xoxo

The news of his season-ending injury had hit him like a ton of bricks. You had seen him in pain before, but this was different.

His eyes were filled with a sadness that went beyond physical discomfort. He had worked so hard, dreamed so big, and now, it was all on hold.

The doctors had been clear: he needed time to recover, and pushing himself would only make things worse.

When you finally get the chance to visit Victor at his home after weeks of his rigorous rehabilitation, the transformation is palpable. His once-spacious living room has been transformed into a miniature training facility. The floor is lined with exercise mats and dotted with medical equipment, the walls adorned with motivational posters and detailed workout schedules. His towering frame is a constant reminder of the dominance he once had on the court, but now, he's surrounded by a team of coaches and physical therapists who are working tirelessly to help him regain his former glory.

Victor's stubbornness is a double-edged sword. On one hand, it's what has made him the formidable player he is, pushing through every obstacle with unrelenting determination. On the other, it's what got him here in the first place.

He's always been the one to ignore the niggling pains and the warning signs, the one who refused to take a break when his body begged for it. And now, as he's told to rest and let his body heal, he's chafing against the very concept of taking it slow.

Every day is a battle between his desire to be out there playing and the cold, hard reality of his situation.

It's during one of these battles, when Victor's frustration is palpable and his physical therapist can see the stress etched into his face, that the suggestion is made.

"You know, Victor," he says gently.

"Sometimes the best thing for the body is to get away from it all. Take a vacation, clear your mind. It could do wonders for your recovery."

The thought of stepping away from the game, even if only for a short time, was foreign to him. But he had to admit, the constant pressure of rehab was starting to wear on him. Perhaps a change of scenery was exactly what he needed to reset his focus and come back stronger than ever. Plus, the idea of escaping the never-ending cycle of pain and progress charts was incredibly appealing.

The conversation with his therapist planted a seed of hope that grew with each passing day.

Victor's mind began to wander, conjuring images of tranquil forests and serene mountain landscapes—and you.

The warmth in the sunlight filtering through the trees, the quiet breath of the wind that whispered your name, the beauty that made every place feel like home. No matter how far his thoughts drifted, they always found their way back to you.

He hadn't had a real break in years. His life had been consumed by the sport he loved, and the prospect of stepping away from it all was both terrifying and exhilarating.

He knew that if he was going to recover, he had to find a way to balance his fierce dedication with the necessary patience.

With a spark of excitement in his eyes that you hadn't seen in weeks. And so, you found yourself seated on Victor's passenger seat, the wind whipping through the open window, your hair dancing with the air. The car was packed with the essentials for an impromptu road trip—snacks, blankets, and a playlist that mirrored the anticipation coursing through your veins.

You had never seen Victor so relaxed, his face unburdened by the weight of his injury. His laughter filled the car as you played his favorite childhood games and sang along to songs that held a special place in his heart. It was as if the miles between you and the city were also erasing the months of pain and doubt.

As he drove down the winding road, you couldn't help but ask him,

"You sure this is a good idea?"

His response was swift and confident,

"Yes, I need this. We both do."

He had a point.

The stress of his injury had not only affected him but had also touched the lives of those who cared about him.

This was your chance to heal together, to rediscover the joy that had been overshadowed by the relentless pursuit of athletic perfection.

As you walked down the soft green grass towards the lake, the gentle slope of the land made your heart race with excitement. The warmth of Victor's hand in yours was a comforting reminder of the support you had for each other. His eyes, which had been so often clouded with pain and doubt, were now clear and filled with wonder. The breeze played with the fabric of your dress, making it flutter around your legs like a second skin. It was a moment of pure, unfiltered beauty, a stark contrast to the sterile confines of the rehabilitation center you had both become so accustomed to.

It was the perfect place to escape from the noise and expectations of the city.

You had never seen such a serene view.

The water was a mirror reflecting the azure sky, and the surrounding greenery was alive with the whispers of the wind. It was a place where time seemed to slow down, inviting you to breathe in the moment and let go of the past.

You both spotted the perfect spot, a small clearing that offered a picturesque view of the water. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm glow over the scene. You hurried to spread out the blanket, eager to lay the foundation for the afternoon's adventure. But Victor, still unaccustomed to moving with such care, fumbled with the corners, his long limbs not quite coordinating with the task at hand. You couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing over the water. Even in his clumsiness, there was something endearing about watching him try. He shot you a playful glare, but his smile gave him away, and soon you were both doubled over with laughter, the blanket lying askew between you.

The afternoon was filled with laughter and playful moments as you both joked and enjoyed each other's company by the lake.

Victor, ever the competitor, decided to go fishing. You watched with a mix of admiration and amusement as he tried to fit his large frame into the tiny rowboat, rocking it precariously from side to side before finally settling down with a dramatic sigh. His patience paid off, and before long, he was reeling in a decent-sized fish. As he brought it to shore, his eyes sparkled with mischief, and without warning, he flung it in your direction. You screamed, more from surprise than fear, as the fish flopped onto the grass at your feet. Victor's deep, hearty laugh filled the air, and you couldn't help but join in, the absurdity of the situation breaking down any barriers that had remained between you.

Once the laughter subsided, you both set down on the blanket. He leaned back against the sturdy trunk of a tree, his long legs stretching out in front of him, while you rested your head on his lap. He pulled out one of his favorite books, the one with the worn leather cover and pages that smelled faintly of dust and adventure.

The sound of Victor's calm breathing that truly drew you in. It was rhythmic and soothing, a gentle reminder of his presence. His hands, those hands that had swatted away countless shots and dunked so many balls, were now tenderly resting on your shoulders, protecting the delicate fabric of your dress from the cool afternoon breeze that danced around you. Every so often, he would adjust the material, ensuring that it didn't get tangled in the grass or blow away with the wind.

Breaking the quiet, you turned to look at him, his profile outlined against the backdrop of the setting sun. His eyes lost in the words of the book he held open. You reached up, placing your hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. It was a comforting reminder that even though his body was broken, the spirit that had driven him to great heights was still intact.

"Vic," you said gently, "Why don't you come lay beside me?"

He looked down at you, the corners of his mouth turning up in a warm smile. With a sigh, he closed the book and laid it aside, using it as a pillow for his head. His arms, which had been folded behind his neck, now stretched out to either side of you, creating a shelter of sorts.

"Better?" he asked, and you nodded, snuggling closer.

The fabric of his shirt was soft against your cheek, and you could feel the warmth of his skin even through the barrier. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes about the trust and comfort you shared.

For a while, you lay there, watching the play of light on the water and listening to the symphony of the lake. Frogs croaked in the distance, and the occasional fish jumped out of the water, leaving a perfect circle of ripples in its wake. Victor's breathing grew deeper, and you felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

But the peace couldn't last forever. The conversation that had been hovering on the periphery of your minds finally made its way to the surface. You propped yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him.

"What happens now?" you asked softly, breaking the tranquil silence.

"What will the rest of the season look like for you?"

Victor's smile faded, and he took a deep, contemplative breath.

"I've been thinking about that," he began, his voice gravelly with the weight of his thoughts.

You sat up, looking at him with a mix of concern and curiosity.

"And?"

He took a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking, his eyes still on the horizon.

"And I think... I think it's time for me to accept that I need this break. Not just for my body, but for my soul."

He turned to face you, his gaze meeting yours.

"I've been so focused on basketball, on being the best, that I've lost sight of why I started playing in the first place. This injury is a wake-up call, a chance for me to remember what truly matters."

You nodded, understanding the gravity of his words.

"What do you miss the most?"

Victor took a moment to ponder before answering.

"The rush of adrenaline before a big game, the roar of the crowd when I make a play," he said, his eyes lighting up briefly before dimming again.

"But more than that, I miss the simplicity of it all—just me, the ball, and the hoop."

You couldn't help but smile at the nostalgia in his voice.

The air grew cooler, but the warmth of Victor's body kept you snug.

"You know, ma chérie..."

He reached out, his hand finding yours, and entwined your fingers together.

"I really appreciate you being here with me," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"This whole situation has been so... overwhelming, and having you by my side has made all the difference."

With your hands intertwined, you leaned forward just enough to feel each other's breath, a silent conversation passing between you. His breath was warm and comforting, a stark contrast to the crisp afternoon air.

"I'm always here for you," you assured him, squeezing his hand gently.

But he leaned his head expecting for a kiss. The gesture took you by surprise, but you felt a warmth spread through your chest. It was a moment of vulnerability, a silent plea for reassurance that you didn't need to think twice about fulfilling.

You leaned in, closing the distance between you, and pressed your lips to his. It was a soft kiss, tender and filled with all the unspoken words you hadn't yet found the courage to say. It was a kiss that whispered of comfort, of hope, and of the unwavering belief that he would overcome this setback.

Victor's arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, his hand that were holding yours now slowly moving to your hips. The shift was subtle, but it sent a ripple of awareness through your body. You could feel the strength in his grip, a strength that had been the foundation of his success on the court, now transferred to hold you in this moment of quiet intimacy.

It was a gentle reminder that even though he was broken in some ways, he was still the same person you had always loved. Still the person you knew would come back from this, stronger than ever.

Breaking the kiss, you looked into his eyes, now dark with a mix of emotion and longing. His breath was hot against your cheek, his chest rising and falling rapidly. And you smiled, a soft, knowing smile that conveyed all the love and support you had for him. It was a smile that said you understood the journey he was on and that you were ready to walk it with him, every step of the way.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted softly when you finally picked up on the third ring. “I just touched down. I’m about to head your way.”

“I’m watching film, Dev. I can’t really talk long,” you replied, your voice flat, stripped of its usual melodic rhythm.

“Watching film? Again?” Devin’s brow furrowed, his voice trailing off into a quiet, concerned hum. “You were watching film this morning before practice, beautiful.”

“I’m just trying to be thorough,” you answered, though the edge in your voice suggested you were more frustrated with your team's record than the footage being difficult to parse.

The line went silent for a brief moment as you released a long, heavy sigh, muttering something he couldn’t quite catch about screen-spacing. It wasn’t a secret that the Mercury were not having a season that you were proud of. You frequently vented to him the frustration you felt that your personal success wasn’t translating to success for the team. No one in their right mind would blame you for the 10th place standing; two places short of a playoffs spot if the season were ending today. But Devin knew you chose to shoulder the responsibility of the entire franchise on your shoulders, a burden that often turned you into a hollower version of yourself.

“You good with me coming over still?” Devin asked, making sure you were still in a mood to see him.

“I’m fine,” you replied, your voice sounding distant, as if you were already halfway back into the screen. “Just… yeah. Whatever you want.”

Devin didn’t bother with another phone call to confirm your mood once he parked in your garage 45 minutes later, the silence radiating from the house combined with a lack of light was enough of an answer. He let himself in with his spare key, the interior of the home dim and smelling faintly of incense left burning in some part of the house. He found you in the office with the only light coming from the massive monitor casting a clinical, blue glow over your face. You were swallowed by an oversized black hoodie, the hood pulled up over your head with your eyes locked onto a freeze-frame of a defensive rotation that you had probably analyzed a thousand times.

“You gotta press the play button for the film to work, beautiful,” Devin said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble in the quiet of the room.

You didn’t startle, didn’t even tense your posture, you simply blinked, your eyes slowly shifting from the screen to the man approaching from the doorway. You didn’t move to hug him, barely even leaning in for a kiss he placed on your forehead, his hand cradling your cheek before he pulled your head to rest against his abdomen. Your focus was already drifting back to the screen, your thumbs fiddling with the controls on the black game controller you used to scrub through the footage.

“Hey,” you whispered hoarsely, not acknowledging the fun he poked at you immediately upon entering the office.

But Devin didn’t push. He stepped back and sank into one of the plush, cream-colored couches that lined the perimeter of the office, stretching his long legs out across the rug. He watched you for a few minutes, hearing the repetitive click, click, click of the controller and the rhythmic squeak of sneakers on a hardwood court emanating from the monitor. He tried a few conversational hooks: he asked about the weekly call you had this morning with your parents, mentioned the new wrap on your car that you told him you were considering, and made a light comment about how Toronto was more interesting than he remembered it being. You answered in one-word syllables, your mind clearly far away.

As the minutes ticked by, Devin noticed something that made him narrow his eyes. The footage on the screen shifted every so often, and after a few scrubs he recognized the play. It was a clip from a game against the Lynx three weeks ago. It was the same clip you had been playing over and over the last time he’d visited before his trip. Sure, this particular clip was an example of some of your biggest problems defensively, but the fact that you were still circling the same drain days later told him you weren’t just analyzing film anymore. This was beyond that.

Devin stood up, crossing the 20 feet between you in a handful of steps. He didn’t say a word until he was directly behind you. He leaned over you, his palms pressed flat against the desk on either side of you.

“The play is a wash, baby,” he murmured, his voice vibrating against the shell of your ear. “You’ve analyzed this rotation a million times. You’ve seen the mistakes in judgement. Watching it one more time isn't going to make them play it differently three weeks ago. You can’t take that game back.”

You sighed, chewing your bottom lip, and for a moment, you resisted. You tried to scrub the footage one more time, your thumb hovering over the controller, but Devin didn’t give you the chance. He reached around you, his large hand covering yours on the controller and gently pressing the power button. The blue light vanished, plunging the room into a heavy, sudden darkness that forced you to actually look at him.

“Devin,” you protested, though your objection lacked any sharpness.

“No more film tonight,” Devin decided, his voice shifting into a quiet, authoritative tone. He shifted one hand from the desk to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. “You have food prepped in the fridge, right?”

“Yes,” you affirmed with a nod. You leaned back into your chair, your head tilting back until you could see his face. For the first time in hours, the frantic loop of missed shots and failed defensive stances in your mind slowed down.

“Good. Now, do me a favor,” Devin said, his voice returning to that lazy, honeyed drawl you loved. “Go take a shower. Wash this stress off you and get out of that hoodie. By the time you come back down, I’ll have your dinner plated and waiting. Deal?”

You didn’t argue. The fight that had been propping you up for the last few weeks felt like a battery that had finally hit zero, leaving your limbs heavy and your mind suddenly quiet. You let out a long breath, and with a slow, reluctant movement, you stood up. Before you could walk away, he pulled you into him, his arms wrapping around your waist. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in.

“Just let it go for a few hours,” he whispered, his voice muffled against your skin. You leaned into him, your forehead resting against his chest for a fleeting moment of surrender. you gave a small, tired nod and finally let him steer you toward the stairs.

By the time you were showered, moisturized, and dressed in a set of matching silk pajamas, the heaviness on your mind had finally settled. As you descended the stairs, the distant clinking of silverware and the savory aroma of grilled salmon and asparagus drifted up to meet you, guiding you back into the living space.

You found Devin in the kitchen, leaning over the counter with a focused expression as he carefully plated your meal. He looked relaxed, his shirt tossed into the hamper in your bedroom in exchange for the white tank top exposing his broad shoulders which loosened as he sensed your presence. When you stepped into the kitchen, you walked straight into his back, wrapping your long arms around his waist and pressing your cheek against the center of his shoulder blades.

Devin let out a soft chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your cheek. “Look at that,” he murmured. “Got you all soft for me off a shower.”

“Can you just kiss me?” you muttered. “I didn’t get a kiss when you walked in.”

Devin turned in your arms, holding your face in his hands to find you pouting. He pecked your bottom lip once, then twice, before deepening the kiss into something slower. He stepped back just enough to let you breathe, but his hands didn’t leave you.

“I tried to kiss you but you had your hood up and shit. I had to tread lightly,” Devin smiled, his thumbs grazing the high points of your cheekbones. He leaned down, pressing another kiss to your nose before finding your lips a few more times. The touch was grounding, pulling you fully out of the mental wreckage of the season and back into the warmth of the present and this moment with him.

He stepped away just enough to guide you toward the living room, carrying your food in one hand and a tumbler full of cold water in the other. “I already poured you some water,” he directed you to sit gently, bringing you into his side once you were comfortable.

————————————————————————

The first thing Aaron heard was the sound of the arena going quiet.

Not completely quiet. Arenas never really went silent. There was always the squeak of shoes, the restless shifting of bodies, the faraway buzz of cameras and voices and security radios. But the roar that had been there seconds ago, the rise of the crowd as you drove hard toward the basket, disappeared so suddenly it felt like somebody had put the whole building underwater.

Aaron was on the bench when it happened.

His own game had ended less than an hour earlier, and he was supposed to be headed back to the hotel. The team bus was waiting. His phone was already full of texts from people congratulating him, asking him about dinner plans, sending highlights he had not looked at yet. But your playoff game was on the screen in the visitors’ lounge, and there had never been a version of him that could walk away while you were playing.

He had stood there with a towel around his neck, half changed out of his uniform, watching you do what you always did.

You were fearless in the lane.

That was the thing that made him fall in love with you in college, though he used to pretend it was the way you laughed at him when he took himself too seriously. You played like every inch of the court belonged to you if you wanted it badly enough. You were never the tallest, never the loudest, never the one people circled first on scouting reports until they learned better. But once you crossed half court, you had a way of making everyone understand.

You were here.

And then you were on the floor.

At first, Aaron’s brain refused to understand what his eyes were seeing. You had landed wrong before. You had rolled an ankle, taken charges, gotten elbowed, split your lip, dislocated a finger and popped it back in on the sideline like it was an inconvenience instead of a horror movie. You were tough in a way that made trainers nervous and coaches proud.

So when you went down, Aaron waited for you to do what you always did.

He waited for you to slap the hardwood in frustration. He waited for you to push yourself up, limp twice, wave everybody off, and ask for the ball on the next possession.

But you did not move.

You stayed curled on your side beneath the basket, one hand gripping your knee, your face turned toward the court so the camera could only catch the tightness in your jaw and the terrible stillness of your body.

Aaron stepped closer to the screen.

Someone in the room said, “Damn.”

His stomach dropped.

The broadcast cut to your teammates, then the coach, then back to you as the medical staff surrounded you. One of your teammates knelt near your head, talking to you, her hand shaking where it rested on your shoulder. Another player had both hands on top of her head, staring at the floor.

Aaron did not remember leaving the lounge.

He remembered a staff member calling after him. He remembered grabbing his bag from a chair. He remembered someone asking if he wanted a car, and him saying your name like that was an answer.

By the time he got to the arena, you were already in the medical room.

Your team’s security knew him. Everybody knew him as your boyfriend, though “boyfriend” had always felt too small for what he was to you. He had been the boy sitting beside you in a college cafeteria at ten at night, eating cereal out of a paper bowl while you iced both knees after practice. He had been the one rebounding for you in an empty gym, long after both of you should have gone home. He had been there when you got drafted, when you cried in the bathroom afterward because you were happy and scared and overwhelmed. He had been there for the apartment with no furniture, the rookie-year loneliness, the first bad road trip, the first real injury, the first time you admitted that being great did not always make you feel safe.

And still, when he reached the hallway outside the medical room, they made him wait.

He paced until his chest hurt.

He kept seeing you hit the floor. He kept seeing the way your hand clamped over your knee. He kept hearing that strange, awful quiet.

When the door finally opened, your coach came out first. Her face softened the second she saw him.

“She’s awake,” she said. “She’s asking for you.”

Aaron nodded once, but his legs felt heavy when he walked in.

You were on the exam table with a towel over your lap and an ice pack strapped around your knee. Your hair was messy from the game, damp around your temples. Your jersey was still on. Your eyes were red, but when you saw him, your mouth trembled like you were trying to be brave and were already tired of it.

“Hey,” you whispered.

That was all it took.

Aaron crossed the room and took your face in his hands, careful, so careful, like the rest of you might break if he touched you wrong. He kissed your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, then pressed his forehead to yours and breathed for what felt like the first time in twenty minutes.

“You scared me,” he said, voice low and rough.

“I scared me too.”

That made him close his eyes.

You tried to laugh, but it came out wrong. Thin. Wet. Like pain had wrapped itself around the sound and squeezed.

“The doctor said we need imaging,” you said. “They think it’s bad.”

Aaron pulled back just enough to look at you.

“How bad?”

You swallowed.

You were not crying yet, but he knew you. He knew the difference between you being calm and you holding yourself together with both hands.

“Bad enough that nobody wants to say anything until the MRI.”

Aaron’s jaw flexed. He looked down at your knee, then back at your face.

“Okay,” he said.

You stared at him. “That’s all?”

“That’s all for right now.”

“Aaron.”

“We don’t know everything yet.”

“I know my body.”

He did not argue with that. He could not. You knew your body better than anyone. You knew the difference between soreness and danger. You knew when something was off before trainers could find the words for it. You had built your whole life on listening to what your body could do.

And now, maybe, what it could not.

Aaron slid his hand into yours.

“Then we take it one thing at a time,” he said. “MRI. Doctors. Options. Whatever they say, we handle it.”

Your face crumpled.

“What if I can’t come back?”

He wanted to say you would. He wanted to say of course you would, because you were you, because you had always found a way, because the world did not get to take basketball from you when it was stitched into every version of your life that mattered.

But love had taught him not to lie to you just because he was scared.

So he squeezed your hand and said, “Then I’m still here.”

The first tear slipped down your cheek.

“That’s not the same.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know who I am if I’m not this.”

Aaron reached up and wiped the tear away with his thumb.

“You’re you.”

You shook your head. “That sounds nice, but you don’t get it.”

He was quiet for a second.

The younger version of him might have gotten defensive. He might have reminded you that he knew pressure, that he knew what it felt like to have people talk about your body like it was public property, to have a bad game become a headline, to be loved when you were useful and questioned when you were hurt. He might have tried to prove that he understood.

But this was not about him.

So he nodded.

“Maybe I don’t,” he said. “But I want to.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, and the tears came harder.

Aaron pulled you into him as carefully as he could. You buried your face in his chest, gripping the back of his hoodie with one hand like you were afraid he might disappear. His chin rested on top of your head while you cried, and he stared at the wall over your shoulder, trying to keep himself from falling apart before you had somewhere safe to land.

He had never hated basketball before.

Not once.

Not through the missed shots, the injuries, the criticism, the trades, the expectations, the exhaustion, the way the sport gave so much and still demanded more.

But that night, holding you while your whole body shook, Aaron hated the game a little.

Because it had been your first love.

And it had hurt you in a way he could not fix.

The diagnosis came two days later.

There were words for it. Medical words. Long, precise words that doctors used because they were trained to name disasters calmly. Ligament damage. Cartilage damage. Structural instability. Surgery. Rehab. Risk. Degeneration. Quality of life.

You sat very still in the appointment, your hand tucked beneath Aaron’s on the armrest between you.

When the doctor finally said retirement should be seriously considered, you did not cry.

You nodded.

Asked questions.

Clarified recovery timelines.

Listened to the risks.

Thanked the doctor when it was over.

Aaron knew better than to trust that calm.

In the car, you put your seatbelt on, folded your hands in your lap, and stared out the windshield. He did not start the engine right away.

“Baby,” he said gently.

“Don’t.”

He stopped.

Your lips pressed together. Your eyes stayed forward.

“If you ask me if I’m okay, I might scream.”

“I wasn’t going to ask that.”

“What were you going to ask?”

“If you wanted me to drive or sit here for a minute.”

Your throat moved.

Then, barely above a whisper, you said, “Sit here.”

So he did.

The parking garage was dim and gray, the kind of place where every sound echoed. Somewhere nearby, a car door slammed. An elevator dinged. Life kept going with the audacity of something that did not understand yours had stopped.

After a while, you said, “I did everything right.”

Aaron looked at you.

“I warmed up. I trained. I lifted. I recovered. I ate right. I listened to the staff. I didn’t skip rehab when my ankle was messed up. I didn’t rush back from my hamstring. I did everything right.”

“I know.”

“So why did this happen?”

His hand tightened around yours.

“I don’t know.”

You laughed once, sharp and empty.

“That’s the worst part. There’s no villain. Nobody pushed me. Nobody landed on me. Nobody did anything dirty. My body just gave out.”

“Your body didn’t give out.”

You turned to him then, anger flashing through the grief.

“Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are. You’re about to give me some inspirational speech about how strong I am and how my body carried me this far and all that. I don’t want to hear that right now.”

Aaron breathed in slowly.

“Okay.”

You looked away again.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry for being mad.”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“I know.”

“I’m mad that you get to keep playing.”

The words landed heavily between you.

For a second, you looked horrified that you had said them. You pulled your hand back and covered your face.

“I didn’t mean that.”

Aaron’s chest ached.

“Hey.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t want you to think I resent you.”

“I don’t.”

“But I do, a little.” Your voice broke. “And I hate myself for it.”

Aaron unbuckled his seatbelt and turned toward you fully.

“You don’t have to hate yourself for being hurt.”

“It’s ugly.”

“It’s honest.”

You shook your head, tears spilling now. “I love watching you play. I love that you get to live your dream. I’m proud of you. I swear I am. But then I think about sitting courtside in some outfit people are going to post online, and they’re going to call me supportive and strong, and I’m going to be smiling while you run up and down the court doing the one thing I can’t do anymore.”

Aaron said your name softly.

“And I don’t want to become just your girlfriend,” you said. “I don’t want to be a caption. I don’t want to be the sad former player people bring up during broadcasts when they talk about your support system.”

“You won’t be.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know I won’t let people reduce you to me.”

“That’s not entirely up to you.”

“No,” he admitted. “It’s not.”

The honesty of that made you cry harder.

Aaron leaned across the console and gathered you into his arms as best he could in the cramped front seat. It was awkward, and your brace got caught on the edge of the console, and you let out a frustrated sob that turned into a broken laugh. He kissed the side of your head and held you tighter.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to know today.”

“What if I’m mean?”

“Then we talk about it.”

“What if I push you away?”

“I’ll give you space, but I won’t disappear.”

“What if I’m not the person you fell in love with anymore?”

Aaron pulled back so you could see his face.

“You think I fell in love with you because of basketball?”

Your expression twisted. “Partly.”

“I admired you because of basketball,” he said. “I noticed you because you were talking trash to a six-foot-five senior during pickup and then cooked him on the next possession.”

Despite everything, your mouth softened.

“He fouled me.”

“He absolutely fouled you.”

“He was hacking.”

“He was fighting for his life.”

A small laugh slipped out of you, and Aaron’s heart squeezed around it.

He brushed his thumb along your cheek.

“I fell in love with you after that,” he said. “In the library when you fell asleep on your economics textbook and still somehow got a better grade than me. In the dining hall when you stole my fries and acted offended when I noticed. On the phone at two in the morning when you told me you were scared you weren’t good enough, and then the next day you dropped thirty-one like you were making a point to yourself.”

Your eyes filled again, but they were softer now.

“I fell in love with the person,” he said. “Not the stat line.”

You stared at him for a long time.

Then you whispered, “I don’t know how to find her without the stat line.”

Aaron kissed your forehead.

“Then we find her slowly.”

Retirement did not feel like peace.

That was the thing nobody understood at first.

The public announcement came three months after surgery. By then, the swelling had gone down. You were walking again, carefully. You could move through the house without Aaron hovering behind you like a nervous bodyguard, though he still appeared in doorways more often than necessary whenever you cursed under your breath.

Your agent helped craft the statement. Your team posted a tribute video. Fans flooded your comments with hearts and memories and clips of your biggest shots. Former teammates called. Reporters requested interviews. People wrote beautiful things about your career that made you feel both grateful and sick.

Everybody called you inspiring.

You wanted to throw your phone across the room.

Because inspiration did not change the fact that your sneakers were still by the door.

It did not change the fact that your body woke up at training time every morning, restless and confused. It did not change the calendar notifications for games you would never play. It did not change the way your hands shook when you opened the closet and saw rows of team gear hanging like evidence from another life.

Worst of all, it did not change the sound of a basketball.

That sound was everywhere.

On tv. In Aaron’s training videos. In commercials. In gyms. On sidewalks. Through open windows when kids played at the park. The steady bounce that used to feel like home now felt like a knock on a door you were not allowed to open.

Aaron noticed.

Of course he did.

He noticed when you left the room during games. He noticed when you muted highlights. He noticed when your face changed after commentators mentioned your name with that careful, reverent tone people used for tragedies that had already been packaged into stories.

He did not force you to talk.

That was both comforting and annoying.

Sometimes you wanted him to force it. Sometimes you wanted him to ask the question so you could explode and then blame him for lighting the match. But Aaron had become patient in a way that left too much room for you to hear your own thoughts.

One night, about six months after the injury, he came home from a game with a fresh bruise darkening near his shoulder and a quiet look on his face.

You were on the couch pretending to read.

The game had been on earlier. You had watched the first quarter, then turned it off when he caught a lob and the crowd erupted. It was beautiful. That was the problem. He was beautiful in motion, powerful and alive, his body doing exactly what he asked of it.

You hated that it hurt to see.

Aaron dropped his bag near the door and walked over to you.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

He leaned down to kiss you, and you kissed him back, but he did not move away afterward. He stayed there, studying your face.

“What?”

“Did you watch?”

“Some.”

He nodded.

“You played well.”

“Thank you.”

The silence stretched.

You looked back at your book. “I’m tired, Aaron.”

“I know.”

“Then please don’t.”

He sat beside you anyway.

You closed the book. “I said please.”

“I heard you.”

“And you’re ignoring me?”

“No. I’m sitting with you.”

You stared at him. “That sounds like ignoring me.”

“I’m not going to make you talk about the game.”

“Good.”

“But I am going to say this is getting hard.”

Your chest tightened.

“What is?”

“You disappearing from me every time basketball exists in the same room.”

The words stung because they were true.

“I’m trying.”

“I know you are.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Because it doesn’t sound like it.”

Aaron leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He rubbed his hands together once, searching for the right words.

“I know you’re hurting,” he said. “I know this is unfair. I know watching me play makes it worse sometimes. And I don’t need you to be at every game. I don’t need you smiling for cameras. I don’t need you pretending any of this is easy.”

“Then what do you need?”

He looked at you.

“I need you to stop punishing yourself for loving something you lost.”

Your throat closed.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You looked away.

Aaron’s voice stayed gentle. “You act like missing it means you’re not healing. Like being angry means you’re not grateful. Like not being ready to watch means you’re failing at being supportive.”

You blinked hard.

“And then you get mad at me before I can be mad at you,” he said. “But I’m not mad, baby.”

The book in your lap blurred.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” you said.

“Neither do I.”

That made you look at him.

He gave a small, sad smile.

“I know you think I have some answer because I’m still playing. But I don’t know how to love you through this perfectly. Sometimes I’m scared to tell you about my day because I don’t want to hurt you. Sometimes I come home excited about a win and then feel guilty before I even open the door. Sometimes I miss talking to you about basketball, and then I feel selfish because I know you miss more than talking about it.”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

Aaron reached for your hand.

“I don’t need perfect from you,” he said. “But I need in. I need us to be on the same team, even when the game is ugly.”

The tears came before you could stop them.

“I feel so left behind,” you whispered.

Aaron’s face changed.

There it was.

The truth underneath everything.

He moved closer, and this time you let him pull you against him. Your forehead pressed to his shoulder, right near the bruise, and when you realized, you tried to shift away.

He held you.

“It’s okay.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“I feel like everybody moved on except me. My team has new players. The league has new storylines. People posted about me for a week and then went back to arguing about playoff rankings. You still have practices and flights and games and film. And I’m here trying to figure out what to do with a Tuesday morning.”

Aaron’s hand moved slowly over your back.

“I went from having every day planned since I was ten years old to waking up and not knowing what the point is,” you said. “And I know that sounds dramatic.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“It sounds like grief.”

That broke something open in you.

You cried into his shirt until you were exhausted. Not pretty tears. Not cinematic tears. The kind that left your face hot and your head aching. Aaron held you through all of it, his cheek against your hair, his body firm and warm beside yours.

When the worst of it passed, you whispered, “I think I need help.”

His hand paused.

Then he kissed the top of your head.

“Okay.”

“I mean real help.”

“Okay.”

“Therapy, maybe. Or something.”

“We’ll find someone.”

“And I need to do something that’s mine.”

Aaron nodded.

“Not yours,” you said.

“I know.”

“Not attached to your schedule, your career, your team, your games.”

“I know.”

You pulled back to look at him.

“I love you.”

His eyes softened. “I love you too.”

“But I can’t become a passenger in your life because I’m scared to build mine.”

Aaron looked at you like you had just handed him something fragile and precious.

“Then build yours,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

It did not happen all at once.

Healing, you learned, was nothing like a training montage.

There was no clean sequence of early mornings, deep breaths, and inspirational music. There were appointments. Bad days. Good days that made the bad ones feel like betrayal when they returned. There were moments when you felt almost normal, then heard sneakers squeaking on a gym floor and had to sit in your car with both hands on the steering wheel until the wave passed.

You started therapy.

At first, you hated it.

You hated sitting across from someone who asked simple questions that somehow made you feel like you had been split open. You hated saying things out loud. You hated admitting that basketball had not just been your job, but your structure, your language, your proof that you existed in a way people respected.

But you kept going.

You started physical activity again too, slowly and with permission. Not training. Not punishment. Not an attempt to become who you had been. Just movement. Swimming. Pilates. Walks with Aaron when he was home. Some days, your knee ached. Some days, your pride did.

Aaron never made it a big thing.

That helped.

He did not cheer dramatically when you completed a workout or act like every step was a miracle. He just handed you water, walked beside you, made dinner when you were tired, and listened when you were frustrated.

Eventually, you found your way back into basketball through a side door.

It started with one of your former teammates asking if you could talk to her little cousin, a high school guard who was recovering from an ACL injury and spiraling because she thought her recruitment was over. You agreed because you knew that fear too well.

The call was supposed to last fifteen minutes.

It lasted two hours.

Afterward, you sat at the kitchen table with your phone in your hand, feeling something unfamiliar in your chest.

Not happiness exactly.

But purpose.

Aaron came in from the backyard, sweaty from a workout, and found you staring at nothing.

“You okay?”

You looked up.

“I think I helped somebody.”

His smile was slow and proud.

“Yeah?”

“She was scared,” you said. “And angry. And trying to act like she wasn’t.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

You gave him a look.

He raised both hands. “Respectfully.”

But you laughed, and it felt real.

That call became another call, then another. A friend connected you with a youth program. A former coach asked if you would speak at a camp. You said yes, then almost backed out five times.

Aaron found you in the closet the morning of, sitting on the floor with your old practice hoodie in your lap.

“I can’t do it,” you said.

He crouched in front of you.

“You can.”

“What if I cry?”

“Then you cry.”

“In front of teenagers?”

“They’ve seen worse on TikTok.”

“Aaron.”

“I’m serious.” He touched your knee gently, not the injured one specifically, just you. “You don’t have to be polished. You just have to be honest.”

You looked down at the hoodie.

“I don’t know what to tell them.”

“Tell them what you needed to hear.”

So you did.

You stood in front of a group of girls with bright eyes and nervous hands, and you told them the truth. You told them that loving a sport was beautiful, but it could not be the only place they kept their worth. You told them to take care of their bodies before their bodies made the decision for them. You told them that an injury could change their path without erasing who they were. You told them you were still learning that part.

Your voice shook once.

You kept going.

Afterward, a girl with braids and a knee brace approached you quietly and asked if she could hug you.

You said yes.

When you got home, Aaron was waiting in the kitchen, cooking badly.

You could smell the problem from the hallway.

“What are you burning?”

“Nothing.”

“Aaron.”

“Chicken.”

“That is not nothing.”

He turned around with a guilty look, holding tongs in one hand. “I wanted to make dinner.”

“More like smoke.”

“A for effort.”

You laughed so hard you had to hold the counter.

Aaron stood there watching you, his expression soft in a way that made your laughter fade into something warmer.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

He set the tongs down and walked over to you.

“You look like yourself.”

For once, the words did not hurt.

For once, you understood that he did not mean the old you. He did not mean the girl in the college gym, the rookie with taped fingers, the player who attacked the rim like fear was something that happened to other people.

He meant this you.

The you who had survived the thing you thought would end you.

The you who still had hard days but no longer mistook them for proof that you were broken.

The you who could talk about basketball without bleeding every time.

The you who had started building a life with your own hands.

You stepped into him, wrapping your arms around his waist.

“I feel like myself,” you admitted.

Aaron kissed your forehead.

“Good.”

You rested your cheek against his chest.

“I miss playing.”

“I know.”

“I think I always will.”

“I know.”

“But it didn’t swallow me today.”

His arms tightened around you.

You closed your eyes and listened to his heartbeat, steady beneath your ear.

Months later, you went to one of Aaron’s games.

Not because anyone expected it.

Not because you wanted cameras to catch you clapping from the crowd.

Because you woke up that morning, looked at the schedule on the fridge, and realized you wanted to see him play.

Aaron was careful when you told him.

Too careful.

“You sure?” he asked, watching you from across the kitchen.

You poured coffee into your mug. “Yes.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

“We can leave whenever you want.”

“I know.”

“I can get you seats somewhere private.”

“Aaron.”

He stopped.

You gave him a look over the rim of your mug. “I said I want to go. Please don’t make me regret telling you.”

His mouth twitched.

“My bad.”

You softened.

“I’m nervous,” you admitted.

“I figured.”

“But I want to be there.”

He came around the counter and kissed you, slow and tender.

“Then I want you there.”

The arena felt different when you walked in.

For a second, your body remembered too much.

The lights. The polished floor. The hum of warmups. The sound of the ball bouncing, bouncing, bouncing.

Your breath caught.

Aaron noticed immediately.

His hand found the small of your back. “We can go.”

You shook your head.

“No.”

“You sure?”

You looked at the court.

There was grief there, still. Maybe there always would be. But it was not alone anymore.

There was pride too.

Memory.

Love.

A strange, aching gratitude for all the years your body had carried you through this world, even if it could not carry you through the rest of the career you had imagined.

“I’m sure,” you said.

Aaron searched your face, then nodded.

Before he went to warm up, he bent down close to your ear.

“Same team?”

You looked up at him.

It was something he had started saying on the hard days. When you argued. When you got quiet. When he had to leave for road trips and you pretended you did not care. When you called him from your car after therapy because something had cracked open and you needed to hear his voice.

Same team.

A reminder. A promise. A choice.

You reached for his hand and squeezed it.

“Same team.”

He kissed your knuckles before jogging onto the floor.

You watched him warm up. You watched him laugh with a teammate, stretch near the baseline, take a few shots, glance toward you more than once like he was checking that you were still there.

At first, it hurt.

Then it softened.

By the second quarter, you were leaning forward in your seat, annoyed at a missed defensive rotation.

By halftime, you were explaining something to the woman beside you because she had asked why the play broke down.

By the fourth quarter, when Aaron caught the ball on the wing and drove hard toward the rim, your heart rose with the crowd.

He finished through contact and landed cleanly.

The arena exploded.

You stood before you realized you were standing.

Aaron jogged back on defense, but not before his eyes found yours.

You were clapping.

Smiling.

Crying a little too, but not in the way you used to.

After the game, he found you in the tunnel.

He was sweaty and exhausted, with a towel over his shoulders and that look in his eyes he only got when something mattered more than the box score.

“You good?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

You stepped closer and fixed the collar of his warmup jacket, mostly to have something to do with your hands.

“I got jealous once,” you said.

His expression softened.

“Then I got sad.”

He nodded.

“Then I started coaching a stranger in my head during the third quarter, so I think I’m healing.”

Aaron laughed, full and warm, and the sound settled somewhere deep inside you.

“You were coaching from the stands?”

“She was overhelping on defense.”

“She?”

“The woman in section twelve asked me what happened, and I gave her a very educational breakdown.”

“Of course you did.”

“She appreciated it.”

“I’m sure.”

You smiled, then looked past him toward the court. Staff members were cleaning up. Players were doing interviews. The arena was emptying, becoming less spectacle and more building.

“I thought coming here would make me feel like I lost everything again,” you said quietly.

Aaron waited.

You looked back at him.

“But I didn’t. I felt sad, and I felt proud, and I felt like maybe basketball can be part of my life without being all of it.”

His face changed in the softest way.

You took a breath.

“And I felt happy watching you.”

Aaron’s eyes shone.

He pulled you into him, not caring that he was sweaty, not caring that people were walking past, not caring about anything except the way you fit against him.

You wrapped your arms around him and held on.

For a long time, neither of you said anything.

There was no perfect ending. You knew that now. Life did not hand you closure like a trophy. There would still be days when your knee ached in the rain, when old highlights found you unexpectedly, when someone introduced you as “former” and the word sat wrong in your chest.

But there would also be mornings when you woke up excited for something new.

There would be girls who called you coach.

There would be a home full of laughter and burnt chicken and Aaron’s sneakers in the hallway and your notebooks spread across the kitchen table. There would be hard conversations you no longer ran from. There would be games you could watch. There would be a love that had not saved you from pain, but had stayed, steady and stubborn, while you learned how to save yourself.

Aaron pressed his lips to your temple.

“I’m proud of you,” he said.

You closed your eyes.

For the first time in a long time, the words did not feel like pressure.

They felt like a hand in yours.

“I’m proud of me too,” you whispered.

Aaron pulled back just enough to look at you, smiling like that was the best thing he had heard all night.

And maybe it was.

The court lights still shined behind him. Somewhere in the tunnel, a ball bounced once, then rolled to a stop.

You heard it.

You breathed through it.

Then you took Aaron’s hand and walked out with him, not away from who you had been, but toward whoever you were becoming next.

--

taglist ~

He hooks a finger beneath the sleeve of his golf polo and rolls it a little higher on his bicep, adjusting the fabric before dragging the back of his hand across his forehead. The UV index has to be somewhere around ten and he feels every bit of it.

“The only reason I’m out here is because she said it’d be good for me.”

Topper snorts and Kelce’s chip barely makes it out of the sandpit.

“And you’ve been thinkin’ about leaving since hole one,” Topper chuckles, shaking his head.

“Hole one? That’s insulting,” Rafe breathes.

“Sorry, hole four—”

“Parking lot,” Rafe cuts him off. “I was thinkin’ that since the parking lot, Top.”

But even that’s a lie. He was thinking that the moment that he watched you wave to him over your shoulder before you stepped outside—that little string bikini peeking out of the top of your shorts, tormenting him beyond belief.

Ever since then he’s been crossing holes off in his head like an advent calendar from his own personal hell.

“He’s not even listening,” Kelce teases.

Rafe looks over at him, blinking slowly a few times with his lips pursed and his hands resting on his hips.

“‘Course I’m not.”

“Unbelievable,” Topper sighs. “I was just telling Kelce we could do another eighteen holes—”

Rafe can’t even contain his disgust—wincing, brows pinched tight, nostrils flared with a side eye dripping with judgment.

“We’re not inviting you, Cameron. Calm the fuck down,” he blurts.

Ding! Rafe’s hand moves, diving for his pocket like someone challenged him to a goddamn duel.

Kelce drops the head of his putter against the grass, shaking his head judgmentally. Rafe rolls his eyes, unlocking his phone without a shred of shame.

“You’ve got a problem,” Topper says.

“A legitimate fucking problem,” Kelce adds.

“I can’t help that neither of you like your wives,” Rafe mutters and both of their mouths hang open in disgust. “Whatever,” he says, sounding so genuinely unbothered. ‘Cause he is.

Then he looks down at the screen and suddenly nothing else matters.

You’re stretched out across one of the lounge chairs beside the pool with a book propped open. The afternoon sun reflects off your skin. The book covers half your face, but that isn’t helping him concentrate because the rest of you is impossible to miss—the soft swells of your breasts pressed against the pool chair, the curve of your ass, just a taste of your thighs. Your feet are crossed, the little anklet he bought you glittering in the North Carolina sun.

“Look at him,” Topper says, nudging Kelce with his elbow.

“Not a single thought in that head,” Kelce adds as he steps forward and rests his putter behind the ball, taking his time while he studies the break.

The green goes quiet for a second while everybody waits for him to hit it. Before he can even pull the putter back, Rafe steps directly into his line and sinks his putt without hesitation.

Topper starts barking out a laugh and Kelce stares at him in complete disbelief as his ball rolls toward the hole. “You are such a prick,” Kelce says.

“We’re done.”

“We are absolutely not done.”

“This feels done,” Rafe answers, bending down to grab his ball, starting toward the flag before the argument is even over, Kelce’s ball still rolling toward the cup.

“You’re unbelievable, Cameron—”

Rafe cuts off Kelce’s critique, kicking the ball, sending it careening away. “It was gonna hook left anyway,” Rafe says over his shoulder, digging his keys out of his pocket, heading toward the parking lot as the two bitch behind him. “You two suck at golf, by the way,” Rafe calls back.

“Fuck you, Rafe,” Kelce laughs weakly, walking toward his ball.

“Short game’s terrible.”

“Rafe!” Topper calls but he flicks him off in response.

“Don’t even get me started on you, Top. You read greens like an eighty-year-old man with cataracts, fucking useless.”

“Jesus Christ,” Topper gasps.

Rafe doesn’t even bother organizing his clubs when he reaches the parking lot. He yanks them out of the cart, tosses the entire bag into the trunk with absolutely no regard for the thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment inside.

He jogs around the side of the car, yanks the driver’s door open, and practically falls into the seat before firing the engine to life.

Gravel spits behind him as he throws the car into reverse, backing out of the spot in one smooth movement before shifting into drive.

The second he hits the main road, he grabs his phone and calls. His thumbs drum against the steering wheel as the summer wind whips through the car, his pulse hammering, still racing from that power walk to his car.

“Hey, baby,” your voice fills his car and he softens in his seat, hands wrapping a little tighter around the wheel as he smiles.

“Hey pretty,” he hums.

His voice is softer now, gravelly from talking all day and sweeter than it has any right to be considering the way he’d been speaking to Topper and Kelce five minutes ago.

If you’d been standing on that green listening to him threaten both of them, you’d absolutely have something to say about it. He already knows exactly what you’d tell him too. Be nice. Stop being grumpy. They’re your friends. The problem is that he doesn’t care about any of that right now.

“Where are you?” You ask curiously, and he can hear in your voice that you know he dipped out of there sooner than he should have.

“Just left.”

“You just left?” You giggle.

“Mhmm...” Your voice comes through the speakers and instantly makes him feel better than the entire golf outing did.

Traffic slows for a red light and the drumming starts again as he waits for it to change.

“You weren’t gonna get a drink or something?” You ask. “Relax?”

“Absolutely not.”

The answer comes so fast that you start laughing again. The corner of his mouth twitches as he shifts in his seat. “They were stayin’ to practice puttin’, baby.”

“Really?” You ask, not convinced in the slightest.

“Yeah. Their—uhhh… Their short games suck.”

“Gotcha.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“They’re fuckin’ terrible, baby. That was a long-ass day,” he grumbles and you giggle. He leans back against the headrest as he lets the moment breathe for a minute. “Kids been easy on you today?”

“Actually, yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Just laying by the pool,” you say.

“Sounds rough.”

“Fuckin’ terrible, baby,” you echo his words back to him and he smiles. “They’re actually at Wheezie’s.”

The car accelerates, completely subconscious on his part, but you hear it loud and clear. Rafe’s eyes flick briefly toward the speedometer while a grin starts pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Oh yeah?”

“Rafe Cameron, slow down.”

The grin only gets worse, sinking a little lower in the driver’s seat, as one hand falls to the shift stick.

“I’m goin’ slow, baby.”

“You are not,” you answer. “You accelerated the second I said the kids weren’t home.”

“Did I?” You can practically hear the grin in his voice now as he weaves through traffic. “So.”

You start laughing, knowing exactly where he’s going to go with this. “Winnie’s in Charleston with Jackson.”

“Got it. And Max?” He asks eagerly.

“He left like an hour ago.”

“On the boat?” He asks, knowing that’s an all-day affair.

“Mhmm…”

Rafe’s laugh rumbles through the phone. “Interesting,” he says.

“Interesting?” You laugh and sigh sweetly.

“Sounds like I get you to myself all day?”

“Sounds like it.”

By the time he turns into the neighborhood, he’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. The gates open and he barely slows down as he pulls through them, already spotting flashes of blue water between the houses.

“You’re almost here, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” he hums. “See you outside, baby.”

The second he turns into the driveway, the car barely has time to rest before he’s throwing it into park, killing the engine.

The garage door rumbles overhead and he doesn’t wait, ducking underneath it before it can open all the way. His shirt’s halfway over his head before he even reaches the mudroom. By the time he steps inside, he’s carrying the polo in one hand, snagging his swim trunks from the laundry room with the other.

He stumbles slightly, kicking off his golf shoes without ever breaking stride. Future Rafe can deal with that problem. Present Rafe has more important things to do.

His golf shorts are already undone by the time he reaches the hallway. He steps out of them, steps into the swim trunks, and keeps walking without stopping once to grab his hat, tugging it on before he flicks it to the back.

Now he’s finally home and the only thing he cares about is the backyard door sitting at the end of the room. He reaches it a few seconds later and quickly slows down, dragging the glass door open.

And that last bit of tension breezes out of him, because there you are.

You’re curled up in a chair with a book open in your hands, completely unaware that he’s standing there.

He admires you for a moment—one leg crossed over the other while sunlight dances across the pool behind you. He soaks in the scene he’d spent eighteen holes waiting to get home to.

Then a sharp whistle rips through his lips.

Your head lifts at the sound.

The book lowers into your lap and a smile breaks across your face so fast it makes something in his chest tighten.

You start to uncross your legs, already leaning forward like you’re about to stand, but he points at you.

“Nah, baby,” he says. “Stay right there. I’m comin’.”

You laugh under your breath and fall back against the chair.

The cushions dip beneath his weight as he climbs on top of you. One hand braces against the armrest while the other finds your thigh, his broad palm sliding higher as he guides you closer.

“Miss me?” He asks. Rafe’s smile tugs a little wider when you whisper yes, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your thigh.

He slides a hand along your side, guiding you onto his lap as one arm wraps around your waist, pulling you tight against his chest while the other lifts to cup your cheek.

“Goddamn, I missed you. Don’t make me do that shit again,” he mutters, shaking his head once before leaning back enough to look at you properly. “M’not home enough for that.”

“Okay, baby,” you laugh.

“I mean it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t try to charm me after that, pretty. That was hell.” He leans in first this time, forehead brushing yours for a second before his lips find yours. “I love you,” he murmurs.

Your hand presses against his chest, nails scratching lightly down sun-warmed skin. He pushes the cup of your bikini to the side, wrapping his lips around your skin while his other hand drifts between your thighs.

“Out here?” You ask with a laugh.

“We’re all alone, baby. Why not?” His lips brush yours again before trailing along your jaw. “We can go inside too—”

“Right here,” you whisper.

“That’s what I thought,” he hums. “Who’s my girl, huh?”

You smile, fingers hooking beneath the waistband of his swim trunks. “I’m your girl.”

“Mhmm.” His thumb drifts along your collarbones to your shoulders, nudging one strap down before the other. “You’re my fuckin’ girl.” The words come out rough enough to pull a smile from you.

You reach up and untie the small bow holding your swimsuit top together. The fabric slips loose between you.

Rafe’s eyes drop as you toss it away. “Jesus Christ, baby.” A low groan slips out of him as he tips his forehead against yours for a second, hands lifting to squeeze your tits in his big palms as his mouth finds yours again.

You glance down briefly, catching his swim trunks sitting low on his hips from where you’d been tugging at them, bunched slightly against his muscular thighs, the fabric stretched tight across them.

“Take these off,” you whisper, the words barely leaving your lips before he slides down in his seat, tugging down his shorts with him, his heavy cock smacking against his toned stomach with a snap, his eyes locked on your body.

His hands squeeze your hips, digging in as he drags your clothed pussy on top of him, head pressing back into the chair. The sun beats down on your skin. A thin line of sweat catching his chain before it rolls in a lazy train down his chest.

“They said I got a problem,” he mumbles through a smirk, his jaw tightening as you keep moving against him, the heat of your body bleeding through the fabric of your swimsuit, finally snapping whatever patience he had left.

“Yeah, baby?”

“You see any problems here?” He asks breathlessly as he reaches for the bows at your hip, tugging them free, yanking away the rest of the fabric in a hurry as his hands close around you again.

He blows out a breath like he’s finally gotten rid of the last thing standing between him and what he wants, his hand diving between your thighs.

His fingers press inside and he gasps, working you with his hand as you rest on his chest, feeling his heart bang underneath, his muscles flexing with each push of his hand.

“Just jealous they don’t have a woman like you?” He hums as he pulls his hand away just long enough to drag you in.

Rafe’s lidded eyes connect with yours, lips falling open with his as he pulls you down on him. You grip his shoulders, hands trembling as a deep groan thunders in his chest, feeling your wetness wrap around him tight.

“Fuck, me,” he mutters under his breath, dragging you closer, smiling against your lips before capturing your mouth in a tender kiss.

“Oh my god,” you whine.

“Pussy’s so perfect.”

His eyes lift to yours in a lust-ridden daze, muscles flexing as he works you over on his length. You bounce on his lap, wet slaps of sweat and slick filling with air around you mixing with your soft whimpers and his deep groans.

You grip the arm rests, circling your hips and he throws his head against the back of the chair to get a better look, his eyes drifting between your face and the bounce of your tits, falling to his lap where your pussy swallows him up each time you sink down.

His legs spread a little wider, feet resting on the ground, hips pitching to fuck up into your soaked hole. Your head throws back as you rise on your knees, letting him hit that perfect spot, the knot in your belly tightening, your body impossibly hot.

“Rafe,” you moan.

“Yeah?” He asks, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice. “Been playin’ this shit over and over in my mind, pretty. Let me have it.”

You cry out as he pounds your pussy with his thick dick. Your thighs tremble uncontrollably, as your pussy flutters around him. He looks up at you in a haze, lips parted, brows softening as your release wets his lap and thighs.

“Oh shit, that's my girl… That’s my baby,” he praises, making you gasp when he rolls you onto your back, not giving you a moment to breathe before he’s on you again.

He looks down at you with a smile, adjusting his hat, staring at the wet mess between your thighs. “Why the fuck would I ever wanna leave you, huh?” He asks as he pushes your legs against your chest, hooking your ankles over his broad shoulders.

You whimper out a little breath as he taps his cock against your pussy, muscles jumping with each slap.

He pushes in slow, tilting closer to get as far as he can go, pressing a deep kiss to your trembling lips. “Gonna cum in your pussy,” he whispers, his voice breaking with pleasure. “M’so, so fuckin’ close.”

His face turns slightly, pressing a kiss to your ankle, right against the charm. His ab muscles clench as he rolls his lips, sweat sliding down his temple.

“I’m so deep,” he mumbles. You nod quickly, lip bitten between your teeth, hands gripping the arm rests tight.

“So fucking deep,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” He asks breathlessly. “Fuck me.”

He loses his rhythm, thrusts growing uneven as he snaps against your skin. His muscles quake, shoulders trembling, slamming into you in one heavy thrust.

His eyes pinch shut, head falling forward, cumming deep inside you with your name on his lips.

He lets your legs go but he doesn’t let you get far, snuggling into you again, kissing your forehead—then your nose and your lips.

“Goddamn,” he mumbles, lingering while your breathing slows together.

He sits down next to you, dragging you close, kissing you as he grabs your thigh, tugging it over the top of him—close not close enough.

“This,” he huffs out a deep breath through a smile, relaxing into the lounge chair. “This is what’s good for me.”

“Yeah?” You giggle, tilting your chin up for a kiss that he gladly steals. You rest your head on his shoulder, the warm summer breeze blowing against your skin, the soft music that you had playing while you were reading filling the space in between.

“You sent that picture to me on purpose,” he breathes.

A smile stretches on his lips when you don’t answer right away, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

“Holy shit, you did? Didn’t you?” He asks, tilting his neck to look you in the eyes and you shrug and smile.

“Thought it would get you home quicker.”

His hand comes down heavy on your thigh as he dips in, brushing his nose against yours, chuckling deeply against your lips before he kisses you.

“That’s my girl.”

"My back hurts like a bitch. I've been stretching constantly, I swear, but my body's just getting tighter and more stiff, and my performance in games has been sooo bad. I'm ruined, I swear."

Rafe hears Sarah mumble something back, but he mostly tunes her out, hyper-focused on you. His mind's locked on the way your voice rises in pitch and gets a little breathier with each passing moment, and every time you shift on the bed, you'd let out a little moan of pain.

Was it normal to get hard just from breathing and whines? Maybe Rafe just had a problem. "I just feel like my body isn't cooperating with me," You lament some more, dragging out each syllable so your voice comes out all slow and syrupy. "I can't even bend over without something locking up. What if I go out into my next game and it gets even worse? Coach'll throw me off the team!"

Rafe scoffs, pressing his ear more firmly against the door now, wanting to be sure he doesn't miss any of your little sounds. You were being overdramatic, in his opinion. He liked how petulant you always were, because it'd keep him on your toes. It all just made him want to spank you for being such a brat, and then fuck the attitude right out of you.

The pounding of his heartbeat in his ears makes it a little difficult to hear what you're saying, and he squeezes his hands into fists against the wood of the door to try and calm himself down. When you shift again, he has to slap a hand over his mouth to stifle the groan that surges up at the little moan of pain you let out, no doubt from some muscle twinge or another.

Surely Rafe's big hands could get those kinks easily. He knows how to use his hands. He has experience with that sort of thing, and would be more than willing to show off his skills to you, if you'd just stop being a stuck up princess for a minute and let him get his hands on you.

Imagining you going still under him, mewling softly when his hands spread you open to massage your glutes and the insides of your thighs, of him convincing you that the only way you'd feel better is if he slides two thick fingers into your pussy... he throbs, stepping back. He can't handle much more of you making noise and his daydreaming without nearly soiling his pants. He'd be back later, after he took care of the raging boner you gave him...

Later, you're almost to your bike at the end of the Cameron's driveway when you hear footsteps behind you, getting closer. "Yo," Rafe calls out, his voice smooth. "Where you going?"

You don't stop walking, but you slow your pace just a little. You know he won't back off until you give him some kind of answer, so you glance back at him and respond. "Nowhere, Rafe." You're so used to you acting this way around him, to keeping things casual, pretending you're not affected by him when you absolutely are.

"Come on," Rafe presses, his steps quickening as he catches up to you, walking at your side. He's close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating off him and the expensive cologne he wears filling your senses. "Just tell me. You've got me all curious now." He's grinning, gaze flickering down to your lips momentarily, then back to your eyes.

You just give him a little shrug, showing that you're not interested in playing his game anymore. "I'm just heading home," you murmur. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he makes you nervous, and so you back away a little. "Not that it's any of your business."

Rafe doesn't even falter, stepping in front of you before you can move. There's no hesitation in his body language because he's really got the confidence to match his cocky grin, and he's never been shy about using it on you. "Not my business?"

You try to move around him, but he steps in your path again, blocking you effortlessly. His body is like a wall, and for a second you don't know whether to be annoyed or turned on. He's always like this, making you feel like you can't get away from him.

You stare up at him, his blue eyes piercing into yours. He does this thing where he refuses to break eye contact until you look away, and when you do, he bends his head forward to chase wherever your gaze is pointed to put his face in your line of sight. He leans forward just a little, his voice dropping low. "Look," he says, drawing out the word like he's talking to a kid. "Are you really just heading home? You think you're just gonna leave me hanging, not even tell me what you're gonna be up to? I don't think so."

You exhale sharply, feeling heat in your cheeks now, but you don't back down. Instead, you cross your arms over your chest, trying to hold onto your composure. "I'm not doing anything. I'm just going home to lie down and get some rest before my match tomorrow," you say, but even you can hear the uncertainty in your voice. You're trying to play it cool, but the closer he gets, the harder it is to pretend.

Rafe notices, of course. He's always been good at reading you, and now he leans in a little more, his lips just inches from your ear. You can feel the heat from his body, his breath brushing against your skin, and it makes you shiver despite yourself.

"I heard you talking to Sarah earlier." He steps in closer, just close enough for you to feel his chest almost touching yours. "You're so tight from training, aren't you? I can help with that."

You're silent for a second, unsure how to respond. when he sees that, he leans in a little more, his hand reaching up to brush something imaginary off your face. The touch is gentle, but it makes you suck in a breath. You hate that it's so hard to keep it together around him.

"Come on," he coaxes, "Let me take care of you. I've got really good hands."

You take a step back, hoping to break the tension, but he follows you, matching each step. You're trying to stay firm, but there's something in the way he's looking at you, the way his hands are hovering around you like he's barely holding back.

"Of course you were spying on me. Creep." you scoff.

"I'm not a creep," he says a little too defensively, leaning down so his face is right in front of yours. "I'm just keeping an eye on you. And it paid off, because now i know you need to be taken care of. And I'll really help you, unlike those perv masseuses that just want to grope you. You know me. I'll be better for you."

You hold his eye contact for a moment, before giving him a little push back, scoffing a bit in a way that confirms that he succeeded in persuading you. "Ugh, fine. My house will be empty tonight. Everyone's out. I'll be alone."

"Good." he says, voice smooth. "I'll come by at 10, then. And you can stop pretending you don't want me... to help you out."

You turn to leave, but before you can, he calls after you, his voice teasing. "Don't wear much, sweetheart. Need to make sure nothing's restricting the flow of circulation."

You roll your eyes, hurrying off with your heart pounding.

ᥫ᭡.

You're on your tummy in your basement, laying on a cushy gym mat a couple inches off the ground with Rafe hovering over you. You actually listened to him when he said not to wear much. Actually, you seemed to have gone all out. There's not a single piece of fabric on you other than the little pair of panties covering your butt. The rest of your body, glistening and smooth and soft, is bare for his eyes to take in.

Rafe's floored, to say the least. His brain is malfunctioning, eyes going from your smooth back, to your waist... hips... your plush ass, and then finally, your core, which is barely covered in the thin cloth of your panties. Fuck... jerking off twice in one day wasn't enough to prepare him for this.

He huffs out a breath, starting with digging his palms into your shoulder blades, rolling them repetitively like he's got any idea what he's doing. You moan softly, eyes fluttering shut, making him bite down his lower lip in response. His thumbs dig into your back a little too hard, and he hears the little whimpering sound you make. Rafe tenses, having to do a little pause to shake himself out of it and dial it back so he doesn't get overexcited and ram his cock into you without building up to earn your trust.

You're soft everywhere, he starts to realize. And warm. You hum softly every time he loosens up one of your sweet spots, and the noises you make make him so much more eager to know what you sound like when he's touching you where you're extra sensitive, and so his hands keep slipping. Grazing just too close to your nipples when he reaches around to massage your chest.

You gasp, your back arching just the tiniest bit as you blink your eyes open. "Ah! w-wait… is it supposed to feel like that there? All tingly?" Rafe freezes as you turn to look over your shoulder at him, clutching the mat with both hands. "Feels tingly, hm?" He murmurs, voice teasing. "Right here?" He intentionally cups handfuls of your breasts, flicking both your nipples. You jolt and cry out, squirming underneath him.

There's something very odd about the way his touch makes you feel, like heat spreads around your body and you can't seem to sit still. You rub your thighs together to try and soothe some of the heat coursing through you as whimpers leave your mouth in response to him groping your breasts.

Rafe's being very careful so that you don't realize what he's doing is pretty far from a massage, and that he's just feeling you up. He speaks again, telling you something he hopes you'll believe. "Mhm... that's normal. Means I'm doing everything real good."

What he doesn't say is that he's about ten seconds away from flipping you over and finding out exactly what other spots make you feel tingly. That little pair of panties barely counts as clothing. They're riding up in the back, too, showing off the curve of your ass like you wanted him to stare, and when you wiggle slightly underneath him, shifting your hips, he nearly groans out loud.

"Why're you moving so much?" he mutters, voice low. "Stay still."

You pout all innocent, "I'm just trying to relax."

His palms slide down again, pressing into the small of your back and gliding down to your hips. "Mm. Sure you are." His thumbs find the tops of your ass cheeks and press in gently. "You always relax in just your panties? Or is this just for me?" Your thighs squeeze together again, though you don't see how Rafe's eyes snap to the movement, and his dick twitches against your ass. He's so keyed in on you right now that he's buzzing. "You're the one who told me not to wear too much," You huff, moaning softly.

He sits back on his heels for a second just to look at you. Your body is small in his huge hands, your back arching real pretty. The way your panties are hugging your plump pussy lips makes his jaw clench so tight it hurts. He swipes a hand down his mouth like that'll help him focus, his eyes rolling back a little. He can't take this. Feels like his dick will explode any second now. Maybe he could just convince you his load is some body cream if he does accidentally finish on your ass. "Why'd you stop Rafe?" You complain.

He swallows thickly and leans forward again, hands slipping over your thighs now, trailing down until he's brushing just above your knees, then dragging them up, up, up again, grazing the sides of your ass with his thumbs this time.

"You know…" he says, voice low and teasing as he bends even closer, mouth practically at your ear now. "Most people wear more than this. Not just these tiny little things." He swipes his fingers across the waistband of your panties, letting it catch and snap lightly against your butt. You gasp, and he grins, pleased with himself.

"You're not most people, though, are you?" he says. "You're my special little tease." His hand fully cups the swell of your ass, fingers digging in a little harder than necessary like he's trying to convince himself you're real.

He doesn't move right away, his fingertips denting into the soft flesh like he's sculpting you. His thumb slides in toward the center, right where the curve dips down, and he grazes over the stretched fabric clinging to your core.

Then he shifts, lowers himself even more. Now he's straddling your calves, his weight heavy on you. The position forces him closer, lets him reach more of you without having to stretch.

"Mm, need to loosen you up right here," he murmurs, digging his thumbs into the tops of your thighs now, massaging slow circles just beneath the curve of your butt. "So tense, baby. That's not good for you."

His fingers knead into the backs of your thighs, spreading them just enough for your panties to pull tighter against your pussy. He watches it happen like a man possessed, staring openly at the way the fabric pushes up against your hole, admiring the little damp spot that's formed.

His hands slide further down your legs now, curling around your thighs and calves, squeezing, trailing back up, brushing the sensitive skin behind your knees and up along the insides of your thighs this time.

"Bet you're warm here," he says, his voice practically a whisper now as he presses a thumb against the inside of your thigh, just shy of your pussy. "And you're soaked down here, too."

You're a flushed, panting mess at this point, your mind hazy and hands clenched up. "D-dunno what that means..." He groans at your innocence, slowly pulling your panties down your legs. "That's okay. Just close your eyes and let me check, kay?" You nod lazily, eyes fluttering shut on his command. He pulls your panties all the way off and tucks them into his back pocket, planning to play dumb if you ask where they were later.

You're a little embarrassed at being so exposed to him now, but he's in awe. Your pussy is completely visible to him, folds slick and plush under your plump pussy lips. He's throbbing like crazy. "Hm." he tuts, trying to come up with a lie on the spot so he can take things further. "You need some help here too. This is the only way you can get your whole body to relax."

He traces two fingers up and down your slit, listening to the soft gasps that leave you as he slowly coaxes them inside you. His fingers back and forth slowly, trying to get you to relax and loosen up enough for him to shove them deeper.

Rafe's hands grip your hips suddenly, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he tugs you backwards. Your ass is now raised and presented to him, his fingers never leaving the depths of your core. You swallow hard as you feel his thick, oil slicked fingers thrust in and out of you, making squelching sounds. "Mnh! It's so much, it feels so weird there…" Rafe huffs, eyes glazed. "Shit… Knew you'd sound pretty when I touched you. Just take it for me"

He keeps pumping his fingers in and out of you at a slow pace, curling them just enough for his fingers to stroke that spongey spot deep inside you that your own smaller fingers were never ever able to reach. You cry out, your back arching off the mat as jolts of pleasure shoot through you. "Shh... there we go. Doing so good. Just need to loosen you up."

You're whining now, his fingers diving in and out of you at a steady, repetitive pace that turns your brain to mush. "Rafe… feels s-good..."

He starts to pick up the pace, scissoring his fingers inside of your clenching pussy, turning his hand so that the angles of his fingers vary. You're bucking your hips back into him, unable to hold back especially as his fingers swirl deeper inside you. Rafe groans, feeling your silky walls squeeze his invading fingers. "Oh, you like that?" he says, drunk on the way your body reacts to him. "Such a pretty pussy, baby. Gonna make you make such a big mess"

You squirm and let out a little cry, gushing around him and clenching hard as your vision sparkles. He keeps fingering you as you cum, coaxing you to keep going and push you further off the edge. Your body's still trembling when you finally come down, hips twitching under his hands, your cheek pressed against the mat, lips parted as you gasp for breath. There's a high, dazed flush across your cheeks, hair stuck to your forehead, and your thighs won't stop shaking no matter how hard you try to clench them together.

He curses, staring at the mess you made on his fingers. "You came so fuckin' hard…" One arm slides under your waist to lift you with ease, turning you onto your back like you weigh nothing. He's already crawling between your legs, big hands spreading your thighs wide and settling in close. "God, you're so sensitive," he murmurs, dragging a single fingertip over your clit, making you gasp. "You want more?"

You nod, pawing at his shoulders hazily. You're too far gone to realize that this stopped being a massage a while ago. His hands are everywhere again, palming your thighs, sliding up your hips, gripping your waist to yank you down the mat toward him. You let out a soft gasp, hands scrambling to hold onto his arms, but he nudges you of so he can focus on tugging his shorts down. He drops them and his boxers, cock springing free, which is thick and flushed with heavy balls. " 's my massage rod, baby. See? the last part of your treatment."

"Mh, y-yes..."

He chuckles at your whines, and lines himself up with your slick, oversensitive pussy, letting the head of his cock drag through your slick folds before just barely nudging your clit.

He leans over you, one hand next to your head, the other wrapped around himself as he teases your hole, circling it, tapping lightly, sliding just the head in before pulling back. "Easy, easy… just gotta prep you first, alright? Don't wanna hurt you," He fusses, watching your face scrunch in anticipation and listening avidly to each tiny noise you make.

One deep, slow thrust that splits you open and punches the air out of your lungs. He sinks into you like he belongs there, like he's been waiting his whole life to be buried inside you. When he bottoms out his hips press flush against yours and he feels your walls fluttering around him, he lets out a sound that's half groan, half growl.

He keeps one hand on your throat, thumb pressed lightly just beneath your jaw, not choking, just holding you there and feeling your pulse race under his fingers while his other hand cups the back of your thigh and shoves it up, folding you in, letting him go deeper, hit deeper.

"Oh fuckkk…" he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. "You feel like heaven, baby."

He starts rutting into you with long, deep strokes at first, slow enough to feel every inch, to let your body adjust and to let you feel how big he is. His hips roll, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every push and he keeps his eyes locked on yours the whole time.

You're whining and babbling, vision spotty from the slight lack of air caused by his hand around your throat, but each time you try to shut your eyes and shut your legs due to the overstimulation from your recent orgasm, he catches your jaw and tilts your face back toward him.

"N-nuh uh," he pants, sweat beading on his forehead. His pupils are dilated and his lips are parted to let out heavy groans. "No looking away, ngh, wanna see that lil look on your face when you fall apart on my cock."

You can't stop the whines that spill from your lips as he shoves his cock deep inside you, strokes hard and rough enough to make your tits bounce with each thrust. "Ah, fuck... you're squeezing me so tight," Rafe groans as he thrusts into you, panting at the way your walls clamp down on his long, thick cock.

You keen, pussy creaming around him even more as you dig your nails into his hard biceps to keep yourself upright, struggling to keep your gaze focused on his. You're so wet that there's juices squelching onto the yoga mat each time he pushes into you, making a mess. The oil covering your body isn't helping either.

He's so deep inside of you, and his balls slapping against your swollen clit is starting to make your head swirl even more. Rafe's large hands grip your hips and guide them back against him with each thrust so you're fucking yourself on his dick. "Shittt, baby. Thought you were s-so fucking innocent, but look at you. Fuckin' yourself on my cock like mnh, a fucking slut."

"Rafe!" You cry out his name when he gets real deep inside you. "Sl-slower, please, mnh… you're… it's so deep," You're whining softly, body jerking on his cock as he huffs out a breath and refuses with a gruff "Don't wanna," and pounds into you a little harder just to spite you. He's not going to slow down when he's finally got you where he wants you.

The mat shifts around underneath the two of you as Rafe splits your poor little hole in half on his cock. He lets go of your neck to slide two fingers into your mouth, watching your eyes roll and your tongue swirl around his thick digits. "Atta girl, sweetheart, use that tongue. fuckk..." He throbs inside you, watching the way your pussy sucks him back in every time he tries to pull back. You squeeze him like you were made for him. Makes him wanna put a baby in you.

You gasp when he drives forward hard, hitting that sweet spot inside you that makes tears of pleasure spring to your eyes, and you suck on his fingers hard so you don't scream.

He keeps fucking his cock against that gummy, soft spot in you, angling his body so he can hit your g-spot over and over, and within seconds, you're creaming around his cock, a loud whine leaving your lips as your clear juices coat his thighs and cock.

He nearly cums on the spot at the way you make a mess on him like some silly mutt with no self control and how hard you clench down when you're cumming, but he has a little more self control and stamina than you. "Shit, feels s'good, princess, good girl, keep squeezin' me jus' like that,"

He grabs your hips hard with one hand and takes his fingers out of your mouth to grope at your tits, flicking your pebbled nipple and pinching it between the rough pads of his fingers.

"Anh, Rafe!" You scream, " 'S too much, oh my god Rafe," You wail and babble, overstimulated, but he just grunts and squeezes you tighter. He pulls on your nipple and pinches it lightly. He hilts himself inside you repeatedly with each thrust, not stopping until his heavy balls slap lewdly against your puffy clit.

Your pussy's swollen with overstimulation, and it's tightening up and is really sloppy around his cock. Rafe's heavy cock plunges into your sopping pussy with each thrust, creating squelching sounds as your juices stir up against his in a mess. He groans, throwing his head back. Your fucking pussy makes him crazy.

He stretches your poor puffy pussy to its limits, driving desperate moans from you that grow louder the dumber he makes you. Thick strands of your cum cling to his cock as your walls ripple around him as he fucks into your overstuffed cunt, your puffy lips kissing his slicked cock. "Look at you. You wanted this so bad, didn't you?"

You whine as he pounds you, his cock filling your pussy and hitting the gummy barrier of your womb with every other thrust. You can see the way your tummy plumps up around the outline of his big cock, stretching into your womb.

Your head lolls and he pushes down on your tummy. You cry out and cum again, and he groans and splurts inside of you, dumping heavy loads of cream inside your used pussy. He leans down to press open mouthed kisses against your cheek, fucking his cum back into you after stuffing you full.

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Across the short path leading to the house, you watched him talk his way through a reverse layup that kissed the rim but didn’t fall. 

“Fuck!” 

The ball was no match for his anger, receiving a hard bounce against the court before he regained control and tapped it against his forehead several times. 

You stopped short of the metal gate and cleared your throat to announce your presence. “You know you have an HOA right? Those quiet hour fines are steep.” 

“I’ll pay it. Wouldn’t be the first time.” He answered with his back turned to put up another missed shot. In frustration, he slapped the ball across the court before finally facing your sympathetic expression. He sighed. “I woke you up?” 

“No. I had a bad dream and came out for some air.” 

Jayson accepted your partial truth with a nod. He was too tired to press for more answers. The world was on his shoulders. The last thing he had energy for was extraneous conversation.

Taking a deep breath, he carefully lowered his long body to the ground. His knees rose just enough to support his elbows and heavy head in his hands. You watched him for a few extra moments before gently pushing open the gate to join him at center court. 

“It’s too cold for the future Finals MVP to be hooping in a tanktop. Here. ” Your arm extended to pass Jayson a sweatshirt in hopes that he’d accept your peace offering. He accepted with no protest, his eyes never looking away from some distant spot in the night.

You let him sulk without interrupting the quiet. A few years and a couple of fiery disagreements had taught you a valuable lesson in letting him sort his feelings before stepping in with advice.

Several minutes of silence passed before finally he scoffed to himself and looked up to the sky.  

“I give this shit everything I got. My heart, my body. Fuckin’ tears! None of this shit is working right now.” 

“Maybe you’re thinking too hard?”

“I just wanna fuckin’ win. You know that more than anybody. I’m fighting through this shit with my wrist, taking in all the feedback while trying to block all the bullshit and I’m hitting a brick wall every time I turn around. I don’t understand why I’m doing all this if, at the end of the day, I feel like I’m being blocked from what I know I deserve.”

You watched him quietly rub a tender spot at the base of his thumb before his eyes met yours. He was searching for answers and comfort or at least something to make sense of his personal hell.

“So, give up.”

Your matter-of-fact response made him snap his head in your direction. “What?”

“Give up. If it’s giving you this much grief and you aren’t feeling up to the challenge, give up. I won’t hold it against you.” 

“Man, you know I’m not doing that. I just…I don’t know. I needed to vent or something. I’m trying.”

“Aren’t we all,” you answered sympathetically. “But we do what we gotta do to get through the hard parts for what we love, right?” 

“Yeah, but does it have to be this hard?” 

“Would it be worth it if it wasn’t?” 

A short chuckle filled the air before he diverted his eyes to a spot beyond the court. 

“You can’t do the whole therapy thing for loved ones, remember? Get out my head before I call your dean.” 

“Okay! Fair enough. Can I at least say that I’m proud of you?”

Jayson finally broke eye contact with the distance to look in your eyes, prompting you to scoot closer to him until your bodies were touching. He allowed you to hook your arm in his and rest your weight against his forearm before he leaned down to kiss the top of your head. 

“This shit is tough,” you continued. “The late nights and long trips. The wear and tear on your body. Having to be somebody’s something at all times. Even the strongest person in the world would be exhausted. But you’re doing it. And a really fuckin’ good job at that. I’m proud of you. We’re all proud of you.” 

“Thank you.” His short sentence fell from his lips in a near whisper as he sat with your words. 

“But, when you’re at work, just be Jayson. Because, respectfully, nobody out there can touch you on your worst day. Except me, but that’s a different conversation.” 

Your misplaced confidence coaxed a loud laugh from Jayson that grew once you stood to take a defensive stance in front of him. 

“Man, what are you doing,” he asked, still amused by the sheer absurdity of you attempting to guard him.

“Oh, I’m funny to you? Check ball.” 

“Nah, go inside. You just got your nails done.” 

“So what! My girl makes house calls. Check ball, my boy. Hurry up before I get mad.” 

Jayson studied you for a second with a fond smile before taking the short jog across the court to retrieve his best friend and worst enemy. When he returned, you were still in a full-out defensive stance and ready to take on the challenge of guarding a man acclaimed as one of the best in his profession. 

He started his path toward the basket from half-court with slow dribbles and uncontrollable laughter while you swiped at the ball. 

“C’mon, now. I don’t want you to get hurt. You made your point.” 

“That’s crazy. I got a point but you don’t have no points. Does that make me the best player in the world or…?” 

“Woooow.”

A competitive fire burned behind his eyes as he sized you up and planned his next move. For a moment, you were able to shuffle your feet just enough to keep up with his probing attack. It didn’t take long for Jayson to sense a shift in your intensity and capitalize on your lack of speed. 

One quick step drove left you slightly off balance, giving him enough space to put up a stepback three that caused the net to make a loud pop once the ball went through. 

“JT FOR THREEEEEEE!” 

He held his shooting hand in the air for an extra second with his eyes closed to soak in your impression of the in-arena announcement. It’d been a while since he’d heard those words. 

When he finally turned back to look at you, he caught your knowing smile as you folded your arms across your chest in preparation for the inevitable. 

“Just, like, 30 minutes. I promise. You can time me!” 

“Mhmm. Make sure you take a shower before you get back in bed.” 

“You gone be up when I get in?” 

His question came with raised eyebrows and a few steps forward to wrap you in a sweaty hug. You relished the tickle of his beard against your neck between quick kisses before playfully pushing him away. 

“Nuh uh. Lock in. I’ll still be here when the work is done.” 

“Can I hold you to that?” 

“You know I’m good for it.” 

A cheeky wink initiated your shared handshake and signaled that your promise was sealed no matter what. Before he could lull you back into a hug and prolong the moment, a stiff breeze woke all six of your senses and forced a loud shriek in response. 

“Oh hell no. I’ll be rooting for you from the house. Keep shooting!”

Jayson watched you nearly sprint across the backyard with the ball tucked under his arm and a smile so goofy it’d be embarrassing if his friends caught him. Not willing to see you go just yet, he cupped his hands around his mouth to bid you a final good night. 

“THANKS, COACH! I LOVE YOU!”

Stopping at the back door, you returned the gesture. “I LOVE YOU! JVP! JVP! JVP!”

“THAT AIN’T IT! TRY AGAIN.”

“JUST KEEP REPEATING IT. IT’LL WORK, I PROMISE!” 

Once you were inside, silence blanketed the backyard again. This time, instead of racing thoughts, Jayson found a stillness as he bounced the ball between his legs. One dribble turned into another and another until he completed a crossover and midrange shot. Shot after shot hit the bottom of the net with crisp snaps.

When his legs grew exhausted, he stepped up to the free-throw line to complete his impromptu workout. 

He took a few deep breaths and focused his eyes on the rim with a soft chant on replay under his breath. 

-----------------------------

“This is absolutely incredible. When it looked like his team was on the brink of another Game 7, Jayson Tatum took over the game and delivered the Boston Celtics their first NBA Championship since 2008. The Larry O’Brien trophy is back in Beantown.”

“He’s the future of the league. One of the best, if not THE best small forward in the NBA right now.” 

“He's not the future, Jeff. He's the right here and now. Humbly he’s one of the best players in the world. Mama, there goes that man.”

Green and white confetti rained down from the rafters, completely covering fans celebrating in the stands. Players on the court threw themselves onto one another to share the euphoria of the moment. Six games and four hard-fought quarters had led them to the ultimate goal.  

Jayson stood at center court with his arms stretched and head tilted to the sky while he screamed at nothing in particular. His head felt light with pure excitement and fragmented replays of the last 48 minutes. 

Finally, he’d completed the mission. 

As reality began to rush through his blood, his eyes frantically searched for familiar faces in the crowd rushing toward him. The full breadth of excitement couldn’t be released until the ones he cherished most were within arms reach. He ignored every instance of his name being called in favor of pushing through the bodies littered across the space. 

His family greeted him first, led by his mother beaming with pride. You quietly stood to the side for an up-close view of the small celebration. Tears and laughter became muffled in the loud environment but the love was unmistakable. 

When he finally directed his attention in your direction, a rush of heat made your ears and arms tingle. Sudden shyness made you laugh nervously and tug at your jersey during his short journey to where you stood. 

Jokingly, he leaned down and rubbed his sweaty forehead against yours. 

“You did it,” you gushed. “You fuckin’ did it.” 

“JVP,” he questioned with a silly smile.

“Oh, don’t make me do it. Because you know I’ll do it.” 

Jayson’s laughter bellowed deep before he threw his head back for another triumphant scream. His joy felt like permission for others to join with no restrictions.

Stepping back, you accepted the invitation and began your new favorite chant. Participation started with a slow build. Others joined one by one then in small groups until the buzz had spread to the nosebleeds. 

Standing in the center of it all, Jayson took a slow look at all the faces around him with pride swelling in his chest. 

He was over the hump. Across the finish line. Atop the proverbial mountain.

he didn’t wake you.

he just let you sleep. window cracked open to let in the sound of the wind through the olive trees. it was early. the kind of early that didn’t feel real. pale light, no clocks ticking, the whole room soft and still like the inside of a shell.

he’d been up for a while, padding barefoot through the old cottage, feeding the cat that kept showing up on the back steps, flipping through a worn paperback he found on the shelf. off-season looked good on him. slower. looser. no press, no flights, no bruises blooming beneath his skin.

just france. just home.
just him, and you, and the quiet between.

victor stood at the edge of the bed, shirt in hand, curls still wet from the shower. he hadn’t shaved yet. you liked that he didn’t. liked the softness at the edges of him, the slow way he moved when he thought you weren’t watching.

his eyes lingered on your back. bare, turned toward him. you’d kicked off the blanket sometime before dawn, too warm, too soft. your arm curled under your cheek, lips slightly parted, breathing even.

he sat down beside you. careful. weight dipping the mattress just enough to pull you toward him.

you stirred.

“hm?” you barely a sound.

his hand brushed your spine, featherlight. “go back to sleep,” he murmured.

you didn’t.

instead, you turned over, blinking slow, reaching for him like instinct. he let you. let your fingers curl into his shirt where it draped over his thigh, anchoring him there.

“where were you going?” you asked, voice gravelly.

he shrugged. “walk.”

you looked up at him, still half asleep. “without me?”

his lips twitched. not a smile, exactly. but close. “you looked peaceful.”

“i always look peaceful.”

he huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. “not always.”

you were both quiet for a second.

then, softer.
“will you wait?”

he nodded. leaned down, kissed your temple. let it linger.

“for you i’d wait a lifetime.”

you walked through the village hand in hand, fingers woven loose, like the space between you was already closed. a few locals waved. a baker sweeping his doorway nodded toward victor like he knew him. maybe he did. maybe everyone knew him here. not as the player, the face on tv, but just the boy who came back when the season ended. the tall one with the quiet voice. the one who didn’t need to be seen to be known.

you stopped at the boulangerie (bakery). he ordered in french. you tried, and stumbled. he didn’t correct you, just smiled and said the words again, slower, until they felt like something you could hold in your mouth without dropping.

you took your pastries to go. sat on the low stone wall near the church, feet dangling over the edge. he passed you a pain au chocolat and wiped powdered sugar from the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

“you always eat slow,” he said.

“you always finish mine,” you replied.

his eyes flicked toward you, heavy lidded, amused. “you want me to stop?”

you didn’t answer. you never did.

back at the cottage, the afternoon slipped into something golden. the air still, cicadas buzzing, laundry lines dancing in the breeze like they had somewhere to be. you laid out on the floor. cool tile under your back, victor beside you, stretched long, his knee brushing yours.

he was tracing something on the inside of your wrist. slow. absentminded.

“what’re you drawing?” you murmured.

“not sure yet.”

you looked over. “is it me?”

he didn’t look up, just gave a light smile like you’d caught him red handed. “always.”

your breath caught. you didn’t say anything.

he finally turned to you, admiring you as if you were a goddess sprawled beneath him.

“i like it here,” he said.

you nodded. “i know.”

“feels like, i could be someone else.”

you watched his face.

“you don’t have to be someone else,” you said. “you just have to be.”

his eyes softened. just barely. he looked down at your hand again.

“still learning how.”

you reached over and laced your fingers with his. squeezed once. “i’ll help.”

and he didn’t say thank you. didn’t say anything, really. just held your hand a little tighter. let the silence stretch between you like something holy.

the tile beneath you was smooth, faintly cool, holding onto the last shadows of morning. the sun hadn’t reached this corner of the room yet, but you could see the way it poured in through the kitchen window, bright and still, like it had nowhere better to be. dust danced in the beams of it, suspended. like even the air knew how to be slow here.

victor hadn’t let go of your hand.

his fingers were long, warm, completely wrapped around yours, thumb brushing rhythmically across the ridge of your knuckle. he was quiet again, but not distant. there was a softness in his stillness this time. like he was thinking of how to say something without saying it.

his body stretched next to yours, broad and long, one arm tucked behind his head. he didn’t shift much, but you could feel the weight of him beside you. not heavy. grounding. like a presence you didn’t have to look at to know it was there.

“you smell like the garden,” you murmured, your voice low, half afraid to break whatever spell was resting in the room.

he turned his head toward you, eyes dark and unreadable, but softened at the edges.

“you’re just saying that because i picked rosemary.”

“hm, no,” you said. “it’s your skin. it holds things.”

he didn’t answer right away. just blinked, slow. you could see the golden flecks in his eyes when the light hit just right. rare, like something you had to earn. his gaze moved across your face, then back to the ceiling.

“you ever think about leaving?” he asked suddenly, voice low. “not permanently. just for a little. no phones. no noise.”

you hesitated. not because you didn’t know, but because you did.

“all the time.”

he nodded once, almost like he expected it.

“sometimes i think, maybe i’ll just stay here after the season,” he said, voice quieter now, like he was afraid the walls might overhear. “no press. no travel. just this. the garden. you.”

the way he said it made your chest pull tight. not romantic, not exactly. something deeper. ache and want and exhaustion, all tangled together and barely spoken aloud. he was yearning for something in his reach, but something that seemed to disappear the moment he touched it.

you turned your head. studied the line of his jaw, the small bump on the bridge of his nose, the soft curve of his mouth. he didn’t look like the version of him the world clung to. didn’t carry that sharpness. that steel.

he looked like someone trying to remember how to be human again.

“what would we do all day?” you asked.

he smiled, faint but real. “make coffee. read. maybe get a dog.”

“what kind of dog?”

“something small,” he said, and you gave him a look. he smirked. “okay, big. ridiculous. taller than you.”

“rude.”

“it’s true.”

you huffed, but your smile was already creeping in. you turned your hand in his, letting your fingers slide up the inside of his wrist, tracing that soft patch of skin where his pulse beat steady and slow.

“i’d stay,” you said, finally.

he didn’t move. didn’t even blink.

“i know.”

there was something fragile in the quiet between you now. not heavy. just full. like it might spill if you let it.

outside, the cicadas started again, humming low like static beneath everything. the light shifted on the wall. you thought maybe it was getting hotter, but you didn’t move. neither of you did.

just the tile, the breath between words, the press of his thumb across your knuckles.
just the idea of a world that was only this room. only this morning. only you and him and the sun not quite reaching your bodies yet.

your birthday falls on a quiet night. the city hums far below, a blur of lights and sound through the windows of the hotel suite. but up here, it feels like the world has stilled, just for you.

victor kneels before you like it’s instinct. like this is how he was always meant to be. at your feet, hands resting on your thighs like they’re sacred ground. the soft stretch of his dress shirt brushes your skin, and he leans in, pressing his mouth just above your knee, slow and reverent.

“bon anniversaire, ma beauté,” victor murmurs, voice low, shaped by that deep, deliberate french cadence you love. “i hope you know how much i’ve been thinking about this. about you.”

his eyes find yours and hold them. that sharp, gentle gaze that never rushes, that sees right through every version of you, down to the quiet ache you never speak aloud. tonight, you don’t have to.

he lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses each fingertip, one by one, like he’s memorizing the shape of your touch. “you deserve to be celebrated like this,” he says, like it’s a fact. not a compliment, not a promise, but something absolute. “not just today. always.”

when his hands slide up your sides, it’s not greedy. it’s worship. fingers mapping you slowly, like he wants to learn every curve by feel. his voice is barely above a whisper, rough around the edges: “tell me what you need. i’ll give you everything.”

he lays you back slow, like you’re something fragile. the sheets are cool beneath you, but his hands are warm, his body towering and sure as he follows you down. he doesn’t rush. not tonight. tonight, he wants time to stretch, to linger in every breath, every glance, every sigh that leaves your lips.

his mouth trails lower, worshipful, like he’s praying with his lips and your skin is the altar. “tu sais pas à quel point je t’aime,” he breathes against your stomach. you don’t have to know french to feel what he means. you feel it in the way his voice falters, like the weight of his love is too much to carry in words.

he kisses your hips, your thighs, his lashes fluttering as he closes his eyes like he’s tasting something holy. his hands hold you open, gentle but firm, thumbs stroking the softest parts of you with quiet reverence. his mouth finds you slow. no teasing, no games. just heat, just hunger, just him.

“you’re so perfect like this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse between kisses. “i want you to feel everything. i want to ruin you for anyone else.”

you gasp, fingers threading through his curls, and he groans softly when you tug.

he takes his time. mouth steady, tongue soft and then sharp, learning your rhythm, matching it, deepening it. you feel yourself unraveling under him, and still he doesn’t stop. not when your thighs shake. not when your voice breaks on his name.

“just like that,” he says, dragging the words out slow. “give it to me. c’est ça, bébé… let go.”

and even when you hold back, when your body trembles and you cry out, he doesn’t pull back. he stays right there, mouth greedy, hands gripping your thighs like he can keep you open forever.

when he finally rises, lips wet, eyes dark, he looks at you like he’s seen a god.

“you don’t know what you do to me,” he says, pulling his shirt over his head, the soft rustle of fabric filling the quiet. “i think about you all the time. when i’m training. when i’m flying. when i’m alone at night, in a cold bed. i think about this.”

he lines his body with yours, slow and careful, so much taller but never overwhelming. he holds your face in both hands and kisses you like he needs it to breathe, like he’s already halfway gone and your mouth is the only thing that can bring him back.

“let me give you everything,” he says, voice breaking. “let me show you what you mean to me.”

he pushes in with aching slowness, and your body opens around him like it’s been waiting for this. for him. he groans low, a guttural sound buried in your throat as he kisses you. there’s no rush in his rhythm. just the weight of every feeling he’s been holding back, poured into each stroke like a prayer.

your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, heels pressing into the curve of his back, pulling him deeper. he hisses through his teeth, eyes fluttering shut. “fuck, you feel- you feel unreal,” he gasps. “you take me so well. you always do.”

his hips roll slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch. your bodies move in sync, sweat-slicked and breathless, the heat between you molten. he grips your jaw, tilts your face to his, and whispers, “look at me, ma chérie. i want to see your eyes when you cum.”

he could stay here forever, inside you, wrapped in this golden tension that keeps building, building, building.

your back arches, your hands scrabble at his shoulders, nails dragging red down his skin, and he groans. “that’s it,” he pants, voice frayed, “that’s my girl. you’re so close, aren’t you?”

his hand slides between you, thumb brushing over your clit in slow, tight circles, just enough to make your vision blur. every nerve is alight. every sound he makes, every word in that low, reverent voice unravels you further.

“let me feel you. come on, bébé... let go for me. show me how good i make you feel.”

you try to hold on, just for a second more, but his hips angle just right, the pressure perfect, his breath shuddering against your neck, and then it hits you. wave after wave, slow at first, then all-consuming. you fall into it, moaning his name like a litany, like it’s the only thing anchoring you to earth.

victor watches you like you’re divine.

he groans your name, presses his forehead to yours, and rides you through it, holding you so tight you forget where you end and he begins. your bodies shake together, mouths meeting in a desperate kiss, wet and open and so full of love it borders on something holy.

“good girl,” he whispers, breath ragged. “you’re perfect. you’re everything.”

you’re still trembling when he finally stills inside you, arms wrapped tight around your waist, his breath stuttering against your throat. for a moment, neither of you move. just heartbeats, racing, tangled, and the soft whine of the city far below. like the world remembers itself, but you’re both still lost in something slower, sweeter.

victor doesn’t pull away. not yet. he kisses your temple, your cheek, your jaw, lazy, lingering kisses, like he’s trying to memorize every piece of you while you’re still soft and pliant in his arms.

“you okay, mon ange?” he asks softly, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead.

you nod, and he smiles. “good,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder. “you’re everything.”

he pulls out with careful slowness, murmuring something in french against your skin you don’t quite catch, but it feels like praise. then he disappears for a moment. warm towel, soft hands, cleaning you up gently, like he’s handling something precious.

when he returns to bed, he draws you into his chest, one impossibly long arm curled around your waist, his nose nuzzling the crown of your head. the air between you is humid and quiet, but he speaks again, voice low and heavy with sincerity.

“you know i think about this even when i’m halfway across the world, right?” his fingers trace your spine in lazy lines. “not just the way you feel, but the way you look at me. the way you let me love you.”

you tilt your head to meet his gaze, and there’s something so raw in it. like he’s still overwhelmed by how deeply he feels this. how real you are in his arms, how close.

“happy birthday,” he says again, softer now, mouth brushing your collarbone. “i hope you know i’d give you the stars if you asked.”

you let out a quiet laugh, barely a breath, and he pulls the covers over you both like a final promise. outside, the city glows. inside, it’s just you and him and the steady rhythm of two hearts learning how to slow down together.

“rest, bébé,” he whispers, lips at your ear. “you’re mine tonight.”

and you are.

completely.