

He grinned. “Yeah, well. Now you’ve got my shirt on, so you’re invincible.”

You laughed, hard, stepping closer into him. Your shoes squelched slightly on the wet stone.

“Okay, calm down, Captain Canada.”

He brushed some hair over your shoulder, his touch feather-light. “We’ll head back when you’re ready. Just don’t slip and crack your ass.”

“Oh no, not my ass,” you said dramatically. “It’s your favorite part of me.”

“It’s not,” he said. “But it’s top three.”

You arched a brow. “Go on.”

He grinned again. “Number one: your mouth. Number two: those eyes. Number three: that ass. Maybe tied with that little spot on your hip I kiss when I’m trying to get you to lose your mind.”

Your face flushed hot. “Jesus.”

“Want me to keep going?”

“No,” you said quickly, eyes darting to an older couple passing by under a too-small umbrella.

“Yes you do,” he said.

You shook your head, cheeks aching from smiling now. Rain pattered harder around you, but somehow you didn’t feel cold. Not with his hand in yours, not with his stupid shirt wrapped around your shoulders, not with the way he kept watching you like he couldn’t stop.

You walked another few blocks before the rain really started coming down.

At that point, you both gave in.

Sidney tugged you under a small awning next to the bookstore and kissed your forehead, drops of water sliding down your temple. You tilted your face up to him, your mouth just inches from his, breath caught in your throat.

He didn’t kiss you then. Just tucked a strand of wet hair behind your ear and whispered, “You happy?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Really happy.”

And you were.

Even with the rain, even with the ache in your chest you still couldn’t name. Even with the nagging sense that he was carrying some secret–something weighty and brewing–you felt full. Alive. Loved.

“I think we’re officially soaked.”

“Mmhm,” he hummed, content. “We should probably turn back.”

You nodded... then turned away from the area where the car was parked.

“Or we could go that way.”

He blinked, then smiled. “Of course we could.”

The hike wasn’t exactly planned. Like, at all. You were both wearing absolutely the wrong shoes, your sandals slipping slightly on the wet gravel path and Sidney’s jeans gradually turning that dark, clingy shade of drenched. His hair was curling up more than usual, clinging to his forehead, and the sleeves of his shirt–now yours–were completely soaked through. The hem of your skirt had a nice little mud border going. Honestly? You looked like you had survived a romantic natural disaster.

And neither of you gave a shit.

Because you were together, and you weren’t on a schedule, and the path you were on led to the water. Not just any water. The water–the one you both had wandered to countless times over the years, both separately and together. Where you'd sat on the rocks and kissed like teenagers long after you weren’t teenagers anymore. Where he’d once told you he loved you with a goddamn mouthful of granola bar and you’d cried anyway. Where you’d once skipped stones together and he made a dumb comment about the shape of your ass and you tackled him straight into the lake.

So yeah. Wet shoes were not gonna stop you.

By the time the trees broke and the trail sloped down to the shoreline, your fingers were cold, your hair was practically dripping, and Sidney’s entire upper half looked like he’d taken a shower fully clothed. But the second you saw the water stretching out before you, glassy and silver under the cloudy sky, you felt your chest expand.

It was quiet. Not just because no one else was dumb enough to hike in a rainstorm, but the kind of quiet that felt sacred. The kind of quiet you didn’t want to fill with anything but the sound of your own breathing and the low hum of Sidney beside you.

“I can’t feel my toes,” you said casually, stepping off the path and toward the rockier edge.

“I could’ve told you sandals were a mistake,” he replied, voice full of smugness.

“I look cute though.”

“You always look cute,” he said, bumping his shoulder into yours. “But also slightly unhinged.”

You grinned, shaking your head and stepping toward the edge of the water. Rain dotted the surface in little dimples, and the sun–miraculously–was still doing its damnedest to shine through a break in the clouds, casting those weird streaks of light across the lake like someone had smudged gold paint over the gray.

Your hands were damp and chilled but still warm inside his, and his shirt hung off your shoulders, heavy now with rain, clinging to your back like a second skin. The walk was ridiculous, probably borderline miserable for anyone else, but you both looked like idiots smiling through it.

You stepped over a cluster of mossy stones, your foot catching slightly. “God, this is not sandal terrain. I’m gonna slip and fucking die.”

“If you do, I’ll die too,” Sidney said solemnly from behind you.

“Very Romeo and Juliet of you.”

“Except less poisoning, more blunt force trauma via wet shale.”

You crouched down by the water when you spotted it. Smooth, flat, maybe just slightly bluish-grey–a perfect pebble. You picked it up and turned it over in your hand, already grinning before you even spoke.

“Okay,” you said, standing up and brushing your hands off on your skirt, “this is yours now.”

Sidney turned toward you, his brows up. “Why? I don’t collect rocks, babe.”

You walked it over to him, placing it squarely in his palm. “Because if we were penguins, and I were a guy, and I gave you this rock, it would technically mean we were married now. That’s how it works. Pebble equals penguin proposal.”

He stared at you, water dripping down his hairline, cheeks flushed with wind and wet. “You’re telling me this rock just bound us in holy matrimony?”

You nodded solemnly. “Yup. We’re officially husband and wife. Pittsburgh Penguin tradition.”

Sidney barked out a laugh, turning the stone in his hand. “I was gonna skip it across the water…”

“You skip that rock, and I’ll skip you,” you threatened, poking his chest with a damp finger.

“Well,” he smirked, slipping it into the pocket of his jeans, “guess I better hold onto it, huh? Can’t throw away my marriage rock.”

You both laughed, your stomach flipping for reasons you couldn’t even name. Maybe it was the rain, or the joke, or just being out there with him, alone in the gray world.

He stood there for a minute after that, just watching you as you pulled your phone out and wiped the screen with the hem of his shirt. You angled it toward him first, catching the soft look on his face.

“Say hi to the people,” you murmured, and Sidney gave the camera the flattest wave known to man, grinning sideways as you panned the shot.

“Hi. I’m a soggy penguin husband.”

“Now say hi to our future penguin children,” you joked.

“Already planning names,” he said. “Rocky. Pebbles. Baby Nugget.”

“Jesus Christ.”

You panned back toward the lake. The clouds had cracked open just enough that long, golden beams were falling across the water like spotlights. You turned a little, adjusting your frame.

“This would actually be a really nice place for someone to propose,” you said offhandedly, more to yourself than to him, as you panned across the lake.

Sid didn’t respond.

You didn’t notice.

Not at first.

You were too focused on getting the shot, on capturing the way the light hit the rocks just right. But a second later–maybe two–you turned back, thumb ready to hit the stop button–

–your entire world shifts.

Because there he is.

Sidney.

Down on one fucking knee.

Mouth twitching like he’s fighting off a smile. His hair’s dripping, his jeans are soaked through, his knuckles are tight around a velvet black box in his hand, and his eyes are looking up at you in that way–that way–that melts your spine into nothing.

You feel your brain short-circuit. Your mouth opens.

Your phone slips right from your fingers and thunks against the wet ground.

Sopping wet, rain in his lashes, that pebble still tucked somewhere in his jeans, and the softest, surest look on his face you’d ever seen in your life.

Your hand flew to your mouth, eyes wide, already stinging with tears.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, your voice shaky, your whole body still except for your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “What…?”

Sid laughed softly, almost sheepishly. “Hi baby. Uh… surprise.”

You were frozen.

And then he opened it.

And you gasped.

The ring was perfect.

Timeless, gleaming like something meant just for you. Like something made of sunlit glass and soft mornings and every damn second you’d ever spent loving him.

“I’ve had this for a while. Since December, actually.”

Your eyes snapped to his, and he nodded, eyes glossy now too.

“I didn’t know how to do it. I kept psyching myself out. Every time I looked at you, I’d get this rush of—of panic and love and just—Jesus, it scared the hell out of me. Because you’re the one for me. You’ve always been the one.”

You felt the tears spill over now, couldn’t even try to stop them.

He smiled, licking a raindrop off his bottom lip. “You make me feel like I’ve got something to lose. Something I’d do anything to keep. I know I’ve been acting off, but it wasn’t because I was doubting this. I was just scared of screwing it up. I didn’t want to ruin what we have by not doing this right.”

“Sidney,” you whispered, completely breathless.

He looked up at you with this open, shining face, the most beautiful, terrified man you’d ever seen.

“So. Now that we’ve hiked through wet gravel in the rain on our anniversary, I have to ask—”

He exhaled, his voice catching just a little. “Will you marry me?”

You choked on a laugh-sob, one hand still covering your mouth, the other reaching for him instinctively. “Are you serious?”

His brows lifted, like–what do you think?

“Yes, I’m fucking serious.”

“You want to marry me?” you whispered.

He blinked, stunned. “Are you—babe are you kidding? There’s no one else I’d even think about marrying. It’s always been you.”

That broke something in you.

You laughed–giggled, really, through the tears, wiping your face with the sleeve of his shirt still hanging off your shoulders. “You dumbass.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Of course it’s a yes, Sidney, oh my God—”

And then you dropped to your knees too, straight into the gravel and water, not caring one fucking bit, and kissed him like your life depended on it. Your hands cupped his face, the ring box still between you both, and you kissed and cried and laughed into his mouth.

When you pulled back, forehead to his, both of you soaked and shivering and grinning like lunatics, he whispered, “We can count the penguin rock as the official proposal, if you want. That one was better.”

You shoved his shoulder, breathless. “That was a joke, Crosby.”

“Too late. Legally binding.”

“You’re legally stupid.”

“But I’m legally yours,” he teased, slipping the ring onto your finger, his hands shaking just a little. “Guess that makes you legally stuck with me.”

You leaned in, kissed his lips again, soft and amazed.

“Good,” you whispered. “That’s exactly where I want to be.”

The walk back to the car was ridiculous.

Completely, utterly, stupidly ridiculous.

You were soaked. He was soaked. Your sandals were sloshing. His jeans looked like they’d been painted on by the rain. Your hair was sticking to your neck, and you had a leaf caught somewhere in the hem of your skirt. But neither of you could stop smiling. Not even for a second.

It wasn’t really walking so much as floating, anyway–feet weren’t totally touching the ground the way they normally did. Your knees were wobbly. Your brain was buzzy. Your hand was heavy in the best way. That ring on your finger glinted even through the misty air, even under the blanket of drizzle. Like it belonged there.

And you kept giggling like you were drunk on something far stronger than mimosas, tugging on Sidney’s hand and leaning into him like your body couldn’t physically keep upright under the weight of your joy.

“Oh my God,” you laughed for what had to be the sixth time in a minute, burying your face in his neck, your arms wrapping around his shoulders from the side as you walked. “I can’t believe you actually fucking did that.”

Sidney groaned, half-laughing himself. “Jesus, you’re gonna make me cry again,” he muttered, pulling you in closer, his arm wrapping tightly around your waist like he was scared you’d float away if he didn’t hold on.

You didn’t walk so much as stumble and sway your way down the gravel trail, shoes sliding every now and then, your laughter hiccuping out of your chest. Sidney held you up every time you nearly lost your footing, which was often. But his face–God, his face.

He looked like he could breathe for the first time in months.

“You’re really happy?” he asked quietly, ducking his head so he could kiss your temple. “You’re not—like—freaking out a little on the inside?”

You tilted your face up and kissed his chin, still walking. “I mean, I am freaking out. But like... in a good way. Like, holy-shit-I’m-gonna-marry-the-love-of-my-life way.”

Sidney exhaled something halfway between a laugh and a groan and kissed your cheek again, this time slower, like he just needed the contact.

“I was so fucking scared to do that,” he admitted, voice rough. “Like, not because I didn’t want to. God, I’ve wanted to since—fuck, I dunno—since forever. But I kept overthinking it. Kept worrying I’d mess it up. That it wouldn’t be enough.”

You looked at him like he was speaking a language you’d never heard.

“Sid,” you said, stopping mid-step to face him, your hands still clutching his shirt near his waist, “you literally proposed to me at a lake in the rain with a fucking penguin pebble in your pocket. Do you know how un-fuck-up-able that is?”

He grinned, sheepish. “Yeah, well, I didn’t plan that part.”

You squinted at him. “Wait, you planned the rest of it?”

Sid sighed and ran a hand through his wet hair, slicking it back. “Since December.”

Your jaw dropped. “December?!”

He nodded, slow and guilty. “Yeah. You remember when we were helping one of my friends pick out a ring for his girlfriend? You said something about your dream ring. Like, just in passing. But I wrote that shit down immediately.”

You covered your mouth, stunned.

He kept talking, the words spilling out now like they’d been bottled too long.

“I called the place the same week. Had to have it made because, y’know, you have very specific taste and I wasn’t gonna fuck that part up. And then I started thinking about the trip. Like, where to go, how to do it. And the whole time I just kept making myself sick with anxiety because I didn’t want to blow it.”

You were grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “Sidney—”

“And then you started watching all these rom-coms about weddings and shit and I was like, ‘Oh fuck, she knows, she knows and she’s hinting at it and I’ve missed the window—’”

You snorted. “I was just watching My Bestfriends Wedding, dumbass.”

He groaned. “Yeah, and then Runaway Bride right after that? You were playing games.”

“I wasn’t!”

Sidney looked betrayed. “You literally watched 27 Dresses the same day I put the ring in my underwear drawer”

You burst out laughing. “Oh my God, you’re so fucking dramatic.”

“I thought it was a test!”

You tugged him to a stop, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You’re insane,” you whispered into his shirt. “And I love you so much it hurts.”

He bent his head down and kissed you again, slower this time, lingering, a little sigh leaving his mouth when your arms tightened around him.

“I know now.” he whined, eyes wide and exasperated. “But at the time I was spiraling. I was up in the middle of the night digging through my suitcase trying to make sure I hadn’t lost the damn ring.”

“You’re such a fucking dork,” you whispered. “I’m obsessed with you.”

“I just kept panicking,” he admitted against your lips. “Like, what if I fuck it up? What if the timing’s wrong, or you think it’s corny, or you’re not ready? I’ve been nauseous with it, babe. Like full-body nausea. Couldn’t even sleep last night—I kept waking up and messing with it in the closet.”

You gasped, swatting his stomach. “I knew you were doing something! You kept crawling back into bed all weird and clingy.”

“I was psyching myself up! You looked so peaceful and then I’d touch your hand and remember we’re not married yet and I’d start sweating.”

Sidney leaned back a little so he could look at your face. His hands found your hips, then your cheeks, thumbs brushing at the rain on your skin that wasn’t even rain anymore, just tears and wind and too much love.

“I just wanted it to be right,” he murmured. “I kept chasing this idea of a perfect moment. Like, something from a movie. I wanted the weather to cooperate, I wanted the timing to be perfect, I wanted to be dressed better, or for you to be wearing something I could remember in, like, exact detail for the rest of my life—”

“I am wearing something cute, you asshole.”

“I know, I know,” he laughed. “But the point is—I thought I needed everything to align. And then today, when we were just walking and you were all wet and happy and handing me rocks like a fucking sea bird, I realized that the only thing I needed was you. You are the perfect moment.”

Your whole face broke at that. Your throat closed. You could barely get the words out around it.

“Jesus Christ, Crosby,” you whispered, gripping the front of his shirt. “You’re gonna make me suck your dick in the car.”

Sidney snorted so hard he doubled over for a second. “Please don’t. The seats are fabric and we’re already drenched.”

You giggled again, shameless. “Fine. Rain check. Pun intended.”

He kissed you, again, for what felt like the millionth time, still laughing, the kind of messy, grateful kiss that tasted like both relief and rain.

Your heart clenched.

You sniffled, blinking away another wave of emotion. “You know, despite what everyone thinks, you really are such a sap.”

“You’re literally crying on me right now.”

You pouted dramatically, but he just pulled you tighter.

“Don’t ever take that ring off,” he murmured in your ear. “You hear me?”

“I won’t,” you promised. “Never. I’ll wear it even when you piss me off.”

“I don’t piss you off.”

“You’re so annoying sometimes.”

He kissed the side of your neck. “Yeah, but I’m your husband-level of annoying now.”

You froze in place again. “You’re gonna call yourself my husband every five minutes, aren’t you?”

“Hell yeah.”

“You’re gonna abuse that privilege so hard.”

“Babe,” he said with a shit-eating grin, “you’re legally obligated to laugh at all my bad jokes now. You gave the pebble.”

You shoved his arm and kept walking, but your hand found his again, fingers lacing without even thinking.

You stretched up and kissed him, long and slow, rain sliding down your cheeks. When you pulled back, he looped both arms around you and practically lifted you off the ground, laughing as you wrapped your legs around his waist.

“Careful,” you muttered against his jaw. “If you keep holding me like this, I’m gonna try to fuck you in the truck.”

He snorted. “Not in the truck. We just got engaged. Don’t want you bruising your ass on the gear shift.”

“Oh my God,” you laughed, clinging to him. “Can you imagine explaining that at the ER?”

“‘Congratulations, Mr. Crosby. And how did your fiancée dislocate her hip again?’” he mimicked, setting you down gently

You smacked his chest. “You’re a nuisance.”

He winked. “Your nusiance.”

The rest of the walk was slow and stupid and absolutely drenched. You kept touching your ring like you needed to be sure it was real. You kept laughing, pressing your face into his shoulder, kissing his arm, his neck, whatever you could reach. Every time you did, Sidney would stop walking, kiss your hair, whisper something like, I love you so fucking much, and just hold you there for a minute like he needed the world to stop spinning long enough to catch his breath.

And you let it.

Because what the hell else could you do?

You were engaged to the love of your life.

And no amount of rain was gonna wash that away.

—

fallinallincurls

ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod!! i have so many things to say about this fic. first off, this is genuinely the best thing and my new favorite fic i’ve EVER read on this website!! every single thing about it was beyond perfect and i couldn’t stop smiling while reading it! this felt like one of the beloved romcoms, i truly couldn’t get enough of it. my heart was so full and bursting with love and it also felt like a big, warm hug the way the writing captured their emotions and how obviously in love they were, especially how much sid cared about getting the proposal right! and the penguin pebble proposal?? COME ON!! i need everyone to stop what they’re doing and read this right now. genuinely the best thing i’ve ever laid my eyes on and read here, going to be thinking about this (and dreaming of a love like this) for the rest of my life ohmygod!

#fic rec #sidney crosby #so so good!!#please read this!!#i’m actually obsessed #this is the best thing i’ve ever read #my heart is so full #i’m so 🥹🥹🥹#this was so soft and perfect and felt like a hug #can’t begin to describe how much i loved it #absolutely everything #my lovely mutuals

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