Fraser can’t seem to do anything except embarrass himself infront of the pretty bookstore clerk.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
Fraser seemed like the kind of guy who could flirt. He was 6’2” and made of muscle, and had the kind of ‘hot nerd’ look that girls went feral for.
And yet—
“I’m so sorry, I—“ he bent down to pick up the stacks of books that had went flying 5 seconds prior which promptly knocked his head into yours as he came down.
He stumbled back as he grasped his head, rubbing ever so slightly to calm the pain from the collision. He reached one hand out, squeezing his eyes shut as he spilled out about one hundred more apologies.
You grasped your own head, looking at the mess of books covering a small section of the bookstore you worked at. Fraser was a regular. He came in and bought a random sci-fi book at least once or twice a month, and every single time, he’d managed to either make a mess of the store, or a fool of himself. In this occasion, he chose the both options.
You watched as he scrambled to help clean up, and you couldn’t help but giggle. He glanced up in that moment, looking like a lost puppy.
“What?”
“No nothing,” you said, covering your mouth as you continued to laugh.
He immediately looked worried, his brown hair fell over his eyes as he shook his head.
“I— I’m so sorry, seriously it won’t happen—“
“It’s all good Fraser. I don’t mind.”
You stood up from your position on the floor, you quickly tightened your ponytail from where it had loosened and offered your hand to help Fraser up.
He continued to stare up at you, pausing for a few seconds. He stared at your freshly manicured fingers as if the wind was knocked out of him.
It’s nothing, it’s a simple gesture, the polite thing to do in a situation like this.
But yet he still found himself keeping quiet and unmoving, afraid that if he does anything more, he’ll somehow knock over a whole shelf full of books.
You withdrew your hand after a few seconds, your brows furrowing in the middle as you stared at him.
“Oooookay.”
He shook his head some more, his face turning bright red as he continued to stack the books that had gone toppling.
You quietly thanked him, placing them back in their respective places, you’d figured Fraser would have made his way to the sci-fi section like he always did after embarrassing himself. This time, he stayed rooted in place, watching as you sorted the books out.
You shifted to face him, a quizzical look on your face as you took in his stance. You couldn’t help but giggle at him, which made his face burn brighter.
You hid your face behind a book, smiling as he shook his head. He seemed to be working up the courage to say something anything to you.
He bowed his head, scratching at a spot on his neck.
“Whenever I come in here, I feel like I vandalise your store everytime.” He shook his head once again, finally mustering up the courage to look you in your eyes. “I’m so sorry, I can make it up to you.”
You smirked, staring back at him. You leant back against the shelving, crossing your arms across your chest. “How so?”
“Do you… err—“ he looked back at his feet before blurting out, “coffee? Tomorrow?”
You stared at his bashful appearance, letting out another small giggle. “Sure.”
He smiled, then finally looked back up at you, a fresh wave of confidence washing over him.
“Great. It’s a date.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
Notes: I’m getting back into writing guys!! Any tips or feedback really helps! (Also thank you for the love on already over 😭😭😭 I was so scared to post it)
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FRIDAY NIGHT finds you in the laundry room, shoving a week’s worth of clothes into a washing machine while half the campus gets ready for another party. you always do your laundry when there’s a party, because while everyone else is busy drinking, the laundry room is empty.
peaceful, predictable, no waiting around for 5000 years.
you toss a detergent pod into the drum and slam the door. your basket sits at the side while you take a seat on top of the spinning machine, untangling your earphones while the door opens. you don’t look up.
“huh,” they speak, “was starting to think you’d transferred.”
you freeze.
god, please no.
you look up.
will’s standing in the doorway with an overflowing laundry basket in his hands, looking almost surprised by your existence. the second your eyes meet, he grins.
you tuck a bit of your hair behind your ear, lowering your hands as you try to fight the blush. “i . . what? what are you talking about?” you play dumb, forcing a laugh.
ok, so what if you’ve subconsciously been going out of your way to avoid will after you kissed him? only by a little bit - it’s not like you’re taking massive repercussions just to avoid him.
did you cross the soaking, soggy, muddy grass in the middle of campus and ruin your sneakers because he was walking in your direction? maybe, but you were running late for practice anyway.
did you completely by coincidence, start switching up seats from your usual spot just for a change? yeah, ‘cause it seemed . . fun to do?
did you duck underneath the cheerleading table during the student involvement fair because you spotted his baseball cap weaving through the crowd? yeah, but you thought your earring had fell out at the same moment.
will has actually been . . an angel. he’s left you alone. he hasn’t pried. hasn’t seeked you out to hound you. it’s you — you think about him for even a second and you’re riddled with guilt, you hear him and your face flushes with embarrassment, you see him and your chest starts beating too fast and your stomach gets that weird tingly sensation like it did when his tong—
“you’re getting creative.”
he snaps you out of your daze. you blink, lost. “what . . what do you mean?”
“you’re avoiding me.”
his voice makes you straighten, although he’s smiling, gum smacking in his mouth. he has a navy hat on, some baseball team on it, matching his navy t-shirt. “i’m . . i’m not,” you try to play off. “i’ve been busy.”
“doing what?”
“just with classes and stuff . . cheerleading . . usual.”
“i haven’t seen you in class. i was looking for you.”
that makes your heart squeeze with guilt. you’re unfazed when he doesn’t show up to class, he’s missed a dozen classes due to hockey, whether college-related or some variant of international play - you get on with your day.
when you don’t show up one day, will’s brain is wracked wondering if everything’s ok.
“i’ve been every day,” you answer, and you have, you’re not lying . . . you’ve just been on the complete opposite side you usually sit on. “did you need something . . ? my file—”
he shakes his head while lowering his basket, placing it on the floor to opening a machine door. “i just . . wanted to make sure i hadn’t done something.”
you frown. “what?”
he shrugs one shoulder, slightly turning his back to you while he loads up his machine. “just figured i made you uncomfortable or somethin.”
the joking tone is gone.
it’s so matter-of-fact that it makes your chest tighten. “no,” the answer comes instantly as you shake your head. “no will, that’s not . . . no. you didn’t make me uncomfortable.”
he watches you closely, turning around to you. “you promise?”
“i promise,” you hold up your hands as if to prove you’ve got nothing crossed. you even uncross your legs. “you didn’t make me uncomfortable. i . . it’s me.” you confess.
you slump in your spot, like you can no longer carry the weight. “it’s just — every time i see you, i — i get embarrassed. i can’t believe i tried to kiss you and i’m so sorry for it. ‘n then i was scared in case you started telling people and if brad found out so i’ve had this god-awful anxiety all week, it makes me sick—”
will’s standing in front of you now, his brows furrowed as he moves his hands across like as if to cut you off. you do. “you’d think i’d tell people?”
you raise a shoulder. “. . well yeah, like i thought . . maybe you’d tell your friends.”
he just looks at you.
“and they’d joke about it . . .”
still nothing.
“and then someone would overhear . .”
he slowly shakes his head.
“or maybe you’d bring it up to brad.”
will’s brows furrow. “you think i’d tell brad?”
“—not in a cruel way,” you say quickly. “just . . because you two don’t like each other and . . i thought maybe you’d . . . rub it in or something?”
a long silence settles between you. will steps closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you’re no longer talking across the room. you can smell his signature scent better, cleanliness and something masculine. “i don’t really like brad.”
“i know.”
“but i like you a lot more than i don’t like him.”
you close your eyes and that, feeling like your heart could melt through your fingers.
he says it so casually, with no shame or embarrassment.
“why would i do something like that? at your cost?”
your throat tightens as he keeps going, and you have to lift your hand to get him to stop taking. “will—”
“—you really thought i’d use you to get at him?”
“n—no.” the word comes out small. “i don’t know what i thought i just . . was overthinking it every possibility,” you lower your head. “. hiding just makes the most sense.”
he smiles, but it’s smaller this time - softer. the one that kind of pulls at your heartstrings. “hey,” he says quietly, waiting until you meet his eyes. “you really don’t have to do all that.”
“what?”
“hide from me.”
the words aren’t teasing anymore, and his gaze holds yours in a comforting reassurance. “i hate to think you’ve spent a week changing where you sit or taking different routes, worrying every time you see me because you think i’m gonna make things weird.” he gives a tiny shake of his head. “i’m not.”
you look down at your hands.
“i haven’t told anybody,” he continues. “and i’m not going to. not my teammates. not my friends. definitely not brad. it’s nobody else’s business but ours, and if you don’t want anyone knowing, then that’s where it stays.”
ours.
it sounds weird coming from him and doesn’t something weird to your limbs.
“you don’t have to explain yourself to me, and you don’t have to spend every day trying to make sure we never end up in the same room,” his voice is warm now, almost comforting. “i’d rather you just be yourself . . ” he’s closer now, standing directly in front of you, your knees almost touch him. “i’d much rather get the version of you that argues with me that i’m not 6’1 in skates and tells me i’m annoying.”
you laugh a little, looking away from his blue eyes. “you are not 6’1 in skates.”
“‘course i am,” he inches closer, face full of fake arrogance although his voice is soft and teasing. it eases your nerves, loosens you a little.
“i . .” you laugh at yourself without any humour in it. “you’re right. i’m sorry, i’m just . . i’m a mess at the minute.” you place your head in your hands.
you don’t know why you assume will to be cruel like that. you know he’s not. maybe it’s a you thing: you have a hard time learning not every guy is brad. it’s instinct to assume they’re all the same.
will doesn’t hesitate to peel your hands from your face, standing almost between your legs if they had been spread apart a little more. “you’re not a mess, y/n.” his hand’s nonchalantly relax on your thighs, your bare thighs because it’s approaching 10PM and you’re dressed for bed in a plain oversized t-shirt while 90% of campus is at that 80s themed party tonight.
your gaze drops to his hands, how they blanket your thighs, the way fingers stretch farther than they seemed capable of around them. when you finally drag your eyes back to his face, he’s already looking at you.
“nobody knows. nobody will know,” his voice is low, like it’s meant only for you.
his hands shift again, slower this time, thumbs brushing absentmindedly against your skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “just you and me . . .”
you don’t mean to do it, you try to fight it - but you look anyway - you look at his mouth while he’s talking. pink lips moving, voice smooth like honey, soft in a way that doesn’t match how close he is standing. the sound settles under your skin, soft and slow, it warms every part of you until it feels like you’re physically melting.
your shoulders drop first, tension bleeding out of you in a way that makes you blink like you’ve just woken up.
it’s like the space between you starts shrinking on its own. “will,” you mutter, eyes dropping. “we—you’re too close.”
he huffs a quiet laugh at that. “too close?” his brow twitches, “after a week of not seeing me?”
you give him a look despite his teasing, but you still don’t move.
his lips tug in response, fingers sliding to the crease between your legs and torso, fingers curling around the back until he’s pulling you towards him. your breath catches before you can stop it, your eyes dropping eye-level with his neck. the smell of his aftershave hits you next, clean and sharp, drawing you closer to him.
“you’re telling me to move . . ” he murmurs, “but you keep coming closer.”
“’m not.”
“no?” his nose brushes yours, feather-light, enough to make your heart jump; your eyes close.
you don’t know what he’s saying anymore, your thoughts feel like they’ve been wrapped in cotton and you’re waiting for him to kiss you.
his nose grazes yours again as he leans in, slow enough to give you every chance to pull away, and when you don’t – he finally kisses you.
again.
the kiss is slow. unhurried, like neither of you has anywhere else to be.
somewhere between his hand finding your waist and your fingers curling instinctively into the front of his t-shirt, the noise you’ve been carrying around all week melts into silence, every anxious thought that had been ricocheting around moments ago simply fades.
will’s lips are soft. they’re gentle on yours. it’s so sweet it makes your ears ring.
when he pulls away, your eyes stay closed and you don’t dare move.
he kisses you again.
it deepens this time, his lips parting more gradually until his tongue slides against yours, warm and wet and tasting faintly of something minty. your arms come up to his neck in a mind of their own, tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. you can feel the smirk in his kiss.
he doesn’t let you breathe. it’s a kiss you’ve never experienced before; it sends tingles down your spine and makes your toes curl. you chase more.
will makes a breathy sound, lips pushing harder against yours as his hands tighten around your waist. he pulls your lower half closer to the edge of the machine until your knees bracket his hips and you grab his arm consciously. “will,” you hum breathlessly, his lips brushing yours. “we can’t—”
he cuts you off again, messily slotting his lips against yours.
the alarm bells in your mind silence with the the feel of his hands travelling back to your legs, caressing the top of your thighs, his thumb smoothing the inside of it. it makes your breath stutter; your brain short-circuit and thoughts turn to mush.
“will,” you say again between kisses, eyes closing with every stroke of his tongue massaging yours. it distracts you from the hand slowly making its way between your legs. “mmph—”
the sudden contact of will’s middle finger pressing against your clothed slit sends a jolt through your body; a high-pitched gasp past your lips. he continues to kiss you as you pull away, barely regaining consciousness as your hand snatches a hold of his wrist, stopping his hand from moving another inch. “will, will, will—” you whisper, trying to get him to stop.
he does. the second you whisper, he eases back, breaking the kiss gently between you. his eyes stay closed for a moment longer, forehead hovering yours, his lips glisten with saliva. his breathing is still uneven, his shoulders moving with each intake.
he doesn’t rush. he just lets you go, his nose brushing your cheek as if he’s giving himself a second before reality catches up.
“will . . .” your voice comes out embarrassingly small. you swallow. “i-i can’t.”
this time, he nods. slowly. like he’d already known that was coming.
it makes your chest hurt.
your eyes dart to the door, your heartbeat suddenly loud again.
you look back at him, eyes softening at the devastating sight: blond curls messily spread across his forehead, cheeks flushed pink from your intense makeout. “i’m sorry,” you blurt, gently easing his hand from your waist. he lets you. “i just—we shouldn’t’ve . . i shouldn’t have—”
he gives another small nod and takes half a step back. “i get it,” he says like he’s trying to spare you the conversation. “it’s cool.”
“no—” you trap him between your legs before he can step away anymore. “please wait.”
“it’s fine, y/n.” he unhooks your ankles over him.
“no will, wait, please,” you hop off the washing machine, ignoring the terrible ache down below as you try to get him to look at you. “it’s not you—”
“i know.”
“no but—”
he tries not to sigh. “y/n–”
“please don’t be weird with me.”
he pauses. he looks at you properly, confusion swirling in his eyes. “i won’t . . ?”
“don’t be mad.”
he looks back at you, brows knitting together. “i’m not.”
dismissive. matter-of-fact.
your chest only tightens. “no, but you are,” you insist quietly. “i can tell.”
“i’m not mad at you,” he establishes, furrowing his brows at the accusation.
“promise?”
he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, keeping his gaze on you. “yeah.”
you search his face for something, anything, that tells you he’s telling the truth. “i’m not going to avoid you,” the words spill out too fast, “not this time. i swear.”
his expression softens, eyes drifting to the floor, “you don’t have to promise me anything.”
“no but i do, i—” you don’t even know what to say. “can we just be the same? like, before?” your eyes are pleading as you look up to him. “i don’t want you to—” ditch me? leave me alone? ignore me? “i dunno, i’m — just—don’t change anything. we’re good.” you nod, smoothing the bottom of your shirt. “we’re good. you don’t need to—to disappear on me or—”
“disappear on you?” will perks an eyebrow at that, offended. “that’s you who does that.”
“i know, i know, i’m sorry. i won’t this time, i promise.” you cringe, cheeks flaming. “i’ll literally save you a seat on monday, i— we’re cool. we’re cool. this never happened.”
will raises his head in acknowledgment.
alright.
cool.
he nods. “yeah.”
it isn’t cold. it isn’t angry. if anything, that’s what makes your heart clench. he isn’t going to fight you on it or ask why, he isn’t going to make you feel worse than you already do.
he just accepts your response. “see you around.”
you take a step closer as he makes it to the door, basket scooped in his hand. “will—” you open your mouth, but nothing comes - because what are you even supposed to say?
you settle with a weak ‘i’m sorry’ and he gives another nod. “i know.”
and then he’s gone.
the second the door shuts, your chest caves. you drag a hand over your face.
idiot.
this never happened? why would you say that? that wasn’t what you meant. you feel even worse as you did before, and this time, you promised you wouldn’t avoid him.
-
the party buzzes around you.
people shout over the music, bottles clink somewhere in the kitchen, someone you’ve never met is laughing hard enough to fold in half. it’s chill for a saturday night. you stay tucked into brad’s side most of the night, fingers hooked loosely through his arm. you laugh when everyone else laughs, nod along to conversations you haven’t really heard.
you’re already moving when brad asks for you to get something for him.
you try to have a good time, you’ve had two seltzers to help you, but there’s a strange emptiness following you around all evening.
like something’s missing.
you don’t realize how often your eyes drift across the room until you catch yourself doing it again.
“babe, can you grab me another beer?”
“’course.” you grin, brushing a quick kiss against his cheek before disappearing into the kitchen.
it’s automatic, all of it - the way you lean against him when he pulls you in, play with the hair at the back of his neck while he’s talking to his friends - you’re attentive. sweet.
maybe a little too hard.
you weave through the crowd, muttering quiet apologies as shoulders knock yours from every direction. “sorry.”
“it’s fine.”
you step aside to let them through.
that’s when you see him.
will.
your heart stumbles so hard it almost feels painful.
he’s sunk into the corner of the sofa, one arm stretched lazily along the back of it. a girl sits tucked into his side, laughing at something he’s just said. another sits to his left, their knees touching.
your eyes stay fixed on them, unable to look away despite every part of you screaming to.
he says something that makes the one of the right laugh, and her fingers curl around the front of his t-shirt, collecting a firm grip – and your feet stop.
you watch him nod, lips pulled to the side in that smirk he does and you catch the way his eyes dip to her mouth.
your eyes could slice him.
don’t.
before your brain can make sense of what you’re looking at, will leans in, all confidence. she meets him halfway.
then it happens.
they kiss.
your brows raise and your mouth falls open before your brain has fully registered what’s going on.
he kisses her.
not accidentally.
not drunkenly.
deliberately.
for a second, all you can hear is the rush of blood flooding your head.
your entire body goes hot.
you watch like a complete weirdo, watching the way he slips his tongue in, the way his head moves to meets hers, the way his eyes remain closed and his hand rests on her leg.
something ugly flares inside you violently.
your whole body racks.
“babe?”
brad’s voice reaches you from somewhere behind.
you don’t answer.
you’re still staring.
still hoping, stupidly, that he’ll pull away.
“babe?”
you flinch at a hand brushing your elbow, so hard it almost startles you.
“what?” you bite.
brad blinks. “i just asked if you got my drink . .“
“well, i’m getting it, aren’t i?!”
his eyebrows raise, taken back by the tone. “alright . . .”
honestly, brad is at a loss these days. when he’s being an ass, you act a psycho, when he’s on his best behaviour and treating you good, you act a psycho.
“god!” you scoff, wrenching open the fridge harder than necessary.
“what’s wrong with you?”
“nothing.”
“doesn’t seem like nothing.”
“BRAD!” you shout this time, slamming the door closed with a flare in your eyes. “STOP talking to me.”
a couple of heads turn and brad raises his hands immediately. the look in your eyes is new.
“okay.”
guilt pricks at you for all of half a second when you hand him the can, because when you look up again—they’re still there.
heat surges through you all over again. you don’t even recognize the feeling.
“babe, chill out, alright? what happened?” brad’s voice is soft for once as he stands in front of you, blocking the view. he tries to be gentle. he says he’s been working on himself and you’ve noticed it.
you rip his hand from your side and storm off back to your spot, your whole body almost shaking with emotions you didn’t even know you possessed.
-
monday comes around when you’ve still got that furrow in your brow. the lecture theatre is already half full by the time you arrive, coffee in one hand, headphones still around your neck.
you scan the rows automatically whilst walking up the steps – and there he is.
will.
in your seat.
well, not your seat. your row.
he’s saved the chair beside him with his backpack, spotting you almost immediately. he lifts it onto his lap without a second thought.
“morning sunshine.” he says.
like friday never happened.
like saturday didn’t exist.
like two girls hadn’t practically climbed into his lap before midnight.
your jaw tightens.
“. . hi.”
you slide into the chair without looking at him.
the silence stretches. he doesn’t seem bothered by it.
“good weekend?”
is that a joke?
you just nod, keeping your head to the front. will lifts his in acknowledgment, sensing you’re not in a chatty mood.
“brad got asked to skate with us tomorrow,” he says after a while, looking over at you after he finishes taking notes off the slide.
that grabs your attention. you look up, barely meeting his eyes for a second, trying to sound interested. “he did?”
“yeah. jake’s got mono, leno’s concussed . . asked if he’d come by the rink tomorrow afternoon.”
you hum, typing on your laptop.
conversation = over.
he studies you for a second as you avoid his gaze, then shakes his head so subtly, you don’t see it.
something’s up.
you type while will scribbles notes. every now and then he fidgets in his seat, his elbow brushes yours, he stretches dramatically or readjusts his hat on his head and it slowly chips at your patience.
“will, quit smacking your gum.”
“will, your volume.”
“will,” you nudge his arm off your side of the desk. “your elbow.”
you try not to sound so quick with it, but you swear, he must be doing it on purpose. you’re laser-focused on the screen at the front of the room while he texts from next to you, and you can’t take it.
“oh my god, smitty! can you breathe through your nose?” your head cranks to him, unable to concentrate on anything other than the sound of his breathing next to you.
will pauses, mouth still open, glancing at you.
he shuts his mouth, not tearing his eyes from you.
ok.
five minutes later, after trying to be as mute as possible, he yawns.
you don’t even look up. “will.”
“huh?”
“why are you being so loud.”
he freezes. “ . . what?”
“seriously.” you grit your teeth.
will’s brows furrow. your attitude is clear as day to him now. “i . . yawned.”
“yeah. out loud. for everyone to hear.”
“i wasn’t aware there was another method?” he responds sarcastically, squinting his eyes at you.
“come up with one.”
his brow twitches. so that’s the mood you’re in today? he looks around theatrically. “anybody know how to yawn quietly?”
a couple of students glance over before returning to their conversations. will looks back at you. “you are in a mood.”
“i’m not.”
“could’ve fooled me,” he tilts his head, making your stomach flip. “seriously . .” he turns back to fix his notes, “tell brad to step his game up or something.”
you shoot him a look. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
he shrugs. “i don’t know. dude’s clearly slacking if this is what i’m dealing with on a monday morning.”
your jaw falls. “he’s not slacking in anything.”
“pfft. ok.”
“hey!” you snap, “what are you getting at?”
“nothing.”
“no say it.”
“i said nothing.”
“you’re implying something.”
“you’re hearing things,” he smiles at himself, tongue poking his cheek. it’s cute seeing you mad. it’s actually cute seeing you mad at him.
you don’t find it funny.
instead, you thump his arm with your fist.
“OW!”
“you’re an asshole.”
“that’s assault.”
“good.”
he rubs his bicep dramatically but smiles. “jesus.”
the professor begins wrapping up the lecture, peers already exiting the room while others are still packing their bag. you’re halfway through closing a document to get out of here when—
clap!
your laptop snaps shut, and you jump.
will’s already standing, one hand still resting on the top of it. “tell your boyfriend he owes the rest of us an apology,” he says, swinging his bag over his shoulder, and your brows furrow. “ . . he’s gotta be doing something wrong if this is the mood he’s sending you into class with.”
there he is again. picking at your relationship. acting like he knows everything.
you snatch your laptop back. “get off his back.”
will’s lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “you should try getting off mine.” he bargains, inching close to your face.
you open your mouth, but end up looking like a goldfish because you open and close your mouth ‘cause nothing comes out. too distracted by him getting too close in your face, the dimple on his cheek, how pink his lips are. he walks off, unbeknownst to the heat clawing at your body.
-
you spend the rest of the week going about your day as normal. you go to class, you go to practice, you’ve even been to the rink, watching brad who’s been filling in for defence. it’s surprisingly easy tuning out the annoying sound that is will.
or at least you pretend it is.
in group discussions, you pretend to write something super important in your notebook when he gives his input. you don’t look at him when he talks. if someone asks the group a question, you answer them all but him. you leave your earphones in through every lecture you share, even when nothing’s playing anymore. at the rink, you don’t even turn your head when he flies past on the ice a dozen times, barely allowing yourself to clap twice when he makes a good play because everyone around you does.
the anger starts to dull around the edges by midweek, as if being away from him has allowed you to cool down and realize it’s not that deep. that you’re overreacting and his little remarks are nothing out the ordinary from him. you almost ask him for his notes on a slide that went by too fast — almost.
until a girl in the row in front turns around and asks for a pencil.
will passes her one before you even comprehend what she says, and you watch the way they interact: the way she smiles up at him, how she says his name when she thanks him, the way he winks back in response.
suddenly, you’re staring at his side profile and you’re replaying the image of him slipping his tongue in some girl’s mouth.
“FUCK!” you unexpectedly say out loud, palms smacking your forehead.
people turn and look at you concerned, including will, who’s is more confused, but assumes, like everyone else, that it’s an answer you’ve answered incorrectly on your sheet as you look down at it.
it’s not. you’re just going insane. you swear. you swear, you’re going insane.
friday rolls around when you find yourself at the rink, running a little behind to meet brad after he pitched dinner and a movie at his place after you were both finished with practice. you texted him you’d be there in ten and he never answered, so made your way in to the arena anyway, only to be met with the sound of a single set of skates still cutting through the ice.
i already know who this is, you think to yourself, strutting over to the ledge.
will sees you when you come in, still shooting pucks in the net despite practice ending 10 minutes ago. he’s always the last off the ice. always putting in an extra shift.
he goes back to firing shot after shot, aiming for a different angle in the net until the person on the zamboni will have to force him off the ice. he doesn’t acknowledge you. you don’t acknowledge him.
you set your bag up on the ledge to dig through the clutter for your phone; a mess of makeup products, your sweaty uniform, a bra, loose change, hair clips, pom-pom strands and water bottles - it makes it harder then necessary.
by the time you pull it out, you don’t waste time in checking if brad got your message and call him instead - trying to block out the crack of each shot that echoes around the rink. “hello?”
“hey. what’s up?”
“where are you, i just got here. i’m standing in the box?” you glance around, trying to see if you can catch sight of him lingering in the tunnel.
“babe, i left like 5 minutes ago. i was gonna hang at jordan’s ‘til you were done practice?”
“i told you i finished the same time as you?”
crack.
your eyes follow the trail of the puck hitting the boards.
“i though you finished at 5:30? and by the time you get showered ‘n shit i was just gonna wait for you to call me . .”
“i finish at 5:00 and that’s including getting showered ‘n stuff.” you glance to the side in disbelief.
“oh.”
“oh?” you repeat. “will i meet you at your place or not?”
“look, just come to jordan’s. i’ll text you the address. i’ve already had a beer so you’ll have to come grab me anyway.”
“okay,” you huff, lowering your phone. “bye.”
“bye.”
you throw your phone in your bag, shoving the other things you had to take out back in when your favourite lipstick hits the ice with a ‘clack’ as it falls from the ledge and begins rolling further out.
past the blue line, past the face-off dot, until it finally comes to a stop almost dead centre of the rink.
you eyes immediately jump to will, the only one on the ice, who was watching it as well.
he’s smacking his gum (as always), and shrugs a shoulder while looking at you. “i’m not getting it.”
the bluntness makes you straighten.
you blink.
“you act like i don’t exist so,” he pulls a face like it’s something out of his control, turning back to his setup. “come get it yourself.” another crack of the boards deafens your ears.
you look back to the lipstick in the middle of the rink, then to the type of shoes on your feet.
ordinary sneakers. barely a grip on them with how long you’ve had them.
can you even walk on ice with regular shoes on?
you look at will to see if he’s being serious, but he’s too busy on stick work, not even sparing you a second glance.
you swallow nervously.
is he really gonna make you grab it yourself?
you contemplate how badly you really need it, considering you haven’t skated on the ice since you were 10 and at that, had a penguin skating aid to lean on.
you then consider the fact the zamboni will probably crush a perfectly good $25 lipstick into little tiny pieces if you do.
you also then consider the worst case scenario: what if it shoots out a tiny piece at somebody? and causes a total freak accident where blood is on your hands because you couldn’t be bothered to pick up after yourself? that gets you moving.
you set your bag down and tuck your hair back so it doesn’t block your view. you mutter something under your breath and step carefully through the open gate, goosebumps running along your legs.
the second the rubber mat disappears beneath your white nikes, your confidence goes with it.
your foot slides at least a foot.
you immediately grab the boards.
you hear him snort.
you ignore it.
with one hand clamped to the top of the boards, you shuffle forward awkwardly, feet barely leaving the ice.
god, how are you making it to the centre?
you make it a whole three steps before one foot shoots slightly ahead of the other when will sends another puck against the boards, making you jump and lose footing. “whoa!—” you catch yourself at the last second.
you quickly realize how terrifying and dangerous it is be on the ice during a game.
the boards rattle with you.
you continue inching forward, tiny steps at a time, looking no-where but the golden-like rectangle. it’s so slippy. the shooting has stopped so you assume will is watching you. you don’t wanna know how stupid you must look tight now.
stiff. jumpy. covered in goosebumps.
it’s so cold, your arms and legs suffering the most as they remain bare from the worn BC t-shirt and shorts you first got years ago. you’re convinced the shivering isn’t helping with your balance.
will watches, leaning lazily on his stick before setting it against the boards beside his helmet. then, with a couple of effortless strides, he’s gliding towards you, almost racing you without looking like he’s trying.
you refuse to look at him.
your eyes stay fixed on the lipstick.
just a little bit more . . .
you crouch carefully, every muscle in your body tensing as your fingertips hover inches away – when a pair of skates come into view and give a soft tap of the golden case, sending the thing gliding further on down to the right, a few more feet across the ice.
you freeze, mouth dropping as you look up to see will already drifting backwards.
“ . . . ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!”
“oh.” he looks theatrically around the empty rink. “you can see me?”
you stand in such a rush, stumbling, forgetting where you when his arm out stretches to catch you - and you hold on, closing the distance between you in two careful, clumsy steps, grabbing a fistful of the arms of his jersey. “you’re an asshole!”
“damn, i didn’t think you’d know it was me,” he continues with the joke, staring down at your face, “forgot my invisible cloak.”
“i’ve seen you all week, i’ve just been purposely ignoring you!” you snap, feeling smaller than usual as he towers inches above you in his skates.
“for no other reason than . . ?”
“for no other reason being you’re insufferable company and nothing but a pain in my ass.”
he rocks gently on his skates, taken aback but still finding it amusing. he loves when you swear. it’s surprisingly out of character. “gee . .” he tilts his head slightly, eyebrow twitching up, “guess brad’s still being a pussy and not eating yours.”
your face falls.
almost horror-like, as if you can’t believe he just said that.
you can’t believe he just said that.
your mouth hangs open.
nothing.
not a single comeback.
you just stare at him, heat rushing up your neck so fast it burns your cheeks. for once, your brain doesn’t have anything clever to throw back. just stunned, offended silence.
“you—” is all you manage, breathless with disbelief.
it isn’t even anger at first, it’s pure, stunned embarrassment.
you shove against his chest on instinct, creating space between you like distance might somehow undo what he’d just said. you can’t even bring yourself to meet his eyes. you just push him away, allowing him grin to himself while you twist on your heel to fetch your lipstick and go.
you make it just three steps in when your foot slips sideways and a squeak leaves you. “WHEUP!—”
your knees slam into the ice.
hard.
a cold thump echoes across the rink before your palms slap down after them, and the pain is immediate.
hot.
your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. you stay frozen on all fours, forehead bowed, your palms stinging against the freezing ice as your knees throb beneath you.
it hurts so bad.
the scrape of skate blades reaches you seconds later. “shit, hey—” a gloved hand appears in front of you. you bat it away without thinking. you can’t even tell him to leave you alone, a lump lodged too tightly in your throat.
he’s surprised. “y/n,” he says, his voice different. the teasing is totally gone.
instead, you turn your face away from him, swallowing hard, refusing to let him see the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes - whether from the pain or the embarrassment, you don’t know. you force yourself forward, practically crawling the first couple of feet before grabbing onto the boards with both hands. every movement sends another throb to your knees.
will watches, heart racing, the guilt pulling him down. he wants to throw himself down on the ice and break every one of his teeth if it would make you feel any better.
he stays where he is when you push through the gate without another glance, limping while picking up your bag.
he stands in the silence on his own, his eyes drifting to the abandoned gold tube sitting alone in the middle of the ice. he spots the little dots of blood from where you’ve cut your hands.
he throws his head back, sighing loudly.
why did he do that?
-
by saturday night, you’re exhausted. it’s ridiculous: the weekend’s barely started. your knees are still bruised, ugly shades of purple blooming beneath the skin. every time you kneel or bend them too far, they remind you exactly how hard you hit the ice.
you cried in the car. not because of will, because they hurt fucking bad – because the second the adrenaline wore off, every movement stung like a motherfucker. only for 2 minutes, because you had to go collect brad, and brad hated crying, or he hated dealing with it, rather.
date night hadn’t lasted long anyway. the first time you’d shifted in your place, you’d sucked in a sharp breath.
‘what’s wrong?’ he’d asked, giving you a weird look.
‘it’s nothing, just . . my knees’ you rolled your pyjamas up to show the violent bruising already coating them. brad’s brows furrowed. ‘what’d you do?’
that made you pause, because you didn’t know what to say. the instant will comes to mind, your immediate reaction is to deflect and deny when brad brings him up. ‘i don’t know.’
you knew it was the wrong answer the second you’d said it.
‘you don’t know?’ he repeated, staring at you.
‘well i . . i fell, what’d you think i did?” you chuckled nervously, settling on the lie you did it at practice. however, brad’s face hardens at your remark, and you don’t realize the damage you’re doing right now.
he squints his eyes. ‘you tell me — what were you doing?’
you can guess how it ended.
now, you’re catching up on laundry, again, because there’s a party and you offered to do katie’s now that she’s back at her boyfriend’s place. as always, it’s empty. chill vibes. you have one earphone in, listening to your 80s playlist you always play, thinking about the little bit of work you could catch up on when you get back.
you finish sorting another pile before setting your next basket down next you, opening the door to switch them out.
when you finish emptying the machine, you reach for the next basket - only to find the little glimmer of gold sitting on top.
your hand pauses.
your lipstick.
from the rink.
you stare at it for a second before turning around, met with will standing opposite side of the room at a machine.
he stands with his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants, his laundry basket next to him.
and all you can think is why — why does the sight of him tug at your heart?
you look back down at the lipstick.
it’s spotless, the scuffs are gone, there’s not a fingerprint on the metallic surface. he’s taken the time to make sure it wasn’t ruined before giving it back.
will’s loading up a machine when you look back at him, pressing buttons effortlessly before he turns around to lean against it, crossing his legs, his eyes focused on his phone.
you let out a quiet breath, turning back to your laundry.
you can’t seem to stay mad at him. you’re not mad at all when you block out saturday altogether, not when you know will is completely clueless to the situation - rightfully confused because he did, in fact, do nothing wrong.
you don’t even know what he did wrong. you just didn’t like seeing him with another girl, which is so strange to admit to yourself because you have a boyfriend . . . you like to think it’s because by seeing someone else look that excited to kiss someone made something uncomfortable shift in your own chest.
maybe it forced you to notice something your relationship had been missing for a while. that easy pull towards someone, that excitement, that thrill.
god, you don’t know. you still don’t know. it makes your head hurt when you think about it for too long. you just know it made you uncomfortable and you have to assume it’s somewhat an indication that your relationship is lacking in something. you want to feel what that girl felt. experience what she felt.
but you do know how she felt, you just don’t know what to do with the fact that it wasn’t with brad.
one thing is for certain is that it’s something for you to work on, not will. you’re mature enough to accept he did nothing wrong and he doesn’t deserve your cold shoulder while you try to figure out how to fix yourself.
you’re the fucked up one, not him.
will’s been nothing but sweet to you.
respectful.
familiar.
even though he had his tongue in another girl’s mouth.
FUCK!
why the fuck are you keep coming back to that, y/n?!
will glances up as you close your eyes and clench your jaw - and he immediately feels like he’s right back to square one.
stop thinking about it y/n. stop it. just focus on . . . laundry. you were doing laundry.
you steal a glance at him while picking up a shirt to fold, scanning him head to toe as if he’s gonna look any different from yesterday. he stays distracted on his phone, head dipped down. the only thing moving is his thumb, his fingers adjusting their grip every now and then around the phone. you swallow.
he’s so big.
tall! you mean tall. he’s still so tall even without skates.
he shifts, one leg holding most of him while the other relaxes, and you quickly look down, hoping you haven’t been caught studying him after ignoring him a whole week. he keeps one hand tucked under his armpit, the sleeves of his hoodie contracting against his forarms.
you divert your focus back to your dirty and clean clothes, the hum of the dryers being the only sound in the room. your music isn’t playing anymore, your earphones abandoned at the side.
he still hasn’t said anything.
ignore him. just ignore him, y/n, he literally can’t say anything without offending y—
“are you ignoring me now?”
the words leave before you can stop them . . and you can only own them once they leave, standing with a hand on your hip as your face frowns.
why did you just do that??
will looks at you confused, even glances around to see if you’re talking to anybody else.
“—‘cause i’m supposed to be ignoring you,” you continue, not knowing what you’re doing.
the fuck?
“i . . isn’t that what you want . . ?” will looks at you confused, tilting his head.
“i never said that?” you look at him like he’s not making any sense.
“oh, no i just . . assumed when you said . . i was insufferable company and you’d been purposefully ignoring me all week, that . . you wanted me to fuck off.”
oh yeah, you did say that.
still, it’s too late to back down now. “no . . ?”
will stares at you, mouth open, breathing without another thought in his head before shaking it off and turning his attention back to his phone.
you slouch, dropping your stance and backtrack. “ok ok, i’m sorry. i’m sorry, just — forget that. i’m sorry. i’m being annoying and . . gaslighting you to be honest. i don’t know what i’m saying.”
will slides his phone into his pocket then, giving you his full attention. “that’s the problem. if you don’t know, how am i supposed to know?” his tone pinches at your heart, because it’s gentle as always, despite your sense of frustration. “i’m doing what you asked, i gave you space and tried to keep things normal, and you . . wanted to rip my head off ‘cause i breathed too loud?”
“oh but will you always breathe loud! you’re a mouth breather,” your palm hits the washing machine like that’s an unfair reason to be mad.
he gives you a flat look.
you slump. “sorry.”
you do feel guilty, because he’s so right. the whole week, every stupid joke, every sarcastic comment, he’d been trying to get you back to normal – and you’d punished him for it.
“the rink yesterday, it was just me and you - i was messing with you ‘cause,” he shrugs awkwardly, “i don’t know. i thought it’d get you talking to me again.” then he pulls a face. “clearly misjudged that one.”
your eyes fall to the floor. “no, will—”
“—then you hit the ice and i can’t stop thinking about it. i felt like it was my fault. i shouldn’t have kicked it away again, i was just playing around, but . . i felt like an asshole after. it looked real sore. it looks real sore” his eyes dart to your purple knees.
“it is, but it wasn’t your fault,” you shake your head, “i probably would have fell anyway. i was storming off and forgot i wasn’t on normal ground.”
“did you cry?”
the equation surprised you. you debate telling him, your face straight. “yes . . . but because it hurt, not ‘cause of you . . ”
that still makes will’s stomach sick with guilt. he lets out a soft sigh. “look y/n—”
no, no what happened to gorgeous?
“—i don’t know what i did to make you mad, if i crossed a line, just tell me—”
“—you didn’t.”
“—ok but are you saying that because it’s true?” he looks back up at you. “or are you just saying it because you don’t want me to feel bad?”
“no! no i promise.”
“so why? why the bad attitude? why have you spent the whole week mad at me? are you mad at everybody?”
to be honest, yeah — you have been mad at everybody, and it’s all because of him.
but there’s no way in hell you’re telling him that.
‘i saw you kissing another girl and it ruined my weekend. more than it did when i caught my boyfriend staring at our waitresses ass on my birthday.’
you’d rather launch yourself into traffic.
“i . . i don’t know,” you rub your arm. you’re not used to this amount of communication. you’re also not used to having to think like this. usually sorry’s enough and you deal with whatever consequences that follow after.
will deserves more than that. “i guess i’m mad . . at myself. maybe. i don’t know. i just don’t like . . how i can’t think straight anymore. my head is so messed up. i don’t even know anymore. i don’t know. i don’t know what i’m doing.” your head falls into your hands with stress.
will’s expression softens almost immediately. he lets out a slow breath through his nose. “hey.”
you look up.
“i don’t want that.”
you frown.
“whatever’s going on in your head,” he gestures vaguely towards you. “i don’t want you feeling like you’ve got to force yourself into anything because of me.”
your chest tightens.
“if you’re fighting yourself over this . . . that’s not something i want to add to.”
“i’m not—”
he sighs, eyes stuck on you. “y/n, listen - there’s no hard feelings. if things were simple . . you’d probably know what you wanted. i’m not saying that to make you choose, don’t take it that way,” he holds his hands up, “i just . . i think you are happy in you’re relationship and i need to stop trying to get your attention, because it’s my interference that’s messing with your head.”
your heart sinks.
what?
“if me doing that means you spend the next week feeling guilty . . or confused . . or taking it out on yourself . . ” he shakes his head, “. . i don’t want that.”
your face falls.
oh no.
he notices your expression and immediately backtracks. “that’s not me trying to make this a thing,” he says quickly. “honestly. i’m just saying . . . maybe the best thing i can do is stop,” he gives another small shrug, his face offering a small, playful smile. “i’ll cool it with the jokes. stop trying to steal your attention. give you space, divert my attention on someone else.”
“no,” it comes out far too quickly, your face falling completely as you shake your head. “no, no, no,” you slip off the machine.
will watches you, face pulling in confusion as you approach him. “i have to—”
“no! no i—” you rush to him, hands instinctively grabbing his forearms as you almost collide. “i want your attention. i want you to annoy me, i—” your hands are on his face before you can even think, pulling him down to you. the kiss cuts him off completely.
you don’t even know what you’re doing.
all you know is that he’s saying the complete wrong thing and you don’t even want him to leave you be.
you don’t want that.
your lips collide forcefully, enough that will can sense your desperation.
you kiss him slow, lips lingering before taking a short second to part, just to breathe, before kissing him again.
hungrier.
will reciprocates this time, kissing you back. he takes a second to switch his hat backward, before his hands carefully place themselves on your waist and dips his head to meet you. you hum, melting against him.
he’s warm and soft and just as you remember him.
you kiss him harder, longer, like you can’t get enough, and quickly quicken the pace. you open your mouth, missing his tongue, missing him being up all close on you. tingles dance down your spine when you feel it, butterflies shooting around your stomach. “don’t ignore me,” you plea breathlessly, speaking between kisses, “don’t stop with your jokes . . and your teasing . . and–“ kiss “–your annoying breathing.”
a laugh escapes him, swallowed immediately by another kiss. “no?” -kiss- “you don’t want that?”
“no,” you kiss him back, needing him to stop talking.
“why’s that?” he pulls away to look at you, smirk taking up his whole face. when you try to kiss him again, he pulls back
“because m—” you inch closer again, watching him look at you with amusemen, “my days would be boring without you,” you confess, trying to pull his neck back down to you.
will’s brow twitches cockily.
not that you can see, you’re too busy focused on his lips.
your whole body feels electric. that weird, foreign feeling back in your belly as you hands gravitate shyly down his torso, resting there, unable to look him in the eye.
“y’want me to keep annoying you?”
you nod.
“want me to keep calling you gorgeous?”
you look up at him at that, and nod again.
he perks a brow. “you think you’re gorgeous?”
you tighten your grip on the back of his neck and pull him back into another kiss before he can tease you again. “shut up will.”
will smiles, satisfied, and gives you what you want. he kisses you good, real good, so good you forget all about that disgusting, green jealousy that’s been following you about you all week.
his lips are soft but his hands are rough - dropping to your hips with a firm grip, he pulls you against him in a way that makes your nerves explode and brain short circuit.
“will,” you half-gasp when he instinctively picks you up, setting you down on a different machine. he steps in between your legs, your hands on his shoulders as your eyes widen as he settles in front of you. the pulse in your neck sky-rockets from the closeness, from the familiarity or his hands.
his eyes look dark, pupils blew out, but the familiar softness of blue still remains there comfortingly.
you smile into another kiss, melting against him as his tongue slowly crashing against yours. you don’t realize his hands brushing your legs, your knees that are battered - you don’t even flinch, that’s how gentle he is.
he places them flat on your thighs, large, paw-like palms soothing you with warmth and familiarity as they move up and down. your mind is already hazy when you move closer to him, inching forward in a rocking-like motion which brings will to a pause. his eyes look up from you legs, blue orbs boring into yours as his voices lowers.
“i need you to make a deal with me.”
“what is it?” you hook your arms around his neck, keeping him close.
“i need you to promise me you’re not going to go weird on me again,” his eyes scan your face, distracting you from his fingers slipping between your thighs.
“i—i won’t,” you stutter.
“y’promise?” his finger brushes your front again, making you jolt. “you promise me this is what you want?”
your mouth slowly falls open as will slowly begins to stroke you through your panties, his gaze locked on you.
you forget what he’s asking. “m—will.”
“tell me,” he looks down at you, standing tall and full of confidence. entire frame blocking you from anyone who could walk in.
“—i promise . . i promise this is what i want,” you moan embarrassingly, head dropping in shame.
fuck! what are you doing right now?
his fingers move slowly, feeling your hot slick begin to pool through the material, “want me to keep goin’?”
you bite your lip to conceal your noises, nodding frantically. “mhm.”
he pushes your knees further apart, spreading them while slowly lifting his hand to slide under the waistband on your underwear. when his hand comes into contact with your bare cunt, you flinch, legs closing from the touch, your eyes shooting to him for comfort.
he’s not looking at you though, soley focused on his hand buried in your shorts.
his middle finger slides through your folds, soaked immediately, your arousal no longer a secret. a sharp gasp escapes you, your mouth hanging open. he watches your face carefully while sliding his finger in, watching the way your lips part and your eyes blink in poor consciousness as you stretch around his finger.
fuck, feels so good already.
“oh my god,” you whine, legs trying to close. “will—”
“—shh,” he leans in and kisses you again, wasting no time in sliding a second finger, using his other hand to keep your legs open.
you moan loudly against his mouth, brows pinched together with unfamiliar pleasure while your focus slips. “hmmm—fuck.”
“this what you wanted?” he grins, pumping his digits into you at a steady pace. “this what you needed all week, gorgeous?”
you’re already clenching your thighs, trying to push them together again. “uh-uh—huh.”
he grins at your lack of speech, kissing your lips, endeared. “—and you’re not gonna ignore me after this, right?” his fingers work faster in you, moving them in coordination with how your body responds.
the moans and whimpers don’t stop flying from your lips.
“m—mhm!”
“tell me. tell me you’re not gonna ignore me.” he tries to hold your eyes.
“i—i—will!”
“you will?” he fakes concern, stopping his movements.
“NO! no i won’t! i’m not! please! please i’m not going to!” you cry, grabbing his wrist. “please! don’t stop.”
will’s smirk grows as he continues.
he watches you, the way your head tips back on the machine, the way your mouth hangs open the majority of the time. it’s like you don’t even know where you are right now, the idea of someone being able to walk in not even a concept in your mind.
you’re completely surrendered to him.
just him and his fingers shoved knuckle deep in you. “FUCK!”
you cry out, ears burning with the noise of your juices slicking.
your stomach clenches, your legs flinching as you feel an unfamiliar build grow more and more by the second. it scares you. “will, will, will—” you squeak, feeling his fingers curl at a particular spot that makes you feel like you need to pee. “will stop, stop—”
“what’s wrong, baby?” he breathes, trying to hide his confusion, the nickname going straight to your core. he knows your close - he can feel you clenching around him, it almost hurts. “you gonna cum for me?”
your eyes practically roll to the back of your head at his words, struggling to stay open with each dazed blink. “i—i-”
“it’s ok babe, just let go. that’s what i want you to do,” his voice is soft and gentle, contradicting the violation his hand is doing to your pussy.
he has you melted down to nothing.
your face pulls together as your whole body racks, your hand clutching his wrist for stability as you breathe frantically. “can’t i—i need, you need—”
“—you can, gorgeous. cum for me. cum right now,” his fingers speed up inside you, pumping frantically, squelching deafeningly. little weird stars dot your vision as your eyes lock on each other’s. those sweet, dark and dangerous baby blues.
the moment will’s thumb presses against your nerves, you’re a goner. your jaw goes slack, your eyes flutter and your legs thrash trying to pull away. a wet, gushing, drip-like sound rings in your ears as you cum. “WILL!” you sob, nails digging into his skin. will’s fingers don’t falter, not even as he drops his gaze to see the water-like liquid squirt out of you, dripping onto washing machine, splashing onto the floor.
“holy fuck.” he breathes, neck craning to the ground as you cry out. you try to cover your mouth with your arm, embarrassed by the noise leaving you.
your eyes find his, immediately giving you away.
he sees it - the surprise. the nerves.
the quiet panic of not understanding your own body. your own heart.
but he doesn’t laugh. doesn’t point it out.
doesn’t make you feel exposed.
instead, a gentle smile tugs at his lips, so warm it quiets every anxious thought in your head.
he grins at you like you just hung a medal around his neck. “good job, gorgeous.” he praises.
you can only look at him, face blooming, contorted as your body slowly finishes riding out it’s orgasm on his hand.
will’s fingers slow, remaining inside you.
your chest rises and falls as you look at will with an intensity he’s never seen before.
you refuse to look anywhere else but him.
for a moment, neither of you say anything.
it’s fine.
you’re just staring at each other, heavy breathing filling the silence.
partly because both of you can’t believe what just happened.
“i didn’t — done that before.”
will’s face falls into a soft amusement, his lips tugging at the sides. “you what?”
“i mean!—” you facepalm a second, eyes closing as you try to think of what you’re trying to say. “. . i’ve never done that before. i don’t even—was—was ‘at supposed to happen?” you gulp.
anxiety immediately begins to set in.
oh god, did you just pee?!
will’s chuckle drowns out any second-guessing as he inches close enough that your noses touch, his voice smooth like honey. “that’s the hottest thing that could have happened . . .” his hair tickles you, “can’t teach that.”
your face burns, chest still rising as you refuse to meet his gaze.
will slowly retreats his hand, apologising when he notices the furrow in your brows at the discomfort and emptiness. “sorry gorgeous.”
you wipe your sweaty palms on your thighs that even feel sensitive while your eyes find the door, a weird sinking filling your chest.
that was a really stupid thing to do.
you don’t regret it.
you look back to will, waiting for him to make a move while you wait for the embarrassment to rush in any second now. it always does.
instead, he holds out both his hands for you to take.
still catching your breath, you take them.
he smiles, steadying you as you slide carefully off the washing machine. your legs wobble, but his grip tightens instinctively around your hands.
your legs are like jelly.
once you’re steady, he lets go, but he stays where he is, in front of you, watching you tuck your hair behind your ear.
his eyes dart across your face, the soft glow to it whether from him or the heat of the small room. “you okay?” he tucks a strand you missed.
you nod, too embarrassed to speak. hardly able to look at him.
he senses it. “i hope you meant what you said.”
you freeze, head snapping to him. “what did i say?”
will lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his had with a little smile. “about you wanting me to keep annoying you . . paying you attention . .” he teases.
you give his shoulder a playful shove. he barely moves. “ok.”
“your days would be boring without me—”
“—ok will!” another pathetic shove, still feeling loose on your feet.
“alright, alright.” he’s laughing now, catching your wrist before you can push him again. “just making sure you remembered.”
“i do,” you say, pulling away. “and . . i meant it.”
he smiles. “good. i meant what i said too.”
“about what?”
“about how you better not be a weirdo and start hiding on me again,” he sways on his feet, hands shoved in his pockets. “i don’t want you feeling like you ever need to avoid me . .” your eyes soften, “. . or worry i’m gonna tell anyone. this stays between us. whatever it is we do . .”
your shoulders loosen without meaning to.
the knot that’s been sitting in your chest since the kiss finally begins to ease.
he notices the perk up. you smile. “okay . . cool.”
“cool.” he smiles back.
before either of you can say anything else, before you can stand any longer just looking at each other, the laundry room door swings open. “YO! will!”
it’s one of the guys from the hockey team.
he walks in carrying an overflowing basket, not a shirt on, a towel around his neck.
will steps back so naturally you’d almost think nothing had happened. “what’s up?”
“you here?” he nods towards the empty machine.
“nah, all yours.”
“sweet.” the guy glances between the two of you. “hey.”
“hey,” you answer, hoping your face isn’t still flaming. he bends down, beginning to sort his washing without another thought.
will reaches for his own basket, then looks at yours. “you heading back to your dorm?”
you nod.
“i’ll carry that for you.”
he says it as casually as asking what time it is, already lifting it before you’ve answered.
you can’t help the small smile that escapes. “thanks smitty . . ”
“don’t mention it,” he shoots you a wink. “just focus on getting up those stairs on your own.”
you give him a look, and somehow, with him carrying your laundry and teasing you exactly like before — it feels like nothing has changed.
In which you can’t let go of a situationship gone bad with a your colleges star hockey player
Notes: Baby’s first fic!! I’m actually unsure if this is any good, I haven’t written in the longest time! Very poorly proofread too, sorry xxxxxxx
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
You laid spread out in your bed, your tank top twisted around your body as you contorted yourself to find any sense of comfort. You let out a whine of protest and hoisted yourself up onto your forearms, the plush sheets formed around you, which finally gave you just an inch of comfort. It lasted all of two seconds until you stared at the familiar indent of wills body on the right side of your bed.
You reached your hand out, smoothing over the sheets that were still warm despite his absence. You grabbed your phone from beside you typing a few measly words.
“Maybe we would be better off as friends?”
Those few measly words took a lot more courage to type out than you thought. Just ten minutes ago, you were making out on the very bed you were laid across, and now, you’d never be able to feel his lips on yours again. You chewed on your nail, analysing the text. Quickly, you hit the send button and threw your phone across your bed.
You and will had been doing this casual thing for four months now, and it was almost laughable how serious you were about the whole arrangement. You’d started off as mutual friends, but you knew you were gone from the moment he’d said ‘I’m not looking for anything right now.’ It was fun for the first two months, there were movie nights, and late night drives. The two of you talked about everything and nothing, and for a short lived moment of hope, you’d thought that maybe this could go somewhere. Until the three month mark broke and will began to shut down, he left your ‘movie night?’ texts unanswered, and he arranged Ubers just minutes after he’d finished up with you.
You clung to will on the off chance that maybe one night, he’d look down at you and realise that casual might not be enough for him. You’d given away your dignity for a moment of love to a boy who wouldn’t even look your way twice. You needed him like a smoker needed cigarettes, you knew he couldn’t fix anything, but you craved him anyway.
You were pulled out of your thoughts when you heard a soft tapping at your door. You rubbed your hands over your eyes and slowly slid off your bed and padded over to the front door of your dorm.
You were surprised to see will standing on the other-side. Your brows raised at his winded state, he was breathing heavy and his hair looked like it had been blown into a messy shag resting on the top of his head. Had he ran here on the way back to his dorm? He wouldn’t have been far off to begin with.
“Y/n.”
“Why are you back?”
“You just sent me that text? You didn’t think I’d want to talk about it?” His tone was low and raspy, ready to snap at you if you slipped up.
“I didn’t realise it’d be that big of a deal.” You crossed your arms over your chest, staying wedged in your doorway. You didn’t want to let him in, because if you did, you knew that he wouldn’t come back out.
“Well it is a big deal. Why?”
You shook your head, not knowing what to say to that. How can you tell him that you can’t continue to be his booty call because you crave his attention like an addict? “I— I don’t know. I just— I don’t…”
“Y/n. Cut the bullshit, just— fuck.”
He leant in, his movements sharp as he pulled you in close to his face. “You don’t want this anymore?” His voice was low, eyes flickering wildly between your lips and eyes.
Your voice turned quiet, the type of tone that he’d really have to strain to hear. “Will. What is this—“
You were cut off by his lips on yours. It wasn’t the kind of kisses he usually treated you to. It was sweet, slow and he moved his other hand up to cup both of your cheeks. He pulled back after a couple of seconds, staring at you with a small smile on his face. Your heart immediately sped up, and you glanced away from him to try and hide your very obvious blushing cheeks.
You woke up the next morning with wills arm lazily draped over your waist. Somehow, he’d coaxed his way back to you. Just last night, you were ending it for good, and will broke through your weak demeanour by rationing a little bit of his attention to you.
Your chest ached with guilt as you turned your head to face wills sleeping form. You knew this wasn’t good for you, you hated how easily he could get you crawling right back to him. You felt ridiculous, carrying around these feelings that had nowhere to go. Sending the text was hard enough in the first place, how are you supposed to leave him now that he’s already over?
You watched as the blonde boy stirred, he blinked a few times before staring back at your sitting form. He didn’t have the same love-struck expression from last night. You knew he was checked out again, because he immediately got up from bed, searching for his discarded shirt on the floor whilst mumbling a lousy ‘morning’ with his back turned to you. He quickly rattled off excuses about an early practice and scrambled out of your door without sparing a glance your way. The last words he uttered to you was something along the lines of:
“Maybe the friend’s thing is a good idea.”
You stared at the closed door ahead of you, your eyes wide and wanting. You felt pathetic.
It had been a week since you’d last spoken to will. Since then, you’d drowned yourself in assignments and studying. You barely left your dorm in the daylight except for your lectures and extracurriculars, and you jumped at the chance of any of your friends who invited you for a night out.
On this particular morning, the crisp Boston air blew the leaves around and caused goosebumps to form under your sweater. You were clad in many layers as you warmed your hands up on your fresh takeaway coffee. You walked across campus, just trying to make it to your lecture block. You were about five minutes away as you noticed the familiar locks of blonde hair coming straight in your direction.
You lifted your head, placing a small smile on your face. You swayed your hips with every step and you adjusted your posture as will neared. You walked past him, flashing him a smile and getting ready to stop, but as you paused your walking, he pushed straight past you. He didn’t look at you, he didn’t even bear to take a breath as he walked past. You stood staring at his retreating form, your shoulders now lacking the perfect posture you’d aligned them to. You gulped down the lump in your throat and shook your head, refusing to stare at the back of his head for any longer.
The rest of the walk to class consisted of you with a very obvious frown on your face and dragging your heels along the leaf-covered pavement. You tried to muster up any explanation on why he’d done what he did. Was he giving you the silent treatment? Was he really mad at the suggestion of the two of you being purely platonic? You decided to not overthink it, and you were certain to win him back.
The whole week of you being away from him was agonising. He’d become such a regular part of your routine and the withdrawal of his random texts and lingering cologne drove you insane. You needed him. You’d decided that you would prefer to have three short hours of fleeting happiness instead of three long months pretending like he doesn’t exist.
The bass rattled around you as the house vibrated with the lively world of the ongoing party. You were stood in the corner, a half full red solo cup clad in your hand as you readjusted your dress for the forty third time in the two hours you had been here. You watched from the sidelines as people moved around on the dance floor. Shitty strobe lights shon onto the partygoers as they grinded and sweat together. You sighed, trying to find your friends in the sea of people. You spotted a head of blonde hair, but quickly realised it was will. You sighed, watching him as he guided a brunette through the shimmying bodies.
Your gut twisted with a pang of jealousy. The girl looked nothing like you. Your features could not be any more different. God, when he called you pretty did he even mean it?
You quickly gave yourself a mental slap. You were the one who wanted to end things. You need to stop—
You watched as he pulled her closer, protecting her from any unknown dangers from the drunks surrounding them. You watched the way that he looked at her, or rather, the way he had never looked at you. You’d left the situationship that made you feel crazy, and you were moping while he was very quickly moving on without a thought about you to spare.
Your time at the party quickly came to an end after seeing him. You’d shoved your cup into some random guys hand and stormed out of the dumb party as fast as you could.
It had only been a day since you’d watched Will getting comfy with another girl, and now, you found yourself on his doormat, knocking very loudly on his apartment door.
The door quickly swung open, and wills eyes widened at the sight of you standing infront of him.
“Oh—“
“The fucks your problem?”
He stared at you blankly, clearly unknowing to why you were stood infront of him and cussing him out.
“I send that text, you makeout with me and then stay over and then say ‘oh yeah we should be friends,’” you put a high pitched voice on to try and mock him, which gets you an amused look in return. “Then you just completely ghost me—“ his smirk is now unashamedly smeared on his face, “this isn’t fucking funny.”
He barked out a laugh he seemed to be holding in for your whole monologue. “Y/n, go home.”
“No. I’m not gonna go home. Will, I can’t do this. I don’t like not being around you. I can’t stand watching your life from the sidelines without being apart of it.” You shake your head, running your hands through your hair. “I don’t even need to be your fucking sneaky link, I just like being friends.”
He stared at you, his smile now disappearing from his face. You’d laid it out for him, you told him that you needed him, and it had left the boy speechless. Will opened his mouth to speak but quickly shut it. Then, after a few seconds of silence he finally answered you. “We can’t just be friends, y/n. That’s the problem. You get too attached.”
You sigh, staring back at him. Your eyes pricked with teardrops as you bit your lip to stop yourself from crying. You said you were done, just a week ago, you were ready to end this all. Now you’re just confused, how are you supposed to leave him now when you still need the closure? “Fine.” You said, your voice bordering on a sharp tone as you stormed away. You heard the door slam shut behind you, and finally you let the tears fall.
You jolted from your idle position at the sound of a text notification that filled your once silent room. You stared at the ceiling for a little longer before leaning on your side, curious to see who was texting you at this hour of the night.
‘r u awake ??’
You stared at his contact name, debating whether this was a good idea or not. It’d been a month. A long, excruciating month of pretending that Will never mattered to you, as if you didn’t think about him every night. You knew it was a bad idea to go back, you’d dig yourself into a deeper hole and from then on, you’d be tied to a friends with benefits situation for the rest of your life.
There was no leaving will smith, which was quickly proven by your reply back.
‘Yup come over’
You stare at the door, waiting for his arrival. You like your bed, but it likes him too. You watch as the hinges squeak open, and see the familar boy standing in the middle of your room.
How are you supposed to leave him now that he’s already over?
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the one where y/n laurier and will smith spoke back in college. it was a constant on and off, a constant back and fourth of feelings neither wanted to admit out of pure fear. eventually, the two couldn’t handle their feelings, and will said he was too focused on hockey to be with her. y/n blew up as pop musics new it girl, and will is the san jose sharks golden boy. and now? now she has a way of subtweeting the shark through her music.
— an / little surprise drop cause i havent given u guys an update in like 2 months im actually so sorry!!! but guys… she’s here, the last chapter 😭 i just wanna get sappy for a second!! when i first came up with the idea for hurt my feelings, never in a million years did i expect this amount of support. every person that’s read, reblogged, liked, taken the time out of their day to show their support and love, you all mean the world to me. i’m all sappy that hurt my feelings is over, but it’s also just the beginning! there’s so much more i want to write about with these two, and this isn’t the last time we’ll see them!! once again, thank you guys so so much, i love uuu (also someone pls notice the 'kiss ya in 6' parallel from part one)
twitter. january 1st, 2026.
january 10th, 2026.
ynlaurier
liked by _willsmith2, lexiwhite and 1m others
ynlaurier in the wise words of ella langley im back to loving life again
view all 300k comments
fan1 IS THAT A FUCKING WILL SNEAK????
fan2 UM SOFT LAUNCH HELP?? HELP ME?????
fan3 she may be getting better at these insta dump captions
fan4 CAN SOMEONE PLS TELL ME IF THIS IS A JOKE
fan5 and its will making her love life again THANKYEWWW
_willsmith2 Who's that cutie w the pancakes?
-> ynlaurier @_willsmith2 idk i found him on the street he's kinda cute tho
twitter. january 27th, 2026.
january 29th, 2026.
_willsmith2
liked by ynlaurier, mackcelebrini and 704k others
_willsmith2 So far
view all 20k comments
fan1 is anybody going to address the elephant in the room...
fan2 we all saw the pics u aint slick
fan3 DROP THE HARD LAUNCH
fan4 will can u pls give us y/n crumbs we know u have them
fan5 DROP THE DATE DETAILS
fan6 can we have a storytime pls will
mackcelebrini Papa
-> fan7 @mackcelebrini pls not again
ynlaurier can u score a hat trick for me pls i asked nicely
twitter. february 1st, 2026.
y/n and will. february 12th.
february 14th, 2026.
ynlaurier
liked by _willsmith2, mackcelebrini and 4.2m others
ynlaurier i heard they're calling this the best hard launch of all time?
firefly ft my sunshine out now, happy valentines day! 𝜗𝜚⋆
view all 999k comments
fan1 ARE YOU FUCKING JOKING
fan2 IM GONNA DIE OH MY GOD
fan3 MOMMY AND DADDY ARE BACK
fan4 include me saying they'd get back together like two years ago
fan5 DO U GUYS UNDERSTAND HOW MUCH THIS MEANS TO ME IM DEAD
fan6 someone hold my hand rn
lexiwhite will smith music video
_willsmith2 My gorgeous girl
-> ynlaurier @_willsmith2 i lob u so much sunshine
-> _willsmith2 @ynlaurier I lob u more pretty
_willsmith2
liked by ynlaurier, mackcelebrini and 1m others
_willsmith2 Life's good
view all 100k comments
fan1 WILL FINALLY GETS HIS HARD LAUNCH AWW
fan2 im actually so happy i could cry
fan3 will is proof that never giving up on ur girl works
mackcelebrini Number one yearner got his girl Im so proud
fan5 MAMA E PAPA
fan6 i feel like i proud mother
ynlaurier my cutie patootie i love u so bad
-> _willsmith2 @ynlaurier My pretty girl I love u
ynlaurier ill be home in 5 get ready to get touched
── .✦: ben kindel breaks his nose, and cannot stop thinking about you, the nurse he pathetically fumbled.
1.3k words
hiii!! this was way longer than I meant it to be lmao. I've been working on it for a bit!! I've got a sid ask I wanna work on, but omg feel free to send me more reqs. or just asks!! I love talking about these freaks
Slamming your face into the boards in the middle of a game is already embarrassing as a hockey player.
Slamming your face into the boards in front of your teammates Sidney Crosby and Evgeni Malkin is humiliating.
He shakes his gloves off, desperately trying to stop the bleeding with his hands, but Sid is already guiding him out. He removes his hands from his face and sees both palms covered in bright red blood. Sid gives him up to the trainers at the tunnel.
"I feel like I'm gonna throw up," he mumbles to no one in particular, but one trainer looks at him with an embarrassing amount of pity.
When he's bursting through the door of the medical room, he's got his jersey pulled up over his face, trying to stop the constant flow of blood that's starting to make him dizzy. The penguin logo on his jersey looks quite graphic, displaying a giant red blotch on his belly.
"Kindel slammed into the boards, fucked up his nose," the trainer says, rushed. He turns his attention to the nearly unconscious boy next to him. "Different girl today, but she'll fix you up. Sit down," he urges, before disappearing outside the room.
Ben turns around and suddenly is met with the most beautiful woman he's ever seen in his life.
"Sit down," you echo, and he quickly does. He watches you walk around the room as he sits on the examination table. You walk up to him and bump into his knees, which are knit together in nerves. He quickly spreads his legs for you to stand between them.
You're just too beautiful. He stares at you like he's just seen an angel, and he's not sure he hasn't. He has to look a little dumb, he's sure, but you're grabbing his face with the world's softest and gentlest hands, he can't handle it.
"Tilt your head up, honey. Don't swallow the blood. You're gonna make yourself sick."
"Okay," he says, so shaky and so quiet he's sure if you weren't so close you wouldn't have heard it.
Slowly, as to not shock him, you pinch the bridge of his nose, and he winces.
“Sorry. I have to stop the bleeding.”
Ben blinks at you, eyes huge. “Iss okay.”
Eventually, you guide his face back down to look at you. “Did you hit your head at all?”
He shakes his head, but it kind of hurts. “No… jus’ my nose.”
You nod, examining his face briefly. “Look at me.”
He does, and you step closer. His eyes are so big, he knows it, and he can feel blood rushing to his face. A little lower, too, but he quickly suffocates that thought.
Blood trickles onto his lip again.
While he’s trying to make peace with the fact that he’s just blushed so hard his nose started bleeding like a fucking anime character, you huff in frustration, trying to figure out what you did wrong.
“I’m sorry. I thought I had you clogged up. Just… stay still a second longer.” you start, reaching for clean gauze.
You lean in even closer, completely focused on the bright red all over his face. Ben’s pretty much convinced that there’s no different between the color of his blood and his flushed cheeks.
Vaguely, he remembers something about the medics at the rink being understaffed, which means you’re probably from a hospital nearby.
Which means he most likely won't see you back here again for a while. Which means he needs to talk to you.
Instead, he just stares at you dumbly, while you stuff a final gauze pad up his nose.
“There you go. The team doctor will want to see if you need it reset after the game. But you’re free to head to the locker room now.”
You back away, giving him the room to do just that. He stares at you.
“Oh. Okay.”
Say something. Literally anything. Ask for her name. Ask for her number.
“Thank you for…” he starts, struggling with his nasally voice. It’s nearly giving him a fucking lisp.
“Thank you for cleanin’... mehh.. up. Sorry, it’s hard ta’ talk right now.”
Yeah. It’s confirmed: Ben Kindel is just gonna call it quits his rookie season. He doesn’t have much to live for after he’s mumbled like a three-year-old to the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. His ‘nuhs’ keep turning into these pathetic ‘buhs’, and you’re just watching like you’re totally fascinated.
Eventually, you just tilt your head, smiling. “...What?”
He huffs, which makes him feel the congestion in his nose, and pathetically gets off the table.
“Just thank you.”
You smile and nod. “Of course. Be sure to protect your nose for the rest of the night.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” he says again, lamely waddling towards the door. You don’t even know his first name, let alone his number. But the interaction is over, and slowly, he can start to see fans peeking down the tunnels from the stands for him.
He’s such a fucking loser, Jesus Christ.
Throughout the rest of the week, his nose would not stop bleeding. He’d wipe it too hard, and look down at his hand to see blood. Two thick, black eyes came and went. It was awful, but it was worse to miss you. He has caught himself imagining being fucking hospitalized multiple times just to redeem himself. It’s all so dumb, and he’s tired.
As the stadium fills with the expected crowd for their pre-game practice, he’s pretty much ready to go home.
Tonight, he doesn’t bother the awkward lap he’s started to take around the trainer area of the tunnel to see if you’re there. It’s a Flyers game, he figures he should probably focus on psyching himself up to be verbally berated by players hopped up on a decades-old rivalry. And you’re never there, anyway. He wonders if he’s completely ruined his chance.
His nose is behaving pretty well tonight. He hit it with his hand a bit too hard while adjusting his helmet and winced, expected blood, but it ended up fine.
He’s panting, finishing off a shift, when he sees you.
Just a glimpse. He has to strain his neck, turning completely away from the bench. You disappeared back into the medical room as soon as he noticed you.
Catching his breath, he turns towards Geno, who’s sitting next to him.
“Are the extra nurses here tonight?”
He looks at him like a stupid question, which it is. The medical staff is not the thing to think about when you’re down one in the third.
“Yes, focus,” he says, barely looking at Ben.
He does not focus. A very stupid, very dumb idea plants itself in his head.
It’s easy to egg on Philly. You say one wrong thing to the wrong player, and you’re in the box watching a power play before you know it.
Getting off the bench, he looks towards the tunnel contemplatively, before mentally confirming he’s gonna do something decidedly stupid.
“Jesus, Ben, I told you to be careful with your nose. This is rough.” You smile, pity in your eyes as you put on your gloves.
He’s back where he was last week—a little dazed, blood all over his hands, and his eyes shot out with adrenaline and infatuation.
He laughs, slightly disoriented, watching you grab supplies. “Yeah, well. How else was I supposed to see you?”
You look at him incredulously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He decides this is his last chance. So, he shrugs, smiling like a total dork. “I dunno. I mean, I really did want to see you. And, y’know, the Flyers guys are, like… really easy to piss off.”
In total disbelief, you let out a little laugh.
“I… wow. You’re ridiculous,” you finally say, approaching him to shove yet another cotton swab up his nose. He offers a dopey smile back.
“I know. Ridiculous enough to get your number…?” he tries, looking up at you, who’s eyeing him suspiciously.
“You know. In case I mess my nose up again.” He’s trying so damn hard, he knows it, but he doesn’t know what he’d do if he let yet another conversation with you go absolutely nowhere.
After a long stretch of silence, you grab his face with your hands dramatically.
“If I give you my number, will you stop ramming your face into random players?”
He nods enthusiastically. You smile.
“Okay. Give me your phone.”
hey guys hope u like this ! kindy is so freaking cute. goshhh. pls feel free to give me any critique ! I an so overwhelmed by my options of who to write for tbh. like I still haven't written for Connor bedard bro
will takes you home after you get absolutely trashed
IT HAD BEEN A LONG, LONG WEEK. essays due. intense practice. a run of bad games that led to dealing with brad’s grumpy attitude the majority of the week.
to be honest, you didn’t really want to go to the party the begin with. after the week you’d had, you just wanted to spend the weekend recharging in your dorm, chilling in some comfy pjs, tucked up in bed with your laptop, excited to watch that new series tasha had told you to check out, especially after the last time.
but after you dropped your pen after that final assignment, you were choking for a drink - an alcoholic one. so, you sat at your vanity, makeup sprawled across the table, scrolling through your songs for the next tune.
you’re halfway through doing your hair when brad calls.
you already know from the way his name flashes across your screen that it’s going to annoy you.
your room smells like vanilla perfume and hairspray, music playing low from your speaker while your roommate digs through your closet for earrings you ‘stole’ three weeks ago. outside the dorm window, campus glows gold-orange with early evening light, students already moving toward frat row in little clusters.
you answer, ‘cause if you don’t, there’ll be an argument either way. “hey.”
“what’re you doing tonight?”
you glance at yourself in the mirror, smoothing lip gloss over your mouth. “probably that party.”
silence, as expected.
irritated silence.
“why?”
you frown even though he can’t see. “because there’s a party?”
“i don’t want you there.”
you immediately halt. your roommate glances over briefly at your expression before quietly slipping out of the room with the earrings.
smart girl.
“you don’t want me there?” you repeat carefully.
“you heard me.”
you stare at your reflection for a second.
but you look so good right now.
you usually know better than to argue, to stay quiet and do as you’re told to avoid the drama, but there’s an eagerness in wanting to go out tonight that makes you refuse to back down, especially when you’re almost ready, feeling yourself and in the mood to show off your outfit.
it’s also probably because you’re on the phone and he’s not in front of you right now.
“you still there?”
“yeah,” you answer, “i just think it’s weird you talk to me like that.”
brad scoffs immediately. “oh my god.”
“no, seriously,” you continue, surprising yourself now. “you don’t get to tell me where i can and can’t go.”
“you know exactly what those parties are like.”
“and you know exactly what football parties are like and you still go?”
“that’s different.”
“mhm.” you retort, applying more bronzer.
“what?”
“just doing that thing you do where the rules magically don’t apply to you.”
his jaw flexes on the other end of the line. “y/n, don’t start.”
“you started.”
you can practically feel his patience thinning.
“i’m trying to stop you from embarrassing yourself.”
the comment instantly lands wrong, it makes your expression harden. “oh i embarrass you, do i?”
“you know what i mean.”
“no,” you say with faux bewilderment, “actually, i don’t.”
you don’t know where the brattiness was coming from. you suspect you’ve picked it up from someone.
“what are you wearing?”
“does it matter?”
silent again, rustling, and then he lets out a huff like he’s rising to his feet. he’s only mad because you’re going on your own, not with him. “i’ll be there in ten.”
the second the phone hangs up, you drop it on your vanity.
UGH! ten minutes?!
by the time brad shows up outside your dorm, you’re fully dressed and ready to go. you were hoping to be gone for him arriving, but you were too slow - or he was too fast. you check yourself out in the mirror, styling a cute two-piece top and skirt co-ord with your hair pinned up with a few strands out. your makeup looks airbrushed on as always, and you even decided to wear wedges tonight, considering brad wasn’t going to be next to you, growing insecure at the thought that for even a second, you’d look taller than him.
but before you can even turn around to leave your room, the door swings up, and he struts in.
you feel your palms get clammy but keep a straight face. you are going tonight.
he looks you up and down, staring at your legs, the way you’ve clearly added an oil and shimmer to them to stand out, before looking back to your face, just to see you apply another coat of gloss on your lips. “you like?”
“you’re wearing this?”
no compliment. no wolf whistle. no do a twirl for me.
“yup.”
you know he’s not happy. not happy that you look good and he won’t be there to keep you next to him. he has plans tonight he said he had to attend before he could even think about making it to the party. “can you change?”
can you. he’s asking. he’s changing his tactics.
“nope.”
his features dim at your constant popping p’s while you stand talking in a nonchalant tone. “stop acting a brat.”
you raise your brows, “wow, thanks.” you try to move past him.
he blocks your path. you look up through lashes, temper sparking. “i’m not doing this.”
“neither am i,” he backs you up into the middle of the room.
but you’re seriously not. he grabs your arm when you go to move again - hard, sore, fucking nastily. “oh my god, stop grabbing me! you always do this!” you shake him off you.
“because you don’t know when to chill out!”
“i’m fine! i was literally fine until you came here.”
“yeah, you’re fine now - and then you get drunk, you act single, then i have to hear about it afterward.”
your face falls completely, because that’s not true.
if being friendly and talking to anyone who’s willing to stop and talk to you -male or female- is ‘acting single’ - then you’re flirty by nature. you’re warm, friendly, everybody knows that - but you’ve never, ever cheated on him. never even came close.
“you’re being an asshole.”
“you’re being delusional and i’m being realistic.”
you let out a short breath through your nose, suddenly too irritated to even finish getting ready calmly. “i’m going.”
“y/n—” his hand grabs your wrist this time, sharp and tight, and immediately your other hand comes down to knock it off.
you hate when he grabs you.
“if you don’t stop talking to me like that and grabbing me, i’m telling my dad exactly why you suddenly aren’t invited to the golf club dinner next week,” you smile sweetly. “‘cause at this rate, makeup isn’t going to cover these,” you hold out your wrist demonstrating, showing the faint yellow-y marks from last time.
he looks at them and looks back at you. “you won’t.”
“oh i will,” you promise. “because i don’t know if i want you going at this point. you’re getting on my damn nerves,” you step closer to him, feeling you hold the power after name-dropping your dad.
also, you liked the uncomfortableness he had last week when you went ballistic. you don’t mind doing that again.
he stares at you for a second, your faces both pretty close, then he blinks. “you are a psycho.”
you shrug with a smile. he hasn’t even seen the half of it.
“—go to your stupid party.” he shakes his head, letting you past.
-
a drink gets offered to you two seconds you step through the door.
someone screams your name as you enter.
many of your peers greet you.
you smile, feeling welcomed, feeling like you made the right decision as you step through the house, acknowledging the many heads that turn to look at you. the house is chaos already: music rattling through the walls, hard enough to shake your ribs; the air is warm and thick with sweat, beer and smoke as bodies spill out onto the lawn; there’s a three-way kiss going on at the top of the stairs and a group of shirtless guys messing around with empty beer boxes on their heads.
it’s a nice escape.
you end up in the kitchen with three girls from cheer within ten minutes, vodka cran in your hand while somebody digs through the freezer for more ice. the topic of the fundraiser comes up after you show some photos on your phone. “—so yeah, around three grand all in. would have been more from the bake sale but they can only bake so many treats, y’know?”
“the car wash looked great.”
“it was fun.”
“—yeah,” tash cuts in, “cause you were too busy flirting and drowning hockey players.”
you shrugged your shoulders. “fun.”
they laugh.
you laugh.
it feels good. light.
you spend twenty minutes talking about practice schedules and upcoming games. you compliment a freshman girl’s top in the bathroom and take a group photo of the frat bros for their wall. you sign someone’s car number plate and get stuck with two baseball guys talking to you near the stairs, although, you barely acknowledge them beyond polite smiles because honestly? you’re more interested in gossiping with the girls.
drinks keep appearing in your hand: vodka, seltzers, something neon blue container that definitely tastes dangerous. you made a promise that shots would be off limits because they seem to do the most damage, but you sure seem to be making up for the lack of it by drinking everything in sight.
by eleven, your limbs feel warm and floaty. you’re walking backward through the living room mid-story, dramatically telling the story of you trying to escape some guy at the yacht club last summer when your heel catches the edge of the rug, your ankle twisting, and you go down—hard.
the room erupts instantly.
gasps. laughter. someone yells ‘holy shit!’ and for half a second, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling before bursting into laughter yourself, loud, carefree.
because when have you ever looked bad doing anything?
you get helped up from the floor by one of the frat bros, still laughing as he pulls you up. your hair’s a mess now, your cheeks sore from smiling. drunk you becomes your unapologetic self. softer. brighter. you bounce between conversations effortlessly, talking to everyone — frat boys, freshman girls, random guys from lacrosse. you compliment outfits in bathroom mirrors, steal food off plates, listen seriously to a senior crying about her ex for ten full minutes despite barely knowing her. when your glass is empty, you stumble to the kitchen to get another drink.
that’s when you catch sight of brad.
you’re on top of the counter when he spots you, looking over the crowd, sticking out being taller than most.
your eyes surprisingly soften when they land on him.
at first, you wonder why he didn’t come find you, why he didn’t come say hey - then guilt simmers in you, bubbling in your stomach as you think back to what you said earlier — blackmailing him, telling him you didn’t want him to go to the dinner.
he looks irritated before his eyes even land on you.
you brighten anyway.
because despite everything—
you love him.
or something close enough to it. “bradleyyy!” you beam, stumbling toward him. he immediately moves to catch you from the island, your hands landing on his shoulders to steady yourself as he lifts you down. “jesus christ,” he mutters.
“you came!” you say softly, smiling up at him. “i thought you were mad at me.”
he glances around the room first.
people watch. people always watch. even when they’re acting like they don’t, they’re glancing.
he looks back at you. “how drunk are you?”
“happy drunk!” you answer proudly.
he doesn’t smile. he scans you, seeing your slightly smudged eyeliner, your little frizzy hairs. he notices your blue tongue, the small droplet stains that’ve clearly spilled from your chin - missing your mouth.
you look up at his big, dark eyes, his thick lashes you’ve always been envious of. your hand trails up the back of his neck, sliding into his dark strands, annoyingly dragging your fingers to the front to immaturity scrape his hair back from his forehead. you snicker, leaning up to kiss him, soft and affectionate, touched that he came anyway.
he pulls back.
it’s barely anything, but it’s something.
enough that it feels like cold water dumped straight over your head.
your stomach drops as you pause, going for a kiss again as you take it as teasing - but he pulls away again, removing your hands from his head. “brad,” you laugh awkwardly, brows furrowing. “wha—?”
“—you’re wasted,” he keeps his face a fair distance from yours.
your eyes open properly. “ok and . . ?”
“and look at yourself.”
you blink. “what . . . what does that mean?”
his silence allows the embarrassment to slowly draw in, your drunken state taking time for it to catch up. suddenly you’re aware of every thing occurring right now — the people nearby pretending not to look, the lipstick smeared slightly at the corner of your mouth, the fact he looks more annoyed than happy to see you.
you stand up straight, “oh my god brad, i can never win,” your shoulders slump, the words tumbling out now in your drunken manner. “you don’t want me to stay home, y—you don’t want me to go out. you don’t want me drinking but you don’t want me sober ‘cause i’m boring,” your voice riddled with utter confusion.
you’re genuinely confused as to how you’re supposed to behave for him. confused as to how you’re feeling right now, how you deserve to feel, because despite everything, despite the fight earlier, despite your temper and the alcohol and your bruised pride—
you’d been happy to see him.
that’s the pathetic part. you’d seen him walk through the crowd and immediately felt relieved, like everything was okay again, like he came because he cared - and now you’re standing in the middle of a frat house feeling like you’ve somehow failed another test you didn’t know existed.
“don’t do that brad,” you slowly shake your head, trying not to slur your words.
“do what?”
“that thing where you act like i’m disgusting because i’m drunk.”
“i never said disgusting.”
“you didn’t have to,” your try not to snap, “no, because y—" you hiccup, "–you come in here all mad and then i try to kiss you and then you're mad about that too and i just—"
"—you’re. drunk."
“ok a little,” you stare at him. “what harm am i doing?”
“harm? you’re behaving like this.”
the comment stings more than it should, because ‘this’ is just feels like you normally.
"i . . i was just happy to see you . . ” the words come out smaller.
“see me? i’m surprised you even recognized me. look at you - you can’t even fuckin’ stand straight,” he accuses, glancing you up and down. “y’can barely talk. slurring like shit, it’s unattractive.”
you glance down instinctively, feeling the sway in your legs. your cheeks flush as you insecurely pull your skirt down. “i’m okay, brad.”
“no, you’re not.” he reaches to grab your arm. “i’m getting you outta here—”
you pull back slightly, the movements heavy. “bra—”
“no.” the word lands like a slammed door, and your mouth closes.
you know that tone.
for a second, you consider dropping it, then he glances around the room again — checking who's looking, and something about that get to you, even in your tipsy state. ‘why’d you even come?’ you think.
his eyes snap back to yours.
"what?"
“what?” you look at him.
“what did you say?”
you don’t know what you did say.
did you say that out loud?
if you did say it out loud, that’d be pretty funny, ‘cause you’d fuck up prettyyy bad - but because you're drunk, because your emotions are bigger and looser and harder to control - you do laugh. loud.
brad's face changes.
you should stop. you know you should stop.
but you keep going. “i said why did you even come here if you’re annoyed?” you laugh.
“i came here to save you, y get you, so nobody takes ad—”
"PFFFTT— come on, brad." you interrupt him, eyes twinkling with humour.
his jaw flexes. you can practically see the warning signs lighting up.
“y/n.”
"no, seriously,” you giggle, “you didn't come to get me."
his eyes narrow.
you should stop.
you don’t. "you—you came to see who was lookin’ at me like a fuckin’ . . jealous psychopath." you laugh under your breath, halfway out the kitchen already.
he stops . . and it slowly hits you.
wait. did i say that out loud as well? you glance up at him.
even with the music blasting, the people shouting - it suddenly feels deafening with the silence between you.
he looks down at you.
". . what?" you awkwardly laugh.
but it’s not funny anymore, and immediately, your bravery begins to evaporate.
shit.
"what did you just say to me?"
the harsher his grip on you tightens, the quicker the fight instantly leaves your body. it’s pathetic how fast your courage disappears. "i—i didn't mean it like that,” you try to laugh, “i was joking—"
"no." he squeezes your wrist. "say it again."
your mouth feels dry.
you hadn't meant it seriously. at least you don’t think you did. it was supposed to be a throwaway comment - a joke, but now you're looking at his face and realizing you've crossed a line.
reallllyy crossed the line, like - you clearly forgot who you were talking about. “i’m sorry."
"what did you say?"
"i—“
"y/n." he tugs you, the warning in your name making your stomach twist.
god, the room is spinning. “i was drunk . ."
"oh that’s your excuse now?"
"i—no,” you shake your head.
"then say it again,” he tugs your chin. “since you’re feeling so tough, since you feel so invincible tonight.”
"i—," your voice comes out smaller. "i just . . . ” your eyes dart to the floor, the wall, your cup - anywhere but his piercing gaze. your heart hammers in your chest. you hate this conversation, you wish you'd never started it. “i just didn’t mean it like that.”
“like what?”
god, every answer feels wrong.
every answer sounds stupid. “i don’t know.”
“you don’t know?”
the repetition makes your face burn, you hate when he does that; makes you feel ridiculous. “no i do know.”
“so tell me.”
“i shouldn’t’ve said it.”
“what shouldn’t you have said?”
you don’t answer. you just stare at him, tucked into yourself, watching him stare at for you a minute longer. you feel your eyes gloss over and you don’t know why, but your boyfriend notices, and breaks his gaze, shaking his head and starts walking on, pulling you through the house with him. you blink rapidly, brain catching up, “wait brad, i’m sorry. i-i’ll leave you alone, ok?”
he ignores you now, continuing to trail you through the house.
"brad please, i'm sorry," you say again, more sincere. “it just came out. i don’t wanna go yet—”
his fingers dig into your skin like a warning. you reach for his arm instinctively, trying to smooth things over, trying to settle him, your hand running up his bicep. “c’mon baby . . you call me a psycho all the time," you say quickly, forcing a laugh that doesn't sound convincing even to you. "it's okay, you know? like . . we joke around."
nothing.
“o-ok i’ll go. let me say goodbye real quick, ok? i’ll—i’ll go home.” you circle him to get him to stop, but he still doesn’t answer. “okay?” you blink up at him.
the word comes out almost hopeful, like you’re asking permission, it’s kind of pathetic. you try to meet his eyes, but stumble onto your tip toes, dropping the cup in your hand, splashing the remains onto the floor, across his shoes and pants.
you look back up at him, eyes wide, mouth open. “i didn’t—“
“you have two sec—”
“hey!” a smooth voice cuts in, “leave the pretty lady alone, alright? ‘was an accident, she’s just having a little fun.”
brad’s face falls instantly with that unamused, unimpressed coldness that is never a good sign.
he turns away from you, his brow twitching, like he’s locked his eyes on his target. “i’m ‘bout to kill this fucking—”
“—you’ll not touch him,” you pull him back to you, fingers wrapped around his arm, “leave ‘im alone.”
brad’s attention snaps back to you, his mouth open. the look on his face makes your stomach tighten slightly, and you realize how firm you’d came across. “come on,” you say, giving his arm a small pull. “just leave it.” you try steering him back toward the conversation, back toward you. “i don’t have time for this.”
his eyes narrow at you. “what?”
“what? why are you so concerned about other people when i’m talking to you.”
“‘cause he seems awful concerned about us.”
“he’s a freshman.”
“so?”
“so? so he’s a fucking freshman and you’re letting him get to you,” you move when he tries to move again.
his eyes narrow, and you can see them bouncing around in thought, like he’s trying to calculate something. “you seem real concerned about him.”
now your eyebrows pull together. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“him.”
you both glance briefly over your shoulder. will stands exactly where he was, holding his stupid red cup, looking far too comfortable.
“brad.”
his jaw ticks. “why do you care so much?!”
“because we were in the middle of something and you’re talking about—killing somebody.” you pinch your fingers together, the whole patronising to him because you’re drunk.
“somebody?”
the repetition immediately irritates you.
“yes. somebody.”
“interesting.”
“what is?”
“the way you’re talking about him.”
you stare, completely confused, because what is he even saying right now? you shake your head and step forward, stroking your hand up his arm again, inching closer to him, “forget him.”
“forget him?”
“yes. he’s an annoying freshman who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.” you mutter, looking up through your lashes.
will opens his mouth.
you point at him. “see?”
he closes it again.
brad doesn’t even look. his attention is locked on you, still stuck on this. “you seem awfully invested in whether i touch him or not.”
“because i don’t want you fighting some kid at a party.” you can’t believe you’re the drunk one here and making more sense.
“kid?” he echos.
“kid?” will deadpans also, brows raised.
“he’s a freshman.”
“and?” his features frown, “it’s ‘cause it’s him, isn’t it?”
you don’t even respond now, you’re so done with arguing. you’re too gone to go round in circles.
“yeah, exactly.”
“no not exactly, you—so you what? you want me to stand there and watch you punch people?” you place a hand on your hip, tone heightening an octave. your eye sight is so hazy right now, you’re trying so hard to be serious.
his expression darkens. “that’s not what i said.”
“then what are you saying?”
“why do you care so much?”
“i don’t!”
“you think i’m stupid?”
“no?!”
is that the right answer?
who’s stupid?
you or him?
what are arguing about right now?
“you have a soft spot for him, don’t you? he took you home that night. probably—”
“oh my go— SERIOUSLY?!” you laugh, disbelieving now. “don’t even go there, after everything, you,” -hiccup- “think i’d do that?”
he stares at you. you stare back, so utterly confused. you can’t believe you’re having another argument - like the 100th one this same day.
you tilt your head, hair falling still in your face as you place a hand on his chest, trying to ease him, to diffuse this whole situation and get you both home.
“don’t touch me,” he throws you barely by your wrist, but enough that you lose your balance and trip from the surprise, stumble, and land on the floor with a squeak, “b—oop!”
it takes a second, for it to register. your ankle throbbing, hand burning on the carpet, and will sets his cup down, brows furrowed like he’s about to give brad the fight he wants — until you break out into a ruckus of giggles.
brad looks at you like you’re insane.
you laugh harder. “WOWWW! now that!— that’s hilarious!” you chuckle, wobbling to your feet in your wedges, legs like skyscrapers. “oh my god!” you clap. “don’t touch me!”
everyone around watches, almost laughing just because you’re laughing, and brad can feel his temper break, fists clenched as he forces himself to leave, pushing past the crowd.
you throw your head back, letting out an amused groan amongst giggles. “WOW! funny or what?” you stumble back to your usual place, bumping into some peers. everyone watches, but not in a judgemental way - more like they’re entertained and intrigued to see what you do next. “i’mmm goin’ to the beer-pong table,” you announce, snapping your fingers and pointing to it, legs carrying you over. you’re done feeling tense this night. now that brads gone, you loosen automatically, slumped after your adrenaline has faded.
you down another drink. for a while you’re still laughing about the argument, retelling pieces of it to anybody willing to listen, each version becoming less accurate than the last. “and then he says—” you point dramatically at nobody, “don’t touch me.”
the group around you bursts out laughing, more so at your demonstration. you nearly spill your drink trying to copy the way he’d said it. “which is insane because he literally—” you grab the nearest person’s arm, “—does that all the time.”
nobody knows the full story, of course. even in your drunk state you know to downplay it. you just enjoy the reaction - the validation. the fact people agree he’s being ridiculous. you hope they don’t tell him tomorrow.
as the night wears on, the cracks begin to show more and more: every word starts slurring together more noticeably, the fairy lights strung across the backyard blur softly every time you move your head. you laugh too hard, too long, at jokes that aren’t particularly funny. in the span of an hour you’ve won beer pong, took a hit off a blunt, somewhere along the way acquired a cap from somebody named tyler - or trevor? maybe travis? you’re not sure.
you can be found back on the dance floor (the living room) when the ultimate 2000s girls playlist thud through the speakers, where you dance to brittany, beyoncé and riri. please don’t stop the music rips through the speakers next and you take the floor like it’s your anthem. you clap in tune, hips moving as you take the centre, showing off your astonishing rhythm the way your body moves loose.
with your arms raised above your head and your eyes squeezed shut for half a second as you laugh at something, a hand catches yours - long fingers curling briefly around your own. one gentle pull and you’re spinning beneath your own raised arm, your body naturally following the lead as you move neatly out of the way for somebody else, your dance partner mirroring your two-step.
he’s still behind you when you blink, disoriented, your hand is still suspended above your head.
blue eyes meet yours.
“was trying to get past,” the familiar accent says casually, nodding towards the kitchen.
your fingers still tingle slightly as your hand falls back to your side, and a playful laugh escapes you. “use your manners, smitty.”
he glances over his shoulder, grin already pulling at one corner of his mouth. “trust me, i did.” and he’s gone, disappearing towards the kitchen, leaving you standing there with the strange lingering sensation of his fingers against yours.
you take two shots after that.
by one in the morning, you’ve lost your phone. again. the crisis consumes your life immediately as you try to fight sleep. “my phone is gone.”
nobody reacts.
you’ve apparently announced this six times already. “no seriously.”
you check your purse - nothing.
the bathroom - nothing.
the kitchen - nothing.
for twenty minutes you search everywhere. you accuse people of stealing it, then apologise for accusing people of stealing it, check the bathroom a second time, then end up back in the kitchen with it in your hand. “sorry everyone! ss-orry!” you hold your hands up, stumbling out of the room when your arms drop and catch the bowl on the edge of a table, flipping a mountain of pretzels all over the door floor.
you tuck your hair behind your ear, apologising. kneeling down to pick them up, your skirt lifts and you jump to cover your ass, only to bang into the table and knock over the two massive bottles of drink over; two frat bros rushing to pick them up. you take it upon yourself to go outside, holding your hands up defensively with your brain spinning. “sss—orry.”
sitting on the back steps staring at the lawn with your cheek resting against your knee, you blink slowly, trying to ignore the absurd swishing around in your stomach.
what have you done?
crickets chirp in the night, the air cool and calming, but your head remains between your legs.
the slide door opens, and footsteps softly patter out onto the deck, down the steps in front of you. you try not to focus on the washing machine-like movement in your gut.
“you done?”
you don’t even need to look up to know who it it.
“done what?”
“being a disaster?”
“i’m not a disaster,” you wince, keeping your head low.
will snorts.
he’s just playing.
“will?”
“yeah?”
“i feel sick.”
the confession comes out embarrassingly small. whiny. almost childlike. you hate it the second it leaves your mouth.
will looks at you for a second. his expression has completely changed, the teasing disappears instantly, his whole demeanour softens. “yeah,” he says quietly. “i guessed.”
and honestly? he did. not that he’d been watching you all night, he’d spent most of the night with his own friends, but every now and then he’d realize he hadn’t seen you for a while and find himself casually checking the kitchen, the hallways, upstairs, the backyard - just checking. making sure you hadn’t fallen down a staircase, started an argument or wandered into the wrong room and fallen asleep.
purely for public safety reasons. obviously.
then he’d find you laughing with strangers in the kitchen or standing on furniture somewhere with a cup always in your hand - and carry on with his night until the next 20-30 minutes.
“will?”
“mhm?”
“i don’t feel good.” you sound close to crying as you place your hand to your head.
the blond smiles to himself and takes his hands out of his pockets, and holds them out to you. “alright.” you look up, lost. “let’s get you home.”
you stare at them, then at him, then take them without further comment.
the second he pulls you up, your balance goes and you stumble straight into him, chin hitting his chest.
“i think you should take those shoes off.”
you look down, hair falling, and pathetically lift your leg like you’re an 80-year-old retired racehorse getting its hoof cleaned. by the time you get one off, will has already kneeled to unbuckle the other with his fingers, one hand keeping your ankle to the ground while the other fiddles with the buckle. it makes your stomach flutter, like tiny butterflies.
you lean on his shoulder, scanning the outdoors for any bears that might come out.
when will stands, you wobble, but he just takes your other wedge, both shoes dangling from two fingers while you shuffle beside him in bare feet. his other hand stays at your back as he starts guiding you toward the gate - not pushing - just there, making sure you don’t wander into a bush.
your head stays pressed to his chest, difficult enough to keep up on its own as you continue walking. “will?”
“yeah?”
“i think i’m gonna throw up.”
he sighs. “okay.”
the response is soft.
calm.
no annoyance. no teasing. just problem solving.
you blink up at him. “okay?”
“yeah.”
you seem comforted by that.
it’s ok if you’re sick . . he’s not going to crash out over it.
you do once, in a bush, but you’re good after that.
the campus is mostly quiet now, the cool night air helping a little, but not enough. you don’t know what time it is.
you rest more weight against him. will doesn’t complain.
“will?”
“hm?”
“my stomach hurts.”
“i know.”
you continue walking, catching a glimpse of your shoes in his hand. “aw man . . i really liked those.”
“you still own them?”
“oh cool.”
back at your dorm, you come to a standstill.
the stairs to your dorm sit right next to the lift that’s been out of order since 1993.
you stare at them.
then at him.
then back at the stairs.
your expression falls, “no.”
will laughs. “come on.”
“no.”
“there’s like six.”
“that’s too many.”
you look genuinely upset about it, like it’s your final straw.
for a second he thinks you’re joking . . . then realizes you’re not. he watches you look around like you’re choosing where to lay down for the night.
so before you can do so, he simply bends down and scoops you up. your arms instinctively wrap around his neck as your eyes widen.
the movement is unconscious. trusting. light.
you still gasp anyway. “OH MY GOD! WILL!”
“what?” he chuckles, carrying you both up.
“you’re like . . stronger than i thought,” you grimace, wrapping your arms around his neck, scared he might drop you. he doesn’t though, he doesn’t even have a waver in his grip.
“thanks.”
you find yourself staring at his profile as he carries you up the flights of stairs: the curve of his jaw, the concentration in his expression as he climbs, the little crease between his eyebrows. things you’ve never really paid attention to before.
or maybe never allowed yourself to.
the alcohol makes it harder to ignore, harder to keep your thoughts neatly organized. “you smell good.”
will nearly misses a step.
you don’t notice, too busy fighting another wave of dizziness.
“thanks.”
your gaze lingers.
his lashes.
the slope of his nose.
the silver chain hanging around his neck, peaking out from under his shirt.
a weird feeling settles low in your stomach—and it’s not nerves.
something unknown.
something you don’t quite have the brain capacity to name right now.
the second you get through the door, you don’t even make it properly to the toilet before you’re leaning over the bowl, hair falling forward as you gag and cough, one hand gripping the side like it’s the only solid thing in the world. will hovers in the doorway for half a second, unsure, then decides presence is better than distance. “you good . . ?”
you don’t answer. you can’t - too busy violently throwing up your guts.
he disappears for a while and comes back with a glass of water filled, ice clinking softly. you lay still, eyes closed with discomfort.
when he sees you slumped over the toilet, his expression softens again. “y/n . .” he calls, stepping in, “you feel any better . . ?”
you groan. “i hate this.”
“i know.” he crouches slightly, flushing for you. he looks at you sympathetically, “. . think you can stand up for me?”
you don’t move, so will takes the lead, taking a hold of your hands and pulls you carefully to your feet. you wobble and stumble but he keeps you upright, guiding you to the sink. “here,” he picks up a toothbrush he assumes to be yours. “try brush. maybe rinse your face or,” he takes a look at some dirt and grass stains marking your legs, as well as sticky liquid and maybe even a little blood from your fall. “maybe you should uh . . shower,” he leans over and turns on the shower.
you quickly make it out the shower. did you originally crawl in with all your clothes on? yes. did you come out with a freshly clean face and body? yes! you feel better for it, you do - even whilst drunk, you’re thankful you did it. the water was nice on your skin and you feel lighter with no makeup on.
“will?!”
“yeah?” he calls from the other side of the door.
“i need—” to get dressed. you need pyjamas, socks, underwear - and he doesn’t know where they are. you don’t think he would want to look through your things. you don’t think you’d want him to either.
you swing open the door, wrapped in a fluffy towel, groaning and whining again. will looks up and his face falls. he quickly gets up to leave when he sees you rustling through your wardrobe, the towel loosening the more you move. he ducks his head, not allowing his eyes to wander as he gives you privacy without being asked. you bring them back to the bathroom, brushing your teeth first.
you lean heavily into the sink, eyes half-lidded when will comes back to stand in the doorway. “you need like . . five minutes minimum,” he says.
“what?”
“five minutes. you need to brush for five minutes at least,” his smile says all - like you being sick was kind of amusing. kind of.
you roll your eyes, mouth full of white foam.
he walks out into the hallway again, giving you space. trying not to look at the water droplets coating your skin.
when he comes back, you’re sitting on the edge of your bed in a loose tank top and small sleep shorts, hair damp, face washed clean. it’s simple, but will feels his mind go blank. he tries to ignore it, but the caveman in him has short-circuited his brain from the imprint of your nipples through your shirt. he clears his throat and looks away, gulping quickly. “more water,” he says, holding the glass out.
you take it carefully.
he sits down on the edge of your bed, scratching his head, giving you room. “how good do you feel?”
that’s the thing - even though you were sick, you’re still drunk as hell. you shake your head, looking at him, then suddenly you sit up, gasping, whispering in a dawning realization, “will! my phone!”
will looks at you confused, and slowly lifts your phone that was on your bed.
what?
you look at him with your mouth open.
how? how has he done that?
“it fell from your arm when you went outside,” he explains, scanning your face. you stare back at him.
you replay the night without meaning to.
the way he’d carried your shoes home. the way his arm never really left you. the way he kept slowing down every time you felt sick, like it wasn’t annoying or inconveniencing him. the way he’d scooped you up at the stairs without making a big deal about it, like it was obvious - like of course he was going to because carrying you was easier than arguing.
the thought settles heavily in your chest.
warm.
fuzzy.
dangerous.
god, he’s so nice.
like actually nice.
not nice when people are watching, not nice because he wants something in return, not nice because he’s trying to get credit for it — just . . pure heart nice. “you’re just . . .”
you don’t even know what the perfect word is. he’s everything. every good thing.
something glows in your chest that you don’t have a name for, but it feels like warmth.
like wanting.
like somebody quietly reaching inside your ribs and pulling.
he looks at you. “just what?”
you blink at him.
your brain feels too soft to explain it.
you think about how easy it would’ve been for him to make fun of you tonight. how he could’ve left you at the party. could’ve laughed at you and handed you off to one of your friends and gone back to having fun with his own. instead, he’d spent half the night making sure you hadn’t fallen down a staircase, checking you were okay, finding you every time you disappeared.
who even does that?
will does.
and suddenly that fact feels enormous.
your eyes linger on his face.
his stupid pretty face.
his stupid blue eyes.
his stupid mouth that never seems to stop smiling whenever he’s around you.
your heart gives an uncomfortable squeeze, because no matter how much he flirts, no matter how much he riles you up, no matter how often he drives you absolutely insane — he’s always there. always. and for one horrible, wonderful second, you realize how much you’ve started expecting him to be.
you look at him and feel your chest ache with affection so sudden and overwhelming it almost scares you.
you want to be closer.
want him to keep looking at you like that.
“you’re really sweet,” you say softly, glancing at his lips.
his posture tightens slightly.
“y/n,” he deadpans.
you lean forward slightly without meaning to, just a bit closer, your chest pushing out. close enough that he can get the faint smell of your body wash. “what?”
will doesn’t move away, but he does breathe out slowly through his nose, like he’s trying very hard to stay exactly where he is.
your face is so close now, close enough that he can see the faint smudge of lipliner on your lips, close enough to notice the tiny freckles tucked beneath your eyes, the sleepy heaviness in them with the way your lashes flutter when your gaze drops to his mouth again.
your lips part slightly, and will realizes what’s about to happen if he doesn’t stop it now.
“whoa.”
his hand comes up gently, catching just under your throat before the gap completely disappears.
you blink. confused. “what?”
will laughs quietly through his nose - a little nervous, a little helpless. “uh—” he inches back the more you inch closer, “as much as i’ve dreamed about this moment, gorgeous . . . you’re pretty drunk and . . you were kinda spilling your guts fifteen minutes ago.”
it feels like cold water has been dumped on you. again.
your face falls. “oh.”
will drops his hand, guilt riddling his chest because that’s exactly the reaction he didn’t want. “no—”
you shake your head, tucking your hair behind your ear embarrassingly. “sorry.”
“no list—”
“—it’s fine,” you snap, furrowing your brows as you move away before he can finish. you tuck your hair behind your ear again, the wall looking real interesting now. “it’s ok.”
will can tell what you’re doing, trying to pretend you don’t care, trying to recover your dignity. “no, hey–”
you refuse to look at him. “it’s fine.”
“it’s not you—”
“—it doesn’t matter.”
“it does.” he places his hand high on your thigh to stop you. that gains your attention. you glance at him.
his expression has softened completely now. “you think i’m saying no.”
“you kind of are.”
“i’m not.”
you look at him.
will shakes his head. “seriously,” he leans forward slightly. “i’m saying . . you’re drunk.”
you roll your eyes, shaking your head again, falling back into the cushions on your bed, but will grabs a hold of your wrists gently, and pulls you back up to him so you face him properly. his hands are warm. they wrap around your wrists delicately, his touch always soft.
he shifts closer, holding your attention. “you were literally throwing up fifteen minutes ago.”
“i feel better now.” you argue. “i’m sober!”
he almost laughs, it’s cute. “you are not.”
you try to roll your eyes but they’re already heavy, like your body is arguing with you on his behalf. will laughs softly, tucking the piece of hair that keeps falling in your face behind your ear. “look, i’ll come back tomorrow.”
“you won’t.”
“i will.”
“hmm, i don’t want you to.”
he raises an eyebrow. “liar.”
your eyes widen a little. “i’m not lying.”
“you are.”
“i’m not.”
“you’re doing that thing where you say one thing and your face says another.”
you make a frustrated sound, somewhere between a groan and a growl, and he just smiles like he’s won something. he leans back comfortably, endeared by your argument, “i’ll come by tomorrow.”
“you’re not.”
“i am.”
“stop saying that.”
“why?”
“because you’re not.”
will’s grin turns softer now, more amused than smug, like he’s watching you argue with a point you can’t win. “you arguing with me about my own plans, gorgeous?”
your head snaps up. “stop with the gorgeous.”
he laughs under his breath, like that reaction is exactly what he wanted. he leans in a fraction more, voice dropping just slightly as you concentrate on him again. “i’ll come back in the morning and check how you’re feeling . . see if you still wanna kiss me.” he winks.
your face burns. you open your mouth to argue again, but nothing comes out. you don’t try to argue. you look down at your lap. “whatever.”
will’s smile widens. “that’s what i thought.”
and even as you roll your eyes, you don’t move away this time. he stands slowly, still watching you like he’s making sure you’re okay. “text me if you feel worse,” he says, already backing toward the door.
“i won’t.”
“you better.”
“i won’t.”
he shakes his head, amused, hand on the doorframe now. “goodnight.”
you pause, then quieter, “night.”
he leaves with one last look back at you like he doesn’t entirely trust you to stay upright without supervision.
and when the door clicks shut, the room feels a little too quiet . . a little too empty.
you knock out the moment your head hits your pillow before you can think about anything else.
-
the sunlight peaks through your curtains thanks to your lack of sense from last night to shut them before crashing out - however you’re lucky at all to have made it home and gone to sleep in your own bed instead of the floor or some bathtub at a frat house.
the first thing you notice is that you don’t feel as bad as you should — which immediately feels wrong.
you lie there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the rest of the hangover to arrive — it doesn’t.
your head hurts a little, your mouth is a little dry, but you don’t feel sick.
honestly? you feel suspiciously okay.
you frown.
that can’t be right.
you slowly roll onto your side.
what happened last night?
you remember the party - you remember brad being there. did you argue? it feels like you did. you squint, trying to recall the night from start to finish, trying piece together how the hell you even managed to get through the front door.
it starts in bits: you remember being in the kitchen, talking a lot, and a drink always being in your hand. you remember sitting on some steps, and feeling sick.
will comes to mind. did you speak to will?
actually, will had to have been there, because you recall him carrying somebody, if not you.
oh god — did will carry you? your eyebrows pull together. or was that part a dream?
you honestly don’t know. you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to remember, trying to sort what was real and what was fake. every memory feels half-real, like trying to remember a dream from three nights ago. the more you focus on it, the more it slips away.
the walk home. there was definitely a walk home.
you sit up.
somebody walked you home, and you know it wasn’t brad.
something else catches your attention.
you’re clean - skin soft, fresh pyjamas on. you don’t even have bad morning breath.
you freeze.
you’re really clean, not college-party clean — clean clean. your makeup is gone, your skin feels washed, your teeth feel brushed, you’re in different clothes.
you stare down at yourself.
what?
you don’t remember showering. or do you? did you get in with clothes on? did you shower? did somebody tell you to shower? did you force yourself to shower? did will make you shower?
your eyes widen.
no. surely not, that sounds insane.
you lay back again, catching sight of the glass of water on your bedside table.
no — will was definitely in your room. you remember him getting you a glass of water. repeatedly.
you suddenly remember him sitting on your bed, looking at him. you remember thinking he looked nice. you remember being very aware of him.
too aware.
dangerously aware.
your stomach drops.
god, you were close.
why was his face close?! why was his lips so soft-looking? did you dream that part? your eyes fly open.
wait — did you . . . did you kiss will?!
no.
no, no, no. why can you picture it so well? leaning in— GOD NO! you touch your lips anxiously.
maybe it was a dream. maybe you tried to in your dream. “oh my god.”
why does it feel so realistic?
your brain feels like somebody shook all the memories loose and threw half of them away, and the only person who knows what actually happened — is will.
no! your stomach flips, because that’s somehow worse. if you didn’t kiss him? fine. embarrassing that you’re even worried about it. if you did—
you might have to transfer colleges.
anxiety riddles you. a small headache begins forming at your temples. you pull a pillow over your face, trying to suffocate the thoughts.
did you say something weird? did you tell him he was attractive? did you call him pretty? you physically cringe. you cannot rule anything out which is the worst of it. usually there’s a rough timeline, but you’re left staring at the ceiling, trying to separate reality from whatever drunken nonsense your brain has invented overnight.
one unavoidable truth settles over you though: you’re going to see will eventually, and you’ll probably know all the answers the second you look at his face.
you need to avoid him at all costs.
you’re halfway through convincing yourself that maybe last night never happened when somebody knocks on your door. three quick taps and you freeze.
your roommate isn’t back yet, and if you were arguing with brad, he wouldn’t come around until later on tonight . . .
you stare at the door.
a dreadful feeling settles in your stomach.
you climb out of bed and shuffle across the room, still wrapped in your duvet like a human burrito.
the second you pull the door open, your heart drops.
will.
fuck!
he stands with a bottle of water in his hand, wearing a baseball cap and black hoodie, looking entirely too awake for this time of day.
you stare, wide eyed, cheeks flaming.
he looks normal, not even hungover - completely normal.
which worsens your feelings by one hundred.
his eyebrows lift, “morning, sunshine. how’s the head?”
you continue to stare. “why . . why are you here?”
he scrunches his face up. “rude.”
“will.”
“what?” his mouth twitches.
you narrow your eyes. you’re heavily suspicious. “why are you smiling like that?”
“like what?”
“like you know something.”
he laughs at that, and your pulse instantly spikes.
oh god, he knows something. you know he knows something. “you remember your own name today?” he says, coming in.
you swallow. “yeah . . why wouldn’t i?”
“why wouldn’t you?” he repeats back, pausing in his steps to turn around. “huh, you tell me. what do you remember?”
your heart starts racing again, but you lean against the door frame of your room while he takes a seat on your bed, trying to appear relaxed, trying very hard not to appear like somebody conducting a criminal investigation. “i—i remember everything.” you lie, acting confident.
will’s eyebrow raise. “oh you do, do you?”
“m—mhm.”
his tongue pokes his cheek. “oh yeah? tell me.”
oh no.
oh no no no.
the way he says it makes your entire body tense, not because of the words — because of the smile.
you stare at him.
he stares back.
“go ahead,” his grin grows, “tell me what you did.”
“what i—” your voice cracks a little, “what i did?”
“mhm.” he sits with his fingers laced.
the smugness begins draining from your face, because it suddenly doesn’t feel like a game anymore. your stomach twists as you approach your bed, a horrible thought occurring to you. “i . . i didn’t fight anybody, did i?”
will’s expression immediately changes, the teasing softening, “no,” a small breath leaves your lungs, “no, nothing like that.”
“okay,” you nod once, then continue. “i didn’t . . break anything? or . . i dunno, ruin somebody’s life by sharing t their secret.”
“nope,” he perks a brow questioningly, “although what secrets have you got that could ruin somebody’s life?”
“so what did i do?” you ignore him, eyes pleading, trying not to come across desperate.
his smile returns instantly, and it’s that look that’s been making you nervous since the second you opened the door. “what are you digging for?”
“i’m not digging for anything?” you lie, taking a seat on your bed. you lift a pillow, using it to cover yourself like a shield of protection. will continues to lay slouched across the bottom half, eyes twinkling mischievously. “why you so nervous?” he asks amused, “you been trying to figure something out since i got here.”
“i’m not.”
“you are.”
you hate how easily he reads you, hate that he sounds so sure of himself. it makes heat crawl up your neck.
will shifts slightly on the mattress, sitting up and turning towards you. it’s barely a movement, but somehow the distance between you feels smaller than it did a second ago. he looks at you and then away, like he’s thinking over something in his head, his lips pulled in contemplation as he scratches his head.
you take a sip of water, not taking your eyes off him. “you tryna figure out if we kissed or somethin’?”
you immediately choke on your water.
the coughing fit that follows is humiliating. “what?!” you sputter, looking at him like he’s insane. “n-no?!”
“no?”
“no!” your voice jumps an octave. “i would never do that!” the accusation in your tone only seems to amuse him.
will’s mouth twitches. “oh. never?
“no!”
“huh,” he drags, making your stomach drop.
“huh what?” you splutter, “why you saying it like that?”
he studies you for a second, like he’s deciding how much to enjoy this, “well, because . . you did try to kiss me.”
the room goes completely silent as you stare at him with your mouth agape.
“—but it’s ok, i was a gentleman about it.”
you wait for the punchline, for the grin, for the inevitable ‘gotcha’ and his usual laugh - but it never comes.
“no i didn’t.” you deny, the laugh that leaves you sounding nervous even to your own ears.
will just looks at you, and slowly, your smile disappears, because he’s not joking. the realization settles over you in horrifying stages: first confusion, then disbelief, then pure dread. “you’re lying.”
“m’not.”
“will.”
“y/n,” he mocks the way you say his name.
you stare at each other, your heart beating as fast as it’s ever done. “it’s cool,” he says casually, leaning back, “i didn’t let it happen.”
your mouth actually falls open. “what?”
he shrugs, completely unfazed. “figured i’d save it for when you’re sober.
your brain short-circuits. “WHAT?”
“what?” he asks, confused.
“you can’t just say things like that!” you spit, looking at him up and down in his stupid cozy hoodie and cap.
“why not?” he furrows his brows, “you tried kissing me.”
your face flares, “no i didn’t!”
“ya did.”
“i—” you stop, because the problem is you don’t actually know. your memory is a mess, a collection of blurry fragments and missing hours, and the confidence drains from your face fast enough that he notices.
fuck, there’s no way this is happening. this can’t be.
you feel you anxiety start to dwell in, the embarrassment as you bring your fingers to your hair.
will shuffles a little closer, his hand settling on your leg which jolts you out of your trance. his teasing has subsided as he speaks. “hey, you don’t need to be embarrassed,” he deadpans, looking at your face.
you risk taking a look at him, lifting your head to meet his gaze - big mistake.
he’s closer than you realized.
close enough that you can make out the tiny scar near his eyebrow, see he different shades of blue in his eyes. close enough that looking away suddenly feels difficult.
“don’t will.”
your stomach is in knots. you can’t even look at him. you feel sick. you just want him to go home.
“i’m serious,” he stands, setting his drink on your bedside table so he’s in front of you, looking down. “i’m not gonna tell anybody if that’s what you’re scared of,” he looks down at your face. watching you closely. “i’m flattered, really.”
“will,” you warn, not in the mood for his games - you want to die on the spot and never see him again.
a beat passes as he watches you, waiting for your comeback, a sassy look to follow, but it doesn’t come.
he scans your face, your chest rising and slowing hastily. “what? can’t look at me now?”
silence.
“y’ignoring me?”
still nothing.
your eyes stay fixed anywhere but him, your chest tight with that awful mix of humiliation and awareness that he’s still right there, still watching.
then his voice drops a little, almost murmuring. “look at me.”
your heart spikes, doing a stupid kick as you feel your body tense from the command - not that it’s demanding, but . . the fact that it’s coming from will.
you can’t, you physically can’t look at him.
then he moves, his arm raising, hand coming up gentler than everything else about him and he tilts your face toward him, not forcing, not yanking - just . . guiding, slowly, until your eyes meet his and he holds you there.
“i’m not trying to mess with you,” his gaze flicks briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. you almost convince yourself you imagined it, but you saw. when you don’t pull back, his palm settles more fully against your face, thumb resting just under your eye as he stands directly above you, the edge of your bed stopping him from getting any closer. it’s grounding and unbearable at the same time. “will.”
“stop saying my name like that,” he murmurs, his face dropping closer to yours.
your lashes flutter shut, unable to look him in the eye. “like what?”
“like i’m about to do something you don’t want me to.”
your breath catches, a shiver prickling across your skin as his gaze drifts over your face one last time. the teasing has disappeared completely now, replaced by something quieter - something certain.
you risk a glance up at him just as his thumb brushes beneath your eye, lingering there for a second before tracing lightly across your cheek. his eyes drop to your mouth, and the look on his face makes your stomach flip—as if he’s finally settled on a decision he’s been fighting all this time.
you can feel the heat radiating from him now, his body close enough that every shift feels magnified as he shifts lower to you. his breath ghosts across your lips, warm and steady, making you tense, and for a moment, neither of you move.
you think it’s about to happen. you feel his lips barely graze yours when he murmurs softly. “open your mouth.”
the room goes completely still. your heart races as you keep you eyes closed, breathing shakily, and slowly, hesitantly, and entirely trustingly - you part your lips.
will presses his mouth softly to yours, long and lasting. he catches your bottom lip, his mouth warm, and he moves them with a gentle force that’s just enough for you. the soft smack of your lips seems impossibly loud in the silence that follows, ringing in your ears as he pulls back with the echoing wet sound. your pulse stumbles, your heart hammering violently in your chest.
nobody moves. nobody says anything. just the shallow breathing of yours fills the space for a beat, your lips glistening.
then, just as the realization begins to dawn on what’s happened, with your hand clasping around his wrist, will leans in again - capturing your mouth again with his own. your shoulders loosen, your jaw relaxes and your mind switches off. smoothly, he slides his tongue in, soft and lazy, in a way that makes your toes curl. your consciousness slips through your fingers as you move your lips against his, his tongue licking into your mouth like it’s familiar.
he kisses you torturously slow, like he’s taking his time, trying to live in the moment while it lasts. you feel yourself sit up, chasing him for more, getting lost in the daze with his warm mouth on yours, rolling his tongue against yours, establishing its presence. a small sound slips out. you don’t mean for it to happen, but it does. a small, needy-like hum that sends both a shock to your system and a grin on will’s face that ultimately makes your face flame and pull off from him.
you stare up at him in shock.
wide-eyed and silent with wet lips, like you’ve only just realized what you were doing — what you were enjoying.
his blue eyes stare back at you, eyes half-lidded. he lets out a quiet breath through his nose after, grinning slowly as you discreetly try to catch your breath from your bed. “not bad for a freshman, huh?”
your face burns more, your mouth opening to speak but the words don’t come out. you don’t know what words would come out if you did know what to say.
but it doesn’t matter, because will’s lips ghost your own, hovering dangerously, eager to be on yours again - and you’re clearly as eager back because you part them instinctively when a sharp knock cracks through the air.
you jerk back with a gasp, eyes shooting to the door.
will’s expression barely changes. if anything, he just looks mildly annoyed at the timing as he glances towards the door.
another knock raps, and he gets up like he’s about to answer it.
your heart nearly launches into your throat. “what are you doing?!” you hiss quietly.
his brows pull together.
you grab a fistful of his sleeve and yank him back before he can take another two steps.
now he looks genuinely confused.
before either of you can say anything else, a familiar voice sounds through the wood. “y/n? you home?”
your shoulders relax as you resume opening the door. you wipe the fake sweat from your head, “it’s katie.” you open the door.
katie’s been your roommate since freshman year. nn paper, the friendship shouldn’t work. she’s quiet, private, spends most nights curled up with a book or her geeky boyfriend. you’re the complete opposite—cheer captain, face of the campus, recognised everywhere you go, somehow attracting attention even when you’re actively trying not to — but she’s become your person.
katie looks out for you in a way nobody else does. she’s seen the parts of your life nobody else has: the arguments, the tears, the nights you pretend you’re fine when you’re anything but. she knows more about what goes on in your life more than your cheer friends put together. people mistake her quietness for weakness all the time. they’re always wrong: she would go to war for you.
she knows the version of you that exists when nobody’s watching, and she loves that version just as much.
she’s the kind of friend who’d help you bury a body, then spend the whole drive home lecturing you for creating the problem in the first place. the kind that would take a bullet for you and then complain that the bullet interrupted her afternoon.
she spends most nights with her boyfriend now anyway, only staying over every so often. you don’t mind, you kind love that she’s loved up. although it’s kind of why you’ve tried not to lean on her too much lately. you sometimes feel guilty, like you’re the one constantly dragging drama into her otherwise peaceful life, so you’ve tried to be tough and think like her. if she had seen you in the state you were in last night, would she have wanted you to call her? yes, but did you make it home safe nonetheless without her? yes!
she comes inside, multiple bags on her arms, her long blue hair in a messy ponytail. you press against the wall for her to stumble in, will watching her with the same questioning look.
“i left so much clothes at james’ place, it’s ridiculous,” she drops them on her side of the room. “how—oh!” she pauses, making eye-contact with will. “who’s this?”
“uhh, that’s will,” you scratch your arm, “he was just leaving actually.”
“no, by all means, don’t let me interrupt—”
“—no! no, he has hockey practice anyway,” you cut in, holding the door open. “he was just . . . grabbing my file,” you stretch for the folder and shove it in his ah de as he stands confusedly. “it’s all good.”
will looks at you strangely, standing at the door nonetheless, “thanks . . ?”
“ok. nice meeting you will.”
“yeah, you too.” he looks over to katie, shooting her a smile.
you avoid eye-contact as he passes by you out the door, but you know the look he’s giving you. “bye.”
“see ya.”
the door shuts, leaving you standing.
“he’s cute.”
“he’s a freshman.”
“cuter than brad.”
“you think a lamppost is cuter than brad,” you roll your eyes, though your stomach turns at his name. god, brad.
“correct!” she cheers, slamming her stuff on the bed. “i’m gonna go shower first and then maybe grab a coffee before i sort these. wanna come?”
“love to.”
“nice. i’ll be five minutes.”
“cool.”
“don’t invite that pesky freshman back in while i’m gone! i’d be soooo mad!” she sings, closing the door.
“trust me, i won’t,” you silently groan to yourself, falling down on your bed to burrow your face in the covers.
