FlahreGun⁹

Ben shrugged, trying not to stare too hard at the way your hips swayed with the music. He didn't get to see you much—you lived in LA and only came to New York to visit your big brother, Giancarlo. But whenever you were around, Ben found himself captivated by you. Your eyes, your warm smile, the way you threw your head back when you laughed... everything about you drew him in.

Of course, you were off limits. You were his teammate's little sister—a teammate who happened to be 6'6" with arms bigger than Ben's head.

But that didn't mean he couldn't look, right?

You didn't even notice him looking, and it was probably just as well.

"I'm getting another drink," Ben said suddenly before heading to the kitchen.

He had to be careful not to drink too much since he didn't want to show up to the stadium hungover tomorrow, but he'd only had one so far and figured he earned another for not thinking about how good you'd feel beneath him.

He grabbed a Corona out of the fridge, popped the cap off, and took a long swing before leaning back against the counter. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, trying to shake the thoughts that would get the shit beaten out of him by Giancarlo. When he was mostly satisfied, he opened them and returned to the living room.

He greeted some of his teammates and their wives and chatted with Luke Weaver for a bit—all while keeping a watchful eye on you.

He couldn't help himself.

Eventually, he had had enough socializing and excused himself to sink into one of the armchairs while he nursed his third beer. He was scrolling through Instagram when suddenly something fell right into his lap.

You.

You giggled, hands moving to steady yourself on his thighs as your hips pressed right into his crotch. You turned your head to look back over your shoulder, bottom lip caught between your teeth, and eyes wide.

"Benny!" Your voice was high-pitched and your words slurred.

He chuckled nervously, eyes darting around the room, looking for any sign of Giancarlo—and thankfully finding none. Because if he did, he would've been incredibly fucked.

"You're cute, y'know that?" you murmured, drawing his attention back to you.

His brows furrowed slightly.

Oh, you were drunk. Really fucking drunk.

"Are you drunk?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

You wobbled slightly, and his hands shot to your waist to steady you—unfortunately pressing you harder against him. Heat pooled low in his stomach, and he had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from groaning.

"Mmm, maybe," you hummed, grinning lazily at him. "G's gonna kill me..."

"Yeah, I think you might be right," he muttered, trying not to think about what would happen if your brother knew you were sitting his lap.

"Can I tell you a secret?" you whispered, leaning in closer. Your lips grazed against his ear, and he had to resist the urge to pull you in closer.

He really should've pushed you off the moment you fell into his lap—should've stood up, set you back on your feet, and put as much distance between you as possible.

But for some stupid, idiotic reason, he couldn't.

He swallowed hard. "Uh... sure."

"I think you're hot," you whispered, voice dipping lower. "Like, really, really hot."

"Uh, thunks," he chuckled nervously, face flaming bright red as he resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall. "You're... not so bad yourself.

God, that sounded so fucking lame, but the smile you gave him almost made him forget to breathe.

Then you shifted, swinging one leg over until you were fully straddling him, your knees bracketing his thighs, pressing into the chair, and your fingers curled in the collar of his shirt.

"We should—" Ben cleared his throat before continuing, voice hoarse, "—find your—"

Your lips moved towards his before he had the chance to finish. They brushed against his, but before they could meet, Ben's hand gently but firmly pressed against your chest, stopping you.

"Wait," he whispered, his voice low but steady. "This isn't right."

You pouted and tried to pull him in again, but he didn't let you.

"What?" she whined, bottom lip sticking out.

"It's not you," he said quickly, shaking his head when you gave him a confused look. "I mean, it is you—wait, no, not like that, it's just—"

He paused, taking a deep breath before speaking again.

"You're drunk," he said gently, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"M'not that drunk," you argued, rolling your hips just enough to make his jaw clench.

"Alright," he muttered, half to you and half to himself. "We're finding your brother."

Carefully, he lifted you off his lap and stood up, wrapping an arm around your waist when you stumbled. He guided you through the crowd, thankful that corner they'd been sitting in was dark enough that nobody noticed them.

When he spotted Giancarlo by the stairs talking to Aaron, Ben called out, "Stanton, hey!"

Giancarlo turned at the sound of his name, his brows immediately knitting when he saw you clinging to Ben.

"She okay?" Giancarlo asked.

"Yeah, just had a little too much," Ben explained, keeping his tone casual. "Figured I'd bring her to you."

Giancarlo nodded, stepping forward. "Thanks, man. Appreciate it. C'mon, Pipsqueak. Let's go home."

But before Ben could pass you to Giancarlo, you leaned into him, nose pressed into his neck, and he tried not to shiver when he felt your lips on his skin. His eyes darted to Aaron, who looked incredibly amused, and then to Giancarlo, who just looked confused.

"Ok, time to go," Ben said softly, passing you to your brother.

"Bye Benny," you drawled.

Giancarlo's eyes narrowed in suspicion and Ben smiled nervously, his hand moving up to scratch the back of his neck, which was turning bright red.

Eventually, Giancarlo nodded. "Thanks again, Rice," he said before steering you toward the front door.

Ben watched you two go for a moment, eyes locked on you, until Aaron cleared his throat. Ben snapped out of his daze, and his eyes snapped to the Captain.

"You've got a little..." Aaron trailed off, motioning toward his mouth with a knowing grin.

Ben's eyes widened as he rubbed his mouth, and sure enough, his thumb came back with a faint red. A shade of red that happened to be identical to the lipstick you were wearing.

"Shut up," Ben muttered, heat quickly crawling up his neck.

Aaron just laughed, clapping a hand to the younger man's shoulder. "Your secret's safe with my, buddy."

He changed the subject, and Ben nodded like he was listening, but his mind was elsewhere—back in that dark corner of the room, back in the heat of the moment with you on his lap, your lips brushing against his.

Ben swallowed hard, the memory sending a jolt straight through him. His heart hammered in his chest, and every nerve seemed alive with electricity. He knew what had almost happened wasn’t just a fleeting mistake—it was something more dangerous, more real.

He tried to forget about it—he really did—but even hours later, after he said his goodbyes, headed home, and went to bed, his thoughts kept drifting back to you. The way you looked, the warmth of your touch—it was impossible to forget.

The next time he saw you, he promised himself, he'd keep his distance.

But deep down, he knew this was only the beginning.

𝜗𝜚 — NOTES FROM LOTTIE !

trent grisham might be my favorite yankee of all time i love my nonchalant king

and my right fielder giancarlo stanton??????? love that guy give him a gold glove immediately

MAY 30TH, 2025

5.0 innings.

3 strikeouts.

8 hits.

6 earned runs.

An ERA that ballooned from 1.29 to 1.92.

Flat. Unfocused. Frustrating. Embarrassing.

A disgraceful performance as an ace.

But worse than the boos or the headlines or the replay loops that refused to die—was what came after.

Carlos.

It wasn’t even that bad, really.

Just Carlos, standing under those brutal fluorescent lights, answering a few harmless questions about his next start. Routine. Expected.

But Max watched from the tunnel—still in her undershirt, hair damp, jaw locked—and saw something different.

Saw the way Carlos smiled, easy and relaxed. Saw how he leaned a little closer to the reporter when she laughed at something he said. Saw her hand graze his forearm like it belonged there.

And worst of all?

Carlos let it happen.

He didn’t step back. Didn’t shake her hand off. Didn’t glance around to see if Max was watching.

Just kept talking, kept smiling. Oblivious. Comfortable.

Flirting.

At least, that’s how it looked to Max.

And after five innings of getting lit up on the mound, of trying not to crumble every time Boone walked past, of hearing her name dragged by broadcasters who just last week called her the best arm in the league—Max didn’t need to see that.

Didn’t need to feel invisible.

Didn’t need to feel like a failure and a fool, all in the same goddamn hour.

She sat low on the bench, legs stretched long in front of her, cleats still caked in dirt. Her cap was pulled down just enough to shadow her eyes, though anyone who looked close enough would see the storm brewing beneath.

The dugout was mostly empty now—players scattered, coaches inside, game winding down. She didn’t want to be around them anyway. Not after that outing. Not when everything still itched beneath her skin.

So she sat alone.

Until she wasn’t.

Carlos dropped down beside her, shoulder brushing hers casually like everything was normal. Like she hadn’t just melted down in front of the world.

He shook a bag of sunflower seeds at her. “Want some?”

She didn’t look at him. “No.”

He tried again, voice lighter, teasing. “You still mad your ERA’s higher than mine now?”

Silence.

Then, without turning, she muttered, “Shut up.”

Carlos blinked, a little thrown. “Okay, damn. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Max.”

She finally turned, jaw tight. “I said I don’t wanna talk about it.”

He studied her for a second, his teasing fading. Her arms were crossed tight over her chest, jaw clenched, lips pressed into a hard line. She didn’t look at him—she looked at the field, but she wasn’t seeing it.

He leaned back a little, trying to stay calm. “You’re pissed at me.”

“No, I’m pissed at me.” she snapped, before closing her eyes and correcting herself. “And also you.”

“The hell did I do?”

Max didn’t answer right away. Her fingers pulled at the edge of the bench, knuckles white, chest rising and falling too fast.

Carlos stared at her profile—flushed, exhausted, clearly holding something back—and tried to figure out where this flipped.

But she just kept her eyes ahead, jaw working, and didn’t say another word.

Carlos didn’t get it.

He sat there like nothing had happened, casually spitting sunflower seed shells into the cup between his feet, eyes flicking between the game and the scoreboard.

Like she wasn’t falling apart right next to him.

“Could’ve gone either way if the bullpen held,” he muttered, not really to her, more to the air. “Dodgers got lucky. Couple bloops, that double—bullshit inning, honestly.”

Max didn’t respond.

He kept going.

“Boone pulled you too early, anyway. You’d have settled. That fifth run was soft—”

“Carlos.”

He didn’t even look at her. “Just saying. You’re allowed one bad game, Max. It’s not the end of the world.”

Her breath caught. That was it. That was the moment.

Not the stats, not the flirtation, not the failure. That sentence. That stupid, casual shrug of a sentence.

She stood.

He looked up, confused. “Where are you going?”

“I said I didn’t wanna talk about it.”

“Jesus, Max—”

“No, really, Carlos,” she cut in, stepping past him. “Thanks for the pep talk. Very insightful. Maybe you can save the rest for your new friend next time.”

That made him freeze.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Max didn’t even break stride. “Whatever you think it does.”

Carlos blinked. “Max Dorian, sit your ass back down.”

But she was already down the steps, disappearing into the tunnel like she hadn’t heard him—or worse, like she had and just didn’t care.

He sat there for a second, stunned. A low murmur from the field filled the space she left behind, but it sounded far away. His jaw ticked, hands clenched around the seed bag, crushed now in his fist.

He didn’t even know if she was mad about the game anymore. Or the media. Or him.

All he knew was that she was mad—and walking away from him.

And that part? That pissed him off the most.

The hotel bathroom light buzzed softly above her, casting a warm, too-yellow glow over the counter as Max gently patted her face dry. The towel was rough against her skin, and her short hair was damp near the roots from where she’d splashed too much water during her rinse.

She looked at herself in the mirror for a second. Eyes tired, cheeks blotchy. Not from crying—she hadn’t let herself—but from the heat still simmering under her skin. The kind of heat that came from holding too much in for too long.

She tossed the towel on the counter and stepped out, bare feet quiet against the carpet as she crossed toward her bag, tugging the waistband of her sweats higher on her hips. One of the shirts she’d stolen from Carlos was draped loose over her frame—soft from too many washes, faded lettering across the chest. She wore it without thinking. Maybe that annoyed her more.

Then—click.

The door opened.

Max turned just slightly, just enough to see him step in.

Carlos.

Still in his hoodie, cap turned backwards, eyes sharp from the hallway’s fluorescent lighting—but quiet, too. Watching her.

She didn’t say a word.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t flinch.

Just grabbed a charger off the dresser and walked back toward the nightstand like he wasn’t even there.

And Carlos? He didn’t speak either. Not yet.

The silence between them was loud enough already.

Carlos let the door close behind him with a soft thud. He didn’t move from where he stood—just watched her walk away from him again, like she hadn’t already done enough of that today.

His jaw tensed. Hands shoved in his pockets. “The hell is your problem?”

Max plugged in the charger, her back still to him. “Funny hearing that from you.”

His brows lifted, tone sharper now. “What the hell does that mean?”

She turned just slightly, enough that he could see the side of her face. Her jaw was clenched, eyes darker than usual. “You were practically leaning on her.”

Carlos blinked. “Who?”

“Oh, come on,” she muttered, finally facing him fully. “The reporter. Blonde. With the flirty voice and the notebook you couldn’t stop looking at.”

“You’re serious?” He laughed, short and disbelieving. “She was asking about my slider, Max.”

Max cocked her head, eyes narrowed. “Yeah? Bet she was gonna ask if you could slip between her legs in her hotel bed too.”

Carlos froze.

Just for a second. A pause sharp enough to cut through the space between them.

Then he scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

She didn’t back down. “I saw the way she looked at you.”

“And I didn’t look back.”

“Oh, you looked,” she snapped. “You smiled. You fucking flirted, Carlos.”

Carlos stepped in closer now, voice lower, rougher. “You’re acting like I wanted her. Like I’ve ever made you doubt what the fuck you mean to me.”

Max looked up at him, eyes glinting but not soft. Her lips pressed together, holding in whatever she wanted to scream—or sob.

And then she turned away.

Carlos cocked his head, eyes narrowing. “Max.”

“No,” she said quickly, brushing past him, heading toward the dresser. Her voice shook, but her hands didn’t. She opened a drawer, grabbed a brush she didn’t need. “Don’t.”

He stared at her back. “Max.”

She shook her head harder this time, shoulders tense as she tried to look busy, to be busy. Like brushing her already-dry hair would erase how badly she wanted to break.

Carlos didn’t let her keep pretending. He gently tugged her wrist until she turned to face him.

His eyes moved over her face—slow, careful, searching like he was trying to read the truth under her skin. The stubborn line of her jaw. The red tint around her eyes. The way she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

Max didn’t answer. Just shook her head again, teeth pressing into her bottom lip to hold back whatever it was she didn’t want to admit.

Carlos reached up, fingers brushing her chin. He tilted it up, coaxing her to look at him. To see him.

His voice dropped, gentler this time. “Baby. Tell me.”

She opened her mouth, lips parting like the words were there—on the tip of her tongue, right behind her teeth—but all that came out was a shaky gasp. It cracked in her throat, sharp and unfinished, and she cut herself off with another shake of her head.

Carlos’s eyes softened. “Bug.”

She shook her head harder, chest rising in a short, uneven breath before both hands came up to cover her face. Palms pressed against her cheeks like maybe she could push the tears back in. Maybe she could hide from the way it all felt too much—the game, the pressure, him smiling at someone else.

Carlos didn’t move for a second. Just watched her, something thick building behind his ribs.

Then he stepped in and wrapped his arms around her—tight. No questions. Just quiet, solid warmth. His chin pressed to the top of her head, one hand rubbing slow over her back.

“I got you,” he murmured into her hair. “You hear me? I got you.”

“I did bad,” she whispered, barely loud enough to hear against his chest. Her fingers fisted into the front of his shirt, like admitting it made everything cave in all at once.

Carlos exhaled slowly, the kind that hurt because he hated hearing her like this. He dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the top of hers—firm, grounding.

“No, you had a bad night,” he said against her hair. “That’s different.”

She didn’t answer, just stayed there, clutching him like she didn’t know what else to hold on to.

Carlos tightened his arms around her. “You're still my ace. Still the one I’d trust with the ball every single time.”

Her breath hitched. He kissed her again—top of her head, temple, her hairline.

“And you’re still my girl. No stat line changes that.”

She finally looked up at him, eyes glassy and tired and aching in a way that made his chest hurt. Carlos cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing along her jaw like she might break if he wasn’t careful. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead, slow and steady.

“I did bad,” she repeated, smaller this time, like saying it again might make him believe it.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t let go.

Instead, he dropped his forehead to hers and said quietly, “Then we have a bad day. That’s all it is, Max. One day.”

She blinked, lips parting, but he kissed the corner of her mouth before she could speak.

“Doesn’t mean you stop being great. Doesn’t mean I stop being proud of you.”

She sniffled, barely holding it together, and Carlos leaned in closer—so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek.

His voice dropped to a murmur. “That reporter? She could’ve asked me to crawl into her lap and I wouldn’t have noticed.”

Max let out a soft, shaky laugh through her nose, but he didn’t stop.

“I wasn’t flirting. I was talking about my next start. Thinking about you the whole time. About how pissed you'd be if I said something dumb on camera.”

She looked down, and he nudged his nose gently against hers until she met his eyes again.

“I’m not looking at anyone else, Bug. You’re it for me. Even when you're pissed. Even when you think you did bad.”

More tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them, silent and hot, and Carlos brushed them away with the backs of his fingers.

“Okay?” he asked gently, eyes searching hers.

She nodded, barely—but it wasn’t enough for him.

He leaned down into her view, dipping his head until their foreheads almost touched, his voice even softer this time. “Okay?”

Max swallowed hard and whispered, “Okay.” She nodded again, slower this time, more certain.

Carlos exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the entire time. “Okay,” he repeated, wrapping his arms around her again and pulling her in. “We’re okay.”

She sank into his chest without hesitation this time, hands fisting in the fabric at his waist, holding on like he was home.

Because he was.

Carlos pressed a long, steady kiss to the side of her head, his lips lingering like he didn’t want to let go. She pulled back just enough to see his face, eyes still glassy, lashes damp.

He nodded toward the door, voice low. “C’mon.”

Max blinked. “Where are we going?”

He reached for her hand, fingers lacing with hers as he turned toward the door. “My room,” he said simply. “You’re not sleeping alone tonight.”

Max’s fingers twitched in his, her voice small as she followed half a step behind. “You don’t have to—”

Carlos stopped walking. Turned.

“I want to,” he said, cutting her off before she could finish the sentence. His voice didn’t rise—it didn’t have to. It was firm. Solid. Like the point wasn’t up for debate.

Her mouth opened again, just barely, but he gave her hand a gentle tug and said, quieter this time, “Let me take care of you tonight, Bug.”

She didn’t say anything after that.

Didn’t argue. Didn’t pull away. Just nodded—barely—and let him lead her down the quiet hallway. Her steps were slower than his, but he adjusted for her without a word, still holding her hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the ground.

When they got to his room, he unlocked the door with one hand, the other never letting go of hers. He pushed it open and stepped aside so she could walk in first.

She did, slowly, eyes scanning the familiar space like it might look different tonight. Maybe it did. It felt quieter—lights low, curtains drawn, the kind of silence that felt like a blanket.

Carlos let go of her hand only to shut the door behind them, then turned and nodded toward the bed. “Lay down, yeah? I’ll be there in a sec.”

Max hovered at the edge of the bed, watching him as he reached for the hem of his shirt and peeled it off in one fluid motion. His back flexed with the movement—shoulders broad, muscles shifting under smooth, tan skin like a living sculpture.

Carlos caught her staring in the mirror.

“You like the view?” he asked over his shoulder, smirking just enough to make her want to throw something.

Max rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched. “God, I hate you.”

He turned, dropped the shirt onto a chair, and grinned. “Sure you do, Bug.”

Max huffed and folded her arms, even as her eyes betrayed her, lingering a little too long on the curve of his bicep as he moved.

“I do,” she said, chin lifted. “I hate how cocky you are.”

“Mhm.”

“I hate that you smirk like that when you know I’m looking.”

“Mhm.”

“I hate your stupid back muscles.”

“Mhm.”

“I hate how good you smell after games, even when you’re sweaty. It’s disgusting.”

Carlos raised a brow, walking over to her slow, deliberate. “Mhm.”

“I hate your dumb little man bun.”

He leaned down until their noses nearly touched. “That’s five, Bug.”

She blinked.

He grinned. “You got any more or are you just gonna keep listing things that turn you on?”

She rolled her eyes and shoved at his chest, just hard enough to make him grin wider.

“Asshole,” she muttered, then turned and flopped back onto the bed, arms splayed, short hair fanning out against the pillow.

Carlos stood over her for a second, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the way she settled like the weight of the day had finally let go.

“You done bein’ dramatic?” he asked, toeing off his socks.

“Five earned runs and my boyfriend flirting with a blonde? Let me process,” she deadpanned, eyes closed.

He chuckled low, climbed in beside her, and tugged her close by the waist. “Still stuck on that, huh?”

“I hate you,” she mumbled into his chest.

“Mhm,” he whispered, kissing her hair. “Add that to the list.”

She shifted, tucking herself in closer, her cheek resting on the thick curve of his bicep like it belonged there. One of her legs tangled loosely with his, fingertips lazily picking at her nails as silence stretched between them.

Carlos ran his hand up and down her spine in slow, steady motions, thumb brushing over the hem of her shirt every few seconds.

“You good?” he asked after a beat, voice low in the dark.

Max gave a half-nod, still focused on the edge of her thumbnail. “I just… hate feeling like that.”

“Jealous?” he asked, teasing a little.

She looked up at him, eyes steady even in the low light. “No. Small.”

That made him pause. His hand stilled against her back. “Bug…”

“It’s dumb,” she added quickly. “I know it’s dumb. I was just mad and tired and—”

He tilted her chin up gently, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. “It’s not dumb if it got to you.”

She blinked, then looked down again, picking at her cuticle. “Still feel like I pitched like shit.”

“You did,” he said bluntly, earning a weak snort from her.

“Thanks.”

“But you’re still mine,” he added, dropping a kiss to her temple. “Even when you give up six runs and ice me out for hours.”

She sighed, finally relaxing against him. “You’re such a dick.”

“Mhm.”

She stopped picking at her nails just long enough to curl her fingers around his wrist and hold it there against her waist. “But you’re my dick.”

“Exactly.”

Max snorted, low and reluctant, the sound muffled into his bicep. She glanced up at him, nose wrinkled just a little, her eyes still a little puffy from earlier but softer now.

“You’re so proud of yourself for that one, huh?” she murmured.

Carlos didn’t even try to hide his grin. “Absolutely.”

She shook her head and exhaled, quiet and amused, the tension finally ebbing from her shoulders. Her fingers drummed lightly on his wrist where she still held it against her waist, gaze flicking to his face and back down again like she didn’t want to admit how good it felt to be here.

“Was I really that bad?” she asked, voice small again, but not broken. Just curious.

He leaned in, brushing his nose along her hairline. “Nah. You just weren’t perfect. That’s allowed.”

Her fingertip brushed over the steady beat at his pulse point, a soft, idle touch that made Carlos’s skin twitch beneath it. She hummed, low in her throat, eyes searching his face like she was still trying to figure him out—even now.

When she finally looked up at him, her chin resting on his bicep, her lashes casting shadows beneath her eyes, he was already watching her.

“I love you,” he said, like it was easy. Like it wasn’t the first time. Like it didn’t make something in her chest crack open a little wider.

Max blinked. Once. Twice.

Then her fingers stilled over his pulse, and her voice came quieter than before, barely above a whisper. “Say it again.”

Carlos didn’t even hesitate. He leaned in, lips brushing her hairline once more.

“I love you.”

She didn’t move at first. Just kept her eyes on him, like hearing it twice wasn’t enough to believe it.

Her throat worked around a swallow. “Even after tonight?”

Carlos’s brow furrowed, just barely. He shifted, rolling slightly so she was more tucked into him, his hand coming up to rest at the back of her neck.

“Especially after tonight,” he murmured. “You think I only love you when you’re perfect?”

"Yankee fans only do."

Carlos went still.

For a second, all he did was breathe—slow, deep, like he was trying to keep something sharp from slipping out. His thumb traced a slow circle against the back of her neck, grounding himself more than her.

“Yankee fans don’t sleep next to you,” he said quietly. “They don’t hold your hair when you throw up from nerves, or rub your knees after flights, or learn your tells like second nature.”

Max looked away, the corner of her mouth twitching like she wanted to speak but didn’t trust herself to.

“They love what you do,” he continued, voice low but firm. “I love you.”

Her breath hitched. Not from surprise, but from how steady he sounded—like he meant it more now than before, like he needed her to hear it when she couldn’t believe it for herself.

“You hear me, Bug?” he asked, finally tilting her chin so she’d meet his eyes again. “You’re more than the fucking stat line. More than a bad night. And if the fans forget that—I won’t.”

Her eyes shimmered, wide and dark and glassy. She nodded before she could speak, pressing her lips together.

And when she finally found her voice, it cracked just slightly. “Okay.”

Carlos tilted his head, eyes searching hers. “Okay?”

Max nodded, a little stronger this time. “Okay.”

He didn’t wait another beat. “C’mere,” he murmured, arms pulling her in tight.

Her face tucked into his chest easily, like muscle memory. His hand settled on her back, rubbing slow, steady circles between her shoulder blades. Soothing. Anchoring.

He kissed the top of her head—soft, lingering—and let his eyes fall shut.

Like holding her was the only thing that made sense tonight.

i need to be put down uvhwjfwkajfnwrfnrwekjv

ok anyways im active on here for 2 days then disappearing because fuckass wattpad suspended me for NOTHING. hope you enjoyed :3