ᯓ keeper; r.dias
──one shot
pairing ➜ ruben x fem!reader
word count ➜ 2.6k
warnings/notes ➜ fluff.
summary ➜ meeting the family is never easy, but ruben makes it look that way. your mom is practically in love with him, your dad is impressed against his will, and your little sister has decided he’s cool enough to stay.
you don’t really bring men home. not because you’re secretive, but because it’s never been that serious. your parents know how you move—know you’re picky, know that even when you do entertain somebody, it’s never for long. they’ve learned not to ask questions, not to get attached, because the answer is always the same: he’s not staying.
so when you step through the front door, hand tucked into ruben’s, the shift in the air is instant. your mother is the first to react, and she doesn’t even try to hide it. hand on her chest, lips parting in barely concealed delight, eyes darting between you and him like she’s trying to figure out what spell he put on you.
“oh, this must be ruben.”
he smiles, all polite and warm, reaching his hand out with the kind of confidence that never teeters into arrogance. “yes, ma’am.”
and lord. he’s barely said two words, but he’s already winning. your mother loves a polite man.
your dad is next, stepping forward with the kind of presence that makes people stand up straighter. he sizes ruben up the way dads do, like he’s seeing through all the good things your mom has already told him, picking apart the man standing in front of him with a trained, protective eye.
ruben, unshaken, sticks his hand out. “nice to meet you, sir.”
“mhm.” your dad clasps his hand in a firm shake—too firm. like he’s making a point. a statement. a quiet don’t get comfortable.
you shake your head, biting back a laugh. such a dad thing to do, you’re not even surprised.
but ruben? doesn’t flinch. doesn’t cower. just meets his gaze, solid and self-assured. you already know your dad is going to respect that. a man who can stand up for himself, who won’t fold under pressure, is a man who can stand up for you. that’s all he wants for his baby girl.
but the real test? zuri.
your seven-year-old sister, your mini-me, the loudest, nosiest, most chaotic person in the house. if there’s a single crack in ruben’s armor, she’s going to find it and pry it open with sticky fingers and relentless questions.
she peeks out from behind your dad’s legs, wide brown eyes locking onto ruben like she’s scanning his soul.
“hey, zuri.” he crouches down to her level, arms resting on his knees. “i’ve heard a lot about you.”
she squints. doesn’t respond right away. just tilts her head and stares at him, like she’s trying to decide if she fucks with him or not.
“you the football boy?”
you snort. ruben grins. “that’s me.”
“hmm.” she taps a tiny finger against her chin, the way she does when she’s fake-thinking about what ice cream flavour to get. “you any good?”
your dad chuckles, your mom shakes her head, and ruben just laughs, shaking his head like he can’t believe this little girl is pressing him like this.
“i’d like to think so, yeah.”
zuri studies him for a second longer, then extends a hand, palm up, expectant. “gimme your phone.”
ruben raises a brow. “why?”
“so i can google you.”
and listen. you expect ruben to hesitate. expect him to laugh it off, tell her no, maybe throw you a look like come get your little sister, please. but he does none of that. instead, he pulls his phone out without a second thought, unlocks it, and places it right in her tiny palm.
your mother is quick to protest. “ruben, baby, you don’t have to—”
“no, it’s alright.” he smirks, watching zuri take the phone and plop down on the couch like she owns the place. “gotta prove myself, right?”
you press your lips together, trying to suppress a smile, because if there’s one thing about ruben, it’s that he never backs down from a challenge. not on the pitch, not in life, and apparently not from a seven-year-old with a sassy mouth and zero filter.
a natural-born winner, so of course he’d want to win your baby sister over too.
—
dinner is a whole event. your mom goes all out, pots and pans clattering in the kitchen for hours. she makes every dish you grew up on—fluffy rice, slow-cooked meat that falls off the bone, greens seasoned to perfection, cornbread still warm from the oven.
ruben eats everything. like, cleans his plate, goes for seconds, tells your mom it’s the best meal he’s had in a long time. you swear she almost tears up, waving him off with a dish towel like she’s not about to brag about it to the aunties later.
your dad, meanwhile, is running him through the gauntlet. no softballs, no easing in—he’s cutting straight to the chase, arms folded across his chest like a man who’s been waiting for this moment. wants to know about his career, about his life, about his intentions with you. ruben doesn’t hesitate. no fumbling, no nervous stammering—just smooth, calm answers, all respect, all confidence. like he was built for this.
and zuri? she’s been on the fence all day, eyeing him with that serious little frown of hers, arms crossed like a mini version of your dad. but now she’s settled herself right next to him, like she’s decided he’s worth her time. her tiny legs kick under the table, her voice full of nosy, rapid-fire questions, stealing food off his plate like they go way back.
“you famous famous?”
ruben wipes his mouth with his napkin, fighting a smile. “not really.”
“but people know you?”
“yeah.”
“hmm.” she twirls her fork between her fingers, sizing him up. “so you got money?”
your dad damn near chokes on his drink. your mom gasps, smacks zuri’s hand with the back of her spoon. “what did i tell you about asking people personal business?”
ruben just laughs, light and easy. “it’s alright.”
zuri ignores your mom completely, elbow on the table, chin resting in her tiny palm as her eyes stay locked on ruben. “so… do you?”
he leans in a little, like they’re in on something together. drops his voice to a whisper. “enough to buy you a new colouring book.”
her eyes widen like he just promised her the world. “really?”
“mhm. but only if you promise not to bully me for the rest of the night.”
she gasps, presses a hand to her chest like she’s been gravely insulted. “i would never.”
you roll your eyes. the dramatics.
ruben chuckles, shaking his head as he picks up his fork again. “alright, then. deal.”
zuri grins, holds out her tiny hand. “shake on it.”
and ruben does. his much larger hand gently enveloping hers. you swear, you feel something shift in your chest watching them.
because this? this is new. men don’t make it this far with you. they don’t sit at your mother’s dinner table and hold their own against your father’s interrogation. they definitely don’t entertain zuri’s nonsense past the five-minute mark before giving up.
but ruben? ruben is here. handling all of it like he was made for this. like it’s easy. like he belongs here.
and that… that does something to you. something deep. something heavy in your chest, warm in your stomach.
you try to shake it off, pick up your glass of wine, take a slow sip. but ruben catches your eye across the table. gives you this look.
like he already knows.
—
after dinner, everyone moves to the living room. your dad puts on the game, already muttering at the screen before kickoff even starts. your mom, despite your protests, is still fussing in the kitchen, clinking dishes together as she wipes down the counters. and zuri? zuri’s still stuck to ruben like glue, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, looking up at him like he hung the damn moon.
“sooo… you really play for man city?”
ruben, who’s settled into the armchair like he’s been here a hundred times before, nods. “yeah.”
“like, the real one?”
he laughs, low and amused. “yeah, the real one.”
she squints, head tilting, nose scrunching. “but you don’t sound english.”
you snort into your wine glass, and ruben throws you a look before turning back to zuri. “that’s ‘cause i’m not.”
zuri scratches her chin, considering. “hmm. you any good?”
ruben exhales, shaking his head, and you swear you can hear the smile in it. “you already asked me that.”
“yeah, but now i googled you.” she narrows her eyes, all mock-suspicion. “i need to know if the stats match up.”
you shake your head, sinking into the couch, the plush fabric swallowing you up as you take another sip of wine. your mom finally sits down beside you, letting out a satisfied sigh, and leans in close, voice hushed but full of something knowing.
“baby, where did you find this one?”
you glance at ruben, watching the way he bends slightly to hear zuri better, nodding like whatever she’s saying is the most important thing in the world. his brows pull together, lips twitching, and then he grins, nudging her playfully when she suggests he add a backflip to his goal celebrations.
“i didn’t,” you murmur, half to yourself. “he found me.”
your mom hums like she already knew that. like it confirms something. “that explains a lot.”
you frown. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
she just smiles, that all-knowing, motherly kind. “nothing. i’m just saying he’s a keeper. so keep him.”
you roll your eyes, but you don’t argue. because, yeah. she’s right. he’s definitely a keeper.
—
later that night, when it’s finally time to leave, zuri flings herself at ruben’s leg like he’s about to be deployed to war. arms wrapped tight, face pressed dramatically against his knee.
“you just got here,” she whines, words muffled against his jeans. “stay.”
ruben chuckles, patting the top of her head like she’s a stubborn puppy. “i gotta go, munchkin.”
“but why?”
“because your sister would be mad if i moved in on the first day.”
zuri peeks up at you, wide-eyed. “you live together?”
“no,” you say, at the same time ruben says, “not yet.”
your head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing. he just smirks, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
zuri gasps like she’s just uncovered the biggest scandal of the decade. “so you’re gonna?”
ruben crouches down to her level, but not before shooting you a teasing glance. “not anytime soon,” he tells her, ruffling her curls. “but i’ll come back and visit, yeah?”
she huffs, arms folding over her chest like a tiny executive rejecting a business deal. “pinky promise?”
ruben grins, holding out his pinky. “pinky promise.”
zuri stares at him for a long moment, assessing, like she’s weighing the truth in his words. finally, she nods, wrapping her pinky around his.
“okay, i believe you,” she says. “but only because you’re kinda cool.”
ruben laughs. “high praise.”
then she leans in, cupping a hand around her mouth like she’s about to share state secrets. “and because you’re the only boyfriend my sister’s ever brought home. so you must be special.”
ruben’s eyes flicker to you. something shifts in them—something softer, something unreadable.
your stomach does that stupid little thing it always does when he looks at you that way. you ignore it, reaching for your coat.
“alright,” you mutter. “that’s enough. time to go.”
—
the drive home is quiet at first. you sit back, watching the city melt past your window in streaks of gold and navy, feeling the night settle into your bones. your belly is full, the warmth of dinner still lingering in your chest, the echoes of laughter curling at the edges of your thoughts. it was good. better than you expected.
“they love me.”
you don’t even have to look at ruben to know he’s smirking. you sigh, but the smile creeping onto your lips is inevitable. of course he’s smug about it.
“yeah, yeah, whatever.”
he chuckles, deep and warm. “your mom damn near adopted me. your dad was three seconds away from calling me son. and zuri?” he shakes his head. “she adores me.”
you roll your eyes, shifting in your seat. “zuri likes everybody.”
“not true.” he side-eyes you, the glow from the dashboard catching the sharp line of his jaw. “she made your last situationship cry, didn’t she?”
you groan, tilting your head back against the seat. “why would you bring that up?”
“‘cause it’s funny.”
you shoot him a glare, but it’s weak at best. because, yeah, it was funny. zuri had made it her personal mission to get on that man’s last nerve whenever he came to pick you up. he'd barely lasted three weeks.
ruben reaches over then, his hand finding your thigh like it belongs there. his touch is warm, soothing. you barely even notice the way you lean into it.
“you okay?”
you blink. glance at him. “why wouldn’t i be?”
he shrugs, thumb stroking absentmindedly against your skin. “dunno. just… your mom said something earlier. about how she’s never seen you let your guard down like this before.”
you pause. turn back to the window.
oh.
he hums, like he’s giving you space to sit with it. “she sounded surprised.”
you exhale, slow and measured, fingers curling around the hem of your dress.
“yeah, well. my mom says a lot of things.”
he doesn’t respond right away. just keeps driving, one hand on the wheel, the other still resting against you, the hum of the engine filling the space between you.
then, softer—
“it’s not a bad thing, you know.” you glance at him, catching the way his eyes flick to you before returning to the road, steady and certain. “letting someone take care of you for once.”
your throat tightens.
because he says it like it’s simple. like it’s a truth so obvious he doesn’t even need to think twice.
but it’s not that simple. not to you, anyway. you’ve always been a little too guarded, a little too stubborn. men have tried to get close, and you’ve let them—but only on your terms, only as much as you wanted, only as much as you could control. and then ruben came along, and somehow, you weren’t thinking about control anymore. you weren’t thinking about walls or defenses or escape routes. with him, it was just… easy.
you swallow, turn back to the window.
“i don’t need to be taken care of,” you mumble, but there’s no real bite behind it. just habit. just reflex.
“never said you did.” his voice dips lower, smooth like something honeyed, something reassuring. his thumb strokes over your thigh again, slower this time, like he knows you’re thinking too much and he’s trying to pull you back. “i’m just saying it makes me happy.”
you hesitate. “what does?”
“that you feel safe enough to let down your defenses around me.” his fingers squeeze gently against your skin, a silent reassurance. “means i’m doing something right.”
your heart stumbles.
because fuck.
he says it so easy. just ruben being ruben—sure of himself, sure of you, sure of whatever the hell this is.
and that’s what gets you the most. the steadiness. the certainty.
you don’t know what to say. so you just look at him, hoping he gets it.
he does.
he squeezes your leg one last time before pulling his hand back, turning back to the road. and the rest of the drive is quiet, but it’s a different kind of quiet now. it’s weighted, filled with something unspoken, but not in a bad way.
no, this is the good kind of quiet.
the kind that means something.
and maybe—just maybe—you’re both closer to saying those three words than either of you thought.
