razzle dazzle

he glances up and catches you.

"what?" he asks, already smiling because he knows you, and he knows that look on your face.

you walk closer without answering, arms winding around his waist and effectively trapping him between your body and the counter. up close, it's actually unbelievable how pretty he is. his skin is still flushed from his shower. his lips are pink and plush, so soft-looking you have to resist the urge to reach out and thumb over them. his eyes are soft and half-lidded, like he's exactly where he wants to be.

"you're unreal," you mumble, thumbing over the apple of his cheek.

he lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low and a little shy, but he leans into your touch nonetheless, cheek warm beneath your palm.

"you have a serious staring problem," he teases softly.

"can you blame me?"

his curls fall slightly into his eyes before you push them back. his lips part like he's going to shoot back another tease, but he doesn't. instead, his hands slide down to rest on your hips.

the kiss starts gentle, the slow and steady press of his lips to yours. lingering in a way that makes you forget what you were supposed to be doing in the kitchen in the first place.

his hands tighten slightly on your hips, tugging you closer until there's no space left between you. your fingers slide up to his curls, and he makes the smallest sound against your lips, almost a sigh.

he tilts his head down, kissing you slower, like he's savoring the taste of your lips. his thumbs hook into the waistband of your sweats, rubbing comforting circles against your hips. every time you pull back for air, he chases, pressing another kiss to your lips like he can't bear let it end.

you smile into one of them and he finally pulls back for air, nose bumping into yours. his curls are messier, lips flushed. he rests his forehead against yours, breathing slow and warm against your skin.

"you were getting water," he murmurs, voice low and rough.

"hm," you hum. "changed my mind."

You had tons of reasons you loved your boyfriend, Connor.

He was kind in a quiet way that most people never got to see. He remembered the tiniest things, like foods you absolutely hated or the exact playlist you needed when deadlines were choking you.

He laughed at your stupid memes from TikTok he sometimes never understood and never once made you feel dramatic for crying at dog rescue videos. He was safe and your home.

But God, those biceps.

They weren’t even the main reason but they were absolutely in the top five. Maybe top three on days when he wore short sleeves.

Today was one of those days.

Chicago in early November was pretending it wasn’t about to get brutal, so Connor had thrown on a plain black t shirt that should have been illegal. The cotton clung to his chest and stretched across his shoulders, but the real crime was happening from the deltoid down.

The sleeves ended exactly where the swell of his biceps began, like whoever designed the shirt knew precisely what they were doing to people like you.

The fabric was tight enough that every time he moved you could see the shift of muscle underneath, the way the peak rose when he lifted his arm even a fraction.

You were both in the kitchen of his downtown apartment, supposedly making breakfast. In reality he was flipping pancakes one handed while you sat on the counter beside the stove, legs swinging, shamelessly staring.

“You good over there?” he asked, voice low and amused as he slid another perfect pancake onto the stack. He flexed his right arm a little as he reached for the spatula, the muscle bunching under tan skin.

You giggled. “Define good.”

He laughed under his breath and turned the burner off, then finally faced you fully. Both arms crossed over his chest now, which only made everything worse. The sleeves rode up higher. You were going to die on this counter and it would be entirely his fault.

“Come here,” he said, tilting his head.

You hopped down without hesitation and crossed the three steps between you. The second you were close enough, your hands found their favorite spot: palms sliding over the hard curve of his left bicep, fingers curling as much as they could around it. And they still didn’t meet.

“Morning check in?” he teased, watching your face like he already knew the answer.

“Obviously.” You gave a little squeeze, testing, like this was a serious scientific experiment and not just you being completely gone for your boyfriend’s arms. “I have to document growth, Connor. This is important research.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And?”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. “Definitely bigger.”

It was a lie and you both knew it. They’d been this ridiculous for months now, he had big biceps already three years ago. But the ritual was sacred: you checked and he flexed. You pretended to measure with your hands like a complete gremlin. He asked if you were sure. You said yes and felt heat pool low in your stomach every single time.

He unfolded his arms and suddenly your feet weren’t on the floor anymore. One smooth motion and his hands were under your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing and you were back on the counter, only now he was standing between your knees.

“Show off,” you muttered.

“You started it.” His voice dropped, playful but rough around the edges. “You’re the one who can’t keep her hands to herself before I’ve even had any breakfast.”

You slid your palms up slowly, tracing the line where muscle met shoulder, then back down again. “I have a very serious condition. It’s chronic and incurable, and the only treatment is touching your biceps whenever possible.”

“Whenever possible, huh?” He leaned in. “So if I wore long sleeves today you’d suffer?”

You pulled back just enough to glare at him. “That would be cruel and unusual punishment. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be able to touch them.”

“You know you’re obsessed, right?”

“You knew that when you started dating me.”

The first time you saw girls on TikTok tying delicate satin bows around their boyfriend’s biceps, most guys played along sweetly, flexing just enough to make the bow tight and maybe even break.

You closed the app, looked across the room at Connor, sprawled on the couch and thought: yeah, no. That trend was made for Connor.

Three nights later, you’re both on the living room floor, some random movie playing as background noise. You’d bought a spool of baby pink satin ribbon the day before and planned on how to get him to do this with you.

He was in the middle of talking about what they were doing at practice today, when you crawled over with the ribbon hidden behind your back.

“Babe,” you say, innocently.

Connor stops talking immediately. He knows that tone. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” you lie, then straddle his lap before he can escape. “Hold your arm out.”

He raises one brow but obeys, stretching his right arm across your thighs. The muscle shifts under his skin as he straightens it, already unfairly defined even relaxed.

You loop the ribbon around the thickest part of his bicep, the satin whispering against his skin, and tie it into a perfect bow right on top of the peak.

Connor glances down, lips twitching. “Am I supposed to wear this?”

“Just flex,” you whisper, barely breathing.

He doesn’t even try to play coy. One deliberate curl of his fist and the bicep swells, and the ribbon snaps with a soft pop. The ribbon flutters to the floor like defeated little flag.

Your brain blue screens.

“Oh my gosh,” you blurt, voice cracking somewhere between awe and desperation. “That’s so attractive.” You grab his wrist. “Do it again.”

He laughs. “There’s no ribbon left.”

You’re already scrambling for the spool, cutting another length. “Second attempt.”

Nights when you and Connor were in bed, the rest of the world simply stopped existing.

It didn’t matter that tomorrow he had morning skate at 9am or that your inbox was probably on fire or that the wind off Lake Michigan was rattling the windows like it wanted in.

None of it reached the little universe you built under his charcoal duvet. Here, time moved in heartbeats and the slow drag of his fingers along your hip.

Connor slept warm like a human furnace designed specifically to ruin you for every other season. On the nights when Chicago tried to freeze your soul, you just burrowed closer and let him thaw you out.

He rolled onto his back first, stretching that ridiculous wingspan until his left arm flopped across your pillow in open invitation. You didn’t even pretend to hesitate.

You scooted in immediately, sliding your head onto the perfect shelf of his bicep, cheek pressed to the hard curve of muscle, nose tucked against the soft skin of his inner arm. The position left your own arm draped over his chest, fingers splayed over the steady thump of his heart.

“Hi,” you whispered into the dark, lips brushing skin.

He hummed, low and sleepy, and flexed once, just enough that the muscle under your cheek turned to stone for a second before relaxing again.

You smiled against him and let your eyes fall shut.

A few minutes later he shifted again, turning toward you, sliding the arm you weren’t using as a pillow underneath your neck so he could spoon you properly.

The movement was smooth, he’d done it a hundred times and still made it feel like choreography made just for you. Now the bicep you’d been lying on became the one wrapped around your shoulders from behind, pulling you tight against his chest.

His other arm, the one that had been across your waist, came up slowly, until his forearm rested on the pillow right in front of your face.

The veins shifted under the skin, faint in the dim light, and you actually sighed. “Happy?” he murmured against the back of your neck, lips brushing your skin.

You answered by pressing a kiss into his forearm, then another and then one more because you could. “My life is officially complete,” you said, voice muffled against him. “I have achieved peak existence. I can die now.”

He laughed quietly. “Wow, you’re so dramatic.”

You traced one finger along the line where muscle met his tricep. “These arms keep me warm, keep me safe, and double as the world’s best pillow.

His hand found yours in the dark, threading your fingers together and pulling your joined hands down to rest over your stomach.

Some nights you talked until you both fell asleep: silly things about the future, about the dog you were definitely getting once his schedule calmed down, about whose turn it was to pick the next vacation.

Tonight neither of you needed words. The quiet was perfect. His breathing evened out behind you, slow and deep, and you matched it without thinking.

You felt the moment he slipped into real sleep, his grip loosened just slightly and the arm across your chest became pure deadweight warmth. You smiled into the dark and let yourself follow him under, cheek still pressed to the steady rise and fall of his bicep, completely surrounded by him.

Grateful didn’t even begin to cover it.

Will just shrugs, completely unashamed, and leans down near your ear. “You want something to drink?”

You nod, “Just a water, please.”

He squeezes your waist once before walking toward the kitchen, his fingertips dragging along your side until the very last second before he can't reach you anymore. Every little thing with him feels like that. Casual, like taking care of you and keeping you close are things he does without thinking anymore, they’re always at the front of his mind. 

Cat watches the whole thing with a knowing smile. “Oh,” she says lightly.

“What?” you question, not knowing where she’s going with this. 

“He is obsessed with you.”

Your face immediately warms, “He is not.”

Cat just laughs. “He walked in the door less than thirty seconds ago and already can't keep his hands to himself.”

“That is not true.”

“It definitely is.”

You open your mouth to defend him, but Will comes back into the room holding your water bottle already opened for you, and before handing it over he presses a quick kiss against the side of your head.

“Thank you,” you say to him quietly, before he heads off to the kitchen again to say hi to the rest of the team. 

Cat just gives you a look over the rim of her wine glass.

You sigh once he’s out of earshot, “Okay, maybe a little.”

⊰══════════════════════⊱

The night settles easily after that. Music plays quietly through the house while everyone moves between the kitchen and living room. Conversations are overlapping comfortably. It’s loud not in an overwhelming way, but a comforting way, all your favorite people in the same place, enjoying one another's company. 

To no one’s surprise, Will is attached to you through all of it.

When you’re standing in the kitchen talking to Cat and a couple of the other player’s girlfriends, he’s beside you with his hand resting absentmindedly on your hip while he talks hockey with the guys facing the other direction. 

When everyone crowds around the island for food, his thigh presses against yours the entire time. Later when you’re sitting on the couch, he drops down beside you and pulls your legs directly next to his, one arm stretched across the back of the couch behind you. 

It’s so constant you almost stop noticing it. Almost.

Until Macklin walks by, pauses dramatically and goes, “Holy shit, are you two physically capable of existing separately for more than ten seconds?”

Will doesn’t even look away from the conversation he’s having, and answers dryly, “No.”

The room bursts into laughter. “See?” Tyler points out, “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Will finally looks over, completely relaxed. “What?”

“You’re clingy,” Tyler says. 

“I’m not clingy,” Will argues lightly. 

“You’ve touched her literally this entire night.”

Will frowns slightly then glances down at where his fingers are now loosely hooked around yours in his lap, like he genuinely didn’t realize he was doing it.

Then he just looks back up, “Okay?”

More laughter from everyone, and you can’t help smiling into your drink.

Because the thing is, none of it feels forced. He’s never draped all over you or trying to put on some kind of show, he just always reaches for you like it’s second nature to him. It's like he’s just more comfortable when you’re close. 

At some point while dessert is being passed around, you get up to help Cat in the kitchen. The second you step away from the couch, Will’s eyes follow you automatically.

Tyler notices immediately, “Oh my god,” he says loudly. “Look at him.”

Will tears his attention away from you. “What?”

“You tracked her across the room like a puppy.”

“I was not—”

“You absolutely were,” Macklin cuts in.

“He’s got separation anxiety,” Tyler adds.

Will rolls his eyes, but there’s the faintest hint of embarrassment creeping into his expression now, “You guys are annoying.”

Meanwhile in the kitchen you’re hearing all of it. “You love it though,” Cat says quietly beside you while drying off a plate.

“Yeah,” you admit softly. “I really do. It’s comforting in a way, knowing he’s always there.”

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Hours later, once people start heading out, Will helps finish cleaning up without being asked. Even then he keeps gravitating back toward you every few minutes. A hand brushing your back as he passes by, or his fingers squeezing your shoulder. Your favorite are the quick kisses against your temple while you’re putting dishes away.

Tyler catches one of those kisses and immediately points across the kitchen. “There,” he says dramatically. “Again.”

“Oh my god,” Will mutters under his breath.

You laugh quietly, dropping the dish towel on the counter and leaning into his side, “Leave him alone.”

“We would,” Macklin says from the living room, “if he stopped acting like your emotional support.”

Will just shakes his head, moving around you to put another dish in the dishwasher. As he passes, his hand slides across your lower back, like despite all the teasing, he genuinely doesn’t realize he’s doing it anymore.

Tyler watches the whole thing happen and bursts out laughing again.

“He did it again!” he says loudly.

This time Will finally looks mildly offended. “What do you want from me?”

“Space,” Tyler says. “Personal space. Independence. Growth.”

Will deadpans immediately, “Sounds awful. We get enough of that when I’m on a road trip.”

Everyone laughs again, including you, and he glances over at you with the smallest smile tugging at his mouth, like hearing you laugh is worth all the teasing. You just move closer to him, and wrap your arms around his waist.

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Eventually the night finally starts winding down for real. Goodbyes are exchanged at the door, leftovers get packed up and distributed to everyone, and promises to do this again soon thrown around casually.

The second you grab your coat from the couch, Will appears beside you like he was waiting for it. He takes it from your hands before you can put it on yourself, holding it open behind you automatically.

“Thank you,” you mumble, smiling softly as you put your arms through the sleeves. 

“Mhmm.”

His hands settle briefly on your shoulders after helping you into it, lingering there for just a second before sliding down your arms, holding your forearms lightly as you both say goodbye. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

The drive home is quieter than the rest of the night, comfortable in that easy way it always is with him. His hand still rests on your thigh the entire drive anyway, his thumb brushing against the fabric of your jeans.

When you finally get back to your apartment, you’re halfway through kicking your shoes off when he says, “Am I actually that bad?”

You glance up immediately, “What are you talking about?”

“With the touching thing,” he says, leaning back against the closed front door now, “I didn’t realize I did it that much until everyone kept pointing it out.”

You stare at him for a second because he sounds genuinely unsure now. “You know none of them actually care, right?” you ask softly, “They were just poking fun at you.” It’s not the time to debate whether that was right or wrong, but all in all you know they didn’t mean anything bad by any of it, and now you’re making sure he knows that too. 

“I know,” he says quickly. “I just…” He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, “I don’t know. I don’t wanna make you feel smothered or something.”

You walk back over to him without thinking, sliding your arms around his waist and propping your chin up on his chest to look up at him. Predictably, his hands settle against your hips almost immediately. Reflex.

“You don’t smother me,” you say quietly.

His eyes search yours carefully, like he’s trying to decide whether you’re just saying that to make him feel better.

Something in his face softens at that. You continue before he can brush it off. “I mean it. I think if you stopped now I’d actually hate that you stopped.”

A small smile finally pulls at his mouth, “You’d miss me being clingy?”

“You’re not clingy,” you correct softly. “You just like being close to me, and I like it too.”

His expression changes a little at that. Warmer somehow. “Can you blame me?”

Your chest aches a bit at how genuine he sounds. “No,” you say quietly, “Not really.”

“Good,” he says quietly. “Cause I don’t really think I know how to not do it.”

You laugh softly, “I know.”

He smiles then, properly this time, and leans down to press a slow kiss against your forehead. Even after the teasing, after the entire team spent hours pointing it out, his hands never leave you once.

He exhales a laugh through his nose before pulling you fully against him, arms wrapping around you tighter this time like now he’s allowed to. You sink into him immediately.

For a minute neither of you moves. The apartment is quiet in contrast to how the rest of your night had sounded, and now that you’re standing here wrapped up in him, you realize how natural this is too. The constant touching never feels heavy with him, it’s not demanding on either part, it never feels possessive, it’s just comforting. 

His chin now rests on top of your head while his thumbs move against your sides. Even in the middle of this conversation about how much he touches you, he’s still doing it without thinking.

“You know what the funny part is?” you mumble into his chest.

“What?”

“I don’t even notice half the time anymore.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, “I’m that bad, huh?”

“No,” you correct immediately, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “Not bad, I think my body just expects you to be there now. Like when we’re sitting somewhere and you’re not touching me, I notice that more,” you admit quietly. “It feels weird.”

A smile pulls slowly at the corner of his mouth, “Seriously?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes stay on yours for a second longer before he leans down and presses another kiss to your forehead, but this time slower. His arms tighten around you again afterward, like your words are the final piece of reassurance he needs after questioning himself.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Cause honestly? I think if I had to sit next to you and not touch you for an entire night I’d lose my mind.”

You laugh, your face tucking back into his chest, “Tyler would probably call that a breakthrough.”

Will scoffs, smiling, “He can deal with it.”

You can hear the smile in his voice now, the uncertainty from earlier finally gone. One of his hands slides up your back slowly to rest against the base of your neck. His hand is warm and familiar, and you melt into him even more without even thinking about it.

It’s that instinctive reaching for each other, like no matter where you are, a crowded house full of teammates or a quiet apartment at midnight, both of you are always unconsciously trying to close the distance.