DAYDREAMER

A puck hit the glass in front of you hard enough to make you jolt, and when you looked up, Garrett was skating by with an apology that did not look very apologetic. He circled back with his stick loose in one hand, face flushed from practice and hair damp under his helmet, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who had nearly shaved five years off your life.

“Sorry,” he called through the glass. “Didn’t see you there.”

“You absolutely saw me there.”

His grin widened, which was answer enough.

Since he was already hovering, you lifted your phone and started recording. “Rapid fire, Graham. Favorite pregame song?”

Garrett stopped on the other side of the glass and seemed to consider it for half a second before giving you the least helpful answer possible. “Depends on the game.”

You gave him a look over the top of your phone. “Boring answer. Favorite snack?”

“Also depends.”

“Try harder.”

His laugh carried through the glass, warm and easy, and he finally gave in. “Fine. That granola bar thing you had last week.”

You lowered the phone a little without meaning to. “You made fun of me for eating that.”

“I noticed it, didn’t I?”

That was the problem with Garrett. He could say something simple and make it feel like there was more tucked underneath it, especially when he was watching your reaction like he cared more about making you smile than getting through the question.

Behind him, Logan skated past and let out a dramatic cough that sounded suspiciously fake. Garrett did not even turn around. He only lifted one gloved hand in Logan’s direction, dismissing him without taking his attention off you.

You raised the phone again and tried to get back on track. “Favorite part of game day?”

This time, Garrett actually answered. He said something about the crowd, the energy, and the way the locker room felt right before the team stepped out onto the ice. It was a good answer, the kind you could actually use, and you were already thinking about where to cut the clip when his gaze slipped from the phone to your face.

“And the account’s gotten better this year,” he added.

You kept the phone up, though your thumb twitched near the stop button. “That wasn’t the question.”

Garrett’s mouth curved. “Still true.”

You stopped recording before your expression could betray you too clearly. He must have known exactly what he had done, because his smile softened, but instead of pushing it, he tapped his stick against the boards and skated backward.

“Make sure you get my good side, admin.”

By the time you posted the clip that afternoon, you had cut it down to the safest version. Garrett talking about game day, Garrett laughing when Logan nearly crashed into him in the background, Garrett saying the account had gotten better in a tone you convinced yourself sounded normal enough to leave in.

It took exactly eight minutes for the comments to become insufferable.

@ briarhockeyfan: he looked at admin more than the camera btw @ campuscrushwatch: no because why did his voice get softer at the end @ grahamcracker88: this account is now a slow burn and i support it @ briarupdates: admin please blink twice if garrett graham is flirting with you @ briarstudentsection: he said “still true” and i folded from my dorm room

You stared at the screen with your thumb hovering over the comment section, your face warm enough that you turned the brightness down as if that would somehow make it less obvious.

People online exaggerated everything. You knew that. They could turn a five-second clip into a full conspiracy board if they were bored enough between classes. Garrett was charming with everyone. He smiled at professors, dining hall workers, fans in the stands, and random students who stopped him on campus. He could probably get a vending machine to apologize after stealing his dollar.

That was just Garrett, you told yourself.

You repeated it later in the week when he showed up beside you before an early practice with two coffees in his hands.

The rink was still half-empty, the air cold enough that your fingers ached around your phone. You had arrived before most of the team to film quiet shots of the arena, the kind of soft, cinematic clips that made game day posts feel more polished. You were crouched near the bench, trying to get a clean shot of the logo at center ice, when a coffee appeared in front of you.

Garrett stood there in sweats and a Briar hoodie, one strap of his bag slung over his shoulder, his hair still messy like he had barely made it out of bed.

“You said the café line was crazy before eight,” he said.

You took the cup and stared at the label, realizing he had somehow gotten your order right. “I said that two weeks ago.”

“I have a decent memory.”

“You remembered my coffee order?”

“I did.” A sly smile spread across his face.

“Thank you,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

He nodded toward your phone. “You filming this morning?”

“B-roll.”

“Sounds fancy.”

“It’s literally just empty rink footage.”

“Still fancy when you say it.”

Dean’s voice carried from down the hall before he could say anything else, loud enough to make Garrett glance over his shoulder. Before he left, he nodded toward the far end of the rink where the doors always let in a brutal draft.

“You should film from this side today. Better lighting.”

You knew very well that lighting had nothing to do with it, but you looked toward the warmer side of the rink anyway. “Better lighting?”

“Definitely.”

He left you with the coffee and a smile you thought about for the rest of practice, which was embarrassing because the coffee was good, the lighting was not noticeably better, and Garrett had still somehow gotten exactly what he wanted.

The worst part was that it did not stop there.

When the rink air left your fingers stiff around your phone, Garrett started steering interviews closer to the tunnel instead of making you chase the guys along the boards, and he acted like it was only because the sound was better there. When you stayed late after a game to pack away the small tripod and mic equipment, he always seemed to come out of the locker room slowly enough to walk toward the exit at the same time. When you asked the team who was most likely to survive on a deserted island, Garrett gave your name because you “looked like you could organize everybody into staying alive,” and Dean immediately yelled from off camera that Garrett was not on the island, he was just trying to get invited.

That clip performed disgustingly well.

The comments were worse than ever.

@ briarbluecrew: dean is us and we are dean @ rinksidebabe: garrett saying admin’s name like that. okay. okay!!!! @ briarhockeyofficialfan: can someone make a compilation of him forgetting this is a team account @ hockeyhousegossip: he is down horrendous @ deansburner: admin cutting the camera every time she laughs is my favorite genre

You should have ignored it, and you really tried, but the more people commented, the more aware you became of every little thing. Garrett leaned closer when you asked him a question. Garrett found you before you found him. Garrett smiled at your laugh like he had been waiting for it. The guys snickered whenever he volunteered for segments he used to pretend were beneath him.

At first, it was funny. Sweet, even. Then one night, while editing a mic’d up practice video in the media office, you found a clip that made your chest go tight.

Garrett had been standing near Logan at the bench, helmet pushed back, mic still live on his shoulder. You were in the background of the shot, reviewing footage on your phone, unaware the camera had caught any of it.

Logan’s voice came through the audio first, amused and far too pleased with himself as he pointed out that Garrett was not exactly subtle. Garrett shoved him without looking away from where you stood, and Logan kept going, saying he could always ask you out like a normal person. Garrett told him to mind his business, but there was a laugh under it, quieter than the one he used for the camera. Then he looked down, tapped his stick once against the floor, and admitted he was working on it.

You sat very still in the glow of the computer screen.

The clip was only seven seconds long, but it would have made the internet lose its mind. You could already picture the comments, the edits, the captions, the flood of people acting like your almost-something with Garrett was public property just because it had happened near a camera. After watching it one more time, you cut it from the video and posted the final version without it, keeping that small, private moment out of everyone else’s hands.

No one knew the difference, except maybe Garrett.

The next day, he watched the edited version while sitting on the boards after practice, phone in his hand and brows lifted just enough for you to notice. You were filming a few players taking shots at an empty net when he came over, quieter than usual.

“You left out Logan being annoying.”

“Logan is annoying in every video. I have to ration it.”

Garrett studied you for a moment, and something in his expression changed into something warmer than humor. “Thanks.”

You shrugged, trying to make it casual. “It wasn’t really hockey content.”

“No,” he agreed, his voice softer around the edges. “It wasn’t.”

The way he said it made your stomach flip.

After that, you started filming him less. Not obviously, at least you hoped it was not obvious, because you still included him in team videos. Leaving Garrett Graham out of Briar hockey content would have been ridiculous, and everyone would have noticed immediately. Still, you stopped seeking him out first. You asked Tucker for more answers. You filmed Logan goofing off with Dean. You captured wide shots, team huddles, game day skates, and anything that made the account feel like the account again, not a weekly episode of everyone waiting for Garrett to finally do something.

He noticed by Thursday.

Practice had just ended, and you were packing your bag near the tunnel when his skates stopped beside you. You did not look up right away, mostly because you already knew it was him. Garrett had a way of taking up space even when he was silent.

“Did I do something?” he asked.

That made you look at him. He had changed out of his gear but not into his usual post-practice ease. His hair was still damp, his hoodie half-zipped, and there was a slight crease between his brows that made your chest squeeze.

“No,” you said quickly. “No, you didn’t do anything.”

He nodded once, but he did not look convinced. “You’ve barely pointed the camera at me all week.”

“I’ve pointed it at you.”

“For work, yeah.” He paused, glancing toward the rink, then back at you. “You stopped teasing me.”

You tightened your hand around the strap of your bag and looked past him, where a few of the guys were still lingering near the bench. They were far enough not to hear, but close enough to remind you why you had been trying to be smart about this.

“The comments were getting weird,” you admitted, and when his expression shifted, you hurried to explain before he could take it the wrong way. “Not bad weird. Just a lot. People notice everything, and I don’t want it to look like I’m making the account about you, or like I’m unprofessional, or like I’m using the team account to flirt with you.”

Saying it out loud felt worse than thinking it.

Garrett was quiet long enough that you had to look back at him.

“You’re not,” he said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He stepped a little closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough that his voice could stay between the two of you. “You’re good at what you do. Everybody knows that. The account is better because of you, not because I occasionally make an idiot out of myself on camera.”

You tried not to smile. “Occasionally?”

His mouth curved, but he did not take the bait. “If I made you uncomfortable, I’ll stop.”

That softened something in you immediately.

“You didn’t.”

“Good.” He looked relieved for half a second before he added, “I like making you laugh. The camera just happens to be there half the time.”

Your breath caught a little, and Garrett noticed. You could tell by the way his eyes dropped for one brief, devastating second before he looked away like he was trying not to push too much at once.

From down the hall, Dean shouted something about Garrett moving before the bus left without him. Garrett ignored him for another moment, his attention still on you.

“Film me tomorrow,” he said. “For real. I’ll answer the questions properly and everything.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “That sounds fake.”

“It probably is,” he admitted, and there he was again, warm and teasing and Garrett. “But I’ll try.”

You smiled despite yourself, and his face did something unfair in response, something bright and pleased that made you want to hide behind your phone even though you were not recording.

“See?” he said. “Worth it.”

Friday night was the big game, and the arena felt alive long before warmups started.

You moved through the familiar chaos with your phone in hand, capturing laces being tied, sticks being taped, jerseys pulled over pads, and the blur of the student section filling in beyond the glass. The team was loud in the way they always were before a game, all restless energy and shouted jokes and rituals they pretended not to take seriously.

Your segment for the night was simple. Good luck charms.

Tucker showed you the same tape job he swore he did not care about but recreated exactly every game. Logan claimed he did not need luck because he had talent, which immediately got him shoved by two teammates. Dean gave a deeply dramatic explanation about his lucky socks that you knew you would have to cut down before posting.

Then you found Garrett near the tunnel.

He was leaning against the wall with his stick in one hand and his helmet tucked under his arm, looking calmer than he had any right to be. When he saw you coming, his face changed in that familiar way that made the comments feel a little less ridiculous every time.

You lifted the phone. “Good luck charm?”

Garrett glanced at the camera, then at you. “Are you posting this?”

“That depends on whether you say something usable.”

A few weeks ago, he would have made a joke immediately, something big and easy for everyone around him to hear. Instead, he took a second, and the pause felt different enough that your grip tightened around the phone.

His eyes stayed on you.

Then his mouth curved softly, like he had decided against whatever answer had first come to mind.

“Routine,” he said. “Same tape, same warmup, same playlist. Nothing exciting.”

You knew there was more. He knew you knew.

Still, you nodded and kept your voice steady. “Very inspiring.”

“I do what I can.”

You stopped recording, and the noise of the hallway rushed back in around you. For a second, neither of you moved. Garrett shifted his stick to his other hand and leaned a little closer, his voice dropping beneath the sounds of the team behind him.

“Ask me again after the game.”

Your heart stumbled. Before you could answer, someone called his name from the locker room, and Garrett backed away with one last look at you before disappearing through the door.

You posted the pregame clip a few minutes later, and the comments started before puck drop.

@briarhockeyfan: he almost said admin. i know he almost said admin.

@studentsectionbabe: “are you posting this?” SIR WHAT WERE YOU ABOUT TO SAY

@grahamcracker88: the tension has escaped containment

@campuscrushwatch: this is my stanley cup

@briarupdates: admin cutting the clip there is criminal behavior

You did not check them again until after the game.

Briar won by two.

The last five minutes were loud enough to rattle the glass. You filmed the student section losing their minds, the team spilling over the boards, the flash of helmets and gloves, and Garrett getting tackled into a hug by Logan hard enough that both of them nearly went down.

By the time the players made it back toward the tunnel, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

You caught Garrett just outside the locker room, still breathless from the game, hair damp and face flushed, looking like he belonged to every bright, roaring part of the night.

You lifted your phone. “Three words for the win?”

For once, Garrett looked directly at the camera.

“Worth the work,” he said.

It was a good answer. Clean, simple, easy to post.

You lowered the phone with a laugh. “Who are you and what have you done with Garrett Graham?”

He smiled, softer than usual. “Told you I’d try.”

Around you, the hallway was crowded for another minute, players pushing past, coaches talking, someone yelling about food from inside the locker room. Garrett waited until the noise shifted away from you, until no one was close enough to turn the moment into a performance.

Then he nodded at your phone. “Still recording?”

You checked the screen even though you knew you had stopped it. “No.”

“Good.”

Your pulse jumped.

Garrett took one step closer, just enough to make the rest of the hallway fade into something distant. “Then I’m asking without the account, without the comments, and without Logan making faces behind me,” he said. “Let me take you out.”

For all the time you had spent wondering, all the comments you had pretended not to reread, all the coffee cups and little looks you had tried to explain away, the words still managed to knock the air from your lungs.

Garrett Graham, who could handle pressure in front of a packed arena without blinking, looked nervous. Not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would notice from down the hall, but you could see it because you had spent too much time watching him through a lens and not enough time admitting you knew his face by now.

“You want to take me out?” you asked, softer than you meant to.

His smile tugged at one corner. “I’ve wanted to take you out for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“Long enough that Logan has become emotionally invested.”

You laughed, and the relief that crossed Garrett’s face made your chest feel too full.

“Yes,” you said. “You can take me out.”

Garrett’s grin broke wide, bright and boyish in a way that made him look less like the captain everyone yelled for from the stands and more like the guy who remembered your coffee order because you had complained once before eight in the morning.

“I had a better speech planned,” he admitted, looking down for a second with a smile he could not quite hide.

You smiled too, because the idea of Garrett Graham planning anything to say to you felt almost too sweet to handle. He had spent weeks turning every camera pointed at him into an excuse to look at you, and now that he finally had your full attention with no phone between you, he seemed a little less sure of what to do with it.

“I don’t think you needed one,” you said.

Garrett looked back at you then, his expression softening in a way that made the noise from the locker room fade behind him. The win was still happening all around you, in the shouts from down the hall and the dull thud of doors opening and closing, but he was standing close enough that the rest of it felt distant.

“Good,” he said, voice quieter now. “Because I’m pretty sure I forgot half of it.”

You laughed, and that seemed to settle whatever nerves he had left. His hand lifted slowly, giving you time to move away if you wanted to, but you stayed exactly where you were as his fingers brushed lightly against your cheek.

When he leaned in, the kiss was soft. Sweet enough that it caught you off guard, even though you had spent weeks pretending you had not thought about it. His hand settled at your waist, gentle and warm, and you smiled against him before you could help it.

Garrett pulled back just enough to see your face, but not enough to let go.

“That was better than the speech,” he murmured.

You felt your smile grow. “Definitely better than the speech.”

He laughed under his breath, and this time, when he kissed you again, it was quicker, lighter, like he could not quite resist doing it once more now that he knew he was allowed.

The walk back to your apartment is a blur. Your eyes burn. You tell yourself it’s just the wind, but the lie lasts about three seconds before the tears spill over too fast to stop.

You hate crying. It makes you feel shitty, both physically and mentally. You could probably count on one hand the amount of time that Garrett was responsible for any tears at all.

The apartment is dark, minus the lamp beside the couch. It’s been a bit since you’ve been here for more than a few hours, so it’s relatively empty. You kick your shoes off near the door and slump down against the barrier, sinking until you’re on the floor.

Hovering. He actually said you were hovering.

The words bounce around your skull no matter how hard you try to think of something else. You’d spent years convincing yourself that what the two of you had was enough, years telling yourself you didn’t need more, that it wouldn’t be right.

You should shower, text Allie that you aren’t going anymore, and go to bed to cry. It would be a welcome darkness to the pain in your chest. 

You knew Garrett would never feel the same, but you also never expected him to speak about your relationship the way he did tonight.

The way it felt like it didn’t matter, like it was a chore to him? That hurt more than a rejection in itself.

With a shaky breath, you peel yourself off the floor and shuffle toward the bedroom, dragging along like a rag doll. You didn’t even have an ice cream carton to cry into, just to make matters worse.

You turn the light on, welcoming the familiar sight of your bed. And then, because life is so cruel, something is sitting in the middle of your bed. A folded piece of paper. 

For a second, your brain refuses to process it, because that was not here before. You know damn well it wasn’t. Every instinct starts screaming to run because someone, anyone, could be in this apartment right now, and you wouldn’t know. 

The script on the front is obvious now that you’re closer, enough to read your name in black ink.

Not Bug. Not your last name. Your actual name.

And to make matters worse, the handwriting isn’t familiar. It’s definitely too neat to be any of the boys. Allie doesn’t write her letters that way, and it’s too organized to be Hannah’s. 

I was right about him.

Goosebumps cover your skin, and for a moment, you’re dizzy enough that the room tilts. When you’re finally able to think again, your phone is in your hand. Old habits die hard as you realize your finger is over Garrett’s name to call him on instinct.

And as if matters couldn’t get any worse, a text pops up above it. You half sob and step back from the bed, full panic mode taking over. Your phone clatters to the floor somewhere along the way, and your head is spinning with possibilities. 

You need Garrett, fucking Garrett. Garrett, whom you left standing in a parking lot forty minutes ago. Garrett, who used to bring you the chocolate chip cookies he would bake with his mom. Garrett, who defended you when girls would get too mean, and boys would scoff in your direction.

Garrett, whom you’re furious with, but you’d still trust every bit of your life with. Who you love.

It’s hard to wrap your mind around the fact that you love your best friend.

How do you even explain that? Hey, yeah, we’ve known each other since we were awkward and embarrassing, and now we should definitely be in a committed relationship. Sure!

You’d watched Garrett be involved with puck bunnies, and Hannah, and Kendall, and whoever else. You’d sat by the sidelines and tried to understand that he would never want you. But you still wanted him.

The stress-induced haze is enough that you don’t hear Allie calling your name from where she entered the apartment with the code you’d programmed. You don’t hear her steps across the floor, and all of a sudden, there’s movement in your peripherals, and you scream.

“What the fuck!” Allie’s screaming right back out of shock before she takes in your appearance. You genuinely can’t breathe at this point, and your ass hits the floor ungracefully as you lose your balance.

Allie looks from you to your phone on the floor before her eyes settle on the paper on the bed. And because she probably has some bullshit acting skills and has watched way too much TV, she pieces things together too quickly for your comfort.

“Bug, what the hell is going on?”

There is no response because you physically cannot get air in your lungs right now, and all you want is Garrett. 

Allie grabs the phone first, and you vaguely register her fingers scrolling back in the conversation to read everything from the start. The color drains from her face. She glances at the note, not risking touching as replays of crime documentaries flash in her head. 

You barely noticed because you’re so embarrassed over the fact that (as if she didn’t already know) all your dirty secrets have been spilled out.

“Oh, my God. I’m calling Garrett.”

“No!” Your voice breaks as you nearly shout, and it makes Allie jump. You barely even know why you’re stopping the call. Her knees hit the floor next to you, and she’s wrapping you in her arms as you try to breathe. “Garrett and I got in a fight, and-and he-”

Allie nods in understanding when you lose your voice to more crying. Her heart is breaking in her chest for you, but she knows she cannot do this alone. So, she goes for the next best thing.

The next best thing answers on the second ring.

“Hey, babe! Where-”

“You need to get over here.”

Any playful tone disappears from Dean’s voice instantly when he realizes Allie’s not playing games. “What happened?”

Her eyes go from you to the note and the phone on the floor in front of her.

“Something is really fucking wrong.”

--

The ride back to Glen’s flat was quiet, the city passing by in a blur of muted gray and gold. Gabby rested her head against the cool glass of the window, Brisket curled on the seat beside her, occasionally lifting his head to sniff at the London air. Glen’s hand brushed hers once or twice as he drove, casual, easy, grounding.

By the time they reached the building, the smell of damp pavement and autumn leaves clinging to the streets followed them up the elevator. Glen unlocked the door, and the faint aroma of coffee lingered from earlier that morning. Gabby dropped her bag on the floor with a soft thunk, Brisket padding ahead into the living room to stake out his spot on the rug.

“I’m starving,” Gabby admitted, stretching out on the couch as Glen fished his phone from his pocket.

“Same,” he said, scrolling through the takeout options. “Chiltern Firehouse? It’s my favorite place here in London.”

Gabby tilted her head with a smirk. “Yeah, sounds good. Do you have a recommendation of what to order?”

“Forty Eight Hour Chicken for you. And I’ll have the Black Angus NY Striploin. Extra side of their fries to share.”

Brisket’s ears perked up at the mention of food. Glen and Gabby both laughed.

While they waited for the delivery, Glen ducked into the bathroom. Gabby used the moment to stretch across the couch, legs draped lazily over his lap as she scrolled through her phone. When Glen emerged a few minutes later, his hair damp from the shower, a soft grey tee clinging to him, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the steam from the bathroom, her chest warmed on sight.

“Miss me?” He asked, settling into the chair beside her and pulling her closer so her legs rested comfortably across his thighs. 

Brisket jumped up, curling against his side, already making himself at home again.

The door buzzed a few moments later, and Glen hopped up to grab the food. He returned with the warm, fragrant boxes, sliding them onto the coffee table with a small flourish.

Gabby laughed, grabbing a fry as he pulled her closer, resting his chin atop her shoulder. “You’re really touchy today,” she teased.

“I’ve been waiting weeks to do this,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “First date I’ve had with you in awhile. Gotta make up for all the ones we’ve missed while I’ve been here.”

Gabby smiled, tilting her head to glance up at him. “You mean, all the ones we never got to have because of jet lag, filming, and me stressing over papers?”

“Exactly,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of her forehead. “All the missed breakfasts, walks, silly movies…this one’s mine to make up for it all.”

Brisket snuffled happily at the fries between them, stretching to swipe a piece with his paw. Gabby groaned, laughing as she gently shooed him aside. 

“Okay, fine. You win this round,” she said, nudging Glen with her shoulder.

He chuckled, voice low and warm. 

“I’m not done yet,” he teased, sliding his hand down to rest over hers. “This is just the appetizer.”

“Uh huh,” Gabby replied, mock-skeptical, though her heart was already fluttering. “And I suppose you’re planning a whole main course of clinginess?”

“Maybe dessert too,” he said with a sly grin, brushing his nose along her temple.

Gabby laughed again, sinking a little deeper into his embrace, feeling the steady warmth of him behind her. For the first time in weeks, the quiet apartment, the smell of food, the soft press of his lips to her skin, and Brisket at their feet felt like the perfect slice of normalcy.

For a little while, they ate quietly, the occasional chuckle or soft comment passing between bites. The apartment smelled faintly of the takeout and the faint trace of Glen’s aftershower scent. Outside, London hummed along, unaware of the calm, ordinary joy of this small flat filled with laughter, food, and a dog sprawled across the rug.

The quiet hum of the London flat wrapped around them as they sank deeper into the couch, Brisket stretched out lazily at Glen’s feet. The last remnants of dinner had been cleared away, leaving only the faint scent of fried chicken and steak lingering in the air. Gabby leaned against Glen’s side, her head resting just below his shoulder, fingers brushing against his arm in the softest of touches.

“I didn’t expect to miss you this much,” she admitted after a long pause, her voice barely above a whisper. “I mean…I knew I’d miss you. But this…it scared me how much. Some nights I couldn’t even sleep, and I kept thinking, where are you? Are you okay? And then…I’d just lie there and miss you some more.”

Glen exhaled slowly, tilting his head so his lips brushed against the top of her hair. “I know exactly what you mean. I’ve been lying in my trailer, staring at the wall, thinking about how quiet it feels when you’re not around. This shoot…it’s been harder than any I’ve done before. And not because of the work. Not the lines, not the stunts, not even the hours. It’s… you. It’s just not the same without you here.”

She laughed softly, a little breathless, and turned her face toward him. “I knew it’d be hard, but I didn’t realize…how much it would hit me. And the rumors didn’t help.” She winced slightly, almost embarrassed. “Every time I saw a headline, or a comment, it just…”

Glen shook his head, a dark frown knitting his brows. “I hate that part of it. Every little thing I do, even just talking to a woman on set, gets twisted into this story, this narrative that’s…not me. It makes me feel like people think I’m something I’m not. And it drives me crazy because you know the truth. You know me.”

“I do,” she said, tightening her hand around his. “But that doesn’t make it sting any less. It’s just…you’re not just Glen Powell the actor to me. You’re Glen Powell the person I love. And the world doesn’t see that.”

He brushed his thumb across her knuckles. “Exactly. And I’ve never been talking to anyone else. Not even a little. You’re it for me. Have been, always will be. Gabby, I meant what I said in Napa. Marriage, family…I want all of it with you. Only you. Nobody else.”

A small smile tugged at her lips, the warmth spreading in her chest that came from hearing someone truly see you, truly commit to you. She pressed her forehead to his shoulder. 

“I still want that too. I do. And…it’s not just because of this week or the rumors. It’s because you’re you. And this…us…it feels like home, even when it’s hard.”

She laughed lightly, though there was a soft catch in it. “Yeah, and probably have a moment where we cry about it too, right?”

He smirked against her hair, thumb tracing lazy patterns along her arm. “Probably. But that’s okay. Tears are fine when we have each other.”

Gabby pressed her cheek into him, letting herself relax completely for the first time in weeks. “I’m really glad I’m here. Even if it’s just a few days. Even if we know we have to separate again soon. I needed this.”

Glen sighed, warm and low. “Me too. More than I can even say. And just so we’re clear…” He turned her gently to face him, hands cradling her cheeks. “I’ve never been happier than I am right now. With you. I don’t care what anyone else says. You’re it. And I’m never letting you go.”

Her smile widened, eyes glinting with tears she refused to let fall. “Good. Because I’m not either.” Gabby shifted a little, curling her legs under her and brushing her thumb along the inside of Glen’s wrist. “At least…” she murmured, “we’ve only got what? A month or two until you’re home again? Christmas is right around the corner. We’ll get through the rest of this.”

The second the words left her mouth, she felt it. The subtle way his shoulders tightened. Not much, but enough.

Her stomach dipped. “Glen?”

He exhaled through his nose, slow, controlled, like he was trying to pull courage from the air around them. “There’s…something I should tell you.”

She sat up a little straighter. “Okay…”

He rubbed the back of his neck the way he did when he was bracing for impact. “Running Man is…behind schedule. Not a little behind. Like months behind. We got hit with weather, a few stunts got delayed, and the director added some additional sequences. There’s also been some stuff with the studio and changes happening left and right.”

Her breath stalled. “How behind?”

He met her eyes, apologetic, soft, hurting. “They’re aiming for March. February if we get stupid lucky.”

March. Her heart sank. That was four, maybe five more months. Twice what they’d planned. Twice the distance. Twice the time apart. Twice the ache.

“Oh,” she whispered, because she didn’t know what else to say. “Wow. That’s…a lot longer.”

“I know.” His voice broke a little, and God, that hurt almost more than the news. “I know it’s not what we planned. And I’m so sorry, baby. I didn’t…I didn’t want to drop that on you the second you got here.”

Gabby forced a breath in, then another. “It’s okay. I get it. It’s just…hard. I miss you so much already and the thought of adding months to that…” She shook her head, blinking fast. “It’s a little overwhelming.”

Glen reached for her immediately, pulling her into his arms, pressing his lips to her temple. “Hey. I get it. I do. And I don’t want you to pretend it’s fine if it’s not. But I need you to know something, this doesn’t mean I won’t see you.”

She leaned into him, letting his warmth settle her. “How?”

“I’ll be home for Christmas,” he said gently. “For at least a week, maybe more. And I want…” He pulled back just enough to see her face. “I want us to take a trip around New Year’s. Just the two of us. Away from everything. Somewhere warm, somewhere quiet. Whatever you want. Just you and me.”

Her chest loosened a little, just enough to breathe again. “That sounds…really nice.”

“And,” he added, brushing his thumb along her jaw, “if you want to come out here during your breaks? I’ll fly you out. Anytime. I don’t care if it’s just for a long weekend. I just want to see you.”

She laughed softly at that, emotional and fond all at once. “You’d really fly me out for a weekend?”

“I’d fly you out for a single night if I could.” His smile was small, crooked, absolutely sincere. “I’m not letting months go by without seeing you. I can’t do that.”

Gabby leaned forward until their foreheads rested together. “Okay,” she whispered. “Then…we’ll figure it out. It’ll be hard, but we can handle hard.”

His hand slid to her cheek, warm and steady. “Yeah,” he murmured. “We can.”

Glen kept her close, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against her back. For a long moment neither of them said anything. The news still hung between them, heavier than either wanted, but not impossible.

Gabby finally exhaled and nodded to herself. “Okay. My turn to drop something on you.”

Glen’s brows lifted. “Oh boy. Should I brace again?”

“Maybe,” she said, laughing softly. “I got an email from my professor yesterday. The one who runs the screenwriting track.”

“Yeah?”

She pulled her phone from the coffee table and opened the email, handing it to him.

Let’s talk next week — I have a proposition for you.

Glen reread the line three times, his expression shifting from curious to impressed to full-on radiant. When he looked back at her, he looked proud. And not in a patronizing way, but in a this is huge and you deserve every bit of it kind of way.

“Gabby.” He cupped her cheek, grinning like it physically hurt him to hold it in. “This is amazing.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet.”

“I don’t have to. If someone as picky as your professor says they have a proposition for you? That’s big. That’s…that’s incredible.”

She felt her face warm, shy and delighted all at once. “It could be anything. Maybe she wants me to help with a grad project or join a workshop or—”

“Or,” he cut in gently, “she thinks you’re really damn talented and wants to help you take the next step.”

Gabby looked down at her hands. “Maybe. I don’t know. It just…it feels sudden? Like my life is sort of starting to tilt. In a good way, I think. But still—”

“It’s allowed to be scary,” Glen whispered, brushing his knuckles along her jaw. “Good things are scary sometimes.”

She let herself fall forward until her head rested against his chest. “You sound like my therapist.”

He snorted. “Then your therapist is smart.”

She swatted his arm, but the affection in her laugh gave her away. “I’m serious, though. If I actually start working in the industry, and you’re already in it…I don’t want people thinking I’m getting special treatment. Or doing things because of you. Or worse that you’re doing things behind the scenes for me.”

“Well like we talked about earlier, I’m not going to interfere with your career. I will lift you up and support you however I can.”

Gabby curled into his side, letting her hand rest over his heart. “So…let’s see we have you between wherever you’re filming and Austin. Me working on school and maybe trying to get my foot in the industry somehow on my own. Both of us doing work we love. Figuring out the long-distance thing until then….”

He kissed her hair. “And then figuring out everything else after.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling into his chest. “I like that plan.”

He squeezed her gently, voice low and sure. “Me too.”

-

GABBY

Gabby woke to silence the next day. For a second, she kept her eyes shut, waiting for the low murmur of Glen’s voice or the weight of his arm wrapped snug around her waist that she had woken up to the past few days.

But none of it came.

Instead she was met with silence that was broken only by Brisket’s heavy sigh at her feet and the faint scrape of Willow’s claws as she adjusted from her spot on the windowsill.

She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. She reached over to the pillow Glen had used the past few nights, pressing her face into it, and breathing in the faint traces of his cologne.

Brisket stretched, paws kicking against her leg as if to remind her she wasn’t entirely alone. She smiled faintly, running her toes along his fur. “Morning, buddy.”

It was enough to get her moving. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, Willow hopping down from her perch to weave a figure-eight around her ankles. The little orange cat mewed once, sharp and insistent. Gabby scooped her up, holding her close for a moment before setting her down. 

“Okay, okay. Breakfast.”

The kitchen felt too quiet and too big without Glen leaning against the counter or rifling through cabinets. Gabby moved about the space, scooping fresh food from the fridge into Brisket’s bowl and shaking some kibble into Willow’s dish.

Then she went to make herself a cup of tea. But she paused when she reached into the cupboard for a mug. It was his. Dark blue, chipped on one edge, the one he always used when he was here. She hesitated, running her thumb along the crack in the ceramic. Then she set the tea bag inside and poured the hot water over it.

She sat at the island with her tea, scrolling absently through her phone. She immediately regretted it when she was met with headlines and dozens of posts she was tagged in. A handful of Instagram posts, TikTok edits fans had made of her and Glen…it all felt surreal. Like she was living in someone else’s life.

She then headed to the living room, clicking on the remote to distract herself before she had to start getting ready for class. The TV sprang to life with the morning news. An anchor talking about weather patterns before she started flipping through the channels, skipping past the entertainment ones that might show Glen’s face or mention his name. Eventually she just turned it off altogether.

The house was too full of him for her liking. One of his jackets still hung on the back of one of the bar stool at the kitchen island. His sneakers still sat by the door, like he’d just kicked them off after a run. The little things should have comforted her, proof that this was their space now, not just his. But instead it sharpened the ache in her chest.

She was safer here. She knew that. Luke couldn’t find her here. And even if he somehow found the address, the security and the gate would keep him at a safe distance. The locks were sturdy, more sturdy than the ones at her apartment had been. The neighborhood was quiet. Brisket although not much of a threat size wise, was always on guard and was quick to bark if he saw anyone outside.

She curled her hands tighter around the mug, pressing her lips to the edge Glen had used a hundred times before.

“I’m safer here.” She repeated quietly to herself. Lonelier too, she thought. The quiet stretched, the kind that made her miss him more, not less.

Brisket padded back over, leaning his weight into her shin, and Willow hopped into the chair beside her, a warm little loaf of orange fur. Gabby smiled at both of them, her chest easing slightly. “Okay, I get it. I’m not alone.”

She reached for her notebook, flipping it open to the mess of midterm prep. Pages of scribbled notes, highlighted terms, and sticky tabs stared back at her. It was something to focus on, something that was hers. She picked up a pen, tapping it against the margin before starting to rewrite one of her outlines.

But even as she worked, she caught herself glancing toward the door, toward the jacket, toward the empty spot on the couch where Glen usually sprawled with Brisket at his feet.

Safer here, she reminded herself.

* * * *

The hum of campus life hit Gabby the second she stepped onto the quad. Students streamed in every direction, some clutching coffee cups like lifelines, others already bent over textbooks as they walked. Normally, she liked this kind of energy. The sense of everyone cramming, pushing toward the same midterm deadlines. But today, every glance in her direction felt like a spotlight.

She tugged the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder and kept her gaze forward, telling herself it was just nerves. She was imagining it.

But when she pushed open the door to the lecture hall, the truth hit harder.

Whispers rose like static the second she crossed the threshold.

“That’s her, right? Glen Powell’s girlfriend?”

“No way! Pull it up.”

She slid into her usual seat halfway up the rows, forcing herself not to look. But out of the corner of her eye, she caught the glow of a laptop screen two seats over. A tabloid headline. Her name beneath Glen’s. Photos from the weekend in Napa.

Her throat tightened. She bent over her notebook, flipping it open like the messy pages could shield her from the eyes. More whispers floated her way, hushed but impossible to ignore.

“She’s actually really pretty.”

“Yeah, but like… can you imagine the pressure? Dating him?”

“I bet she only got in this film program because–”

Gabby shut the thought down before it could finish. She forced her pen across the page, scribbling bullet points from the professor’s slides even though she could barely process a word.

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

This was what she’d signed up for, wasn’t it? Being with Glen meant the world knew her face now. It meant her Instagram had been dissected, old photos resurfaced, people digging into corners of her life that were supposed to belong only to her.

But knowing it in theory was different than hearing her name whispered across a classroom, her relationship reduced to gossip and speculation.

She pressed her hand flat against the page of her notebook, grounding herself in the scratch of ink against paper. Just focus. Midterms are next week. You can do this.

Still, the laptop glow pulled at her peripheral vision. Another tab was open now. Her Instagram account. Pictures from before Glen. Her and a friend with their arms slung around each other. Another of her holding Willow as a kitten when she brought her home.

Her private little life, dissected like a case study.

She bit the inside of her cheek and forced her eyes on the board.

Then the professor entered the room and began his lecture. The minutes stretched long. Gabby tried to focus on the professor, she really did. But she still heard the whispers.

Gabby’s pen slipped in her hand, the ink smearing across her thumb. By the end of the lecture, her notes were messier than usual. She gathered her things quickly, stuffing her notebook and laptop into her bag. She could feel eyes following her as she moved up the aisle and toward the door.

Gabby lingered outside the lecture hall, pretending to dig through her bag. Really, she just needed a second to breathe before facing the crowd of students spilling out behind her. The whispers from class still clung to her skin like static, and she wanted nothing more than to disappear into the ground.

“Hey! Wait up a second?”

Gabby glanced over her shoulder. A girl with dark curls and an oversized denim jacket hurried to catch up, juggling a notebook and iced coffee. She looked about Gabby’s age, maybe a little younger, with an easy smile that didn’t feel like it was hiding anything.

Gabby braced herself. Another question about Glen. Another person who wants a story to tell their friends.

But the girl only shifted her coffee to her other hand and said, “You’re in Professor Harlow’s seminar too, right? I keep seeing you in the same seats.”

Gabby blinked. “Uh yeah. Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“Thought so.” The girl offered a hand, nearly spilling her drink as she did. “I’m Maya.”

“Gabby,” she said, shaking it automatically.

Maya smiled wider, as if she’d been waiting for that. “Nice to officially meet you. I wanted to say, you handled that really well in class.”

Gabby stiffened. “Handled what?”

“You know,” Maya said, lowering her voice just enough that it didn’t carry. “The whispers. People staring. That whole circus.” She rolled her eyes. “I hate that kind of stuff. My uncle’s a producer, so I grew up around it. Actors, tabloids, the gossip. It’s…relentless.”

Gabby studied her, searching for a catch. But there wasn’t one. Maya wasn’t fishing for details, wasn’t shoving her phone in Gabby’s face, wasn’t smirking like she knew some secret. She was just being normal.

Gabby exhaled. “I didn’t feel like I handled it. I just kept my head down.”

“Exactly,” Maya said, like that was the smartest move anyone could’ve made. “Half those people wouldn’t last a day under that kind of spotlight. Trust me.”

They walked in step together across the quad, weaving through clusters of students sprawled on the grass.

Maya sipped her coffee before adding, “So, um…this might sound forward, but if you ever want a study buddy? I’m decent at Harlow’s exams, and I’m not terrible company.”

Gabby hesitated, then smiled. “I could use the help. Midterms are already eating me alive.”

“Perfect,” Maya said, grinning like she’d won something. “We’ll pick a time, maybe later this week like after class on Thursday? Coffee’s on me next time.”

The words were simple, but they landed deep. Gabby hadn’t realized how much she missed this, just making a friend, not as Glen Powell’s girlfriend, not as a headline, but as herself.

By the time they reached the library steps, Gabby felt lighter. Like maybe the whole world wasn’t against her. Like maybe she could have more here than just the shadows of Glen’s life.

“See you Thursday?” Maya asked, already backing toward the doors.

“Yeah,” Gabby said, surprising herself with how much she meant it. “See you.”

Maya waved before disappearing into the crowd, and Gabby stood there for a moment, clutching her bag, her chest warm in a way it hadn’t been all week.

For the first time since Glen left, she didn’t feel like she was drowning. She felt like maybe, just maybe, she could swim.

* * * *

GLEN

The production office was buzzing with crew shuffling papers, laptops glowing, and the faint clatter of walkie-talkies. Glen sat on the edge of a couch, script pages in his lap, but his focus was shot.

Megan, his PR rep, slipped in with her tablet tucked under one arm. “We’ve got something to deal with,” she said without preamble.

Glen pinched the bridge of his nose. “What now?”

She handed the tablet over. An article headline glared up at him: “Powell Sparks Dating Rumors With Former Co-Star After Cozy Dinner in London”

Beneath it were photos—grainy shots from last week before he came back to deal with the Luke and Gabby situation. It was nothing. Just a night when he had grabbed dinner with an old co-star. They were laughing in the pictures, leaning across the table. To anyone who wanted a story, it looked like something it wasn’t.

Glen’s jaw set. “Unbelievable.”

“Timing’s bad,” Megan agreed. “With your relationship public now, people are digging deeper. This piece is already circulating—nothing scandalous, but it could muddy the waters.”

His chest tightened. Gabby. He could already imagine her seeing this, the way it would land when she was still raw from the fallout of his Instagram mistake.

“So what’s the move?” he asked, voice clipped.

“We’ll release a neutral statement,” Megan said, already tapping notes on her tablet. “‘A source close to Glen confirms the two are just friends.’ Nothing defensive, nothing overblown. Just clean, quiet, and done.”

He nodded, relief and frustration tangling in his chest. “Good. Do it fast.”

Megan studied him for a beat, then softened. “She’ll see the article, Glen. Even with the statement, it might sting. You should reach out.”

“I will,” he said, already pulling out his phone.

Because this wasn’t just about protecting his image. It was about protecting her.

The hardest part of this shoot wasn’t the hours, the stunts, or the endless flights. It was knowing she was an ocean away, dealing with the noise, and he couldn’t shield her from it.

He typed a quick text, thumbs flying: Ignore anything you see online about me tonight. It’s nothing. Just old dinner pictures. I’ll explain on the call later. Promise.

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he added: Three weeks. That’s all. Then you’ll be with me.

He hit send, gripping the phone tight like it was the only anchor he had.

* * * *

GABBY

Gabby was curled up on the couch with Brisket pressed against her legs and Willow curled into the crook of her arm when the notification buzzed across her phone. At first, she thought it was Glen. He’d texted her earlier, promising to call when he wrapped, but the banner flashing across her screen wasn’t from him.

It was a headline from TMZ. Powell Sparks Dating Rumors With Former Co-Star After Cozy Dinner in London.

Her stomach flipped. She tapped it before she could talk herself out of it. The article wasn’t long, just enough to stir the pot. Blurry photos of Glen leaning across a restaurant table, laughing with his former co-star. She guessed their heads were tilted toward each other in a way that looked intimate if you wanted it to look that way. But it wasn’t the way he leaned in towards her when they had dinner together, and Gabby knew that.

The text in the article framed it as “an exclusive dinner fueling speculation,” though it noted, almost as an afterthought, that Glen had “recently gone public with a new relationship.”

Gabby’s chest tightened. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. She did. Completely. But the sting was still there. Seeing him framed in someone else’s story, their faces together, the insinuation that their relationship could be brushed off by a headline.

Her phone buzzed again. A text from Glen this time.

Glen: Ignore anything you see online about me tonight. It’s nothing. Just old dinner pictures. I’ll explain on the call later. Promise.

Her throat ached. She pressed the phone to her chest for a moment, Brisket nosing at her hand like he could sense her shift.

Glen’s call came a few hours later, his name lighting up her screen. She answered before the first ring finished.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” his voice came through, warm but edged with fatigue. He had a feeling by her short greeting and the less than enthusiastic tone in her voice that she’d probably already seen the article. “You saw it, didn’t you?”

“I did,” she admitted. Her voice was quiet, careful.

He exhaled. “It’s nothing, Gabby. Just dinner with a friend. We’ve known each other for years. My team’s putting out a statement. It’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

“I know.” And she did. She believed him. But her chest still felt heavy. “It just…sucks. Seeing it like that.”

“I know.” His voice dropped, steady, grounding. “And I hate that you even have to deal with it. If I could shield you from every headline, I would.”

She swallowed hard. “You don’t have to protect me from everything, you know?”

“Yeah, but I want to,” he said simply.

Silence stretched for a beat, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just full.

“Three weeks,” Glen said again, softer now. “Then you’ll be here. With me. And all this noise will feel further away.”

Her eyes stung, but she smiled. “I’m counting down.”

You blinked in disbelief.

“Jake,” you whispered. “What in the world…”

“Happy Mother’s Day, sweetheart,” he said with a smile that made your chest ache. He leaned over to press a slow, reverent kiss to your temple before placing the breakfast tray on your lap. “First one. Had to make it count.”

You stared down at the tray: golden waffles dusted with powdered sugar, a mimosa in a delicate crystal glass, a tiny bowl of fresh strawberries cut into little hearts, and a folded linen napkin with a rose gold fork and knife.

“I—Jake,” you stammered. “This is…”

“I’m just getting started.”

Before you could argue, he reached over and lifted Willow from the bassinet, bringing her into your arms like she was a present too. She was dressed in a soft white romper with tiny embroidered daisies and a matching bow clipped into her downy hair. She looked up at you with sleepy blue-green eyes that looked so much like her daddy’s.

Jake watched the two of you for a beat, something tender and awed flickering across his face, before he knelt beside the bed and reached under it. You heard the soft scrape of a box being pulled free.

He set it on the comforter next to your tray. Matte white. Tied with a satin ribbon.

You raised an eyebrow. “What is this?”

“Part one,” he said, shrugging. “Just open it, baby.”

You peeled the ribbon away and opened the box.

Inside was a scrapbook, wrapped in tissue paper. You lifted it gently, heart already climbing into your throat, and opened the first page.

A picture of you and Willow the day you brought her home. The caption, written in Jake’s neat block letters: The day everything changed. The next page was a photo of you asleep on the couch with Willow curled on your chest — Jake had slipped a sticky note beside it that read, This is what perfection looks like.

You flipped through the rest with shaking fingers. Photos, sonograms, hospital bracelets, ink prints of her hands and feet, Jake’s writing throughout. Sweet, loving messages. Private memories.

You were crying before you realized it.

Jake brushed a thumb under your eye and kissed your cheek. “She won’t remember this first one. But I will. And I wanted you to remember it too.”

You sniffed. “Jake, I…”

“Still not done,” he said, voice low and teasing. “You didn’t think I was gonna not spoil you, did you?”

From beneath the bed, he pulled another box — this one smaller, pale pink with a gold seal.

You opened it slowly. Inside was a quilted Chanel handbag in a perfect shade of warm cream, buttery-soft and gleaming in the morning light.

“Jake,” you breathed.

“Figured you could use something pretty just for you,” he said. “You’re always putting everyone else first.”

When he reached into his back pocket next, you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry again. He handed you a small velvet box, the kind that made your heart flip.

Inside: a dainty gold bracelet with tiny diamonds along the band. Matching earrings nestled beneath. Both engraved on the back with Willow's initials.

You were speechless. Utterly overwhelmed. Willow gurgled contentedly in your arms, completely unbothered by her mother falling apart before 9 a.m.

Jake leaned in close, resting his forehead against yours.

“You’ve given me the greatest gift of my life,” he murmured. “You made me a father. You gave me our little girl. And I swear to you, I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you feel as loved as you are.”

You laughed wetly and wiped your eyes. “You’re insane.”

“Insanely in love with you,” he corrected, pressing a kiss to your lips. “Now eat. Or the waffles get cold, and I’m not letting our daughter see her mother eat soggy waffles on Mother’s Day.”

You sat back against the pillows, Willow still in your lap, your heart brimming as Jake fed you strawberries one by one like some overgrown golden retriever with a romantic streak.

And you didn’t care if the flowers were too much. Or the gifts were extravagant. Or that you were crying before breakfast.

Because you knew, without a doubt, that this wasn’t a one-time gesture. This was just Jake. This was love, loud and unashamed. This was your life now.

And it was perfect.

You didn’t expect the rest of the day to top the morning, but Jake seemed determined to prove you wrong.

After breakfast, he took over with Willow so you could shower in peace, and when you stepped into the bathroom, you found he’d already laid out a fluffy robe, your favorite lotion, and a fresh bouquet of lilies on the counter. There was even a small handwritten card propped against your moisturizer:

You are the heart of this home. I love you more than life. —J

By late morning, you were dressed in a sundress he’d picked out for you weeks ago — soft yellow with delicate embroidery — and a pair of matching sandals. Willow wore a ruffled white onesie and a floppy sunhat that barely stayed on her head for more than a few seconds.

“She's ready to cause trouble,” Jake grinned, tucking the diaper bag over his shoulder. “Just like her mama.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “If she gets that from anyone, it’s you.”

He gave you a look that clearly said I’m not even gonna argue and then took Willow from your arms to buckle her into the stroller. You couldn’t help the flutter in your chest as you watched him, shirt sleeves rolled up, hands strong and sure, murmuring little nonsense words to make her smile.

The three of you headed out for a walk through the neighborhood, slow and easy, the afternoon sun warm on your skin, a soft breeze ruffling Jake’s hair. Willow babbled happily from her stroller, her little fists flailing each time Jake leaned down to make a funny face or tickle her toes.

Jake reached over to take your hand as you strolled beside him. He laced your fingers together, then kissed the back of your hand like it was a reflex.

“I’ve been thinking about this day since the moment we found out you were pregnant,” he said quietly.

You glanced up at him. “Yeah?”

“I had this vision in my head. You, holding our baby. Looking at her like you were made for it.” He squeezed your hand. “It still didn’t come close to the real thing.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I knew you’d be an amazing mom,” he went on, voice low and reverent. “But seeing it—watching you with her every day—baby, you were born for this. You’re gentle and patient and strong. She lights up when she hears your voice.”

You looked down, cheeks warm, trying to hide the emotion swelling in your throat. But Jake tugged your hand gently, pulling you to a stop on the sidewalk. The stroller rolled to a gentle halt beside you.

“Hey,” he said, tucking a finger under your chin so you’d meet his eyes. “Look at me.”

You did, and found his gaze steady and open.

“You’re everything I could ever want in a wife. And even more than I ever imagined for the mother of my child.”

You swallowed hard. “Jake…”

“I wake up every morning grateful to come home to you. And I swear to God, I fall more in love with you every time I watch you rock her to sleep, or sing to her in the kitchen, or hold her against your chest like she’s your whole world.” He brushed his knuckles over your cheek. “You’ve given me a life I didn’t know I was allowed to dream about.”

You were crying again.

Jake chuckled and leaned forward to kiss your forehead, then your cheeks, then your lips. “God, I love you,” he murmured. “You and our girl, you’re my whole damn world.”

You smiled against his mouth, breath catching. “You’re going to make me cry all over again.”

You stood on tiptoe and kissed him slow, the kind of kiss that tasted like love and sunlight and safety. Willow let out a loud babble, reminding you she was very much still present, and Jake pulled back laughing.

“Alright, alright,” he said to her, rubbing a hand over her tummy. “You’re still Daddy’s girl. I get it.”

The rest of the walk was slow and sweet — hand-in-hand, the stroller rolling beside you, Jake pointing out clouds shaped like animals and waving to neighbors who passed by. When Willow started getting fussy, Jake pulled her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way home, humming gently against her ear until she calmed.

Back at the house, he made you both a late lunch. You curled up on the couch with Willow asleep on your chest again, and Jake brought over sandwiches, fruit, and little sugar cookies decorated with #1 Mom in pink frosting.

You laughed, took a bite, and pretended to swoon. “Gourmet.”

Jake beamed. “Only the best for my girls.”

That evening, after Willow’s bath and bedtime bottle, you and Jake stood side by side at her crib. He watched you rock her, your touch so gentle, your face soft with affection. When you finally laid her down and brushed a kiss to her forehead, Jake wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you in close.

“Best day I’ve ever had,” he murmured. “And I’ve had some damn good ones.”

You leaned into him. “Think we’ll top it next year?”

Clark often shared his childhood memories with you, little moments he held onto with quiet affection. You could tell how much they meant to him, the way his voice softened whenever he mentioned his parents or the farm.

So when he brought up how they used to film home videos—grainy footage, clunky camcorder, someone narrating everything in the background—you got an idea.  

You walked into the kitchen with the camera already rolling. Clark stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled way too good, completely unaware.

“It should be done in a few—” he said, then looked up.

His brows lifted the second he saw the camera pointed at him. A soft laugh slipped out, low and surprised. “What are you doing?”

“Continuing tradition,” you said, grinning as you zoomed in just a little.

“Tradition?”

“Mhm,” you nodded. “Picking up where your parents left off. Home videos—grown-up edition. We’re seriously lacking in flannel though, but we’ll work on it.”

That made him laugh, full and wide, his head tilting back slightly as it broke out of him.

And you made sure to catch every second of it.

One morning you pulled out the camera, letting it record as you stepped toward Clark’s side of the bed. The sheets were rumpled, his arm draped over the edge, morning light slipping softly through the curtains. His dark hair was a mess against the pillow, sticking up in a few stubborn directions.

He stirred at the sound, squinting one eye open, voice gravelly. “You filming me?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, smiling behind the lens.

A lazy smile tugged at his lips. He let out a low laugh, then shifted toward you, one hand sliding around your waist, hauling you back toward the bed.

“Wait!” you yelped, the camera slipping from your grip as he pulled you on top of him.

You laughed as you landed, tangled in the sheets and in him.

"Morning," he mumbled, pressing you closer to his chest.

“Good morning,” you whispered back. Then you leaned in, pressing a kiss to his lips—the kind that lingered. Somewhere on the bed, the camera kept rolling, quietly forgotten.

You hit record, camera aimed at the front door just as it opened with a soft creak. You were grinning already, half expecting to catch Clark mid-yawn, tie loosened, maybe muttering something about the coffee machine being slow again.

But the second he stepped inside, your eyes went wide.

“Clark!”

A streak of red and blue flashed across the screen as you gasped and fumbled with the camera, jerking it away just in time. The lens caught nothing but the trailing edge of his cape before it ended on a blur of drywall and your hand, Clark's low chuckle just barely audible in the background.

Of course you filmed the quiet days, the holidays, the special occasions. But Clark caught on quick—noticed how the camera was always pointed at him.

So naturally, he had to fix that.

You were standing in the doorway one night, camera in hand, watching him brush his teeth—shirtless, hair still damp from his shower.

He glanced at you in the mirror, foam at the corners of his mouth, and smiled around the toothbrush.

Without a word, he reached out, tugging you gently toward him. You laughed, stumbling a little as his arm wrapped around you. He took the camera from your hand with ease, flipping it toward the mirror until both of you were in frame.

“You’re supposed to be in these too, you know,” he mumbled around the toothbrush, voice muffled but amused.

You leaned into him, cheeks flushed with laughter, as he gave the camera a crooked little grin.

The camera caught everything—your laugh, the way he rested his chin against your head, the moment he kissed your temple, toothpaste and all.

And when you watch them all back—those quiet, flickering glimpses of a life stitched together with laughter and kisses half caught on film—he never fails to remind you.

Of all his memories, you’re his favorite.

⟢ bonus! 

The camera shakes a little as Clark adjusts it. You’re in the kitchen, one hand resting on your belly, the other reaching for a bowl on the shelf. Still wearing his oversized T-shirt.

He zooms in—softly, slowly.

And then his voice, warm and steady from behind the lens:

“And this one’s for you.”

A pause.

“That’s your mom. She doesn’t know I’m filming right now—she’d probably throw something at me if she did.”

He chuckles under his breath.

“But she sings to you in the mornings. Craves the weirdest food combinations I’ve ever seen. And she already loves you more than anything.”

You glance over your shoulder, catching him—and roll your eyes.

“Clark.”

“Just say hi,” he grins. “It’s for the baby.”

You shake your head, laughing—but your expression softens.

And then your voice drops, quiet and sure.

“Hi, baby,” you murmur to the bump, hand resting gently on your belly.

Then a whisper from behind the camera:

“You and her—my whole world right there.”

please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.

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It was a day like any other…except it really was not in all honesty. You do not really know how to put it but for some reason the entire day has felt kind of off.

From the moment you woke up to writing your usual article for the Daily Planet to even lunch with Clark, you could not shake the feeling that today was different.

Oh Clark.

Maybe it was a 6th sense of his or something, but he always seems to know exactly what it takes to make you feel better.

Up too late last night for no good reason? He puts a cup of coffee on your desk the first minute you even walk through the Daily Planet doors. Always perfectly made.

While he also brings coffee for other people in the bullpen, yours is specially made. You have chalked it up to be that he’s really observant to you specifically. You do not even have to tell him how you felt like drinking your coffee each day, his 6th sense already knows.

Hot and from the pot. Iced with enough creamer and sugar to get just the right mix of sweet and bitter. Caramel. Vanilla. A dash of cinnamon.

He even once brought a frappuccino on those weird days where you craved something out of the ordinary. Oddly enough the nearest coffee shop that sells frappes is 5 blocks down.

Nonetheless, you still savored the drink and told yourself to give Clark a big hug the next time you got a chance.

Today is another one of those ‘out of the ordinary’ days. For some reason you craved tea. Iced tea. Raspberry iced tea if you were going to go into the specifics.

Which brings us to now.

You currently waiting on Clark to bring lunch. Staring at your computer as if the paragraphs for your article would magically appear, instead of having to use your brain to actually put words and sentences together.

Over time, you cannot remember exactly how it started, you both officially unofficially deemed Fridays to be deli days. One of you, or both if you guys had the time, would get sandwiches and chips from the deli down the block to eat together for lunch.

Soon enough Clark comes through the door and walks over to your desk, careful not to trip or bump into people as he quickens his pace.

You are happy to his usual charming smile and messy hair. Your stomach is happy to see the paper bag in his arms full of food. You catch a small glimpse of something in his hand but it couldn’t be what you think it is. Could it?

Oh but it is. His 6th sense is at it again!

“I felt like you could use a small pick me up, so I got this for you. I remember you said that you liked raspberry iced teas, hopefully I remembered correctly,” Clark says hopeful as he sets the drink down carefully on the coaster of your desk.

He is just mindful like that.

“Oh you definitely did. Thank you so much, Clark,” you beam back at him before quickly taking a sip of the tea, letting it refresh your body and mind.

He slides a chair over and sets out the food. We eat together for a moment before curiosity rears its head. You can’t help but ask.

“How do you always know what I want to drink?”

“I just know you,” he says as if the answer made all the sense in the world.

“Know me? It’s like you read my mind somehow. I know you and sometimes I still forget little things.”

Clark lets out a small grin at the corners of his mouth while taking a sip of his water.

“Don’t sweat it, love. You can’t help it if you have the memory of an elderly person. But I still want to be with you just the same.”

“Was that an insult or a compliment?” you ask furrowing my eyebrows.

“Both. But you know how I have a soft spot for sweet old ladies so it’s more of a compliment anyways.”

“You confuse me sometimes,” you say chuckling while shaking your head.

Clark, seemingly at the sight of your laughter, breaks out into a smile of his own.

A moment passes and you both go back to eating in comfortable silence.

Another reason why you love Clark so much, he understands that you do not have to fill every quiet moment with words or noise.

You are happy that you can just exist side by side without feeling the need to fill the time with activities or mundane talk about the weather.

You are especially happy he understands that whenever you’re sick or feeling down, that sometimes you just need quiet to feel better.

You were cut off from you thoughts when you hear Clark clearing his throat next to me.

“So, love…do you maybe wanna come over after work to watch movies and eat a butt load of popcorn together?”

He asks hesitantly, it was as if he was asking you on a first date, but his hesitancy just makes you admire him more.

You’ve been on countless dates with and have even been officially together for 5 months now. There really was no reason for him to be nervous, but you still love that he does.

“Definitely. But I get to choose the movie this time okay? The last one you chose left me with a small existential crisis once it ended.”

“Yeah yeah. Of course, love. I will even made the popcorn exactly the way you like it,” Clark says with a certain nod.

“You do that anyways, Clark. Don’t try to fool me.”

He presses a quick, warm kiss to your cheek and pulls back smiling. You can’t help the bashful blush filling your cheeks, but you can help the condiment residue on your cheek he left from his sandwich by wiping it off.

“Eww, sloppy kisses do not mean they have to actually be sloppy.”

Time passes and the sun has just set below the horizon. There is still light in the sky but it’s dwindling by the minute.

Clark has made it clear that he does not like it when you go out in the city alone at night, fretting something bad would happen and he won’t be able to protect you.

Clark: I’m out of popcorn so I’m at the store to get some more. I should be back by the time you get here. Be careful, okay?

You were in the middle of texting him ‘I’ll be just fine’ before a big explosion erupts from behind. Debris sprinkle down around like snow as you turn around to see a giant, robust alien lying in a crater shaped hole in the road.

At first you couldn’t believe your eyes. It looked almost like a pufferfish and a frog made a giant baby. For some reason, whether it be reflexes or just not thinking clearly, you stay in place observing the alien creature 50 feet away.

With only the street lights and window light to help see, you couldn’t get a good enough look to grasp what the alien might want or what its intentions are.

It’s as if other people around are going through the same effect as they are stopped in their place to watch the creature writhe in its spot.

Maybe the alien has some sort of hypnosis powers to draw other life forms closer. Closer for what? You don’t know. But you don’t care at this point because you cannot even think clearly. Your mind is only telling yourself to get closer.

Suddenly out of nowhere, the alien begins inhaling. It is not the kind of soft, natural inhale that most creatures on earth do. It’s powerful. It’s as if it was a giant vacuum sucking everything in the aliens vicinity.

It starts with small debris, as if a big gust of wind supposedly carried the scraps of trash or fallen leaves into the aliens mouth. But then bigger things begin to get inhaled.

People cry out as they get pulled closer and closer to the mouth of the alien. Mere human strength cannot win against the sheer force of the air.

It’s as if a snap happened and you were knocked out of your hypnosis like everybody else. You were instantly put in fight or flight reflex mode.

You chose flight….obviously.

But when you chose that option, you didn’t mean to literally fly. Your legs are running but when you glance down at the ground the pavement is moving the wrong way.

This is why you’ve felt off the entire day. The universe was sending you a premonition that something big and different would happen. Except when you thought of big and different, you thought maybe one of your articles would finally be approved by Perry to go on the front page.

You did not think of a literally big alien that is different from anything you have ever seen before. Then it hits you.

You are getting swept away into the mouth of a stupid alien! Fear courses through you as you scream for help. You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be 10 feet away from your imminent death. You were supposed to be at an apartment blocks away from here in the comforting arms of your boyfriend, watching a movie that makes you both laugh.

You close your eyes and brace yourself until

*Thud*

You were back on the ground. Fallen face first onto the pavement. Albeit the fall was 3 feet from the ground at most, so you maybe got a small bruise or scratch. Most likely got a little dirty so no pain was caused, only confusion.

You sit up to see a giant boulder in the aliens mouth preventing any more vacuum forced wind and a flying Superman above the alien.

Superman seems focused, mentally going through the right thing to do with the alien. This is until his eyes flicker to you just for a moment and you could almost swear they softened just for a second.

You don’t allow yourself to brew on that moment for too long before you watch Hawkgirl, Green Lantern, and Metamorpho carry away the alien to observe it and what not.

“Do you need help miss?”

The powerful voice booms above you as you look up and see an outstretched hand offered to you. The hand it belongs to is none other than Superman.

He flashes a warm smile and you almost just almost get lost in it until you check back into reality.

“Oh no. I’m fine,” you say as you take his hand.

Superman helps you up in one swift motion throwing you off guard for just a moment before you steady yourself back on your legs. Accessing the state of your injuries, or the lack thereof anything significant, Superman keeps a firm grip on your waist as his eyes scan over every little detail of you.

He is close. Awfully close. Close enough to feel the deep exhales from his lungs on your face. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him like you’ve just came inside from playing in the snow and he’s a warm fireplace. Close enough to want him to wrap his big strong arms around you and protect you from the dark world.

As if a 6th sense, Superman softly rubs his thumb in circles to soothe you. Beginning to think of how it was a nice coincidence he knew exactly what would make you feel better, you remember someone else who has that perfect 6th sense too.

Clark!

You quickly snap yourself out of the comforting trance of Superman’s presence. Guilt silently eats at you from the inside How could you even think of being in the arms of someone else when you felt you already had the most perfect boyfriend?

Eagerly you pull his hands off of your body and put quite a few feet of space between you two. You had to get to Clark.

Superman’s face twists into something unreadable with the added distance. His hands hold out for just a moment as if he was so close to pulling you back within his reach. His expression seems to falter for just a second. Was it sadness? Longing? Rejection even?

You do not let yourself ponder over it for too long before you squeak out.

“Thanks for the help but I should get going!”

You internally cringe of the way you said it. Too quickly and too much as if you are trying to avoid something or rather someone.

Which you are. But Superman does not know to know that you are actively trying to get away from him. That would be just rude.

“You have a scratch. On your cheek,” Superman says almost under his breath.

“Oh! It’s okay! You should go attend to other people. I am sure they need your help more than I do.”

You turn on your feet and briskly walk away. Unfortunately, you did not get farther than possibly 10 feet before a warm hand interlocks with yours.

“Everybody else is already taken care of. Please let me take care of you.”

Your heart beats faster at the thought of Superman doting on you. The Superman wanting to tend to your injuries? That is practically everybody’s dream come true.

But you quickly push those thoughts away. Clark is who you should be thinking about right now. He is probably worried sick, wondering what is taking me so long to get to his apartment.

The picture of his anxious face is enough to push you to get to his apartment as fast as you can. To kiss away the frown in his face and tell him you are alright. That is what you want most out of everything else in the world.

“I have a boyfriend!”

Your sudden blurt of declaration has Superman’s grip waver for just a moment. And a moment is all you need really to tear your hand free.

Then you book it. Running as fast as you can away from him and to Clark.

It takes you one whole second to remember you, a regular human, is running away from a meta human. A meta human who can fly and move faster than anything you have ever seen before.

You wait for the inevitable stop again, to be held up by a blue flash infront of your eyes. But it never happens. With a quick turn of your head you see him in the exact same spot where you left him.

He does not look like he has any intention of going after me. He does not even look too upset or rejected that you began running. Maybe even a small look of pride.

Superman is respectful towards taken women. Good to know. Not surprising really based on everything else he stands for, but it is still nice to be reassured about it.

Even with the knowledge that nobody is running after you, you do not slow your steps in the slightest. The urge and anticipation to see your boyfriend is too high to tire you out.

You almost even run into the door from the momentum you were running down his apartment hallway. Stopping yourself just in time to knock on his door and speak between big breaths of air.

“Clark!..Are you in there?..It’s me….You will never guess what just happened to me!”

With an ear to the door you try to hear for any movement inside. Nothing. Maybe he did not hear you at first. So you knocked again.

“Clark!”

Right before you could yell out something along the lines of ‘you better not be asleep,’ the door swings open and your beautiful boyfriend is there in all his nerdy glory.

The biggest smile over takes you as you instinctively jump into his arms. Lips pressing everywhere you can reach. He catches you as if you weigh no heavier than a balloon but holds you as if he just came back from war and this is the first time seeing each other in years.

Forget Superman. Why would you want a guy who focuses on the entire world when you have someone right here just for you?

“I missed you sooo much, Clark”

“What brought this? Not that I did not miss you too because I did. But you usually aren’t this affectionate. Not that I am complaining either,” Clark chuckles out between your kisses as he carries you over to the couch.

He leaves for a moment before sitting down and softly placing a bandaid on your cheek. A soft kiss laid on the bandage before he pulls you in his lap, keeping you comfortable on top of him. He makes no effort to pull you away, his arms tighten around you as if he just can’t get close enough.

You look around and notice the TV on and a bowl of popcorn perfectly popped ready just for us. Beside the bowl are two steaming cups of hot chocolate with just the perfect amount of marshmallows on top.

Hot chocolate never even grazed your mind, but seeing the cups there in all their glory makes your mouth water. He just knows how to make a night perfect. Your heart warms because it is truly times like these where you appreciate your boyfriend the most.

Clark’s 6th sense strikes once as he lays a blanket over you, perfectly cocooning you two together in warmth and love. Oh how you love his 6th sense that makes you feel so special and seen. Oh how you love Clark so much.

Turning around, your back is pressed against his front and he tucks his chin on your shoulder.

“What do you want to watch tonight, love?”

You put on a comfort movie of yours. Every now and then throughout the movie you glance up to see Clark paying deep attention to the movie as if he is really wanting to enjoy something you enjoy too.

It is what he always does anyways. He takes everything that makes you, you and memorizes it to heart. You cannot imagine someone who knows you better than him. You don’t even know yourself better than him sometimes.

And you would not change it or replace him for anything else in the world. No, the universe. There is truly nothing better than a close encounter with death and Superman to help you cherish what you have right infront of you.

Clark. Your Clark.

“I love you,” you utter, gazing into his eyes.

“I love you too. So so much.”

Lips connect. Soft and sweet and reverent. Like every thing else about Clark. In the way he holds you like you are the most valuable thing in the world. In the way he looks at you as if you are the literal sun. In the way he loves you like nothing you have ever seen or read about before.

And in that moment you know deep in your heart that this is where you belong. Whether tragedy strikes or the greatest wonder happens.

"Can't believe Hangman's playing hard to get with Admiral Simpson," Phoenix muttered, eyeing the empty spot where he should’ve been.

"Bet that promotion to Lieutenant Commander already went to his head," Rooster quipped.

"If you’re talking about Jake, he’s coming," Maverick said. "He just asked to report in on Monday."

He left the room without another word. The Daggers exchanged looks, then shrugged. It was Jake, after all—he probably just wanted to make an entrance, with nothing but his damn ego walking through the door first.

When Monday rolled around, he strolled in with that trademark smirk and a swagger only he could pull off. Annoying? Absolutely. Eye-roll inducing? Without question. Missed? More than anyone was willing to admit.

“Be honest—did you tear up a little when you thought I wasn’t coming back?”

Bob and Phoenix.

Bob had a thing for those absurdly healthy smoothies from a place called Erewhon. Overpriced, organic, and influencer-approved—it was his guilty pleasure. Naturally, it wasn’t long before he dragged his favorite front-seater into it.

“What the hell is a Hailey Bieber Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothie, and why does it cost twenty bucks?”

The line was a nightmare—packed with people who all looked like they drove Teslas, had just come from Pilates, or were on their way to pitch a startup to their fiancée’s hedge fund bros.

Phoenix couldn’t quite figure out what Bob saw in these overpriced green sludge drinks, but she was usually down to try something new, even if her wallet cried a little every time.

“I don’t really get the hype either, but my husband’s obsessed,” You said with a shrug. “If it’s your first time, I’d go with something simple—maybe the pitaya, or the post-workout one is solid too. You look like you work out.”

They startled slightly when you turned around, smiling and introducing yourself after your unsolicited smoothie rant.

“I’ll take your advice—I’m Natasha,” Phoenix said, shaking your hand. It was only then that you noticed the massive emerald-cut ring on her finger, catching the light like it knew it was expensive. Bob followed with a shy introduction, a soft blush creeping into his cheeks.

Sticking to your word, you went ahead and ordered the absurdly named Hailey Bieber Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothie, along with a few other things. Once you paid, you turned back to them with a grin.

“If you’re free, my husband’s just parking the car—want to sit and chat for a bit?”

“Oh, we’d love to,” Phoenix said, “but we’re running late for a few apartment showings—this line took forever. But we should exchange numbers, maybe grab lunch sometime?”

“I’d love that! We actually just moved here, so it’d be nice to make some friends.” Your smile didn’t waver; wide, bright, and straight out of a movie scene.

After saying your goodbyes, you grabbed your order and stepped out of the line, letting them move forward. With one last wave—bright, effortless—you pushed through the door and disappeared into the sunlight.

Phoenix turned back to the cashier, halfway through her order, when her gaze drifted to the large front window—and froze.

"Holy shit."

Bob instinctively looked where she was staring, and his brows shot up so high they nearly vanished into his hairline.

Jake Seresin was outside, casually leaning against a matte black Jeep Wrangler like he belonged in a magazine ad. Arms crossed, aviators in place, his flight jacket unzipped just enough to hint at the crisp white tee underneath. That usual cocky smirk was on his face—or at least, they thought it was.

But it wasn’t a smirk.

It was a smile—wide, open, and so bright it looked like it had cracked straight through his usual armor. Jake Seresin was glowing. Radiant. Practically lit from within.

And then they saw why.

You stepped out into the sunlight, heading straight for him, holding that ridiculous Hailey Bieber smoothie like it was a gold medal. Jake’s face lit up even more. He threw his head back and laughed, his whole body moving with it—unrestrained, joyful, real.

Then he reached for you, pulling you into his arms with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. One hand at your waist, the other settling on the small of your back, fitting you against him like you belonged there.

Phoenix’s jaw dropped slightly. Bob just stared.

Jake lifted his sunglasses, pushing them up onto his head, and looked down at you like you hung the stars. The softest expression they had ever seen on his face—like the man didn’t know how to look away. You said something that made him laugh again, and you handed him the smoothie like it was some inside joke.

They must have been staring too long. Jake’s head turned slightly—just enough to catch them in the reflection.

His eyes found theirs through the glass. For a split second, something flickered across his face.

Surprise. Panic. Maybe even guilt. Just enough to register—before he shoved it back down and straightened up, as if nothing had happened.

He opened your door and helped you in, careful not to jostle the armful of overpriced smoothies and whatever else you’d picked up. Then he turned back toward the window, his eyes meeting theirs once more.

A subtle nod. Barely there. But it carried weight—an unspoken request.

Not for secrecy exactly, but something quieter. A plea to let it be. To pretend they hadn’t just seen past Hangman… and caught a glimpse of Jake.

Phoenix and Bob exchanged a long look, sipping their drinks in stunned silence as they tried to process what they’d just witnessed. It was easy to box Jake in as the poster boy for cockiness—the walking embodiment of swagger and ego—but deep down, they’d always suspected there was more.

More to him than the sharp one-liners and smug grins. More than the call sign.

And now, they’d seen it.

Guess this was it.

The next day, Jake showed up with his usual swagger, every step as self-assured as ever. But his eyes—sharp, watchful—carried a flicker of guardedness. It was subtle, the kind of thing only Phoenix and Bob would pick up on.

“Hey, Strawberry Glaze,” Phoenix said casually.

She could’ve let it slide—pretended like nothing had happened—but she couldn’t resist poking at him just a little. Jake shot her a look sharp enough to make most people flinch.

She just laughed.

The words had been soft, low enough that no one else could hear. And the smile she gave him—amused, knowing, a little smug—said it all:

Your secret’s safe with me.

2. Bradley.

Bradley hated shopping. He wasn’t good at it—never had been. He took forever to decide what he liked, forgot to write down what he actually needed, and always left the store with random things and none of the essentials.

This time, though, he had a mission: crockery. At the moment, he owned exactly two plates and three mismatched forks. And if he was serious about settling down here, it was probably time to get his shit together.

Normally, he’d drag Nat along—not because she was a woman and supposedly knew about this stuff, but because she was mean enough to keep him on task. She had no patience for his two-hour deep dives in the mug aisle, where he’d examine every single one before deciding he didn’t like any of them.

But Nat had bailed on him, leaving him to fend for himself. Now he was aimlessly wandering the store, eyeing every dinnerware set like it might reveal the meaning of life, tossing random items into the trolley with no real plan—just vibes and mild confusion.

Ever the gossip, Bradley’s ears perked up at the sound of a laugh he knew far too well.

Hangman.

“Darlin’, if you put one more candle in the cart, I’m gonna start thinking you’re trying to burn the house down.”

“But Jake, smell this one—it’s amazing. And it says limited edition, so they won’t have it next time,” you replied, dropping not one, but two candles into the cart.

Bradley watched, stunned, as Jake didn’t even argue. He just shook his head with a helpless smile and kept pushing the cart like a man who knew resistance was pointless.

“I also saw this gorgeous botanical garden plate set online—we have to get it.”

“Whatever you want, doll,” Jake said, voice low and warm as he pressed a kiss to your temple and gave your hip a casual, affectionate tap.

Bradley was pretty sure his jaw hit the floor. He wasn’t stupid—and he definitely wasn’t blind. He saw the massive rock on your finger and the way Jake looked at you like you hung the stars.

Hangman, married?

The motherfucker was married.

He could hardly believe what he was seeing.

Bradley had always assumed Jake Seresin was the type who’d never settle down—too cocky, too stubborn, too Hangman. Honestly, he’d half-expected the guy to grow old alone, flirting with waitresses and arguing with air traffic control until the bitter end. Harsh? Maybe. But Jake had never given them any reason to believe otherwise.

Yet here he was—married, domesticated, and currently letting his wife toss candles and dinner plates into the cart like she owned the place. And judging by the look on his face, she did.

The man Bradley was low-key stalking from behind a shelf of overpriced wine glasses wasn’t the Hangman he knew from the skies. This wasn’t the ruthless, lone-wolf aviator who treated teamwork like a contagious disease and would rather eat glass than back down in a briefing.

No—this Jake looked… soft. Happy. In love.

And it was messing with everything Bradley thought he knew.

He ducked behind the endcap as you turned down the next aisle, nearly knocking over a pyramid of mason jars in the process. This wasn’t eavesdropping, he told himself—it was reconnaissance. For team cohesion. For morale. For… reasons.

Jake Seresin, hopeless romantic and candle mule, was not something Bradley had mentally prepared for.

He peeked around the corner again just in time to see Jake reach for a throw blanket you were eyeing. Without hesitation, he tossed it into the cart. “Matches the couch, right?” he said.

“Exactly,” you beamed, and Bradley swore the corners of Jake’s mouth lifted in something dangerously close to a fond sigh.

Who was this man?

Bradley had spent years knowing Jake as a walking testosterone complex with aviators and a call sign, someone who’d charm the hell out of a bartender and then ghost her before the first date. The idea that this man—this patient, domesticated, grocery-hauling version of Jake—existed at all was blowing his mind.

And worse? He looked good at it. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to play husband in a West Elm ad.

Bradley finally backed away from the aisle, muttering to himself, “I need to go look at forks before I lose my grip on reality.”

Still, as he wandered toward the kitchen section, a weird feeling settled in his chest—part disbelief, part amusement… and maybe a little bit of envy. Not the kind that stings, exactly, but the kind that pokes at something you didn’t realize was hollow.

Because despite all his jokes, all his gripes about shopping and settling down, maybe there was a tiny part of him that wouldn’t mind someone tossing limited-edition candles in his cart, either.

But first, he really needed more than three forks.

3. Payback and Fanboy.

It was just past 7 a.m. when Fanboy and Payback jogged down the beach trail, sneakers thudding lightly against the packed sand. The sun had barely risen, casting a warm, golden glow over the shoreline, and the waves rolled in slow and steady, their rhythm soft and soothing beneath the buzz of gulls overhead.

It was the kind of morning that made you forget how exhausting the week had been.

“If Mav makes us watch one more hour of grainy debrief footage, I’m walking into the ocean,” Fanboy grumbled between breaths, arms swinging loose at his sides.

“You say that, but last time he caught you checking your phone, he added another hour to the session,” Payback replied, grinning.

“I’m just saying—death by drowning would be less painful than another slideshow.”

They rounded a gentle bend in the trail, where the dunes opened up to a more secluded stretch of beach. The tide had pulled back, leaving wide, smooth patches of sand dotted with seashells and a few early footprints.

Payback slowed, frowning. “Wait. Who’s already out here?”

A large cream-colored blanket had been spread beneath a sun-bleached lifeguard stand. A wicker picnic basket sat off to one side, its lid open and lined with fabric. There were iced coffees, a brown paper bag, a small vase of wildflowers—wildflowers, at the beach—and two people.

One of them crouched near the cooler, pulling out what looked like a container of fruit. The other approached barefoot, holding two drinks, sleeves of a linen shirt rolled up to his elbows, light catching in his sandy hair.

Fanboy’s eyes narrowed. “Hold on a second…”

The barefoot man looked up—and grinned.

Jake Seresin.

Hangman.

Golden-boy aviator, squadroom shit-talker, human ego parade.

Except… something was different.

He stepped forward, took one of the iced coffees from your hand with a quiet thank-you, then leaned in and kissed your temple with the kind of easy, familiar affection that made both Fanboy and Payback freeze mid-stride.

Jake said something with a lazy smile and you laughed, the kind of laugh that came from your belly—bright, genuine, totally unfiltered. Then you plopped down on the blanket, legs curled underneath you, pulling a croissant from the paper bag as if you’d done this a hundred times.

And maybe you had.

Because Jake didn’t hesitate. He shrugged out of his jacket and laid it behind you, just in case the blanket wasn’t enough cushion. Then he sank down beside you, stretching his legs long across the sand and casually slipping one arm around your waist.

Payback immediately ducked behind a nearby dune like he’d just witnessed a war crime. “Tell me I’m not seeing this.”

Fanboy crouched next to him, equally stunned. “What the hell is happening right now?”

Jake leaned back slightly, watching you unwrap something else—probably another baked good—and tilted his head, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. You fed him a bite without even looking, and he accepted it like it was second nature. Then he reached up and tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.

“I’m in shock,” Fanboy whispered. “He just tucked her hair behind her ear. That’s a boyfriend move.”

“That’s not a boyfriend move,” Payback muttered. “That’s a married guy move.”

Fanboy squinted. “Wait—zoom in. Look at her hand.”

A glint of metal caught the sunlight as you reached for your coffee. Simple but elegant. An emerald-cut diamond, gold band. The kind of ring that said permanence. The kind of ring that didn’t come off easily.

“Oh my God,” Payback breathed. “He’s married.”

Jake leaned back again, one hand lazily tracing circles along your knee while you showed him something on your phone. Whatever it was made him chuckle low in his chest, and he leaned in to kiss your cheek before setting the coffee down in the sand.

Fanboy was frozen, processing. “So Hangman—Hangman—sneaks off on weekends for romantic beach picnics… with his wife.”

“And we never knew.”

“I thought he lived off protein bars and sheer arrogance.”

“Same.”

You pulled something else from the basket—what looked like a floral plate set, one of those whimsical ones you’d find in a lifestyle magazine. Jake took it from you with care, set it between you, then reached for the wildflowers, adjusting the little vase so it wouldn’t tip over.

Fanboy stared. “He brought flowers.”

Payback shook his head. “He packed a goddamn centerpiece.”

They both crouched lower behind the dune, as if Jake might sense them. The only thing louder than the waves at that moment was the sound of their worldviews shattering.

Fanboy finally whispered, “Okay, but like… how dare he be this soft and not tell us?”

“We’re his squadmates. This is betrayal.”

“We were supposed to know before the blanket picnics started. There’s an order to these things.”

“I mean—what’s next? He gets a dog and starts doing couples yoga?”

Fanboy paused. “He would be good at couples yoga.”

Jake leaned back, hands behind his head, face turned up to the morning sun as you laid your head on his chest, sipping your drink and humming along to some song playing quietly from a speaker. You looked perfectly at ease, like this was your favorite part of the week.

Like he was.

“Okay,” Payback muttered. “We can’t tell anyone.”

“Agreed.”

“But also,” Fanboy added, eyes still wide, “we are absolutely never letting him live this down.”

“Obviously.”

They finally stood, dusting off their legs, still stunned but grinning. One last glance over their shoulders showed Jake pressing a kiss to the top of your head, like you were the only person on earth that mattered.

Hangman hadn’t just settled down.

He’d crash-landed into love, and apparently? He was thriving.

4. Javy (ten years ago)

The bar was thick with smoke and the smell of spilled beer, its low-ceilinged walls pulsating with neon light and the steady beat of a bass-heavy pop song. The air was warm and sticky, full of laughter, shouting, and the occasional off-key karaoke warble daring to take the stage. Jake leaned casually against the back wall, arms crossed, eyes never leaving the corner where you and your friends were holding court.

You were the heart of the group—laughing without restraint, glass in hand, your voice rising clear and confident above the din. Your friends egged each other on to the microphone, but you owned the room like it was yours, moving effortlessly through the crowd, radiating that kind of joy that was impossible not to notice. Jake’s gaze softened as he watched you—like you were a secret he had stumbled upon, the kind of thing you didn’t want to shout about but couldn’t stop looking at.

Javy, never one to let an opportunity for teasing pass, nudged Jake sharply. “You been staring at her all night, man. You planning to say something or just get a reputation as the creepy aviator?”

Jake barely glanced at him. “I’m just… watching.”

Javy smirked, shifting on his feet. “Right. Watching. She’s having fun—seems like she owns this place. You gonna sing or what? Or just keep mooning over her?”

Jake’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “I don’t sing.”

“Everyone sings at karaoke night. Even you.”

Before Jake could respond, you stood with your friend, grabbing the microphone like it was a lifeline. The opening notes of a popular pop song spilled through the speakers, and suddenly, the bar seemed to hush just enough to let your voice soar.

You sang with an easy confidence, playful yet sincere, the kind of performance that made people stop talking and just listen. Jake felt his breath hitch—the way you smiled at the crowd, the way you closed your eyes briefly on the high notes—it was like watching sunlight break through storm clouds.

Javy elbowed him hard. “Dude, you look like you’re about to pop the question right here, right now.”

Jake shot him a sharp look. “I just met my wife.”

The words slipped out quieter than intended, but Javy caught them all the same and grinned wider, clearly not buying it.

After your song ended, the room erupted into applause. You laughed, cheeks flushed, and caught Jake’s eyes from across the room. It was a brief glance, but electric—like a door quietly opening.

Jake made his way over, weaving through the small crowd until he was standing right beside you. “Hey,” he said, voice low and just above the music.

You smiled, a little breathless. “Hey.”

Jake nodded toward the microphone stand. “That was… impressive.”

You shrugged, flicking your hair back. “Well, I had a good duet partner.” You glanced at your friend and winked. “But it’s nice to have an audience.”

Jake laughed softly, eyes never leaving yours. “So, what’s your name?” You offered it to him, along with your hand to shake. “Jake,” he replied, taking it. His grip was firm but gentle, like he was trying to make sure you felt it. “And I’m supposed to be focused on training missions, but I can’t stop watching you.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Is that so? What’s more distracting—the music or me?”

He smiled, just a little crooked. “Definitely you.”

You laughed, and the sound was like a spark in the dim bar light. For a moment, it was just the two of you—no crowd, no noise, just the hum of a song fading out and the start of something new.

Javy sidled up, grinning. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to it. But remember, Jake, if you break her heart, I’m coming for you.”

Jake’s grin turned serious. “I don’t plan on breaking anything.”

GLEN’S P.O.V.

The low hum of the engines blended with the music filtering through Glen’s headphones. He leaned back in the leather seat of the private jet, eyes closed, body finally relaxing for the first time in days. The weekend with Gabby had been perfect. Quiet mornings, late night talks, kisses that lingered.

And now she was on a plane headed to Los Angeles, and he was en route to Austin to gather his things before the six month shoot in London.

He exhaled slowly, stretching his legs out. Then with a familiar flick of his thumb, he unlocked his phone and opened Instagram.

Just a quick scroll. Maybe check how the post from the Longhorns game was doing. A soft smile tugged at his lips as he opened the app.

And then he froze.

His feed was flooded with likes. Not hundreds. Thousands. Notifications were pouring in faster than he could process. Mentions. Shares. Over 100,000 likes. Over 10,000 comments. In under twenty minutes.

His smile vanished. This had to be some kind of nightmare.

He clicked on the post. Four photos. The picture of Gabby standing on the villa’s terrace. He swiped over and was met with a candid shot of him and Gabby during their lunch at the Moretti vineyard. He swiped one more time, and glanced at the picture of Gabby in the plane from just that morning. And then the last one. Gabby smiling and purely happy as she looked back at him.

He felt the blood drain from his face as he stared at the screen, suddenly hyper aware of the silence around him. The air in the cabin felt too thin. Too still. His fingers tightened around the phone as he scrolled through the comments.

“Wait who is she???”

“IS THAT GLEN POWELL’S GIRLFRIEND??”

“Omg. The way he’s looking at her?? I’m sobbing.”

“They look so in love.”

“This man’s in his soft era and I am HERE for it.”

He blinked, trying to steady his breathing.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

He’d wanted to keep her out of the spotlight for as long as he could. Not because he was ashamed. God, no. But because she didn’t ask for this. She didn’t sign up for the noise, the speculation, the attention. And now? Now it was out there.

A new text popped up on his screen.

Katie - PR: Glen. What the hell is going on? Please tell me this was planned.

Another came in right behind it from one of his managers.

Sam - Mgmt: We need to talk. Press already picked it up.

Glen dragged a hand over his face, his jaw tightening. He hadn’t even taken off his boots yet. He stared at the phone again, thumb hovering over the post.

What should he do? Delete it? No. That would only make things worse.

He cursed under his breath, locked his phone, and leaned back in his seat. He stared at the cabin ceiling like it held the answers to this problem he had created for himself.

Gabby was still in the air. She had no idea yet. 

Glen didn’t move for a full minute.

His phone sat on the table beside him, screen dark, the reflection of the clouds outside flickering faintly across it. But he didn’t need to look again to know what he’d see. The numbers would’ve climbed higher. More likes. More comments. More eyes on moments that had been meant just for them.

He dragged a hand down his face and let out a slow breath, trying to force calm into his chest. But it didn’t work. His heart was still beating too fast, and the familiar pull of anxiety crept in low behind his ribs.

Not because of the press. Not because of the fans.

Because of her.

Gabby.

She trusted him. She’d given him her heart, her time, her privacy—without hesitation. And now the whole world knew.

He hadn’t even asked.

There’d been no conversation. No moment to prepare her for this kind of attention. No strategy. No buffer. Just a tired mistake. A muscle memory swipe and a post made on autopilot…and now her face was on every gossip account’s feed before her flight even landed.

What if she’s upset?

The thought came quiet and sharp, like a whisper he couldn’t ignore.

Gabby could handle herself. Glen  knew that. She was smart, grounded, and resilient. But this wasn’t a simple hurdle for her to overcome. This was big. This was global. This was flashing cameras and threads dissecting her appearance and strangers assuming things they had no right to assume.

He exhaled again, this time with a quiet, “Damn it,” under his breath.

He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees, and stared out the window at the clouds rolling past.

He didn’t regret the post. Not really. He just hated the timing. The way it took the choice away from her. He wanted her to choose to step into the spotlight with him. Not to be thrown there by a tap of his thumb.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“Please don’t hate me for this,” he murmured to the empty cabin.

* * * * *

GABBY’S P.O.V.

The wheels of the plane touched down with a soft thud, the gentle lurch of deceleration pulling Gabby forward in her seat. She reached for her phone as the cabin lights flickered back on.

The screen came to life in her palm. 64 notifications. Then her phone buzzed again. And again. Instagram. Twitter. Texts. Group chats. Mentions.

Gabby tapped the Instagram notifications first. She immediately saw the four photos…on Glen’s public account? With over two million followers.

Her chest tightened. She glanced at the caption. “Didn’t expect you. Don’t plan on letting you go. ❤️”

The post already had over 200,000 likes. It had been up for less than two hours.

Her hand began to tremble as she scrolled through the comments. There were so many of them. Thousands in such a short time.

The top comment was from Glen’s sister, Leslie. @lesliepowellmusic: Look at you two 😍

She continued scrolling and saw a few more familiar names:

@chordoverstreet: Thought we agreed on a hard launch at Christmas 🤔

@tannernovlan_: You soft bro. But love you both. Happy for you guys.

Gabby scrolled through more comments. These ones from fans and strangers.

This is the most Glen Powell thing ever.

Okay, but she’s stunning.

She looks like she writes poetry and smells like vanilla—WHERE did you find her?

Not gonna lie, this broke me a little. But happy for him, I guess 😭

Is this why he’s been off the radar??

Does she have a private account? Someone found her LinkedIn.

Imagine dating someone like Glen Powell and keeping it secret. I’d explode.

I thought he was dating that blonde from that event last year. Damn, I can’t keep up.

Hope she knows what she signed up for…

Gabby stared at her screen for a moment longer, her chest tightening inside of it. There was no way to ever fully prepare for this part. And she had always known that. Ever since she first decided that she wanted to be in a long term relationship with Glen.

She saw her name listed in tags. A link to a full Reddit thread. Multiple fan pages already reposting. And in her DMs. Messages from complete strangers.

The pit in her stomach grew.

Her phone buzzed again.

Glen: Call me when you land. Please.

Gabby sighed and slipped her phone into her pocket. She was going to call Glen. She was, really. But she needed to get her bags and find an Uber before she dealt with this anymore.

Once she had her bags and herself loaded into the Uber she finally let herself breath. The city blurred past the window, sunlight casting hazy streaks across the highway. Horns were persistent as they made their evening commute on the 405.

Gabby sat with her bag at her feet, phone cradled in her hands. Her thumb hovered over Glen’s name for several long seconds before she finally tapped Call.

It rang once. Twice.

“Gabby?” His voice was immediate, sharp with concern. “Hey. Are you okay? I—shit, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” she whispered, cutting in before he spiraled.

Silence. Then a breath of relief from the other end.

“I saw your text,” she added softly, her voice strained. “I just needed a second.”

“I’m so sorry, Gabby,” Glen said quickly. “I didn’t even realize what account I was on until after it was posted. I was exhausted and half-asleep and just trying to share something for PR—”

“I know,” she repeated, closing her eyes. “It’s okay.”

Another pause.

“I just…” He let out a shaky breath. “You didn’t respond right away. And I get it if you’re mad. You have every right—”

“I’m not mad,” Gabby said, a little too quickly. Then, softer: “I swear I’m not mad.”

“Can you talk to me,” Glen pleaded. “Please. I want to know what you’re thinking.”

She bit her lip, her fingers tightening around her phone. “I’m scared.”

His breath caught.

“This was supposed to be ours,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “We never even talked about going public. Not really. Not like this.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know, and I hate that I took that from you.”

Her eyes burned. She blinked hard, keeping the tears at bay as her Uber turned onto her street.

“It’s just so loud already,” she said, forcing the words out. “And I haven’t even made it home.”

“I’ll fix it,” Glen said. “If it gets too loud, I’ll handle it. I’ll pull it back. I’ll say it was a mistake—whatever you need.”

Gabby shook her head, even though he couldn’t see it.

“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to hide. I just… I don’t know how to be in this.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he softly said, “We’ll figure it out together.”

She didn’t realize how much she needed to hear that until the knot in her chest loosened just slightly.

“I just miss you already,” she whispered, her throat tightening again.

“I miss you too,” Glen said. “So damn much.”

The car pulled to a stop.

“I’m home,” she murmured.

“Call me later? After you get settled?”

Gabby nodded. “Yeah. I will.”

“I love you, Gabby.”

“I love you too.”

“Stop calling me that,” you mutter discreetly for your family not to hear

He simply chuckles, plants a kiss to the side of your forehead and whispers, “Can’t. You’re my fake girlfriend. Comes with the territory.”

You despise the fact that you can’t fault him for that.

You take a seat at the kitchen island before Jake plops a plate in front of you. You notice a detail that he quickly answers. “Your mom said you used to hate the ends of bacon strips, so I cut them off. You’re welcome.”

Your mom beams from across the room like he just cured cancer. “He remembers everything. Isn’t that sweet?”

Celine, sitting beside her, rolls her eyes, “It’s bacon strips, mom.” THANK YOU CELINE. You truly love her.

Meanwhile, you stare at Jake accusingly. “What are you doing?”

“Winning hearts and minds, your mom’s at least” he says with a wink.

You groan and reach for the coffee instead. The mug has your name on it in glittery stickers from the third grade. Jake’s smirk deepens when he sees it.

He takes a seat beside you and lowers his voice. “You know she already think I’m proposing this weekend, right?”

You choke on your coffee, looking at Jake wildly. 

“I’m kidding,” he adds quickly with an irritating smile, patting your back. “Probably.”

You swat his hand away, heart pounding. This is dangerous. This whole situation is spiraling fast. You imagine that your mother is already printing out engagement bingo cards in her head. Celine is scrutinizing Jake as if he’s a murder suspect. And Jake… Jake is so good at pretending it’s almost impossible to tell where the act ends.

Almost. 

You feel a migraine coming on, rubbing your temples gently. Jake could feel the stress radiating off you.

“Hey,” he nudges your knee under the table, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Want to get out of here? Go for a drive?”

You nod, needing the space like you need oxygen.

You drive the rented truck out past the edge of town, down the familiar roads of your childhood. Golden sunlight floods the fields, and wildflowers sway lazily on the roadside. The nostalgic calm floods you, making you realize how much you missed to be back.

Jake pulls over near the old county fairgrounds. The place deserted and forgotten. All the rides look smaller now, the paint more faded, but the memories come rushing back all the same. It still made you smile.

You climb over the gate and wander toward the Ferris wheel that hasn’t moved in years. You stare at it before chuckling.

“I had my first kiss here,” you say amused.

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up. “Here?”

“Yup. Ninth grade. Tyler Jenkins.”

He grimaces. “Tyler Jenkins looked like a haunted garden gnome.”

You snort. “Sorry not everyone was a golden boy.”

Jake scoffs again, “You could have done better.” 

You ignore him, “He was sweet and gave me a ring pop. Then asked if I wanted to be his girlfriend for the night.”

Jake shakes his head in disbelief. “Class act.”

You both sit on the low railing of the bleachers that overlook the dirt arena. Silence settles between you. Comfortable. For once, you were thankful for it.

You feel uncertain about sharing the next memory but sigh while looking down at your sneakers. “Did you know I cried when you told me you were applying to the Navy?”

Jake turns to you, startled. “No.”

You nod, a small smile forming. “Not in front of you, obviously. I waited until I got home. I cried under the sink.”

He winces. “Under the sink?”

“It was the only place Ma couldn’t find me.”

Jake imagines you hugging your knees, comforting yourself and it makes him vulnerable.

His smile falters. “I didn’t know it hurt you.”

You shrug. “You didn’t. I just… I think nothing would have made me ready even though I knew we were always going to go separate ways.”

“I’ve never thought that.” Jake counters.

You look at him thoughtfully, “You were made for planes and speed and girls who wear leather jackets and drink bourbon. I was meant for overpriced education, bad takeout, and writing essays about political theory in a city that chews you up if you look weak.”

Jake is quiet for a long moment. “That’s not how I saw it.”

“No?”

He looks at you. Really looks. “I thought we’d find our way back. Like we always did.”

And he really did. He always made sure that despite the distance, you were somewhere he could reach. Despite the prolonged lack of communication, he has a mental vision of you. Because the idea of you completely gone was something Jake never considered. You were always part of his future in some way or another. 

You blink when you understand the seriousness of his words. Your throat tightens.

You want to believe him. God, you do. But memories crowd your mind like storm clouds.

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

FLASHBACK — HIGH SCHOOL, SENIOR YEAR

You sat on the bleachers at 5 PM, waiting for your ride. Jake’s practice was still going. You could see him on the field, helmet tucked under his arm, laughing with the other guys. He was in his natural habitat alongside the other stars.

A cheerleader hung on his shoulder–Madison Kent. Legs for days and that permanent lip gloss sheen. She kissed his cheek before walking away, and he smiled like it was no big deal.

He jogged towards you after a while, sweaty and loud and beaming. “Did you see that catch?!”

“Sure did,” you replied, forcing a grin. “You were great.”

He plopped beside you, his leg brushing yours, hair a mess and face glowing from the sun. “You’re coming to the party Friday, right?”

You would almost be insulted if only you didn’t know Jake was truly unaware of the social divide between you. After all, who would ever tell Jake Seresin, football captain and prom king, that his childhood friend was unworthy to hang out with him. He would knock them out before they could even finish that sentence.

You hesitated. “I wasn’t invited.”

Jake eyebrows creased. He probably thinks it’s a mistake–You think.  

He bumped his shoulder against yours. “You’re invited. Come with me.”

You almost laugh out loud at what people would say if you came in with him, “As your friend?”

He blinked. “Well, yeah. What else?”

You’d smiled to pacify him, knowing that was your place. Jake’s friend. His safe space. His shadow at the edge of the spotlight.

You faked being sick and skipped the party that night. 

You spent Friday night watching 10 Things I Hate About You on VHS while painting your nails with your sister.

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

Jake glances again at the old Ferris Wheel and scoffs, “Tyler Jenkins, sheesh.”

“Look who’s talking” You hit back

He raises an eyebrow. “You can’t say I didn’t have good taste.” 

You nod and say, “You sure did. I never told you this but I hated most of your girlfriends.”

Jake laughs. “Wow. Brutal. But it’s not like I didn’t notice.”

You pause when you realize he knew but you continue to explain, “Not because they were terrible. Some were actually nice. But they all had the same thing in common.”

“What’s that?”

“They were all girls you could show off. Polished, pretty, popular. The kind you could bring to practice or prom or the bar and not have to explain.”

Jake is quiet.

You lean back on your hands and look through him. “Going anywhere with you felt my presence had to be explained, Jake. I think at some point it became unfathomable to many why you still ever hung out with me.”

Jake frowns. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” You meet his eyes. “I’m not mad. It wasn’t your fault. But at times, it was easier to fade into the background so you could shine. I just… I knew where I stood. That’s all.”

Jake gets up and paces a little, running a hand through his hair. He seems distraught by this revelation. “God, Y/N. I didn’t know you felt that way.”

You stand calmly as well, brushing the dust off your jeans. “You didn’t need to know. You had the world looking at you.”

He looks like he wants to argue. Like there’s something stuck in his throat that he doesn’t know how to say. So you change the subject before he can find it.

“Anyway” you force a smile, “for the record, this whole pretend thing, you’re doing great.”

Jake looks at you like you’ve just kicked him in the chest.

You pretend not to see it. 

Later that night, you lie in bed at your childhood home, staring at the ceiling. You think about Jake’s made-up story.

How he said he fell for you on a couch in New York. How he made it sound like the most natural thing in the world.

How stupid it is that a fake romance feels more magical than anything real you’ve ever had.

You turn over and bury your face in your pillow.

Because deep down, a part of you wishes it were true.

But even deeper down... you know it never will be.

TAGLIST: @kvmitchell @mrsevans90 @natureartisian @purplefluffycows @eolsens @lunatygerqueen @deadlybeauty16 @ronniesreverie

Glen. His smile had been sharper than any lens, his voice warmer than any spotlight. She still couldn’t believe how the world had quieted the moment he said, “I think you’ve stolen my dog.” That was Monday night. Now, it was Tuesday. Her last day in London before flying out to Hungary for the next Grand Prix. Her suitcase was half-packed, her mind even less so.

She picked out fresh cilantro, chiles, and mezcal—her signature addition for a special dessert. Daisy had invited friends over for a laid-back dinner, a goodbye before she left. And since Daisy’s idea of “cooking” included vegan microwave meals and wine that came in a box, she had offered to handle the food.

As she loaded her basket, her phone buzzed.

🔥 — Glen Powell

She blinked. Her heart skipped.

He had reacted to her Instagram story—her dancing in Daisy’s kitchen, flour on her cheek, mouthing along to End Game while baking. She had posted it an hour ago, thinking nothing of it. A moment of silliness before the evening rush.

But he’d seen it. And responded. Not with words—but with fire.

She tucked her phone away before she could spiral. It was probably nothing. Just a friendly little emoji.

Still, she smiled the entire walk home.

Back at Daisy’s flat, she got to work. Music blasted through the speakers as she cooked—enchiladas verdes, arroz con elote, and her mezcal chocolate chip cookies cooling on the counter. Daisy leaned in from the hallway, still applying mascara.

“You look suspiciously domestic,” she teased.

“Don’t worry. It’s all for Brisket.”

“Sure,” Daisy smirked. “You’re telling me Glen Powell’s dog just happened to find you on the carpet, and now you’re baking?”

“He’s not coming,” she said quickly. “He probably doesn’t even remember.”

But she kind of hoped he would. She didn’t have to wait long to find out. The knock on the door came just as she was plating the last of the enchiladas. Daisy opened it, and there he was—holding Brisket’s leash in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

“I brought the most important guest,” he said, stepping inside. “And also this wine, which I’m told doesn’t go with enchiladas. But I’m here for dessert.”

She stared, heart hammering. “You came.”

“Well, Brisket demanded it,” he said, unhooking the leash. The dog sprinted toward her like she was his favorite person in the world. She crouched down, laughing, letting him jump up.

“You again,” she said, scratching behind his ears.

Glen was watching her with a half-smile, like he was still a little surprised she was real. He looked different now—casual in a navy sweater and jeans, no cameras, no crowd. Just a guy. And yet somehow, even more disarming. As the rest of the guests trickled in—Daisy’s musician friends, a couple of actors, Anthony Ramos—Glen stayed near her, helping plate food, refilling water, handing out napkins. The dinner was chaotic and warm, everyone squeezed on cushions and mismatched chairs around a low table. Between bites of spicy rice and second helpings of cookies, the room buzzed with stories, laughter, the occasional off-key harmony.

At one point, Anthony leaned in, eyes glinting. “Entonces, cuando es la boda? Ya firmaste los papeles de adopción?” (So, when's the wedding? Have you signed the adoption papers?)

She coughed, mid-sip. “Que? No. esta loco, apenas y nos conocemos.” (What? No. Are you crazy we barley know each other)

“Sure,” Daisy added, winking. “But I’m pretty sure there was eye contact that could cause a blackout.”

She shook her head, cheeks burning. “We were just...talking.”

Across the room, Glen caught her glance and raised his glass. She raised hers back.

Just talking.

After dinner, most guests lounged around with drinks, trading playlists and half-tipsy confessions. Glen helped her stack plates in the kitchen. They moved in sync—passing dishes, wiping counters, brushing elbows.

“You sure this isn’t too much before your travel day?” he asked.

“I needed a distraction,” she said honestly. “Racing is constant motion. This...” She looked around the dim kitchen, candle flickering near the sink. “This feels like breathing.”

He nodded. “So where are you off to first?”

“Straight to Germany for a sim session. Then back to the US for college, before the real chaos starts. I won’t really be back in London until they need me or something comes up.”

He looked impressed. “That’s intense.”

“It’s everything,” she admitted, leaning against the counter. “Fast. Loud. Adrenaline on tap. But also—it’s the only time my brain shuts off. When I’m driving, I don’t think. I just feel.”

Glen rested his hands on the counter beside her, close enough to touch. “That’s how I feel when I write.”

“You write?” she asked, surprised.

He nodded. “Not scripts. Not yet. But stories. Scenes I never show anyone.”

“Why not?”

“Maybe I’m scared they won’t live up to the version in my head.”

She studied him. The quiet vulnerability beneath the charm. “You’d be surprised how much of yourself shows up anyway. Whether you mean to or not.”

He looked at her, then. Really looked. “Is that what happened yesterday?”

She froze, caught off guard.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about it,” he said softly.

The kitchen fell silent. Neither of them moved.

“I can’t either,” she admitted.

His smile deepened. “That makes me feel slightly less insane.”

She laughed, quietly. “Only slightly?”

“I mean, I barely know you,” he said. “But it doesn’t feel that way.”

“No,” she agreed. “It doesn’t.”

He glanced at her lips, then back to her eyes. His hand inched closer on the counter. She didn’t move away.

But the door creaked open as Daisy popped in, wine glass in hand. “Cookies are disappearing. If you want one, this is your last shot.”

They stepped apart, flustered.

“On my way,” she said quickly.

The night wore down in soft tones. Friends hugged their goodbyes, laughter trailed out into the hallway, and finally, it was just her, Daisy, and Glen. She stood by the window with a glass of water, watching lights blur in the distance. Her packed suitcase leaned by the door. Media calls. Branding. Sim time. College classes. It all began again tomorrow.

But tonight—tonight had been still.

Glen approached quietly, standing beside her at the window. Brisket curled up by the couch.

“Thanks for letting me crash,” he said. “Brisket thinks you’re his soulmate.”

She laughed softly. “I might be.”

Glen looked at her again, serious now.

“I know you’re leaving,” he said, voice low. “And I’m not asking for anything. But I just—”

She turned to face him.

“I just want you to know,” he said, “this wasn’t, nothing. Not to me.”

She swallowed. “Not to me either.”

There was a long pause. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pen.

“Here,” he said, gently taking her hand. He scribbled something on the inside of her wrist. A phone number.

“If I text you,” he said, “will you answer?”

She looked down at the number. Memorized it instantly. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you’ll send me Brisket pics.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

They stood there a moment longer, hands still lightly brushing. Not quite holding on. But not letting go, either. And later, long after he left, she curled into the couch, cookies wrapped for the plane, and the number still inked faintly on her wrist.

Her heart still racing. Not from driving this time. But from something just as dangerous.

The villa was quiet. Still. As if it, too, was holding its breath.

Sunlight streamed through the open windows, warming the tile floors and casting long golden shadows across the bed where their half-packed suitcases sat. Glen folded one of his button-downs and laid it neatly on top of his clothes, but his eyes kept drifting, drawn to the woman sitting silently across the room.

Gabby sat at the edge of the chaise, her carry-on open beside her but untouched. Her fingers were tangled in the hem of the sweatshirt she wore. His sweatshirt, one he’d let her steal from his pile of clothes laid out on the bed.

She wasn’t saying anything. She was just sitting there, too quiet. Too still for Glen’s liking.

Glen closed his duffel and crossed to her. “You okay?” he asked softly.

Gabby glanced up, eyes hazy but dry. She gave a small nod, but he could see right through it.

He lowered himself to sit beside her, their knees brushing. “Talk to me.”

She hesitated, then finally murmured, “I’m not worried about us. I know we’ll be okay.” Her voice was quiet. Honest. “It’s just…I’ve never had to say goodbye to you without knowing when I’d get to say hello again.”

Glen's chest tightened. He reached over, threading his fingers through hers.

“Every other time,” she continued, “we had a plan. A weekend, a flight, something on the calendar. But this time…” Her voice broke a little. “This time it’s just… wait and see.”

He gave her hand a squeeze. “I know,” he said gently. “And I hate that part too.”

She finally looked at him, really looked at him. “It’s stupid, I know. We’ll figure it out. I just…I already miss you, and you haven’t even left yet.”

“It’s not stupid,” he said, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “And for what it’s worth… I already miss you too.”

Gabby let out a soft laugh, blinking quickly like she was trying not to cry. “This part sucks.”

“It does.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. “But you’re not gonna be waiting forever, okay? I’ll find a way to get back to you soon. As soon as I can.”

She smiled against his shoulder. “Okay.”

“I mean it.” He tilted her chin up so she’d meet his eyes. “No countdown this time, but I’m still yours on every single day.”

Gabby breathed in deep, then let it out slowly. “Yeah…and I’m yours.”

* * * * *

The road stretched ahead, winding through the hills of Napa like a thread pulling them farther from the place that had briefly felt like their own little world.

Neither of them spoke.

Gabby sat angled toward the window, her cheek resting against her hand, watching the vineyards blur by. Rows of grapevines, golden grass, the occasional farmhouse — all of it slipping past like scenes from a dream she wasn’t ready to wake up from.

Glen glanced over, the curve of her jaw catching the sunlight. She was quiet again. Somewhere in her own head.

He reached over, his hand resting gently on her thigh. His thumb moved in slow circles, a silent reminder that he was still there. That even if the road was pulling them toward goodbye, they hadn’t let go yet.

Gabby’s hand found his after a beat. She laced their fingers together and gave the softest squeeze. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. 

* * * * *

The airport was colder than it should have been. Not in temperature. It was actually quite warm. The space was filled with overhead announcements and the low murmur of travelers going to their next destination.

Gabby stayed close to Glen’s side as they moved through the terminal, her rolling suitcase trailing behind her like it was reluctant to leave too.

Then they reached the security checkpoint. The further Glen could go with her.

This was it. There was only one thing left to do. Say the goodbye.

Overhead, the soft chime of an announcement echoed through the terminal.

“Final boarding call for Flight 287 to Los Angeles…”

Her flight.

She swallowed. Glen’s eyes were already on her.

The air between them buzzed with everything they wanted to say, and everything they didn’t know how to say without unraveling.

Then Glen moved. He stepped in and pulled her into him, arms winding around her like he could anchor her there with the sheer will of his hold. Gabby folded into his chest without hesitation, wrapping her arms around his waist, holding on like the seconds might stretch longer if she didn’t let go.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Then her temple. Then, slowly, her lips. One last lingering kiss that tasted like memory and promise and every aching thing in between.

When they finally pulled apart, Gabby looked up at him. Her voice was small but steady. “I’ll see you soon, right?”

Glen nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “Soon,” he said softly. “Not soon enough. But yeah. I’ll be there.”

Gabby gave a small nod, biting the inside of her cheek to keep it together. Then she stepped back. She turned and walked toward security.

Gabby didn’t look back right away. She didn’t want to. It was too hard. But just before the final checkpoint, just before she had to take off her shoes and let go of her carry-on, she paused. She turned, and Glen was still there. Still watching her with sad eyes that probably matched her own.

She forced a small smile to her lips. So did he.

And then she disappeared into the line.

* * * * *

Glen didn’t say a word as he climbed the steps to the private plane.

The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the tarmac. The world felt quieter somehow, like even the wind understood something had shifted.

He ducked inside the jet, nodding briefly to the pilot before settling into one of the leather seats. The door sealed shut behind him with a soft click.

He let out a slow breath and leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closed for a moment, holding onto the echo of her goodbye.

Then life crept back in. His career crept back in. He pulled out his phone, thumb instinctively unlocking it. Messages buzzed in. Group texts. Missed calls. Notifications stacking like bricks.

He’d made a point to keep his phone at bay this weekend, choosing instead to be present, to memorize the little things: the sound of Gabby’s laugh, the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.

But now that time had run out.

Back to work.

He opened a thread from his PR team.

PR: Engagement’s dipped. Let’s get a post up today. Anything from the past week—BBQ? Football game? Something fun.

He sighed, scrolling through his camera roll.

There were photos from the BBQ at his place, and then of course the game on Saturday with his family. 

He decided to pick one of the ones from the game. A simple one. Him on the sidelines doing the Hook ‘Em hand motion.

"Texas forever 🧡🏈 #HookEm"

Posted.

Done.

He leaned back, thumb hovering as he scrolled through the most recent memories—the kind that still felt warm and alive in his chest.

He decided he wanted to post them to his private Instagram account. The one only his family and close circle had access to.

The first: a golden hour snapshot of Gabby standing barefoot on the villa’s back patio. He had taken it their first night in Napa. Just as he was coming back in from grabbing their bags from the car. Her hair was down, the breeze catching it just enough to look effortless. The sunlight had caught in her eyes.

The second was a candid that the Moretti’s had taken during their lunch at the vineyard. Glen had his arm slung around Gabby’s shoulders, and she was leaning into him mid laugh, mouth open and carefree. He remembered how it felt, her head resting against his chest.

The third was a soft, quiet moment from the plane ride earlier that morning. Her headphones slightly askew, her face turned as she looked out the window of the small two seater plane. He’d taken it quickly and without thinking. He wanted to remember the way it felt to have her up in the air with him for the first time. Sharing one of his true loves with her.

The last one was a picture of Gabby walking towards their car after the flight this morning. Glen had snapped it without her knowing. Her back to the camera. He had said her name to get her attention. She turned slightly to look at him over her shoulder. And that’s when he snapped the pick. Her smile was small but sure. She looked happy. Beautiful. His.

He opened Instagram and captioned the post simply:

"Didn’t expect you. Don’t plan on letting you go. ❤️"

He tapped Post.

Set the phone down.

And leaned his head back, eyes closed as the jet engines roared to life around him.

He never realized he hadn’t switched accounts.