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Today, knowing he wouldn't be back until long past midnight, you’d turned the night into a spa routine: a hot bath, lavender-scented body scrubs, rich body butter, and a hint of vanilla oil smoothed over your collarbones and hips. By the time you finally crawled under the covers, your skin smelled like flower garden.

You were fast asleep in just a pair of black lace panties and his oversized, stretched-out t-shirt, one bare leg thrown over the bunched-up duvet as if anchoring yourself to him.

Djed had come home completely wired. Training had been a disaster today, a grueling session compounded by a heated argument with the coach that left his blood boiling. His shoulders still hummed with the tension. His jaw remained clenched around furious retorts he’d replayed a dozen times on the drive back.

And there you were, peaceful, unreachable, smelling maddeningly good.

He sat on the edge of the mattress in his boxer briefs, a damp towel slung over one shoulder, staring down at you. He watched the way your ribs rose and fell beneath his t-shirt, which had ridden up in your sleep to expose the soft curve of your waist, the swell of your lower ribs, and the underside of your breast.

Streetlight bled through the blinds, striping your bare shoulder, your cheek, and the black lace edge of the underwear he’d tugged off you with his teeth two nights ago. It hid practically nothing.

He remained on the edge of the bed, transfixed, devouring you with a hungry gaze. He’d showered, forced himself through rounds of box breathing, but none of it had been enough to quiet his racing mind.

His hand found your calf first. Just resting there. Warm palm over smooth skin. He pressed his thumb into the muscle, working in slow, testing circles. Your leg didn’t twitch. You didn’t react at all.

Moving closer, he eased himself onto his knees on his side of the bed. Reaching out, he slid his hands under your hips, carefully shifting your heavy, sleep-softened weight toward the center of the mattress. He was testing the waters, waiting to see if you’d wake. You merely let out a soft, incoherent murmur in your sleep, your hips rolling slightly against the sheets in a subconscious, inviting sway before settling again.

He realized then — you were completely out. And you were entirely at his mercy.

Djed lay down behind you, settling on his side. He stared at your back, taking in the way his shirt pulled taut against your spine, the exposed curve of your breast, and the sweet tilt of your ass.

His cock stirred against his thigh. Still soft, but waking.

Slowly, he placed his palm over your ass. He paused, soaking in the softness of your skin, before his fingers began to glide downward. He traced the border of the lace, his hand slipping lower, moving right between your thighs.

When his fingertips grazed the cotton gusset of your underwear, he felt heat. Damp, unmistakable heat.

“Fuck,” he breathed, barely audible.

The sight of you, the scent of your skin, and the sudden touch of your slickness shattered whatever restraint he had left. His cock hardened instantly, pressing thick and flush against the back of his briefs.

His hand stayed buried between your legs, his fingertips lightly tracing the damp cloth. The faint pressure against your folds drew out more moisture, pooling warm and thick against his fingers.

Unable to resist the heat, his hand slipped beneath the elastic band of your lace panties.

The first touch was experimental — two fingers dragging through your slick folds, parting them to find that hidden seam of heat. The texture was already changing, liquid building everywhere his pads circled your entrance.

Your hips shifted. A tiny, unconscious roll toward his hand.

“That’s it. Fucking take it.” He breathed.

He dipped one finger inside, just to the first knuckle. Your walls clenched around him, muscle memory doing the work, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning too loud.

His cock was aching now, trapped rigid and flushed beneath his briefs.

Shifting carefully so he wouldn't disturb you, Djed rolled onto his back beside you, propping himself slightly against the pillows. He palmed himself through the fabric for a brief moment, squeezing in firm strokes to let the friction build. But that wasn’t enough already.

He reached back between your legs, his fingers slipping deep inside your lace panties to resume working your slick heat. He groaned.

With his other hand, he reached down and hooked his thumb into the elastic band of his boxer briefs, tugging the fabric down to let his heavy shaft spring free. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the bare length, matching the rhythm of his finger inside you. In and out. Slow. Controlled. The head leaked steadily, pre-cum dripping onto the sheets.

“You have no idea how fucking badly I need this,” he murmured, slowly withdrawing his finger and bringing it to his mouth. He sucked it clean, tasting the faint salt-sweet beginning of your arousal, his eyes rolling back as the taste hit him.

Suddenly, your lips parted. A soft exhale escaped, making Djed freeze dead in place. He waited, holding his breath. But nothing more came.

Feeling a fresh surge of confidence, Djed shifted his weight, settling on his side beside you, propped up on one elbow. From this new angle, he could watch the faint flutter of your eyelashes, the tiny twitch of your fingers against the pillow, and the way your breathing grew just a fraction more ragged as your body responded to something your conscious mind hadn't even registered yet.

“Goddamn, baby.” He said it into the space behind your ear, where your skin smelled like the vanilla oil and lavender you’d smoothed on earlier. “You have no idea what you look like right now.”

His eyes traveled down to the hem of his oversized t-shirt, which was still barely clinging to the curve of one boob, teasing him. His cock throbbed in response, heavy and demanding. He’d deliberately avoided touching the top half of your body this whole time — saving the sweetest part for last.

Carefully, his fingers caught the soft cotton fabric. He pulled it up, slow and agonizingly deliberate. The fabric caught briefly against your other hip where your body pressed into the duvet, then slid free, bunching above your ribs to expose the soft swell of both your breasts to the cool bedroom air.

His breath hitched. Your chest was completely bare, your breasts resting soft and heavy against the mattress in your sleep. He hooked a finger into the neckline of the shirt, dragging it up just a fraction more so nothing was hidden from him.

Your nipples were soft and relaxed. He circled one peak with the pad of his thumb. Once, twice. On the third pass, your skin puckered tightly under the friction, the peak hardening into a tight knot. A tiny shudder rippled through your chest, though your eyes stayed closed. Your legs parted another inch, an invitation you didn’t know you were making.

His cock twitched again. Now he was impatient. Touching your chest had only dialed up the ache in his groin.

His hand left your breast, reaching down to wrap tightly around his bare shaft once more. He stroked himself hard and fast, a few desperate passes to keep from losing his mind entirely, before leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“I’m gonna touch your cunt now,” he murmured. “I know you can’t hear me. But I’m telling you anyway.”

His free hand returned to your bare hip, his fingers smoothing over the soft curve of your rear before slipping under the edge of your underwear. He began to drag it down, easing the fabric past the swell of your ass, down the backs of your thighs, stopping only when the panties were pinned loosely around your knees.

And just like that, you were completely bare, completely unaware, still mumbling something sweet and incoherent into your pillow as the cool bedroom air kissed your exposed cunt and boobs.

You stayed like that for a moment, your breasts and cunt entirely open to his gaze, until his hand returned, pressing directly onto your bare inner thigh.

He didn’t plunge in. As desperately as his body demanded it, he forced his hips to stay grounded, his breath coming in shallow hitches through his nose.

Djed lined the head of his cock up with your slit, using the warm palm on your inner thigh to hold your leg open just a fraction wider. He pressed forward, just enough to glide the tip from your clit down to your opening, and back up again.

He groaned loudly. You were truly scorching hot. The natural slick you’d pooled in your sleep had coated your folds completely, creating a friction so smooth, so impossibly wet, that it sent a shudder straight up his spine. He was barely holding himself.

He stroked himself against you like that for what seemed like minutes. He didn’t want this to end. Slow, excruciating passes dragged his sensitive tip over your swollen clit, painting his pre-cum into your heat and taking your slick in return until the head of his cock was completely glazed. The wet, rhythmic quiet of it filled the space between your bodies, a sliding sound that made his jaw ache from how hard he was clenching his teeth.

It was torture. Pure, self-inflicted torture. Every time he dragged himself up your length, the cool night air hit his wet cock, making the next press back against your body feel ten times hotter.

He was losing his mind. He looked down at your face — still peaceful, eyelashes resting soft against your cheek, your lips parted just enough for your breath to warm the pillowcase — and the contrast made his hips twitch involuntarily. Your body was producing so much wetness for him, yielding so effortlessly to his touch, that for one terrifying second he genuinely doubted you were still asleep.

“Baby?” he breathed into the quiet. “You awake?”

You didn't answer. You just let out a long, heavy sigh into the pillow, your hips making a subconscious shift into the pressure of his thigh, seeking more heat, completely unaware of the edge he was balancing on.

That small, sleepy roll of your hips snapped the last thread of his restraint.

Djed pressed down, leaning his weight forward. He sank the head of his cock past your slick lips. Just the tip. Just an inch of thick head pushing into your narrow heat before the sudden, intense stretch made him freeze.

The tight ring of your entrance gripped him like a vice.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck...” A broken rasp tore from his throat.

He held himself there for three agonizing heartbeats, letting his cock pulse against your tight walls, before slowly pulling all the way back out until only the tip was left resting against your entrance again.

Then he did it again.

He pressed back in — just the head, half an inch deeper this time — letting your natural wetness swallow him effortlessly without a drop of lube. He dragged himself out, then slid back in.

He was edging himself directly against your sleeping body, using your tight, passive heat to push himself to the absolute brink, his muscles shaking with the sheer effort of keeping his thrusts shallow enough not to shock you wide awake.

Your hips rolled. “Djed…”

Your body was chasing sensation even if your mind was still offline. Your hand, the one that had been flung across his pillow, twitched and curled into the sheet.

“You’re dreaming about me,” he whispered. “I bet you are. I bet I’m fucking you in your dream right now, aren’t I? Bent over something or on your back with your legs up…”

He buried his face in your hair and gave one firm, deliberate roll of his hips, sinking another full inch deep. Your mouth opened on a gasp and then softened again. The sudden stretch made your inner walls clench around him, and the tight, wet pulse of it made Djed bite his lower lip hard enough to taste copper.

“So fucking tight when you’re asleep. I need to be inside you,” he said, his raspy whisper breaking with genuine desperation. “I’m not gonna last, baby. I don’t give a fuck.”

He couldn't hold back a second longer. Djed shifted his stance, planting one knee firmly between your legs to anchor you, his other hand pressed into your lower back, arching your hips up just so.

He rocked forward once — not entering completely, just parting those wet folds so the slick ridge of his cock dragged directly across your clit. Glazed in your heat, he was scorching hot, and he had to physically stop himself from slamming home all at once.

Instead, he pushed in slow. Inch by excruciating inch, letting your sleepy, heavy body stretch around him.

Your body welcomed him. Swallowed him completely. Your inner walls gripped the entire length of him in a slick, pulsing sleeve, and as he finally seated himself to the hilt, Djed dropped his forehead against your shoulder, a breathless string of profanity spilling against your skin.

“Fuck, fuck-”

It was pure, blinding bliss. The sensation of your scorching, velvety narrowness squeezing him after minutes of grueling tension was so intense it almost made his eyes water. He felt like he was drowning in you — the scent of vanilla on your skin, the tight grip of your body, the quiet safety of the bedroom washing away every ounce of anger and fatigue from his brutal day.

He began to move.

Short thrusts at first, barely pulling out before grinding back in as deep as he could go. Your body responded in kind — legs spreading wider of their own accord, hips canting up to meet his rhythm, your breath coming in the soft little sounds that weren’t quite waking but weren’t quite sleeping either.

“You feel that?” He fucked into you deeper, a long drag that made the bed frame creak. “That’s my cock splitting you open while you sleep. And you’re taking it so good. So fucking good. Your pussy’s drooling on me.”

He set a rhythm now, slow strokes that bottom out with his hips flush against your ass. The sound in the room was obscene: the wet slap of flesh against flesh and the heavy squelch of your heat getting slicker with every thrust. He could see it, the way your pussy lips stretch around him, the creamy ring of arousal building at the base of his shaft.

Your spine arched, pressing your hips higher, giving him a deeper angle. Djed took it without hesitation, his fingers digging into your hip hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises as he pounded into you with a desperation that bordered on feral.

His thrusts grew sloppier, harder, driven by pure instinct. He leaned over you, pressing his broad chest flat to your back, his mouth hovering right at the shell of your ear. His breath came hot and ragged against your neck.

“Gonna fill this sleeping little cunt up,” he growled, the low rasp vibrating straight into your spine. “Gonna pump you so fucking full.”

His free arm reached around your waist, his hand sliding down your flat stomach until his thumb found your swollen clit. He began thumbing it in tight circles, syncopating the friction with the relentless push of his hips.

Your hips bucked. Your breathing went completely ragged, the rhythm fracturing as the pleasure spiked past the threshold of sleep.

“M-Mhm… Djed?”

Your voice was small, sleep-thickened, and completely dazed. Your eyelids fluttered open, heavy and unfocused in the dark room. “What… what are you doing?”

The question barely finished leaving your lips before your brain finally caught up to the physical reality of your body — the massive, stretching weight buried deep inside you, the ruthless friction on your clit, and the wall of heat pressed against your back. The realization hit your nervous system all at once, transforming your hazy question into a long, helpless moan that echoed through the quiet bedroom.

Djed hummed in approval against your cheek, his hips not missing a single beat.

“Yeah?” he whispered, his voice dripping with possessive warmth. “You like that, baby?”

You let out a trembling breath, your fingers reaching back to clutch blindly at the thick forearm he had wrapped around your waist. “Djed… it’s- it’s so-“

“I know,” he cooed, his voice dropping into that smooth murmur that always made your heart melt. “You’re so good for me, taking all of me so well. Look at how sweet you feel around my cock. Feel how wet you are? Feel that?”

Your hand flew down to where your bodies joined, your fingers brushing his shaft and feeling the heat and slickness coating him. He was right. You were dripping.

He paused his thrusts for just a second, burying himself to the hilt and letting you feel the pulsing weight of him filled to capacity.

“Came home so fucking hard for you. You were sleeping so pretty. You’re gonna be good for me, aren't you?”

You could only nod against the pillow, totally hazy, completely overstimulated, and already halfway to an orgasm before your brain has even fully registered the reality.

Djed gently turned your face toward him so he could press a soft kiss to your temple.

“Take a breath for me,” he instructed softly, his lips tracing down your jawline. “In through your nose, baby. Let your hips drop into the bed. There you go... just like that.”

As you exhaled, your body naturally relaxed around him, sinking deeper into the mattress. Djed let out a satisfied hum.

“Good girl,” he praised, the words dripping with warm affection. “See how much better that feels? Now just stay like this for me while I work this off.”

He began to pull out slow, dragging his length all the way back before bottoming out with a sudden, firm push that made a sharp moan tear from your throat.

“That’s it,” he whispered, rhythmically rocking into you, his tone calm and steady even as his body worked yours with intense, athletic power. “Let me hear you. Tell me it feels good.”

“It feels- fuck, Djed, it feels so good-“

“Yeah?”

His thumb hit your clit again with two fingers, maddeningly slow rotations, pressing down with just enough pressure to make your vision blur.

Your mouth fell open. A tiny whimper escaped.

“Shhh,” he cooed against your ear. “I got you. I got you, baby.”

He kept the pace brutal, deep, and steady, using his strength to drive into your sweet spot over and over while his soft voice anchored you through the storm.

“You’re right there,” he murmured into your ear, his warm breath fanning your skin as your inner muscles began to quiver around him. “I feel you tightening up. Let it break. I’ve got you.”

Knowing exactly how a sudden shift in pace always shattered whatever control you had left, he pulled out almost completely before slamming back in, knocking a sharp cry from your chest as the headboard cracked against the wall.

Then he did it again. And again. Each thrust drove deeper than the last, his locks whipping wild with his movement, the heavy tips flicking against your bare shoulders and neck with every brutal push. The wet slaps of his hips echoed through the quiet room alongside the rhythmic brush of his hair over your skin.

“Taking this cock like you were made for it.” His words came in ragged bursts between thrusts. “Sleeping all peaceful… didn't even know you were about to get fucked stupid. Now you're awake and you're still taking it. Look at you. Fucking look at you.”

His hand snaked up to your throat, anchoring you against him without squeezing. Your t-shirt had ridden up to your neck, his bare chest pressed to your back, and you could feel the frantic pound of his heartbeat through your spine.

“You gonna cum on this cock?” His thumb pressed harder on your clit. “You gonna soak my fucking balls while I fill you up?”

Your answer was a broken, keening sound that didn't resemble words at all. The pressure was building, hot and sharp, coiling low in your belly. Your fingers clawed at the sheets.

“Come on, pretty girl,” Djed growled. “Let go. Right now. I want to feel it. I want to feel you milking my-“

The praise was the final push. Your body bucked against his hip, a high, wrecked moan escaping you as your orgasm snapped. Your pussy clamped around his cock in tight, pulsing waves, and Djed's composure shattered completely.

“Fuck yeah, just like that-“

He buried himself to the root, driving deep one last time and pinning you to his chest as his cock kicked and emptied. He held you tight against his hips, groaning into the nape of your neck while he poured hot inside you, his grip turning bruising as his hips jerked involuntarily with each pulse until you could feel the warmth blooming deep in your stomach.

The room fell quiet except for the twin sounds of your ragged breathing.

He stayed in you, softening inside your heat with his forehead pressed to your shoulder blade. His thumb traced lazy, gentle circles on your hip where he'd held you so tightly.

“You okay?”he finally whispered.

“Mmm.” You couldn't form sentences yet, couldn't even form thoughts.

His mouth pressed tenderly into the curve of your shoulder.

“Good girl,” he whispered softly, all the tension from his long day finally gone. “My good girl.”

-> reblog to support me, if you enjoyed reading this and please let me know your thoughts in the comments! ཐི❤︎ཋྀ

jobe had dragged her inside after school with grass stains on both of their knees and a football tucked under one arm.

“mum!” jobe shouted. “we’re starving.”

his mother looked up from the stove before smiling. “and who have you kidnapped today?”

y/n answered before jobe could. broad smile on her face. “i came willingly.”

jude, thirteen then, barely spared her a glance as he walked through the kitchen toward the fridge.

she, however, watched him like he’d personally invented gravity. and that’s when it started.

it became something everyone noticed eventually. not in the exaggerated way children teased each other, but it was just there. you could notice it without much effort.

whenever jobe invited her over, she’d end up lingering wherever jude happened to be. if jude was practicing free kicks in the garden, she’d find an excuse to sit on the patio with homework she never actually touched. if jude was watching football in the living room, she’d suddenly be interested in whichever teams were playing. if he walked into the kitchen, she’d somehow already be there asking jobe if he wanted a snack.

she wasn’t subtle. never had been. never really tried to be either.

she would ask jude questions no one else did.

“did training go well?”

“what boots are those?”

“did your ankle ever stop hurting?”

she remembered things. too many things. things that the best friend of your younger brother shouldn’t really remember.

one afternoon she looked up from helping jobe with homework and casually said; “you have trials tomorrow, right?”

jude blinked. “yeah.”

“i’ll be rooting for you.”

it was simple and quick. she said it without even expecting a reply. as if just stating something that he shouldn’t need to overthink.

she smiled before looking back down at the maths sheet as though she’d simply commented on the weather.

he remembered thinking that she was weird. not in a mean way, just weird. odd.

because why did she know that?

years passed. jobe and y/n stayed inseparable. jude became a professional footballer. they were basically the same, only older.

the visits never stopped. if anything, they became more frequent.

whenever jude came home during breaks, y/n always happened to be there. helping his mum bake, watching a movie with jobe, sitting outside with headphones around her neck laughing so hard she nearly fell off the garden chair.

it didn’t necessarily mean she was there for him. she really wasn’t. she was there because it was her home now too. that’s how she felt about it.

she’d wave when he walked in anyways. always.

a soft greeting with that sweet smile that seemed to never fade. “hi, jude,” like she’d been waiting for him.

he’d nod, small smile that didn’t always reach his eyes, respond nonchalantly. “alright,” and keep walking.

she never seemed offended. never pushed. never expected conversations longer than a few minutes. but she existed around him close enough to notice, and far enough not to get in the way.

his teammates figured it out before he ever did.

one summer, several of them were staying over while training nearby. jobe had invited y/n around because they were planning to watch a match together.

she walked into the garden carrying chips and lemonade and greet everyone with that same enthusiasm she always carried herself with.

“hi!”

and then she’d look at jude.

“hi,” with a completely different voice. smaller and softer. almost shy.

she had never been particularly shy. kept to herself maybe a little, never nervous in normal settings though.

so it wasn’t a surprise when one of his teammates noticed instantly.

after she disappeared back inside, someone elbowed him. “dude.”

“what?”

“that girl.”

“what about her?”

“she’s in love with you.”

jude nearly choked on his drink, laughing uncontrollably. “no, she isn’t.”

“oh, come off it. you didn’t see the way she looked at you?”

another teammate laughed. “i’ve seen insurance sellers less committed than her.”

jude rolled his eyes, a bit more serious now. “she’s jobe’s friend.”

“exactly.”

“so?”

“so she’s been staring at you for ten minutes.”

“i wasn’t even talking.”

“that definitely didn’t stop her, mate.”

the conversation dissolved into laughter. jude tried laughing too, but it was a different mindset now.

he couldn’t stop noticing.

the way she’d unconsciously turn toward him whenever he spoke. how she’d laugh louder when he made jokes. how she’d immediately ask if he wanted another drink before anyone else. how she always chose the chair closest to him without seeming to realise she’d done it. how she remembered tiny details he’d forgotten he’d ever mentioned.

it was a lot. it wasn’t normal.

then came the teasing.

“oh look.”

“there she is.”

“your little shadow.”

“jude’s biggest fan.”

he denied it every single time. rolling his eyes and drifting the topic to anything else.

“she’s just friends with my brother.”

“mhm.”

“nothing else.”

yet the jokes kept coming. and eventually, they started irritating him.

not because of y/n. she hadn’t done anything wrong. but everyone kept making it into something.

every time she walked over; “there she comes.”

every time she smiled; “oh, she’s looking.”

every time she asked him something; “damn, she’s obsessed.”

he started becoming hyperaware of it. of her, of where she stood, of whether people were watching, whether they were going to make another joke.

instead of simply seeing y/n, he started seeing everyone else’s reactions to y/n.

and resentment quietly settled somewhere it never should have.

it happened during another barbecue.

the house was loud as it usually was. children running through sprinklers and music floating from the speakers with adults talking over one another.

y/n and jobe had gone inside to find ice cream while jude leaned against the fence with three friends.

one of them nodded toward the patio doors. “so, when are you going to tell your girlfriend?”

jude groaned. “for god’s sake.”

“what?”

“she’s not my girlfriend.”

“you sure?”

another snorted. “mate, she follows you everywhere.”

jude rubbed a hand over his face, irritation overflowing. “i know.”

“so?”

he laughed, but there wasn’t any humor behind it. nothing was funny, he just needed the conversation to end.

“it’s honestly…” he searched for a word. one that wasn’t mean but one that could explain the situation. “…annoying.”

possibly the worst choice of wording ever.

his friends were no longer laughing. smiles had dimmed a bit as well. he was being serious.

“i can’t go anywhere in this house without her appearing.”

one of his friends chuckled. “that’s harsh.”

“i’m serious. i walk into a room and she’s there. i go outside and she’s outside. it’s like having a second little sibling.”

another laugh, but jude only shook his head. “i just want one visit where she’s not attached to my side.”

one of them muttered. “damn,” not even being funny. but there was genuinely nothing else that they could’ve said. jude wasn’t being nice.

he shrugged. “i don’t mean to sound horrible, but it gets old,” he looked down at the grass. “i don’t even know why she likes me. i’ve never done anything.”

none of them noticed the kitchen door had opened. or that y/n had frozen halfway through stepping outside. a tub of vanilla ice cream in one hand, spoons in the other.

her smile disappeared so quietly no one saw it happen. not even jude, seemingly too busy speaking his mind.

she stood there for perhaps two minutes. long enough to hear every word and long enough to understand exactly what he meant.

then she turned around and walked back inside without making a sound.

jobe found her standing in the laundry room. she was staring at the washing machine doing absolutely nothing.

“you alright?”

she blinked, being pulled out of her thoughts. “oh. yeah.”

“you found the ice cream?”

“mhm.”

“then why’re you in here?”

she looked toward the hallway.

for a second, jobe thought she’d cry. her eyes did that little thing where they watered, but this time it wasn’t out of happiness like it usually was.

instead, she smiled. “i’m suddenly not very hungry.”

“you sick?”

“no,” she handed him the tub. “you take it.”

“what about you?”

“i think my mum wanted me home anyway.”

jobe frowned. “no she didn’t.”

y/n sighed. “i know,” her smile trembled. “but i’ll pretend she did.”

before he could ask another question, she was gone.

the first few days, jude didn’t notice. not really.

life had a way of swallowing small absences before anyone realized they were gone, and he was fairly busy. like any other footballer was.

training started before sunrise, recovery sessions blurred into media obligations, flights, matches, interviews. by the time he came home, he barely registered that the house was quieter or that there was an absence that was impossible to miss.

it wasn’t until the following saturday. he walked into the kitchen, already expecting to hear two voices arguing over something ridiculous. it was mostly the same thing: jobe insisting pineapple belonged on pizza, y/n insisting it absolutely didn’t. or y/n stealing chips from the cupboard only for jobe to yell; “mum! she took the last packet again!”

but instead there was only silence. just his mother humming while she stirred a pot on the stove.

jude opened the fridge. “where’s jobe?”

“training.”

“and…” he hesitated. “…y/n?”

denise looked up. “oh. she’s not coming over much lately.”

he nodded absentmindedly. “right.”

he grabbed a bottle of water and left. it didn’t really bother him. it didn’t feel strange.

not yet.

then another week passed. then another and another.

and he noticed she’d vanished.

there was no extra backpack by the front door, no shoes kicked off in the hallway, no voice calling “hello?” before she’d even stepped inside, letting herself in like it was her house. no asking his mother if she needed help cooking, and no laughter spilling upstairs because she and jobe had found another stupid video to laugh at.

nothing.

“is y/n busy?” the question slipped out before jude realized he’d spoken.

jobe didn’t even look up from his phone. “dunno.”

“you haven’t seen her?”

he nodded. “i have.”

“so why isn’t she here?”

jobe shrugged. “she doesn’t come over anymore.”

“why?”

another shrug. “says she’s busy.”

that should’ve been enough. people got busy. they grew up and had lives to live. only issue was that y/n had never been too busy. not for jobe, not for his family, and not for him.

his eyes drifted unconsciously toward the empty chair in the garden.

the one she always chose. every single time.

and wondered why he didn’t like that she wasn’t there.

a month. one whole month and he hadn’t even seen her once. not even by accident.

until family dinner. his mother had invited y/n’s parents over, something she’d done for years.

jude almost smiled to himself while walking downstairs. absentmindedly and without questioning why. he just expected things to feel normal again.

expected y/n to already be sitting beside jobe and expected her to grin awkwardly when he walked in.

jobe looked up. “oh, jude’s here.”

she turned and barely glanced at him. “hi.”

just one word. polite, no smile, no dirty look either. but it felt dull.

then she turned straight back to jobe. “did you finish that game?”

“yeah, but you would’ve hated the ending.”

“no spoilers.”

“i wasn’t gonna—”

she laughed. it didn’t look staged or fake. but how dare she? like jude wasn’t standing three feet away.

for the rest of dinner she never addressed him once. if she needed salt she asked jobe, if she wanted another drink she asked his mother, if someone asked the whole table a question she answered everyone except him.

she wasn’t being rude. y/n was never rude. that almost made it worse.

but she was being indifferent. like he’d become another chair in the room.

and he didn’t like that.

his mother noticed first. after dinner she quietly nudged him while washing dishes. “you two alright?”

he frowned. “who?”

“you and y/n.”

“what?”

“she hardly spoke to you.”

“oh,” he shrugged, looking back at the dishes. “didn’t notice.”

his mother gave him a look that clearly said she knew he was lying. but she didn’t push.

the dinners kept happening every few weeks. every single one looked exactly the same.

y/n arrived, hugged his mother, teased his dad, spent an hour laughing with jobe, helped clear plates, thanked everyone, and went home.

jude existed somewhere in the background.

she never sought him out anymore. never accidentally wandered into the same room or asked about training. never remembered his matches.

never looked at him. not really.

and that hurt him more than he’d ever imagined it could.

it became embarrassing how often he caught himself searching for her.

walking downstairs expecting to hear her. coming home wondering if her shoes were by the door.

listening for her laugh before remembering she didn’t come anymore.

then little things started surfacing. tiny things he’d never appreciated.

his mother sighed one afternoon while baking. “i miss her.”

jude looked up. “y/n?”

“mhm.”

“why?”

his mother smiled softly. “she always helped without asking,” denise looked at him. “made tea, set the table.”

“kept me company.”

the house suddenly felt empty. and it was weird because there was definitely people there.

jobe noticed too. though he’d never admit it directly.

one evening jude found him sitting alone in the garden. football balanced between his feet.

“no y/n?”

jobe kicked the ball lazily. “no.”

“you two argue?”

“nope.”

“so?”

“i don’t know,” jobe frowned. “she just stopped coming around, i guess.”

one afternoon jude was cleaning out an old cupboard looking for a charger.

instead he found a tiny notebook. blue cover with dog eared corners.

he flipped it open absentmindedly. he didn’t know who it belonged to, but he laughed at the thought of it being jobe’s.

then he froze.

every page was covered in football fixtures. england matches, champions league nights, training schedules.

written in tiny handwriting with stickers and words highlighted in so many colors.

he recognized it instantly. this was something that belonged to y/n.

there were notes beside certain dates. those were surrounded by extra stickers.

“wish jude luck.”

“ask how recovery went.”

“don’t forget his birthday.”

a folded receipt slipped from between the pages.

he unfolded it and found a photograph. years old with folded corners and faded color.

jobe was making a stupid face, y/n laughing so hard her eyes were closed, and jude. standing beside them looking mildly annoyed because someone had insisted he join.

he couldn’t even remember the picture being taken, but y/n had kept it. all these years.

his chest tightened and his hands trembled slightly.

he carefully slid everything back exactly as he’d found it and didn’t mention it.

that night, he couldn’t sleep.

his friends’ voices echoed through his head.

“she’s obsessed.”

“she’s always around.”

“your shadow.”

then his own.

“it’s honestly annoying.”

he squeezed his eyes shut. he hadn’t just rejected a confession or simply said he wasn’t interested.

he’d mocked y/n’s presence. someone who’d spent years making his family feel warmer. someone who’d celebrated every goal he ever scored. someone who’d never once asked him for anything.

and she’d heard him. he was sure of it.

she’d heard every word.

the realization settled slowly and painfully. it wasn’t just that y/n had stopped following him around or that she’d grown out of him. she’d stopped feeling safe around him.

and he was realizing just now.

a few days later, jobe wandered into jude’s room without knocking.

“you did something.”

jude looked up from his phone, frowning. “what?”

“to y/n.”

his stomach dropped as he put his phone away. “why do you think that?”

“because she won’t come over.”

“so?”

“so she loved this house,” jobe’s voice was unusually serious. “she practically lived here. i ask her every week and she always says no.”

jude swallowed.

“what reason? ‘busy.’ and she’s obviously lying,” jobe looked directly at him. “i’ve known her since we were ten. i know when she’s lying. you did something.”

jude stared at the floor. “i don’t know.”

“liar.”

the words lingered long after jobe left.

jude admitted it to himself. he knew exactly what he’d done.

he just hadn’t realized how much damage one conversation could do. because it wasn’t only her discomfort towards him, but he’d taken his mothers and his brother’s person and pushed them as far from them as he could without meaning to.

it got worse when he started noticing her everywhere.

a café she’d recommended. a song she’d once played in the car. a mug she’d accidentally left behind that his mother refused to throw away.

he’d hear someone laugh in public, turn his head, and feel disappointed when it wasn’t her.

he’d score during a match and look toward the family section without thinking. as if expecting to find one familiar face beaming brighter than the rest.

she wasn’t there. of course she wasn’t.

and every time something inside him sank a little further. so deep it became impossible to deny.

he hadn’t been annoyed by y/n, he’d been annoyed that everyone else noticed her feelings before he did. embarrassed by the teasing. too immature to separate her quiet affection from his friends’ jokes.

so he’d taken his frustration out on the easiest target. the person who deserved it least. the one with the sweetest smile.

and now the silence she’d left behind echoed louder than she’d ever spoken.

by the end of the second month, jude realized something that made him sit awake until nearly dawn.

the house hadn’t become quieter because y/n talked a lot; it had become quieter because she’d filled every room without trying. he just hadn’t understood it until she stopped.

and perhaps the cruelest part of all was that the only reason he finally understood how much she mattered was because he was living in the emptiness she’d left behind.

by the third month, guilt had stopped feeling sharp, but it was heavier. the kind that followed jude everywhere.

it waited beside him in the gym, sat beside him on team buses, appeared in hotel rooms when the television was on but he wasn’t watching.

it even found him during matches. after goals. after victories. during celebrations where everyone else was smiling.

he’d catch himself looking toward the stands.

it was ridiculous. she’d hardly ever come to his matches. she preferred watching from home because she claimed, very seriously, that she got less nervous through a screen.

still he looked. every time. and every time he was met by the same disappointment.

and he had no one other than himself to blame.

“you’ve been weird,” trent dropped onto the bench beside him after training.

jude didn’t bother looking up. “i’ve always been weird.”

“no. you’ve been…” he searched for the word. “…quiet.”

“i’m tired.”

“no, you’re something else.”

jude laughed once, but it lacked its usual warmth. “you sound like my therapist.”

“i’m serious,” trent nudged his shoulder. “did something happen?”

jude almost answered. almost said it aloud.

i broke someone’s heart without even realizing she’d handed it to me.

but he chose to shrug his shoulders. “nah.”

one rainy tuesday, he came home unexpectedly because training had been cancelled.

the house was empty except for his mother, who was sitting at the dining table with a cardboard box.

he walked to where she was and saw what the box had inside. old photographs, birthday cards, school drawings.

jude sat beside her. “what’re you doing?”

“sorting,” she smiled. “i’ve been meaning to for years.”

he reached into the box absentmindedly and pulled out a picture of jobe missing two front teeth. y/n beside him with scraped knees.

himself in the background looking deeply offended because someone had forced him into the frame like always.

his mother laughed. “you remember that?”

“no.”

“you complained for ten minutes. ‘why do i have to be in every picture?’,” she imitated his younger voice perfectly.

jude smiled despite himself.

then another picture. y/n sitting on the kitchen counter, decorating cupcakes. flour all over her nose and denise beside her laughing.

another.

christmas. y/n wearing the paper crown from a cracker while his dad pointed the camera at everyone.

another.

jobe’s birthday. y/n holding the cake looking grumpy because she insisted she’d drop it if she didn’t concentrate.

another.

summer barbecue. y/n asleep on the garden swing with a book resting on her chest.

his mother noticed where his eyes lingered. “she really grew up here.”

jude swallowed. “yeah.”

denise looked back into the box. “i miss having her around.”

he stared at the photograph. “so do i.”

the words came quietly because he hadn’t meant to say them aloud.

his mother looked at him and asked gently. “did something happen?”

the house was quiet for a minute. long enough for rain to become the loudest thing in the room.

“i think…” his voice cracked unexpectedly. “…i think i hurt her.”

his mother didn’t interrupt. she waited the way mothers somehow always knew when silence was more important than questions.

jude rubbed both hands over his face. “my friends kept… making jokes.”

“what jokes?”

he laughed bitterly. “that she followed me everywhere. that she had a crush on me.”

his mother raised one eyebrow. “she did.”

“i know. i know that now,” he shook his head before correcting himself. “i knew then. i just…” he sighed. “i got embarrassed. and one day they brought it up again,” his stomach twisted. “i called her annoying.”

his mother went completely still.

“i said i couldn’t go anywhere without her and that she was attached to my side. that i wanted one visit where she wasn’t around.”

his voice became quieter with every sentence. “i didn’t know she was behind me.”

the rain outside filled the silence as his mother looked down at the photographs scattered across the table.

“oh, jude.”

heartbroken. for both of them. because she knew who her son was, but she also knew who y/n was. sweet and patient y/n.

“she heard all of it?”

he nodded. “every word.”

his mother closed the photo album. “i wondered.”

“you wondered?”

“i couldn’t understand why she suddenly looked uncomfortable here,” she looked toward the window. “i thought maybe she’d simply outgrown us.”

jude felt sick. “no.”

his mother reached over and squeezed his hand. “you owe that girl an apology.”

“i know.”

“no,” she looked him directly in the eye. “you owe her one without expecting forgiveness.”

that’s what was jude was the most scared about. that maybe she wouldn’t forgive him because she really didn’t have to.

he wanted her to anyway.

he spent the next week trying.

twice he drove toward her house. twice he turned around.

every version of the conversation sounded selfish.

i’m sorry because i miss you.

i’m sorry because i realized i like you.

the apology couldn’t be about him. it had to be about what he’d done.

fate, however, had different plans.

it happened at jobe’s match, a local charity event. jude had agreed to come support his brother and he had arrived late.

he stopped abruptly when he saw y/n.

she was standing beside the refreshments table helping hand out drinks to children while laughing at something a little girl had said.

she looked exactly the same and completely different.

she hadn’t noticed him yet. she was smiling with that same charisma she had always had. the one he loved so much but realized too late.

his feet moved before he’d fully decided to.

“y/n.”

she turned and smile slipped gradually. like she’d folded it away.

“oh, hi.”

there it was again. that polite voice. the one she’d started using after that afternoon. the one that wasn’t rude but lacked sweetness.

he hated it.

“can we talk?”

she hesitated and looked toward the children waiting for juice. “i’m helping.”

“i’ll wait.”

she blinked as if she’d expected him to give up. but twenty minutes later she walked over to him.

“what did you need?”

jude suddenly forgot every sentence he’d rehearsed.

“i’m sorry.”

she looked at him. though there was no trace of surprise on her face, she did look as if that was the last thing she’d expected him to say.

“i’ve been trying to figure out how to say this for weeks—months. and every version sounded wrong,” he took a shaky breath.

“you heard what i said, and there isn’t a version of it that isn’t awful.”

y/n stared at the grass between them, unable to look at him just yet.

“i was embarrassed. i let people teasing me become more important than…” he looked at her. “…than your feelings. i spoke about you like you were something i had to put up with when really…” his laugh broke halfway through. “you were just… being kind to me.”

y/n stayed quiet.

“i made you feel unwelcome in a place that felt like home. i took something safe away from you.”

he closed his eyes for a second as he felt his chest tighten. “i’m so, so sorry.”

y/n finally looked up and her eyes were glassy.

“i kept wondering what i’d done.”

his heart stopped. she sounded small. so small. and it was him who had done that.

“i thought maybe i’d been too loud,” she laughed softly through her tears. “or talked too much,” she paused to regain her breath. “so i tried talking less. i thought maybe i bothered your parents. so i started leaving earlier,” her voice trembled. “and then i heard you.”

“i realized…” she shrugged. “…it was just me.”

jude closed his eyes. every word landed like another weight on his chest.

“it was never just you. it was me. i was immature and i was cruel and i hurt someone who had never done anything except care about me.”

she wiped quickly beneath one eye. “i stopped coming because i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable anymore.”

“i know,” his voice sounded barely above a whisper. “and i hate that that’s what you walked away believing.”

she studied him for a long moment. “so what changed?”

the question was fair. of course it was.

“what made you apologize now?”

he smiled sadly. “you disappeared.”

she frowned slightly.

“i don’t mean physically, i mean you disappeared from…” he gestured helplessly. “…everything. the house, my family… my life.”

“my mum misses you, jobe misses you.” he swallowed. “and…” he laughed once. “so do i.”

she didn’t answer. she had no idea what to say. she was hearing things she’d convinced herself would never hear because it wasn’t jude who she had blamed.

“i never found you annoying. i found it embarrassing that everyone noticed you because they noticed before i did.”

y/n frowned. “noticed what?”

he held her gaze. “i stopped looking for reasons you’d always be around and started hoping you would be. so when you left…” he smiled through wet eyes. “it felt like someone had taken all the light out of my childhood home.”

y/n stared at him. searching his face and making sure this wasn’t guilt speaking. making sure this wasn’t pity and he just didn’t want to make her feel more pathetic than she already was.

“you really hurt me.”

“i know.”

“i cried all the way home that day.”

his eyes closed.

“i thought i’d embarrassed myself.”

“you didn’t.”

“i thought…” her voice cracked. “…if the boy i’d liked for years couldn’t stand being around me then maybe i was just…”

she couldn’t finish what she had tried to say. it was too much and there were too many mosquitoes and she didn’t like crying in public.

jude stepped forward instinctively but then stopped himself.

“i’m not going to ask you to forgive me, okay? you don’t owe me that. i’m not even going to ask if you still feel the same. because after what i did, i haven’t earned the right to know.”

y/n looked at him for what felt like forever.

and then very quietly said. “i don’t think those feelings ever went away. i just buried them.”

she smiled softly. but jude felt satisfied when noticed this time it was real.

“for what it’s worth, you were never actually annoying either.”

he laughed. his shoulders finally dropping for what felt like the first time in months. “i can work with that.”

she shook her head, smiling despite herself.

“i didn’t say you were forgiven,” she hesitated. “but i think i’d like to come by your house again.”

jude’s smile softened. “i think mum might actually cry.”

y/n laughed. “i missed her.”

“i know.”

“and…” she glanced at him. shrugging her shoulders. “…i missed you too.”

he stared at her, almost afraid to believe he’d heard correctly.

“so…” he asked carefully. “can i walk you back to the pitch?”

she pretended to think about it. “hm. i suppose. but only because jobe’s probably wondering where i’ve gone.”

he smiled. “and because you don’t want him thinking i’m annoying?”

she groaned, laughing as she lightly nudged his arm. “oh, don’t ruin the moment.”

he caught himself smiling wider than he had in months.

three months later, the bellingham house sounded like itself again.

it happened so gradually that no one could pinpoint exactly when y/n had started letting herself stay until midnight again. or when she stopped asking, “is it alright if i come over?” and simply walked through the front door with the familiar “hello?” like she’d done since she was ten.

denise had cried one evening while y/n was helping wash dishes.

she wrapped her arms around her and whispered. “i’ve missed having you here.”

y/n had hugged her back just as tightly. “i’ve missed being here.”

neither of them mentioned why she’d ever stopped coming. some wounds didn’t need reopening once they’d finally begun to heal.

jobe, however…

jobe noticed everything.

he noticed that jude somehow always knew when y/n was arriving, that y/n unconsciously saved the seat beside her, that whenever jude came home from training, the first person he looked for wasn’t his parents anymore.

it was her.

one evening they were all watching a film, or at least attempting to.

jobe was invested. his father had fallen asleep twenty minutes earlier and his mother was pretending not to.

y/n sat tucked into one corner of the sofa, jude on the other.

that was how it started.

then halfway through the film, jobe reached for the popcorn and paused.

“hang on,” his eyes narrowed. “when did this happen?”

y/n blinked with a small frown. “what the hell are you talking about?”

“you two.”

both of them looked down simultaneously.

without either of them consciously remembering it, they’d ended up shoulder to shoulder. y/n’s legs tucked beneath her and jude’s arm resting lazily behind her on the sofa. their hands intertwined.

y/n immediately let go, but jude didn’t.

he simply looked at his brother. “what?”

jobe stared shaking his head unbelievably. “no. what? when?”

jude shrugged. “a while ago.”

“a while?”

“three months?”

“three months?!”

his voice cracked and his parents woke up.

denise yawned. “what happened?”

jobe pointed dramatically. “they’ve been dating for three months.”

“yes, jobe, i know.”

jobe whipped around. “you knew?!”

“i’ve known since the second week.”

his father stretched casually. “i thought everyone knew.”

jobe looked personally betrayed. “i didn’t know.”

dating jude turned out to be nothing like she’d imagined when she was younger. at ten she’d thought it’d be grand gestures like flowers, fireworks and movie-like moments.

instead it was ordinary. wonderfully ordinary.

it was jude waiting outside her university lecture with two coffees because he’d remembered she’d had an early class. it was y/n bringing dinner to his apartment after late training because she’d noticed he’d forgotten to eat properly.

it was grocery shopping together and somehow spending forty minutes arguing over pasta sauce. it was falling asleep halfway through documentaries neither of them had actually wanted to watch.

it was peace.

no guessing. no pretending she didn’t instinctively drift toward him or that he didn’t instinctively reach for her.

one rainy afternoon she wandered into the bellingham kitchen where denise was.

eventually she spoke. “you know…”

y/n looked over.

“i used to think you’d marry one of my boys.”

she nearly dropped the knife. “excuse me?”

she laughed. “not because you had a crush. i didn’t even know about that until much later.”

y/n hid her face. “oh my god.”

“i just couldn’t imagine you belonging anywhere else.”

that evening jude found y/n sitting on the back garden swing.

the same one she’d fallen asleep on years earlier.

rain had finally stopped and everything smelled like wet grass.

he walked over quietly. “you disappeared.”

she looked up. “i wanted five minutes.”

“without me?”

she smiled teasingly. “i know. terrible.”

he sat beside her and y/n rested her head against his shoulder.

“you know…”

“what?”

“i still catch myself wondering if i’m bothering you.”

his entire body softened. “you really believe that?”

“sometimes,” she paused. “it doesn’t last long but…” she shrugged. “that day stuck with me.”

jude nodded once. “i know, baby.” he reached for her hand. “i don’t expect it to disappear.”

“it shouldn’t,” she looked at him. “you hurt me.”

“i did.”

“and some days i remember it.”

he brushed his thumb across her knuckles. “when you do, you tell me. i don’t care if it’s ten years from now.” he kissed the back of her hand. “if i have to apologize for that day for the rest of my life i’ll do it.”

she laughed through watery eyes. “you’d get sick of saying sorry.”

“i don’t think so.” he leaned closer.

a breeze stirred the trees around them.

somewhere inside the house jobe shouted,

“mum, where’s the garlic bread?”

his mother shouted back, “ask y/n.”

y/n laughed instinctively. she looked toward the kitchen windows glowing warm against the evening sky and then she answered just as loudly.

“top oven!”

jobe yelled back. “thank you!”

jude smiled.

“what?” she looked at him.

“it feels like home again.” he kissed her forehead and then he intertwined their fingers. “you’ve always been home.”

this time, when she smiled there was no hesitation behind it. no fear that she’d overstayed her welcome. no instinct to make herself smaller.

because the girl who had once quietly slipped out the back door, convinced her presence was a burden, was gone.

and in her place was someone who knew, with complete certainty, that she was loved. not because she stayed out of the way but because she had always, without realizing it, become part of the family long before she ever became jude’s girlfriend.

the porch light flickered on as the sun disappeared.

inside, someone laughed. jobe yelled something incomprehensible about burnt garlic bread.

his father blamed the oven. his mother blamed jobe.

y/n squeezed jude’s hand. “c’mon. they’re probably setting the kitchen on fire.”

he stood with a grin. “probably.”

she started toward the house and he caught her hand before she could get very far.

y/n turned. “what?”

jude smiled in that quiet, unmistakably fond way that was reserved only for her now. “i’m really glad you came back.”

y/n’s expression softened. “i know.”

she stepped back toward him, rose onto her toes, and kissed him gently. “when you apologized,” she murmured against his lips, “i wasn’t sure if we could ever get back to what we had.”

he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “we didn’t.”

she frowned slightly.

“we got something better.”

she believed him completely.

together, they walked back into the warm, noisy house. where someone was already shouting their names, where dinner was almost certainly burning, and where neither of them would ever again have to wonder whether they belonged.

a chill you can’t seem to shake follows you from the field. 

the sky, painted with the sleepy kisses of the sun, blossoms with a pink and yellow warmth that doesn’t touch you. you hug your jacket closer as you step into the coach. 

moving briskly past the rows of seats, you pass players who’ve settled into a quieter state, mellowed out from the buzz of the game. they absently gaze out the windows with headphones on, or lie shallowly asleep, leaning stiff heads on neck pillows. just like the subdued pastels of the sky, there's a sense of peace in the air that really only comes at the end of a long day. the scene reminds you of something akin to the half-finished puzzle left on your coffee table, or the snow globe he got you, a long time before now, just as the glimmering flakes settle on picturesque gingerbread cottages.

the afternoon glow pours in from the windows, casting softened half-shadows on faces, and streaks of light, to reveal wisps of swirling dust that glimmer just so that it reminds you of glitter. despite it all, it’s not much warmer here. but you don’t really feel its icy edges now, not when he’s on your mind.  

you scan for a figure you had watched on the pitch of the big stage, the one you had once watched play in small unmowed fields. the same figure that had just so endearingly darted around, with the grace and air of a busy honeybee, as you took the view of him from the stands, like watching your old home. the figure whose hair bounced and fell over his face as he hopped the field like a bunny. the boy whose eyes you knew like constellations, who had spotted you in the crowd like a magnet of chance, and smiled that smile that always made your knees a little weak. 

when you finally spot luka again, the whole world melts. 

the sweetest boy, small against the plush seats, stares out the window like he’s not really seeing anything. the light skims his soft hair, illuminating the golden around his head. in his hand, covered by sweater paws that almost make your heart explode, he fiddles nervously with a yellow wildflower. when you breathe his name, his wide, brown eyes, then saddened and droopy with exhaustion, lights up like sunset as he meets yours. 

your name quietly escapes his slightly parted lips like prayer, as if he can’t really believe you’re here. 

but you are. finally.

luka melts into you. slotting his arms around your frame, he instantly buries his face into your shoulder. you hold him equally as tight, feeling his familiar warmth radiate your heart, lips caressing the top of his hair. 

when he peels himself from you, it’s not enough to leave the embrace, but enough for you to see his face and the dusting of pink across, and the bashful, toothy grin plastered on it. and his eyes, god, his eyes, the way they looked at you makes you wish to never blink again. 

luka offers you the flower with a kind, knowing look and you almost well up from it all. the familiar little blossoms of honey bloomed around the tiny field one day, and from that day on, he’d pick one whenever he played, and offer it to you like a promise. the sweet, nostalgic smell of your summers together, and he’d found it thousands of miles away. you spin it in your fingers, watching as it becomes a little yellow, sunny blur. 

“i was scared i imagined you,” he confesses quietly. 

you turn to him slowly. he gives a soft syrupy smile that lights your own, but you see he’s now struggling to keep his heavy eyes open. your heart pangs. you pat your lap, and like second nature, he moves to rest on it. 

“don’t worry, i’m here.” 

you feel the weight of his world when his head falls on your lap. luka works hard. you know that, everyone does. but it kills you, just how much it exhausts him sometimes, how you couldn’t be there to help. you’d hold it all for him. 

“i missed you,” he whispers simply, with eyes closed, right as he’s lulled to sleep by the ambience of the afternoon, the smell of the flower you spin in your hand, and the touch of warmth you bring to his face. 

“i missed you too.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ᨳଓ

the bus rocks you around softly, and you’re in love with the peace that envelops you both. 

you gently cradle his face, soaking in the syrupy warmth of the sun on his plush skin. your eyes follow the golden ring of hair around his head, admiring how it cascades so perfectly and how the light so delicately catches soft, stray wisps. under your palm the contours of his cheekbones mould your soul. his skin, which you long to pepper in little kisses, is cast by a radiant yellow glow. your thumb runs along the shape of his nose, and from the open mouth from which tiny huffs of breath flow out, you can see a sliver of his front teeth. 

of anything, his softness reminds you so much of a little bunny resting in a field of plush grass, maybe a honeybee cradled in the delicate palm of a flower. you twirl a strand of his hair.  

when the coach passes through a particularly bumpy part of the road, it knocks him up a bit. luka softly groans, stirring from his sleep. you gently laugh, pulling him up. 

“oh honey, come ‘ere.” 

his sleep drowsy body falls pliant in your arms. you move him up, so that he sits in your lap, before his arms wrap around you again, and just like a complete puzzle, he nuzzles into you, mumbling something incoherent into your skin. 

at times like these, when you swear the world stops spinning, you can’t really fathom the fact that he’s real, and here, here with you. in sleep, his already soft features become even more tender, something otherworldly. and when the glimmering dust of light hits just right, so his lashes flutter like delicate wings, and a golden halo forms across his hair, your breath catches. 

you swear he’s an angel. 

luka slowly blinks open one eye. 

“you alright?” he mutters groggily, breaths still heavy with sleep. 

“yeah. of course,” you reply, and just like second nature, it comes out. “you’re so beautiful, luka.”

in an instant your favourite bashful grin adorns his face, and he tries to hide in the crook of your shoulder. a pink tinge blossoms along his skin and makes your heart skip a beat or two. and there, the way he looks at you comes out again and there goes any thought. you’d remember this image forever. 

you kiss his nose, lingering long enough to just feel him, and gently pull him back into you. luka doesn’t hesitate to rest once more, instantly snuggling up against you. you’re complete. 

there’s a lot of things you love, and the thought of them makes you all fuzzy, and so warm inside. you love the way he melts into you, how warm he feels, and how soft he looks under the spell of sleep and a beautiful sunset. you love how he always found you in crowds, like magical chance or fate, if you believed in it. you love how he, no matter how torn down and exhausted, will always stop for your flower, because he knows how you love the way it turns to a little sun as you spin it. you love the way he looks at you, with those wide, sparkling eyes, whose depths you would be glad to drown in. and it’s a given – you’re far gone, and you have been for a while, because above all, you love luka.

“we’re almost there.” you murmur half heartedly, watching as the scenery outside slows. just pointing it out, as if a suggestion. 

luka furrows his brows slightly. gentle creases bloom on his skin, and he hums into your shoulder, eyes still shut.

“a little bit longer.” 

voice thick and honeyed with sleep, but soft. always soft. you smile. he nudges against the crook of your neck, and you run your fingers through the softness of his hair. with a pout of his lips, he kisses your shoulder. you feel the heat of it burning on your skin. 

how could you deny him this?

so there you stay, cradling him close and letting him melt into you like the sweetest syrup. the coach has stopped moving now. players start to tread off, saying muffled goodbyes, just as soft snores pour from him. 

and even though the sky has faded into a cold midnight blue and the sun has already sunken away into its bed, you realise, with a glorious leap of your heart, that the chill has disappeared, melted soft by his honey-coloured warmth and pink-tinged heat on your cheeks. so there you stay, and there you would stay forever, if he wanted. 

after all, he’s just so warm.

Can’t stop thinking about how riding him would be so hot.

Like, yes, we know he’s fucking attractive but i think sex with him is hotter because he wants you to use him to make yourself feel good and he doesn’t mind one bit.

He keeps himself trimmed instead of waxing or shaving completely because he pays attention when you’re riding him and knows how good you feel when you’re grinding your clit on his pubes and he’s just grinning from ear to ear when he hears your moans.

“Does that feel good, baby?” his hands moving to your ass to help you grind harder and faster.

Your hands are on his chest, legs spread wide on each side on his hips, hips rolling back and forth on him, you can feel his cock stretching you a bit more with every movement, your lips are parted letting out whines and moans and your head is thrown back from how much pleasure he is giving you.

“Mhmmm, you feel so thick and are so big, Jude,” you catch your bottom lip in between your teeth, he’s looking up at you with a smile and his hands start wandering over your body, touching every inch of skin he can reach.

“All for you, baby, just wanna make me girl feel so good, hm? How’s that needy clit? Is it feeling good, darling?” he coos, voice dropping as he makes eye contact with you.

Your brows scrunching in pleasure from his words and his touch.

“Mhmmm, yeah, so, so good. God, you’re so hot,” you sigh, hips now moving in circles, pressing down on him firmer.

Jude’s hands place on your hips, his thumbs stroking your skin slowly.

“There you go, baby, use me, make yourself come on me, okay? You deserve it, honey, come for me,”

Oh and he never stops talking. He knows you get off on his voice too so he doesn’t stop, not even when you’re crying out right on the edge of approaching an orgasm. He just loves praising you and mix it with dirty talking.

“Harder, baby, rub that wet pussy on me,”

“Deeper, you can do it, can you? Take that cock deeper, baby, it’ll make you feel even better,”

“You have no idea how beautiful you look up there bouncing on thy dick, does it feel good, angel? I bet it does, you can’t stop moaning,”

“Look how hot these tits are bouncing for me, sweetheart,”

He’d wet his fingers while looking deadly into your soul and then slowly lead them to your clit and draw a slow, gentle motion to help you come faster.

“So, so pretty, there you go, making that pretty clit feel good, yeah?” he says softly.

And after you’re a mess on his chest trying to catch your breath his hands are rubbing your back helping you calm down and he’s whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

“You did so good, baby, such a good girl, I’m so proud of you,”

“I love you, honey, you alright?”

“Do you need water? Are you comfortable like this?”

Always checking up on you, trying to make you feel safe and comfortable around him before, during and after sex.

ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony who’s purely a bottom…. to me, anthony is never on top. at a push, he’s a bottom top, but most of the time you’re calling the shots, commanding him on what to do, and he finds extreme comfort in that.

ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony who has a praise kink….. this man lovessss being called a “good boy”! in my honest opinion, he’s definitely always craving some sort of approval from you, deeply searching for it when you’re having sex as it makes him crazy when it comes out of your mouth.

ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony who’s a crier….. i know this man for a fact during sex is a crier. he’s for pouty lips, bright red cheeks, and his gorgeous hair is tousled and messy against the pillow as you’re on top of him. i’m also fond of the idea of him being a bit of a whimperer too, trying to muffle his whines with biting his lips, which ultimately fails every time.

ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony and brat taming….. i know this man has an attitude when he wants to. definitely loves when you slap the brat out of him during sex, calling him all sorts of horrid names as you practically milk his hungry cock dry whilst on top of him.

ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony who has a spit kink….. i’m thinking like he’s the type to really enjoy being spat on, especially when you smear it around his face after, calling him a “dirty boy” for enjoying it that much. or similarly, you open his mouth wide and just spit in it, making him swallow it.

ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony and deepthroating….. i can see anthony really enjoying you gagging him on your strap, really pushing the plastic length into his mouth until his eyes roll back and he groans. but also when you just use his face as a hole, fucking his throat as if you actually have a cock, watching how his cheeks hollow and his eyes water as you do so.

ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony and slight bdsm….. i really like the idea of tying anthony up with one of his headbands. just the wrists however, before sinking yourself down on his leaking shaft, and loving watching how much he struggles when he can’t reach out and touch you.

ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony and hair pulling….. i definitely think anthony’s scalp is sensitive, so pulling his hair definitely brings out the best of noises in him. combing your hands through his blonde curls, just for you to grip onto them a little tighter and tug, listening to how his noises go a little more high pitched in response. 

ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony and face riding. i definitely think anthony is a munch, but he also lovessss when you ride his face. especially when you practically suffocate him with your thighs, your clit bumping against his nose as your juices drip onto his face.

ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony and plapgasms….. lord, anthony is a bit of a pain-whore. he definitely loves when you’re rough with him, slapping his balls until he’s crying, whining and shaking through an orgasm caused just by your hands and not through masturbation.

ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony and strapping….. thinking about pinning anthony face down into the pillow as you pound in and out of him with your strap, muffling his moans as he drools messily over the pillows and sheets.

The sheets are a loose tangle around your legs when you stir, golden sunlight kissing at your skin. You stretch out, eyes hazy from sleep. Your mind’s muddled, still half-caught in your dreams. Luka’s breathing heavily on the pillow beside you, hair tousled and splayed out over the white pillowcase.

In sleep, he looks unguarded. Gentle and soft and beautiful. The Luka that only you get, the one that only thaws out behind closed doors. That he doesn’t let the public touch. And you’re so grateful for that, because nobody deserves him like this.

You brush your fingertips ever-so-gently along the smooth plane of his cheek, watching carefully to see if he’ll stir. He looks like an angel; lips slightly parted, hair curling around his face, eyelashes fanned out against his cheeks. Something twists in your stomach.

It isn’t at all difficult to laze around all morning with a dozing Luka—hell, you have to deal with it every day that he doesn’t have early training (which, to be fair, isn’t very often). But it’s not a chore, not to tuck yourself under his chin and listen to him breathe, even for hours at a time. But today…

Today, you don’t want to wait for him to wake up, not at all. Not when he looks so perfect, even if he would probably be a little miffed at being woken up early on one of the few days he doesn’t have to be. But you’ll take an irritated Luka over hours of waiting because god, you can’t do it.

You press mischievously up to him, legs tangling, and lean in to mouth sleepily at his neck. He stirs almost instantly, breath hitching in his chest, and lets out the softest little sigh. It only makes that heat in your stomach so much worse. And he has no idea just how bad he’s affecting you—he’s hardly even conscious.

“¿Qué?” He breathes, so soft that you almost write it off as merely an exhale. You huff and pull away to look at him properly, head resting on the pillow beside him.

His eyes are still shut, but his brows are knitted. There’s a fondness about his face that wasn’t there before, and it makes your heart skip. Carefully, you reach out and cup his jaw in your warm palm.

Shifting closer, you watch his eyes and mouth crease at the corners as he fights back a smile just at the proximity. At you. You murmur against his lips, “Need you.”

“Already? It’s so early.” He blinks his eyes open, wide and fond, to search your face. When he sees how serious you’re being, he softens a little. He can never say no to you, especially not like this—still sleepy and far too pretty for your own good.

Seeing him so sleep-soft and dazed is ruining you even more, and you need to remind yourself to actually breathe. The covers have shifted along with him, exposing more of his bare chest. You just want to pounce. All you can think about is seeing those soft blonde locks buried between your thighs and it’s driving you mental.

You press your lips gently into his, not hesitating to glide your tongues together, slow and deep and full of need. He exhales shakily through his nose, a brief puff against your cheek that makes your stomach erupt with frantic butterflies. His hands hover above your waist, like he’s still too scared to reach out and touch. Like he knows you’ll be ruined the second he does.

Carefully, you shift onto your back, guiding him on top of you. It’s slightly endearing how pliable he is, how easily you can move him about. And he really doesn’t mind, if the way he leans down to lightly nip your neck tells anything. You let out a sudden half-laugh half-gasp, fingers curling into his hair a little too harshly—not that he dislikes it. His hands rest steadily on your hips, and the sudden lack of apprehension is making you even more desperate for him.

“Fuck, Luka.” You huff, tugging absentmindedly at a golden curl and watching his breath hitch as he bites back a whimper. He looks up, eyes glittery and brown and beautiful and god, he looks like an angel. You could weep.

He stays watching you for a while, like he’s trying to use his eyes to ask a question he can’t put a voice to. You give the slightest little nod in response, and instinctively part your legs further. He looks away skittishly, a sudden pinkness creeping onto his cheeks.

“C’mon, pretty boy. No need to get all shy.” You brush a thumb carefully along his cheekbone, forcing him to look at you. You tuck his hair behind his ear, lazy and tender, “It’s only me.”

He lets out a shaky exhale that sounds somewhat like a laugh, grinning his usual toothy smile but just a little twitchier. Your stomach twists sharply. Fuck.

Casting a brief look aside, followed by an involuntary sigh, he wrestles with the sheets as he shuffles down your body. You giggle fondly as you watch the muscles in his back move and the flush worsen in his face.

You brush his hair back from his face, and smile when he meets your eyes. He’s perching all pretty between your legs. It takes everything in you not to just melt. You hold his eyes, murmuring so softly he can barely hear. “Adorable.”

He just averts his gaze, fingers hesitantly landing on the waistband of your pyjamas. As if he doesn’t already know the answer. You just giggle softly, “Hurry up, then. Haven’t got all day.”

That causes him to huff, tugging them off quickly as though they burnt him. Early morning, sleepy Luka is always more shy and sweet, and you’ll never get used to it. How, somehow, his soft presence in these sheets is just as consuming as when he’s racing up and down on the pitch.

He nuzzles briefly into your thigh and you shift, fingers tangling into his locks and your thighs parting sweetly. He hums gently in appreciation, pressing a fluttery kiss to your bare thigh. You shudder involuntarily, canting your hips towards him. But he doesn’t react, at all, and when you look down he looks more bashful than usual.

You huff. Pull him closer by tugging on his hair. He whines so softly you almost miss it. God.

“C’mon, babe. Don’t leave me waiting.” You breathe, completely awestruck by how pretty he is. Those sleepy sepia eyes—unable to avert his gaze from yours—lips parted and cheeks flushed.

He exhales, sharp and sudden, like he doesn’t even know about it. Then slowly, hesitantly, leans in.

And, god.

Suddenly, all of that hesitation melts away. You gasp as his tongue slides against you, steady and slow, his eyes fluttering prettily. Your hand curls too harshly into his hair, and he groans quietly. You don’t even have to look to know he’s blushing.

“That’s it,” You murmur, breathing laboured. Your eyes are heavy-lidded as you watch him, stomach curling pleasantly.

Your words spur him on, clearly desperate to please. His tongue presses flat against you, hands holding your thighs like you might slip away if he doesn’t keep you just there. A high noise catches in your throat.

Those soft golden curls tickle your thighs as he leans down to lazily press his tongue into you, the tip of his nose bumping your clit and—oh. There’s a ripple through you instantly, warm and tingly. Your lips part around a sugary sweet moan, head lolling back with little fight.

“Fuck, Luka.” You whimper, and he looks up suddenly like a deer in headlights. And god, does he look perfect: slick smeared on his chin and those reddish-pink lips. You fist his hair and he whimpers, “Keep going.”

He gives a little nod, before further parting your thighs ever-so-gently like you’re made of glass. Then he presses closer, tongue flicking so perfectly over your clit. You exhale sharply at the sensation, ankles crossing over his shoulders to keep him right there.

He’s holding you like you’re sacred, tongue working magic against you. It doesn’t take long before it’s formed into a fuzzy, achingly prevalent pit in your stomach, brows permanently knitted. You can’t think, brain reduced to mush and a background white-noise of Luka’s name.

Infuriatingly, he doesn’t rush. Licks a firm, long stripe up you—just to taste. And you can’t even complain: because it is good, because everything he does seems to be. And he’s got every right to enjoy it too. But god, is it infuriating.

“Luka—please.” You manage, voice strained and exasperated. You need more, and he needs to make you feel good. He exhales sharply, clearly affected.

He must hear the raw desperation in your voice, because he gains a newfound determination. His brows furrow deeply, tongue swirling perfect circles over you, sucking with just enough pressure to make your toes curl. You cry out harshly, nails digging crescents into his scalp. He whimpers, the vibrations sudden against you.

He’s licking at you like he’s starved—like he needs this as bad as you do, like you’re the best meal he’s ever had—all of his earlier shyness wholly gone. You moan unashamedly, trying to convey all the words you can’t quite find. The only word you can find is his name, and it slips out from your lips more times than you can count.

Your whole body is taut with pleasure, trying to hold on—cause, god, you never want this to end. But you can’t, not with his expert tongue. Not with the way he makes you feel.

It doesn’t take much, because even just seeing him like this already has you on the verge: nose pressed into your skin, lashes fluttering daintily over glittery eyes. You cry out, stomach suddenly tight. His gaze flicks up, meeting yours for a half second. You shatter.

Your thighs clamp down around his head, fingers curling in his hair. You moan gutturally as your orgasm wracks through you, blood pulsing hot and fast through your body. He doesn’t stop, barely even slows. Just licks leisurely at you until your thighs are shaking around his ears, breathing out high and shaky.

When he does pull back, he looks a mess: delicately parted lips and chin practically dripping with your slick, a harsh pink flush on his cheeks. He looks almost high off it, off you, pupils blown wide.

You hum, stroke his cheekbone gently. He melts, face softening. “So good, baby. You did so good.”

He smiles sleepily, looking very pleased with himself, and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. For a moment, he just breathes, hands absentmindedly stroking up and down your thighs. Then he gently pulls your pyjama bottoms back up and rests his head down on your stomach, already yawning. You run your fingers through his hair, comforted by the weight of him on you.

“It’s still early.” He murmurs, voice rough around the edges and accent thicker from sleep. He casts a little glance up at you, with those pretty almond eyes. He looks so gentle. Your heart flutters.

Then the fans started up with “Hey Jude” and you had to look away quickly, blinking hard. The pride you feel swells up so huge it doesn’t fit in your chest, it spills over into these stupid tears every single time you hear the song, no matter how many times you see him do something like this.

“He looks exhausted,” Denise says quietly, her arm still hooked through yours, squeezing a little.

“I know. Bless him. I don’t know how he’s still standing out there. He gave that absolutely everything.”

You take some deep breaths with his parents, gushing over his performance as usual and wait for him to finish with everything else he has to do after the final whistle.

Soon enough, you watch him walk over showered and changed into the usual post-match tracksuits, his hood half up already like he’s already trying to shut the world out. Even from a distance you can see the heaviness in his shoulders, the way he’s moving a bit stiffer than usual, his tall frame carrying the weight of a country for ninety-plus minutes. He looks happy though. So, so happy. His dark eyes scan the stands until they find you three, and you can see the sparkle in them as soon as he spots you. 

He hugs his mum first, extra tight, murmuring something that makes her laugh and pat his back. All week she’d been saying watch your language, watch your tackles, watch your face so he wouldn’t get booked. You could see how proud she was of him, her eyes closing when they hugged. It almost made your heart burst. 

Then his dad, the two of them clapping each other on the shoulder like they always do, that quiet father-son thing that always makes your chest warm. Mark kisses his cheek, and your smile mirrors Jude’s bashful one. Only after that does he turn to you.

“There she is,” he says, voice a little rough from the game, his accent coming through even stronger when he’s tired. He smiles down at you, exhausted but sweet, and you stand up to meet him.

You cup his cheek, thumb brushing his sharp cheekbone, your other arm sliding round his broad back. He’s warm, solid, still carrying the smell of the grass mixed with fresh shower gel. “I’m so proud of you, Jude. That looked so tough out there.”

He leans down and kisses you, soft and quick. He’s never one for big PDA with the cameras hovering, but he never lets you feel unloved. Then his hand comes up, gentle as anything, tucking a bit of hair behind your ear. His eyes go all soft as he looks at you, the intense match-day fire dialled right down just for you. “Thank you, baby. Yeah… it was hard. Proper hard. But we got there. It was rough though, I’m shattered.”

You sit back down and he drops straight onto the seat next to you, no hesitation. His head finds your shoulder immediately, heavy and trusting, like he’s been waiting for this exact spot the whole night. You slide your hand up to scratch lightly at the back of his neck, the way he likes, and feel him let out a long breath, sinking further into you. The relief in his body is so obvious it makes your heart twist.

His mum and dad chat lightly for a minute — something about the referee, how proud they are, the usual post-match debrief — and Jude mumbles along, half in it, half gone. His hand finds yours in your lap, fingers threading together lazily.

After a bit he turns his head, lips brushing your ear as he lowers his voice. “Are you gonna come visit me tonight?”

You snort, playfully nudging his head away. “You look like you’ve been hit by a bus, babe.”

He laughs then, loud and bright, teeth flashing, his eyes lighting up with the loving mischief that always gets you. “What? I can’t get cuddles from my girl? After that?”

You raise an eyebrow, fighting your own smile. “Cuddles?”

His lip twitches, smirk spreading slow and dangerous. “Cuddles,” he repeats, all innocent like. “And a couple of kisses. Just three or four…”

You tilt your head, giving him a look. He’s dead on his feet, shoulders slumped, yet still managing to look at you like that. You ignore the heat pooling in your stomach from the way he's looking at you and try to think logically. The semi-finals are midweek. “You’re gonna cramp up at some point and whatever idea you’ve got of cuddles and kisses is gonna be straight out the window.”

“Can I not enjoy my recovery with my girlfriend? Is that against the law now?” He huffs dramatically, but his hands are already stroking up your sides, warm and familiar.

You huff at him, already giving in. “You’re so spoilt.”

He grins wider, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “You can never say no to me.”

And it’s true. You can’t say no to him. Not when he looks at you like that. Cuddles. Right. 

It wasn’t long before you found yourself being led by Jude back to his room in the team hotel in Miami. They’d just had a squad dinner, winding down after the match. As soon as players started to retreat he’d texted you and met you in the lobby. Other England camps weren’t like this in the past, you were so grateful the rules had been changed to let you see him, even if he should be resting.

He’d showered again, you could already tell by the cologne and body wash mix you could smell as you followed him down the quiet corridor. His hand was warm around yours, thumb brushing your knuckles every few steps. He still moved a little stiff from the game, the beautiful body of his carrying the bruises and the exhaustion, but there was this restless energy in him too, the win still buzzing under his skin.

Once the door clicked shut behind you, he didn’t stop talking. He kicked his slides off, flopping back onto the bed as he kept going, voice low and rough but nonstop the way it always gets when he’s over-excited.

“...and then after the equaliser, I swear the pitch felt like it was moving, the humidity was mad out there. But the lads were buzzing, it was so loud on the pitch. Harry pulled me over after and was saying something about the run we’re on now, and I was just thinking the whole time about that last chance, how I nearly messed up the touch but it just fell right. Then extra time, my legs were gone but you just dig deep, don’t you? Mum’s texts were killing me the whole week about watching my face and my language, I nearly got booked just for breathing heavy at the ref at one point—”

He laughed at himself, running a hand over his damp hair, eyes bright even though his shoulders were sinking deeper into the pillows. You perched on the edge of the bed, watching him, the usual warmth spreading in your chest.

He reached out and tugged you closer by the wrist, still mid-story. “—and then I was like, nah, we’re not losing this one. You get me babe? And then I was like—”

“Jude, take a breath, love. I was there and watching the whole thing,” you chuckle, adjusting to lie next to him on the bed. His arm slipped under your head straight away, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb moved slowly across your cheek, warm and a little rough.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he murmured, half-laughing at himself again, voice dropping lower. “I’m just… excited. I don’t know. We left everything out there and…”

He trailed off for a second, eyes half-closed, but his fingers kept moving, tracing your jaw, then down the side of your neck, like he couldn’t quite settle even though his body was heavy with tiredness. Up close like this you could see every little detail: the faint sheen of sweat still at his hairline from how warm it was in Miami, the way his chest rose and fell a bit quicker than normal, a fresh bruise along his jaw starting to darken. You breathed in his warm skin scent that always made your stomach flip.

He shifted closer, leg hooking over yours casually, voice going soft and a little rough with emotion. “It’s mad innit? One minute you’re out there thinking your legs are done, next minute the ball drops and it just… happens. And now we’re in the semis. Semis, babe.”

His grin came back, tired but bright, the one that always made your heart do stupid things. He pressed his forehead to yours for a second, breathing you in like he needed it more than air. “Couldn’t have done it without knowing you were up there. Makes it all feel different.”

“I love you,” you whisper softly, thumb brushing his cheek, “and I’m so proud of you.”

“How proud?” he beamed, raising an eyebrow, a playful spark lighting up his exhausted face.

“Very proud. Like… prouder than you can even imagine. I think I’ve cried at nearly every game—”

Jude giggles, almost giddy, the sound low and warm in his chest. He loved praise, especially from you, it always turned him soft and a little cocky at the same time. “I know, my little crybaby,” he cooed, voice teasing and fond as he leaned in, pressing little kisses all over your cheeks, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. Each one gentle and sweet, like he was savouring being close after the chaos of the match.

“Shut up,” you laugh quietly, trying to sound stern but failing completely. “You need to calm down, baby. You have to sleep.”

“My body’s tired,” he mumbles against your skin, kissing your cheek again, then lingering lower near your jaw, “but the adrenaline is just making me wired, man.”

You stroke his side, up and down in a slow, steady rhythm, feeling the solid warmth of him under your palm, the faint tremor of leftover energy in his muscles. His tall frame was heavy against you, one leg tangled with yours, but his hands kept wandering. Sliding under the hem of your top to rest against your lower back, thumb tracing lazy circles there. 

After a moment he shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he’s looking down at you properly. The lamp on the bedside table casts a soft glow over his face, his beautiful brown eyes and pink lips slightly parted. He looks unfairly good for someone who just played extra time in a stadium that felt more like a sauna.

“So…” he starts, a smirk creeping back in. “About those kisses I was promised.”

You raise an eyebrow, fighting a smile again. “I don’t remember promising anything.”

“Oi, don’t lie to me..” He leans in closer, nose brushing yours, breath warm against your mouth. “I distinctly remember talking about three or four. Minimum.” His hand slides higher under your top, palm flat and warm against your ribs, thumb stroking just under the curve of your breast. “Come on, baby. I earned them, didn’t I? Scored two, dragged us to the semis… least you can do is give your man some proper kisses.”

He’s grinning again now, all cheeky and tired and completely devastating to your self-control . Before you can answer he dips his head and presses one slow kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another just below your ear, lingering there like he knows exactly what it does to you. 

“You’ve just wasted two kisses…and you look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

He groans in joking frustration, eyebrows furrowing to give you a little puppy dog look that always gets him out of trouble. “I just want cuddles and kisses before i sleep-”

He stops as you tilt your head at him, giving him another look.

“I swear, I swear! Baby, please…”

The pleading look on his face already has your stomach flipping, mouth a little dry. He’s so unfairly gorgeous like this. Tired eyes, messy damp curls,his toned body stretched out next to you, still radiating heat from the match. The way his tracksuit top has ridden up to show a sliver of toned stomach… it’s ridiculous how much you want him even when he’s half-dead on his feet.

“Fine,” you say, trying to sound stern but your voice comes out softer than you mean it to, “but you need to try and sleep too…”

He shifts slightly so you’re fully facing each other, one hand moving to your lower back, his leg still draped heavy over yours. “I can fall asleep kissing you.”

The kisses start off sweet and slow. Gentle presses of his lips against yours, his hand stroking your lower back under your top. His other hand in your hair, fingers loose and tired. Then they deepen.

Jude lets out a quiet, relieved sigh into your mouth as his lips part wider, tongue sliding in slow and warm. The kisses turn sloppy fast. Wet, lazy, unhurried in an exhausted way that somehow makes it hotter. His tongue moves heavy and deep, tangling with yours in long, messy strokes, licking into your mouth like he’s too tired to do anything but feel you. Every so often he sucks softly on your tongue or your bottom lip, pulling it between his before going back in deeper, slower, wetter. You can taste the faint mint from his post-dinner toothpaste mixed with the warm, familiar taste that’s just him. His breaths are heavier now, little groans vibrating against your lips as the kisses grow filthier. Your tongues sliding slow and slick, mouths open and messy, spit-slick lips catching every time you pull apart for air only to dive right back in.

He’s genuinely exhausted, you feel it in the heavy weight of his body against yours, the way his movements stay soft and sleepy even as they get more desperate. His hand in your hair tightens slightly, holding you there as he kisses you like he’s trying to melt into you. Deep, lazy swirls of his tongue, slow sucks, the occasional sleepy grind of his hips against your thigh. He’s half-asleep and completely turned on at the same time, and it’s doing dangerous things to you.

Your hand slides under his top to rest on his ribs, and the soft, needy sound he makes against your tongue makes you shiver hard in his arms.

“M’so hard for you,” he whispers against your lips, breathing heavily. He presses his hips forward, grinding slowly so you can feel exactly how turned on he is, the thick, heavy outline of his cock straining against his joggers.

“You need me to help you, baby?” you murmur, letting your hand trail down his stomach until your palm cups the hard bulge. He’s so warm, so fucking hard already, twitching eagerly under your touch.

Jude’s breath hitches, hips jerking up into your hand as he lets out a soft, desperate whimper. “Please…”

“But you’re so tired, Jude.” You stroke him slowly through the fabric, teasing, because you love when he gets like this…all soft, sleepy, and whiny for you.

“Baby—” he whines, the sound high and needy, forehead pressed to yours. His hand moves down to squeeze your ass, fingers digging in just a little. “M’never too tired for you… fuck, please touch me properly. I need it. Need you so bad..”

You push his joggers down just enough to free him and wrap your fingers around him. Jude’s whole body shudders, a broken moan spilling from his lips as you start stroking him. You start slow, firm pulls from base to tip, thumb swirling over the slick head every time. He’s so thick and hot in your hand, veins pulsing, leaking steadily now. You’re transfixed by the sight of him.

“Fuck… yes, just like that,” he whimpers, voice all sleepy. His head tips back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut, mouth open as soft, desperate little sounds keep falling out of him. “Your hand feels so good, baby… don’t stop, please. I’ve been thinking about this for hours.”

You twist your wrist on the upstroke and he jolts, hips bucking lazily into your fist, chasing the pleasure even though his body is heavy with exhaustion. Every whimper is quieter, needier. He’s almost submissive in the way he lets you take control, thighs trembling, fingers clutching at your waist like you’re the only thing anchoring him.

You lift his shirt higher so you can see his toned stomach, selfishly maybe, but he looked so pretty. You keep going, stroking him faster, tighter, watching the way his abs clench and his chest rises and falls quicker. “So pretty Jude,” you whisper, and Jude lets out a broken whine, biting his bottom lip.

“Baby… I— fuck, I’m so close already,” he pants, voice cracking. “Your hand is gonna make me come if you keep— ah—”

You slide down his body before he can finish, taking him into your mouth in one slow, wet glide. Jude’s back arches off the bed with a loud, guttural moan, one hand flying to your hair, holding on tight as his fingers tremble.

“Oh my god— your mouth, fuck—” He’s losing it completely now, sleepy whimpers turning into desperate, broken sounds as you bob your head, tongue swirling around him, sucking him deep. “So warm… so fucking good. Baby, please— I can’t— you’re gonna make me come down your throat if you keep sucking like that.”

His hips twitch up gently, like he’s trying so hard to be good and not fuck your mouth, but his control is slipping. Whiny, breathy moans fill the room as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, tongue pressing along the underside. Jude’s thighs shake, hand tightening in your hair, voice hoarse.

“Baby… slow, please, I’m so sensitive— fuck, I love your mouth so much…”

You slow down and look up, making eye contact with him. His eyes are glassy, half-lidded with exhaustion and pure bliss, lips parted, chest heaving. The sight of you between his legs like this seems to ruin him even more.

“You’re so beautiful,” he moans, voice cracking, thumb stroking your cheek gently. “My beautiful girl.”

He keeps watching you with that dazed, adoring look, hips rocking up in tiny, helpless movements as you suck him slow and deep. You swirl your tongue around the head, then take him all the way again, relaxing your throat until your nose brushes his stomach. Jude’s whole body trembles.

“Fuck— baby, look at you,” he whispers, voice hoarse and reverent. “Taking me so well… even when I’m this tired. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect for me.”

His praise comes out soft and broken, each word punctuated by a shaky breath or a little whimper. You can feel how close he is, the way his cock throbs heavier on your tongue, the constant little twitches of his thighs, the way his fingers keep flexing in your hair like he’s fighting not to lose it. But he stays so good for you, letting you control everything, just moaning and whining softly every time you swallow around him or suck a little harder.

“Gonna make me come if you keep doing that…” he pants, eyes fluttering. “Your mouth is too good, love. Too warm and wet and— shit—”

You pull off with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting your lips to his cock as you stroke him slowly with your hand instead. Jude lets out a wrecked, needy sound at the loss, hips chasing your mouth for a second before he catches himself. Before you can say anything, he’s tugging at you weakly, desperate.

“Too far away… come back up here, please.”

You crawl back up his body and he immediately pulls you in, kissing you deep and messy, tasting himself on your tongue with a low groan. His hands are everywhere, sliding under your top, squeezing your waist, your hips, like he needs to feel all of you at the same time. The kiss goes on and on, lazy and filthy, tongues sliding slow while he whimpers softly into your mouth every time you stroke him.

You keep working your hand over his cock, slow and slick, and Jude’s hips rock up to meet every stroke, his breathing getting shakier. He breaks the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, panting.

“You don’t want to come yet?” you whisper against his lips, still stroking him lazily.

He shakes his head, eyes fluttering. “Wanna be closer to you baby, wanna make you feel good.. wanna.. wanna— fuck.”

His sentence cuts off into a broken moan. For a long moment he just kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other slides down your body. His palm smooths over your stomach, then lower, teasing along the waistband of your shorts like he’s giving you time to feel the anticipation. His fingers finally slip under the fabric, pushing your shorts and panties down your thighs in one clumsy but eager movement. He helps kick them the rest of the way off, big hands gentle on your skin the whole time.

Once they’re gone he settles between your spread legs, still kissing you slow and deep. His fingers drag through your folds and he curses softly against your mouth.

“You’re so wet for me, fuck…” He circles your clit slowly, almost lazily, but the way his breath catches tells you how much it affects him. “All this for me? After I played like shit for half the game?”

You laugh breathlessly, rolling your hips against his hand, and he smiles a tired, crooked grin before leaning in to kiss you again. His fingers keep moving, slow circles on your clit, then dipping inside you just enough to make you gasp into his mouth. He’s still so hard against your thigh, twitching every time you moan.

Jude buries his face in your neck, kissing and sucking softly while his fingers work you open. “Need to be inside you,” he mumbles against your skin. “Please, baby. Wanna feel you around me. Wanna make you come first… then you can ride me slow while I hold you. I just— I need you close. So fucking close.”

He curls his fingers just right and you arch into him, moaning his name. Jude whimpers in response, pressing his cock against your hip like he can’t help it. 

“Please, baby,” he breathes against your neck, voice hoarse and shaky. “I need to be inside you. Can’t wait anymore.”

You nod, pulling him up for another deep kiss as he lines himself up. “If you get tired just say, Jude,” you whisper against his lips. He looked so exhausted — eyes heavy, shoulders slumped — and part of you still felt a pang of guilt that he was going to be the one putting in all the effort tonight.

“You’re such an angel,” he whispers softly, pecking your forehead with heartbreaking tenderness, then leaning down for another deep kiss. “As if I could ever be too tired to fuck you.”

The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, hot and slick, and you both moan into each other’s mouths as he starts pushing in. He’s so slow and careful, even though you can feel how badly he wants to bury himself.

“Fuck… so tight,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. Inch by inch he sinks into you, stretching you open until he’s fully seated, hips flush against yours. The sound he makes is relief mixed with pleasure, a long, broken moan that vibrates through his chest.

For a moment he just stays there, buried deep, breathing hard against your lips. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, desperate for the full body contact. You can feel how tired he is, the way his muscles are trembling from the long match and the effort it’s taking just to hold himself up. “You feel so good,” he groans. “Just for me, yeah? Tell me this pussy belongs to me. ”

“It belongs to you, baby. Only you,” you moan softly, clenching around him. “I belong to you.”

A shaky breath leaves him. He buries his face in your neck, sucking softly on your skin while he gives one slow, grinding roll of his hips. “Good girl… all mine,” he mumbles, the words slurred with tiredness. “I don’t share you with anyone.”

Then he starts moving with slow, lazy rolls of his hips, grinding deep instead of thrusting hard. Every stroke is deliberate, like he’s savouring every second even though exhaustion is weighing on him. His breaths are heavier, his arms shaking slightly as he holds you, sweat beading on his forehead and sliding down his temple. Still, he doesn’t stop. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper, and Jude lets out a soft, whiny sound again that makes you clench harder around him.

“Baby… yeah, just like that,” he pants. “Feels too good. You’re squeezing me so tight— fuck.”

His mouth finds yours again, the kiss sloppy and tired, tongues sliding lazily while he keeps that slow grind going. One hand stays gripping your hip, the other slides up to cup your breast through your t-shirt, thumb brushing your nipple almost absentmindedly, like even his hands are running out of energy but he refuses to stop touching you. He’s so vocal, whimpering your name, telling you how perfect you feel, how much he needs you.

You can feel him getting closer, his thrusts losing their steadiness, becoming a little more desperate. “I’m so close,” he whines against your mouth. “Come with me, baby. Please. Wanna feel you come around me.”

One of his hands slips between you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow circles. The combination of his cock dragging deep inside you, his fingers, his soft sleepy moans, pushes you over the edge first. You clench around him hard, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you.

Jude follows right after with a broken groan, burying his face in your neck as he comes deep inside you, hips stuttering. “Fuck— love you, love you so much,” he mumbles against your skin, trembling through it.

Afterwards he collapses on top of you, heavy and warm, still buried inside. His arms wrap around you tightly, face tucked into your neck as he catches his breath. Soft kisses press against your shoulder, lazy and sweet.

“Best recovery ever,” he murmurs with a tired little laugh, voice muffled. “But I’m never moving ever again.”

You run your fingers down the muscles of his back, smiling as both of your breathing starts to even out, his body finally giving in to the exhaustion. You kiss his temple, open your mouth to respond, but he's snoring softly before you can even reply.

It’s one of those days when nothing has even been briefly considered to be chalked up on the calendar. Both due to the weather and the rare lack of training. It’s the middle of a colder-than-average January, frost gathered thinly on the blades of grass outside your house, blankets over blankets piled on top of your sheets.

Inside, it’s cold too—just not quite as bad. The sort of weather where you can’t venture out of bed without socks, or a cup of a steaming drink cradled in your palms for warmth. But you like it because it isn’t often that Luka gets a break from training and matches, and you both need it.

You hum quietly, gathering Luka back into your arms from where he’s unknowingly shifted away in his sleep. He must be half awake already, since he smiles and presses his nose into your throat. With a fond huff of laughter, you murmur into his hair, “G’morning.”

In response, he lets out a slight mumble of something you can’t decipher. You giggle, hand cupping the nape of his neck and then gliding slowly into his sleep-tousled hair. He shudders subtly enough that you almost miss it and you roll your eyes fondly.

Softly, you press your lips into his golden crown of curls. And then again, and again. He exhales, almost a laugh, a warm puff against your air-cooled skin. You whisper into his hair, “My pretty boy. Muy guapo.”

You don’t have to see his face to know he blushes. He always does—he can’t help it—but it never gets less endearing. And you’ll never get bored of seeing it.

He shifts and you smile, pulling the sheets over him. His weight’s a heavy comfort on you and the warmth radiating off of him is so soothing you could fall asleep right then and there. He smells of last night's half-worn-off cologne and some soft scent that clings to him no matter what—not quite musk, but close, something warm and undeniably Luka.

You run a hand slowly up his spine and watch how he shivers at the contact. He melts into your side, shoulders losing any slight tension they’d had. Your words are slow and lazy when you find them, voice a little hoarse with unuse, “You gonna get up today?”

He shakes his head no, then looks up at you from where he’s resting on your shoulder, instantly transfixed. The sight of those wide hazelnut eyes makes your heart ache violently. You brush his cheek with your thumb, and he seems to remember he had something to say. “I need to rest. Only a few days left, before I am back at training.”

“I know, sweetheart.” You lean in and kiss his forehead. He must go very red, because he tucks his face away against your shoulder instantly. “We can stay like this.”

With a fond smile, you stroke his back gently. Just up and down, hand cold against his remarkably warm skin. The faintest little groan leaves his lips—so quiet you have to strain to hear it—eyelashes tickling your skin as they flutter.

“I miss this when you’re at training.” You admit, heart aching at the thought: Luka getting up early every morning, not hardly having time to indulge you in hours of soft dozing and touching. Which was most mornings, and it never changed that all you yearned for was lazy days like this.

“I can’t change it.” He huffs, nudging his head lightly against the underside of your jaw. His voice sounds as frustrated as yours, but more softened by sleep. Your heart squeezes in your chest.

You sigh, fingers combing through his hair. The repetitive motion was almost as soothing to you as it was to him. “I know that. It doesn’t make it any easier, though.”

"So, how was it?"

Zack sat on the living room floor of his studio apartment, surrounded by scattered wide-ruled paper hastily stacked into vaguely organized piles. Some completely filled with writing, others with a word or two that had apparently not been good enough to elicit anything more.

Nothing particularly out of the ordinary. It fit the character, added a bit more charm. The kind found in the graffiti-scrawled bathroom of a local music venue; where the beer tastes like piss, and people are packed into a 600 square foot room like sardines to a tin. In the living room, which by the nature of studios was also his bedroom, a CRT TV stood atop a weathered black shelf. The neck of an all white Jackson guitar leaned against it, strings uncut. CDs lined along the inside, sorted alphabetically by artist and chronologically by album. A few feet in front of it, a coffee table stacked with all types of memorabilia— tour posters that there simply wasn't any room for on the walls, a used plastic bag from the corner store down the street, and empty mugs and plates you'd both been periodically stacking throughout the day. His couch laid back against the wall.

Which is where you were. You sat adjacent to him, cross legged on the sofa, watching as he absentmindedly drummed his pencil on a legal pad. The lead made small dots where it landed. This page was one of the luckier ones; nearly full of his messy handwriting. Lyrics had been written—and rewritten—down as they came to him. Certain verses were circled while others underlined, some crossed out altogether. To anyone else it looked like jumbled nonsense, but it made sense to Zack (and you, to a certain extent).

"Hey," Zack called your name, waving his hand in front of your face.

"Huh?" You blinked, completely forgetting what he'd asked for a second. "Oh, it was good! I liked it."

"That's it?" Zack asked, a blank sort of 'are you serious' expression plastered on his face as he scanned over the paper. "Just liked it?"

"Hey, that's a good thing isn't it?"

"I need people to do more than 'like' my music, you know." His eyes stayed glued to the paper as he spoke.

"I, uh, loved it?"

Zack stopped, hung his head and smiled to himself.

"You're no help at all."

"Hey! You asked me to help, so it's kind of your fault."

It wasn't a lie. He'd invited you over earlier in the evening, when the sun first began to dip below the L.A. city skyline, and shadows elongated with every passing second. You liked to think of yourself as his personal editor, although truthfully you acted as more of a thesaurus. You didn't mind. You considered yourself lucky to see him in this state. Baggy tee and sweats, surrounded by a concoction of his own thoughts. Writing surged through his veins and kept him breathing, and he excelled at it. You'd seen enough of his shows to know. As if a switch flipped in his brain, his persona molded into one of a lyrical guerrilla.

Molded was the wrong word— molded implies copying something, participating in some semblance of meaningless idolatry. He hadn't molded himself into anything. He already was that ungovernable force, it just took a stage to coax it out.

"What time is it?" Zack asked.

"Almost two."

"Fuck me," he sighed and set down his pencil. He raised his arms above his head and stretched; his t-shirt raised with his movement. You caught a glimpse of the small bit of skin that exposed itself.

'How terrible,' you thought, 'falling for your best friend like this.'

Zack finished stretching, and you quickly averted your eyes. He paused for a second, and tilted his head slightly.

Fuck.

"I- uh, I think the song could use a bridge," you deflected.

"...A bridge?"

"Yeah, you know, something there to contrast the verses."

"I know what a bridge is." He picked his pencil back up. "I mean, where would I put it? The song is basically done. If I put it after one of the verses it'll fuck up the flow."

"Put it at the end...?" You replied, although the infliction of your voice made it into more of a question.

"So, the outro?"

"I don't know! Whatever you want to call it, I just feel like it could work." You waited for Zack to make some dry sarcastic quip, but he was back to his notes. You could've distracted him from a car crash with the way he got lost in music, especially his own.

His hands worked quickly. You couldn't make out what he was writing, but you could see they weren't full sentences. More like standalone words, and something near the bottom that seemed to repeat.

"Alright, what about this?" Zack handed the notepad to you.

You skimmed the page, and read the final stanza.

"All of which are American dreams," you whispered, nearly inaudibly.

You looked up at Zack. He folded his arms, hunched ever so slightly, drawing his eyes from the paper to your own.

"It's, uh..." You couldn't contain the stupid smile that plastered your face. "It's perfect."

Zack's face lit up, letting out a relieved 'fuck yes!' Before getting up to envelope you in a bone-crushing hug, that lifted you quite a few inches off of your seat. You could barely get your arms back around him with how tightly he held you, chest pressed around you and arms awkwardly offset from yours (one under, one over). His scent wrapped around you like he did. It clung to your senses; days old cologne, and something else you couldn't quite pinpoint.

If you knew such accidental advice worked this well, you would've done it a long time ago.

Zack let go, still beaming with pride. You handed his notepad back to him, with the slightest crinkle where you held it.

"That's the only other song I needed done. It's finally ready for the studio tomorrow."

You were about to congratulate him, but the last part of his statement tripped you up a bit. 

"Tomorrow?" Your eyes narrowed. "You waited until the day before you were supposed to be in the studio to finish writing this song?"

"Yeah, I-I guess." He averted his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck.

"What were you planning on doing if you didn't finish it?"

"I don't know," he shrugged, "probably just postpone the recording date until I finished."

"Are you allowed to do that?"

"Well..." He trailed off, then shook his head. "What are you, my mom?"

"Alright, alright, fine, I'll back off," you sighed. "What studio is it, exactly?"

"Sound City. It's like 40 minutes from here, somewhere off of I-101." He gestured down the street, although you didn't know if that was truly the direction or whether he simply pointed that way to articulate his point.

You stared blankly. "I've never heard of it."

"You're messing with me, right?" Johnny Cash, Elton John...?"

"You expect me, a regular person, to know where Elton John records his music?"

"Alright, fair point... You know," he began, "you can come with me to the studio tomorrow. Check it out." 

"Really? I'm not gonna be, like, a distraction or anything?"

"Maybe..." He teased. "But I won't mind, and I don't think the guys'll mind either."

You tried your best to hide the smile threatening to give away your feelings. You cleared your throat, trying to play it cool. Trying, and failing.

"Alright." You shook Zack's hand in a sarcastic over-the-top manner. "It's a date."

"A date," he agreed, and then yawned. "Man, we've been sitting here for, what, three hours now?"

"Just about... Fuck me." You fell back onto the couch, head pointed to the ceiling. Zack sat next to you. "I'm gonna pass out here."

"You alright with me putting something on the TV?" Zack asked, turning his head slightly to just barely face you.

"Go for it."

"It's not gonna keep you up?"

"It will, but I don't mind." You held your hand to your temple, shielding your eyes from the overhead light. "As long as I don't have to use my brain for anything, I'll be good."

"Probably not a first," he joked.

"Excuse me." You played along, letting out a scoff. "Who finished your song for you?"

He shrugged. "I would've come up with it eventually."

"Because you were doing so well on your own."

"I was, I just needed you here for moral support."

"And moral support deserves writing credits." You quipped back.

He shook his head. "Please, you weren't even paying attention half the time."

"Like when?"

"When you were gawking at me."

"I-I," you stumbled, "I was not gawking. I barely even glanced."

"Seemed like a pretty long glance to me." He grabbed the remote off of the table. Somehow he made something as simple as turning on the TV into a cocky display of victory.

"Okay, haha, very funny, you got me." You threw your hands up in a sarcastic surrender.

"It's alright, you don't have to be embarrassed. I understand"  — he held his hand to his chest — "that I'm too fuckin' irresistible."

You rolled your eyes. "Sure, whatever," you scoffed.

You turned your attention back to the T.V.; a godsend, surely. The temperature in the room seemed to skyrocket, as your heart beat out of your chest. You fumbled with the bottom hem of your shirt, trying any self-soothing techniques your brain thought of.

"What's on?" You asked.

"Some bullshit F.B.I. show," he replied. "Nothing else on is any good, unless you'd rather watch the home shopping network."

"Copaganda'll work just fine, thanks."

Zack laughed. You adored that laugh. The way the corners of his eyes crinkled, how broad all of his smiles were. Anytime he laughed, it reminded you of all of the things you loved about him— It made you fucking melt. 

"Man, they have a million of these damn shows." Zack said, bewildered.

"Probably for psychos who stay up writing song lyrics until two in the morning."

"Shit, I guess there's a market for everything."

The show continued as you settled into your spot, resting your head on Zack's shoulder. A bold move, absolutely, but he didn't mind. At least, he didn't seem to.

Despite lacking blankets, pillows, or pretty much anything to keep someone comfortable watching a show, it was the most relaxed you'd felt in a while. The rhythmic breathing of not just you, but Zack was tranquil. All in the midst of the busiest city in California. Ironic.

So whilst your eyelids got heavier, and your breathing became more mellow, you found yourself drifting off into a calm sleep.

***

"Hey, you awake?"

Zack shook your shoulder lightly. You stirred, your eyes blinking open slowly.

"The, uh, show's over," he spoke, voice barely higher than a whisper. He really didn't have to say it, considering the hum of the T.V. static was the only sound that you could hear. That, and the occasional passing of a car.

"Already?" You groaned, raising your arms in a deep and relieving stretch. "Fuck, I really don't want to move anywhere."

"We don't have to," he shrugged. "We can just stay like this. Talk or something."

"Sounds nice."

Only, neither of you knew what to talk about. For the first time in the entirety of your friendship, you had absolutely nothing to say. Nothing at all. At least nothing you wanted to admit in the early, early morning of a nearing Los Angeles dawn.

"Can I ask you something?" Zack asked, breaking the silence.

So much for nothing to talk about.

"Yeah, sure," you replied.

"I know I was fucking with you earlier, but I just wanted to know if... if you actually thought I was any good-looking."

"...You're seriously asking me that?"

Zack furrowed his brow, about to counter your question, but stopped. He shook his head. "No, you're right. It was a self-involved question."

Fuck. You hadn't meant to sound antagonistic, but the nature of his question was all but naive. It... caught you off guard, to say the least.

"N-no! It," you sighed, "it's not, it's just..."

Zacks arms crossed over his chest. Well, they'd actually been like that for a while, you just hadn't noticed prior. You had now, and you also noticed how he tapped his fingers rhythmically against his opposing upper arm; awaiting your response.

"You're... you just..." You tried to speak, but each time you fell short of a full sentence. "Christ, why is this so fucking hard to say?!" You huffed. "You're... beautiful."

"... Really?" He asked (rather doubtfully).

"Yes!" You let out. "I mean, god, you're probably the most attractive person I know."

Zack laughed, a mix of relief and nerves at the implications of your sentence. "Shit, I don't know what to say. You're... you're pretty beautiful too."

"You know you don't have to say it if you don't mean it." You laughed, dismissively.

"What makes you think I don't mean it?"

"You used the exact same phrase I used, after I told you..."  You fidgeted with your fingernails. "...and you paused."

"That doesn't mean I didn't mean it."

"Doesn't it?" You narrowed your eyes.

"Alright," he sat up in his seat and turned towards you. "What if I could convince you I wasn't just bullshitting?"

"You can try," you huffed, and turned your head to the side.

Zack reached to hold the side of your face gently in his palm, and guided you to face him. Your skin was flush in his hand. Your breath hitched in your throat as you did your best to avoid his gaze.

"Hey," he spoke softly, as if reading your thoughts, "look up."

You did as he asked, hesitantly, and before you could meet his eyes he locked you into a kiss. You froze; your world completely turned in on itself, and your mind raced with a million thoughts all crossing you at the same time. As much as you wanted to pull away and give a disheartened lecture on the state of your friendship, all you could think of was how good his lips felt on your own. All of the convincing you needed.

His open hand rested on your thigh, while your hands made their way to his locs. The kiss deepened, as Zack started to loom over you. Your back hit the arm of the couch, suddenly, which managed to make you gasp. A gasp that he took full advantage of. A small moan left your lips, muffled by his own. As much as you wanted to make out with him until you suffocated, you didn't think dying was a particularly smart idea.

You pulled back for a breath of air, and rested your forehead on his; your heavy breathing both synchronized. You stayed like this for a while, not saying anything, until Zack broke the silence.

"So, uh... believe me yet?"