Jnkmotte

A/N: This fic belongs to this universe. You can still read this fic without having read the prior Quinn and Luke fics, but characters from those are mentioned in this one. It's Quinn's girlfriend who is nicknamed Bubbles and their six moth old daughter Lilith/Lily, and Luke's girlfriend who is nicknamed Baby.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

Jack Hughes was bitter. 

You’d think it was spring in the middle of October with how birds and bees swarmed his head. Everywhere he went, love was shoved in his face. Or, more accurately, people who thought they were in love. Jack wasn’t convinced the real thing, at least in its glossy, commercialized form, actually existed.

He loved hockey. He loved his family. He loved his grandma’s chicken noodle soup recipe. But none of that was romantic. Romance, as far as Jack could tell, was just an elaborate marketing scheme. Flowers, chocolates, overpriced dinners—only to go on sale the second February 14th clocked out. If love were real, it wouldn’t need a clearance section.

That, Jack told himself, was why he was bitter. Not because he wanted what other people had. No, obviously not. He just felt bad for them. All those people fooling themselves into thinking they were happy.

Still, it didn’t help that his teammates had their wives and girlfriends waiting in the family room after every game—ready to celebrate them even after a humiliating 9–0 loss or something equally ridiculous. Or the ones with kids, whose dads were superheroes regardless of the scoreboard, because they simply didn’t understand the concept of winning or losing yet.

Then there was Michigan. Home made it worse. His parents were so in sync they barely needed words, communicating in glances and half-movements like they’d rehearsed their entire lives together. It was unsettling, honestly.

Quinn and his wife were even worse. They liked to pretend no one knew they were married, as if a spousal visa wasn’t a dead giveaway. They were disgustingly in love even if they’d met in the most unconventional way, had the cutest daughter on the planet, and somehow managed to look picture-perfect without even trying.

And Luke, who Jack had mocked his entire life for being unlucky in love, now had a girlfriend. His childhood sweetheart, no less. Everyone thought it was adorable. Jack begrudgingly admitted it probably was. He was just bitter. Possibly because he shared an apartment with them. Possibly because he’d watched Luke pine for years, and now there was no barrier standing in the way of their love. 

Wait. Jack still didn’t believe in love. There was no barrier between their act of love. 

Even the wildlife was against him. On his daily run through the park, there was a pair of swans that floated side by side in the pond. Always the same pair, he’d noticed, because one had a dark spot in its feathers. Swans mate for life. There was literally no other explanation for them hanging out that much.

They seemed to pity him as he stopped to catch his breath on a nearby bench, gliding in lazy circles like they had all the time in the world. Deep in their devotion. Or maybe the swans weren’t pretending at all. Maybe love did exist—for swans. And wolves, and beavers, and the odd penguin. 

Jack wished humans worked like that. If love were just biology, predetermined and permanent, he wouldn’t have to feel so bitter. He’d just end up with someone automatically. No effort, but also no hope and disappointment. 

And that, he told his bitter self, sounded much better than downloading Raya for the fifteenth time to ’try again.’ He didn’t want to try. He’d rather be lonely instead, or wait for his own swan to just cling to him forever. 

Jack was still sitting there, convincing himself that envy and bitterness were two entirely different things, when footsteps crunched softly behind him. He didn’t look right away. Runners passed through the park all the time. Dog walkers too. It was only when the steps stopped that he glanced up.

You stood a few feet away from the bench, leash looped around your mitten-clad hand. The golden retriever at your side was unmistakable, its fur warm and honey-colored even in the flat autumn light. It stared openly at the pond, tail softly wagging, like the swans were the most fascinating thing it had ever seen. 

It took Jack a second to place you. Then it clicked.

You sat on this bench every day.

Same time. Same spot. Notebook balanced on your knee, pencil moving in quick, messy strokes. Your dog always watched the swans like they were reality television. Today, you were bundled up against the chill in a long autumn coat and a thick knitted scarf wrapped twice around your neck. It was colorful and definitely handmade. Round, gold-framed glasses sat low on your nose, magnifying your eyes just enough that they seemed perpetually curious. 

Jack had passed you dozens of times on his runs. He’d catalogued you without meaning to. Just as he had catalogued the guy in the coffee kiosk with the curly mustache or the old woman who fed the swans with stale bagel crumbs. 

You were the bench girl with the dog. And now he was in your spot.

“I’ve taken your spot, haven’t I?” he said, before he could stop himself. He probably could’ve just moved from the bench and continued running without starting a conversation. 

You didn’t move. Didn’t smile. You didn’t even really react, beyond lifting one shoulder in a small shrug. “It’s public property,” you replied.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “I know. But you always sit here.”

Your eyes narrowed just slightly. “Are you stalking me?” 

“No, I—” Jack laughed, because obviously that was absurd. “I run here often.”

You tilted your head. The dog’s leash shifted in your hand. “I know. I’ve seen you.”

Jack felt something uncomfortable crawl up the back of his neck. Awareness. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Are you stalking me?”

“No.”

There was a pause. The pond lapped softly behind him. The swans drifted past in their usual tight formation, still together, still unbearable. The dog’s ears perked, paws scratching the gravel, full attention on them.

“You can come sit,” Jack offered, gesturing vaguely at the bench. “I don’t bite.”

Your eyes flicked to the space beside him, then to his face, then down to the dog. “She’s anxious,” you said, nodding toward her. “And afraid of men.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah. No problem.” He stood up at once, stepping back off the paved edge and onto the running path, putting a clear, intentional distance between himself and the bench. He lifted his hands a little, palms open, like that might help. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” you said.

Now that he was standing, the conversation felt different. Less accidental. You stayed where you were for a second longer, watching him like you were making sure he understood.

“I should continue with my run,” Jack said.

“Okay.”

The simplicity of it threw him. You weren’t like him, who spewed out words in conversations with strangers just to appear likable. No awkward apology required. No reassurance. It was just okay.

You gave the leash a gentle tug and finally moved forward, stepping toward the bench as the dog followed. “Come on, Waffle.”

“You named your dog Waffle?” Jack asked, turning back toward you.

You glanced back at him, deadpan. “She’s the color of one.”

Jack snorted before he could help it, the sound surprised out of him. “Yeah,” he said. “She really is.”

Waffle glanced up at him, tail thumping once against the bench before she seemed to want to hide behind you. 

“Well,” Jack said, backing another step onto the path, lacing the run back into his voice. “It was nice talking to you. And Waffle.”

You nodded once, already sitting back down on the bench, notebook peeking out of your tote bag like it had been waiting patiently for him to leave. “You too.”

Jack started jogging again, falling back into his rhythm as the park path curved ahead of him. He told himself it was nothing. Just a conversation. Just a bench. Just a girl he’d apparently been noticing for months without realizing it. Still, when he passed the pond again on his next lap, his eyes couldn’t help but land on you again. Simply registering that you were still there, still doodling in your notebook. Waffle still kept her eye on the swans. 

He didn’t know why it warmed his heart so, or what to even call the feeling. There was probably some long German word for it. 

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

Jack came home still riding the edge of his run, lungs burning and pulse loud in his ears. He took the stairs two at a time—four flights, no breaks—because the elevator was slow and because stopping meant thinking, and he wasn’t doing that today. Not any more than he already had, at least.

He was still catching his breath when he unlocked the door and stepped inside. The apartment was warm; the windows fogged faintly from the contrast between inside and out. His hands and face started to prickle as the cold bled out of him, that itchy, uncomfortable in-between that made him want to keep moving.

There was a low murmur of voices coming from the living room, punctuated by quiet laughter. Jack barely had time to process it before he rounded the corner and saw Luke and his girlfriend, Baby, standing shoulder to shoulder at the window that overlooked the park.

They were fully pressed up against the glass, and Jack let out a short, breathless laugh at the sight. Both of them startled like they’d been caught doing something wrong, spinning around in unison.

“Did you just talk to the weird girl in the park?” Luke asked immediately.

Jack frowned. Weird felt wrong in his mouth, like a word that didn’t really belong. “What makes her weird?”

“Isn’t she homeless?” Luke shrugged. “She sits on that bench for hours sometimes.”

“She’s not unhoused, Luke,” Baby cut in before Jack could even open his mouth. “She literally lives in this building. You’re neighbors!”

Jack’s brain skipped. “Wait, what?”

Luke turned to Baby. “You know her?”

“Kinda,” she said. “She works at the antique store down by the old roundhouse. She’s the one who restored the chess set I got you for your birthday.”

Antique store. Jack registered the words in a hurry, his mind snagging briefly on the image of your hands—ink-smudged, careful—before crashing straight into the bigger problem. This building.

He ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “Did you say she lives here?”

“Yeah,” Baby said, looking between the two brothers like she was genuinely baffled. “Like, one floor down. With Noah? The really tall ginger guy?”

Both Jack and Luke stared at her. Jack had no idea who Noah was, but the fact that you lived with some guy—a guy he’d never seen, somehow—set something sour and irrational twisting in his chest.

“Are you two completely unaware of your surroundings?” she added.

“I’ve only seen her in the park,” Jack said, too fast, like that explained everything. “That’s it.”

Baby tilted her head, eyes narrowing in a way Jack had learned usually meant she was about to say something he wouldn’t enjoy. “And Jack, before you get discouraged, I’m like ninety percent sure Noah is gay.”

Jack froze. “What? Why the fuck would I get discouraged?”

She smiled at him. Luke’s grin spread, slow and dangerous. “Because,” Baby said, “you haven’t initiated a conversation with a woman in what feels like years. This has to mean something.”

“It doesn’t,” Jack said immediately. “It was nothing.”

“You’re telling me Jack likes this girl?” Luke looked between them. “How are you so perceptive?”

“I didn’t say he likes her,” Baby replied. “But I do think it could work if he did. She seems like a lovely person. And her dog is the cutest guy ever.”

“It’s a girl,” Jack blurted. “Her name is Waffle.” 

The room went quiet after that. Luke stared at him. Baby’s mouth twitched into an even bigger smile. Jack realized—about a second too late—that he’d just offered information no one had asked for.

He turned away, heading straight toward his room before they could say anything else. As he walked down the hall, he caught his reflection in the darkened window—flushed, hair damp with sweat, expression unsettled. This was ridiculous. And he looked disgusting. Fantastic. 

He shut the door behind him with a little more force than necessary and leaned back against it, chest rising and falling too fast for someone who wasn’t still running.

You were neighbors. You lived one floor down. He remembered complaining about a dog barking when someone had moved in awhile back. That was your fucking dog. How had he never seen you in the building before? 

Jack squeezed his eyes shut so tight he saw stars. This was bad. 

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

As the regular season started with big leaps, Jack found himself slightly overwhelmed. Mostly in a good way. Maybe because he got to live his dream, or maybe because the Devils were actually performing somewhat consistently after a dull 2025 season. Wins stacked instead of sporadic. Momentum felt real instead of borrowed.

But he’d felt this before. They’d started strong last season too and then ended up nowhere anyway. And Jack had gotten injured. Good starts didn’t mean good endings. He’d learned not to trust them.

The most overwhelming part was the travel. He told himself he was used to it—years of planes and buses, hotel rooms that all looked eerily the same—but after planting himself in Michigan for three uninterrupted months over the summer, the constant movement hit harder than usual. Multiple flights a week. Long bus rides. Time zones blurred together until days didn’t even feel linear. 

And New Jersey was home now. Technically. He’d spent seven seasons of hockey here. He loved it, most of the time. But it was still hard when nothing felt fixed, when he was never in the apartment long enough to actually land in it. One foot in the door, the other already stepping back out, while his brain was just stuck on missing Michigan.

On the rare days off—no scheduled workouts, no optional skates, no meetings, no charity events—Jack mostly slept. Like his body was trying to hoard it. When he wasn’t asleep, he sometimes tried to cram in the things a normal twenty-something was supposed to care about. Socializing. Dating. Building something outside of hockey. But he’d kind of stopped caring about that around the same time he realized love just wasn’t for him.

Who cared if his social life was dwindling? He had hockey to play. 

Still. Lying on his bed on one of those rare nights off, staring at the ceiling, Jack found himself restless in a way sleep wouldn’t fix. The apartment was too quiet, and for a moment he considered knocking on Luke’s door—asking if he wanted to grab food, watch something dumb, do something they always used to do. 

Jack pushed himself up and stepped out into the hallway.

Luke’s door was already open. His voice drifted out, warm and animated, not aimed at Jack at all. Jack paused, hand half-raised, and watched as Luke shrugged into a jacket, phone pressed between his shoulder and ear, smiling in a way he only did for one person. 

“Yeah,” Luke was saying. “I’m heading out now.”

Jack’s hand dropped.

Luke glanced over, catching sight of him in the hallway. “Oh—hey,” he said, distracted but friendly. “Baby’s waiting. I’ll sleep at her place.”

Of course he was.

“We have a flight at nine in the morning, Luke,” Jack said. He hadn’t meant for it to sound accusatory, but it came out that way anyway. But maybe he did find it a little irresponsible for Luke to be going all the way to Brooklyn the night before a road trip. 

“I know,” Luke replied easily. “I’ll see you then.”

The casualness of it snapped something loose.

“Are you serious?”

Luke paused, finally pulling the phone away from his ear. His brows knit together. “What? Why are you angry at me?”

“I’m not angry—” Jack cut himself off, exhaling hard through his nose. He stared at the floor for a second, then looked back up. “We haven’t hung out once since you got a girlfriend.”

Luke blinked, clearly not expecting that. He let out what was basically a pitiful laugh at Jack. “I thought you wanted me to move out?”

“Eventually, yeah,” Jack corrected, “but now it just feels like you’re rushing.” 

He probably didn’t want Luke to move at all. This place was lonely enough with him here. Jack could handle Luke bringing his girlfriend over all the time and being disgustingly in love if it meant there were at least people around. 

Luke scoffed, shaking his head. “Rushing? I’ve known Baby my entire life.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jack said quickly. “I just—”

“And I’d rather be rushing,” Luke interrupted, voice firmer now, “than not be moving at all, Jack.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Luke said quickly. He looked tired suddenly, like this was a conversation he’d been bracing for. “You have so much going for you, Jack.” 

“No, you do,” Jack snapped. “I’m the one who has to spend my time alone in this goddamn apartment.”

The second the words were out, Jack wished he could take them back. They sounded smaller than he’d meant. A lot needier, too.

Luke’s jaw tightened. “But that’s not my fault, is it?”

Jack didn’t have an answer for that.

Luke exhaled slowly, glancing down at his phone like he was remembering that someone was waiting for him. “I’ve gotta go,” he said, quieter now. He stepped past Jack without another word, the front door closing behind him with a final, unmistakable click.

Jack was left there alone in the living room, the argument echoing in his head on a loop. Not moving at all. Maybe he wasn’t, but it was still fucking rude of Luke to point it out like that. Maybe Jack didn’t want to move, or rush, in the same way Luke did. 

That was when Jack grabbed his hoodie and his running shoes. Running was moving in some way, even if it wasn’t even marginally close to what Luke meant. 

Jack took the stairs two at a time. Like always. He didn’t bother stretching, didn’t check the time, didn’t think about pace. He just needed the movement. Needed his body to do something his brain couldn’t argue with. The stairwell echoed with the dull slap of his sneakers, the smell of concrete and old paint sharp in his nose as he rounded the corner to the next flight—and ran directly into someone.

“Oh, shit, sorry—”

The collision knocked the wind from him more than the running had. Jack stumbled back a step, hands flying up on instinct, palms open like he was bracing for impact that had already happened.

“Hi,” said a small voice to him. 

It took his brain a second to catch up with his eyes.

You stood in front of him, one hand resting lightly against the stair railing, the other holding a handbag. Your makeup was dramatic in a way Jack had no vocabulary for—dark liner, silver glitter catching the low light, lips painted a bold, wine color. A corset hugged your torso, structured and sharp, and a fur coat was thrown over your shoulders. 

Jack forgot how to stand properly.

He’d almost managed to repress the fact that you were his neighbor—filed it away somewhere inconvenient, like a problem he’d deal with later. Mostly because he hadn’t seen you since you’d last talked. Maybe because seeing you like this, and not in the park, felt a little unreal, like his brain had swapped out one version of you for another. 

And then there was the corset.

His gaze snagged on it before he could stop himself—on the way it pulled everything together, on the very obvious, very distracting press of your breasts. He tore his eyes away immediately, mortified.

Totally normal behavior, he told himself. Absolutely normal.

“I’m Jack,” he said, voice coming out a little breathless, a little too loud in the echoing stairwell. “I didn’t get to introduce myself last time.”

“Y/N,” you replied. “Are you always running, Jack?”

“No,” he said, but immediately began correcting himself. “Or maybe I do run a lot. I don’t know.”

You let out a soft and amused giggle, definitely a little buzzed. Not drunk, but you’d probably pre-gamed to wherever you were going now. Jack couldn’t imagine this was your usual attire. He told himself to stop staring, again. 

“I, uh… I didn’t know we were neighbors.” Jack gestured vaguely at the stairwell, the building, the fact that you existed here now. “I live upstairs with my brother.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I live here with my roommate,” you said easily, quickly pointing to one of the doors. Unit 3C. Jack lived in 4C. You shifted your weight, already angling past him toward the stairs. “I should get going.”

Something in Jack panicked. The moment felt like it was slipping away too fast.

“Where are you going?” he rushed to ask. 

You blinked, then smiled like you were letting him in on something. “Trader Joe’s.”

Jack nodded seriously. “Right.”

“That was a joke, Jack.”

“Oh.” He felt himself flush even more. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

You adjusted the fur coat around your shoulders, tugging it a little closer and covering up just enough that Jack wondered if he’d made you self-conscious. The thought made his chest tighten with something uncomfortably close to guilt.

“I’m going to a friend’s birthday party,” you said, smoothing a hand down the front of the coat. “It’s drag queen themed. I don’t usually dress like this.”

Jack nodded, like that explained everything and nothing at once. His brain whirred uselessly, stuck somewhere between say something normal and don’t fuck this up. Had he stared too much? Had he made it weird already? He took you in again and said the first honest thing that slipped out before he could soften it.

“Don’t worry,” he blurted. “You look cute.”

“Cute?” you repeated, brows lifting. “Fuck. I was going for hot.”

“Oh, uhm—” Jack swallowed hard.

You giggled again, a little louder, clearly enjoying how Jack was stumbling through this. “It’s at this place called White Rabbit,” you added. “Open invitation—but I don’t think you’d get in dressed like a gym teacher.”

Jack looked down at himself. Hoodie. Running shorts. Sneakers that had seen better days. He winced, lips tugging into a sheepish smile.

“I’ve run past that a couple of times,” he said, which was technically true—if a couple meant nearly every day. The place was literally down the road from this building.

“Of course you have,” you said dryly.

“It’s, like, a gay club, right?” he asked, genuinely unsure.

“It is a gay club,” you corrected. “But just a normal lunch spot during the day. Kinda good, actually.”

Jack nodded again, filing that away like it might be useful information someday. “I don’t know much in this area,” he admitted. “To be honest.”

It was pathetic, really, considering how long he’d lived here. He blamed it on never having time off, or because he spent all his time off in Michigan. He knew his way to the Prudential Center, the closest grocery store, and the gym. Maybe a couple of coffee shops and restaurants too, but he mostly got that delivered. Food wasn’t that fun for him anyway since he kept a pretty strict diet. 

There was a small beat of silence after Jack’s admission. Not necessarily awkward, you mostly seemed to not know what to answer. You shifted your weight, fingers tightening briefly around the strap of your bag.

“Maybe I could show you around someday,” you said suddenly, shrugging like it was casual. “If you want to. I mean.”

Jack’s breath hitched. “Oh,” he said, heart thudding. “Yeah. Maybe.”

He had, in no way, thought that you’d ask him out. That was what you meant, right? It couldn’t mean anything else. Jack didn’t even know if he wanted to go on a date. In general, that is, and not just regarding you. Could he go on a date and not believe in love at the same time? It seemed contradictory. 

You inhaled, like you were about to say something else, then stopped. “I’m sorry—”

“Let me give you my number,” Jack cut in, the words tumbling out before fear could catch up to either of you.

Your face lit up. “Oh, absolutely.”

You pulled out your phone, nails clicking lightly against the screen before handing it to him. Jack typed his number in with hands that absolutely did not shake. Definitely not. He handed it back like this was a totally normal thing he did all the time.

“I’ll be waiting for a text, I guess,” he said. “See you, Y/N.”

“Bye, Jack,” you said, already heading down the stairs.

When you were halfway down, you turned back. Jack straightened without meaning to.

“Say hi to Beatrice and Arthur for me!” you called up. The confusion on his face must’ve been obvious, because you laughed. “The swans, Jack. If you’re running in the park. They’ve even got their own sign now.”

Then you turned and kept going, fur coat swaying as you disappeared down the stairwell.

Jack stood there for a long moment afterward, heart racing, whatever Luke had said completely forgotten. Then he turned around and walked up the stairs again. Maybe he didn’t need the run after all. 

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

You’d woken up with a headache that felt personal. The kind that sat right behind your eyes and pulsed every time you moved, reminding you that drag queen–themed birthday parties were not meant to be survived without consequences. Neither was tequila. Especially not tequila.

It lingered even hours later, long after you’d dragged yourself out of bed, showered away last night’s makeup and sweat, and eaten what could generously be called breakfast: a bowl of Lucky Charms, dry, because someone had forgotten to buy milk.

It was you. Noah despised milk.

The headache lingered through two episodes of whatever sitcom happened to be playing on TV, as you decided your only goal for the day was to become one with the couch. It lingered in the way sunlight slowly filtered in through the living room windows, way too fucking bright. And it lingered through the inevitable reminder of the phone number now sitting in your contacts. You were afraid your head would explode if you let it linger even longer.

You flipped your phone over for what had to be the fifteenth time in ten minutes, letting it rest face-down on your stomach like that might stop it from existing. It didn’t work. You flipped it back again.

Jack. Just a name and a number. No emoji. You would’ve put an emoji if someone asked you for your number. 

Your thumb hovered uselessly over the screen, like the number might start talking first if you stared hard enough.

“Stop staring at it, Bug,” Noah said.

He flopped dramatically onto the couch beside you, long limbs folding awkwardly as he stole one of the decorative pillows and hugged it to his chest. Even hungover, Noah looked annoyingly put together—messy ginger hair, oversized sweater falling perfectly off his shoulder. You were pretty sure you looked like something that had crawled out of a swamp today.

“That’s not how texting works,” he continued. “You don’t communicate with phone numbers telepathically.”

“I don’t understand why he gave it to me,” you muttered, not looking up from your crease in the couch. 

From the kitchen, Amir hummed softly as he poured another round of coffee into the same mismatched mugs from breakfast, still glowing faintly from having been celebrated the night before. The birthday boy, sleep-deprived but pleased, like he’d been loved loudly and thoroughly. He slid a mug across the coffee table toward you without comment. You accepted it gladly. 

“You said he was cute, right?” Amir asked. 

You squinted at the ceiling. “I literally said he looks like a real estate agent who plays golf for fun.”

“So... cute,” Noah concluded. 

“That still doesn’t explain anything,” you replied.

“Maybe he just liked talking to you,” Amir offered gently. 

“That’s absurd,” you said flatly. “You two barely like talking to me, and you’re almost legally bound to.”

Amir snorted into his coffee. Noah gasped, offended. “That’s not true. I love talking to you.”

You huffed out a little laugh. He loved talking at you. 

“A hot guy doesn’t randomly like talking to a woman who looks like she hasn’t slept in three days,” you continued, spiraling now, comfortable in it, “and whose dog explicitly shows that it doesn’t like him.”

“I’m sure Waffle would come around to the right person,” Amir said mildly, moving to the armchair. “She doesn’t hide at the sight of me anymore.”

If Waffle were here, she’d be hiding in your bedroom. No doubt about it. Your dog—or technically your dad’s dog, who you watched most weeks—didn’t like men. Not even your dad at first. He’d rescued her from a puppy mill, and while she’d gotten better with time, she was still jumpy and cautious. Too much for the farm while your dad worked long days.

She felt safer curled up under the cash register at the antique store. And if you were being honest, you liked having her there more than your dad probably missed her. He had three other dogs. And a million farm animals. He’d be fine.

You weren’t so sure about yourself. Especially not with Jack’s name glowing quietly on your phone, waiting to be acknowledged. 

You still didn’t know why you’d offered to show him around the neighborhood you both lived in. The logic collapsed the longer you thought about it. He lived here. If he wanted to explore, he would’ve done it already. He didn’t need you for that.

And you had no idea where you had gotten the confidence from. Maybe it was the tequila. Because sober-you didn’t have that kind of confidence. You had whatever disastrous anxiety this was.

If anything, you’d probably cornered him into saying yes. Politeness was a trap like that. There was no way a guy like him—clean-cut, athletic, the kind of person who ran on purpose—actually liked you. You were sure you had nothing in common. You were entirely different genres of people.

“The first time we spoke I was sleep-deprived and not wearing makeup,” you said, still staring at the ceiling. You noticed, absently, that someone really needed to dust up there. Not you, though. “And then the second time I was drunk and practically naked.”

“I’m sure he was deeply turned on,” Noah said dryly.

You turned your head just enough to glare at him. “You’re not helping.”

“You don’t want help,” Noah replied. “You want evidence that this man made a mistake.”

“Exactly!”

“Well, what if he didn’t?” Noah countered. “What if he just thinks you’re hot and smart and mysterious in that stranger-on-a-park-bench way?”

“It’s not mysterious to sit on a bench,” you argued. “Waffle just likes it.”

Noah grinned. “See, that’s hot. A good dog mom.”

“It’s not hot!” you snapped, sitting up a little. “I’m most likely just weird to him. He probably has, like, a normal job and a perfect family and a deep, sincere love for Morgan Wallen or some other bullshit.”

Noah’s expression shifted, sharpening. “Do you even want to text him?”

“No,” you said immediately. “I mean—maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know how to do this.” You lifted the phone, grimacing at it. “What would I even say? ‘Hey, it’s your neighbor with the traumatized retriever. Loved your sweaty vibe.’”

“Okay, okay,” Noah said, holding up his hands. “What if you just... text him something simple? Like, ‘Hey, this is Y/N. Thanks for the number.’ And leave it at that. Let him do the heavy lifting.”

“I hate that idea.”

“You hate all ideas,” Noah pointed out.

“I’m cautious,” you corrected. “People are unpredictable. What if he was just being polite, and now he’s trapped in this awkward situation where I actually text him, and he has to pretend he’s not disappointed?”

Noah considered you for a moment. Then he said, gently, “Okay. But what if he’s sitting on his couch right now, wondering why you haven’t texted yet? Replaying everything he said. Thinking he fucked it up by being too forward.”

Your stomach flipped, traitorous and sudden. What if he did? 

“I’m going to overthink this until the end of the universe,” you said weakly.

“Text him before that happens,” Noah said, nudging your foot with his. “Unless you want Amir and me to do it for you.”

“I swear to god,” you muttered, finally unlocking the screen again, “maybe if I wait long enough he’ll forget I even exist.”

“Now that,” Noah said brightly, “is a solid plan if I ever heard one.”

You stared at the phone for one last second.

“Fuck it,” you said, voice thin but resolute. You unlocked the screen. “I’m just gonna do it. Like ripping off a bandaid.”

You typed. Deleted. Retyped. Your thumb hovered, betraying you by shaking just enough to be noticeable. Ten full seconds passed. You counted them without meaning to. Somewhere around eight, you stopped breathing.

Then you hit send.

The apartment went unnaturally quiet, like the air itself had leaned in. Noah froze on the couch, eyes glued to your phone as if he could catch the notification before it happened. Amir leaned back in his armchair, coffee mug cradled in both hands, wearing the calm, smug patience of someone who’d already won the romance lottery and could afford to enjoy your suffering. Amir and Noah were disgustingly cute at times. 

You: Hi, this is Y/N. Figured you should have my number too. 

The message delivered with a quiet, devastating whoosh.

“Oh my god, oh my god… what the fuck did I just—” you started, panic blooming hot and immediate in your chest.

Noah lunged forward so fast he nearly fell off the couch. “Bug!”

You looked down at the screen again.

“He’s already typing!” Noah hissed, like this was a bomb about to go off.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, loud enough you were convinced Jack could hear it through the ceiling. You stared at the three little dots, frozen, suddenly very aware of how close his apartment was. Of how he might be sitting up there right now, phone in hand, perfectly calm while you unraveled on your couch.

Then the phone buzzed.

Jack: Hi, Y/N. I was starting to think you were ignoring me.

“Oh,” you breathed. “Oh no. He thinks I ignored him.”

“That’s flirt-adjacent,” Amir said gently, abandoning his chair to peer over your shoulder. “You’re fine.”

You typed quickly, before your brain could intervene.

You: Not on purpose. Just didn’t know what to write. 

Noah nodded with approval, like a proud coach. “Honest. That’s cute. He’ll like that.”

The dots appeared again almost immediately.

Jack: Were you serious about showing me around or was that just you being nice? 

Your stomach flipped, sharp and sudden, like missing a step on the stairs. You had been nice, and a little drunk. Mostly because Jack himself looked nice, and a little startled every time you talked to him. But you could be both nice and serious, you figured. 

“Oh, he’s interested,” Noah said, eyes wide. “He’s clarifying intent.”

“I don’t know what my intent is!” you whispered-yelled. “I don’t even know what I’m doing tomorrow.”

“Just answer the question,” Amir said. “Not your entire life.”

You swallowed, fingers hovering for half a beat before you committed.

You: It can be serious. 

You barely had time to register how unreasonably flirty that sounded—how it read like a tease instead of an actual answer to his question—before your phone buzzed in your hand and startled you. 

Jack: It should be. 

Your grip loosened involuntarily, and the phone slipped, tilting sideways against your palm. You stared at the screen in open disbelief, the words blurring slightly as your headache took over once again. 

Were you actually doing this? Were you going on a date with this man? The runner. The neighbor. The guy who, for some unexplainable reason, had thought you were worth stopping for to talk with twice. 

“Oh,” you said faintly, like that single syllable might hold everything together.

“Holy shit,” Noah breathed.

The silence that followed felt charged, heavy with all sorts of implications. Even the TV seemed to fade into the background, like the apartment itself knew better than to interrupt whatever had just happened.

“I’m gonna have to shave, aren’t I?” you sighed finally, collapsing backward into the couch cushions. The realization landed with a strange mix of dread and inevitability.

Noah, without missing a beat, said, “I can give you the number to my wax lady.”

You turned slowly to look at him. “You get waxed?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but you cut in. “Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

“Do you want her number or not?” he shot back.

You groaned and flopped fully onto your back, arm thrown dramatically over your eyes, acting more disgusted than you were. 

“A man should be able to handle a bush,” Amir said gently from his chair, ever the voice of reason. “If not, he’s just a boy.”

“Oh my god,” you said, horrified, sitting bolt upright again. “I was talking about shaving my legs!”

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The antique store you worked in was always cold. Not in the way modern buildings were cold, but in a deep, lingering way that seemed baked into the brick itself. The roundhouse had been built to store trains, not people, and no amount of space heaters or wool sweaters had ever quite convinced it otherwise.

You’d grown up knowing the place as a creative hub, though. As long as you’d lived in Newark, the old train hangars had been home to artists and small businesses—art galleries tucked into brick alcoves, tattoo studios blasting music late into the evening, shops selling handmade jewelry or curated vintage finds. Dale’s Antiques occupied one of the largest spaces, its wide entrance yawning open beneath iron beams darkened with age.

Inside, the store rose upward instead of outward. Tall brick walls disappeared into shadowed rafters, every inch of vertical space lined with shelves and furniture—dressers stacked atop wardrobes, mirrors leaning against cabinets, chandeliers suspended from the ceiling. 

Besides the cold, you loved it. Your boss Dale, a man nearing the age of retirement who never committed to it, had dedicated his entire life to the store. He knew the provenance of almost every item on the floor, remembered who’d brought it in, where it had come from, who had once loved it. This place was almost part of local history because of him. 

Your favorite part of the job was the stories. People would come in with pieces they couldn’t keep—an old vanity from a grandmother’s house, a dining table that had hosted decades of holidays—and they’d tell you about them while you wrote intake notes. Later, when someone new fell in love with the same piece, you’d pass the stories along, stitching a new life onto something old.

The worst part, without question, was the customers who thought they knew better than you or Dale. You were hiding from one of those now.

She was rich, impeccably dressed, and currently insisting that the apothecary cabinet on the floor was in “terrible condition,” despite the fact that you’d personally spent hours replacing every rusted hinge and drawer pull. You were not about to sell it to some rich prick for under the market value. 

So, you’d escaped back to the workshop with Waffle and your lunch, perching against your workstation with your sandwich laid out on a sheet of Saran Wrap like a sad little picnic. Waffle settled at your feet, chin on her paws, eyes half-lidded but alert in the way she always was—ready to hide behind you if someone got too close or something was too loud. 

The last few days had been nice. Unexpectedly so. Even though work had been more paperwork and tax forms than actual restoration lately, you’d been in a better mood than usual.

Jack had slipped into your routine almost without you realizing it. A steady presence through texts that no longer felt carefully composed or obligatory. He texted you pictures from his runs in the park. Dumb observations about the weather. Little updates about his day. He asked questions and actually waited for your answers. 

You still weren’t sure how much you really had in common, but you caught yourself smiling at your phone far too often, grinning like an idiot before quickly schooling your face back into neutrality. 

You were in the middle of breaking off a piece of bread when your phone started ringing. You frowned at it, answering without really looking. Nobody ever called you. Not unless it was your parents or the occasional salesman.

“Hi, it’s Bug.” 

There was a pause on the other end, and then came a gentle laugh. You quickly realized that it wasn’t your mom or dad who had called. 

“Bug? It’s Jack.” 

“Oh, shit.” You shifted the phone, suddenly aware of your hands, your sandwich, Waffle’s leash looped around your wrist. “My hands were occupied, I didn’t check who was calling. I just assumed—” You stopped yourself from rambling further. “You don’t need to hear all that. What’s up, Jack?” 

Jack laughed again, and it did something weird to your chest.

“Do people call you Bug?” 

“My parents say it’s because of my glasses,” you said. “My boss says it’s because I constantly bug people. I don’t know, you can call me Y/N, though.”

There was a brief silence, like he was considering it.

“I think I’ll call you Bug.” 

You wanted to sigh, but your lips curled upwards into a smile anyway. 

“Why are you calling me?” you asked, leaning your elbow lightly against the worktable. “Too old-fashioned for texting?”

“No,” Jack said, easy as anything. You could picture him shaking his head, maybe smirking a little. “I’ve just been told I’m shit at it.”

You huffed out a laugh. “By who?”

“My brothers, mainly,” he replied, dry and fond. He talked a lot about his brothers. “What are you up to?” 

Your gaze drifted around the workshop as you answered. The half-restored armoire sat open in front of you, its drawers neatly stacked nearby, hardware laid out in careful rows. The place smelled like old wood and chemicals. Somewhere out front, the bell over the door chimed—another customer entering for Dale to deal with. 

“Waffle and I are having lunch in the workshop,” you said. “Hiding from a very pompous customer.”

“Sounds fun,” Jack said, and somehow made it sound like he meant it. “I’m in the car. Just got back from the gym, but I’m too tired to walk up the stairs.”

You snorted, biting back your smile. “Is that all you do, Jack? Work out?”

“It feels like it sometimes,” he admitted, and you could hear the shrug in his voice.

You picked at the crust of your sandwich, suddenly aware of how easy this felt for being a conversation with virtually a stranger. “You’ve never told me what you do for work, by the way. We can’t all have nice sister-in-laws who gossip about us. Noah didn’t even know you existed,” you said. 

“She didn’t gossip about you,” Jack said quickly, like he didn’t like the word gossip. “She just told me you worked with restoring antiques.”

“Still sounds like gossip to me,” you retorted. 

You didn’t really mean it, though. You remembered his sister-in-law as a great customer. A girl around your age who’d bought a chess set for her boyfriend, or Jack’s younger brother Luke, as you now knew. You didn’t think she’d have much to gossip about other than maybe your appearance and customer service. 

“So,” Jack cut in, casual but not careless, “what are you doing this weekend, Buggy?”

“Oh god, that’s even worse than Bug,” you groaned, pressing your face to your palm briefly. You hesitated, then added, “I’m invited to this movie premiere on Saturday. Some of our pieces were used in the set design.”

“Seriously?” His voice brightened instantly, genuine excitement crackling through the line. “That’s so cool.”

“It’s a very low-budget indie film,” you said, already undercutting yourself out of habit. “I’m sure it sucks.”

“I could come with you?” he offered. “If that’s, like, allowed?”

You straightened without realizing it, heart skipping just enough for you to feel the heat rush. “Would you want to?” you asked. “It’s just gonna be the movie—but maybe we can eat afterwards.”

“Stop stressing, Bug,” Jack said gently, like he could hear every anxious thought stacking up in your head. “I’d love to come with you. See it as you showing me around, like we talked about. 

“Oh,” you said, breath catching just slightly. “Okay. Yeah. That’s great.”

“I’ll leave you to your lunch now,” he said. “Say hi to Waffle from me.”

You looked down at her, ears twitching faintly at the sound of her name. “She says hi back,” you said, smiling.

The call ended softly, without ceremony.

You stayed where you were, phone warm in your hand, heart doing that stupid, hopeful thing you didn’t quite trust yet. You couldn’t explain it either. You were still sure you had nothing in common. 

Jack was so nice. You were a little difficult and cold, and not just from this freezing building. He was easy. Too easy, maybe.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

You were fine. Totally fine. 

You kept telling yourself that as you pushed through the glass doors of the small indie theater, ticket tucked between your fingers, chin up, shoulders back. People milled around the lobby in little groups—crew members you vaguely recognized coming to the store, film students with scarves and tote bags, a few actors hovering like they were pretending not to care how many people noticed them.

Jack wasn’t there.

That was fine. He’d said he might be cutting it close. Traffic. Work. Something about his brother borrowing his car, maybe. You checked your phone anyway, thumb hovering, then told yourself not to be that person and slipped it back into your coat pocket.

You took your seat alone, and before you knew it, the movie started and finished. Just as the lights began glowing in the little theater again, Dale’s and your name showed up briefly in the credits under “Restoration & Props.” You smiled to yourself. Dale hadn’t come. He was celebrating his 30th wedding anniversary instead. He’d probably been to hundreds of these little screenings, but this was only your second one. 

You hadn’t checked your phone once during the movie. You refused to, partly for the sake of respecting the art, and partly because you felt so fucking stupid for ever believing Jack would show. 

Once you got out of the theater you finally did a quick check, but the only notification was a text from your mother with a picture of Waffle sleeping in front of their fireplace with the other dogs. She’d written progress with a million happy emojis. 

You told yourself a hundred different stories to make it hurt less. Maybe something happened. Maybe he was just running two hours late. Maybe he was outside, looking for parking. Maybe he’d text any second now with an apology so sincere it would make your chest ache.

The crowd began to filter out of the venue, buzzing with polite praise and reviews of the movie. You hadn’t liked it one bit, and that wasn’t even because you’d been distracted. You waited an extra beat in the foyer for some reason. Maybe to just get a moment alone to breathe. 

Outside, the cold hit you hard—New Jersey in November biting straight through your coat. You fumbled with the buttons, fingers clumsy, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder and catching awkwardly in a way that made you want to scream.

You weren’t going to cry. You were not going to cry. Not here, not now, not over a man who had been too nice to be real. You knew all along he was too good to be true. Meet-cutes and having first dates at an indie theater only happened in the movies. You should be lucky with your biannual Hinge hookups. That was what was in the cards for you, and not whatever this fantasy you’d built up was. 

You stepped down onto the sidewalk, breath fogging in front of you, mentally drafting a message you’d never send. Something breezy. Something detached. Hey! Hope everything’s okay—no worries if not. Something that made it seem like this hadn’t mattered. You didn’t know if he even deserved a text now, but you wanted to come across as nice for once. 

You were halfway to the curb, already bracing yourself to call Noah on your walk home, when quick, uneven steps rounded the corner of the building. They were too fast to ignore.

You stopped short, and there he was.

Jack stood on the street corner, mostly disguised in the dark evening light. His jacket was only halfway zipped, collar crooked, hair damp with sweat or melted snow. He was breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he’d been running. 

His eyes didn’t meet yours right away, gaze flicking past you, then back, guilt written so plainly across his face it made your chest burn. Like he already knew what this looked like. Like he deserved it.

And if you hadn’t been angry before, you definitely were now. 

“Oh, wow, okay,” you said, the words coming out sharper than you’d planned, louder too, slicing through the quiet street. “You actually showed up.”

He stopped a few feet away, hands hovering uselessly at his sides. “I’m—Y/N, I’m really sorry—”

“Only two hours late,” you barreled on, voice tight and brittle. “You know. Just fashionably disrespectful.”

“I—”

“No, don’t,” you snapped, the pause terrifying enough that you filled it immediately. “Don’t apologize just because you think it’ll fix it. Were you only doing that fucking thing that men do where they pretend to be nice to women?”

Jack blinked, clearly thrown. “What?”

“You know,” you said, words spilling faster now, messy and heated and fueled by the humiliation you’d been holding together all night. “Being nice. Saying the right things. Making a woman feel special for five minutes because it makes you feel good. Was that it?”

“Y/N—” 

“Make a girl momentarily feel wanted,” you continued, voice cracking just slightly, “only to later not actually give a fuck?”

The k-sound from your last word almost echoed on the empty street, harsh and ugly in the cold air. Jack lifted his head fully, and the streetlight caught his face properly this time. You stopped mid-breath—mid whatever insult you were about to throw at him next. 

A bruise bloomed dark and angry beneath his left eye, already swelling, the skin pulled tight and discolored. There was a cut above his brow too, shallow but fresh, half-hidden by his hair, dried blood clinging around it. He looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than being late.

Your anger faltered, slipping sideways into shock. “H-holy fuck, how’d you get that?” 

Jack exhaled, slow and heavy, finally meeting your eyes head-on. “I took a high stick to the face. Look, I’m so sorry—” 

“A high stick?” you interrupted, frowning. “Like… in hockey?”

“Yeah.” 

“Hockey,” you repeated, dumbly. “You play hockey?”

“For the Devils,” he said, as if that was a normal sentence to drop into casual conversation on a sidewalk. “Yeah. I had a game this afternoon. I thought I’d be able to make it in time, but then this happened, and—”

“In the NHL?” Your brain stalled out, gears grinding. You gestured vaguely at him, at how he looked, the narrow shoulders, the boyish face now marred by purple and red. “But you’re like five-seven and scrawny.”

Jack huffed, offended but amused. “First of all, I’m five-eleven. And I bulk up pretty good during the summer.”

You stared at him, recontextualizing everything—the running, the discipline, the way he always seemed tired but focused. The fact that he’d never once mentioned his job, even casually.

“I guess all that running makes sense now,” you said faintly. 

And just like that, the distance you’d been afraid of widened instead of closing. Because of course he was a professional athlete. Of course you had even less in common than you’d thought. Of course he’d kept that from you—maybe because he didn’t want to be seen that way, or maybe because he knew it would make you see him differently.

It already had.

“Wait,” you said, the words spilling out before you could organize them. “Wait, wait—can you be honest with me?” You swallowed. “Did I invite the professional equivalent of a high school jock to an indie movie screening?”

He winced, then shrugged helplessly. “Maybe. Yeah. I guess.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s so embarrassing.”

“No, it’s not,” he said immediately, earnest to the point of almost hurting. “I promise you I was looking forward to it. I contain multitudes. I’m not just a dumb jock, or whatever.”

You squinted at him. “Whitman or Dylan?”

“What?”

“Did you just quote Whitman or Dylan?” 

“Neither?” Jack said, cautious now. “Is that a trick question?”

“You said I contain multitudes on a whim?”

“Isn’t it… a famous saying?”

“Because Walt Whitman wrote it!” you said, unable to help yourself. “And then Bob Dylan made a god-awful song about it.”

Jack blinked, processing, then nodded once. “Then I guess I quoted Whitman.”

You pointed at him. “Good answer.”

A small, relieved smile tugged at his mouth, like he’d passed a test he hadn’t known he was taking. “So… you like poetry?”

“It’s easier than novels,” you admitted. “Doesn’t take as much time. I’ve got concentration issues.”

“I have a charity book club for kids,” he said quickly, like he wanted it out there before you could dismiss him again. “Through the hockey thing. Because I like reading.”

“Seriously?” Your eyebrows lifted, surprise cutting clean through your skepticism. “That’s… actually cool.”

It didn’t fit the picture you’d just painted of him in your head. It complicated it. And you weren’t sure whether that made things better or worse.

You glanced back at his face, at the bruise pulling darker by the minute. “Are you actually any good at hockey,” you asked, “or do you just let opponents hit you in the face?”

Jack smiled crookedly. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

“I’ll google it later.”

“Please don’t,” he said immediately. “I mean, we won. But it didn’t look very impressive.”

He went quiet then, shoulders sagging as the adrenaline seemed to drain out of him all at once. “I deserve you getting angry at me,” he said. “I was going to text. I almost bailed. Thought if you saw me looking like this—” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I thought. I just really didn’t want to stand you up.”

“You kind of did,” you said weakly. 

“Only temporarily,” he offered, hopeful. “I’m here now. If you don’t mind being seen with a guy who looks like he lost a fight.” 

You looked at him for a long second. The bruise. The sincerity. The way he waited like he’d accept whatever verdict you handed down—walk away, yell more, leave him standing alone on the sidewalk.

You could still do that. You knew you could. Instead, you sighed.

“Fuck it, come on,” you said, turning toward the street. “I want pizza. And you look like you could use some ice on that shiner.”

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

Jack followed you down the block like he was a half-step behind his own life. He was pretty sure he’d say okay to anything you asked him right now. He owed you that. 

The pizza place you dragged him into sat half underground, a loud, greasy hole-in-the-wall monument to carbohydrates. Red neon script glowed in the window. Plastic grapes dangled from the ceiling. A sun-faded photo of the 1996 Juventus team hung crookedly near the cash register, a relic of better days. Inside, the place smelled like garlic, fresh dough, and a hint of cologne—probably stuck in 1996, too.

Before he could even take it all in, you were already halfway across the room.

“Wait here,” you tossed over your shoulder. “I’ll be back in a second.”

He did, mostly because he didn’t know what else to do.

You moved through the place like you owned it—leaning over the counter, exchanging rapid-fire greetings in a familiarity that made his chest tighten. You ducked behind the register without asking. Someone laughed. Someone else shouted your name like it was a given. You came back with four slices wrapped in wax paper and a cold can of Coke pressed to your palm.

Jack stared at it. Then at you. Then back at the pizza.

“Did you steal that?” 

“Yes.” You cut yourself off, correcting your sarcasm. “No. I, uhm, I used to work here. Toni still feeds me for free.”

“That explains… all of this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at how the entire staff seemed to know you.

You shrugged. “I took any job I could get in Newark just to get out of my parents’ place. Hunterdon County, like an hour northwest from here.”

“You hated it?” Jack carefully asked. 

“No,” you said easily, already handing him two slices. “Just didn’t want a farm job. And I didn’t think I’d like going to college.”

He took the pizza automatically, the heat bleeding through the paper and into his hands. You kept talking as you exited the pizzeria and started to walk in the general direction of your building. He still had his car parked by the theater, but that could wait until tomorrow. 

“And then once I moved, I started bugging Dale at the place I work at now to hire me. Like, every day. For a month.” You grinned. “Only got it because his wife wanted to retire.”

Jack watched your mouth when you smiled. He noticed things he probably shouldn’t—how dressed up you were, how intentional it all looked. A nice coat, your makeup neatly done, and another pair of glasses than the ones you usually wore. These had a thicker, tortoiseshell frame. You’d put in effort. He hated that you’d done that for him. Or maybe you’d simply done it for the movie premiere, but he felt like it was partly for him too. 

He hated that you’d waited inside for him alone. Hated that the bruise on his face had made him hesitate, had made him feel like he didn’t belong in there next to you. He knew there were girls who liked the rough hockey thing. The bruises, the blood, the violence. Everything about you told him you weren’t one of them.

You took the Coke can from him and pressed it, without asking, against his cheek. 

“Hold that there,” you said. “It’ll help.”

If the cold stung, Jack barely noticed from all the heat suddenly rushing to his face. 

You kept on walking, already unwrapping your slices. Jack fell into step beside you, still holding the can to his face like he’d been instructed.

He watched you smile at the pizza, and he had to swallow down a laugh. Before you took an aggressive bite, you stacked both slices on top of each other, making it so you bit down on both at the same time. 

“What?” you said, around a mouthful of pizza. Maybe his laugh hadn’t been entirely concealed. “The premiere only had canapés. You’d have to eat about fifty to get remotely full.”

“No, no, I get that,” he said quickly. “I’m just wondering about how you eat pizza.” 

You looked at him like he was slow. “You put two on top of each other so you don’t get grease on your fingers. And you can eat twice as much in the same amount of time.”

“Is that like a… thing?” 

“I don’t know, but it’s efficient.”

You talked with your mouth full. You didn’t seem to care at all. Sauce smeared at the corner of your lip. You wiped it away with the back of your hand and kept going. Jack was almost mesmerized. There was something terrifyingly charming about the way you ate in big, messy bites.

“How was the movie?” he asked, just to hear you talk more.

You scoffed. “The shittiest movie I’ve ever seen. All abstract, no story. Like Jane Austen met Stanley Kubrick and decided to punish the audience.”

Jack laughed, surprised by how much relief it brought him. Maybe it shouldn’t have. The thought of you sitting through a horrible movie alone was kind of sad. But he was definitely relieved too, because you just confirmed all his preconceived notions about indie films. 

He may not be just a dumb jock, but that didn’t mean he was well-versed and comfortable in an environment that artistic. 

“Didn’t the set design look good at least?” Jack asked. 

You sighed, conceding. “Okay, yes. It did. I’m good at my job.”

You bumped his shoulder as you walked, still chewing. Jack looked down at the sidewalk, then back at you, and thought—scared and thrilled all at once—that he’d almost missed this. And he didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself if he did again.

By the time your building came into view, Jack had slowed his steps without really meaning to.

The night had settled into something quiet and forgiving—the kind that made the streetlights glow softer, made conversations stretch easier. You were still eating, still talking, and Jack was painfully aware of how close he was walking to you. Close enough to feel the heat through your coat, touching against his arm. Close enough to notice the way you smelled faintly like perfume and oregano. 

“Thanks for not completely writing me off,” he said after a while.

You took a final bite of your sandwiched pizza slices, chewed, then shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Thanks for not ditching me when you easily could’ve.”

“I thought about it,” he teased, smiling to soften the confession.

You arched a brow, sharp and unimpressed.

Jack laughed under his breath. “But then I thought—if you yell at me like that when I’m late, imagine how scary you’d be if I broke your heart. Didn’t feel worth the risk.”

You smirked. “Go full-on Carrie Underwood on your ass.”

Jack winced in mock fear. “You’d key my car?”

“I’d total your car,” you corrected. “Snap your hockey sticks. Get creative.”

“You’re terrifying.”

“Good.” You looked ahead again, tone casual but final. “You wouldn’t have broken my heart, by the way. You don’t have the leverage to do that. You’d just be another useless man.”

Jack let out a breathy laugh. “Fuck. That’s almost harsher.”

“Never said I was nice.” 

“Oh, I think you’re too nice for your own good,” he said, glancing at you. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t tell him to shut up, which felt like a win.

You reached the steps of your building and slowed, and Jack felt something in him tighten. You started up them, and he followed, deliberately dragging his feet, counting steps like they were seconds he could hoard.

At your door, you stopped. You fished for your keys in your bag, but you didn’t immediately unlock the door when you found them. Jack stood there, hands in his pockets, heart pounding like it had any right to.

This was the moment. He knew it. Felt it humming between you. He could kiss you now or regret it later. He thought about leaning in, about how easy it would be to close the distance. Even just a small one on your cheek. He also thought about the bruise on his face, about how carefully you’d looked at him earlier, like you were still deciding if you hated him or not.

Jack quickly chickened out.

“Well,” he said, uselessly. “This is you.”

You nodded, watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. He turned to go, already hating himself a little, when he stopped short and looked back.

“Hey,” he cleared his throat. “I, uh. If you want… I can leave you tickets. One of my games. At will call.”

Your mouth curved, slow and considering.

“Yeah?” you said. “You want me to see you get beat up?”

“No,” he shook his head, smiling. “I just want to see you again.”

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

You barely made it inside before your body gave out on you.

The door clicked shut behind you, the sound too loud in the quiet of your apartment, and then you slid down the back of it, spine dragging against the wood until you hit the floor with a soft, undignified thump. Your coat was still on. Your shoes were still on. Your heart was still frantically beating, not really registering that the night was technically over. 

You tipped your head back against the door and stared at the ceiling.

What the fuck had just happened? 

Jack was late. Jack was bruised. Jack was an NHL player—which still felt fake, like something your brain had invented to spice up an otherwise disappointing evening. Jack hadn’t kissed you. Jack had walked you home, had slowed his steps like he was afraid of outrunning the moment, had looked at you like he was about to kiss you, and then he’d walked up to his own apartment. 

You groaned softly and scrubbed your hands down your face. Somewhere in the background you saw the kitchen light flicker on. 

“You two need a hobby,” you complained, voice muffled, not even lifting your head from the door.

“We have one,” Noah said brightly. “You are our hobby.”

Amir stepped into your line of sight, blocking the light with his frame, arms crossed and eyes already sharp like he’d been waiting for this moment all evening. “Did he kiss you?”

“No, he didn’t kiss me,” you muttered, fingers fumbling with the buttons of your coat, suddenly furious at how complicated they seemed. “He didn’t even show up at first.”

“What?” Noah snapped. “Do we need to beat his ass?”

“Nope,” you sighed. “Some hockey player already did that for you.”

That got their attention, confused little worry lines covering Noah’s forehead while Amir’s mouth slowly opened. 

“Jack is… apparently an NHL player.” You let your head thunk back against the door again, the dull impact almost hurting. “And he showed up late because he got hit in the face during a game. Big-ass bruise. I guess it made him self-conscious or something.”

“Why is that the hottest thing I’ve ever heard?” Noah whispered.

“But he ghosted you?” Amir pressed, unwilling to let the important part slip by.

“He came after the movie ended. We got pizza at Toni’s. Then he walked me home,” you said. You hesitated, then admitted, quieter, “It was kind of cute.”

Amir made a face. “If he didn’t kiss you after that, he’s either very respectful or fucking stupid.”

“Or maybe he’s just not that into me,” you said, shrugging, the thought slipping out even if you didn’t want to think about it. 

“Men are scared to touch women they value,” Noah said confidently. “That’s common sense.”

You resisted the urge to ask what he knew about straight men dating straight women. His experience there was theoretical at best.

“No, that’s weird and sexist,” you shot back. “Like I’m only worth being gentle with if I’m more than just sex on legs.”

“I just mean,” Noah said quickly, hands raised in surrender, “if he wanted a one-night stand, he would’ve made his move.”

You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure which version of Jack scared you more—the one who wanted you casually, the one who wanted you seriously, or the one who didn’t want you at all and had just been too polite to say something.

You pushed yourself up off the floor, legs stiff, and finally kicked your shoes off, the quiet thud of them hitting the wall echoing a little too loudly.

“Would you two go with me to one of his games?” you asked, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. “He offered me tickets.”

“No,” Noah said immediately.

“Absolutely not,” Amir added. “Ask your dad or something.”

“My dad?” you repeated, horrified.

They both laughed, already moving on, already deciding that so would be the case. 

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

Saturday came again faster than you expected.

The week leading up to it had been threaded together by Jack’s name lighting up your phone. You still smiled like an idiot every time it happened, even if you kept on telling yourself to be cautious. Even Noah had grown tired of making fun of your loopy little smile. 

Jack was flirtier than before. You didn’t know if it was deliberate or just something you’d convinced yourself of. It was the same good morning texts and dumb comments about the weather, but he also sent photos. Of gym equipment, of the swans in the park, of himself. Noah had decided that he was definitely flirting when he oversaw a shirtless mirror selfie Jack had sent you as a good morning text, toothbrush hanging from his mouth. 

Jack complained about working out and having sore muscles, and you tried to not lean into the innuendos by sending back pictures of dusty antiques with captions like, at least my job only tries to kill me with tetanus.

It felt easy. Just as easy as it had before he’d ghosted you in that theater. Which somehow made you more nervous to be standing in the Prudential Center, a crowd of red and black jerseys surrounding you. 

Your dad, on the other hand, looked like a kid at Christmas. 

He stood overlooking the ice, players circling around it to warm up, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. You’d noticed it was a nicer jacket than he usually wore when he’d parked outside your building earlier. This one didn’t have remnants of hay and dirt. Newark was not his natural habitat. He preferred open fields, early mornings, and animals that listened better than people.

You were both out of place in here, though. You were pretty sure you were the only one wearing a trench coat, and your dad was the only person wearing work boots. You’d thought about wearing a red sweater just to fit in, but you didn’t know what the custom was. Maybe there were rules to this whole hockey-supporter thing. 

Your dad glanced sideways at you. “So, where are our seats?”

You quickly looked down on your phone, even if you already knew the answer, carefully walking down the steep steps in the stands. “Uhm… Row one?” you said like it was a question.  

“Front row?” he repeated, following after you. “Bug, are you sure this customer isn’t in love with you?”

“Dad,” you groaned. “This happens all the time. I got a cake from a customer last week.”

He snorted. “That is not the same as thousand-dollar tickets to a game you know nothing about.”

You reached the row and glanced forward at the ice, stomach flipping when you realized just how close it really was. You swallowed.

Your dad leaned closer when you both sat down, voice dropping conspiratorially. “So what is he? Some guy in a suit with equities in the team? Or is he an actual hockey player?”

“I never even said it was a guy,” you shot back. “Could be a woman.”

He blinked. “Are there women in men’s hockey?”

You stared at him. Then sighed. “Look, I don’t fucking know, okay?”

He grinned, delighted. “There it is.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, handing him his beer. “And drink.”

He took a sip, eyes roaming the ice with polite confusion before sliding back to you. You could feel him clocking everything—the way you kept tugging at your sleeve, the way your knee bounced, the way your gaze kept drifting back to the players skating lazy loops during warmups. He didn’t care about hockey. He cared deeply about whatever was clearly going on with you.

Jack hadn’t texted in a couple of hours. Which made sense. He was working. He was literally on the ice. Still, you’d told him you were here, and now that felt stupid in hindsight. Like you’d shown up early to a party you weren’t sure you were invited to.

Why did you care this much? He hadn’t exactly prioritized showing up for you last time.

When you now nervously checked your phone a final time before the lights dimmed and the national anthems began, you did spot that he’d reacted to your message with a little pink heart. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you whispered to yourself.

The anthem played. The American followed by the Canadian. The crowd stood. Your dad removed his hat solemnly, like this was church, or maybe like he just didn’t want to look disrespectful on camera. You weren’t sure he actually cared that much. 

When everyone sat again, he leaned over and whispered. “So, who are they even up against?”

“Toronto,” you said. “That’s why they played the Canadian anthem, right?”

“I’m glad we didn’t pay for you to go to college, Bug,” he said dryly. “You’d be lost.”

You flipped him off, and he laughed. 

The crowd quickly became silent when the game started, like everyone was suddenly at the edge of their seats. The puck dropped, and then noise exploded. You startled, then laughed at yourself, heart already racing as skates cut sharp lines across the ice. Everything was faster than you expected. Louder. Harder. Bodies slamming into boards with a violence that made you wince.

You weren’t sure you enjoyed that part of hockey. Especially not after seeing how dark Jack’s eye had bruised last weekend and how it still lingered with an ugly, yellow mark. 

Your dad squinted. “So,” he said, raising his voice over the crowd, “what number should I be looking out for to see my future son-in-law?”

You choked. “I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew.”

He grinned. “I’ll figure it out. You won’t be able to keep your eyes off him.”

You hated that he was right.

The first period blurred by in hits and near misses. You found yourself standing without realizing it sometimes, hands clenched, reacting before you could think. Every time player 86 hopped over the boards, your focus sharpened embarrassingly fast. It hadn’t taken you long to notice that was Jack’s number. 

The game stayed tight. A goal each. Then another. Toronto took the lead late in the second, and your stomach dropped in a way that felt unreasonably personal. You didn’t even really know what you were rooting for. 

“Relax,” your dad said calmly. “It’s just a game.”

“I know,” you lied.

Late in the third, the Devils tied it again. The arena shook with the noise from the crowd. You screamed with the rest of them, adrenaline buzzing under your skin. Then, with only about a minute left, there was a quick turnover. A breakaway from one player, rushing up the ice. A familiar number heading hard toward the net.

Jack moved like he’d made up his mind already. No hesitation. Just a clean shot, perfectly placed, puck snapping into the back of the net with a metallic sound that felt like it hit you square in the chest. Or maybe that was from how the arena erupted. 

You screamed—full, unfiltered, mortifyingly loud—hands flying to your mouth too late to stop it. Your heart hammered as Jack was swallowed by his teammates, grin flashing even through the helmet.

Your dad turned slowly to look at you.

“It’s eighty-six, huh?” he said, smug as hell.

You dropped back into your seat, face burning. “You don’t know shit.”

“A little short,” he continued thoughtfully, eyes back on the ice. “But feisty. Good hair, even through a helmet. I know you like that, Bug.”

You groaned, covering your face as the clock wound down and the crowd stayed on its feet. You couldn’t wait to get out of here and send your dad on his way home to the farm, a full hour away from where he was currently seeing through you like you were made of glass. 

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

Jack felt like shit for not having had the time to see you after the game. It sat heavy in his chest even a couple of days later. 

He’d kept half an eye on the tunnel after the final buzzer, helmet off, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, scanning for you without really admitting that’s what he was doing. Like maybe you’d still be there. Like maybe he’d get one second—just enough to say hi. 

But the night had swallowed him whole. So much fucking media. Coaches talking in circles. Teammates loud and wired and riding the high. By the time he’d finally showered and pulled on his street clothes, it was late enough that he told himself it was better this way. That you’d probably already left. That you shouldn’t be standing around waiting on him, not after how things had already gone once.

Still, the image stuck with him. You, close to the glass. The way you’d yelled. The way you hadn’t even tried to hide it. And, a little worse, the guy next to you.

He hadn’t needed much time to make the leap. How comfortable you seemed. The way you leaned into him when you spoke. Jack had clocked it mid-shift and nearly lost his edge over it, a flash of heat and nerves colliding in his gut.

Your dad.

Meeting someone’s father was not a casual thing. It was not a grab-pizza thing. And it definitely wasn’t a sorry I was late and also I have a bruise and also I should’ve kissed you thing. Jack liked to think he was decent under pressure—he played professional hockey for a living, for fuck’s sake—but that was a different arena entirely.

He told himself it was fine. That you’d probably done it on purpose. Brought him as a buffer. A test to either keep Jack at a distance or see just how serious he was. Or maybe it hadn’t meant anything at all, and he was reading too much into everything, like he tended to do with you. Maybe your dad was just the only person you knew who would willingly come to a hockey game. That seemed very possible considering who you were. 

Jack thought about what he’d said in the stairwell after your pizza walk. That stupid line about just wanting to see you again. He hadn’t even managed to do that. How was he supposed to manage anything else if even that had been too difficult? 

How was he supposed to be casual about this when he was pretty sure he was feeling things he didn’t even believe in? 

He was halfway through replaying the night for the hundredth time—lying on his couch, uselessly trying to analyze some game film—when his phone lit up. He didn’t feel as shit when he saw it was you calling him. Jack scrambled to sit straighter on his couch, hands basically shaking as he answered. 

“You could’ve told me you were famous, y’know,” you said straight across the line, not bothering with a greeting or waiting for him to say something first. 

Jack couldn’t help but laugh, and you kept talking before he could stop you.

“Do I need to sign some NDA?” you barreled on. “Or like, some sort of consent form so I can’t tell the press you suck at showing up on time?”

He leaned back into the couch, a grin tugging at his mouth, eyes closing briefly. God. Talking to you felt like stepping into a room where the lights were already on.

“Do you want to tell them that?” he asked, amused.

“I don’t know,” you said. Jack could picture you shrugging. “I’ve never met someone famous before.”

“I’m not famous, Y/N.”

“You have six hundred thousand Instagram followers,” you shot back. “You were at the Olympics, dude.”

He winced a little, not because you were wrong, but because hearing it like that—through your voice, casual and teasing—made it feel bigger somehow. Jack didn’t like thinking that it mattered. He just wanted to play hockey, and then everything else just piled on top of that. 

“Was this the reason you called?” he asked gently, already hoping the answer was no.

You were quiet for a long, devastating moment. 

“No, uhm,” you mumbled, voice shifting like you were moving. “Are you home by any chance?” 

“Yeah, what’s up?” Jack wondered, suddenly a little brighter. 

“Noah locked me out,” you said. “I’m sitting in the stairwell. In my pajamas.”

Jack’s brain stalled a little. That explained the echo in your voice. 

“He left to go pick up his boyfriend,” you continued, “and I went down to check the mail at the same time, and he forgot I didn’t bring my keys, so he locked the door after us, and—”

“I’m already on my way,” Jack said, already swinging his legs off the couch, keys in hand before he even consciously decided to grab them.

There was a pause on the other end. He could almost picture your face—caught off guard, eyes large through your glasses, blinking and processing.

“Oh,” you said. “Okay.”

He didn’t bother hanging up with any sort of finesse. Just ended the call, shoved his feet into his shoes, and headed for the door. He figured you’d hear him coming down the stairs before you’d even notice that the call was over. 

Jack took the stairs two at a time, like usual. He told himself to slow down. Told himself not to look like he was bolting towards you, almost out of desperation. He wasn’t so sure he’d succeeded when he rounded the last corner and saw you sitting on the steps right by your front door. 

You had your back against the wall, knees drawn up, phone loose in your hand, like you were still thinking about the phone call. You were in soft pajama pants patterned with something he couldn’t quite make out, and an oversized hoodie. Your hair was pulled back messily, gold-framed glasses slightly crooked on your nose.

It struck him instantly that you weren’t wearing makeup. Like that was important to him for some reason. 

Jack felt it hit him square in the chest— your quiet, stunning rightness. The kind that made his brain go blank and his mouth forget how words worked. He’d seen you dressed up. He’d seen you confident and sharp and incandescently alive.

This was so much worse. For him. Or better. Or maybe even dangerous.

You looked up when you heard him, eyes a little red and tired. 

“Oh,” you said. “You really did come running.”

He swallowed, suddenly very aware of how loud his footsteps had been. “Yeah. Uh. Hi.”

There was a beat where he just stared at you like an idiot. And then his brain caught on to one small, glaring detail and pushed it straight out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

“Why do you have a green star on your forehead?” 

“What?” You scrunched your nose in confusion, fingers brushing your forehead. “Oh. Yeah. It’s a, uh, pimple patch.”

Jack nodded like he understood what it was. “Right. Okay.” 

“I was having a bit of a self-care night,” you added, like you felt compelled to justify it. “I guess.”

He huffed out a soft laugh before he could help it, more fond than amused. You were locked out of your apartment in pajamas with a sticker on your face, and you still somehow managed to be bold about it. 

“Noah texted,” you went on, adjusting where you sat. “Said he’d be back soon. But I got kinda cold here, so I called you.”

Jack wished he’d brought a jacket to give you just about now. 

“Is Waffle stuck in there?” he asked, nodding toward your door. 

“No,” you said. “She’s at my parents’ place.”

Good, he thought, and didn’t unpack why. He shifted, suddenly aware again of everything he hadn’t said yet. Everything he still felt like he needed to make right.

“Do you wanna come up to my place?” Jack asked carefully. “Just while you wait for Noah. I mean, no pressure.”

“Sure,” you said finally, standing. “That was sort of why I called anyway.”

“Okay,” he said. He hadn’t realized that. “Yeah. Okay.”

He led the way upstairs, acutely aware of you behind him—your quiet steps, the faint rustle of fabric. You were only wearing slippers. You didn’t really need much more for only checking the mail. When he unlocked his door and stepped aside to let you in, he felt oddly exposed, like he was offering you a piece of himself he hadn’t planned on sharing tonight.

“After you,” Jack said, voice a little squeakier than he meant it to be.

His and Luke’s apartment was quite simple. The building itself was very nice—they just hadn’t done much with the place. It was clean, at least. Because they hired a cleaner. But it wasn’t the kind of place you proudly showed off to a girl, thinking she would think it was anything other than a sad bachelor pad. Luke’s girlfriend and their mom had told them that way too many times. 

It had the unmistakable energy of two grown men who’d never once stood in a home goods aisle and felt inspired. 

Jack watched you instead of the room, heart lodged somewhere inconvenient in his throat. You stepped inside slowly, eyes tracking over the space, fingers brushing the back of the couch as you passed.

“So,” you said lightly, turning back to him. “Did you decorate this place yourself, or was it staged?”

He snorted because you’d read him like an open book. “Uhm, any ounce of personality that you see was placed by my mom or my brother’s girlfriend.”

You smiled, the corner of your mouth tipping up. “I thought so.”

“They’re the reason we have curtains too,” he added, gesturing vaguely toward the windows. “Luke wanted blinds. Mom said it looked like a dentist’s office.”

You laughed softly and wandered toward the open-spaced kitchen, eyes immediately catching on the fridge. He figured your apartment had the same layout. Jack’s stomach dipped when you stopped. 

“Oh,” you said, leaning in. “Okay, this is cute.”

He followed a few steps behind, already terrified of the questions you might ask him. 

Your fingers hovered over the mess of magnets and photos on the fridge—family snapshots layered over each other, a couple of postcards, a formal wedding invitation stuck dead center. 

You tilted your head. “Wait. There’s three of you?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s Quinn. He’s the oldest.”

Jack tapped the fridge gently, pointing out Quinn in a photo of the three of them. All in full hockey gear, missing teeth and grinning because they’d just beat their mom in a shootout. Jack remembered that day vividly. 

There was another photo beside it of Quinn again, arm slung around a woman, a baby balanced on his hip. Jack pointed at that next. 

“He plays for Minnesota,” Jack continued. “That’s his wife and daughter.”

“They’re adorable,” you said, voice softening more than he thought was possible. Your eyes flicked back to the invitation. “She’s already his wife even if the wedding invitation is for June next year?”

Jack huffed a quiet laugh. “She’s Canadian. It was complicated.”

You turned to look at him then, smiling and nodding like you found him funny. He didn’t really know what to do with the fact that you were asking questions about his family like they mattered to you—that you wanted to remember things about him. 

Jack slowly walked back out into the living space, hating how quiet it felt. The space always did that at night—too open, the cool blue of the city bleeding in through the big windows and making everything feel cold. Empty, almost. He rolled his shoulders like he could shake the feeling off.

“Sorry it’s kind of dull in here,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck. “We keep saying we’ll do more with it.”

“It’s not dull.” You shook your head. “I assume you travel a bunch, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Jack agreed, latching onto that explanation gratefully, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. “But you literally work with furniture. This was all bought in a hurry at Ikea when I was first drafted.”

“I’m not the furniture police,” you said with a small laugh, hands lifting in mock defense. “This couch looks more comfortable than all the Victorian settees I’ve reupholstered combined.”

You sat down first, tucking one leg under you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. Jack followed, leaving what he thought was a reasonable amount of space between you. Not too far. Not close enough to be presumptuous. The couch dipped slightly toward you anyway, a traitorous thing.

“So,” Jack struggled with how to continue, wanting to fill the quiet. “Those fancy things aren’t even comfortable?”

“I think most customers buy them as cuck chairs for their bedrooms.” 

You said it with such a straight face that Jack barely registered how weird it was. 

“What?” 

“I haven’t told my boss yet why they’re so popular,” you said seriously. “I don’t want to explain to him how I know what a cuck chair is.”

Jack now snorted. “You won’t tell me either, right?”

“Nope,” you said primly. “I’m a lady, after all.”

For a long moment after, neither of you spoke.

The TV was off. The apartment hummed quietly around you—appliances, pipes, the muffled city outside. Jack realized, distantly, that he’d been staring at the little green star on your forehead more than anything else. It was stupidly cute. Also safer than meeting your eyes.

He reminded himself, firmly, to act normal.

“So,” you said at last, glancing up at him. “Do you always rescue damsels in distress, or am I special?”

He let out a quiet laugh, tension easing a notch. “You’re special. Usually I just let people suffer.”

“Good to know,” you said, nodding. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You leaned back into the couch, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. “I’m sorry I didn’t wait after the game,” you added, casual but not careless. “I figured you were swamped.”

Jack shook his head immediately. “No, that was— I mean. That was on me. I wanted to. I just—” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I felt like shit about it.”

You turned your head toward him. “You don’t have to.”

“I kinda do,” he said. “I invited you to make up for ghosting you, or whatever. And then I couldn’t even do that right.”

You studied him for a second, like you were deciding something. “Okay,” you said slowly. “Then I’ll admit something too.”

“Yeah?”

“I was a little annoyed,” you said. “Like history was repeating itself. But mostly I was just happy you knew I was there.”

Jack nodded, unsure how to respond to that without fumbling it, so he went with honesty. “I saw you,” he said. “A lot. During the game.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “You did?”

“Yeah. Once I knew where you were sitting, it was hard not to.” He hesitated. “You were with your dad, right?”

You groaned, burying your face briefly in your sleeve. “God. He was unbearable. Couldn’t stop making fun of me for going to a hockey game when I know absolutely nothing about it.”

Jack smiled. “He seemed to like it.” 

You peeked at him. “I think he liked you.”

You shifted slightly, closer now—not dramatically, just enough that Jack noticed the change in gravity between you. Your knee brushed his thigh as you settled into a cross-legged position. Neither of you moved away.

“What about you?” you asked. “Do you always give away tickets to girls you barely know?”

He huffed softly. “I don’t usually give them to anyone.”

“So, I’m special again?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You kinda are.”

Jack realized instantly how much that was, to say it straight out loud. Once as a joke and once as plain truth. He wasn’t sure why it came so easy to him. 

“That sounded intense,” he tried to recover. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine,” you said quickly. “Don’t worry.”

The silence that followed was awkward. It felt like a held breath. Jack became even more aware of how close you were—close enough now that he could see the faint pattern of your skin across your nose, every little bump and mark, and the way your glasses slid just a little when you tilted your head.

He gestured vaguely toward your forehead, mostly because his brain needed something neutral to focus on. “Does that thing actually work?”

You blinked. “The pimple patch?”

“Yeah. I’ve never seen one before.” 

You laughed. “It’s hydrocolloid.”

He stared at you blankly. “That did not help.”

You laughed harder, leaning into him without really thinking about it, your shoulder bumping his arm. “It helps it heal faster,” you explained. “I mean, I still have breakouts, but they don’t scar as bad with these.”

“Good,” he said. “Can’t have you suffering.”

Your laughter faded into a quiet smile. You didn’t move away.

Jack realized his arm was resting along the back of the couch now. He wasn’t sure when that had happened. Only that if you leaned back even a little, you’d be right there in his embrace. 

“You wanna know something funny, Jack?” you asked.

He had the distinct feeling it wouldn’t be funny at all, but he nodded anyway.

You hesitated, fingers worrying the cuff of your sleeve. “I’d never been asked on a date before. Uhm, before you stood me up and all that.” You winced, then corrected yourself. “Or, I guess I technically asked you out. But I’d never done that either.”

“What?” The word slipped out of him before he could stop it. “Seriously?”

You nodded, a little embarrassed now, mouth twisting. “Not like… traditionally. I don’t think getting breakfast after a Hinge thing counts as a date, right?”

“I don’t think so,” he said automatically, but his mind had already gone elsewhere.

Jack didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand you, probably. You were sharp, funny, and self-possessed. And had never been asked on a date. The one time you’d made the effort, he’d stood you up. No wonder dating was considered a lost art. Everyone hedged and half-committed. Jack had opted out of believing in anything real a long time ago, still, the idea of anyone overlooking you made his chest hurt. 

“Look,” he started, needing to say it again even if it made him sound like a broken record, “I really am sorry for how that all happened—”

“I don’t know where I got that kind of confidence from,” you interrupted, pressing on like you needed to get it out before you lost your nerve. “I mean, I was a little buzzed, sure, but it’s still wild that I just saw a cute guy twice and figured I could ask him out.”

His heart kicked hard against his ribs. “You think I’m cute?”

You laughed softly, like you hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “I’m not sure we have anything in common, Jack,” you said honestly. “But your face—and your stupid floppy hair—kind of speaks to me.”

There it was. The retreat. Compliment, then distance. Like a practiced formula. You were bracing yourself, pulling back before he could disappoint you again. He didn’t like that you thought you had nothing in common, even if he couldn’t prove you wrong yet. He didn’t like that you seemed so sure it mattered more than the feeling Jack had inside his chest whenever he looked at you. Damn near butterflies. 

“And,” you added, eyes flicking away for a second, “that you actually tried to make things up to me. Even if you kinda failed.”

“I said I was sorry,” Jack argued weakly. It wasn’t in actual defense. 

“I mean, you didn’t even kiss me.” 

Jack swallowed at your words. He thought about lying, but he figured there was no use. 

“I thought about it,” he admitted. “A lot.”

Your gaze flicked down. To his mouth and back up again. The space between you felt suddenly too small. Jack could feel your breath now—warm, faintly sweet—against his face. He leaned in just enough that your noses were inches away from touching. 

He then heard himself ask, “Would it be dumb if I kissed you right now?”

The second the words left his mouth, he wanted to take them back. That was dumb. Jesus. Real smooth.

But you didn’t laugh. You just shook your head. “No.”

Jack looked at you for a beat longer, waiting to see if you would pull away. When you didn’t, he leaned in.

It was clumsy. He knew it was. Your noses bumped, you laughed softly against his mouth, and he pulled back just enough to groan under his breath before trying again. This time he kissed you properly. Still careful, but with a better aim. 

His hands hovered, uncertain, before settling at your waist. You kissed him back, slow and warm, like you weren’t in a rush to get anywhere. The world narrowed to the feel of your lips, the quiet sound you made when he kissed you a little deeper.

When you parted, Jack knew he was flushed bright red, his smile barely contained. He blinked, quick and dazed. 

“You okay?” you asked, softly laughing. 

“Yeah,” he said, voice a little wrecked. “I’m usually not that clumsy—”

You leaned in and kissed him again before he could finish talking.

Confidence crept in, shy but insistent. He shifted, tugging you gently until you were straddling his lap, your knees pressing into the couch on either side of him. You didn’t hesitate—you just went with it, hands finding his shoulders, then his hair, twisting your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck. His stupid, floppy hair. That did him in.

The kiss deepened. His hands slid up your back, holding you like he was sure of it. He forgot about being out of practice. Forgot about overthinking. Almost forgot about his own beliefs that love was stupid. That couples, and dates, and everything nice about enjoying another person, was stupid. There was only you, warm and solid and very real in his arms.

Until your phone went off, loud and merciless.

You stiffened in his lap. Jack squeezed his eyes shut, forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder.

“Of course,” you muttered, pulling back just enough to check the screen. “Noah. He’s home.”

You slipped off him, reluctantly, and stood. Jack followed you to the door, like gravity had shifted. You turned back to him just before opening it, fingers hooking into the front of his shirt. 

You kissed him again, a little short and slow one. His hands came up automatically, thumbs brushing your jaw like he was already used to the feeling of you being there. When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“So,” you murmured, breath still uneven, “we’re doing this now? Casually kissing?”

Jack smiled, soft and a little dizzy. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Good,” you said, pecking his lips once more before you reached for the door handle. Just because you could. “Maybe put a condom in your wallet for next time.”

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

“Tell us,” Amir whisper-yelled. “Now, now, now, Bug!”

You barely had the door cracked open before bodies were in your space, voices overlapping, hands dragging you inside the apartment. 

“Let me get inside the door first,” you laughed, trying to kick your slippers off. 

Noah shut the door behind you, eyes already bright. “I leave for one hour to pick up Amir, and you spend the night with your hot hockey guy?”

“Spill the tea, Bug!” Amir crowed, clapping his hands together. He was still in his nursing scrubs from his shift at the hospital he worked at. Noah had probably filled him in on everything on the drive here. 

You leaned back against the door for half a second longer than necessary, letting it thud softly shut behind you. Your heart still hadn’t fully slowed down. Not in an overwhelming way, just a little unexpected. Because it had felt nice in a way you hadn’t planned on.

Your lips still felt warm. Swollen. Like they didn’t entirely belong to you anymore.

“Okay, okay,” you said, holding up a hand before they could physically shake the information out of you. “I kissed him. Or—he kissed me. We kissed.”

Noah froze. Amir’s grin widened impossibly.

“There has to be more to the story,” Amir said immediately.

“You’re barely letting me talk!” 

Noah laughed and waved you toward the living room. “Proceed. Slowly. With details.”

You dropped onto the couch and pulled your legs up under you, familiar cushions comfortable in a way Jack’s apartment hadn’t been. This was your space. Your people. You could afford to be fully honest here—even if you still wanted to keep things light.

“We kissed just as you were texting me,” you admitted. “It was kinda awkward, but also not bad?”

Amir narrowed his eyes. “What level of awkward are we talking? One being he fumbled with his hands and ten being he accidentally elbowed you in the teeth.”

You tilted your head, replaying it—not just the kiss, but the moments before. Jack’s voice, low and unsure. The way asking permission had clearly taken every ounce of nerve he had. The nose bump. The surprised laugh against your mouth. The way his hands had hovered before finally gaining confidence. 

“Like a six,” you decided. “First, he asked if it would be dumb if he kissed me. And then when I said no, he hesitated so much—like he couldn’t remember if no was a positive or a negative answer.”

Noah pressed a hand to his chest. “That feels painfully on brand for a hockey player.”

“Oh, and we bumped noses,” you added. “But I found that surprisingly cute. He’s got a cute nose.”

Amir snorted. “So it was what? Sweet? Hot? Tense?”

“She just called his nose cute,” Noah said, glancing at his boyfriend. “It can’t have been hot, Amir.”

You rolled your eyes. “It was both, okay? It started sweet and then got… less sweet.”

Less sweet, but not reckless. Less sweet, but not something you were ready to build castles around. You were still aware of the invisible line you hadn’t crossed. The one that reminded you he’d already flaked once. That simply wanting something more didn’t mean you could trust it yet. 

Noah leaned forward. “What happened after?”

“Nothing!” you said, throwing your hands up. “We both just stood there smiling like idiots, and then I left. I don’t fucking know.”

You hadn’t stayed. You hadn’t let it turn into something heavier. Part of you had wanted to—but the smarter part had reminded you that you didn’t owe him more than you were ready to give.

“You didn’t want to stay?” Amir asked. “Come up with some lie that Noah still wasn’t home?”

“You know I’m not like that,” you said immediately.

“Hey,” he said, hands up. “I’m not judging.”

You hesitated, then added, quieter but with a grin you couldn’t stop, “I might have told him to bring a condom for next time, though.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Noah’s mouth fell open. Amir let out a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a choke.

“Oh,” Noah said slowly. “So you’re insane now.”

You dropped your face into a pillow, mortified and thrilled in equal measure. “I don’t know why I said it. It just came out.”

Amir grinned. “You said it because you want to fuck him. Yeah. You’re doomed.”

You didn’t argue. You just lay there, staring at the ceiling, heart still racing—wondering what, exactly, you’d just started. Whatever it was, you’d decided one thing for sure: you were going to enjoy it, but you weren’t going to hand it your whole heart. 

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The locker room smelled like old sweat and eucalyptus muscle rub, that sharp, medicinal sting that never really went away no matter how many times the place got cleaned. Someone had Mr. Brightside blasting from a cracked speaker in the corner like it was still 2005, the chorus echoing off the walls. The vibe was loud and chaotic—exactly busy enough to almost mask Jack’s early-morning existential crisis.

He sat half-dressed at his stall, elbows on his knees, tape dangling uselessly from his fingers as he stared into the middle distance. His body felt fine. His brain absolutely did not.

There had been a time—not even that long ago—when he’d been immune to this kind of thing. When anything a girl could’ve said or done to him would’ve felt pointless. When dating had felt pointless, annoying, and vaguely embarrassing. He’d built a whole reputation around not needing it, not wanting it. Almost being above it.

And now he was sitting here, replaying the exact angle of your smile in his head, wondering when he could next see you. 

Nico strolled past, chewing a granola bar like it had personally offended him. He slowed, looked Jack up and down, and frowned. “You look like shit.”

Jack didn’t bother lifting his head. “Thanks, man.”

“No, seriously,” Nico went on. “Did you even sleep? Or did your date go awful and keep you up all night?”

“It wasn’t a date—” Jack started, then stopped, realization dawning a second too late. “Did Luke tell all of you?”

Luke, already dressed and sitting backwards on a stool, spun around with a grin that was way too pleased. “I didn’t have to. You’re doing that thing with your face.”

“What thing?” Jack muttered.

“Your nervous face, duh,” Luke said, before he started ticking things off on his fingers. “Either she kissed you and you chickened out, or you kissed her and she didn’t reciprocate. Those are the only two outcomes I’m willing to entertain.”

Jack felt heat creep up his neck. His nervous face. He hadn’t even known that was a thing he still had. Not since junior hockey. 

“Or—” Nico raised a finger, eyes lighting up. “Plot twist. He got laid. Didn’t sleep at all. Just raw-dogged his way into the sunrise.”

“Christ,” Jack groaned. “Can you not say ‘raw-dogged’ before nine a.m.?”

“Way to go, champ,” Timo added helpfully from the next stall, already half in his gear. “Proud of you. Even if you look like you cried.”

“I didn’t cry,” Jack said flatly. “I just slept like shit.”

That part was true. He’d tossed and turned all night, brain refusing to shut up. He’d had three things on loop.

One: how ridiculously soft your lips had been. Like—unnaturally so. You must’ve put something on them as part of your whole self-care routine, because Jack refused to believe that was just how mouths were supposed to feel.

Two: the condom thing. The fact that you’d said it so openly, like it was a normal thing to suggest, like it didn’t send his heart into a mild panic. He’d already put one in his wallet. He hadn’t done that in about five years. 

And three: your use of the word casual. You’d been casually kissing him while his entire belief system quietly collapsed in on itself. That didn’t seem sustainable. Or fair.

Nico pointed the granola bar at him. “But something did happen.”

Jack sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. He was apparently see-through. There was no getting out of this now. “She was locked out of her place. We just… hung out until her roommate came back. That’s it.”

Timo looked up from tying his pants. “Wait. This is the neighbor girl? The one you stood up at first?”

Nico frowned. “You stood her up, and she still wanted to see you? Shouldn’t she hate you?”

“Probably.” Jack shrugged. “But she kissed me anyway.”

He realized, a beat too late, that he sounded pleased about it. Worse—he probably looked pleased. He shut his mouth before it could get him into more trouble.

“Hold up,” Nico said slowly. “She kissed you?”

Jack hesitated, the memory rushing back in full color. The way you’d watched him think. The way you hadn’t laughed when he’d over-explained himself. “Technically,” he said, “I asked if I could kiss her. And then she kind of… said yes with her face?”

Timo squinted. “Was it bad? Like, how awkward are we talking? One to ten.”

Jack thought about the nose bump. The brief, panicked second where he hadn’t known where to put his hands, like he’d forgotten the choreography entirely. He also thought about how none of that had ruined it. “Three,” he said. “Maybe four?”

“Define four,” Timo pressed.

“There was some nose bumping,” Jack admitted. “And I hesitated a lot. Like… a lot, a lot.”

Nico stared at him. “Did you forget how to kiss?”

“I’m gonna stop talking now,” Jack said, because the alternative was admitting that yes, maybe he had, or maybe it was just that it suddenly felt like something that mattered.

“So,” Nico continued, relentless. “No sex?”

Jack let out a humorless laugh. “I struggled to kiss her with how nervous I was. I don’t even want to think further than that.”

The thing was, Jack was constantly thinking further. You hadn’t let him do anything else. Not since the condom thing, anyway. That had planted a seed in his head with pictures he didn’t want anyone to know about. Not even you. 

“But you’re gonna see her again?” Luke asked, tone shifting just slightly.

Jack nodded slowly. “Yeah. After Raleigh, probably.”

“Cool,” Timo said, suddenly mock-solemn. “Maybe don’t tell her you’re too nervous to even hypothetically think about sex. That might scare her off.”

Luke turned, stunned. “Is that real advice from Timo?”

“Don’t take it,” Nico said immediately. “Bold words from a guy who got ghosted by a girl who sells rocks on Etsy.”

“That’s different,” Timo protested. “She was a crystal healer. We had a spiritual mismatch.”

“No wonder you’re still a virgin, Timo,” Luke shot back.

“Hey!” Timo exclaimed. “I’ll have you know—”

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Jack said, standing at last. “I don’t want to associate you with anything sexual for the rest of my life.”

Timo launched a roll of tape at his head.

Jack dodged it easily, laughing despite himself—and for the first time that morning, the grin actually stuck. The chirping still made him want to crawl out of his skin, but underneath the embarrassment was something warm and almost unbelievable.

He tugged on his helmet and headed toward the tunnel, heart still fluttering somewhere close to last evening. For all his past cynicism, all his careful distance from anything resembling love, it turned out it didn’t take much to undo him.

Just a couple of kisses and a little green star sticker. 

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

Jack had already walked the length of the hallway enough times that he knew exactly where the patterned carpet changed direction and where the ice machine rattled like it was on its last leg. He’d paced past the same framed abstract print at least fifteen times, hands shoved into the pockets of a hotel robe that wasn’t even comfortable. 

He was supposed to be resting.

That was the whole point of this free time—extra recovery before the last game of the road trip tonight. But his body hadn’t gotten the memo his brain was spiraling on. Every time he laid down, his legs bounced. Every time he closed his eyes, his thoughts drifted straight back to you. To kissing you. To the way texting you had quietly become the best part of his days on the road.

Luke, however, was snoring like he was trying to saw their hotel room in half just with the decibel of his voice, so that was why Jack had grabbed his phone and escaped into the hallway. He checked the time for the millionth time. Around lunch. You should be free.

Call me, he’d texted you earlier, not really expecting you to. 

His phone surprised him when it buzzed. Jack didn’t realize how tense he’d been until it released all at once.

“Damn, Y/N,” he said when he answered, voice already lighter. “Pretty soon you’ll be calling just to ask me what I’m wearing.”

“You told me to call you, dumbass.”

He grinned to himself, staring down at the ugly carpet. “Yeah, yeah. Still. Since I’ve got you—what are you wearing? Is it cute?”

“I’m buying lunch,” you said. “I’m surrounded by fluorescent lights and crying children. What do you think I’m wearing?”

“Sounds hot.”

“Focus, Hughes.”

He laughed softly, the sound echoing faintly down the empty hallway. “Alright, alright. For what it’s worth, I’m wearing a hotel robe that was definitely not made with someone my height in mind.”

“Does it drag on the floor?”

There was a quiet beat. Jack could picture your face instantly—your mouth tilting like you already knew the answer. You didn’t have to say it out loud. The implication that he was short landed just fine.

He huffed, a little amused. “No. It fits like a mini skirt.”

“Now that sounds hot,” you said, then, after a pause, “Where even are you right now?”

“Raleigh,” he answered. “Last stop on this roadie. I’m bored out of my mind. I’ve walked the hallway of our hotel like fifteen times.”

“You could go outside,” you suggested. “See a sight.”

“I’m supposed to be resting,” he reminded you. “But I can’t sleep. Luke is snoring so badly the entire floor can hear him.”

“How glamorous.”

Jack moved, leaning his shoulder back against the wall, phone warm against his ear as noise from your end filtered through the speaker. “What are you doing?” he asked. “It sounds like chaos.”

“I’m in the drinks aisle,” you said. “Trying to decide if Red Bull is a smart choice.”

“Probably not,” he said immediately, then added, more thoughtful, “But it is Friday. And you don’t have work tomorrow.”

There was a pause on the line before he could hear you exhale. “You… are so right,” you said. “Thanks.”

Jack smiled, a little stupidly. It felt strange how much he liked being useful in such a pointless way—helping you decide between caffeine options while standing barefoot in a hotel hallway hundreds of miles away. It didn’t even mean anything.

He shifted his weight, dragging the toe of his sock against the carpet. He wasn’t sure when talking to you had started to feel natural and not nervous anymore. It was sometime after the kiss, for sure. You were like a door Jack could knock on if his thoughts got too loud. But he didn’t want to crowd you. Didn’t want to become that guy who checked in too often, who mistook whatever this was. 

He barely understood why he wanted to talk to you so much in the first place. He just knew he did.

“Can I call you after the game?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

You hummed on the other side of the line. “Aren’t you flying back right after?”

“I’ve got some time before we board,” Jack explained. It was technically true. He’d have to hurry a little, but it wasn’t impossible. 

“Yeah,” you said. “Sure. You can call if you have the time, and I’m still awake.”

The if mattered. Jack clocked it immediately. While he liked that you left him space, you were also clearly putting up a wall. 

“You’re not going to watch the game?” he asked. He didn’t know what his intention was. He knew you didn’t love hockey. Maybe you’d had fun at the game, but it would surprise him if that alone had converted you into a sports fan. 

“Sports makes me fall asleep,” you admitted. “But I can try.”

He smiled at that. “I’ll leave you to your shopping now. Hope your lunch is tasty.” 

“Thanks, Jack. Good luck tonight, and no high sticks to the face, please.”

Jack exhaled. There was a small pause—just enough to feel like something else might’ve been said if either of you had pushed.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Okay. I’ll call you later.”

When the line went dead, the hallway felt quieter than before. Jack stared at his phone for a second, then pushed off the wall and headed back toward his room. He was still restless—but his head wasn’t as crowded now. Maybe he could get a few minutes of sleep after all.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

You hadn’t meant to care this much. That was the thing. 

You’d told Jack you’d try to watch, like it was a favor you might forget about halfway through. Sports made you sleepy. Your dad had stopped inviting you to Super Bowl Sundays because you were snoring before the halftime show. Men skating aggressively at each other didn’t usually do it for you either. But somewhere between the first period and the way Jack’s number started to feel familiar in your peripheral vision, you found yourself sitting a little straighter on the couch.

Waffle was tucked against your thigh, her head resting like she’d made a conscious decision to stay up with you. Noah was at Amir’s place for the night, the apartment quieter than usual—no loud voices, no commentary on how whipped you apparently were. It was just Waffle’s heavy breathing and the sound of skates cutting ice through your TV speakers.

You’d made tea. There was a half-eaten bar of dark chocolate on the coffee table and a blanket pulled up to your waist. It felt like a girls’ night, just you and Waffle, except the third participant was a man flying up and down a rink in Raleigh. 

The Devils lost the lead late in the third period.

You felt it in your stomach before the announcer even finished his sentence—the shift in momentum, the way the Carolina crowd became even louder. When the final buzzer went and the score stayed stubbornly wrong, you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“Damn,” you murmured, rubbing Waffle’s ears. She blinked up at you, unimpressed. “Yeah. I know.”

You didn’t text Jack. You sort of wanted to, but you figured he’d be busy. Media, debriefing, the whole ritual of disappointment. You let the TV play on whatever was next, letting the apartment fall back into softer shapes, and somewhere between the last sip of lukewarm tea and Waffle shifting in her sleep, you drifted off on the couch.

Your phone ringing startled you awake.

For a split second, you didn’t know where you were—then you saw the name on your screen and remembered your phone call from earlier today. 

“Did I wake you?” Jack asked carefully, once you answered with a low groan. 

“No, it’s fine,” you said, sitting up and pushing hair out of your face. Your voice was rough with sleep. “How… how are you feeling?”

There was a pause. Not long. Just enough for you to figure out his answer before he said it.

“Like we just lost our winning streak,” Jack sighed. “It’s rough, but it always happens.”

“I thought you played good,” you said quickly, then winced. “If it matters. I don’t know much, but you looked good— I mean, tight. Consistent, as a team.”

You heard the faint huff of a laugh on the other end. Your lack of hockey knowledge was apparently amusing to him. “I thought so too, which is why it sucks even more.” 

You shifted on the couch, Waffle lifting her head and then resettling. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. The background noise drowned him out for a moment, you assumed he was at the airport. You didn’t totally understand how private flights worked. “Can I— Can I come see you tomorrow? Jack said suddenly, breaking through the racket. “Maybe I can come down to your place, I haven’t been there yet.” 

You swallowed, words tangling for half a second before you caught them. “Yeah,” you said. “Sure. Of course. Noah’s not home anyway.”

You didn’t know why it made you suddenly nervous. Maybe because you hadn’t actually seen him since you’d kissed him. And stupidly told him to bring condoms for the next time. 

“Okay,” Jack said, something like relief threading through the single word. “We’re boarding now, and I should probably let you sleep. So—good night.”

“Good night, Jack,” you said. “Have a safe flight.”

The call ended, leaving the apartment quiet again besides the low volume from some TV show. Your fingers hovered over your phone for a second, thumb uncertain—not wanting to say too much, not wanting to say nothing at all. Then you typed, simple and true, you really did play well tonight. You hit send, set your phone back on the table, and curled deeper into the couch, a small smile lingering as sleep crept back in.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The knock pulled you out of sleep slowly, like surfacing through thick water.

At first, you thought it was part of a dream—too soft to be urgent, even if you couldn’t remember what you were dreaming about. But it was too steady to just be your imagination. You lay there on the couch, blanket tangled around your legs, Waffle’s warm weight pressed against your stomach. The apartment was dark except for the blue glow from the TV. 

Another knock.

Your heart kicked. Noah, maybe. Or Amir. Or, irrationally, you sleepwalking and knocking on your own door. No, you had to go look. You carefully untangled yourself, padding across the living room in your pajamas, eyes heavy with sleep as you peered through the peephole like it might bite you. You should’ve put your glasses on. 

But there he was.

Jack stood on the other side of your door with a duffel slung over one shoulder, hair flattened from the winter weather, eyes tired as they flickered around the stairwell. You opened the door before you could overthink it.

“What are you doing here?” you mumbled out through a yawn. Jack looked caught in the headlights since you’d actually answered the door. 

“It’s technically tomorrow,” he rushed to say. 

You squinted at him, then back at your microwave, its digital clock blinking 12:37. “You came directly from the airport?”

“Yeah,” he said. He shifted his weight, suddenly looking unsure, like he might apologize for being here if you gave him a reason. “I just— I didn’t feel like being alone. Luke’s with his girlfriend.”

You blinked a few more times, letting your brain catch up to your heart, then stepped aside. “You could’ve warned me.”

“I did. I said I was coming tomorrow,” he said mildly. “Didn’t specify the hour.”

You snorted despite yourself, closing the door behind him as he slipped inside and set his duffel down carefully. “I should’ve known you’d be annoyingly literal.”

Waffle, still on the couch, lifted her head at the unfamiliar presence, ears flattening instantly. Jack froze mid-step as you walked into the living space, sitting down beside her. 

“Did I wake you this time?” Jack asked. 

“No, not really. Hadn’t gone to bed, at least,” you said. You glanced at Waffle, gently patting her head. “Don’t mind her. She’ll go hide.”

“She still not a fan of me?” he asked quietly, watching as she jumped off the couch and scuttled toward your bedroom. 

“She came from a puppy mill,” you said softly. “It’s not your fault.”

Jack nodded, absorbing that like he seemed to do everything else. Carefully, quiet, and without further comment. 

He stood there for a moment, hands hanging loose at his sides, taking in the familiar mess of your living room. The blanket on the couch, the empty mug on the table, and Waffle’s toys scattered on the floor. You suddenly became very aware that you were barefoot. Rumpled. Hair doing whatever it wanted. That he’d come here like this—no warning, no buffer—just because he didn’t want to be alone.

You gestured toward the spot on the couch beside you. “You want some tea? Tequila? Or do you just want to… exist for a minute?”

Jack’s shoulders dropped a fraction, relief sneaking in where disappointment had been sitting. “Existing sounds really good right now.”

He gently sat down beside you, close enough that your knees brushed. You tried to relax, but you both sat with stupidly good posture for a moment. 

“What are you watching?” Jack asked to fill the silence. 

“Nascar reprise, I think,” you said, tilting your head at the TV. You hadn’t actually been watching, it was just what was on after the hockey game. “Like I said, sports make me sleepy.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Who are we rooting for?”

You squinted at the screen, pointing to a car in seemingly last place. “I like that green color.” 

“So, obviously that one.” 

“Obviously.”

The couch wasn’t big enough to pretend this was platonic spacing. Noah complained about that all the time. It happened with all the vintage furniture you brought home. It simply wasn’t large enough. Somewhere between passing cars and the low rumble of engines, you had to lean into him. Simply to get comfortable. Jack stilled, then adjusted without a word—arm coming around you. You rested your cheek against his chest and listened.

His heartbeat was fast. A lot faster than yours. 

You thought about the loss—the way a game could slip away in the last minutes, the way momentum died so suddenly. About flying home with that sitting in your body, adrenaline with nowhere to go. About unlocking an empty apartment, gear dropped on the floor, no one to tell you it was okay.

No wonder he’d knocked on your door.

“Jack,” you whispered. “Can I just—”

You leaned up and kissed him before you could finish the sentence, tilting his face toward you with your hand. It was soft, almost shy. You still wanted to check if it was okay. Jack kissed you back immediately, like he’d been waiting.

“Sorry,” you murmured against him. “You just looked a little sad.”

He smiled, barely, lips still brushing yours. “You don’t have to apologize for kissing me, Bug.”

You liked how easily he said your nickname. Maybe that was just a hockey thing. You settled back into him, fitting together in that slightly awkward way of people still learning each other’s shapes. Your legs tangled together as you both fell back on the couch, you still resting on top of him. His hands rested on your back, thumb moving absentmindedly against the fabric of your pajamas. Not exploratory at all.

The TV murmured on, engines droning. Outside, an ambulance passed, sirens briefly painting the ceiling blue before sliding away. Time stretched, feeling unimportant.

You tipped your chin up and pressed a small kiss to his jaw. Then another, softer one near the corner of his mouth. Jack responded without thinking, lips meeting yours in an unhurried kiss that felt almost habitual. 

When you pulled back, he kissed the top of your head, breathing you in.

A few seconds passed. Maybe minutes.

“Why…” you said eventually, voice barely above the hum of the TV. “Why are you here, Jack?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hands stilled on your back. 

“Do I need to have a reason to want to come see you?”

You considered that, eyes drifting up to look at him. “No,” you said. “Well. Maybe when it’s the middle of the night.”

He huffed a quiet breath of a laugh. You felt his ribcage vibrate beneath you. “It doesn’t have to be that complicated.”

Then why did it suddenly feel complicated? 

The conversation drifted again after that, like it always seemed to do between you two. You shifted slightly, resettling, your ear pressed back against his chest. His heart was still racing—not game-speed, but not calm either. Like it hadn’t landed yet. 

“Your heart’s beating really fast,” you whispered. Maybe you shouldn’t have pointed it out. 

“I know,” Jack whispered back through a tight breath. 

You smiled to yourself, eyes never having lost their heaviness from sleep. You yawned, cheek sliding lower against him. You heard Jack copy you, the jawn contagious. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” you murmured. “You’ll wreck your back on this couch.”

He chuckled softly. “I should probably go home. I mean, it’s just one set of stairs.” 

You hesitated, then turned your face toward him, chin resting on his sternum, close enough that your noses brushed. “Or you can stay,” you said. “We can share my bed. If—if that’s okay, I mean.”

Jack seemed to wake up slightly from your words, his expression softening in a way that made your cheeks warm. “Yeah?” he asked.

You nodded, slow and sleepy. “Yeah.”

He smiled—small, fond—and pressed a quick kiss to your lips, like punctuation. “Come on,” he said, already helping you up. “Sleepyhead.”

The walk to your bedroom felt oddly ceremonial, like you were both pretending it wasn’t a big deal while being acutely aware that it kind of was. You flicked on your ensuite light, the soft yellow light immediately making everything feel quieter. 

“Uh,” you said, suddenly shy, rifling through the cabinet by your sink. “I’ve got an extra toothbrush. It’s…pink.”

Jack leaned in the doorway, watching you with a tired smile. “Cute.”

He brushed his teeth while you washed your face, the mundane normalcy of it all grounding. Like this was something you did. Like this was allowed. When you turned back into the room, he was tugging his hoodie over his head, movements unselfconscious but not careless either. This was the same guy who’d been shy over a bruise on his face. 

Your eyes flicked—quick and curious—before you could stop them. Jack caught it, of course. His mouth twitched as he kicked off his jeans and stood there in his boxers. 

You swallowed and very deliberately reached for the hem of your pajama pants, sliding them off and tossing them onto the chair. You left the oversized shirt on. That felt like a compromise. Jack’s gaze lingered on your legs for half a second longer than necessary before he looked away, clearing his throat.

“Goodnight, Waffle,” you said solemnly, crouching to pat her in her bed on the floor. “You’re on guard duty.”

Jack laughed quietly, already climbing into your bed. “She hates me.”

“She hasn’t barked yet,” you pointed out. “Which is huge.”

The covers were cool when you slipped in, then quickly warmed as Jack shifted closer. You both stilled for a moment, figuring out the choreography, before settling naturally—knees brushing, feet tangling. He rolled onto his side to face you, and you mirrored him, the blanket pulled up high enough that it swallowed you both.

You shifted closer, instinctive, your forehead brushing his as you gave him a small kiss. He was still warm. Still carrying the day in his shoulders, in the slight tension of his jaw.

“You okay?” you murmured. 

He nodded, eyes half-lidded. “Your sheets are really soft.”

“Seersucker.” You smiled, sleepy and fond. “The material. It’s called that.”

Jack hummed like he’d remember that forever.

A quiet moment passed. His hand found your waist under the covers, hesitant until you leaned into it, letting him slip under your shirt. His fingers moved slow and reassuring.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “For just… showing up like that.”

“Don’t apologize,” you whispered. “You can stay for as long as you want.”

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

Jack woke up slowly, in a way that wasn’t normal to him. No alarm blaring, no stupid hotel curtains leaking light, no plans of what to do today. He was just warm. The good kind of warmth that came from how soft your sheets were and your body weight on top of him. 

You were sprawled over him like you’d done it a hundred times before. One leg slung over his middle, knee tucked in just right. Your arm was loose across his ribs, your cheek pressed flat to his bare chest, mouth parted slightly as you breathed. You fit there. Like you’d found the spot without thinking and your body had decided to keep it.

Jack looked around your room for a moment, letting it all come back to him in pieces. He hadn’t seen much in the dark light yesterday. Now he couldn’t believe that this bedroom was technically the same shape as his own. He couldn’t believe that it was possible to make the same space feel so different. 

Maybe because you actually showed your personality through the spaces you lived in. A tall bookcase filled with things that Jack couldn’t wait to analyze. A dresser that was overflowing with clothes, a piece of something lacy sticking out from a closed drawer. Paintings and posters lined the walls, as a string of fairy lights bordered the ceiling. 

It was just as cozy as you were. 

Last night, he’d felt pathetic showing up at your door. Like everything he despised about needing someone had been proven to be wrong. That once he’d had the option to not be alone for a night, he’d gone straight for it without thinking twice.

This morning, wrapped up in you, he didn’t feel pathetic at all.

You slept like you knew each other better than you did. Like your body trusted his without asking permission first. There was something disarming about that—about how easy you were with him when you weren’t awake to overthink it. When you couldn’t keep your distance and think about how he’d mistreated you at first. You snored, just barely, a soft little sound that made his mouth twitch instead of annoy him.

Jack shamelessly let his eyes trace your face. You weren’t wearing your glasses, which almost felt unfair, like he was seeing something he shouldn’t have. Seeing too much. Your eyelashes were longer up close. There was still a faint mark on your forehead where that green star sticker had been last week—pimple patch, he corrected himself fondly. Stickers with glue probably weren’t good for skin.

He shifted just enough to breathe you in, careful not to wake you. You smelled like a perfume he’d grown to recognize. His chest rose under your cheek, and you murmured, burrowing closer, fingers curling gently at the skin over his ribs. 

That was the moment Jack noticed his own skin for the first time this morning, and how it was burning all over. It wasn’t just the warmth; it was a suffocating, tickling feeling. Something that would make him blush all the way from his stomach up to his ears. 

Your bare thigh was resting right on top of him, and his arm was cradled around your body, feeling your skin right where your shirt had bunched up and the lace trim on your panties started. This wasn’t a fair position for any man. 

He didn’t even have the time to reposition himself before he saw your eyes slowly open, your body going from dead weight to slightly more aware. You didn’t hurry to move away—you weren’t scared to be in this position come the morning after. You just gently tilted your head up, batting your lashes tiredly, and smiled. 

“You want pancakes for breakfast?” 

Jack couldn’t remember the last time he ate pancakes. Or maybe he’d had banana pancakes, but he had the sneaking suspicion that you meant actual pancakes. Butter and maple syrup included. 

“Mhm,” he sighed. You squeezed him a little harder, moving up to press a soft kiss to his jaw, then another on his Adam’s apple. “But I think I’m gonna have to stay here for a little longer.” 

You propped yourself up a bit, resting a palm on the mattress. The confused face you made was nothing but adorable, nose scrunched and eyes squinting. “Why?” 

Jack could lie, or he could tell you the truth about how you affected him. He landed on telling you the truth, you were forward enough to handle it, he figured.

“Because if I stand up,” he said, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, “you’ll see that I have the worst case of morning wood that I’ve ever experienced.” 

You giggled openly, your thigh tensing in its spot over his crotch. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” you said, signaling to Jack that you’d already felt it. “Is it involuntary?” 

No, his body had never been more sure. 

“It can be,” Jack settled with, running his hand along your back. “But I think the way you move in your sleep is to blame now.” 

“Wow. I feel kinda proud about that,” you beamed. 

“My god, you’re weird,” he chuckled, gripping you tighter. Your confused face was back for a second before Jack could reassure you. “In a good way, I promise.” 

It faded into a tired smile, your teeth on show as you couldn’t contain your laughter. Jack had never been more sure of a compliment. It was weird to say you were proud of giving him a boner, but it was also the kind of spontaneous comment that had made him like you in the first place. 

You kissed him again, catching him a little off guard. He smiled into it, lips grazing, as you moved to straddle him, knees slotting onto either side of his hips. Jack clasped his arms around you, making you fall flat against his chest. He then pulled the covers back over you, letting the warmth build up again.

“Should we do something to fix it?” you mumbled against his mouth. 

Jack pulled away for a second, eyes caught on your spit-covered lips, body caught on the way only underwear acted as a barrier between you. “We don’t have to,” he tried. “I’d like to take it slow with you.” 

“Was that why I had to trick you into kissing me?” you asked with a giggle. 

“I don’t know,” Jack said honestly. He wouldn’t really say you tricked him. You more cornered him into doing something he deeply wanted but was too scared of trying. “I think I was just nervous,” he admitted. 

“I make you nervous?” 

Jack nodded. “Terribly so.” 

“I don’t bite,” you murmured, leaning back in to kiss him. Your teeth sank gently into his bottom lip, totally disproving your words. “Unless you want me to.” 

Jack’s entire head was buzzing at your smug smile and the way your kisses grew to linger longer. With some more confidence, he met your lips back with a feverish intent, slipping his tongue in your mouth. Messy. Little to no air being let out. His hands settled on either side of your waist, your shirt riding up and your skin warm to the touch. 

He pulled away, but only far enough to inhale, your noses still touching. “Do girls get horny in the mornings too?”

You giggled again, the sound trapped between you. Jack swore it was like hearing angels singing. “I mean, we’re not immune to it,” you said, like you were thinking about the science behind it. “I wake up wet sometimes.” 

Jack’s jaw fell, a quiet huff slipping out. 

“Was that TMI?” you quickly asked. 

“No, no,” he shook his head. “It was hot.” 

You probably just thought you’d grossed him out, while Jack had pictures in his head that just made him fall even deeper into whatever this was. Deeper into you. An infatuation? Something strangely close to love, even if he didn’t know what that felt like? 

Jack kissed you again to stop his thinking, colliding his mouth with yours. You snuck your fingers up, toying with the ends of his hair. The feeling of you on top of him made him want to gulp. Heavy breathing made him hear his own heartbeat, thumping as your hips ground down onto him.

You sat up and placed your hands on his chest, changing the angle of your grinding to hit him more directly. You could probably see him twitching, a dark wet patch forming on his boxers by the outline of his swollen tip. He canted forward to meet you halfway as he littered sloppy kisses on your mouth and neck. 

His hands pushed your shirt up even further, and suddenly you were stripping it off, discarding it onto the floor without a care. Jack was really happy that Waffle seemed to have left the room sometime during the night. 

You knew that you were taunting him, sitting on top of him in nothing but lace panties. You had to know. His cock was practically lodged between your cunt and his own body. Jack stilled at the view, your nipples pebbled, your chest heaving. You noticed it all. 

“We could take it real slow. Nothing to hurry about,” you mumbled, grinding your hips down in a slow stroke.

“Holy shit—” he breathed out, holding your hips in place so you couldn’t move more. You watched his face contort as he bucked beneath you and let out a low, “F-fuck, you’re gonna be so much trouble for me.”

Despite all that, Jack couldn’t help but guide your hips against him again, seeking more pressure. Your panties were thin enough that he could feel the shape of you through them. As your wetness slowly bloomed, his cock fit between your folds, even if the layers of fabric remained. 

Jack slid his hands from your waist to your ass, fingers digging into the soft skin, letting you move a little faster. “You woke up wet, huh?” 

You told him to shut up, answering by grinding down especially hard and especially pointed, your clit dragging up, nudging right against his tip. A whimpering, broken moan tore out of you. “Shit, Jack. I’m so wet for you.” 

Jack didn't know what to do or say when your hands moved down from his chest to play with the waistband on his boxers. The view down there was already obscene enough. When you slowly dragged them down, just so his cock could slip free, still stuck there between your legs, Jack was sure he was about to pass out. 

“It’s pretty,” you mused with another giggle. “You’re pretty, Jack.” 

He heard himself choke on air as he realized you were talking about his dick, embarrassingly pink and throbbing as your fingers slowly wrapped around it, gently stroking up as your thumb swiped over his head. 

“What?” you said. “Was it weird of me to call your dick pretty? Am I being weird again?” 

Jack could only answer by shaking his head, because you were back to grinding onto him before he could form a sentence. His shaft dragged against the wet fabric on your panties, fitting snugly between your folds. Your fingers stayed, toying with his tip. 

He didn’t understand how you could be so poised. Maybe because you were in charge here. Jack didn’t mind at all. It wasn’t until Jack dared to cup your tits that he had you moaning again, gently twisting a nipple between his thumb and pointer finger, making himself let out an incredulous laugh just at your reaction. 

“Stop that,” you whined. “Make me come instead.” 

So, Jack started guiding your hips again, eased by your slick being all over him now. You leaned into him, chest pressing against his, mouth sloppily trying to kiss him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever made a girl finish just from doing this, but he was sure he could when the tip of his cock nudged your clit right on repeatedly. 

You sped up, legs tensing while Jack’s hands moved to grip your upper thighs. You were both aching for release. Jack could feel the friction starting to burn. He could hear your breathing starting to get frustrated, just before everything seemed to break loose. 

“Oh, fuck. Jack, Jack, Jack,” you slurred as your body went rigid, telling him you were coming. 

He came with a choked-out moan, hips shaking as he spurted hot, white streaks up onto his own stomach. You watched it all in awe, still gently touching his cock, his release webbing through your fingers. 

Jack just felt like he was trembling, falling through emotions like a controlled demolition. His cheeks were blazing hot, surely blushing all over, his eyes wide in embarrassment. “Oh, god. I’m sorry—” he panted. “That was so quick. It’s been a while.” 

You silenced him with a slow kiss, seemingly not caring about the mess you were making by touching him further. “It’s okay,” you murmured. “That was hot as hell.” 

You giggled again as you were getting off him, falling onto your back, the mattress bouncing. From your nightstand, you handed him a napkin, drying off your own hands in the process. He wiped off his stomach before it could gross him out. 

“Give me fifteen minutes and I can go again,” Jack said. It was some sort of defense. He’d made you come, he was sure of that. The way one of your legs was still shaking was proof. 

You scoffed beside him, sitting up in bed. “I’ll go get a condom.” 

Jack watched you walk to your ensuite bathroom, stepping out of your drenched panties on the way, your ass gently swaying in his direction. He was sure they couldn’t be comfortable to wear anymore, his own boxers sitting pathetically by his thighs. He thought about covering up, but his limbs were too tired to cooperate right now. 

He could only look at you. Only think of you. Think of how he should be against everything you were making him feel, but he was exhausted of repressing it. Jack was just going to let this happen.

You came back from the bathroom, still completely naked, a small foil packet nervously in your hands. Jack almost laughed at the thought of the condom that sat in his wallet out in the duffle bag. 

“Okay, so I was wondering—” you started talking, and Jack had to focus on listening. You stood by the edge of the bed. Jack scrambled to get closer to you, sitting up, struggling to adjust his boxers, his hands finding your waist as he reached you. “Maybe this should wait until after we’ve actually fucked, but you just made me come hands-free, and if that is a testament to anything—” 

“Bug,” he cut you off, kissing your stomach. 

“Okay, okay,” you giggled again, collecting yourself to stop rambling. “Do we make this a thing? Casually fuck when we both feel like it?” 

“Oh.” The word left his mouth before he could process what you’d said. He wasn’t sure how long he was quiet after that, but it was long enough for him to feel his chest start hurting in a way he couldn’t explain. 

“Yeah. I can do casual,” Jack finally managed to say, like a pure and utter liar. 

thank you for reading ★ come tell me what you think! my ask box is always open

The video call came through while Jack was still wearing the gray team USA shirt and his hair was damp from a quick shower that had done nothing to clear his head, he had gone several days without really talking to Riley, short messages, even shorter replies, long silences. Too many silences for someone who knew her writing style so well, the way she sent ridiculously long voice notes when she was tired, her “I’ll call you in five” that almost always turned into forty minutes. This wasn’t normal, Nothing about the last few days had been.

When her name finally appeared on the screen and then her face, Jack felt something close to relief, though it immediately tangled with a heavy discomfort when he saw how serious she looked.

Riley was sitting at the desk in her apartment in New York, with several open notes off to one side, her hair pulled up any which way, and her university hoodie on, she didn’t just look tired from studying. She looked tired of him.

“Hey,” Jack said, trying to sound gentle, almost careful. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Riley replied.

That was all. No smile, none of that warm look that usually accompanied even her worst days. Jack ran a hand over the back of his neck. “I’ve missed you.” Riley looked away for a second, as if she were putting something in order inside herself before looking back at him.“I’ve been busy.”

Jack nodded, even though they both knew that wasn’t the whole truth.

“Yeah, I know. You’re always busy. But…” He tried to smile, unsuccessfully. “We can still talk, right? It’s been several days.”

“That’s why I answered" The tone wasn’t cruel, that made it worse, Riley wasn’t trying to hurt him; she was drawing a line, Jack leaned forward on the couch in his apartment in New Jersey, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Come this weekend,” he said, direct, as if closing the physical distance could fix everything else. “Come to Jersey. Stay here a couple of days. We can talk properly, without all this shit around us.”

Riley let out a short exhale, almost incredulous.“i can't”

Jack blinked, “you cant or you dont want to come?”

“I don’t want to go.”

He looked at her, his brow faintly furrowed, confused even though deep down he shouldn’t have been. He had noticed her coldness. He had read the weight of her short replies. But he was still hoping that if he could just see her, he could straighten everything out with closeness, with care, with one of those long conversations that started tense and ended calm.

“babe.....”

“No, Jack,” she interrupted, this time firm. “I don’t want to see you.”

The sentence landed cleanly between them. No embellishment. No way to misunderstand it, Jack stayed still for a few seconds, “Are you still mad?”

Riley looked at him as if she couldn’t believe the simplification, “Still?” she repeated, quieter, but harsher. “I’m not ‘still mad’ like this is some stupid fight between us because you didn’t return a call or canceled dinner. I’m disappointed, Jack. Very disappointed.”

He clenched his jaw. “We already talked about that. I already said the situation got out of control, It wasn’t—”

“I don’t care how the rest of the team wants to handle it,” Riley said, cutting him off again. “I don’t care if other people minimize it, if they joke about it, if they say it wasn’t that big of a deal, if in their heads there was no bad intent. What matters to me is what you did. How you reacted. And most of all, that you didn’t even stop to think about how that could land with your own family.”

Jack dropped his gaze for a second. It was exactly the wound he had been trying not to touch in his own head, “Riley…”

“No. You listen to me now. Because I think you’ve spent days listening to too many people telling you this will pass, that it’ll be forgotten, that social media exaggerates, that the press is making a circus out of it. And maybe that’s true. Maybe it’ll be forgotten. Maybe inside the team it all feels different. But you don’t get the luxury of thinking only as a player. Not with the family you have.”

Jack swallowed. Riley adjusted herself in the chair, crossing her arms, and kept speaking with a clarity that hurt more precisely because she wasn’t yelling

“Leah is part of that world Jack, not from the outside, not as a spectator, Leah is in it, She plays in it, she knows what every space, every ounce of respect, every opportunity costs. Your mom works for that team, Your mother jack, She sees up close what they have to fight for, what gets questioned, what they have to prove over and over again just to be taken just as seriously, annd your sisters…” She paused briefly, shaking her head. “Your sisters have had to make their way in environments where there is always someone ready to make them feel smaller.”

Jack let out a slow breath, unable to interrupt her.

“Thea works in sports, in f1 in case you dont know Jack, you have no idea how many times a woman in that field has to be perfect just so they don’t tear her apart over the tiniest thing. Josephine has had to fight too, to make a name for herself, to be seen for what she knows and not for who she knows, not for being someone’s sister, not for being someone’s girlfriend…” She stopped herself briefly, correcting course as she went. “You know what I mean. And even with all of that, in a moment like this, you didn’t think of any of them.”

Jack finally lifted his head. “Yes, I did think of them", Riley let out a dry, humorless laugh “Then that’s even worse.”

The answer hit him head-on.

Jack went silent, his eyes fixed on the screen. Riley fell silent too for a moment, as if giving herself permission to bring the anger down just a little before continuing.

“I’m not telling you you’re responsible for everything that happens around you,” she said, more slowly. “But you are responsible for yourself. For how you carry yourself. For when you laugh. For when you stay quiet. For when you decide something has nothing to do with you, even though it does have to do with you because you’re there, because you’re visible, because what you do carries more weight than you’d like to admit.”

Jack rubbed his face with both hands, “It was a shitty moment. I know that.”

“And when did you know that?” Riley asked immediately. “When you saw it everywhere? When people started saying things? When someone in your family mentioned it? Or in the moment? Because that’s what’s getting to me, Jack. That I don’t know if you realized it then… or afterward, when it had already become a problem.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out right away. Not because he had no words, but because he had too many versions of the truth stuck in his throat. The version where everything had happened fast. The version where he had let himself get carried by the momentum of the group. The version where he had been tired, euphoric, overwhelmed by the medal, by the pressure, by the intensity of those days. None of them sounded enough.

“I didn’t process it in the moment the way I should have,” he admitted at last, quietly. “And yes, afterward I understood that it looked horrible. That it was horrible. But it wasn’t—”

“Don’t tell me again that there was no bad intention,” Riley said, tired. “I’m exhausted from hearing everyone say that to justify things that still hurt. Intent matters, yes. But impact matters too. And impact should matter more to you because it hits directly at home.”

Jack closed his eyes for a second, “I know.”

“Do you really know?”

“Yes.”

Riley watched him in silence. Her eyes weren’t full of wild anger. It was something much harder to hold: real disappointment, deep and aching.

“Because from where I’m standing,” she continued, “you still want to fix this by asking me to come to New Jersey and hug you and talk calmly, as if what bothers me is only missing you or feeling distant from you. And no, Jack. I miss you too. But that doesn’t erase that looking at you these past few days has made me feel…” She stopped, searching for the exact word. “Sad. Very sad.”

That, more than anything, made him lift his eyes sharply.

“Riley—”

“Let me finish.”

Jack gave a faint nod.

“I know who you are when it’s just you and me. I know you’re affectionate, I know you have a huge heart, I know you adore your family. I know that. But that’s exactly why this is harder for me to swallow, Because I cannot understand how a guy who talks about Leah with so much pride, who talks about Ellen with so much admiration, who melts every time he talks about his sisters, could be in the middle of something like that without stopping for one second to think, ‘this is going to hurt them.’”

Jack’s apartment was completely silent. Not the TV on mute, not the distant traffic, not the hum of the fridge could fill the gap that had opened between her words.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” he said after a while, his voice frayed with exhaustion. “I just wanted to see you.”

“I don’t want to fight with you either.”

“Then come.”

Riley shook her head. “No. And the fact that you keep insisting on that just proves you still don’t understand where I’m standing.”

Jack’s jaw tightened, “Then explain to me how to fix it.”

“It’s not about me giving you a list,” she replied. “I’m not your moral guide, Jack, I’m not the person who has to sit down and tell you step by step how to reflect on something that should matter to you out of your own conviction.”

“I’m trying—”

“Trying isn’t always enough.”

The sentence stayed suspended between them. Jack leaned back against the couch and looked up at the ceiling for a moment, frustrated with himself, with her, with the entire world.

“Fuck, Riley, we won gold and I feel like everything went to shit in two seconds.”

She looked at him steadily. “And even now, the first thing you lose sight of is why.”

He let out a forceful breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m not losing sight of anything.”

“Yes, you are, when you center all of this on how bad you feel about the scandal instead of the reasons people are hurt. There’s a huge difference between being uncomfortable because people are criticizing you and being genuinely ashamed because you failed.”

Jack didn’t answer immediately. Riley knew him too well. She saw the exact moment the words landed in his expression.

Softer now, almost despite herself, she continued:

“And I’m telling you this because I love you. Precisely because I love you. If I didn’t care about you, I would’ve stopped replying, focused on my exam, and that would’ve been that. But I do care. And I care about the kind of man you choose to be when no one is forcing you to do anything.”

Jack swallowed, “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Well, you already did", She didn’t say it cruelly. She said it sadly. That broke him more.

Jack lowered his gaze to the floor, feeling for the first time in several days something clearer than irritation or defensiveness: shame. Not shame because it had gone viral, or because of the press, or because of the outside noise. Intimate shame. The kind that came from being seen by someone who truly knew him and realizing he hadn’t measured up.

Riley took a deep breath and looked away for a moment toward her notes, as if reminding herself that she had another life, another weight on her shoulders, another concern that did not revolve around hockey or the Hughes name.

“Besides,” she added, “I need to be away from all of this for a while.”

Jack lifted his head, “Away from me?”

“Away from the scandal. Away from the constant conversation. Away from the feeling that I have to process something I shouldn’t even be processing in the first place. I have a hugely important exam in a few days, Jack. A very important one. I’m in my fourth year of med school, I cannot afford to spiral over this too, I can’t spend entire nights arguing with you, reading headlines, thinking about interviews, reactions, what this person said or that person said. I can’t.”

Her voice cracked slightly on the last sentence, not from weakness but from exhaustion. “ I’m tired,” she said, rubbing at one temple. “Very tired. And I need focus. I need quiet. I need to stop feeling like every call with you is going to end like this.”

Jack watched her for a long moment, “So this is a pause.”

Riley took several seconds to answer.

“It’s distance.”

“That sounds worse.”

“Maybe because it is.”

Jack pressed his lips together “How long?” Riley shook her head, “I don’t have a date to give you. And I don’t want to make one up just to make you feel better.”

“Riley, don’t do this like this.”

She narrowed her eyes, hurt, “Like what? By being honest?”

“No. By pulling away when—”

“When I need me?” she finished. “Or when you need me?”

Jack had no answer.

“Because we could talk about that too,” Riley continued, more slowly. “About how this call started with you asking me to come see you. Not asking me how I am. Not asking me how all of this hit me. Not asking me whether, on top of being disappointed, I’m okay. You went straight to what you wanted: for me to come, for us to be together, for you to see me. And now it bothers you that I’m choosing myself for a moment.”

Jack lowered his eyes again. He wanted to defend himself, to say that yes, he did care how she was, that of course he did, that he had called because he missed her and because seeing her had always felt like being able to breathe again. But even he could recognize that Riley wasn’t making any of it up. He had wanted relief before understanding.

“You’re right,” he admitted.

Riley didn’t react immediately. She just looked at him, measuring whether he really meant it or whether it was just a quick concession to ease the tension.

“I know I am,” she said at last.

Jack let out a bitter laugh, “Yeah. I can see that.”

A long silence followed. The kind that used to be comfortable between them and now felt sharp-edged.

“Have you talked to Leah?” Riley asked after a while.

Jack took his time answering.

“she doesnt even want to see me”

“And your mom?”

“i talked to her, but nothing more.”

Riley closed her eyes for a second, clearly frustrated, “Start there.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I didn’t say it was simple. I said start there.”

Jack looked at her in silence, “I don’t even know what to say to them.”

“Then tell them the truth. That you fucked up. That you didn’t think enough. That you understand why it hurts. That you’re not expecting them to smooth it over with ‘it wasn’t that big of a deal.’ That you know there are things that, for you, might feel like one second of laughter, and for other people they’re years of wear and tear condensed into one single moment.”

Jack rested his head against the back of the couch, “When you talk like that, you make everything sound… completely clear.”

“Because it is.”

He let out another long, defeated breath. “I hate that you’re so far away.”

Riley’s expression softened just slightly, but she didn’t give in, “And I hate feeling like I had to explain something to you that should have been obvious.”

Jack kept looking at her, taking that sentence the way someone accepts bitter medicine once they understand they need it.

“Do you love me?” he asked suddenly, so quietly it almost sounded like a thought slipping out.

Riley held his gaze for several seconds.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Very much. But loving you doesn’t mean applauding you when you’re wrong. And it doesn’t mean being emotionally available every time you want me to be, even when I’m falling apart inside or my head is full of other things.”

Jack nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“I didn’t think this was going to hit you like this.”

“That’s part of the problem too.”

He lowered his eyes again.

Riley took a deep breath, gathering strength from a place she had probably already gone to too many times that week.

“I’m going to step back a little, Jack. Not because I don’t care about you. Precisely because I do care about you, and because I need space so I don’t mix what I feel for you with the anger, sadness, and disappointment all of this caused me. I need to study. I need to find my center again. I need to stop feeling like I’m carrying a conversation that, honestly, is one you need to have first with yourself and with your family.”

Jack took a while to answer, “Are you going to stop talking to me?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“But you’re not exactly saying no either.”

Riley looked toward the window of her apartment, where the city was still alive on the other side of the glass, indifferent to the emotional disaster between them.

“I’ll answer when I can and when I want to,” she said at last. “But I’m not going to keep having long calls about this right now. I can’t. It’s not good for me.”

Jack nodded. This time without arguing.

“Okay.”

The word came out dim.

“And don’t ask me to go to New Jersey,” she added. “I’m not going. Not this week. Not now.” Riley studied him for a few seconds. There was something broken in Jack’s expression, something that hurt her to look at because she still loved him even while she was angry. Maybe that was exactly why it was so hard for her to stay firm.

“I really hope you think about all of this,” she said more quietly. “Not for me, for them. for Leah, for your mom, for Thea, for Josephine, for the kind of brother and son you say you are.”

Jack lifted his eyes slowly, “I will", Riley didn’t smile “Do it for real.”

Another silence “How’s the exam going?” he asked then, awkwardly, too late and yet with an honesty he hadn’t had at the beginning of the call.

Riley let out a tired exhale, almost a sad half-laugh “Bad timing to ask.”

“I know.”

“It’s going…” She glanced at her notes. “It’s intense. Very intense.”

“You’re going to crush it.”

For the first time in the entire call, Riley’s expression softened a little. It wasn’t reconciliation. It was only memory: the automatic reflex of having found comfort in him many times before, “I hope so.”

Jack wanted to tell her he was proud of her. That nobody worked the way she did. That he knew how hard that year had been for her. That he wished he could hold her and make her coffee and leave stupid Post-its all over her apartment the way he did when he wanted to get a smile out of her before a big exam. He wanted to say too many things. But for once he understood that wanting to say them was not the same as having the right to say them.

“Get some rest when you can,” he said instead.

Riley nodded, “You too… and think" , the sentence sounded less like advice and more like a final request.

Jack looked at the screen, memorizing her serious face, her tired eyes, the deliberate distance she was putting between them.

“Will you call me when you want to?” he asked.

Riley took a while to answer.

“When I can.”

It wasn’t a promise. But it wasn’t a final ending either.

“Okay,” he said.

She kept one hand near the keyboard, ready to end the video call, even though neither of them seemed to want to be the first to cut it off. In the end Riley spoke one more time, her voice softer than it had been for the rest of the conversation:

“Jack… winning gold should have been something beautiful. Don’t ruin it even more by trying to protect your discomfort instead of facing what you did.”

He swallowed and nodded. “Okay.”

Riley held his gaze for one more second, “Goodbye.”

“Bye.”

The screen went black and Jack stayed motionless on the couch, the phone still in his hand, as if letting go of it would mean fully accepting that the call was over and that she was not going to appear at the door of his apartment in New Jersey to fix the night for them.

The silence in the room suddenly felt too big.

He looked at the dim reflection of his own face on the screen. Riley was right about something that hurt to admit: for days he had been centering everything on the noise, on the reaction, on the discomfort of feeling watched, criticized, questioned. Very little on the people it could actually have hurt.

Leah.

His mother.

Thea.

Josephine.

His family.

He braced his elbows on his knees and let his head fall into his hands.

For the first time since everything had exploded, the weight of the situation stopped feeling like an external scandal and started feeling like something far more intimate: a crack opening exactly in the place he had always claimed mattered most to him.

user9 macklin i see youuu

celebritygossip Actress Y/N L/N seen arguing with her boyfriend during dinner in Milan. The young actress was distraught after, leaving the restaurant in a hurry and seems to be in tears in the car.

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user10 i literally hate her bf

user11 met him irl and can confirm he’s a jerk LOL don’t know why she’s still with him

user12 imagine dating a super pretty famous actress and still not being satisfied. her bf fumbling 🙄

user13 DUMP HIS ASS Y/N

user14 :( i remember when they first got together and he was so sweet, what happened

texts between mack + will

liked by _willsmith2, ynuser, and 534k more

mackcelebrini on and off the ice 🏒

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_willsmith2 basic ass caption

➥ mackcelebrini BRO

user15 perfect pic lineup muah

user16 guys step aside i’ve got this

user17 Y/N LIKED THIS!!

➥ user18 don’t get the big deal behind this? she’s a famous actress his age and they follow each other LOL, she’s gonna like his post if she sees it on her feed

➥ user19 bro chill it’s just crazy watching two worlds collide that’s all

dailydoseofyn Y/N’s 73 Question Interview with Vogue is now up! I’m so incredibly proud of her so here are some of my personal favorite parts of the interview :)

user20 SHE MENTIONED MACKLIN OH MY GOSH

user21 did not expect y/n to be a hockey enthusiast

user22 omg her dealbreaker in dating being not watching her films, sneak diss at her mid bf who never seems to know what films she’s in

➥ user23 she needs to leave that loser already

user24 i ship mack and y/n idc

➥ user25 YES YES AND YESS

Colton Y/L/N. The analysts have been saying his name for months. “A generational playmaker.” “The most NHL-ready defenseman in the draft.” “A leader on and off the ice.” To you, he’s just Colton. The boy who scraped his knees on the driveway asphalt, who ate cereal for dinner more times than you’d like to admit, who held your hand in the emergency room when you broke your wrist slipping on a patch of black ice after one of his 5 a.m. practices.

On the massive, wrap-around screen, the commissioner is at the podium. “With the tenth pick in the 2025 NHL Entry Draft, the Utah Mammoth are proud to select …”

Colton sucks in a sharp breath. His hand, the one not currently being held captive by your own, clenches into a fist on his thigh. He was projected to go anywhere from eight to twelve. This is the zone. The air crackles.

You lean in, your voice a whisper meant only for him. “Breathe, honey. Just breathe. Whatever happens, happens. You got here. That was the mountain. This is just the view from the top.”

He turns to you, his eyes — your eyes — wide with a swirling storm of hope and fear. “What if they don’t … what if I just sit here?”

“Then you sit here,” you say, your voice firm, unwavering. “You sit here with your head held high, next to your mother who is so ridiculously proud of you it feels like my heart is going to hammer its way out of my chest. And then tomorrow, you go to whatever development camp you’re invited to and you skate circles around the guys they picked instead. But that’s not going to happen.”

The kid from Utah walks across the stage, a blinding smile on his face as he pulls on a jersey in a color combination that seems scientifically engineered to be unappealing. The camera pans across the remaining prospects. It lingers on Colton for a moment. He looks impossibly young, impossibly handsome, a man-child on the precipice of his entire life.

“And now,” the commissioner’s voice booms again, “we go to the Pittsburgh Penguins, drafting from their locker room at PPG Paints Arena.”

The screen splits. On one side is the stage. On the other is a live feed of Kyle Dubas, surrounded by his staff, looking intense under the fluorescent lights of the Penguins’ inner sanctum. A hush falls over your section of the arena. This is it.

Your grip on Colton’s knee tightens. He’s stopped breathing entirely.

Dubas leans into the microphone. There’s no dramatic pause. He’s all business. “With the eleventh overall selection, the Pittsburgh Penguins are proud to select, from the London Knights … defenseman, Colton Y/L/N.”

The world explodes.

Or maybe it just shrinks, collapsing into a single point of brilliant, blinding light. The sound rushes in — a roar from the crowd, a shriek from Colton’s agent, Jon, on his other side, and a choked sob that you realize, with some distant part of your brain, is coming from you.

Colton jolts as if struck by lightning. He turns to you, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. “Mom?”

He says it like he’s five years old again, asking if Santa Claus is real.

You launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he stands. He’s six-foot-three now, a solid wall of muscle, but in your arms, he is still the fifty-three pounds of boy you used to carry to bed. He lifts you off the ground in a hug that smells of nervous sweat and expensive fabric, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“You did it,” you whisper, tears streaming freely down your face now, messing up the makeup you so carefully applied. “Oh, my baby, you did it.”

“We did it,” he corrects, his voice thick with emotion. He sets you down, his hands framing your face. He looks at you, really looks at you, and the gratitude in his eyes is a physical force. “We did it.”

Jon is clapping him on the back, pulling him towards the stairs. “Let’s go, kid! Your future is waiting!”

The walk is a blur. Flashing lights from a hundred cameras create a strobing, disorienting effect. The roar of the crowd is a physical pressure against your skin. You watch him descend the stairs, shake the commissioner’s hand, and take the offered jersey.

The iconic skating penguin logo is stretched across his broad back. Y/L/N and the number 25 are printed beneath it. He pulls it on over his dress shirt and tie, and the fit is perfect. It looks like it has always belonged to him. He puts on the hat, turns to the sea of faces, and smiles.

It’s the same smile that once flashed a missing front tooth. The same smile that beamed up at you from the ice after his first goal in peewee hockey.

You stand at the bottom of the stairs, a fixed point in his swirling new universe, and you just watch. You watch him become someone else. Not just your son anymore. He’s the first-round pick of the Pittsburgh Penguins. He belongs to them now, in a way. To the city. To the fans.

The next hour is a whirlwind. He’s pulled from one media station to another. Print journalists, television crews, podcasters. You trail behind, a silent shadow, letting Jon run interference. You answer a few questions yourself when a reporter corners you.

“How does it feel, as a single mom, to see him achieve this dream?”

“It feels,” you say, your voice steadier than you expect, “like watching every single sacrifice pay off in one perfect moment.”

Eventually, the initial frenzy subsides. A team representative, a kind-faced woman named Peggy, leads you and Colton towards a quieter backstage area. “We just need to get some content for socials, and then we have a car waiting to take you to the team dinner,” she explains.

Colton nods, still dazed. He hasn’t let go of the jersey. He clutches it in his hand like a holy relic.

They lead you into a small, curtained-off room. It’s blessedly quiet. For the first time since his name was called, it’s just you, Colton, and Jon.

“Okay,” Jon says, his phone already pressed to his ear. “I’m getting the contract details ironed out. Colton, your phone is going to melt. Don’t even look at it for the next hour.”

Colton just nods, sinking onto a small sofa. He looks at you, a dazed, happy smile playing on his lips. “Penguins, Mom. Pittsburgh.”

“I know, honey. It’s incredible.”

“It’s …” He shakes his head, at a loss for words. “It’s Sid’s team.”

As if on cue, Jon’s eyes go wide. He lowers his phone slightly. “Holy … Colton. You need to take this.”

He hands the phone to Colton, who looks at it, confused. The screen is blank, a private number. “Who is it?”

“Just answer it,” Jon says, his voice uncharacteristically shaky.

Colton swipes to answer, putting it on speaker without thinking. “Hello?”

A voice comes through the speaker. It’s calm, familiar, and carries the unmistakable cadence of a Cole Harbour, Nova Scotia native.

“Hey Colton, Sid Crosby here.”

The air leaves the room.

Colton freezes. His eyes, wide as dinner plates, lock with yours. You feel your own heart skip a beat. Sidney Crosby. The Sidney Crosby is on the phone. Your son’s childhood hero. The reason he wore number 87 through his entire minor hockey career.

Colton swallows hard, his voice coming out as a squeak. “Uh. Hi.”

You want to laugh, you want to cry, you want to tell him to say something, anything, more articulate than ‘hi’.

Sid’s voice is warm, a low chuckle on the other end. “Just wanted to be one of the first to say welcome to Pittsburgh. We’re all really excited to have ya.”

“Th-thank you,” Colton stammers, finally finding a few more words. “Thank you, Mr. Crosby. It’s … wow. It’s an honor.”

“Please, call me Sid,” he says, and the easy-going kindness in his tone is disarming. “Listen, I know your head’s probably spinning right now. Just wanted to say congratulations. You earned it. Watched some of your shifts from the OHL playoffs. You’ve got a hell of a game.”

You watch as a slow blush creeps up Colton’s neck. Praise from the captain. From a living legend. “Thank you, Sid. That … that means a lot, coming from you.”

“Enjoy the night with your family,” Sid continues. “It’s a big moment. Soak it all in. But be ready to get to work when you get to town. We’ve got a lot to do.”

“Yes, sir. I will be. I’m ready.”

“Good to hear. Alright, I’ll let you go. See ya at camp, kid.”

“See you at camp. Thank you.”

The line clicks dead.

Silence.

Colton stares at his phone as if it might spontaneously combust. He slowly lowers it, his hand trembling slightly. He looks up, first at Jon, then at you. His expression is one of pure awe.

“Sidney Crosby,” he whispers, the name a prayer. “He called me ‘kid’.”

Jon is beaming. “That’s your captain, Colton. Welcome to the show.” He claps him on the shoulder again. “I have to go take five more calls. I’ll meet you by the car in ten. Don’t go anywhere.” He strides out of the room, already barking into his phone.

The silence that descends is different this time. It’s heavy with the weight of the moment. The adrenaline is beginning to fade, replaced by a bone-deep sense of accomplishment.

Colton turns to you, the dazed look in his eyes slowly clearing, replaced by an intensity that takes your breath away. He closes the distance between you in two long strides, his brand-new Penguins hat askew on his head.

“Mom.”

His voice is thick again. The phone call, the jersey, the reality of it all, it seems to have finally broken through the wall of shock.

“I’m here, baby.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just looks at you, his gaze tracing the lines of your face. It feels like he’s seeing all eighteen years at once. The late nights helping with homework after you got home from your waitressing shift. The beat-up station wagon you drove for a decade, the one that always smelled faintly of hockey gear and gasoline. The Christmases where his one big gift was a new pair of skates, and yours was watching him open them. The parent-teacher conferences you attended alone. The tuition for hockey camps you paid for by taking on extra shifts, your feet aching so bad you’d have to soak them in Epsom salts for an hour every night.

He sees it all. You know he does.

“Do you remember,” he starts, his voice cracking, “that tournament in Sault Ste. Marie? When I was twelve?”

You nod, a lump forming in your throat. You remember it perfectly. “The alternator on the car died in the middle of a blizzard, halfway there.”

“Yeah,” he says, a wet sheen in his eyes. “And we were stranded for six hours. And you used all the cash you had for the hotel room to pay the tow truck driver. And we slept in the car, in the freezing cold, so I wouldn’t miss the first game.”

“You had two goals and an assist,” you say softly. “It was worth it.”

“I sat there tonight,” he continues, his voice dropping to a raw whisper, “and all I could think about was that. And the hundred other things like that. You, working two jobs so I could play Triple-A. You, driving me to the rink when you were so tired you were falling asleep at red lights. You, telling me I could do this, even when I didn't believe it myself.”

He reaches out, his large, calloused hands — a hockey player’s hands — gently taking yours.

“I get to play hockey for a living. I get to play for the Pittsburgh Penguins. Sidney Crosby just called my phone,” he says, his voice breaking on the last part. “And none of it, not a single second of it, happens without you.”

The tears are back, hot and fast. You try to blink them away, but it’s a losing battle.

“You’re the one who put in the work, Colton. You skated until your feet bled. You studied, you trained, you did everything right.”

“Because you showed me how,” he insists, squeezing your hands. “You never quit. On anything. On us. So I knew I couldn’t either. Everything I am is because of you. We did this. Don't you ever think it was just me.”

He pulls you into another hug, and this one is different. It’s not the explosive, adrenaline-fueled hug from the stands. This one is quiet, reverent. It’s the hug of a young man who has just realized the full scope of his mother’s love and sacrifice, and the weight of that understanding is both beautiful and crushing.

You hold onto him, burying your face in his chest, inhaling the clean scent of his dress shirt and the faint, lingering smell of the arena. You hold onto your son, the boy you raised against all odds, the man who is about to step into a life that is bigger and brighter than anything you could have ever dreamed for him.

“I’m so proud of you, Colton,” you manage to say, your voice muffled by his suit jacket.

He kisses the top of your head. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you more.”

Peggy peeks her head through the curtain, her smile apologetic. “Sorry to interrupt. The car is ready when you are.”

Colton pulls back, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, a gesture so boyish it makes your heart ache. He gives you a watery smile, straightens his shoulders, and suddenly, he’s not just your son anymore. He’s Colton Y/L/N, property of the Pittsburgh Penguins.

He holds out his arm for you. “Ready to go to dinner?”

You loop your arm through his, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Lead the way.”

As you walk through the sterile backstage corridors, your heels clicking on the polished concrete, you feel the shift. The world has tilted on its axis. The quiet, predictable life you built for the two of you, a fortress of love and routine, has just been spectacularly breached. And as you step out of the arena and into the warm night air, towards the waiting black car, you can’t shake the feeling that everything — absolutely everything — is about to change.

***

The two days following the draft are a hallucinatory blend of champagne headaches, a thousand repetitive text messages, and the surreal experience of seeing your son’s face on ESPN every time you turn on the television. You fly back home to Orlando in a daze, the quiet of your house a startling contrast to the non-stop sensory assault of Las Vegas. The silence is cavernous. It’s the first time in eighteen years you’ve come home to an empty house that is going to stay empty.

Colton is in Pittsburgh for a whirlwind three-day development camp. A meet-and-greet, a tour of the facilities, a light skate. It’s a preview of the life that awaits him, and a preview of the life that awaits you.

You’re unpacking your suitcase when your phone buzzes with a text from your best friend, Brandi.

Brandi: Have you been on Twitter?

You text back, a sense of dread pooling in your stomach. The internet is a place you generally try to avoid.

You: No. Why? Did someone say Colton looks bad in a Penguins hat? Because I will fight them.

A new message from Brandi pops up immediately. It’s not text. It’s a link to a tweet from an account called “Bardown Beauties.” The tweet contains a screenshot from the draft broadcast. It’s a candid shot of you, caught mid-laugh as Colton tells you a joke just before his name is called. Your head is tilted back, your eyes are crinkling at the corners, and the ridiculously expensive dress Brandi forced you to buy looks, you have to admit, pretty good under the arena lights.

The caption above the photo reads: Forget the prospects, the real first-round pick at the 2025 Draft is Colton Y/L/N’s mom. Absolute rocket. #NHLDraft #MILF

You stare at the screen. You read the word. M-I-L-F. You know what it means. You are not, despite Colton’s frequent jokes, a thousand years old. Below the tweet are thousands of likes and a cascade of replies.

She’s only 36! That’s insane.

Smokeshow. Colton got the good genes.

Suddenly I’m a huge Penguins fan.

Your face flushes with a heat that has nothing to do with the Florida humidity. It’s a bizarre cocktail of emotions. There’s a sliver of flattery — it’s certainly nicer than being called old and haggard — but it’s buried under an avalanche of indignation and a profound sense of … violation. This was your moment with your son. A moment of pure, unadulterated pride and love. And these strangers, these anonymous faces on the internet, have twisted it into something cheap. Something about you, and not him.

Your phone rings. It’s Colton. You force a lightness into your voice that you do not feel.

“Hey, superstar! How’s Pittsburgh?”

“It’s awesome, Mom. The rink is … wow. But that’s not why I’m calling.” His voice is tight, clipped. He sounds angry. “You saw it, didn’t you?”

You sink onto the edge of your bed. “Saw what, honey?” You lie, poorly.

“The tweet. The pictures. All of it,” he says, his voice laced with a protective fury that is so profound it makes your heart ache. “Jon sent it to me. I’m so sorry, Mom. It’s disgusting. They’re being so disrespectful. I’m going to tell the team’s PR guy to get them to take it down.”

“Colton, no,” you say, your voice firm. “Don’t do that. You’ll just make it a bigger deal. It’s the internet. It’s stupid and silly and it will be gone by tomorrow when they find something else to obsess over.”

“But they’re talking about my mom,” he says, the emphasis on the word making him sound about twelve years old. “It’s not right.”

“I know, sweetie. And I love you for being angry for me,” you say, your voice softening. “But honestly? I’m a 36-year-old woman. I’ve been called a lot worse than ‘smokeshow’ by men who were actually standing in front of me. I can handle a few anonymous trolls on the internet. This is your time. Don’t let this silliness taint it. Okay?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. You can hear the gears turning in his head, his anger warring with his instinct to listen to you.

“Okay,” he finally sighs, defeated. “But if anyone says anything at camp, I swear …”

“You will be a professional,” you interrupt gently. “You will be the bigger man, the one who doesn’t get rattled by nonsense. You are a Pittsburgh Penguin now. You hold your head high and you ignore it. Promise me.”

“… I promise,” he grumbles.

“Good. Now tell me everything. Does the locker room smell as bad as your old hockey bag?”

He laughs, the tension finally breaking. The conversation shifts to safer territory — to the intimidating size of the veteran players, the crisp, clean feel of the ice, the thrill of seeing the Stanley Cup banners hanging from the rafters. You talk for an hour, and by the time you hang up, the ugly incident has been pushed to the back of your mind.

It’s just the internet, you tell yourself. It will go away.

***

The summer passes in a blur of empty-nester prep. You help Colton pack. You make lists of things he’ll need for his apartment, should he make the team and get to move out of the team hotel. You have a “last supper” at his favorite hometown restaurant. You try, and fail, not to cry when you hug him goodbye as he gets into the car service that will take him to the airport, and to his new life.

“Call me every day,” you say, clutching the front of his shirt.

“Twice a day,” he promises, his own eyes suspiciously bright. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you more.”

And then he’s gone. The house is silent again, but this time, it’s a permanent kind of quiet.

The daily calls become a lifeline. He tells you about the grueling two-a-day practices, the punishing off-ice workouts, the sheer, breathtaking speed of the game at the NHL level. He’s exhausted, sore, and homesick, but beneath it all is a thrum of pure joy. He is living his dream.

You, meanwhile, are living a life you don’t quite recognize. You go to work — your sensible job as an office manager for a dental supply company — and you come home. You cook dinner for one. You watch whatever you want on television without having to fight for the remote. You have friends, you have hobbies, but the central organizing principle of your life for the past eighteen years is now a thousand miles away. You are unmoored.

It’s the third week of September. Main training camp is in full swing. Colton has survived the first round of cuts, the one that sends the junior-eligible kids and long-shot prospects home. He’s now skating with the big club, a minnow in a sea of sharks.

“I shared a line with Sid in a drill today,” he tells you during your nightly FaceTime call. He’s sitting on the edge of his perfectly made hotel bed, a towel slung around his neck, his hair still damp from the shower.

“Really?” You ask, propping your phone up against a pillow on your own bed. “How was that?”

“Terrifying,” he says without hesitation. “He passed me the puck and my hands turned into bricks. I completely fumbled it. It was so embarrassing.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing,” Colton says, shaking his head in disbelief. “He just circled back, picked up the puck, passed it right back to me and said, ‘Let’s try that again.’ Like it was no big deal.”

“He sounds like a good captain.”

“He’s … different,” Colton says, searching for the right word. “He doesn’t talk a lot. But when he does, everyone shuts up and listens. Even Geno. And he sees everything. It’s like he has eyes in the back of his head.”

You smile. “Well, you just keep your head down, work hard, and try not to fumble his passes.”

“That’s the plan,” he laughs. “Gotta go, Mom. Team meeting. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Love you.”

“Love you more.”

He hangs up, and you’re left staring at your own reflection on the dark screen. You feel a pang of loneliness so sharp it takes your breath away. You are proud of him, so proud it hurts. But you miss your boy.

***

The next afternoon, in the sprawling, state-of-the-art locker room at the UPMC Lemieux Sports Complex, the air is thick with the smell of sweat and liniment. Practice was a brutal, up-tempo bag skate, designed to separate the men from the boys. The veterans unwind with the practiced ease of men who have done this a thousand times. The rookies move with a quiet, nervous energy, trying to stay out of the way.

Colton is one of the last ones off the ice, getting in extra work with one of the assistant coaches.

Sidney sits on the stool in front of his stall, methodically untaping his skates. His movements are economical, precise. He’s thirty-eight now, his hair flecked with gray at the temples, but his focus is as sharp as it was when he was a rookie. He listens to the rhythm of the room — the snap of towels, the murmur of conversations, the clatter of sticks being put away. It’s the soundtrack of his life.

A few stalls down, two of the newer prospects are talking. They’re both first-year pros, up from the AHL, cocky in the way that only twenty-year-olds who haven’t been humbled yet can be. Their names are Poulter and Davies.

“Did you see Y/L/N out there today?” Poulter says, peeling off his sweat-soaked shoulder pads. “Kid can actually skate.”

“Yeah, he’s not bad,” Davies agrees. “Hey, random, but my buddy sent me this thing from the draft. A picture of his mom. Dude …”

Sid’s hands pause in their work. His focus doesn’t shift, his eyes remain on his skate laces, but his ears are open. He’s the captain. It’s his job to know the temperature of the room.

Poulter lets out a low whistle. “Oh, I know what you’re talking about. The one that was all over Twitter? She’s a total smokeshow. Unbelievable.”

“Right?” Davies says, his voice a little too loud in the cavernous room. “I saw the broadcast clip. My jaw hit the floor. Can’t believe she’s old enough to have a kid Colton’s age. She looks like she’s thirty, tops.”

“Total rocket,” Poulter confirms with a smug nod. “Y/L/N is one lucky kid. Hope she comes to the family Christmas party.”

A skate drops to the floor.

The sound is not loud, but it’s sharp, and it cuts through the chatter.

Sidney stands up. He doesn’t look angry. He looks worse. He looks disappointed. He turns his head slowly, and his gaze lands on the two young players. The room, which had been humming with low conversation, falls silent. Everyone can feel the shift in pressure.

“What was that?” Sid asks. His voice is quiet. It’s not a yell. It’s a low, cold query that carries more weight than any shout ever could.

Poulter and Davies freeze, their eyes wide. They look like two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

“Uh, nothing, Sid,” Poulter stammers. “Just … talking.”

Sid takes a slow step towards them. He’s not physically intimidating in the way that some of the bigger players are, but his presence, his aura, fills the space. “No, I heard you. You were talking about Y/L/N’s mother.”

Davies swallows hard. “We were just saying …”

“I know what you were saying,” Sid cuts him off, his voice still level, but with an edge of steel. “That’s his mother you’re talking about. His family. She’s not here to be a topic of conversation for you. She’s not here for you to rank or comment on. She’s not your entertainment.”

The two prospects shrink under his gaze, their faces burning with shame. The silence in the room is absolute. The other veterans are watching, letting the captain handle his business.

“This is a place of work,” Sid continues, his voice unwavering. “And that kid in here,” he gestures vaguely towards the showers, “is trying to earn a spot. The last thing he needs is to hear guys in his own room talking about his mom like she’s some piece of meat.”

He looks from one to the other, letting his words sink in. “Show some respect. For him. For her. For this room. Understand?”

“Yes, Sid,” they both mutter, their eyes glued to the floor. “Sorry, Sid.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” he says, his voice softening just a fraction, the lesson now delivered. He turns and walks back to his stall. The moment has passed. The tension begins to dissipate.

Just then, Evgeni Malkin, who had been silently stretching his giant frame on the floor nearby, gets to his feet. He saunters past Sid’s stall, a towel around his neck and a wide, mischievous grin on his face. He claps a hand on Sid’s shoulder.

“Is captain talk,” Geno says, his Russian accent as thick as ever. “Very serious. Good captain.”

Sid just shakes his head, a small, weary smile touching his lips. “Geno …”

Geno leans in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial rumble that is still audible to half the room. He looks at Sid, then glances over at the thoroughly chastened rookies, and then back to Sid. The grin widens, revealing a missing tooth.

“But …” Geno says, pausing for dramatic effect, “they are not wrong.”

He lets out a booming laugh, a genuine, infectious sound that finally shatters the remaining tension. He gives Sid’s shoulder another hearty slap and continues on his way to the showers, still chuckling to himself.

Sidney watches him go, the weary smile turning into a genuine one. He shakes his head again, a silent acknowledgment of his friend’s incorrigible nature. For over twenty years, Geno has been the one person who could always break through his captain’s intensity with a perfectly timed piece of absurdity.

He sits back down and picks up his other skate. The room slowly returns to its normal rhythm. But something has shifted for Sid. He thinks of the new kid, Y/L/N. A good kid. Works hard, keeps his mouth shut. He’d seen the photo from the draft, of course. It was hard to miss. A quick glance, an acknowledgment that, yes, she was a beautiful woman, and then he’d moved on. He hadn’t given it a second thought.

But now, he sees it differently. He sees the kid, trying to navigate the immense pressure of his first NHL camp. And he thinks of the mother, the one who was now the subject of locker room chatter, the one whose private moment of joy had been turned into public fodder. The one who had, by all accounts, raised this promising young man all on her own.

He makes a mental note. Look out for the kid. It’s his job as captain, but suddenly, it feels a little more personal. It’s about respect. It's about protecting the room, and that includes the families that support it.

Later that evening, you get your call from Colton. He sounds lighter, happier than he has in days.

“You’ll never guess what happened at practice,” he says, his voice buzzing with excitement.

“What?”

“We were doing this breakout drill, and I kept chipping the puck off the glass. It’s faster here, you know? The timing is different. And I was getting so frustrated. And then Sid skated by.”

“Oh?” You say, a smile in your voice. “Did he tell you to try again?”

“Better,” Colton says, practically bouncing. “He pulled me aside after the drill. He actually took five minutes and walked me through it. Showed me how to use my body to shield the puck, to get my head up a fraction of a second sooner. He said … he said I had good instincts and just needed to trust them.”

A warmth spreads through your chest. It’s one thing to be his teammate. It’s another to be his mentor.

“Wow, honey. That’s amazing.”

“I know! It was the coolest thing. He didn’t have to do that, Mom. Especially after I fumbled his pass the other day. I feel like … I don’t know. Like maybe I actually have a shot.”

“You do have a shot,” you say, your voice full of a conviction you feel deep in your bones. “You just keep listening to your captain. He sounds like a good man.”

“He is,” Colton says, his voice full of hero worship. “He really is.”

You hang up the phone that night feeling a sense of peace you haven’t felt since he left. Your son is in good hands. He’s being challenged, he’s being pushed, but he’s also being looked after.

You have no idea, of course, of the conversation that took place in the locker room. You have no idea that Sidney Crosby’s simple act of kindness was born from a moment of quiet, firm defense. A defense of a young player’s dignity, and by extension, a defense of yours. You just know your son sounds happy, and for now, that’s all that matters. You are a thousand miles away, but in a strange way, the orbit of your quiet life in Florida has just edged a little closer to the gravitational pull of a man in Pittsburgh you have never even met.

***

The call comes on a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of sleepy, sun-drenched day in central Florida where the biggest event is the mailman arriving. You’re in your kitchen, humming along to a playlist of 90s rock, chopping vegetables for a salad you will eat alone. When your phone rings, displaying Colton’s name, your heart does its customary little flip.

“Hey, honey,” you answer, wedging the phone between your ear and shoulder as you scrape diced cucumbers into a bowl. “Don’t you have practice?”

“Finished an hour ago,” he says. His voice is flat. Devoid of its usual energy. A cold dread, sharp and immediate, courses through you. You put the knife down on the counter.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, your own voice quiet. “Colton, what happened?”

This is it. The call you’ve been fearing for six weeks. The one where he tells you he’s been cut, that he’s being sent to the AHL affiliate in Wilkes-Barre, or worse, back to his junior team in London.

“I’m not coming home, Mom,” he says, and the words are a punch to the gut. You close your eyes, gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles turn white. You were prepared for this. You told yourself you were. You were lying.

“Oh, baby,” you start, the sympathy thick in your throat. “It’s okay. It’s just one step back. You’ll work hard and …”

“No,” he interrupts, and for the first time, you hear a tremor in his voice. Not sadness. Something else. Something that sounds suspiciously like suppressed joy. “You don’t understand. I’m not coming home because Coach Muse just called me into his office.”

You wait, holding your breath.

“He told me to stop living out of a suitcase,” Colton says, his voice finally cracking, the emotion breaking through like a dam. “He told me to go find an apartment.”

The world stops. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of a lawnmower, your own heartbeat — it all fades into a dull roar in your ears. You slide down the kitchen cabinets until you’re sitting on the cool tile of the floor.

“Colton,” you whisper, the name a fragile thing.

“I made the team, Mom,” he sobs, and now he’s not holding back at all. It’s a raw, ragged sound of pure, unadulterated relief. “I actually made it. I’m in the NHL.”

The tears come then, hot and silent. You cry for the exhausted eighteen-year-old on the other end of the phone, and you cry for the determined six-year-old who first stepped onto the ice, his ankles wobbling. You cry for every dollar you saved, every mile you drove, every doubt you pushed aside.

“You did it,” you say, your voice thick with tears. “Oh, my sweet boy. You really, really did it.”

“Get on a plane,” he says, his voice still shaky but now underpinned with a frantic excitement. “The season opener is Tuesday. Against the Rangers. At home. You have to be there.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you promise. “Just tell me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Are you wearing a tie right now?”

He laughs, a wet, hiccupping sound. “No, Mom.”

“Good,” you say, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “Because I’m not there to fix it.”

***

Forty-eight hours later, you are stepping out of a cab into the crisp, alien air of a Pittsburgh autumn. The sky is a brilliant, cloudless blue, and the leaves on the trees are a riot of gold and crimson. You check into a hotel downtown, the city’s iconic black and gold color scheme seemingly imprinted on every street corner.

In your room, you lay the jersey out on the bed. It’s a real one, not a knock-off. Colton had it custom-made and overnighted to you. The iconic penguin crest on the front, and on the back, in bold, white letters: Y/L/N, and beneath it, the number 42. You trace the stitching with your finger. It feels sacred.

Colton meets you in the hotel lobby before he has to head to the rink. He looks exhausted and wired all at once, a human bundle of nervous energy. He hugs you so tightly you can barely breathe.

“I’m going to throw up,” he says into your hair.

“No, you’re not,” you say, pulling back to look at him. “You’re going to go out there and play your game. The same game you’ve been playing your whole life. The ice is the same size. The puck is the same size.”

“Sidney Crosby is not the same size,” he mutters, running a hand through his already messy hair.

You laugh, smoothing down his collar. “Just try not to hit him with a pass in the skates. Here.” You hand him a small, worn photograph from your wallet. It’s a picture of him at age seven, wearing a comically oversized jersey, a gap-toothed grin on his face as he holds up his first-ever trophy. “Put this in your stall. For good luck.”

He takes it, his expression softening. “Thanks, Mom.” He pulls an envelope from his pocket. “Your ticket. Section 104, row F. It’s a good one. You’ll be right by the glass for warmups.”

“I’ll be the one screaming the loudest,” you promise.

He gives you one last, quick hug. “Gotta go. I’ll see you after.”

And then he’s gone, swallowed by the revolving door, leaving you standing in the polished lobby, your heart beating a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

***

The energy inside PPG Paints Arena is a living thing. It thrums through the soles of your shoes, a current of anticipation and civic pride. You find your seat, the jersey feeling both like a costume and a second skin. The sheer number of people, the noise, the dazzling lights — it’s a world away from the cold, quiet rinks of his youth.

The lights go down. A hype video plays on the massive scoreboard. The music thunders. And then, the team emerges from the tunnel, a stream of black and gold skating onto the pristine white ice. You’re on your feet with everyone else, craning your neck, searching.

And then you see him. Number 42.

The team makes their way down the tunnel, and then, as if by some unspoken signal, they all stop, leaving the entire sheet of ice open. All except for Colton. A few players tap his shin pads with their sticks as they pause. He looks up, confused for a second, before the realization dawns on him.

It’s the rookie lap. The tradition. His solo moment in the spotlight.

A roar goes up from the crowd as they recognize the ritual. Colton hesitates for a moment, then a shy smile breaks across his face. He takes off, his skates carving clean, powerful arcs into the fresh ice. For one solitary lap, he is the only one out there, the center of this universe, skating under the bright lights with twenty thousand people cheering for him. For your son.

The tears you’ve been holding back all day finally spill over, hot and fast. You don’t bother to wipe them away. This moment is too beautiful to be blurred.

The game itself is a 60-minute anxiety attack. It’s faster in person, more violent. The sound of a body hitting the boards in front of you is a sickening thud that makes you flinch every time. You watch Colton’s every shift, your muscles tensing whenever he goes into a corner, your breath catching whenever he rushes the puck.

Late in the first period, it happens. Colton corrals a loose puck at his own blue line and makes a smart, simple pass up to his defensive partner, who then threads a long pass to a streaking Bryan Rust. Rust fires a wrist shot that beats the Rangers’ goalie clean. The horn blares, the red light flashes, and the arena explodes.

You’re screaming, hugging the strangers next to you. A minute later, the goal is announced: “PENGUINS GOAL! Scored by #17, Bryan Rust! Assists from #58, Kris Letang, and … #42, Colton Y/L/N!”

His first NHL point.

As the celebration on the ice dies down, you see Rust skate to the net, retrieve the puck, and toss it to the bench, where a trainer catches it. You know, with a certainty that makes your heart swell, that the puck is for Colton.

The game is a back-and-forth affair. It’s tied 2-2 late in the third period. The tension is unbearable. The Penguins are pressing. Colton, seeing an opening, jumps into the play, taking a pass at the top of the faceoff circle. It’s a defenseman taking a chance, a risky move for a rookie.

He doesn’t hesitate. He winds up and fires a slapshot.

Time seems to slow down. You watch the puck leave his stick, a black blur against the white ice. It rises, finding a hole through the tangle of bodies in front of the net. The goalie, screened, reacts a split second too late.

The puck hits the back of the net with a sound that is uniquely distinct. Thwack.

The eruption of noise is volcanic. It’s a physical force that pushes you back in your seat even as you leap to your feet. Colton is mobbed by his teammates, his helmet knocked askew by a joyous head rub from Evgeni Malkin. He’s laughing, screaming, pointing to the sky.

Your scream is lost in the roar of 20,000 others. You’re jumping up and down, tears and laughter mingling on your face. He did it. He scored. His first NHL goal.

As the scrum of players disperses, you watch closely. Sidney skates calmly to the net. He reaches in, picks out the puck, and gives the referee a nod. As he skates back to the bench, he passes Colton, gives him a firm tap on the helmet, and hands the precious souvenir to the trainer. The gesture is quiet, professional, and loaded with significance. It’s the captain, acknowledging the moment. Anointing the rookie.

The Penguins hold on to win 3-2. Colton is named the third star of the game. You watch, beaming, as he skates out one last time to acknowledge the cheering crowd.

***

After the game, you navigate the labyrinthine corridors of the arena to the designated family area, a polished hallway outside the locker room doors. It’s controlled chaos, filled with stylish wives, excited children, and proud parents. You feel a little out of place in your jersey, but you don’t care.

The door opens, and Colton emerges, his face flushed with victory, his hair still wet. He spots you and his face breaks into a grin so wide it looks like it hurts. He closes the distance in three long strides and lifts you into a bone-crushing hug.

“Did you see that?!” He shouts over the din, spinning you around. “Did you actually see it?! It went in! I scored! In the NHL!”

“I saw it!” You laugh, your feet dangling above the floor. “You were amazing! The whole arena was screaming your name!”

He sets you down, his eyes shining. “Okay, okay, check this out.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out two pucks, both encased in clear plastic and wrapped in white athletic tape. On the tape, in neat black marker, are the details.

Colton Y/L/N - First NHL Point - Assist - 10/7/25 vs. NYR

Colton Y/L/N - First NHL Goal - 10/7/25 vs. NYR

He presses them into your hands. They’re heavy. Real.

“They’re for you,” he says, his voice suddenly quiet, serious. “For the mantle. For everything.”

You hold the pucks in your hands. They’re heavy, solid. They feel like everything he’s ever worked for, everything you’ve ever sacrificed for, distilled into two dense circles of vulcanized rubber.

“Colton, they’re yours,” you whisper, your throat tightening.

“Everything I have is yours,” he says simply, and with a sincerity that makes your heart ache. “We did this, remember?”

You pull him into another hug, a tight, fierce one. “I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

“Mom,” he says, his expression shifting slightly. He looks over your shoulder. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

You turn. Walking towards you, looking impossibly larger in person even without his gear, is Sidney Crosby. He’s wearing a team sweatsuit, his hair is damp, and there are the faint, tired lines of competition etched around his eyes. He looks less like a superstar and more like a man who just finished a very hard day at the office.

“Sid, this is my mom,” Colton says, his voice full of reverence. “Mom, this is Sid.”

Sidney offers you a small, genuine smile and extends a hand. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you,” he says, his voice calm and low. “You must be incredibly proud.”

You place your hand in his. His grip is firm, warm, and calloused. You are acutely aware that this is the hand that has hoisted the Stanley Cup three times. “More than you’ll ever know,” you reply, finding your voice. “Thank you. For everything. For looking out for him.”

You gesture with the puck still in your other hand. “And thank you for this. It means the world to him. To us.”

His eyes, a deep, intelligent hazel, meet yours. He holds your gaze for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. There is no hint of the locker room talk, no trace of anything other than sincere respect. 

“He earned it,” Sid says, his gaze shifting to include Colton. “Hell of a shot. It was the first of many.” He gives Colton a nod. “Great game tonight, kid. Keep it up.”

“Thanks, Sid,” Colton breathes, looking star-struck all over again.

With another polite nod to you, Sid moves on, disappearing into the crowd of families. The interaction couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds, but it leaves an electric hum in the air.

“Come on,” Colton says, pulling you from your reverie. “I’m starving. Let’s go get that celebratory dinner.”

As you walk away, arm-in-arm with your triumphant son, you can’t shake the feeling of that handshake, of that direct, unwavering gaze.

***

Sidney stands for a moment, watching you and Colton disappear down the hall. He sees the easy affection between you, the way you laugh at something your son says. It’s a world he is familiar with — the families are the bedrock of the team — but he’s always observed it from a slight distance.

A heavy hand claps him on the shoulder, making him jolt.

“Captain is thinking hard,” Evgeni Malkin rumbles beside him, a wide, knowing grin on his face.

“Just tired, Geno,” Sid says, turning to head back toward the locker room. “Long game.”

“Tired?” Geno says, easily keeping pace. “Or you see pretty mama and now your brain is scrambled egg?”

Sid shoots him a warning look, but there’s no heat behind it. “Don’t start.”

“She is good looking,” Geno continues, ignoring him completely. “I see from bench. Very nice. Young guys are not so stupid, eh?”

Kris Letang falls into step on Sid’s other side, toweling his perfectly coiffed hair. He looks impossibly fresh for someone who just played 25 minutes of hockey.

“He’s not wrong, Sid,” Letang says, his French-Canadian accent smooth as silk. “She’s very elegant. You can see where Colton gets his good manners from.” He winks. “And he’s a good kid. You’d be doing him a favor, really. Being a positive male role model.”

Sid stops, turning to face his two oldest friends, his two longest-tenured teammates. “Are you guys serious? That’s Y/L/N’s mom. He’s my rookie. He’s eighteen. Stop it.”

Geno just laughs, a loud, booming sound. “So? You are old. You need nice woman. She is nice woman. Is simple math.”

“It’s not math, it’s … inappropriate,” Sid insists, feeling a ridiculous flush creep up his neck.

Letang smirks. “Is it? Or are you just scared, Captain?”

Sid throws his hands up in exasperation, a gesture of pure defeat that only Geno and Tanger can elicit from him. He turns and walks away, leaving them laughing in the hallway.

But as he retreats to the quiet of the empty locker room, he can’t brush it off. He thinks of the way your eyes lit up when you talked about your son. He thinks of the strength in your handshake, the genuine gratitude in your voice. He thinks of the easy, unguarded smile you gave Colton as you walked away.

Don’t be ridiculous, he tells himself, pulling off his sweatsuit. She’s Colton’s mom.

But for the first time in a very long time, the ever-sensible, always-focused voice of reason in Sidney’s head sounds a little less convincing than he’d like.

***

The six weeks since the home opener have settled into a new, strange rhythm. Your life in Florida continues its quiet, orderly pace, while Colton’s life in Pittsburgh unfolds in a series of frantic, exhilarating highlights you watch on a screen. You’ve become an expert on the NHL’s streaming package, your evenings now dictated by the Penguins’ schedule. You learn the names of the broadcasters, the tendencies of the referees, and the particular way your son looks when he’s tired versus when he’s frustrated.

It's a strange, disconnected intimacy. You talk on the phone every day, but it’s not the same. You miss the comfortable chaos of having him in the house.

So when he texts you on a Tuesday morning, it’s like a beacon of light.

Colton: Hey Mom. We play the Lightning in Tampa on Saturday night. It’s a quick trip, just in and out. You should come.

Your fingers fly across the screen.

You: I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Already looking up hotels.

Colton: No need. I got you a room at the team hotel. It’s all set. Just drive down Saturday.

The casualness of it, the ease with which he can now provide for you, sends a fresh wave of pride washing over you. For eighteen years, you handled the logistics of his entire life. Now, he’s handling yours.

***

Saturday arrives, and you make the two-hour drive from Orlando to Tampa with the windows down, the warm November air a welcome balm. You check into the gleaming waterfront hotel, your room offering a panoramic view of the bay. It’s a level of luxury you’re still not quite used to.

You meet Colton in the hotel lobby for a quick, pre-game lunch. He looks good, if a little tired. The grind of an 84-game season is starting to set in.

“Are you excited?” He asks, stealing a french fry from your plate.

“Are you kidding? I’m ecstatic,” you say. “I can’t wait to see you play in person again. It’s not the same on TV.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “It’ll be good to have you there. It feels … normal.”

The word hangs in the air between you. Nothing about this life is normal, but having you in the stands, that’s a piece of the past he can hold onto. He gives you your ticket, hugs you tight, and heads off with the team for their pre-game meetings and nap. You’re left with a few hours to kill, your own nerves starting to hum with a familiar, pre-game frequency.

***

In the visitor’s locker room at Amalie Arena, the atmosphere is loose but focused. The Penguins are on a winning streak, and the mood is light. Players are getting their sticks taped, stretching, going through their individual rituals.

Sidney is sitting in his stall, methodically lacing his skates, his mind already running through the game plan. He’s trying to focus, but his two longest-tenured teammates are making it difficult.

“So, Captain,” Geno says, plopping down on the stool next to him with a dramatic sigh. He’s already in his full gear, minus the helmet. “You see rookie’s mom tonight? You say hello? Or you hide in here like scared little boy?”

Sid doesn’t look up from his laces. “I’m focusing on the game, Geno. We’re playing a very good hockey team.”

Kris, stretching his groin against the wall nearby, laughs. “He says that every time. Sid, the universe is giving you a sign. An away game in her backyard. You just have to walk up to her in the family area after the game and say, ‘Would you like to get a drink?’”

“It’s not that simple,” Sid mutters, pulling a lace tight with a sharp tug.

“Is that simple!” Geno insists, gesturing with his massive, gloved hands. “You are Sidney Crosby. She is beautiful woman. You say, ‘You, me, drink.’ What is problem?”

“The problem is that she’s the mother of our eighteen-year-old rookie defenseman who sits three stalls down from me,” Sid says, his voice low and firm. “It’s a line you don’t cross. End of story.”

“Excuses,” Kris says, switching legs. “You’ve been weird since you met her at the home opener. Just finally work up the balls and ask her out.”

“I’m not having this conversation …” Sid starts to say, but his voice trails off.

His eyes have flickered up and landed on the doorway to the trainer’s room. Standing there, holding a freshly sharpened pair of skates, is Colton.

Colton has frozen mid-stride. His eyes are wide. It’s impossible to know how much he heard, but judging by the way the color is draining from his face, he heard enough.

The joking banter in the room dies instantly. The handful of other players who were within earshot suddenly find the tape on their sticks fascinating. The air grows thick with a horrified, awkward silence.

Geno and Kris exchange a wide-eyed, ‘oh shit’ look.

Sid’s heart plummets into his stomach. This is it. This is exactly what he was afraid of. He’s embarrassed his rookie, made him uncomfortable in his own locker room, and shattered the professional boundary he values so highly.

He stands up, his skates still untied, and takes a step towards Colton. His mind is racing. He has to fix this.

“Colton,” he says, his voice low and urgent, full of sincere regret. “Man, I am so sorry you heard that. They’re just messing around, you know how they are. I want you to know, I have the utmost respect for you, and for your mom. I would never, ever cross that line. It was just a stupid locker room joke. It won’t happen again.”

He’s rambling, he knows it, but he can’t stop. He needs to convey how deeply he means it.

Colton just stands there for a second, his expression unreadable. Then he seems to shake himself out of his stupor. He walks past Sid to his own stall, sets his skates down, and begins to untie his shoes. He doesn’t say a word.

Sid follows him, his voice dropping even lower. “Seriously, Colton. I’m mortified. It’s unprofessional and …”

“Sid.”

Colton cuts him off, his voice quiet but firm. He finally looks up from his shoes, and his eyes meet Sid’s. There’s no anger in them. There’s something else. Something thoughtful.

“It’s okay,” Colton says.

Sid blinks, completely thrown. “No, it’s not okay. I put you in a terrible position.”

“No,” Colton says, shaking his head as he pulls off a running shoe. “Just … listen.” He takes a deep breath, and it feels like every other person in that corner of the room is holding theirs.

“My mom,” he begins, his voice steady, “she’s been a mom since she was eighteen years old. That’s it. That’s all she’s ever really gotten to be. Her entire adult life, every single decision she’s made, has been about me.”

Sid, Geno, and Kris are silent, listening with a new, sober attention.

“The jobs she worked — waitressing at night so she could drive me to practice in the morning. Where we lived — always making sure it was in the right school district for the hockey program. What she did on weekends … it was never for her. It was always driving to some tournament in the middle of nowhere, sitting in a freezing cold rink for six hours, just for me.”

He pauses, his gaze becoming distant for a second, lost in a memory. “She never dated. Not really. I remember she went on a few dates when I was in middle school. This one guy was a real jerk, and he made some comment about how much time she spent on my hockey. She came home that night, and I heard her crying in her room.” He swallows hard. “After that, she just … stopped. She told me once she didn’t have time for anyone who wasn’t 100% in on ‘Team Colton’.”

He looks back at Sid, his eyes boring into him with an unnerving intensity. “She deserves to have her own team now. She deserves to go to dinner with someone who isn’t her son. She deserves a good guy.”

He lets that hang in the air for a beat. “And you’re a good guy, Sid. I see how you treat people. The trainers, the staff, the rookies … everyone. You’re the best guy I know.”

Sid is speechless. This conversation has veered into territory he could never have anticipated. He feels a deeper respect for this kid blooming in his chest, so strong it almost knocks him off balance.

Then, Colton’s expression shifts. The softness hardens into something protective, fierce. It’s the look he gets before he’s about to clear the front of the net.

“But,” he says, his voice dropping a little, “I swear to God, if you ever, ever hurt her … you need to understand something.” He takes a half-step closer. He’s no longer a rookie talking to his captain, he’s a son talking about his mother.

“If you make her cry, if you aren’t completely honest with her, if you disrespect her in any way … I know what the deal is. I know you’re Sidney Crosby, and I’m some kid on an entry-level contract who could be on a bus to Wheeling tomorrow. I know you could probably make one phone call and I’d never play in this league again.”

He leans in, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. “But spending the rest of my career playing in the ECHL would be absolutely worth it to me if it meant I got to protect my mom from a broken heart. Are we clear?”

The silence in the locker room is now so absolute you could hear a pin drop. Geno and Kris are staring, their jaws practically on the floor.

Sidney Crosby, a man who has faced down 250-pound defensemen his entire life, who has played through immense pain in the crucible of the Stanley Cup Final, finds himself completely intimidated by an eighteen-year-old kid. And he respects the hell out of him for it.

He can only nod, his throat suddenly dry. “Crystal clear, Colton.”

And just like that, the tension breaks. Colton’s face relaxes into a small, wry smile. The fierce protector vanishes, replaced by the easy-going kid.

“Okay, good,” he says, as if he hadn’t just threatened the career of a living legend. He starts pulling on his hockey socks. “So, after the game … her favorite place is a little Italian spot about twenty minutes from the arena. It’s over in Ybor City. It’s called Bernini of Ybor. She loves their gnocchi.”

He stands up and claps Sid on the shoulder, a shockingly familiar gesture that makes Sid’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I expect her home by midnight, Captain.”

And with that, Colton Y/L/N turns, grabs his helmet, and heads out of the room towards the ice for warmups, leaving his captain, and two of the league’s most seasoned veterans, completely and utterly speechless.

Geno is the first one to move. He lets out a long, slow whistle.

“Wow,” he says, his voice full of awe. “Rookie has, how you say … very big balls.”

Kris is just shaking his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Kid’s got his priorities straight. Damn.” He looks at Sid. “Well, you got the green light, my friend. And a shovel talk from a guy who can’t legally buy you a beer.”

Sid is still processing the whiplash of the last five minutes. He feels like he’s just been through a full-speed collision. The kid’s fierce loyalty, his surprising maturity, his unconditional love for his mom … it’s overwhelming. He’s not just thinking about you anymore. He’s thinking about the incredible young man you raised.

The pre-game buzzer sounds, jarring him back to reality. He has a game to play. But as he finishes tying his skates, his mind is already miles away, replaying Colton’s words.

She deserves a good guy.

The question is no longer if he should ask you out. The question is how he can possibly live up to the impossibly high standard your son just set.

***

The game is a hard-fought, gritty win for the Penguins. A 3-2 victory where Colton plays solid, defensive minutes, finishing the game with a plus-one rating and a handful of blocked shots. You watch from your seat, your heart swelling with a quieter, more sustainable kind of pride. The shock of his first goal has worn off, replaced by the steady joy of watching him belong. He is an NHL defenseman. It’s no longer a dream, it’s his job.

After the final horn, you make your way to the designated family waiting area, a familiar ritual now. The space is smaller and less glamorous than the one in Pittsburgh, but the energy is the same — a low hum of relief and celebration.

The players begin to emerge. Colton spots you immediately, a tired but happy grin on his face. He comes over and gives you a sweaty, all-encompassing hug.

“You play so well tonight, honey,” you say, pulling back to look at him. “That blocked shot in the third was incredible.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he says, his face flushed. “Felt that one in my teeth.” He looks over your shoulder, then back at you, a strange, meaningful glint in his eye. “Hey, can you just wait here for a sec? Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

He says it with a forced casualness that immediately puts you on high alert. Before you can question him, he squeezes your arm and disappears back towards the locker room. You stand there, puzzled, watching the remaining players trickle out.

And then you see him. Sidney emerges from the tunnel, flanked by Geno and Kris. He’s laughing at something Geno said, his face relaxed. He looks up, and his eyes meet yours from across the room. The laughter dies on his lips. He freezes for a split second, a deer caught in the headlights. He gives you a small, hesitant nod of acknowledgment and looks like he’s about to make a sharp right turn and flee.

You watch, fascinated, as an entire silent drama unfolds in the space of three seconds. Geno stops, looks from Sid to you, and then back to Sid with an expression of profound exasperation.

“Sid,” Geno says, his voice a low rumble. “Go now. No excuses.”

Sid shakes his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes pleading. “Geno, I can’t.”

Geno is having none of it. He puts a massive, gloved hand on the middle of Sid’s back. “Yes. You can.”

And then he shoves him.

It’s not a gentle nudge. It’s a full-body, hockey-player push that sends Sidney Crosby — three-time Stanley Cup champion, future Hall of Famer — stumbling forward several steps in your direction. He catches his balance with the practiced grace of a world-class athlete, but his face is a mask of pure mortification. He whips his head around to glare at Geno, who simply beams, gives him a huge, toothy grin, and a double thumbs-up before steering Kris in the opposite direction.

And now, Sidney Crosby is standing five feet in front of you, looking more flustered than you’ve ever seen a human being look. It’s so unexpected, so completely at odds with his public persona, that you can’t help the small smile that touches your lips.

“Uh,” he starts, running a hand through his damp hair. “Hi. Sorry about that.”

“Hi, Sidney,” you say, your voice full of amusement. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fine,” he says quickly, his eyes darting back towards where Geno disappeared. “He’s … strong.” He clears his throat, his professional composure starting to reassert itself, though his cheeks are still tinged with pink. “It was a great game tonight. Colton played really well. Very responsible in his own end.”

He’s deflecting, you realize. Using hockey talk as a shield.

“He did,” you agree. “I was so proud watching him.”

An awkward silence descends. It stretches for a beat, then two. He’s clearly struggling with something. He takes a deep breath, the kind a person takes before plunging into icy water. His gaze meets yours, direct and sincere now.

“So,” he says, his voice a little shaky. “I know this is … this is probably very forward. And maybe out of line. But Colton happened to mention that you like Italian food.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“And I was wondering,” he continues, the words coming out in a slight rush, “if you weren’t too tired, or if you don’t have other plans … if you would let me take you to dinner?”

The question hangs in the air between you, stunning you into silence. Sidney Crosby is asking you out on a date. You feel a thrill, a flutter in your stomach you haven’t felt since you were a teenager yourself. You glance over his shoulder and, as if on cue, Colton peeks out from the locker room doorway. He catches your eye and gives you two enthusiastic, frantic thumbs-up.

The pieces click into place. Colton’s strange behavior, Geno’s shove … it was all a conspiracy. A ridiculous, sweet, high-school-level plot to get the shy captain to talk to the rookie’s mom.

A real, genuine smile breaks across your face, erasing any hesitation.

“I’d love that, Sidney.”

The relief that floods his face is so obvious it’s almost comical. “Yeah? Great. That’s … great.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting across from him in a quiet corner booth at Bernini of Ybor. You’d ridden over in a black car service the team uses, the silence between you filled with the nervous energy of a first date. The restaurant is beautiful, all dark wood and exposed brick, with the low, warm hum of happy diners.

The conversation starts as you expected it would — stilted, polite, and centered around the one thing you have in common: hockey.

“The power play looked good tonight,” you offer, taking a sip of the red wine the waiter recommended.

“Yeah, we’ve been working on the zone entry,” he says, studying his own menu intently. “Getting the puck in with possession is key against a team that pressures like Tampa.”

You talk about Colton’s development, about the team’s schedule, about the different feel of the arenas around the league. It’s nice. It’s safe. But it’s not a date. It’s an interview.

Then, you decide to take a page out of Geno’s book and give things a little push.

“So,” you say, setting your menu down. “What does Sidney Crosby do when he’s not being Sidney Crosby? When the season is over and you can finally breathe. What do you do?”

The question seems to surprise him. He looks up from his menu, his guard dropping for a fraction of a second. “That’s a good question.” He pauses, genuinely considering it. “I go home. To Nova Scotia. I have a place on the lake. It’s quiet.”

“Quiet sounds nice,” you say.

“It is,” he agrees. “It’s the one place I don’t feel like … you know.” He gestures vaguely, a motion that encompasses the restaurant, the fans, the entire world of expectations that surrounds him. “I just fish. See my family. My sister, Taylor. My parents. It’s … normal.”

There’s that word again. The same one Colton used. The longing for normalcy from two people living the most abnormal of lives.

“It must have been a lot,” you say softly. “Being ‘The Next One’ since you were fifteen.”

He gives you a small, wry smile. “It had its moments. It’s a weird way to grow up. Your whole life is scheduled. Hotels, buses, planes, rinks. You miss a lot of stuff. High school dances, proms, just … hanging out.” He shrugs, a gesture of acceptance. “But I got to play hockey for a living. It’s a trade I’d make every single time.”

He leans forward, his elbows on the table, his intensity focused entirely on you now. “What about you? Colton told me … he told me you were eighteen when you had him.”

“I was,” you confirm, your voice steady. “A baby having a baby.”

“You sacrificed a lot for him,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact.

You feel a lump form in your throat, an old, familiar knot of emotion. “They never felt like sacrifices,” you say, and it’s the truest thing you’ve ever said. “When you’re a parent, it’s just … what you do. His dream became my dream. There wasn’t a line between the two.”

“But you must have had your own dreams,” he presses gently.

You find yourself telling him things you haven’t articulated to anyone in years. About your plan to go to college for graphic design. About the part-time jobs that became full-time careers. About the loneliness of parent-teacher conferences and the specific, gut-wrenching fear of your car breaking down when you only have fifty-three dollars in your bank account until payday.

He listens. He doesn’t just hear the words; he actively listens, his eyes full of a deep, quiet empathy. He doesn’t offer platitudes or sympathy. He just nods, creating a safe space for you to speak.

Then, you turn it back on him. “What about you? All those years on the road. It must get lonely.”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re surrounded by twenty guys all the time, but yeah. It’s a different kind of lonely. Everyone knows the hockey player. Not a lot of people know the person. It’s hard to know who you can trust.”

You talk for two hours. You talk about favorite movies, bad travel experiences, the weirdness of being recognized in public, and the simple joy of a home-cooked meal. You discover he has a dry, understated sense of humor that makes you laugh, a real, deep belly laugh you realize you haven’t done in ages. You feel a connection, a spark of recognition between two people who have lived strangely parallel lives of dedication and sacrifice, albeit in vastly different arenas.

For the first time in as long as you can remember, you are not just “Colton’s mom.” You are you. And the man across from you, he’s not just “Sidney Crosby.” He’s Sid. A kind, funny, surprisingly shy man from Nova Scotia with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

As he pays the bill — insisting over your protests — he smiles. “Colton was right. The gnocchi is amazing.”

“He’s usually right about things like that,” you say, smiling back.

The ride back to the hotel is different. The silence isn’t awkward anymore. It’s comfortable, companionable. He walks you all the way to your hotel room door.

“I had a really, really great time tonight,” he says, his voice sincere. He’s standing a little closer than he needs to.

“Me too, Sid,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

He just nods, his eyes lingering on yours for a long moment before he gives you a small, shy smile and turns to walk down the hall to his own room.

You let yourself into your room, your mind reeling. You lean against the door, a goofy, giddy smile plastered on your face. You feel light, hopeful. You feel like a teenager after a perfect first date.

There’s a soft knock on the adjoining door that connects your room to Colton’s. You open it.

He’s standing there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his expression a comical mixture of a nosy best friend and a worried father.

“Okay,” he says, walking into your room and closing the door behind him. “Full debrief. Now.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up out of pure happiness. “Debrief on what, Mr. Nosy?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Mom,” he says, flopping down onto the edge of your bed. He crosses his arms, trying to look stern and failing miserably. “How was it? Was he a gentleman? Did he make you laugh? Did he say anything stupid? Do I need to go down the hall and kick my captain’s ass?”

“It was wonderful, Colton,” you say, your voice soft. You sink into the armchair opposite the bed. “He was a perfect gentleman. And yes, he made me laugh. A lot.”

The tension drains from Colton’s shoulders, replaced by a genuine, heartfelt relief. “Good,” he says, his voice losing its joking edge. “That’s good. You deserve that.” Then the stern look returns. “Because I meant what I said, you know.”

“I know you did, sweetie,” you say, your heart overflowing with love for this incredible young man you raised. “And that’s one of the million reasons why I love you so much.”

He smiles, a real, happy smile. “I love you too, Mom.” He gets up to leave, then pauses at the adjoining door, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Just one last thing,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“It’s 11:58,” he says, glancing at an imaginary watch on his wrist. “You cut it a little close on curfew.”

You grab the decorative pillow off the armchair and hurl it at him. He dodges it with a laugh, slipping back into his room and closing the door, leaving you alone in the quiet, happy glow of a night that feels, impossibly, like a new beginning.

***

The months that follow your first date in Tampa are a whirlwind of quiet moments stitched together across time zones. The relationship builds not in grand, sweeping gestures, but in the steady accumulation of small, private intimacies.

It’s in the nightly FaceTime calls that become as routine as brushing your teeth. You’ll be curled up on your sofa in Orlando, and he’ll be in a sterile hotel room in Calgary or San Jose, his face tired but his eyes lighting up when he sees you. You talk about everything and nothing — about your day at work, about a funny text Colton sent, about the book you’re reading, about the nagging soreness in his shoulder.

It’s in the dinners when the Penguins are on a home stand in Pittsburgh. He’ll send a car for you, and you’ll fly in for a weekend, staying in a hotel near his home. He introduces you to his favorite sushi place, a tiny, unassuming spot where the owner knows not to make a fuss. He holds your hand under the table, his thumb gently stroking yours, a silent, grounding connection in a world that is always watching him.

Colton, for his part, becomes the wry, supportive gatekeeper of your burgeoning romance. He develops a running joke with his captain.

“Taking my mom out again tonight, Sid?” He’ll ask in the locker room after a morning skate, a twinkle in his eye. “Don’t scratch my car.” The first time he said it, a few of the younger players nearly fainted. Now, it’s just part of the room’s rhythm.

Sid will just shake his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “Not your car, kid. And I’ll have her home by curfew.”

The season grinds on. Colton solidifies his place on the blue line, his confidence growing with every game. The Penguins make a respectable playoff run, battling their way to the second round before being eliminated in a hard-fought six-game series.

The end of the season is always abrupt. One day, there is the singular, all-consuming focus of the Stanley Cup playoffs. The next, there is silence. Boxes to be packed, goodbyes to be said, and the sudden, yawning expanse of the offseason.

You’re in Pittsburgh for the team’s exit meetings, helping Colton pack up the apartment he moved into mid-season. Sid had insisted on taking both of you out for one last dinner before you all scattered for the summer.

You’re at a quiet steakhouse, tucked away in a corner booth. The conversation is easy, comfortable. You’re talking about summer plans. Colton is excited to get home to Florida, to feel the sun, to decompress for a few weeks before his intense training regimen begins.

“What about you, Sid?” Colton asks, polishing off the last of his steak. “Straight back to Nova Scotia?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan,” Sid says, swirling the ice in his water glass. He looks at you, his expression uncharacteristically hesitant. “I was, uh, actually wanting to talk to you both about that.”

You and Colton exchange a curious glance.

“I know the summer is a weird time,” Sid begins, his eyes focused on you. “Everyone scatters. But I go home. To my lake house in Cole Harbour. And it’s … it’s my favorite place in the world. It’s the one place I can just shut everything off.”

He takes a breath. “I was wondering, and I know it’s a lot to ask, and please feel free to say no … but I’d love for you to see it.” He shifts his gaze to include Colton. “I’d love for both of you to come up. For the summer. Or for as long as you want. Colton, you can train with me and Nate. We’ve got a pretty serious setup there. It’ll get you ready for next season.”

Then, his eyes find yours again, and his voice softens. “And you … you can just relax. Read a book by the lake. Go for a walk. Finally have a summer that isn’t about packing up gear and driving to a rink.”

The offer is so full of sincerity, so loaded with unspoken meaning, that it takes your breath away. This isn’t just an invitation for a vacation. This is an invitation into his life. Into his sanctuary.

You look at Colton. His eyes are wide, a slow, incredulous grin spreading across his face. He looks from Sid to you, and he gives the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod.

You turn back to Sid, a warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with the wine.

“Sid,” you say, your voice a little thick. “We’d love to.”

***

Three weeks later, you step off a plane in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and the air is the first thing you notice. It’s clean, cool, and smells of pine and the faint, briny tang of the distant sea. It’s a world away from the thick, humid blanket of a Florida summer.

Sid is there to meet you, looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him. He’s in a simple t-shirt, shorts, and a baseball cap. The ever-present tension he carries in his shoulders during the season seems to have melted away. He hugs you, a long, welcoming embrace that feels different here, on his home turf.

The drive to Cole Harbour is beautiful, all rolling green hills and glimpses of the sparkling Atlantic. You eventually turn off the main road and onto a long, winding gravel driveway, trees forming a dense canopy overhead. And then, the woods open up, and you see it.

His house is not the ostentatious mansion you might expect. It’s a beautiful, modern log-and-stone home, nestled perfectly into the landscape, with a wall of windows overlooking a serene, glass-like lake. It’s private, peaceful, and unpretentious. It’s perfectly him.

“Wow,” is all Colton can manage to say from the back seat.

“Yeah,” Sid says, a quiet pride in his voice. “It’s home.”

The summer settles into a rhythm that feels both brand new and deeply familiar. The mornings are for work. Sid and Colton, often joined by a ridiculously energetic Nathan MacKinnon, are gone by 7 a.m. for grueling workouts in Sid’s state-of-the-art home gym, followed by on-ice sessions at a local rink.

You spend your mornings with a cup of coffee and a book on the huge wooden deck that overlooks the lake. You watch the mist burn off the water, listen to the haunting call of the loons, and feel the layers of stress and responsibility you’ve carried for two decades begin to peel away. For the first time in your adult life, your only job is to simply be.

The afternoons are lazy and beautiful. Sometimes the three of you take the boat out, the cool spray a welcome relief in the afternoon sun. Colton learns to waterski, his athletic prowess translating surprisingly well. Other days, you and Sid just sit on the end of the dock, your feet dangling in the shockingly cold water, and talk for hours.

One Sunday, he takes you to his parents’ house for dinner. You’re nervous, but Troy and Trina Crosby welcome you with the easy, unpretentious warmth of Maritime hospitality. They treat you not as a guest, but as family.

Trina pulls you aside in the kitchen as you’re helping her clear the plates. She’s a woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense air you immediately like and respect.

“I haven’t seen Sidney this relaxed, this happy, in years,” she says, her voice quiet as she stacks plates. “Since he was a boy, really. His whole life has been about the pressure. With you, it’s like he can finally just be himself.” She turns to you, her expression full of a mother’s gratitude. “Thank you.”

“He did that himself,” you say, deeply touched. “He’s a wonderful man.”

“Yes,” she agrees, a proud smile on her face. “He is. And he’s got good taste.”

***

One clear, cool night in August, after a long day on the water, you’re all sitting around a crackling fire pit near the edge of the lake. The sky is a deep, star-dusted velvet, the Milky Way a brilliant slash across the darkness.

“I can’t believe we have to leave in two weeks,” Colton says, poking the fire with a long stick. “This has been the best summer of my life.”

“You’ve earned it, kid,” Sid says, his arm resting comfortably around your shoulders. “You put in the work.”

“Thanks to you,” Colton says. “I feel twice as strong as I did last year. I’m ready.” He looks from Sid to you, a deep, mature gratitude in his eyes. He stands up, stretching his long frame. “Alright, I’m beat. I’m heading in. Don’t stay up too late, you two.”

He gives you a kiss on the top of your head and claps Sid on the shoulder before heading up to the house, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fire-lit dark.

You lean your head on Sid’s shoulder, watching the embers dance. “He’s really grown up this year,” you say softly.

“He’s an incredible young man,” Sid agrees. “You did a hell of a job.”

You sit in comfortable silence for a long time, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore.

“A year ago,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, “I was sitting at the draft in Las Vegas. I was so proud, and so terrified. I had no idea what was coming. I was just trying to hold on tight.”

“And I was in the Penguins locker room,” he says, his voice a low rumble next to your ear, “about to draft a kid from the London Knights who was going to completely change my life.”

He shifts, turning to face you. He takes your hand, his fingers lacing through yours.

“I love you,” he says. The words are simple, direct, and hold the weight of a truth he’s been settling into all summer. “I think I’ve been falling in love with you since that first night in Tampa.”

Tears well in your eyes, sparkling in the firelight. “I love you, too, Sid.”

“When I asked you to come here,” he continues, his thumb stroking the back of your hand, “I just hoped you’d like it. I hoped it would be a nice summer. But seeing you here, on the deck in the morning with your coffee, laughing with my mom in the kitchen, sitting right here … it feels like you’ve always been here.”

He brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently.

“It feels like home.”

He leans in, and his lips meet yours. It’s not the tentative kiss of a new romance, full of questions and uncertainty. It’s a kiss of deep certainty. It’s a kiss that tastes of woodsmoke and promises, of a shared past and a future you will build together.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You look past him, at the dark, peaceful water, at the sturdy, welcoming house, at the brilliant, endless sky. For eighteen years, home was wherever Colton was. It was a person, a responsibility, a fierce and unconditional love.

Now, you realize with a sudden, breathtaking clarity, home has expanded. It’s still the boy, now a man, sleeping soundly in the house behind you. But it’s also the man whose hand you’re holding, the quiet sanctuary he’s built, and the incredible, unexpected love that has filled a part of your heart you didn’t even know was empty. You’re not just Colton’s mom, and he’s not just Sidney Crosby. You’re partners. And you are, finally and completely, home.

***

Three Years Later

The locker room at PPG Paints Arena smells exactly the same. It’s a timeless mixture of sweat, clean laundry, and the sharp, metallic tang of sharpened skates. The energy, however, is different. It’s younger. There’s a new guard, a new rhythm.

Colton Y/L/N, now twenty-two and an alternate captain with a freshly stitched ‘A’ on his jersey, sits on the stool in front of his stall. He’s no longer the wide-eyed rookie trying to stay out of the way. He is the anchor of the defense, a leader in this room, fielding questions from a small cluster of reporters with an easy, practiced calm. The Penguins have just won their season opener, and the mood is buoyant.

“… yeah, I thought the new pairings felt good,” Colton is saying, peeling tape off his shin pads. “Communication was solid. We’ve still got things to clean up, but for the first game, you take the two points and build on it.”

A new voice pipes up from the edge of the scrum. He’s a young reporter from The Athletic, keen to find an angle the veteran journalists might have overlooked.

“Colton,” the reporter begins, “obviously this is the first opening night in a generation without Sidney Crosby being a part of this team. How weird does it feel to start a season without him around?”

Colton stops what he’s doing. He slowly looks up, his expression completely flat. The other, more seasoned reporters around the young man share a subtle, knowing glance. The kid has just stepped on a landmine he doesn’t even know exists.

A long, silent beat passes. Colton just stares, his gaze so incredulous it’s almost comical. Then, a low chuckle escapes his lips. It builds into a full, genuine laugh. He shakes his head, running a hand over his hair.

“Weird to not have him around?” Colton repeats, the question thick with amusement. He picks up his water bottle and takes a long drink, making the reporter wait. “Man, I don’t know,” he says, finally lowering the bottle. “It’s sort of hard to feel that way considering I ate breakfast across from him this morning while he was getting spit up on by my baby sister.”

A stunned silence falls over the scrum. The reporters exchange confused looks. The young journalist who asked the question looks completely lost.

“Your … your baby sister?” He stammers, his pen hovering uselessly over his notepad.

Colton’s expression shifts. He leans forward slightly, adopting the patient, overly-enunciated tone one might use with a small child who can’t grasp a simple concept.

“Yeah,” Colton explains slowly. “Callie. She’s six months old. You know. Little human? Cries, sleeps, spits up on my mom’s husband?”

He lets the words hang in the air, a breadcrumb trail the reporter is still failing to follow. The kid’s face is a perfect mask of incomprehension.

Colton lets out a dramatic, long-suffering sigh.

“Sidney Crosby,” he clarifies, as if explaining 2+2=4. “He’s married to my mom. He’s my stepdad. We live in the same house.”

The collective sound of frantic typing fills the room as the other reporters hammer out their new headlines. The young reporter’s jaw has physically dropped.

Colton grins, the last piece of the puzzle finally clicking into place for the poor kid.

“So, no,” Colton finishes, a triumphant twinkle in his eye. “It’s not weird not having him around.”

He takes another long swig of water, the universal sign for this interview is over. He stands up, stretching his tired frame.

His nose drags down against you, down between your cheeks, finding your slick and puffy lips, his tongue darting out to lick through your folds. A primal growl roars from his chest, taking a deep breath. He's more alive when he's like this, down on one knee, you bent over any surface - tonight it was Robby's bathroom sink, your stepdad and mom downstairs, entertaining other guests - every bit of your arousal, intoxicating as it is, flooding him, heading straight for his cock stuffed tight and uncomfortably inside his pants.

“How long do you think we've got, kid?” He asks, his question half-formed, the words melting to your skin, his lips skimming across your left cheek with a chaste kiss. He pulls at his belt, the buckle pulling loose, leaving the black strip of worn leather to hang from his waist as he unfastens his pants. “Five? Ten minutes?”

He could make you come in three, but he wasn't looking to brag right now.

“Depends; Mom's still telling Dana about hers and Robby's three week stay in Paris, and after that, she'll probably drag her off to the kitchen, or start talking about Stockholm, leaving Robby and Benji to sit in awkward silence-”

“It's a simple answer,” Jack cuts you off, “you're not solving some math equation.”

You glare at him through the mirror. “Kinda hard to think when you keep sticking your tongue in my cunt.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and dark, and it rattles around the back of his throat, before driving home your point by seeing how deep he can get his tongue inside your aching hole. Your head drops, your chin nearly touching your chest, and you whimper out nothing but utter nonsense, taking his tongue.

From below, there's a chorus of laughter - Robby probably just told Dana and Benji the joke he heard from another tourist - snapping you back to reality.

“Ten minutes,” you breathe out, nearly knocking off the toothbrush holder, your body jerking as Jack loses himself in the moment, his hand striking your bum. “Jesus-!”

“Just me,” Jack quips, grinning against you.

You roll your eyes. “God, you're insufferable.”

He just hums, lapping his tongue against you, meeting your clit with soft flicks, and caressing the skin he had just swatted.

“Can't spend all the time down there, Jack.”

“Just a little longer,” he mutters, curving his arm under your body, reaching to toy with your clit. Your back arches as he rubs it with lazy circles, the pressure just enough to contort your body. He was playing you like you were an instrument and he had you singing all the right notes. “Wanna play with her first, don't want it to hurt.”

You bite your lip. “Oh, because you're soooo big.”

His fingers slap against your clit, making you gasp. “We both know I am, kid,” he retorts, before slotting his mouth back on your cunt. His tongue drives deep, groaning at the sweet taste dripping into his mouth, moving his tongue slowly to both savour and tease you. “Fuck-!” He growls, ripping himself away. “It's just so addictive.”

His hands grab your hips, spinning you around, and you hoist yourself up onto the counter, your dress still bundled up around your waist.

“Come here,” he mumbles, hooking his rough hands under your knees. You gasp, getting pulled to the edge. “Been thinking about this all day.”

“You've been thinking about fucking me in Robby's bathroom all day?”

His lips twitch. “I've been thinking about fucking you all day,” he corrects, shoving his pants down just past his bum. He untucks his cock, the tip a deep red, swollen and weeping tears of precum, and he spits a glob of saliva into his hand, wiping it over and down the shaft. “It just so happens that it's happening here,” he says with a shit eating grin, winking as he catches your eye.

He guides the head along your slit, teasing out a soft gasp as he nudges it against your clit. Wanting to hear it a second time, he does it again, but your face just twists with annoyed scowl.

“Okay, okay,” Jack chuckles, notching himself against your entrance, pushing forwards with a quick thrust, plunging his whole cock inside. His hand slaps over your mouth as he does, catching a loud moan. “Look at that,” he directs his gaze down, the sight of you stretched so beautiful to him, “taking it all, kid.”

Your knuckles hurt, your grip on the counter edge tightening as he fucks you, and you whimper, but any and all sound is muffled by his large palm.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he shushes you, pulling out until the tip is the only thing left inside, before thrusting back in with a hard snap. It's a painful sting, quickly fizzling out to pleasure shooting up your spine, and he repeats it again and again, watching your eyes roll back in a pleasure induced agony.

He fucks you with an intensity that solidifies that you are his, taking you fast, frantic and unforgiving.

Between Jack's grunts and your muffled cries, you hear the squelch of your pussy, the slapping of skin against skin, and the faint hum of a conversation happening in the room below you.

“Ignore them,” Jack grunts, reading your thoughts, the crease of your brow giving them away, “focus on us.” He snaps his hips forward, hard and fast, forcing the air out of your lungs. “Focus on that.”

Your mouth forms an o shape against the underside of his palm, his fingers on your clit toying with the bundle, rubbing it in fast circles. All the whilst watching you with a smirk as you squirm and clench around him.

“Close, baby?” He removes his hand, wanting to hear you answer. “Gonna come?”

You nod, biting your bottom lip, whimpering out, “yes.”

He rubs his fingers faster, cradling your body as you curl into him, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist. and your face disappearing into his neck. “That's it, let go,” he encourages, “give it to me.” He dips, kissing along your shoulder and up your neck, his teeth nipping at your lobe. “Make me come.”

It rips through your body fast, shaking you, rendering you breathless. Jack follows quickly after, the hard groan vibrating his chest, triggered from the pulsing of your walls with the aftershocks of pleasure. And you stayed there for a moment, skin sticky with sweat and smelling like sex, his cock still twitching and spilling out the last few drops.

When he pulls out, you whimper at how empty you feel.

“That was definitely longer than ten minutes,” Jack spoke first, fixing himself, the fastening of his belt seemingly louder than it actually was. He grabs some tissue and tries his best to wipe away some of the mess.

“You go down first,” you throw out the suggestion, “they think I'm on the phone with my boss.”

Jack leans in and kisses you, his thumb softly stroking your jaw. “See you down there, kid.”

charles leclerc

sub!charles being rewarded after his win — sauber era

munch!charles just wanting his mouth on you

charles just needs to fuck you, please help him?

depriving charles of being inside you

oscar piastri

sub!oscar being jerked off

oscar calls you mama in bed and apologises for cummin’ — not a video but a tweet

rival!oscar being dumbed down when rival!reader sits in his lap and they eventually end up here

69 with sub!munch!oscar who just can’t get enough

making oscar eat you out before he goes on one of his long runs

oscar needs to play with your tits atleast once a week

carlos sainz

tying up sub!carlos and overstimulating him

carlos dry humping you when you’ve been a brat

carlos grunting and breathing heavily when he’s inside

franco colapinto

making him wait after a celly

franco loves when you take pictures of him

franco loves your tits, and he loves when you jerk him

franco gently eating out his girl because he just loves her so much and the only way he can stop yapping is by pacifying himself like this

max verstappen

bratty!max to sub!max hate handjob

ruining max’s orgasam

max creampie-ing you in the car

lando norris

jerking off sub!lando

the video lando sends you after his win because he misses you so damn bad :(

lando eating his girl after he gets home from aus

munch!lando once again, eating his girl as a reward

that one stream of lando in the white shirt? yeah, he’s a subby bratty mess straight after, help him, will you?

dom!lando pounding his girl after she spent so much on donos just on his stream, he has to thank her, no?

jack hughes

jack making you shake after he’s been away on a roadie

yapper jack letting his girl use his cock when he’s tired after a game

The inky darkness of the night in front of you didn't swallow you completely but it reached its tendrils out over the balcony ledge in a soothing embrace. Not pitch black enough to show you the stars but just enough to hide the palm trees surrounding the rental and the waves hitting the cliffs below. 

The glowing tip of your cigarette, the only light in front of you. The golden glow shining through the glass door leading to the balcony behind you, illuminating the night just enough to let you watch the smoke rise. It was a starless night.

“Can I bum a light?”

You didn’t jump at the voice, smooth like whiskey, deep, british. While you hadn’t heard the glass doors open or him step out, you had gotten used to him in your space. For such a big man Callum sure knew how to move around gracefully.

The outdoor couch you were sitting on had enough space for the two of you. A big wicker thing you liked to lay on in the mornings, catch the first rays of sun before Austin woke up. More than once he had joined you here. Callum too, after your partner had invited him to join your getaway. He would’ve had to walk through the master bedroom to reach the balcony but you cared little about what he might’ve seen. A girl could only care about handsome men seeing barely there lace underwear thrown around so much. If he cared he could go to Austin and complain, he was the culprit afterall.

The Brit sat down at the other end of the couch and you leaned over to hand him the cheap Zippo you got at the airport when you drove down to pick him up. Your own lighter had stayed at home in an attempt to overcome your one vice but you had caved far too quickly. 

Becoming aware of your position you moved. Sitting cross legged in the cushioned corner was comfortable but you were bare beneath your flowy sleep shorts and you didn’t know how much he could see, even in the darkness surrounding you. 

You watched as Callum shook out a cigarette from his pack and put it between his lips in habitual ease, lighting it with the Zippo before motioning for you to catch and throwing it to you as if he couldn’t be bothered to lean over the short distance between you two and hand it over. Keeping the distance.

“Don’t tell Austin.” You spoke into the night, breaking the silence between you. “I told him I quit.”

There was nothing but the roaring waves and whispering palm leaves for a moment before he laughed. A beautiful deep chuckle so dark it rivaled your view. There was no malice in it though. Austin was velvet through and through but you’ve come to realize that Callum might just be rich chocolate. An indulgence.

“I won’t tell.” He promised. 

You could feel his eyes on you but you didn’t turn to look at him again nor were any other words exchanged between the two of you. Not even when you were done with your cigarette, long before he was done with his.

The California night was gentle but the breeze picked up, palm leaves no longer whispering, their rustling turning into raised voices. Goosebumps started to rise on your skin but the thought of heading inside didn’t cross your mind. There was peace out here. Calm.

When Callum was done with his cigarette he stood up. You tried to pay attention to hear the sound of the door opening as he left, trying to catch him this time, but what you heard instead was the sound of a zipper before a hoodie was wrapped around you from behind.

“Goodnight.” You told his retreating form. 

It must have been past midnight by then but you didn’t feel tired yet. Austin sat downstairs, losing himself in a new book. You were out here losing yourself in the night. Still, you couldn’t help but wonder what Callum was losing himself in.

More time passed before you got up. Austin still wasn’t in your bedroom and part of you knew you should go shower off the cigarette smell but you justified your decision to simply crawl into bed by telling yourself that the pipes in the old rental house were loud and you didn’t want to wake your guest, should Callum already be asleep. His zip-up hoodie you wore was a simple explanation for the smell. If Austin took notice when he climbed into bed, you wouldn’t know.

You woke up alone. Slowly, with the sun shining onto the bed, warming your back so deliciously you didn’t want to leave. Time dripped slowly as you moved in and out of sleep. It was the voices coming from the open balcony door that finally convinced you to stretch and sit up. For a moment you blinked away the sleep in your eyes, looking down at yourself and thinking about taking off Callum’s hoodie, ultimately deciding to keep it on a little longer as long as neither man minded.

When you wandered outside you found the two men sitting where you sat last night, breakfast laid out across the low table in the middle of the furniture. 

Austin had spread himself across the couch, his upper body bare in the morning sun as his sleep pants failed to cover his long legs all the way down to the ankle. Your guest had the opposite idea as he sat in the seat across from him, dark shirt covering up his torso. It was only when you walked closer to the laughing pair that you discovered he had skipped proper legwear entirely, the thick thighs beneath his plaid boxers milky white.

Callum noticed you first, sitting up more which caused your partner to look back as well. Austin seemed relaxed, wide smile on his lips as he put down the coffee he had been cradeling and sitting to make room for you at his side. It was only the faint darkness under his eyes that told you he must have come to bed hours after you.

You didn’t hesitate to slip under his raised arm, nestling against his chest as he pulled you close against him.

“Callum made breakfast.” He said, low, close to your ear. Velvet. 

Looking down at the table the two of them were nearly done with theirs but the thought of them eating without you didn’t weigh on you. It was a beautiful morning to sit outside. As long as there was coffee you wouldn’t fault them their Zweisamkeit.

Austin held you as Callum lifted an old fashioned serving bell from the table, revealing a plate filled with food. Evenly toasted dark bread, soft cheese, he had even sprinkled paprika on your eggs. A separate plate held cut up fruits and some cucumber slices to go with your bread. Before you could think of a proper response Austin handed you your other love. The tiny espresso cup looked out of place in his big hands but you accepted it greedily. Turning your head just until your lips brushed the smooth skin on the side of his chest you whispered a thank you. 

“I hope it’s okay.” Callum said from opposite you. “I tried to pay a little attention the past few days but making breakfast was more of a spontaneous decision.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you Callum. Thank you.”

Austin’s hand rested near your stomach as you drank your coffee, his arm heavy across your shoulder. When he noticed that you wanted to grab your plate he moved it just enough for you to grab the dish before trapping you against him again. He was a clinger and you loved it but from the strange look on Callum’s face it appeared like he didn’t share the sentiment. He recovered quickly though, replacing the frown with a softer look. 

“I just wanted to thank you for letting me stay with you for some time. When Austin invited me I didn’t know I’d be crashing your holiday so it’s the least I could do to repay you.”

You could feel Austin wanting to protest, a deep rumble in his chest waiting to burst. 

Instead you placed your free hand on his thigh, the fabric of his sleep pants soft under your fingertips as they kneaded into his muscles. “We love having you around Callum, truly. You’re not imposing at all and you don’t have to repay us by cooking.”

He didn’t respond at first and neither did your partner. But Callum’s gaze seemed to be stuck on where you held onto Austin, not any of the places he was holding onto you or even your faces. He must notice when you squeeze the thick limb, prompting Austin to talk. 

“Tell you what, since you made the food it’s only right that we clean up, yeah? You text your agent you’re unavailable for the day and we’ll hang out properly.”

He looked about ready to protect at Austin’s proposal before Callum finally relaxed. 

“Okay.”

“Pool? Let’s say… in an hour?”

You finished your plate while the men finished their coffees, letting the roaring waves from the ocean and the laughter from Austin and Callum blend into one another. It was as if all stiltedness had fallen away in a handful of minutes. You felt yourself being jostled with every gesture but were content to fade from focus as they shared stories, head against Austin’s chest, by his traitorous heart. 

You only spoke up again after Callum left to go to his room, not too far away from your own, but far enough from the balcony that he wouldn’t hear you. The noises of dishes clattering together while you cleared the table aiding you in concealing your words. 

“We need to talk about Callum.”

Austin nearly breaking a stack of plates told you enough. 

The house Austin and you had been renting between filming had charm. It had character. Which was to say it was old. The kind of old people felt drawn to, even if the kitchen didn’t possess a dishwasher and a lazy ceiling fan was better at combating the summer heat than the broken AC. 

It truly was a gem; hidden away from prying eyes with a century of Hollywood history contained inside. It was your partner that reveled in the glory of the past, critical but starstruck. But where Austin had taken to the glory of it you had found a soft spot in your heart for the gory and gossip. The scandals, secret pregnancies, mafia contacts, hidden affairs. It had felt soothing to know these walls had seen it all. Now it felt exciting to think about the possibility of adding to it. 

The pool had been added to the house in the 60s and it had quickly become one of your favorite places. There were few things that could compete with the joy you felt when the guys entertained themselves while you lazed on a daybed in the shade. 

Callum was already outside as you left the house, standing by the water’s edge, looking towards the house. It didn’t take a lot to suspect the look behind his dark sunglasses to be one of worry.

“Did you remember sunscreen?” It was an easy question, just something to get him out of his trance. He must’ve been looking directly in your direction without noticing you were there. 

Callum flinched, just the tiniest bit, before gathering himself. 

“Yeah. Almost got it all.”

He was paler than Austin by a mile but not as light as he had been when he stepped off that plane. Poor man had looked rosy just from the drive up to the house in your rental car. But now he had gained some color and a mellow glow, softening out his Byronic type. 

“Tell Austin to get your back when he comes out, will you?” You gave the book you were holding —one of your boyfriend’s, with annotations and everything— a little shake. “Don’t want to get my fingers sticky.”

He didn’t say anything in response but he gave you a nod and that was enough for you. Callum had been immensely more vocal with your partner but you didn’t mind. It felt like there was a silent understanding between you. You were on the quieter side —Austin too, ironically— but while he thrived under his friend’s attention you blossomed in a more fragile way, finding comfort and peace without too many words exchanged. 

Callum talked, melodic with his accent, heavy with his tone, light in the words spoken. Auston replied, their laughs becoming symphonic in a way. And you listened. Oh how you loved listening to them. 

To say your stay had brought on revelations felt inauthentic to admit, scripted as if the things you were feeling could be brought on by a single event. They had grown while you were fully aware, no sudden realization. And you were content with them. Welcomed them.

As strange as they felt in the context, as a whole they were barely mentionable. 

It simply wasn’t a priority. The two men needed to work out how they’d fit best first and you were content with squeezing into the gaps, malleable. 

It was only when you had already sat down on the sun bed that Austin came outside. Perfectly timed as if he had been waiting to strike. 

While Callum had his back turned towards the house, walking to get into the pool, your partner dashed out of the open patio doors and into the Brit, dragging him down as the pair flew into the pool. Your hand automatically came up to cover your mouth as you tried to hold back a laugh only to fail at the affronted look on Callum’s face when the two men popped up, dark curls stuck to his forehead because of the water. They looked at each other for a second or two before Callum spoke, not loud enough for you to hear him clearly but enough that you could understand by reading his lips. “Oh, it’s on.”

As they play-fought you took the opportunity to just watch. Laid back on the lounger with your sunglasses covering up the direction of your sight it was easy to let your mind wander. Austin was lithe and he’d gone through enough fight training to hold himself but Callum had a solid strength to him that your partner couldn’t escape. You watched as muscular arms wrapped around enticing waists, chests glistening in the early midday sun as water ran down unmarred skin before somebody was dunked and the play started anew. With the noises they made a different, more lascivious picture began to paint itself in your mind. 

There had been no detailed wants and needs that had come up when you had talked about things with Austin. There had been lust and love and understanding but watching him engage with the object of his desire gave you more than just an idea. They struggled now but they wouldn’t struggle once they crossed the line. They’d give and receive in equal measure, you were sure of that. 

It was hard not to cross your legs and give into the thought of your partner in the throes of passion. How he’d fit in his friend’s arms and vice versa. 

Finally their game ended, Callum pushing Austin under the water just long enough to garner himself a punch into what you hoped was his kidney and not other vulnerable parts. He laughed it off before heaving himself out of the water, swim shorts sticking to his thighs in a way that left very little to the imagination. 

At least you had the confirmation of interest on his part, if you had to guess. 

He walked over to you, leaving a trail of wet footsteps on the stone tiles before standing in front of you, dripping, leaning down to snatch one of the towels you had laid out for them. 

You watched as he dragged it over his face and chest, feeling not at all shy about the possibility of getting caught staring. His face had a rosy sheen to it that you hoped to be simply from the physical part and not from developing sunburn but that was quickly forgotten once his chest caught your attention. 

Your partner kept himself well groomed even between shoots so his chest tended to be smooth when you ran your hands across it. He was muscular but not sturdy. His friend on the other hand had just enough hair to make you want to reach out, pet him and then cop a feel of his chest. 

The differences weren’t stark but to you they were prominent. 

“Can you do my back? Don’t want that menace so close, I think he scratched me.” He was running the towel through his hair now, raising his voice so that Austin could hear the last part before laughing. 

“Don’t act like you don’t love it.” Was yelled back in reply. 

“Come sit.” You patted the space in front of you before twisting around to reach the sunscreen. Your bikini left less to the imagination than your shorts from the night before but sitting behind him you didn’t have to worry about Callum seeing something he didn’t ask for. 

Now with his back to you, you could see the faint red lines, neat in a row but without breaking the skin. Slowly you ran a finger up one of them, watching as Callum shivered. 

“Just a little red.” You told him, getting on your knees so you could reach everything better. “Tell him not to be so rough, yeah? He’s good at listening.” It sounded suggestive in your ears but there was no telling if he picked up the deeper meaning. 

Slowly you started spreading the sunscreen around your canvas, his muscles tensing under your touch before relaxing. There was silence between you and over Callum’s shoulder you could see Austin watching you two, arms crossed on the pool’s edge to keep him steady. You blew him a kiss before focusing on the task at hand. 

“That Austin’s book?” The Brit broke the silence, reaching out to thumb at the pages of your forgotten distraction. 

“Yeah.” You let your hands move lower. “Austin gave it to me to read. He does that a lot.”

Callum hummed in acknowledgment so you continued. “He just puts so much care into finding things he enjoys and when he shares them with you… it just makes you feel special. I don’t think there has ever been a time where he was wrong about trying something or sharing it. Makes me want to share too.”

You finished putting sunscreen on his lower back before sitting back on your heels. “Done.” You were just about to tell Callum —a grown man— to go play with his friend —your boyfriend, another grown man— when you noticed something. 

“Did you forget to get your ear? They’re really red.”

Putting your hands on his shoulders to keep him still you leaned forward to get a better look. Trying not to feel bad about half leaning against his tall frame, warm bodies a little too close to be innocent, you parted his dark curls before carefully applying the rest of the sunscreen that was on your hands. “Austin always forgets them too and then complains when he has to sleep on his back because they hurt too much to sleep on his side.”

That made Callum laugh, low but enough to make your body move with his. You finished with a tug to his earlobe before sitting back again only this time Callum followed, shifting to sit sideways at the edge of the lounger with his body turned towards you. Between you his knee rested on the soft cushion, legs spread enough to show the milky inside of his thigh, a stark contrast to the rest of his leg. The time spent in California with you had left its mark on him. 

“Thank you.” He said and you pretended not to notice his gaze on your naked skin. You should be beyond pretending, all three of you, but for now you would just follow his lead. Callum, whether he realized it or not, held all the power between the three of you. 

Just past his body you could see Austin in the pool, still leaning against the edge, running a hand through his hair. The contrast between his sunny blond and the dark of Callum’s curls was beautiful and there was a small part of you that wanted to watch the two of them together all the time. It was entirely possible that Austin felt the same. Your partner’s eyes on you only gave you the push you needed. The thought of him looking at Callum and you like you were looking at Callum and him sending a shiver down your spine. 

Leaning in just slightly to get a better look at the Brit you couldn’t help but smile when he leaned in too. You wouldn’t kiss him but should he make a move you were certain Austin wouldn’t fault you for tasting him. Callum didn’t, but it felt like a confirmation nonetheless.

“Remember to top it off later, okay?” The need dripping from your lips surprises even you. “Especially your face. You’re too handsome to hide those freckles under sunburn.”

For a split second before you got up you managed to see his expression —mouth hanging open, bottom lip so biteable, the corner of his lip quirking up almost on instinct— before those beautiful freckles got swallowed up by a different kind of redness. 

Walking away from Callum would have felt different had it not been for the look you could feel burning your back, hotter than the California sun ever could. Your boyfriend looked up at you from the clear blue water, his face telling you exactly what he thought of your little game. His grin made the kiss that greeted you when you bent down all the more sweeter. 

“I love you.” He said after pulling away, not far, his breath still noticeable on your skin. 

“I love you too.” Your noses touched. 

“And you’re sure about this?” He didn’t say it but you knew exactly what he meant, what he needed you to say. 

Cupping his face in one of your hands you tried not to melt when he leaned into it so fully. “Talk to Callum.”

When Austin kissed you again it was wild, filthy, messy to the point that the Brit could probably hear it from where he sat several yards away. What a tease. 

“I’m making lunch and you’re going to talk. Stop stalling.”

You straightened up before walking back to the house, lingering just out of view to make sure the guys would be okay. It didn’t take ten seconds before you heard a splash. 

Yeah, they would be okay. 

In theory it was a light and easy meal. Minimal dishes, minimal work, forgiving should the men hurry past in their endeavor to reach a bedroom. You made yourself scarce, wanting to give them the opportunity to find each other without any lingering. 

If you hadn’t been completely misreading the situation there was a high chance of you becoming involved in their budding romance as more than just a bystander but no matter the outcome you felt at peace. The excitement you felt for them mirrored yours from the start of your relationship with Austin. No jealousy, no envy, only a giddy feeling floating through your body as you got comfortable on Callum’s bed, balancing your bowl in your lap. 

Was it bad etiquette to eat in someone else’s bed? Certainly. But that someone was devouring your boyfriend in yours so it balanced out. You didn’t snoop too much during your hidden wait but Callum had been equally as tidy with his room as you had been with yours which is to say not all that much. The chaos just made you smile, hoping that he felt as comfortable and homey in the rental as you.

He certainly felt comfortable enough to leave lube out on his nightstand. Which was why —after he walked through the door with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist— he found you there, on his bed, holding his lube, halfway through an unsexily huge bite of salad. 

The two of you just looked at each other before he broke the silence. 

“Why are you in my bed?”

And if that didn’t send a wave of shivers throughout your body. His voice was deep, deeper than usual, and it made you look in lieu of pressing your thighs together, even if what you saw made you want to all the more. If the faint markings on his skin weren’t a dead giveaway, the plump swell of his lips was enough to tell you that although what you had hoped to happen didn’t, something did. 

“Why aren’t you in mine? You’re supposed to be fucking my boyfriend right now.” You asked in return once you gathered your bearings and swallowed your lunch. 

“Right. Yeah. ‘Course.” He looked conflicted, pacing for all of five steps before sitting down at the edge of the bed. His back was turned to you and you watched a drop of water fall from his dark curls before landing on his back and traveling down the long expanse of freckled skin until it hit the towel. It took three droplets until he spoke again. 

“The two of you are real fucking confusing, you know that, love?”

He turned to look over his shoulder, the light twist of his waist loosening the towel just enough to make it slide half an inch lower, revealing more pale skin. You wanted to touch, kiss, mark but in the end tore your eyes away to look at him properly. He was hard to read which made it all the easier in a way. That conflicted sad hopeful nervous look you had seen on the other man in your life when you had first talked about your observations with him. The similarity between the two felt like a knife. 

“He didn’t talk to you?” You had been so certain Austin would make his move. 

“He did. We kissed.” The corner of his mouth quirked up, quickly falling again into a serious expression.

“I know what I’m feeling, what I want. Regardless, being here as a friend had been enough but then…these looks, and the flirting. I’m not misreading things, am I? Austin said–” He paused again, turning to look away. “Austin said that you talked. About me. That you wanted me. But I don’t know how much I am allowed to want you back. Being with Austin, even for a moment, shakes up everything. And I don’t even know where you stand except that you’re fine with me and him. But you also… I want whatever you are willing to give me but I need to know just what that is.”

With his backside turned to you he tipped his head back, face to the ceiling and shoulders lowered in defeat. Vulnerable.

Whatever Austin and you had presumed about his emotions paled in comparison with what you realized about them now, looking at him. Could you even sway his doubts before talking to your partner? Make the decision for all three of you and shove Callum into waters unknown to you?

Moving closer to him you gently placed a hand on his back, cataloging the goose bumps rising over his body. It felt cowardly saying this to his back but nonetheless you continued. “When we first got together, we didn’t talk much.”

Callum let out a tiny laugh, one you could feel more than hear and you applied some pressure with your fingertips. A tiny dig. “Not like that… yes also like that.” You admitted. “But it was like we never had to say things out loud, that we just clicked. So yeah I guess we aren’t exactly great communicators.”

Letting your fingers move against the ridges of his spine you continued. “We talked about the important things, though. About you.” You added, watching. “There were things we agreed on a long time ago. But then you had to come in and change everything.”

He started to pull away, twist around, mess up the careful avoidance of eye contact so without thinking you fit yourself along his back, like you had thought about doing at the pool earlier, with his back against your chest, similarly flimsy cloth barrier, hard nipples against soft skin, arms around his shoulders making sure he listened as you talked by his ear, low, sharing a secret.

“It would be one thing if it was only physical, if it was only about Austin taking you to bed, us taking you to bed. It’s not that easy, though. You felt it too, didn’t you?” Your lips grazed the freckled tip of his ear and you felt, heard, saw Callum inhale, deep and shuddering.

“You may not be the first person we wanted, Callum, but you’re the first person we needed. And that’s terrifying.” You admitted.

“I thought it was all in my head.” His voice was rough, full of emotion, desire maybe. “That I was imagining things. During filming Austin said some things that made me think he felt the same way I was but then he’d mention you and I just… didn’t think it was real.”

“It was.” You couldn’t help but interject.

“Oh, I realized that when he kissed me in the pool.”

That made you draw back. Leave it to your boyfriend to jump in mouth first, brain later. “He didn’t.”

Callum just nodded, using the small amount of space between you two to turn and look at you. “What now?”

“Now you go find Austin and make up for lost time. Do what you want, what feels right, and tomorrow us three can sit down and actually talk. There’s no need to hurry, we have all the time in the world.” You promised.

“Okay.” He whispered before leaning forward and roughly pressing his lips against yours. There was barely any time for you to react or kiss him back before he pulled away. You wanted the guys to have their time first, you really did, but if he didn’t leave soon you couldn’t promise not to join them.

“Go!” You ordered half selfless, half selfish. Biting your lip to stop yourself from smiling too hard. Remembering the lube you found on his night stand you looked for it buried in the bedding before pressing it into his hands. “Shoo!”

Callum stood up and for a heartbeat, maybe two, you just admired. Those tousled curls, lustful eyes, broad chest, trail of dark hair leading down to strong hips. He still had a towel wrapped around himself but that could be fixed. As he turned around to leave you reached out and hooked a finger into the waistband of his towel and tugged.

Callum stopped mid-step but he didn’t turn around, leaving you to look at the swell of his ass and those thick thighs. He was whiter there than anywhere else and you wanted nothing more than to mark up his milky skin in a way that was so unabashedly possessive it made your insides clench. Austin would get to him first. He would get to him first and leave marks that you would get to explore and add to and oh he had twisted around just enough to see him up close and personal. “Go on.” You told him, torn between looking at his face and other pretty parts of his body. He didn’t shy away at the sudden nudity, no shame with the way he gave you a mock salute and left to find your boyfriend.

Callum didn’t close the door as he left and you didn’t find it in you to get up to close it either, instead laying back against the bed in what could only be described as aroused fatigue. It felt almost dreamlike to exist at that moment. The hot California summer hung heavy in the air, bordering on torturous had it not been for the slowly rotating ceiling fan and the occasional ocean breeze. Without any conversation to fill the emptiness it was easy for sounds of the mundane to fill it. The roaring of the waves jumping against the cliffs and the soft hum of the fan blended together, momentarily silenced by the rustling of Callum’s sheets as you moved in them. What had started with you falling back against them, overwhelmed by the situation in the best way, had turned into languishing surrounded by the man’s smell in a way so utterly debauched and undignified that you never wanted anybody, not even Austin and Callum, to find out.

Thankfully the two men seemed too busy on their own to pay much attention to your position, hurrying through the hallway in a youthful rush before the door to the bedroom Austin and you had been sharing slammed shut.

It wasn’t long before your daydream-like state turned into a dirty dream. You had expected them to fuck. Hoped for it. Ordered it, even. But the possibility of sharing part of the experience with them had never crossed your mind.

This time was theirs.

Which is why you reluctantly got up to close the door when the first sensual noises started to drift through the house. It would be a lie to say they didn’t affect you, sending all parts of your body reeling. Those surprisingly high gasps you knew very well, the deep groans music to your ears. But your brain was busy cataloging all the different whimpers and sighs and pleas. Who made them. Imagining what actions caused them. Your heart was yearning, your stomach hurting from need, your pussy almost aching from being subjected to beautiful men moaning without being given any attention. Callum’s voice, even darker in a way that made you drip, was the last thing you heard as you closed the door, a rumbly “Yeah?”

You didn’t even want to imagine what he was asking about. That was a lie, you couldn’t help it. The idea of Callum checking in to see if he can continue with what he was doing. Was he touching Austin already? Was it just his long fingers or were they already past that?

It wasn’t until you had reached the bed again that you realized closing the door did next to nothing at keeping the noises at bay. Old house, thin walls, loud men. By the time you realized why Callum kept a bottle of lube ready on the nightstand you were already two fingers deep chasing your own high while listening to your men reach theirs.

When you pushed open the door to the main bedroom the next day you didn’t know what to expect. The men had been up late —or awake between postcoital naps— so you didn’t want to come barging in at the first sliver of morning light but sunrise came and went with the clock showing it to be closer to midday than anything else so you didn’t feel bad about joining them. 

They had gotten food at some point, yesterday's lunch and an assortment of other food having gone missing from the refrigerator overnight, so you didn’t prepare anything besides some coffee and tea. A little caffeine boost in the morning before you’d decide how to proceed with the day. With a tray held in both hands you entered the room, careful to be quiet so as to not wake up the two men should they still be sleeping. They looked like they were, at least at first glance, but after placing the tray on one of the dressers you turned around to find Austin looking at you. Slight disappointment bloomed in your chest at the thought of being denied the chance to just watch them but that feeling quickly got replaced by your glee at the blissful look in his eyes. 

Your boyfriend looked utterly debauched, hair a mess and dark marks at the base of his neck. It must have been hours since he’d last been kissed yet his lips still looked freshly devoured, rosy and puffy and like they were just begging you to nip at them before getting your tongue in his mouth and tasting him like he deserved. 

He was half covered by the blanket, bunched up against his front and tangled around one of his long legs, the other hastily thrown over the soft fabric. You could see another mark peeking out by his hips, the idea of leaving an identical one parallel to it already blooming in your mind. 

Callum slept more covered, sheets coming up just past his waist, face pressed so deeply into a pillow he was hugging that it made you fear for his ability to breath for a second before the steady rise and fall of his broad back soothed your worries. He had curled up a little, further down on the bed than Austin with his head near your partner’s ribs. 

Austin must have noticed your attention wandering to the man next to him because when your gaze shifted back to him he gave you a sly smile and reached out to Callum. You watched as Austin’s hand found its way between Callum and the pillow, poking him in what must’ve been his neck. When the Brit startled awake he switched to soothingly running his fingertips along the length of his arm in a way that made Callum hum sleepily and turn over until he laid on his back, eyes still closed with a content smile on his face. 

He only opened them after a loud gasp left your lips. Where Austin had looked debauched at first glance it utterly paled in comparison to Callum’s bacchanalian appearance. Had it not been for the fact that a rash decision to go California sober for the duration of your break had resulted in the only wine in the house being nonalcoholic, you'd bet good money on the two actors indulging in a hedonistic adventure so scandalous it would make Lucifer blush. 

There was no use counting the markings littering the Brunette’s skin especially since you were certain that they continued past the cover of the sheets and further down his body. 

“Morning.” He grumbled before a wide smile graced his lips. He held a hand out, beckoning you to come closer and all it took was a singular slow nod from Austin for you to round the bed to Callum’s side. You didn’t know what to expect. Another kiss perhaps? Not chaste like the one he had given you yesterday but one that would make your knees weak and your pussy wet. One that drove your boyfriend wild. But he didn’t kiss you. Instead Callum reached out as soon as you were close enough, wrapping an arm around your middle and pulling you down onto the bed between them in a move so sudden it made you squeal loudly. 

Before you knew it you were pressed into the mattress by a warm weight, Callum laying half on top of you and shuffling so that he could lay comfortable. Prick. He looked cute though, using you as a pillow even if his elbows dug into your side. 

Your hands found the back of his head, fingers running through the soft curls until the noises coming from his mouth turned into something so similar to the ones you heard the night before. His protest when one of your hands left him fell hot against your skin but you couldn’t resist reaching out to Austin. One hand still in Callum’s curls, one hand being taken by your boyfriend and gently brought up to his mouth so that he could kiss the back of it, you laid there in between the two men. Before you knew it soft moans turned into soft snores and when you looked at Austin his smile mirrored your own. 

“Tired him out last night?” You teased, barely above a whisper, as to not wake the sleeping man next to you. Austin didn’t respond but the bright blush spreading across his cheeks and down his chest told you everything you needed to know. 

“Come here?” He asked, lifting the sheet and helping you maneuver until you were in the same position as before just without the layer of fabric separating you three. 

While you had known Austin slept bare due to his back being turned towards the door when you entered you hadn’t known whether Callum had done the same until he fitted himself to your side again and you could feel his bare legs tangle with yours. They really had tired each other out. 

A yawn forced itself past your lips, making Austin laugh. 

“We were supposed to talk.” You pouted. “I made coffee.”

He just leaned over, peppering small kisses to the side of your face. “Later.” Austin promised and then finally kissed you. Deep and slow and languid in the way only morning kisses could be. 

If you fell asleep wrapped in their arms then nobody could blame you. 

Their arms were still wrapped around you when you woke up to the feeling of kisses being pressed against your shoulder. So similar to the way Austin had kissed you yet you didn’t even have to open your eyes to tell it wasn’t him. Finally. 

“Cal.” Half moan half gasp left your lips. 

It was Austin that responded first. “There she is.”

Callum kept his mouth on you however, sweet kisses long forgotten as he attached himself to your collarbone and sucked. Seems like you would be marked up as well. 

Another gasp left your lips as Callum moved lower, satisfied with his work before attaching himself to the soft swell of your breast. He had more than enough room to lick and nip and taste before he would hit the delicate fabric of your top but Austin had other plans. He reached down, right past Callum’s freckled face and tugged until you were exposed, slim strap sliding off your shoulder while Callum moaned against your flesh, trailing down until he could fit his mouth over your freed nipple and sucked. 

The sensation had you throwing your head back in mindless ecstasy. Austin took the bait, setting his large hand at the base of your throat, not doing anything except letting it rest there but his simple touch was enough to drive you wild. 

You moaned loudly. Callum bit your nipple before lapping at it to soothe the sting. Austin pressed a kiss to your temple, another one to your cheekbone, your upper lip. 

Even though your boyfriend’s kisses were tame, innocent even, your thoughts were anything but. You sighed as Callum’s mouth left your boobs but he didn’t withdraw completely. Instead he kissed down your body in a similar way as Austin had kissed across your face. When he finally stopped it was only to rest his head on your stomach, chin digging into your sternum as he looked up at you. As if Austin had sensed the new voyeur he finally kissed you properly. Loud and filthy and hard enough that it made you want to press your legs together in a desperate chase for friction only you couldn’t because of the gorgeous Brit between your thighs. Forgoing all pretense of hesitancy you just wrapped your legs around his middle instead, pulling him impossibly closer in a foolish attempt for satisfaction. 

Callum didn’t move an inch, just continuing to watch Austin devour you while his weight pressed your writhing body into the mattress below you. 

When he pulled away —not too far, noses almost touching each other— you took the opportunity to glance down. It must have been an utterly unflattering angle but Callum’s flushed face held so much affection it almost made you twist out of Austin’s hold and bend down to kiss him. Instead you settled for cradling his face in your hands, letting your fingertips trace the skin below his eyes and the soft mess of his curls. 

“Tell Callum what he is.” Austin told you, loud enough for Callum to just barely hear it and peek up. 

Your answer was little more than a breathy whimper. “Pretty.”

Heat curled in your stomach at the resulting symphony of chuckles. 

“The other thing.” Austin said. 

Your fingers twisted into Callum’s hair, anchoring, grounding. 

“Ours.”

As soon as the words left your lips he looked away, hiding his face in your stomach and the remaining fabric of your top. You could feel him groan, his breath hot against your hip where his movement caused a sliver of skin to be revealed. 

Another moan left his lips before Callum pushed himself up until he held himself above your middle, looking up at you and Austin with those big yearning eyes. His hand found your hips, shifting the fabric and your breath hitched. Beside you Austin shifted in anticipation. When Callum moved again it was slow, calculated, not breaking eye contact until the last second. He pressed a small kiss to the skin above your belly button, then one to the skin below it. His long fingers began tugging on your shorts and you found yourself holding your breath in anticipation of his next move. Would he lower them just a bit to leave another kiss so close to where you needed him? Would he realize how dripping his actions left you and taste the fruits of his labor? He could simply move the fabric covering you to the side and get his tongue in you with no work or he could strip you bare here on the bed between them. So many endless possibilities yet when you looked at Austin he wasn’t looking at you. Instead his eyes were focused on the way Callum was toying with your waistband. 

The two men moved in unison, Austin sitting up and lifting the bottom of your top until he could slide it over your head while Callum carefully tugged your shorts down after you lifted your butt to help him. His entire body moved down the bed, taking the sheets with him as his fingers caressed gentle lines down your skin. The sheets fell off the bed with the gentlest sound as he stood at the foot of it, letting your shorts fall to the ground as well. Callum made no attempts to hide himself as you looked your fill. For all you’d been able to catch a glimpse of yesterday nothing could compare to your current view. Heat surged through your body as you took in his, even without fixating on his thickening dick there was so much to see, watch, catalog for future lonely nights when your men would be off filming and you would have to make due with your memory and whatever media they would let you take of them. For a split second your mind was overwhelmed at the thought of Callum’s thick thighs on proper film from your camera, of getting Austin’s hips on camcorder, of throwing caution to the wind and risking a leak by filling your phone with their naked skin but then Callum smiled and your mind went so overwhelmingly blank. 

Your legs fell apart on their own volition, leaving every part of you laid out for him to look his fill but he took the invitation for what it was and didn’t stall. He moved slow but smooth, calculated in a way that almost made you regret opening your legs for the lack of friction had it not been for his hungry eyes making your stomach boil. 

It was then that Austin touched you again, his large hand spread in your sternum before moving up to cup one of your breasts, making you gasp. His lips found the side of your neck and you could feel his smile brushing your skin before he bit down gently. There was no possessiveness or jealousy in the gesture and you would have to remember to return the favor once your positions would be switched. 

While Austin had distracted you with his own touch, Callum had laid down on the bed, head between your thighs so close that you could feel every hot breath against your skin, making a shudder run through you. He kissed the soft inside of your thigh once, twice, three times —barely pulling away so his nose dragged across your skin— before finally getting his mouth on your pussy. 

Any moans leaving your lips were quickly swallowed by Austin’s but the room around you three was still filled with noise. It hadn’t been an exaggeration that Callum left you absolutely dripping. That, coupled with the facts that neither he nor Austin made any attempts at stifling their excited sounds, made sure to flood the room with all kinds of erotic sounds. 

It was a mess, it was messy, it was the closest thing to a religious experience and you needed more. Taking Austin by the crown of his head you pushed him back down. He followed your silent instruction until you could see Callum in all his glory and this time there was nothing keeping you from moaning shamelessly. He was wild, sucking and lapping and burying his face in its rightful place. You watched, half mad, as his broad shoulders moved between your thighs before your eyes were drawn to something so exhilarating it almost made you come on its own. 

Callum, beautiful Callum, was rocking his hips against the bed, chasing his pleasure while giving you yours, so drunk on you he couldn’t do anything but mindlessly move in a sad imitation of the real thing. The feeling rushing through your body was almost too much to bear. 

Beside you Austin no longer busied himself with kissing every inch of skin he could reach, instead he had started stroking himself, hand wrapped around his length and fingers teasing, mindful of the fact that he had nothing but his own precum to smoothen the slide. His gaze was focused on where you and Callum met, his not so secret dirty fantasy coming to life. How often had he imagined this? How often had he touched himself while on the road or in your bed, thinking about Callum and you and you and Callum?

The thought of him picturing this very moment while masturbating only increased your pleasure. You’d be coming soon, should feel selfish only working towards your orgasm, but the knowledge that you had an audience —a beloved audience of one— made you want to put on a show. 

Getting both hands into Callum’s curls you tugged, not hard enough for him to move away from where you needed him most but just enough to make him moan, loud and needy. He moaned harder when you wrapped your thighs around his head, getting one last good look at him before tilting your head back and giving Austin something to look at instead. Miles of bare skin, chest pushed together by the desperate hands in Callum’s hair, neck craned back just waiting for Austin to hold your vulnerable throat again. And then Callum dug his nails into your flesh and you fell apart and nothing mattered for a few blissful moments until you came back to earth, whining and writhing, as Callum’s gentle tongue lapped at you, letting you ride out your high. 

You let yourself enjoy the feeling with a hazy mind. Your legs had fallen open again, giving him more room to work and he lazily ran his tongue through your folds as gentle shivers ran through your body. 

You let go of Callum’s dark hair, seeking hold elsewhere and finding it in the sheets and Austin’s thigh. The Brit didn’t seem to appreciate the loss of touch though. A high pitched whine left his lips before he nipped your thigh, making Austin reach out to replace your hands with one of his large ones. 

Callum continued until the afterglow started to turn into overstimulation and Austin had to pull him away but he apologized by kissing his way up your torso, leaving wet little prints along the way, until he was almost above you again. Then he just leaned over until he could shove his tongue that was just inside you into Austin’s mouth. 

Oh how that sent another rush of heat through your body. Your hips buckled up automatically, connecting with Callum’s just long enough to feel his erection brush against you, and it was like your desperation had been turned up to the maximum again. Callum moaned into Austin’s mouth who moaned back before kissing him harder. The angle at which you saw them should have been unflattering but in reality it was anything but. These two handsome men fighting for dominance, pushing each other for more and more, sharing the taste of you while their long limbs kept your body pinned to the bed, a promise of what was yet to come.

Callum moved, laying more of his body onto yours, grinding his hard length into the plain of your hip, so close but so far away from where you needed him. Austin broke the kiss between the two men, pressing a kiss to Callum’s red cheek, then his shoulder, before finally ducking down and pressing his lips to yours in a sweet peck, barely more than a whisper.

“Good?” He asks, voice low.

Callum rutted again, the wet tip of his cock catching near your belly button.

“So good.” You told Austin before he kissed the smile from your lips.

“Good.”

He only kissed you for a few more seconds before Callum interrupted you again, almost pouty at the lack of attention.

“As much as I love hearing you two talk about how good I am in bed…” He trailed off, breathing heavy. “Can I?”

His dick felt impossibly hot against your skin and you wanted him inside you so badly, to feel connected to him in every way while Austin made sure that both of you knew you belonged to him. But before you could ask Callum to fuck you Austin interjected. “No.”

You moaned, high and needy, questioning what Austin had planned but the hurt look on Callum’s face made you pause. You didn’t know what he was thinking but you could imagine. The way Austin’s words sounded… You wound your arms around Callum’s shoulders, keeping him close to you, caging Austin out. It was playful but you also wanted him to understand why you did it.

He lowered himself down onto you more, letting you bear his weight, trusting you to tell him if it became too much. His face was almost close enough to kiss but you didn't close the last remaining gap. You could feel his breath on your face, felt the hitch in it when you hiked a leg around his hip and encouraged him to keep going with his little thrusts, the grinding against your body.

You felt it hitch again, the movement of the mattress telling you Austin was moving away from your heads and further down the bed. You couldn’t see what he was doing —not with Callum’s red face taking up your vision— so you contented yourself to watching him greedily, trying to figure out Austin’s actions by his changing facial expressions. They were noisy, all three of you were, but the blood rushing through you drowns out everything surrounding you. 

Callum’s entire body shook, disrupting the rhythm of his grinds, but you couldn’t tell if Austin bit or slapped, where he touched and how. He bent down to kiss you, moaning into your mouth before pulling away and dropping his head until his forehead hit your shoulder. His hair was sweat-damp when you cupped the back of his head but you tugged on the curls anyway.

You heard it before you made eye contact with Austin over his shoulder —the slick sounds of long fingers and lube. He gave you a smug little grin before he did something that had Callum keening in your arms.

There’s no telling how much time passed, how long Austin denied you the sweet release you were craving, how long he spent opening Callum up. The man had long since stopped trying to protest, resigning himself to getting stretched without being buried in your tight heat, laying on you drained of all energy while breathing wetly against your neck. He didn’t fight for the pleasure he deserved, he just took whatever Austin was willing to give. You, on the other hand, grew more and more desperate the more time passed since your orgasm. It was no fun laying there, clenching around nothing in a desperate attempt to fill the deep emptiness inside you, trying to buck up against Callum’s solid mass for any miniscule amount of friction only to have your plans swathed by his weight keeping you pinned down. Using the leg you had over Calum’s hip to pull him closer you blindly reached out, managing to get Austin in the side. You could tell the moment he stopped moving. Callum whined deeply where he laid over you. A pretty sound you craved to hear again in a more filling context. 

You weren’t above begging, knew you could do so beautifully and that Austin folded easily when you did, but there would be none of it today. “Stop teasing.” You demanded, voice not as firm as you would have liked but still enough to convey how you felt.

“He won’t last.” Austin said, removing his fingers and wiping them against the Brit’s flank, something that had Callum groaning against your skin.

He didn’t disagree with Austin though.

“Don’t care.” The hand that had been cupping Callum’s head now sank down until it was spread across his shoulder blades, just laying on the soft skin, anchoring him. “I have two boyfriends but zero dicks inside of me right now so you better fix that or I'm taking him and we’re finishing this in the other room.”

It was an empty threat, not for lack of conviction but because of lack of strength to heave the man off you and drag him away, but that didn’t matter because it made Austin sit back and look at you properly before nodding to himself.

Austin didn’t break eye contact with you as he spoke. “You heard her.”

Then, before Callum could do anything he gave him a slap on the ass and stood up from the bed. He left you two just long enough for Callum to hold himself above you, his hard dick barely grazing your clit as he tried to position himself. He barely breached you before Austin spoke again, disrupting your twin moans with the most infuriating sentence “Just the tip.”

And Callum actually stopped

Barely past the head and whimpering while Austin looked at you all smug. If he weren’t so beautiful with his wide pupils and proud cock you could’ve cursed him out but instead you focused on the man on top of you. Inside of you.

“Why are you listening to him? Fuck me!”

To his credit, Callum moved. About half a glorious inch deeper before he stilled again, body shaking from holding back. “He’s your boyfriend.”

“Callum…” Austin interjected from the side but you didn’t let him talk.

It was clear to you that there was still so much left to talk about. It felt silly that you thought a quick chat and a long fuck could clear up the situation the three of you found yourself in, but in you heart the apparent messiness felt almost nonexistent. Opening your bed to another person felt far less significant than opening up your heart and Austin and you had passed that stage already. If Callum hadn’t, that was fine. 

You could wait for him.

But you couldn’t wait for him to fuck you.

“I don’t know what Austin told you,” You brought your arms closer to your body, angling them so that you could cup Callum’s face in both hands. You wanted him to look at you when you talked, wanted him to see you were telling the truth. “but I meant what I said about us needing you, Callum. You belong with us and if you’ll let us we’re keeping you.”

He looked at you, brows furrowed but his big blue eyes, shiny with more than just eagerness. 

You leaned up slightly, bringing your faces even closer together. “You know what that means?” You asked gently.

He shook his head but he didn’t break eye contact. His dick kicked inside you and you had to hold back from pulling him into you as a response.

“It means that this is your pussy too. So fuck me.”

He thrust in deep as soon as you finished talking, leaving you to moan loudly as his thick dick filled you out completely, eyes not breaking contact until he was buried to the hilt. You wanted to throw your head back and let yourself be ravished but you also didn’t want to look away.

Callum made the decision for you, leaning dow and capturing your mouth in a kiss as he pulled out and then fucked in again. For four glorious thrusts Callum was all yours. Until he pulled back from your lips and completely out of you, leaving you a whining needy mess, trying to cling to him.

“Sorry, sorry.” He kissed your neck with every word, pressing the apology into your skin before bringing some distance between you. His brows were furrowed as he looked between Austin and you. “Shit, sorry. Should’ve asked before but I got carried away. Uhm…condom? I mean, should I—”

He stopped mid-question as Austin began to laugh, light and airy. “You fucked me without one, mate. Little late to worry.”

He settled on the bed near your head, tan thigh so close to your face that all you’d have to do was stretch a bit and you could bite him, demanding his attention. Above you Callum shrugged. “Can’t exactly get you pregnant now, can I?”

The look on Austin’s face was clear. He could try.

“I’m on birth control,” You said, sitting up so you could be face to face with them. “but if you want to be safe we have some in the dresser over there. Top drawer.” Nodding over to the piece of furniture on the wall opposite the bed.

A wide grin spread across Callum’s face, crooked and cocky and so very kissable. And he didn’t get up.

“If you—” this time it was you that interrupted him. Getting your mouth on his and swallowing his sentence whole. You were desperate. Craving. Empty. And now you would take fixing it into your own hand.

Callum went willingly, hands all over your body, trying to find any sliver of skin he hadn’t touched before and getting intimately acquainted with it. He steadied you when you grabbed his length, holding him so that you could sink down and satiate that ache deep inside you. He pulled you impossibly closer, bullied that last inch into you until you clung to him with every atom of your being. He kissed you like neither of you needed air to live, only each other's lips.

Having Callum felt like the world had stopped only to start spinning again only faster. You felt deliriously happy, so close to being satisfied and then Austin nestled against your back, chin hooked over your shoulder to get a good look, and it was like everything clicked into place.

A second pair of hands found your body before it became too hard to keep track, palms coming and going as they reached around you to touch each other.

One hand found its way between your body and Callum’s, by the angle it had to be Austin’s, and it wasn’t long until his talented fingers touched where you were connected. He traced the seam where Callum’s cock split you open, left wet kisses along your neck and shoulder as his fingertips dipped into your wetness, circled your clit in a rhythm that had you keening. They were so much. They were everywhere. Hot against your front and hot against your back and hot inside you. 

The two men moved together, not giving you a second to yearn for more more more because they were already giving you their all, just bordering on too much. Your eyes had fallen shut at some point —although the heated look of Callum’s eyes in the soft morning light would stay burned to the back of your eyelids for years to come— and your head tipped back until it rested on Austin’s shoulder. They had taken to moving you the way they needed and you were content to let them ragdoll you as long as they kept you full. 

Austin’s hard dick dragged against the small of your back, leaving little wet spots of precum on your skin. You wondered if he would fuck you after Callum, if you could even take a third orgasm after the one you were chasing, already earth shattering before you even reached the edge. 

Your lovers kissed, loud and messy and wild, over your shoulder while you contemplated the merits of having them split your body on their cocks at the same time when you remembered the position you found yourself in earlier. 

“Fuck. Please.” You begged, not knowing from whom. Callum. Austin. Yourself to hold on a little longer just until you’ve seen them. Callum leaned you back more, keeping your ass in his lap but giving himself more room to fuck up into you, to see your chest move with each thrust, to give you a better angle. 

He dipped down, lips wrapping around a nipple sharp enough to make you clench around him. 

Turning your face into Austin’s neck you spoke, whispered, yelled. “Take him.”

If Callum heard you there was no sign of it. No breach in rhythm. Austin on the other end heard you loud and clear if the shudder running through his body was to be believed. His hands came up to cradle your neck, your face. He turned you just enough to catch your mouth in a searing kiss and for a moment you could have sworn you tasted Callum on his tongue before he pulled away. Slowly. So that the other man realized and held you firm on his own. 

The air, not cold, just colder than Austin’s chest, hit your exposed back and you hissed at the sudden change before Callum’s warm hands spread across it soothingly. His lips connected with yours again. A little sweet until he nipped your bottom lip and you kissed him back harder. He moaned loudly when his fingers connected with the precum Auston had inadvertently left on your back. You moaned when you heard the click of the bottle being uncapped. 

It was only after you felt Auston get on the bed again that you opened your eyes, blinking away the light until you could see them clearly. 

The look of pure pleasure on Callum’s face, the lust in Austin’s eyes as he got closer… Had they felt like that when they caged you between their bodies? The object of their desire and their conspirator side by side. 

The idea of it alone was almost enough to bring you over the edge. 

“Hold…on…” Callum moaned and you didn’t know if he wanted you to cling to him or to starve off your orgasm and truth be told you were too fucked out to think so you just wrapped your arms around him and told yourself that one of the men would have to be the first to come and you’d follow him the second after. 

Austin touched Callum’s shoulder and he fell, as if his strings had been cut, face first into the slope of your neck where he attached himself to your skin. Right there, at the spot where your shoulder and neck met, his wet mouth left a perfect bite as Austin pushed into him. 

The three of you stayed like that for a few seconds. Austin gave Callum the time he needed to adjust to the stretch while you tried to stay as still as possible to not set him off. 

Callum tried to soothe the burn of the bite by gently lapping at your skin, head still bowed down. His dick was fluttering inside you, tiny little kicks that made you want to moan and ride and take but you stayed where you were and waited for a signal to go.

With Callum busy marking you up you had a clear view of Austin’s face. The picture before you rivaled the frescoes of the old masters. Sunlight streaming from the window behind him painting him in pure gold, his hair a shining halo that framed his pleasure tinted face. The look in his eyes made your stomach clench. Your pussy too, by the way Callum moaned against your skin. Dark from desire, hunger, lust. 

It was a look you had seen a thousand times, one you would never get sick of seeing. The knowledge that it was Callum that had caused it brought you nothing close to jealousy. Instead it made you feel hot all over, satisfied in a way his dick inside you only multiplied.

Austin leaned forward, the subtle flex of his hip causing Callum to buck up into you but he didn’t start fucking you after the initial move. No. He just held you close but still.

Austin didn’t move either, just pressed a few kisses to Callum’s shoulder while he waited for the other man’s breathing to slow down a little.

“Can I?” He asked, barely above a whisper.

Callum nodded against your shoulder, curls tickling your skin.

This time when Austin moved you felt everything. He set a gentle pace, building up to stronger thrusts, but every inch Austin moved in Callum, Callum moved in you. It wasn’t until Austin leaned over his shoulder to draw you into a deep kiss that Callum sat up between you too. He fit so well, head thrown back against Austin’s shoulder in ecstasy while you made out, moans in your ears and vibrating through your chests.

You didn’t know if he was watching or if he had his eyes closed like you and simply reacted to the barrage of sound-touch-more but his hands moved to grip your ass and pull you against him until he hit all those spots deep inside. Austin didn’t chase your mouth when you pulled away, attaching himself to Callum instead.

They were so pretty. Your boys, your men, your lovers. Yours. And each others.

With every thrust Austin fucked Callum up into you. Fucked you through him. Fucked him.

Getting your fingers into Callum’s curls again you grabbed his head and brought your lips together, kissing him, devouring him. He whined, high and drawn out against your mouth, almost a sob. When he pulled away it was barely enough to separate your lips. You felt them brush against yours with every word, nose bumping against the apple of your cheek.

“He’s— ah, you’re…”

Seeing him in that state, utterly debauched and sex-drunk, only pushed you further to the edge. Tightening up around him made him moan again and interrupted his struggling sentence.

As if Austin had noticed your lover struggling to talk re-upped his effort. The rhythm of his thrusts making the whole bed shake. The rhythm of Callum’s thrusts making your thighs shake.

You were barely holding onto your sanity as their siren pull worked to drown you in bottomless lust, deep and dark and oh so tempting.

Austin wrapped his arms around you, around both of you, holding you together. Between you Callum keened and Austin tapped your back before his hands slid down, intertwining with the other man’s where they gripped your ass.

“I’m—” This time Callum interrupted himself. A pretty sob from his pink lips and you kissed him again, soft, barely more than a peck.

His eyes were wide, dark with desire with just a hint of wetness making his lashes cling to each other. Callum was nowhere close to a small man but between you he was delicate. He was yours.

“You feel it too.” You told him. You didn’t ask. He nodded anyway. “You’re where you belong.”

Callum didn’t make any noise as he came, hot come filling you as he fell apart in front of you, his high sending you tumbling into yours.

During all the times you’ve been with Austin there was never a moment during which you were unfamiliar with blinding pleasure but as the world around you started to solidify again after your orgasm you were hit with something that seemed awfully close to disappointment.

Une petite mort parfaite but at what cost…

Somewhere between falling apart and being put back together by the thick dick still inside of you the three of you had actually fallen. Bed sheets soft against your bare back and a heavy body pressing you into them constituted a dream any other day but now all you could think about was the fact that you missed Callum coming because you were so busy coming yourself. Then Callum moved and anything remotely negative disappeared from your thoughts in a heartbeat. He was still inside you, not as hard as before but still solid enough to hit all those spots inside you, keeping the blissful afterglow alive. His thrusts, little grinds, were much softer than before and as you looked past him you could see Austin behind him still chasing his own high. He fucked gentler than before but still not as gentle as the ones you were feeling. You got your hands in his hair again, brushing sweaty curls back from his beautiful face so that you could see him better as he took Austin. You didn't know how long they continued like that, sure not more than a few minutes if Austin was as desperate as you, before a shiver ran through the Brit and you found yourself with an arm full of Callum again as Austin worked his dick with his talented hands and finally came, painting your lover’s backside.

It was quiet in the room without Callum’s punched out moans and the thuds of the bed frame meeting the wall. Heavy breathing was all that filled the air before Austin got up, sheets rustling from his movement.

Callum turned slightly, resting his head on your chest, cheek innocently smushed against your left tit. You didnt know if it helped him see your partner better or if he could hear your racing heart but the weight of him on top of you felt nothing but pleasant, even if fucking had left you a mess.

Autin didn’t venture far but you still couldn’t help watching as he opened the balcony door to let in fresh air, bare to the world if they’d been watching. It was hard not to focus on his nude form as he picked up the forgotten tray and brought it closer to the bed. On your chest Callum sighed, content. Then, instead of walking around the bed to the other side, Austin decided to just climb over your tangled forms.

Callum switched to resting his face on your right tit.

The three of you let the morning pass by peacefully. With the heat in your hearts taken care of, the passion took a deserved break while you handed off cold cups of coffee and an overflowing water carafe, trading long glazed and soft kisses.

There was a lot to be said. Changes and plans and ways of communication to be discussed —which would be quick and painless and not worth the procrastination— but just like changing the sheets or showering those had to wait until you felt steady enough.

On your chest Callum was dozing in and out of sleep, the progressing midday sun warm across his bare freckled back, him warm against you.

• Austin Butler Masterlist

• Callum Turner Masterlist

• Elvis Presley Masterlist

• Austin Butler tag -> #Ruined Wrecked Totally Fucked

• Callum Turner tag -> #Ruined Wrecked Royally Fucked

• Elvis Presley tag -> #Elvis What Are You Doing To Me

• My A03

his breath is ragged against your ear, teeth grazing the delicate shell before he pulls back just enough to growl, “du är så jävla svår.” the words roll out low and rough, the Swedish sharp in his frustration. his fingers dig into your thighs as he keeps them spread wide, your body pinned beneath him. the heat of his anger, barely leashed, sends a shiver racing down your spine, and your lips part in a gasp when he thrusts up sharply into you.

“fucking…” he hisses, his usual calm smile nowhere to be found, his jaw tight, blue eyes dark as they rake over you. “you think I don’t know what you’re doing? letting me see you with them. you like making me lose my mind, huh?” he punctuates the question with a brutal snap of his hips that has you crying out, the wet sound of him driving into you echoing in the room.

“i—i didn’t…” you start, but your voice falters when his hand grips your chin, tilting your face up so you can’t avoid his glare. his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, but there’s nothing soft in the touch.

“shh, don’t even start. I don’t want your excuses,” he says, his tone soft but biting, a dangerous edge you’ve never heard before. “just shut up and take it. be good for me.” his cock pushes deeper, the stretch overwhelming, and he groans low in his throat, his brows drawing together as he watches your face twist in pleasure.

“göra det så där,” he mutters to himself, half under his breath, as his pace grows erratic. the unfamiliar words make your stomach flip, even as your brain scrambles to decipher their meaning. he notices, a flash of teeth as he leans down, lips brushing your ear. “you want to know what I’m saying? här, I’ll tell you.” his voice drops even lower, dark and teasing. “i’m saying you drive me insane, that you’re lucky I can’t stay mad at you long, but you’re…” his hips grind into yours, and you choke on a moan. “so, fucking, bad.”

his words send a jolt through you, your back arching off the bed. he’s never like this, never so raw, and it’s devastatingly intoxicating. “you’re jealous?” you manage, breathless and teasing despite the way your voice wavers.

he growls, the sound vibrating against your skin as he leans down to nip at your neck, hard enough to leave a mark. “don’t push me.” but there’s something in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s fighting to keep his control, that makes you do exactly that.

“william,” you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as you roll your hips up to meet his next thrust. “tell me more. say it again.”

he groans, his head dropping to rest against your shoulder for a moment before he looks back at you, his gaze burning. “fine. du är min, fattar du det? my fucking girl. not theirs. not anyone else’s. and I’m gonna remind you of that.” his hands grip your hips tight enough to leave bruises as he slams into you, pulling a ragged scream from your throat.

“william, oh my god…” your voice is hoarse, the edge of desperation bleeding into every word. he doesn’t let up, doesn’t soften, each thrust driving you closer to unraveling.

“come on, baby, let me feel it,” he urges, his voice rough, his control slipping further with every shudder of your body beneath his. “you’re so fucking perfect. look at you, taking me so good, like you were made for it.” his thumb finds your clit, pressing firm circles that send sparks shooting through you.

“too much,” you sob, your body trembling, but your hips buck up into him anyway, chasing the blinding pleasure.

“no, it’s not. you can handle it. I know you can.” he’s relentless, pushing you higher and higher until you’re writhing beneath him, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as you scream his name.

By the end of the first week, it was already normal—splitting snacks, borrowing chargers, leaning your heads together over the sides of marked-up scripts. The film demanded closeness, and you slipped into it like it had always been there. Long takes, low lighting, scenes built on shared silences. Half your scenes were filmed with your knees touching.

It wasn’t flirty. You never caught him looking at you the way actors sometimes look when they forget where the cameras are. It wasn’t that.

He was just kind.

And that made it easy to match him.

You’d sit beside each other in makeup, legs stretched out, talking about nothing. Pass each other notes when the blocking didn’t make sense. Trade bad coffee on the days where breakfast had been skipped.

It helped that the film itself moved slowly. Years of friendship, worn soft around the edges, turning into something else. It was about trust. About timing. About all the ways people stop themselves from saying what they really mean.

And maybe that was why it worked so well between you.

You weren’t trying too hard.

You didn’t have to.

So when the call sheet landed in your inbox that Friday and Scene 87 was there—INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT—you tapped the attachment open, noted the time, flagged your sides, and closed it again.

You’d known about the intimacy scene from the start. It had been in the script, flagged clearly, nothing ambiguous about it. You’d spoken to your agent. Met with the intimacy coordinator, Lizzy. It had all been handled. Tidy. Professional.

You hadn’t thought about it in weeks.

The first rehearsal was set for late morning.

No cameras. No costumes. Just you, Austin, and Lizzy on one of the quiet rehearsal stages—black tape marking out the bed frame, a couple of chairs off to the side, printouts and notes and breath mints on the foldout table in the corner.

You’d dressed for comfort—oversized hoodie, joggers you could move in. Something low-effort. Unremarkable. You were early. Austin arrived a couple of minutes later, T-shirt soft and familiar, hair still damp like he’d only just rolled out of a shower and straight into daylight.

He gave you a smile.

“Hey,” he said. “You sleep?”

“Define sleep.”

He nudged your elbow with his. “You’ll be great.”

Lizzy talked you through everything. No acting yet. No emotion. Just spacing. Breath. Weight distribution. A choreography of intention.

This hand here. Pause. Step across. Sit. Press of the hips. Shift weight. Hold. Reset.

It was fine.

Fine in the way things are when you’re concentrating hard enough that your body doesn’t have time to interpret what’s happening. Every moment had a cue. Every touch was mapped. There was no room for awkwardness when there were angles to hit, timing to remember, direction to follow.

Austin was calm beside you. Clear. Always asking before he touched you. Always quiet when he did. “Here okay?” “This side?” “Let me know if anything’s off.”

It made it easier to breathe.

And then—somewhere in the second hour—your body slid into position over his, knees bracketing his thighs, hands placed exactly where Lizzy had marked, and your eyes met at the top of the next beat.

It didn’t last long.

Half a second, maybe less. Long enough for something to catch low in your throat.

It wasn’t his expression—it was the stillness. The weight of being seen from that close, that carefully. Like you were both holding a match between your teeth and trying not to breathe too hard.

Then Lizzy reset the moment. Adjusted the timing. Moved you on.

You exhaled. Stepped back. Pulled your hoodie on.

Your skin felt warmer than it had when you arrived.

You didn’t wake up thinking about the scene.

You had errands to run before your call time, and a voice note from your sister about some family drama you didn’t want to get dragged into. You had other things on your mind.

But your body remembered.

Not the shape of the scene, exactly. More the feeling of being in it with him—close and quiet and not entirely sure where your breath was supposed to land. You’d shaken it off last night, told yourself it was nothing, but something had settled low in your stomach and hadn’t moved since.

The second rehearsal was longer. Slower.

You got there five minutes early again. Austin was already inside this time, barefoot, stretching in that loose, lazy way that somehow made him look like he belonged there more than anyone else. He glanced up as you walked in.

“Morning,” he said, soft and a little rough around the edges.

You dropped your bag by the wall. “How’s the caffeine situation?”

He smiled. “Better than yesterday. Tastes like actual coffee.”

Lizzy appeared a moment later, warm as ever. “Alright, team. Let’s pick up where we left off.”

This session was about layering. You’d done the bones of it—now came the rhythm. More eye contact. Partial dialogue. Transitions between physical beats. Still clothed. Still private. But closer.

You moved through the choreography again, syncing your breath to his, feeling his hand find its place at the small of your back like it had always been meant to rest there. The movements were slow, deliberate. Lizzy’s voice floated in from the edge of the room, guiding but never interrupting.

“Let the hesitation sit. Don’t rush past it. You don’t know if you’re allowed to want this yet. That’s where the tension lives.”

You nodded. You did know that. You’d read it. Felt it. But when you looked up and found Austin’s eyes already on yours—steady, unreadable, entirely focused—it landed somewhere lower than the page.

His hand shifted slightly. Not new choreography. A gentle adjustment, thumb pressing into the curve above your hip. Your breath caught for half a second before you remembered what came next.

You hit your mark. Let him guide the movement. Said the line. All of it exactly as planned.

But it felt different now.

Not intimate exactly.

Kind of… charged.

Like your skin was paying more attention than it should.

You tried not to overthink it. You were tired. You’d had too much coffee. It was just a long week.

But when you stepped away during a break and uncapped your water bottle, your hands were shaking slightly. And when he brushed past you to grab a copy of the notes, your body tracked him before your eyes did.

It was only awareness, you told yourself. That’s all.

Still, when the rehearsal wrapped, you left without saying much. Just a wave. A quiet, “See you tomorrow.”

And when you got home, you didn’t turn the shower on right away. You stood there, in the centre of your bathroom, trying to name what you were feeling.

And failing.

By the third day, it was muscle memory.

The basic choreography had sunk in—weight, timing, the way your breathing had to shift depending on whose hand was moving where. It wasn’t second nature exactly, but it no longer required so much conscious effort. Your body knew what to do before Lizzy even called the beat.

You’d kept your hoodie on through warm-up. Stretched your arms, read through the notes again, checked your cue lines even though there weren’t many in this part of the scene. But when it came time to start, you pulled the hoodie off and folded it neatly to the side.

You were down to joggers and a sports bra now. Modesty garment already in place beneath the waistband—silicone-lined, taped down. It didn’t cover much, but it did enough. You were quietly grateful for it. That, and the way Lizzy explained everything like it was just another technical element—same as a light cue or a lens change.

She ran through the new additions with her usual steadiness.

“Austin, your hand will go under the waistband. Just placement—over the shibue. No movement. You”—she turned to you—“will roll your hips twice. That’s the entire rhythm for today.”

You nodded. “Got it.”

Austin looked over. “All good?”

“Yeah,” you said. “All good.”

You lay back, joggers soft beneath your fingers, and let your legs bend into position. Austin settled between your knees, braced one hand beside your shoulder, and waited for the mark.

On cue, his hand moved under the waistband—warm, steady, fingers spread wide enough to cover the space he needed to hit. The contact wasn’t rough, wasn’t wandering. Simply there.

You rolled your hips once.

Then again.

Not a grind. Not even a proper press. Only the motion. The suggestion. His hand stayed still.

It didn’t feel like anything, really. A moment of pressure and a reminder of how close the camera would eventually be. The modesty garment stayed where it was supposed to. That was the only thing you registered—that and the fact that your exhale felt a little too controlled when you came back down.

The scene paused.

You sat up and adjusted your waistband. The edge of the shibue tugged slightly where it had been taped, but it was fine. Not enough to worry about, but enough to feel it.

Lizzy marked the note, nodded once. “Again when you’re ready.”

You glanced at Austin. He gave the smallest nod.

You breathed out. Repositioned.

You were fine.

Just warm all over, and very glad the garment did what it promised.

You knew the choreography now.

Every beat had been mapped. You’d talked it through with Lizzy and Austin, with the director, with wardrobe. You’d written your own version of the scene in your notes—a series of bullet points, clean and factual, so it didn’t feel like anything else.

But standing on set that afternoon, barefoot on the edge of the taped-out space, it hit you that this would be the last time you ran it before the cameras were rolling. That the next time you did this, you’d both be fully undressed—just the modesty garments left between you, and not much else.

You adjusted the waistband of your joggers for the third time, even though it didn’t need it.

Austin was sitting on the edge of the bed frame, script in hand, thumb running a slow line down the margin. He looked calm. Focused. Not performing yet—allowing the moment to settle around him.

Lizzy’s voice broke the quiet.

“Alright. Today we’ll run the full scene, blocking and pacing. We’ll work in the breast contact—touch, mouth—if you’re both still comfortable. We won’t pause unless someone calls reset.”

You nodded. “Yep.”

Austin echoed it beside you. “All okay here.”

The hoodie came off before you stepped into place. You handed it to the wardrobe assistant and kept your arms folded across your chest until Lizzy gave the go.

Then you lay back on the bed. Arms at your sides. Skin already prickling from the air.

Austin climbed in carefully—one knee first, then the other. His hands moved with that same, steady confidence they always had. He kissed your shoulder first, then your collarbone. Not rushed. he eased you both into it.

Then his hand came up.

A cupped, warm press to your breast. Placed deliberately. You could feel the heat of it seeping through your chest in a way you hadn’t fully registered in the abstract.

His head lowered next.

He hovered above you—mouth angled toward your breast, close enough that you could feel his breath as it passed over your skin. He held that position while Lizzy circled behind the camera line, checking visibility, framing. You stayed still. So did he. No contact.

Only the space between.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just held the shape of it while Lizzy walked around the perimeter, watching angles, checking marks. Her voice was a background rhythm. Reassuring.

Then came the final cue.

Austin’s hand slipped under the waistband of your joggers again, warm and still over the modesty barrier. His other hand braced beside your shoulder.

You rolled your hips. Once. Then again.

You felt the pressure land the way it was meant to. Controlled. Calibrated. Friction implied, not enacted.

Then stillness.

Reset.

He pulled back carefully. Rolled off the mattress. Extended his hand without needing to ask.

“You alright?” he said, voice low, just for you.

You nodded as he helped you sit. “Yeah. You?”

He gave a small smile. “Glad it’s with you.”

You looked at him properly then. Not in character. Not through the lens of the scene. Him. Quiet. Steady. Present.

“Same,” you said.

And you meant it.

You got there early.

Not because you were nervous—more out of habit now. One last quiet moment before everything tipped into movement. The lights were set, soft and low, casting the bed in that kind of glow the DP loved. There was a stillness to it that felt almost too peaceful for what was about to happen.

You heard the door open behind you but didn’t turn right away.

Austin’s footsteps were familiar now. So was the quiet.

He came to stand beside you, hands in his pockets. Didn’t say anything for a second. He looked out at the space like you were both about to do something much simpler. Like any other scene. He was calm in that quiet, grounded way he always was right before a take.

He glanced at the bed. Then at you.

“Well,” he said, easy, “if this is the day I forget everything we rehearsed, now’s a fun time to find out.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “No pressure.”

“Nah,” he said. “We’ve got it.”

It wasn’t cocky. Just said with the kind of calm certainty that made your shoulders drop a little.

He looked at you properly then—a beat longer than necessary. Not searching. Simply present.

“We’re fine,” he said. “Feels like we’ve already done it a hundred times anyway.”

“We kind of have,” you said. “But clothed. And with a smaller audience.”

He smiled at that.

And that was enough.

When Lizzy’s voice came through the monitor—“We’re ready when you are”—he didn’t even blink. He tipped his head slightly toward the bed.

“Shall we?”

You nodded once. “Let’s go.”

And together, you stepped into the scene.

You were already on the bed when they called action.

Sitting near the edge, legs folded under you, fingers curled lightly in the hem of your t-shirt. This part of the scene didn’t ask much of you except stillness. Waiting. The kind that held its breath.

You heard the door creak softly as he entered.

The sound of him was familiar now—bare footsteps, quiet breath, that stillness he carried when the scene asked for it. You stayed still, like the script said. Eyes down. Shoulders held a little too tightly.

He stopped just inside the room.

“You left,” he said, voice low. Like it might break something if he spoke too loud.

You looked up.

He was already watching you. T-shirt rumpled slightly, hair a little messy like he’d been running his hands through it. His mouth opened, then closed again. You waited.

“I didn’t want to say something I couldn’t take back,” you said.

He nodded. Not because he agreed. Because he understood.

“I didn’t want it to end like that,” he said. “Not with you.”

That was the moment the scene turned.

The shift you’d rehearsed. The beat the whole film had been circling.

He stepped closer and sat beside you on the bed, steady and familiar. The mattress dipped under his weight. His hand found balance behind you. His knee brushed yours.

Neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t empty—it was full of every version of this that never happened. Every almost. Every nearly.

You turned toward him.

He was close. Closer than usual. The kind of close that made silence feel like a question.

His eyes flicked down—your mouth, your hands—then came back up to meet yours again.

You moved first—only slightly.

He met you without hesitation.

The kiss was soft. Gentle. A breath before it landed. You could feel the warmth of him, the way his lips moved against yours like he’d already memorised the shape of it. His hand rested lightly on your leg. Yours slipped up to his chest.

The second kiss came a little deeper. Not rushed. Certain. The kind of kiss that filled a room without raising its voice.

His mouth tasted faintly of mint.

You stayed with it, let it build, felt it start to root somewhere deeper than rehearsal.

Still in character. Still focused.

But something in your chest had shifted. Something slow and warm and creeping.

You weren’t tracking marks or pacing anymore.

You were just kissing him.

And he was kissing you back like it meant something.

His hand slid up beneath your shirt. Warm across your stomach, steady as he pushed the fabric up. He knew the beat. You’d rehearsed it. You shifted to help, lifting your arms, letting him ease the fabric over your head. He dropped it off the side of the bed. You were already breathing differently.

You reached for his shirt in return, fingers brushing his skin as you pulled it over his head. He let you. No pause, no shift in rhythm. Now skin against skin, your chest rising against his with every breath.

You kissed him again.

And this time, as your mouths met, you moved—slowly—easing one leg over his lap, settling against him.

The bed creaked softly beneath you. His hands came to your thighs, anchoring you there. One slid up, fingers splaying lightly at your waist. The other stayed low, grounding you.

You felt the shape of him under you. Not against your bare skin—not yet—but close. Closer than rehearsal. The weight of him, the pressure of his hands, the way his eyes kept flicking between your mouth and your eyes, like the scene was happening in two places at once.

His lips trailed lower.

Down your jaw, your throat, the curve of your collarbone.

You tilted your head slightly to give him room.

His hand came up to your chest.

Fingers spreading. Thumb brushing across your breast.

You felt your nipples tighten at the contact—part from the cool air, part from the way he touched you. Careful. Measured. You’d practised this, but it felt different now the barrier of your sports bra had disappeared. He cupped you fully in his palm, and then—

His mouth followed.

Warm, soft, unhurried. Lips closing around your nipple, tongue catching enough to make you shift slightly in his lap. You kept your breathing even, stayed in character, but your body was already reacting. The scene didn’t ask for more than this yet. But you could feel something gathering. Low and quiet.

Then he looked up.

His mouth still on your skin. His eyes meeting yours.

And for a second, everything else dropped away.

You were just watching him watch you.

You inhaled, chest rising against his mouth.

And you felt yourself begin to lean into it.

His lips lingered another second, then lifted.

His hand slid from your breast back down to your waist, and with a shift in his weight, you both began to move, easing back across the mattress. You stayed close, bodies aligned as you let him guide you down.

He hovered over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other trailing lightly over your ribs. The rhythm didn’t break. This was where the pause lived. A breath. Something unspoken passing between two people who’d been circling this forever.

Your legs bent beneath him. The sheet rustled.

Then his hand slipped lower.

Fingers sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts, past the edge of fabric, finding the smooth barrier taped carefully into place. His palm settled there, warm and solid. You’d rehearsed it, but it landed heavier now. Like your body had started listening more closely.

You rolled your hips—once.

Then again.

The pressure landed right where it was meant to. Precise. Calibrated. But sharper than you remembered.

You felt it instantly. A flicker of heat. Something low and tightening that hadn’t been there in rehearsal. Your body responding like it didn’t know the difference between performance and something else.

You blinked.

Tried to breathe through it. Tried to shake it off.

It’s choreography, you told yourself. Muscle memory. Contact over fabric. Nothing real.

But your chest felt tighter. Your limbs too aware of his weight above you, the way his gaze tracked every shift in yours.

You could stop. That thought surfaced—quick and quiet. If you tapped out, they’d cut. Reset. No one would question it.

But you didn’t.

Because nothing was wrong.

He hadn’t broken the scene. He hadn’t pushed or rushed or taken anything that wasn’t given. He was exactly where he was supposed to be, moving the way you’d rehearsed, watching you like he always did—with focus, with care, never with pressure.

You held still.

There was a flicker of heat low in your stomach. You noticed it. Filed it away. Only your body reacting to pressure, to breath, to rhythm. It would pass.

You’d trained for this. Layered every beat, anchored every moment. You could hold this.

Austin didn’t falter. His touch stayed steady. His eyes never left yours.

There was no hesitation in him. He was all presence, all intention.

So you stayed with him.

And he kept going—rhythm unchanged, breath slow, every movement shaped by the scene you were both holding in place.

He eased his hand back out from beneath your waistband.

No rush. It was part of the scene. The breath before the shift.

You let yours out slowly, fingers moving to the hem of your shorts. He reached for them too. Together, you pulled them down, until you had to lift your hips to help. They slid free with barely a sound. He tossed them aside.

Then he sat back on his heels and reached for his own waistband.

You stayed where you were, watching. A second too long.

His sweatpants came off easily, the soft fabric catching briefly at his knees before falling to the floor. You hadn’t meant to stare. But something about seeing him now—fully undressed except for the small, skin-coloured patch covering what the camera wouldn’t see—pulled your focus.

The shape of him. The way his body moved. The way he carried the stillness without tensing.

You’d never seen him like this. Not really. You’d mapped every moment, but now there was no extra layer. No fabric between the weight of him and the heat of you.

Your skin prickled. You blinked, looked away.

This was still a scene. Still choreography. You knew the rhythm. You knew your cues.

You lay back.

He followed.

Came over you slowly, hands bracketing your ribs, one thigh nudging between yours as his body lowered into place.

Then he kissed you.

It was meant to be soft. Familiar. A continuation of what came before.

And it was—until it wasn’t.

His mouth moved against yours like it always had, but this time, as his hips settled into position, his tongue brushed over yours.

The faintest flick. Tentative at first, then firmer.

You didn’t expect it.

The breath caught in your throat. A sound slipped out—half sigh, half noise you didn’t recognise.

You felt him pause, for a heartbeat.

Then the kiss deepened.

He held the shape of your mouth with his, steady and warm, letting the scene carry on like nothing had changed.

But something had.

Your fingers curled against his back. Your legs shifted slightly wider. The rhythm began—hip to hip, friction finding its place.

You were still in character.

Still hitting your marks.

But the sound you’d made hadn’t been planned.

Your body was reacting before your brain could reason with it.

He moved again.

Controlled. Deliberate. His hips pressing forward in the pace you’d agreed on, fabric brushing fabric, pressure steady between you. There was no rush, no fumbling. Only that quiet escalation the scene called for.

You felt him shift his weight slightly, adjusting the angle. His hand stayed firm at your waist, the other beside your head, fingers flexing once into the mattress. Your legs shifted higher, wrapping around his waist for the mark.

Then came the sounds.

Small, intentional—part of the scene.

His breath, unsteady but measured. A soft grunt on the next roll of his hips, just under his breath. The kind of sound meant to suggest release without exaggeration. Practised. Real enough to land.

You felt it all.

The weight of him. The tension in his arms. The way his jaw brushed yours when he dipped close, exhaling like he was on the edge of something.

He was performing it.

You knew that.

You’d heard it in rehearsal. You’d run it with Lizzy counting beats at the foot of the bed. But now—now with him above you, eyes flicking between your mouth and your face, his body rocking against yours like you were the only two people left in the world—it felt like more.

You lifted your hips to meet him again.

The friction was too good. Too exact. Every pass catching perfectly over the spot you were trying not to think about.

The heat bloomed fast.

You tried to breathe through it. Tried to stay with the scene. But your body wasn’t listening.

Austin let out another soft sound, low in his throat as he pressed into you again.

That’s what did it.

Not the contact. Not even the movement.

But that sound.

And then it hit.

A clench deep in your belly. Tight, hard, spreading in slow, impossible waves. Your legs tensed. Your breath caught.

It passed through you fast—quiet, sharp, almost invisible.

You didn’t cry out.

But your fingers curled. Your thighs trembled once. Your lips parted just enough to let something slip free—barely a sound.

Austin didn’t flinch.

He kept going. Perfectly on cue. Still in it. Still steady.

But in that second, as he looked down at you again, something in his eyes flickered.

And you wondered if he’d felt it too.

He kept moving, breath low and strained in his throat. You could feel the tension in his body—measured, deliberate—the kind of control that came from rehearsal, not instinct.

His hand slid from your waist to your thigh, anchoring you. His head dipped to your shoulder, and you felt his jaw flex as his body rolled once more into yours.

A soft sound escaped him. Weighted. Part of the scene. Part of the finish.

Then he kissed you again.

Gentle. Breathless. Like something settling.

His weight lowered onto you slightly.

You stayed still.

Your heart was hammering. Your skin flushed.

Shit.

Fuck.

No. No, no—

It had happened. You knew it. You could feel it still humming in your body, the aftershocks settling beneath your ribs. Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious. But real.

You came.

On camera.

With everyone watching.

“Cut.”

The word sliced through the air.

Austin’s body stilled above you. He exhaled through his nose and lifted his head slightly, hands braced to push off without pulling too fast. You stayed perfectly still beneath him, blinking up at the ceiling, trying not to let the shape of what had happened show on your face.

There was a pause. One of those charged, still seconds where no one moved—only the buzz of silence settling into the space you’d created.

Then:

“Holy shit,” came the director’s voice from behind the monitor.

Sharp. Breathless. Immediately followed by, “That was beautiful.”

Chairs scraped. People exhaled. The moment broke.

“Let’s reset for coverage,” she called. “But I want that one in the cut. That was—” A pause. “It didn’t feel like acting.”

Someone nearby murmured agreement. You heard the script supervisor say “Gave me chills.” Another voice—camera maybe—added, “The eye contact? Jesus.”

Lizzy stepped in from the edge of frame, already talking through small adjustments for the next take. Her tone was warm, reassuring. “You okay?” she asked, gently, already reaching out with a robe for each of you.

You nodded. Managed a small sound—something halfway between a breath and a “yeah.”

Austin rolled off you slowly, bracing a hand beside your shoulder as he shifted his weight. You felt the air hit your chest and pulled the robe over yourself without looking up.

He stayed close for a second longer than necessary. Not hovering, but steady. Grounding.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

There was something in it. More than routine concern. Something deeper. He’d felt it. Knew, at least on some level, what had happened. And he wasn’t pretending otherwise.

You nodded too quickly. “Fine.”

He held your gaze for half a second longer—long enough to make your chest tighten—then gave a small nod and stood.

He offered his hand. You took it. Let him help you sit. Fingers clumsy at the robe’s tie.

Everyone else was still buzzing. Still riding the afterglow of a great take. Austin was already standing, sweatpants back on, robe loose around his shoulders, listening as Lizzy walked him through a minor camera shift.

He looked completely calm.

You tried to mirror it.

Tried to focus as someone handed you your shorts, your t-shirt folded neatly over them. You took them without speaking, your fingers trembling slightly as you clutched them to your chest.

“I mean it,” the director said again, her voice carrying across the room. “That was the best work I’ve seen from either of you. Whatever you tapped into—don’t let it go.”

The words landed too close. Too accurate.

You forced a smile. A nod.

Everyone read the look on your face as emotional exhaustion. Commitment. Like you were still in it. Someone even whispered, “She’s really gone there,” like it was a compliment.

And you didn’t correct them.

You kept your eyes on the floor. On the nearest mark. On anything but him.

The corridor felt too bright after the bedroom set.

Not blinding. Wrong, somehow. Like the light hadn’t caught up to the rest of you yet.

You kept your robe cinched tight, clothes folded against your chest. Someone passed with a clipboard. Another crew member rolled a rack of jackets toward storage. Everyone moved like the day was done.

You’d moved too. Through the coverage takes, through resets, through minor adjustments no one would remember tomorrow. They hadn’t needed the whole scene again—a few moments. Different angles. Fragments for the edit.

You’d hit every mark.

You’d said the line over his shoulder, felt his hand at your jaw, let him kiss the corner of your mouth while pretending your legs weren’t still shaking.

And you hadn’t looked at him once.

Not properly.

You’d seen him, of course—getting notes, sipping water, slipping back into his hoodie between takes. Once, you’d felt his gaze brush yours across the room and looked away so quickly you nearly knocked over a chair.

No one noticed.

They thought you were exhausted. Spent.

They were right, but not in the way they meant.

A PA held the door open as you stepped into wardrobe. You nodded in thanks and moved straight to your rail, pulling your hanger from the hook like you’d done a hundred times this shoot.

Shirt. Jeans. The things that made you feel like yourself.

You changed fast. Mechanically. Robe off, clothes on, avoiding the mirror. You didn’t want to see the flush still high on your chest, the way your eyes didn’t quite look back at you.

A voice echoed faintly down the corridor—low, familiar.

Austin.

You didn’t catch the words. Just the sound of him, talking to someone, maybe Lizzy or the director. You froze halfway through tying your shoe.

Then you turned—quietly—and slipped out the other way.

The hallway to the dressing rooms was half-lit, most of the crew already packing up elsewhere. You walked faster than you needed to, fingers still curled tightly around the edge of your script even though you hadn’t looked at it since morning.

Inside your room, the door clicked shut behind you.

No mirrors. No cameras. Just stillness.

And for the first time all day, you let yourself exhale.

You stayed in the dressing room longer than you needed to.

Not long enough for anyone to notice. Enough for the hallway to settle. The noise had drifted elsewhere—footsteps fading, radios crackling in the distance. Your bag was already packed. Your hoodie was looped over one arm. All you had to do was leave.

You pressed your palm to the door for a second before opening it. Breathed once. Then stepped out.

The lights were dimmed to end-of-day levels. Most of the crew had already headed out. You turned left toward the exit you knew would be quickest—then paused.

Austin was up ahead.

He stood near the back entrance, hoodie on, bag slung low over one shoulder. Talking to Lizzy in a low voice, both of them facing the far wall, mid-discussion.

He turned first.

Then Lizzy, already smiling as if to say goodbye. She peeled off toward the side hall.

And Austin looked at you.

His eyes met yours before you could drop them. Just a second. No expression. No smile. Only… watching.

You felt your whole chest tighten.

You shifted your grip on your bag and went back the way you came, turning right instead. Not the exit you’d planned. The long way round. The concrete floor echoed faintly under your shoes. You kept your pace even—steady, controlled.

And when you glanced back, he was still watching.

He didn’t follow. Didn’t call out.

He let you go.

You turned back, gaze low, and didn’t lift it again until the air hit your face. Then walked all the way to your car without looking back.

Your apartment was dark when you got in.

Not pitch black—a soft, shadowed quiet, the kind that comes from forgetting to leave a light on. You didn’t bother fixing it. You dropped your bag in the hallway, kicked off your shoes, and stood there for a second, still wrapped in the quiet.

The silence wrapped around you too easily.

You peeled off your hoodie. Slipped into the kitchen to drink half a glass of water you didn’t really want. Let the fridge hum fill the corners of the room.

Your phone lit up on the counter.

Austin: Hey. Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re okay.

No emojis. No overthinking. It was him—true to form. Simple. Present. Kind.

You stared at it too long.

Part of you wanted to reply. To say yeah, all good, or thanks for earlier. Something normal. Something easy.

But your fingers didn’t move.

Because nothing about today had been normal. And easy didn’t feel honest.

So you flipped the phone over.

Screen facedown. Lights off. Bedroom door shut behind you.

And you let the message sit there, unread.

You hadn’t slept much.

Every time you closed your eyes, it came back—his body over yours, the weight of his gaze, the press of his hand, the exact second your body slipped past the edge and didn’t come back.

And the way he looked at you after.

He knew.

You were sure of it. It wasn’t a guess. It was in his voice when he asked if you were alright. In the pause before he stood. In the way his eyes had stayed on you even as the crew moved around you, like they were part of a different scene altogether.

He knew.

And he hadn’t said anything.

Neither had you.

You’d run the pickups. Dressed. Walked past him. Left the message on your phone unanswered.

And now you were sitting in your dressing room with your script in your lap, pretending to focus, your coffee untouched, your stomach tight. Reading the same half-page of dialogue about burnt toast and unsaid feelings, over and over again.

Today’s scene was simple.

But facing him wouldn’t be.

The door was open. You’d left it that way on purpose—some part of you hoping someone else might fill the space first. A call time. A wardrobe check. Anything.

Instead, there was a knock.

Soft. Two gentle taps against the frame.

You looked up.

Austin.

He was leaning lightly on the doorframe, one shoulder braced, sleeves pulled down over his knuckles. He wasn’t smiling. He watched you, calm and still.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

His voice was steady. But you could feel something underneath it.

You didn’t answer right away.

You blinked slowly, heart thudding harder than it needed to, your fingers still curled loosely around the edge of the script.

He waited.

Didn’t fill the silence. Didn’t take a step inside.

You nodded—small, barely there—and lifted one hand in a quiet gesture.

Come in.

He did.

Closed the door behind him, soft click of wood meeting frame, and crossed the room with the kind of unhurried calm that made you want to both shrink into your chair and lean toward him at the same time.

He didn’t sit yet. He paused there for a moment, giving you the chance to change your mind.

You looked down at the pages in your lap, then folded them closed. Not because you were ready. Because there was no point pretending anymore.

Your voice came out quieter than you meant. “Sorry I didn’t reply.”

Austin gave a small shake of his head, stepping further into the room.

“You don’t have to apologise.”

His voice was gentle. Uncomplicated. Meant to land softly.

He sat down opposite you—not too close, not too formal. Elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped lightly, like he wasn’t sure how long this would take but had already decided to wait as long as you needed.

“I didn’t send it expecting anything,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You nodded—once—but it felt like too much and not enough at the same time.

He didn’t press. He gave you that look again—level and open, like he had time. Like there was no version of this where he walked away without at least letting you speak.

The silence held for a beat.

Then two.

You let out a quiet breath and glanced down at your script again, thumb smoothing the folded corner like it might give you something useful to say. Then back up at him—finally—and cleared your throat.

“Okay,” you started, already flushed. “I’m just gonna say it, and then maybe I’ll dissolve into the floor and we can pretend this never happened.”

He didn’t interrupt.

You kept going, even though your voice caught halfway through.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you said. “I didn’t even realise what was happening, not really—not until it was already…”

You trailed off, the words stalling somewhere in your chest.

“I didn’t fake it, Austin. It happened. It caught me off guard. And I didn’t know what to do with that. So I panicked. And left. And ignored your message. And thought about quitting acting and taking up landscape gardening.”

The heat in your face was instant. Crawling up your neck, into your ears.

“I don’t know if you knew. I mean—I think you did. You looked at me like maybe…”

You didn’t finish.

You didn’t need to.

Because he was already smiling—soft, crooked, steady.

“Well,” he said, tilting his head a little, “if it helps… you were very convincing.”

Your stomach flipped. The colour in your face doubled. You let out the most horrified sound of your life and dropped your face into your hands.

“Oh my god.”

He laughed, warm and gentle. Like he wasn’t shocked. Like it really, truly was okay.

You kept your face in your hands for a full three seconds longer than necessary.

Then peeked through your fingers.

He was still smiling—steady, soft around the edges. Like you’d given him something fragile and he’d known exactly how to hold it.

“I’m never going to work again,” you mumbled into your palms.

“Pretty sure that’s not true.”

“I might actually be the least professional person alive.”

“That also seems unlikely.”

You let your hands fall into your lap, still half-hiding behind your hair.

“I mean… who does that?”

Austin tilted his head, like he was giving it actual thought.

“Someone really committed to the scene?”

You groaned and leaned back in the chair. “Stop.”

He laughed—quiet, shoulders shaking a little. Then softer, “I’m serious. I don’t think anyone on that set had a clue. And even if they did—” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “They’re not thinking about it the way you are.”

You looked at him. Properly.

“And you?” you asked, voice quieter. “How are you thinking about it?”

He didn’t look away.

“I think… it happened. That’s all. I think we built something that felt real, and that’s kind of the point, right?” His voice softened again. “And if it felt too real for a second—I’d rather that than the opposite.”

Your heart kicked hard in your chest.

You didn’t know what you expected him to say. But it wasn’t that.

Something in you eased.

Like maybe you weren’t going to break after all.

You let out a slow breath, eyes still on him. “I thought you might be weird about it.”

“I thought you might be,” he said, smiling gently.

You huffed a laugh, the sound catching at the edges. “I nearly sprinted out of here yesterday.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Okay—did sprint,” you admitted. “And yeah, I took the long way out so I wouldn’t have to walk past you.”

Austin gave a small, helpless shrug. “You know I saw that, right?”

You winced. “Of course you did.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Wasn’t exactly subtle.”

You dropped your head back against the chair and groaned. “Kill me.”

“Nah,” he said. “I need you for the press tour.”

Then, after a beat—“I mean…” He leaned back in the chair, playful now. “If someone asks about chemistry, I feel like I’ve got material.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m just saying,” he teased. “If anyone brings up method acting, I’ve got a pretty strong anecdote now.”

You grabbed your script and batted him lightly with it. “I will actually murder you.”

You pulled the script back into your lap, still half-smiling, still a little red.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time.

It was warm. Settled.

You watched him for a moment—he shifted into his chair bouncing his knee once before going still again. Like the nervous energy had nowhere left to go.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

He looked up.

“For being…” You shook your head a little. “Exactly like this.”

His smile faded a little—softened into something more serious.

“Of course,” he said. “Always.”

There was a knock at the door before you could say anything else. A voice from the hallway. “Ten minutes!”

You both nodded at the same time.

He stood first. Adjusted the hem of his shirt, then glanced at you again like he wanted to say one more thing—but left it unspoken.

“I’ll see you out there?” he said.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He paused in the doorway for a second. Long enough to make sure you were really okay.

Then he was gone.

And somehow, your chest didn’t feel quite so tight anymore.

*

The lights were flat and bright, designed for cameras more than comfort. The table was long — eight chairs wide — with placards lined in front of each seat and slim-necked water bottles sweating quietly beside them. The Cannes logo loomed behind like a watermark, and half the room was journalists with notebooks already open.

Austin sat third from the left. Y/N was to his right.

From where he sat, Austin could see the top of her knee bouncing—small, contained, but constant. A nervous tic she usually didn’t have. She was good under pressure, sharp during interviews, but something in her posture today was tighter. More alert. Like she was already rehearsing the answer in her head. The movement stopped the second someone asked about that scene.

“This one’s for Y/N and Austin,” the journalist said. “I wanted to ask about the intimacy scene. It’s a sex scene, technically, but it’s incredibly quiet. Almost reverent. There’s a lot of emotion but very little exaggeration. How did you approach that?”

Austin turned just enough to see her profile.

The stillness came first. Her inhale was shallow — barely there — but he caught it. That tiny moment of bracing. Like she knew this question was coming. Of course she did. They both did.

But it still landed.

He hadn’t forgotten what happened. Not for a second.

It was over a year ago now — and still, sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could feel it. The shape of her breath against his mouth. The moment her legs tensed. The sound she made, barely audible. So small he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t already been watching for it.

Not because he was trying to catch her out.

Because the second it started, he’d known.

The shift was subtle. A tremble just beneath the rhythm. The way her eyes lost focus for half a beat, like her body had slipped somewhere without her permission.

It had felt… private. More than anything else they’d filmed.

She hadn’t pulled away. Hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t asked to cut.

So he hadn’t said a word.

He stayed where he was, kept the pacing right, and pretended he didn’t feel her come apart underneath him.

But he had.

And he’d thought about it more times than he probably should have.

Across from him now, she leaned slightly toward the mic.

“I think that tone was always intentional,” Y/N said. “Our intimacy coordinator — Lizzy — was with us from the beginning, and we rehearsed it like choreography. Every beat. Every moment. Nothing was improvised.”

Austin watched her closely.

She sounded calm. Grounded. But there was something in the way she kept her eyes focused just above the crowd — like she was holding a line and didn’t want to step over it.

“I think because so much of the film is about restraint,” she went on, “we knew the payoff had to match that. It wasn’t about tension exploding. It was about the weight of finally letting go. And Lizzy really helped us hold that tone—technically and emotionally.”

His chest pulled a little at the last line.

She was still protecting it. The secret of what had happened.

No one else in that room knew what had really happened. Not the director. Not the camera op. Not even Lizzy.

Only them.

When the room quieted again, Austin leaned into the mic.

“Y/N’s right,” he said. “We built everything on that foundation. Trust. Patience. Rehearsing until the tension wasn’t coming from discomfort — it was coming from the story.”

Out of the corner of his eye, her hand shifted slightly on her lap.

His gaze flicked to hers — not a full turn. Enough to let her know he was there. Still holding it with her. Still following her rhythm.

“I think that kind of quiet is harder to get right than people realise,” he added. “It only worked because she was right there with me in every moment.”

“I think we got lucky. I don’t know if that kind of trust happens on every job. But Y/N made it easy. She made it feel… honest.”

He meant it.

Not only as an actor.

There was a version of him that had felt something real in that moment. More than the weight of her under him — it was the trust she’d shown by letting the scene keep going.

She could’ve stopped him. Could’ve paused. Could’ve broken the frame and called cut.

But she didn’t.

And he’d been in awe of her ever since.

The journalist smiled. “It really was beautiful.”

There were nods. The moderator moved on. Someone else raised a hand.

And under the table, he felt it.

The lightest pressure. Her knee nudging gently against his.

Not insistent. Not drawing attention.

Simply there.

Like punctuation. Like thank you.

He nudged back.

Didn’t look at her. Didn’t need to.

But he smiled at the tablecloth anyway.

And let himself wonder—

just for a second—

what it might feel like if the next time wasn’t for a scene at all.

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