A reader lives a thousand lives

The bell above the betting shop door rang once before you could stop it.

You froze just inside the threshold, your hand tightening instinctively around your son’s. He startled at the sound too, his small fingers curling into yours, body turning inward as if he could disappear behind your skirts if he tried hard enough.

The shop smelled of ink and smoke and damp wool. Men’s voices filled it—low, rough, overlapping. You were used to this place, used to the noise and the looks and the way the air always felt heavy, but today every step felt louder.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured automatically, though no one had said anything yet.

Your son peeked out from behind your leg, dark eyes wide. He didn’t speak. He rarely did with strangers. Instead, he watched, quiet and careful, his thumb finding the hem of your sleeve.

At the far desk, Thomas Shelby looked up.

He didn’t frown. Didn’t smile either. His eyes flicked from you to the child and back again, sharp and assessing in a way that usually made your spine tighten.

You braced yourself.

Before anyone else could comment, before you could rush out an explanation or an apology, he said simply, “He can stay.”

Not loud. Not soft. Just… settled. Like a decision already made.

You nodded quickly, relief and embarrassment tangling in your chest. “Thank you, sir.”

You guided your son further inside, keeping him close, settling him on the stool near your desk. He perched there obediently, legs dangling, still silent. You set a scrap of paper and a pencil stub in front of him, murmuring encouragement. He nodded, already focused, tongue peeking out as he made careful marks.

Behind you, the shop continued as if nothing had changed.

That was the first thing you noticed.

No one complained. No one stared too long. And Thomas Shelby went back to his papers without another word, as though the presence of a small child in his betting shop was the most ordinary thing in the world.

When you glanced at him—just once—he wasn’t looking at you.

And somehow, that made it easier to breathe.

The next few days passed much the same.

You came in with your son when you had no other choice, always tense at the door, always ready to be told it wasn’t acceptable. You kept him quiet. Too quiet, maybe. You corrected him with soft murmurs when he shifted or fidgeted, apologizing under your breath for things that hadn’t happened yet.

Thomas never commented.

What he did do—though you only noticed it gradually—was adjust.

Meetings that usually happened near the front moved to the back room. His voice, which could cut through the shop like a blade, stayed low when your son was near. When men grew too loud, Thomas silenced them with a look before you even realized your shoulders had tensed.

Your son noticed before you did.

On the third day, while you were counting slips, you felt a slight tug at your skirt. You looked down. He was staring—not at you, but past you, toward Thomas’s desk.

“What is it?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. Just watched.

Thomas didn’t look back. Not yet.

A few minutes later, you heard his voice, calm and measured.

“What’s his name?”

You startled. “Oh—um. It’s—” You cleared your throat. “It’s Eli.”

Thomas nodded once, as if committing it to memory. He didn’t look over when he said it. Didn’t push for more.

Eli shrank a little at the sound of his name spoken by someone else, but he didn’t hide this time. He stayed where he was, fingers tight around the pencil, eyes fixed.

Later—much later—Thomas slid a coin across his desk. Not toward you. Toward the empty space between them.

He didn’t announce it. Didn’t gesture. Just let it roll to a stop.

Eli looked at it. Looked at Thomas. Then looked at you.

You hesitated, heart in your throat. Then, slowly, you nodded.

Eli slid off the stool, small steps careful on the worn floor. He picked up the coin, turning it over in his hands like it was something precious.

Thomas watched him then. Quiet. Still.

“Good lad,” he said, softly enough that it almost didn’t count as sound.

Eli didn’t answer.

But he didn’t run back to you either.

Time moved the way it always did in the shop—measured in days, in ledgers filled and emptied, in the steady rhythm of work.

Eli began to sit closer to Thomas’s desk. Not on it. Never on it. Just near enough to feel… included. He lined coins up carefully, mimicking the neatness you’d drilled into him, the seriousness with which he approached everything.

Thomas spoke to him once a day.

Never more than that.

“How old are you?” “What’s that you’re drawing?” “Do you like numbers?”

Sometimes Eli answered. Sometimes he didn’t. Thomas accepted both with the same calm nod, as if silence were simply another form of conversation.

You watched all of this from the corner of your eye, your chest tight with something you didn’t want to name. Gratitude, maybe. Fear, too.

You kept your distance from Thomas. Polite. Efficient. Quiet. You answered when spoken to and not much more. Trust was not something you gave easily. You’d learned that early.

Thomas seemed to understand.

He never stood too close. Never touched you without warning. When he needed you to stay late, he told you early in the day and added, without hesitation, “Bring the boy. I’ll have food sent in.”

Not a request. Not an order. A fact.

The first time he did it, you nodded and said thank you and spent the rest of the day waiting for the catch.

It never came.

The day everything shifted was unremarkable in every way that mattered.

Rain streaked the windows. The shop was busy. A man near the counter grew agitated, his voice rising sharp and sudden.

Eli flinched.

It was small—just a stiffening, a breath caught too fast—but you saw it. Panic bloomed instantly. You were already moving, already reaching for him, already forming an apology—

Thomas was faster.

“That’s enough,” he said.

Not loud. Not angry. Final.

The shop fell quiet in a way that felt almost reverent. The man muttered something and backed down.

Thomas turned his attention back to his desk like nothing had happened.

You stood there, hand hovering uselessly in the air, heart pounding. Eli looked at Thomas, eyes wide, something like wonder flickering across his face.

“He’s all right here,” Thomas said, not looking at you.

You swallowed and nodded.

For the first time, you believed him.

That night, when the shop finally emptied and Eli fell asleep against your side, head heavy on your arm, Thomas paused by your desk.

“You can take tomorrow morning off,” he said. “He looks done in.”

You hesitated. “I—I can manage—”

“I know,” he replied evenly. “Still.”

He left it at that.

You watched him go, something unfamiliar settling in your chest—not hope. Not yet.

But the quiet understanding that maybe, slowly, without force or demand, Thomas Shelby was making room for both of you.

----------

Eli started talking more after that.

Not all at once. Not loudly. Just… more.

It showed first in the way he narrated things to himself while he worked—soft, half-formed words under his breath as he lined coins or counted slips. You’d catch fragments when you leaned close enough. Numbers. Colors. Names you didn’t recognize.

Thomas noticed too.

One afternoon, as the rain cleared and light crept back into the shop, Thomas paused beside Eli’s makeshift corner. The boy had spread coins in a careful line, smallest to largest, tongue caught between his teeth.

“What’s that?” Thomas asked.

Eli startled, just a little. He glanced up, then sideways—to you.

You met his eyes and nodded, a quiet encouragement. It was the same nod you’d given him every day of his life when he’d needed to be brave.

“Coins,” he said. The word came out soft, almost shy.

Thomas crouched—not all the way down, just enough to bring himself closer to Eli’s level without crowding him.

“Good sorting,” he said. “You do that often?”

Eli nodded solemnly.

Thomas straightened again, the interaction complete. No praise heaped on. No demand for more.

But later, when Eli tugged gently on your sleeve and pointed toward Thomas’s desk, you felt something in your chest loosen.

Weeks passed.

Spring edged toward summer, the days stretching longer, the shop growing warmer and louder in the afternoons. Eli learned the rhythms of the place—the busy hours, the quiet ones, the way Thomas’s footsteps meant something different depending on how heavy they sounded.

He stopped hiding behind you.

Not completely. He still leaned into your leg when strangers came too close. Still reached for your hand when voices rose unexpectedly. But he no longer flinched at Thomas’s presence. Sometimes, when you were distracted, you’d look up to find Eli sitting near Thomas’s desk, legs folded beneath him, watching the steady scratch of pen against paper like it was a kind of magic.

Thomas never told him to move.

One evening, well past Eli’s usual bedtime, you noticed Thomas pause mid-calculation.

“He should be home,” he said, glancing toward the small form slumped in a chair, eyes drooping.

You straightened, guilt rising sharp and familiar. “I’m sorry—I lost track of time.”

Thomas shook his head once. “No need.”

He went into the back room and returned with a coat—far too large for Eli, but warm. He draped it over the boy’s shoulders without waking him, movements careful, practiced in a way that surprised you.

Eli stirred but didn’t pull away.

You watched, heart in your throat, as Thomas adjusted the coat gently, then stepped back as if afraid of disturbing something fragile.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

Thomas looked at you then. Really looked at you. His gaze lingered, thoughtful, searching, before he nodded.

It was a small thing, the first real conversation you had with him.

It happened late one night, after the shop had closed and Eli slept curled against your side, breath warm and steady. You were finishing the last of the paperwork when Thomas approached, setting a cup of tea on the desk beside you.

“You didn’t eat,” he said.

You opened your mouth to deny it. Stopped.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you murmured instead.

He didn’t challenge you. Just leaned against the desk opposite, arms folded loosely.

“He’s like you,” he said, eyes flicking briefly toward Eli.

Your chest tightened. “In what way?”

“Quiet,” Thomas replied. “Watches first. Decides later.”

You swallowed. “That’s not always a good thing.”

Thomas’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “Keeps you alive.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You didn’t reply. Didn’t need to.

The silence between you felt different after that. Less brittle. More… shared.

Eli’s confidence came in bursts.

One morning, you were distracted with a customer when you heard his small voice—clearer than usual.

“Tommy.”

The sound hit you like a dropped plate.

You turned sharply, heart hammering. Eli stood beside Thomas’s desk, looking up at him with something like determination.

Thomas froze.

Slowly, he looked down. “Yes?”

Eli held up a coin, frowning. “This one… wrong.”

Thomas crouched this time, properly, resting his elbows on his knees. “Show me.”

Eli did, pointing carefully, explaining in halting phrases why the coin didn’t belong with the others. Thomas listened as though this explanation was the most important thing he’d heard all day.

“You’re right,” he said at last. “Good catch.”

Eli beamed.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, eyes burning. You hadn’t realized how badly you’d needed to see someone take him seriously.

Thomas glanced at you then. Just once.

He didn’t smile. But something passed between you—an understanding you hadn’t agreed to, but felt all the same.

You trusted him before you realized you did.

It showed in the way you no longer hovered as closely. In the way you let Eli wander. In the way you stopped apologizing for his presence.

Thomas noticed.

He never commented.

Instead, he stayed.

Stayed consistent. Stayed patient. Stayed exactly where he’d always been.

And one night—long after you’d meant to leave, exhaustion weighing heavy on your bones—you finally faltered.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this,” you said softly, staring at the ledger rather than at him.

Thomas didn’t answer right away.

When he did, his voice was low, steady. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

You looked up at him then, really looked, and for the first time you didn’t feel like you needed to look away.

Eli shifted in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and Thomas reached out—hesitant, careful—and steadied him with one gentle hand.

You watched the gesture, something warm and terrifying blooming in your chest.

And when Thomas finally met your eyes again, you didn’t pull back.

-----------

Eli reached for Thomas’s hand for the first time on a Tuesday.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no moment of tension beforehand, no sudden burst of courage. It happened the way most important things did with him—quietly, almost accidentally, as though he hadn’t realized he was crossing a line until he was already on the other side of it.

The shop was slow that morning. Light filtered in through the front windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air. You were sorting slips, mind half elsewhere, when you felt Eli shift beside you.

“Stay here,” you murmured automatically.

He nodded—but didn’t.

Instead, he took three careful steps toward Thomas’s desk, stopped, and stood there, uncertain. Thomas was writing, brow furrowed, attention fixed on the page. He didn’t notice at first.

Eli waited.

When Thomas finally looked up, his expression stilled—not startled, not displeased. Just attentive.

“Yes?” he asked gently.

Eli hesitated, then reached out. His small hand closed around two of Thomas’s fingers, loose but sure.

You sucked in a breath before you could stop yourself.

Thomas looked down at their joined hands. He didn’t move away. Didn’t tighten his grip either. Just stayed exactly as he was, letting Eli decide.

After a moment, Thomas said, “All right,” as if this, too, had been agreed upon long ago.

Eli smiled—small, shy, triumphant—and leaned a little closer.

You watched from your desk, heart hammering, something fragile and precious settling into place. No one said a word about it. No one needed to.

From that day on, Eli gravitated toward Thomas without fear.

He sat closer. Spoke more freely. Asked questions that came out crooked and earnest and sometimes only half-formed. Thomas answered every one of them as though they mattered. Especially the ones that didn’t make much sense.

And you—slowly, carefully—began to let go of the tight hold you’d kept on the world for so long.

The first time Thomas walked you home, it felt unreal.

It was late, the streets quiet and damp, Eli half-asleep in your arms. You’d been struggling with his weight, arms aching, when Thomas stepped in without comment.

“I’ve got him,” he said.

You hesitated. Old instincts flared—protective, wary—but you were tired. So tired.

“All right,” you whispered.

Thomas lifted Eli with ease, cradling him against his chest like it was something he’d done before. Eli stirred but didn’t wake, face pressing into Thomas’s coat, breath evening out again almost instantly.

You walked beside them, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off Thomas’s body. He didn’t speak. Neither did you. The silence felt companionable, wrapped around you like a shared secret.

At your door, Thomas paused.

“You’re doing well,” he said quietly.

The words hit harder than you expected. You swallowed. “I don’t feel like I am.”

“That’s how I know you are,” he replied.

He handed Eli back to you with care, lingering just long enough for his fingers to brush your sleeve—a touch so light it might have been accidental.

It wasn’t.

After that, Thomas became a presence beyond the shop.

He checked in when Eli was sick. Sent food without explanation. Arranged your hours around nursery schedules you hadn’t told him about—but he’d noticed all the same.

He never pushed. Never demanded more than you could give.

And slowly, you found yourself speaking to him more.

Not about anything important at first. Just small things. The weather. Eli’s drawings. A story he’d told you at bedtime that made no sense at all but had made you laugh anyway.

Thomas listened.

One evening, as Eli played on the floor with coins and scraps of paper, Thomas looked at you and said, “You don’t apologize as much anymore.”

You blinked. “I didn’t realize I was.”

He nodded. “I did.”

You smiled then—just a little, but real—and Thomas felt it like a victory he hadn’t known he was fighting for.

The moment you realized you trusted him came quietly, too.

You were exhausted, the kind of tired that settled deep in your bones. Eli was asleep on the settee in Thomas’s office, curled up under a blanket that had somehow appeared there without you noticing.

You sank into the chair opposite Thomas, shoulders sagging.

“I’m scared,” you admitted softly. “Sometimes.”

Thomas leaned back, studying you—not with scrutiny, but with care.

“So am I,” he said.

You met his gaze. Something shifted then. The last wall you hadn’t even realized you were holding upright finally lowered.

Thomas didn’t reach for you. Didn’t need to.

He stayed.

And that was enough.

By the time you realized what the three of you had become, it felt less like falling and more like arriving somewhere you’d been heading all along.

Eli laughed more. You breathed easier. Thomas—quiet, steady Thomas—made space for both of you without ever asking you to change who you were.

One night, as you walked home together, Eli between you, holding both your hands, Thomas glanced down and said, almost to himself, “This works.”

You nodded, throat tight. “Yes,” you agreed. “It does.”

Summary: When a nursery emergency means Roy Kent is the one who picks up your four-year-old, an ordinary afternoon unfolds into something quietly permanent. A soft, domestic Roy Kent fic about answering the phone, staying when it matters, and becoming family without ever saying the word.

You don’t remember writing Roy Kent’s name, and that’s the part that unnerves you the most.

You remember the nursery office clearly enough—the too-bright lights, the laminated posters peeling at the corners, your son tugging insistently at your sleeve because he wanted to show you a picture he’d drawn that was mostly brown crayon and enthusiasm. You remember balancing the clipboard against your hip, pen scratching across boxes that demanded certainty you didn’t feel.

Primary contact. Secondary contact. Emergency contact.

You remember pausing there. You remember thinking you’d fill it in later.

You don’t remember deciding that if something went wrong—if your son was scared or hurt or needed someone—Roy Kent would be the one they called.

But at 2:14 p.m., your phone buzzes against your desk, and a calm, unfamiliar voice says his name like it’s been there all along.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” the woman says. “This is Little Oaks Nursery. I’m calling about your son.”

Your stomach tightens instantly. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” she reassures quickly. “Completely fine. He had a small tumble during outdoor play—nothing serious—but he’s very upset, and we’ve reached a point where he needs to be collected.”

You close your eyes, already scrolling through your calendar mentally. You’re in the middle of reconciling budgets for next quarter. Rebecca is in meetings all afternoon. You can’t leave.

“I can’t get there,” you say, hating how thin your voice sounds. “I’ve tried everyone I can. I don’t—”

“Oh,” the woman says lightly. “That’s alright. We’ve already contacted your emergency contact. He said he’s on his way.”

Your breath catches. “He did?”

“Yes. Roy Kent.”

The office around you seems to tilt.

“…Right,” you manage. “Okay. Thank you.”

You hang up and sit there, staring at your hands.

Roy Kent. On his way to pick up your four-year-old from nursery. Alone.

Panic should follow. Guilt. A rush of what-ifs.

Instead, there’s a strange stillness in your chest. Like something solid has slotted into place without asking permission.

Roy is in the middle of reviewing footage when his phone rings.

He answers without checking the number.

“This is Roy.”

“Hello, Mr. Kent,” the nursery administrator says. “I’m calling regarding Y/N’s son—”

Roy’s spine straightens immediately. “What’s wrong.”

“He’s fine,” she says quickly. “Just a small fall, but he’s very distressed and asking for you.”

Roy doesn’t question why. He doesn’t ask how his name ended up on the list. He’s already grabbing his jacket.

“I’m on my way.”

He’s out the door in under a minute.

At the nursery, the door opens to chaos.

Children’s voices overlap in a blur of sound and movement, but Roy hears one voice immediately—sharp, familiar, unmistakable.

“ROY!”

Your son breaks away from a group near the reading corner and barrels across the room at full speed. Roy barely has time to brace before a small body collides with his legs, arms wrapping around his waist like a declaration.

Roy grunts, instinctively steadying him. “Easy.”

Your son looks up, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, grin wide and missing a tooth he lost last month.

“You came,” he says, like it was inevitable.

Roy swallows. “Course I did.”

Your son presses his face briefly into Roy’s stomach, then pulls back, bouncing on his toes. “I fell. But I’m okay now.”

Roy crouches so they’re eye level. “Let me see.”

Your son solemnly lifts his trouser leg to reveal a barely-there scrape. Roy examines it like it’s a serious injury, nodding once.

“Looks survivable,” he says.

Your son beams.

The sign-out process takes longer than it should because your son insists on narrating everything—how he fell, how he cried, how he stopped crying because he knew Roy would come. Roy listens to every word, one hand resting steady on your son’s shoulder, grounding.

Outside, your son slips his hand into Roy’s like it belongs there. Roy adjusts his grip without thinking, slowing his stride to match the shorter steps beside him.

“You gonna tell Mum I was brave?” your son asks.

Roy nods. “Yeah.”

“Promise?”

Roy squeezes his hand. “Promise.”

Back at Roy’s flat, your son kicks off his shoes and wanders in like he’s done this a hundred times.

He pokes at the sofa cushions. He peers into the kitchen. He checks the fridge.

“Phoebe’s pictures are still here,” he announces, pleased.

Roy grunts. “Good memory.”

They settle into the afternoon quietly. Cartoons play softly while your son sprawls against Roy’s side, legs tucked under him. Roy pretends not to watch but doesn’t change the channel.

When hunger strikes, Roy cooks.

It’s nothing fancy—pasta, jarred sauce—but your son watches with fascination, asking questions nonstop. Roy answers them all, patient in a way that surprises even him.

They eat at the table together. Roy insists on vegetables. Your son negotiates fiercely. Roy holds firm.

“You eat three bites,” Roy says. “Then we’ll talk.”

Your son considers this, nods gravely, complies.

Afterward, they take the ball outside. Roy tries to teach him properly—how to stand, how to kick—but your son’s enthusiasm outpaces his balance. He falls. He laughs. He gets back up.

Roy’s frustration is quiet, internal, never directed at him.

“You’ll get it,” Roy mutters. “Just not today.”

“That’s okay,” your son says cheerfully. “You’re still here.”

Roy’s chest tightens at that.

When you finally open the door hours later, the flat is dim and quiet.

You find them on the sofa.

Your son is asleep, sprawled across Roy’s chest, thumb tucked into his mouth. Roy’s arm is wrapped around him instinctively, protective even in sleep.

You stand there, heart aching, watching the rise and fall of their breathing.

Roy wakes when you step closer. His eyes focus instantly.

“He good?” you whisper.

Roy nods. “Yeah. Had dinner. Bath. Knocked out.”

You swallow. “Thank you.”

Roy looks at you for a long moment. “Anytime.”

You lift your son carefully, and Roy releases him with reluctance he doesn’t bother hiding.

At the door, Roy hesitates.

“You can keep me on the list,” he says quietly. “If you want.”

You meet his eyes. “I want.”

Roy nods, satisfied.

As you leave, your son murmurs sleepily, “Night, Roy.”

Roy’s voice is steady, certain. “Night, mate.”

And later, as you tuck your son into bed, you realize something fundamental has changed—not because Roy helped, but because when the phone rang, he came.

Because he stayed.

Summary: a single mum working admin at AFC Richmond brings her toddler to work—and Roy Kent becomes part of their routine before anyone names it. Built from lunches, training pitches, first steps, and a baby who learns to shout “Roy” before anything else, this is a found-family story about showing up, growing steady, and becoming a unit without meaning to.

The email comes in at 6:42 a.m.

You’re already awake. You’ve been awake since 5:10, because your son decided sleep was optional and the world was ending unless he had his blue cup specifically, not the red one, and definitely not the green one you tried to pass off as a compromise.

You read the subject line first.

So sorry—today won’t work.

Your stomach drops before you even open it.

You read the message once, then again, slower this time, like maybe the words will rearrange themselves if you give them enough patience. Childcare sick. Short notice. Apologies. No alternatives.

You close your eyes.

For a long moment, you just sit there on the edge of your bed, phone heavy in your hand, your son leaning against your thigh with his warm, sleepy weight, fingers curled into the hem of your shirt like that’s where he anchors himself to the world.

“Okay,” you whisper, not sure who you’re saying it to.

You run through the list automatically. Your mum—working. Your neighbour—away. The emergency sitter you used once—doesn’t answer. You text anyway. No reply.

Your son babbles something that sounds vaguely like a question, then presses his face into your stomach, satisfied enough to exist there for now.

You exhale slowly.

Calling in sick isn’t an option. There’s a board meeting today. Contract paperwork. Half the club’s admin load sits on your shoulders because you’re reliable and quiet and you don’t complain, and those traits have a way of making people assume you’ll always manage.

You scoop your son up, rest your forehead against his for a second. He smells like sleep and baby shampoo and the faintest trace of last night’s banana.

“Looks like you’re coming to work with me, mate,” you murmur.

He smiles, wide and gummy and pleased, like that sounds excellent.

By the time you pull into the Richmond car park, you’ve apologized to three different people in your head.

You’ve packed everything—snacks, wipes, spare clothes, favourite stuffed rabbit, the blue cup (you learned). You’ve rehearsed explanations you might not need. You’ve already decided you’ll keep him tucked away, quiet, out of sight.

You do not want to be a disruption.

You balance him on your hip as you badge in, bag slung over your shoulder, heart already racing like you’re late even though you’re not. He looks around with wide, curious eyes, utterly delighted by the echo of footsteps and the hum of voices.

At the admin desk, Mae gives you a once-over and lifts an eyebrow.

“Morning,” she says, then softens immediately. “Oh.”

You brace yourself. “I’m so sorry. Childcare fell through last minute. I—”

Mae waves you off. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. He’s adorable.”

Your son grins at her like he knows he’s been complimented.

“I’ll keep him with me,” you add quickly. “He won’t be any trouble.”

Mae snorts. “That’s what they all say.”

You manage a small smile, grateful, but your shoulders don’t quite drop. Not yet.

You move through the corridors carefully, hyper-aware of every sound he makes, every curious grab for a lanyard or shiny badge. You settle him in your office with a few toys on the floor, chair pulled close so you can keep a foot against his leg, a constant point of contact.

You answer emails one-handed. You sign forms while gently nudging him back from the trash can with your heel. You apologize again when someone knocks and he squeals at the noise.

Most people are kind. Brief smiles. Quick reassurances.

But you still feel it—that low-grade panic that hums beneath your skin. The fear of being seen as unprofessional. As inconvenient.

It’s just before lunch when the door opens without knocking.

Roy Kent fills the doorway.

You freeze.

He’s still in training gear, hair damp with sweat, towel slung over one shoulder. He looks like he always does—solid, intense, perpetually annoyed with the world—but his eyes drop immediately to the floor.

To your son.

Your son looks back at him.

They stare at each other.

Roy frowns. Your son grins.

“Uh,” you say, scrambling upright. “Hi—sorry—I should have said something, I just—”

Roy lifts a hand, cutting you off.

“What’s wrong,” he says gruffly.

You blink. “Nothing. I mean—childcare fell through. He’s just here for the day. I’ll make sure he’s not in anyone’s way.”

Roy’s eyes flick back to the kid, who has now crawled a few inches closer, curiosity outweighing caution.

“He yours,” Roy asks.

“Yes,” you say automatically. “I mean—yes. He’s—yeah.”

Roy grunts, like that checks out. “How old.”

“Eighteen months.”

Roy nods, serious. Like he’s mentally adjusting expectations. “That explains the chaos.”

You huff out a breath before you can stop yourself. “He’s actually pretty good. Just… loud.”

Your son chooses that moment to shriek happily and smack the floor with both palms.

Roy watches him for a second, unreadable.

Then he says, “He can come to lunch.”

You stare. “What?”

“My table’s quiet,” Roy continues, already turning away like this is settled. “No one’ll bother him.”

“Oh—no, that’s really okay,” you rush out. “I don’t want to impose.”

Roy turns back, scowl firmly in place. “I offered.”

You hesitate. The instinct to refuse help wars with the sheer exhaustion in your bones.

Roy’s gaze softens, just a fraction. “You look knackered.”

That does it.

“…Okay,” you say quietly.

Roy nods once. “Good.”

And with that, he leaves.

Your son watches him go, then looks up at you, pleased, like something interesting just happened.

You sink back into your chair, heart pounding.

You have a strange, unshakable feeling that your life has just shifted slightly off its axis.

---------

Roy’s table isn’t official.

There’s no sign. No rule posted anywhere. It just exists in the same way Roy does—solid, unquestioned, and quietly respected.

It’s tucked toward the back of the cafeteria, away from the television and the worst of the noise, close enough to the windows that there’s light but not glare. People don’t sit there unless Roy invites them, and Roy doesn’t invite people often.

You know this. Everyone knows this.

So when you walk in carrying your son on your hip and see Roy already seated there, tray in front of him, posture rigid like he’s bracing for something, your instinct is to turn around and pretend you misunderstood.

Roy looks up.

“Sit,” he says.

You stop short. “Are you sure?”

He scowls. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

That’s fair.

You make your way over, hyper-aware of the looks you’re getting—not judgmental, exactly, just curious. The novelty of a toddler in the Richmond cafeteria is apparently a spectacle. You settle into the chair opposite Roy, adjusting your son until he’s perched sideways on your lap, his small trainers knocking lightly against the table leg.

Roy watches the whole process with the focus of a man studying a tactical diagram.

“You need a high chair?” he asks.

You blink, surprised. “No—he’s okay like this. He just—” You tighten your arm instinctively as your son leans forward, reaching. “He likes to explore.”

Roy grunts. “Figures.”

He pushes his tray an inch further back from the edge of the table. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… preventative.

Your son notices immediately.

He stares at Roy’s plate.

Then at Roy.

Then back at the plate.

There’s a single chip left near the edge, abandoned, forgotten.

Your son points. “Da.”

You wince. “Sorry—no, sweetheart, that’s not ours—”

Roy watches the tiny finger hover.

The kid looks up at him, eyes wide and curious, no fear in them at all. Just interest. Like Roy is a puzzle piece he hasn’t seen before.

Roy sighs.

“Just one,” he mutters, and nudges the chip closer with his fork.

Your son gasps like he’s been gifted a crown jewel.

You freeze. “Roy, you don’t have to—”

“It’s a chip,” Roy says. “He’ll survive.”

Your son grabs it with both hands, triumphant, and immediately smashes it into his mouth, crumbs going everywhere. He laughs, delighted with himself.

Roy stares.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters. “He’s like a pigeon.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. It bursts out of you, quick and surprised, and you clap a hand over your mouth like you’ve done something wrong.

Roy looks at you.

Really looks this time.

Something in his expression shifts—not soft exactly, but… attentive. Like he’s noticed something important and doesn’t know what to do with it yet.

Your son crunches happily, then drops half the chip on the floor.

Roy watches it fall. “Wasteful.”

“He’s still learning,” you say automatically, and the words echo faintly in your own head.

Roy hums.

For a minute, there’s just the sound of the cafeteria around you—cutlery clinking, distant laughter, the low murmur of conversation. Your son finishes the chip and immediately wants more, hands slapping the table with enthusiasm.

“No more,” you say gently. “That was Roy’s lunch.”

Your son looks at Roy again, thoughtful.

Then he smiles.

A full, open grin, gums and all.

Roy stiffens like he’s been hit.

“Don’t do that,” he says gruffly.

Your son laughs.

You stare at Roy. “I don’t think he understands tone yet.”

Roy huffs. “Clearly.”

Keeley is the first to notice.

She stops dead mid-sentence at a nearby table, eyes widening as she takes in the scene: Roy Kent, at his sacred table, with an admin assistant and a toddler calmly dismantling his personal space.

“Oh my God,” she breathes.

Roy groans. “Don’t.”

She’s already moving. “Is that a BABY.”

“Yes,” you say quickly. “I’m so sorry if he’s in the way—”

Keeley waves you off, crouching immediately. “He is absolutely not in the way. He’s perfect. Hi, angel!”

Your son beams at her too, delighted by the attention.

Roy’s jaw tightens. “Don’t encourage him.”

Keeley looks up at Roy, grinning. “You let him have a chip.”

Roy glares. “I made a tactical decision.”

Keeley laughs. “Wow. Roy Kent. Softie.”

“I am not,” Roy snaps, then pauses as your son reaches out and pats his forearm with sticky fingers.

Roy freezes.

Keeley gasps like she’s witnessing a religious experience.

“Can I hold him,” she asks you immediately.

Your son considers this, then leans slightly toward Roy instead, using your arm as leverage.

Everyone goes still.

Roy looks down at the tiny hand on his arm like it’s a live wire.

“Uh,” you say, mortified. “Sorry—he does that sometimes—”

Roy doesn’t move.

Your son babbles, content, patting Roy’s arm again, then resting his forehead briefly against it like he’s decided this is a safe place.

Roy exhales slowly through his nose.

“Christ,” he mutters. “He’s heavy.”

“He’s not—” you stop yourself. “Actually, yeah. He kind of is.”

Roy glances at you. “You carry him all day?”

You nod. “Most days.”

Roy looks back at the kid, then at your arm, where there’s a faint red mark already forming from the constant weight.

Something in his expression darkens—not anger. Something more protective.

Your son finally pulls back, satisfied, and returns to smearing crumbs on your shirt.

Roy clears his throat. “You can bring him here whenever.”

You blink. “What?”

“My table,” Roy says. “It’s quieter. Less idiots.”

You hesitate. “I don’t want to make it a habit.”

Roy snorts. “Too late.”

Keeley straightens, eyes bright and knowing. “Oh, I love this. We’re doing family lunches now.”

“This is not a family,” Roy growls.

Your son slaps the table again and babbles something that sounds suspiciously like agreement.

Roy looks down at him.

“…You’re loud,” he tells him.

Your son grins.

Roy shakes his head, but there’s the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

And you sit there, watching it happen, heart doing something strange and unfamiliar, wondering when exactly this stopped being an emergency and started becoming a routine.

---------

It starts as a sound before it’s a word.

That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

Your son has been doing this thing lately where he latches onto certain noises and repeats them until they mean something—ma for you, a vague ba for the ball he insists on dragging everywhere, a sharp little no that he wields with surprising authority.

Roy’s name does not fit neatly into that system.

You’re in your office again, door open this time because Roy has made it a habit to pass by under the flimsy excuse of needing a form or a signature he could absolutely get from Mae. Your son is on the floor with his rabbit, chewing thoughtfully on one ear, when Roy stops in the doorway.

“Rebecca wants the revised travel schedule,” Roy says.

You swivel in your chair. “I emailed it this morning.”

Roy grunts. “Didn’t see it.”

You don’t bother pointing out that he definitely did. You pull it up again anyway, turning your screen so he can see. Roy leans in, close enough that you catch the clean, faintly soapy smell of him—post-training, post-shower. Familiar, now, in a way that sneaks up on you.

Your son looks up.

His eyes track Roy like they always do. Slow. Intent.

He drops the rabbit.

“Hey,” you murmur, half-distracted. “That’s your favourite.”

Your son ignores you. He pushes himself upright, wobbly but determined, and takes two unsteady steps toward Roy before plopping down onto his bottom with a thud.

Roy flinches. “Jesus.”

“He’s fine,” you say automatically, already halfway out of your chair.

Your son laughs, delighted with himself, then looks up at Roy again, eyes bright. His mouth opens.

“R’oy.”

The sound is wrong. Slurred. Rounded in a way that barely resembles the name.

But it’s unmistakable.

Roy freezes.

You freeze too, breath catching in your chest like the air’s been knocked out of you.

Your son tries again, louder this time. “R’oy.”

There’s a beat of silence so complete it feels intentional.

Roy looks at you slowly. “Did he just—”

You nod, stunned. “I think he did.”

Roy’s jaw tightens. He looks back down at your son like he’s trying to decide if this is real or if he’s hallucinating from dehydration.

Your son beams, encouraged by the attention.

“Roy!” he says again, sharper now, proud of himself.

Roy swears under his breath.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, hand flying to your mouth. “I’m so sorry—he’s just been picking up words and—”

Roy crouches without thinking.

It’s instinctive. Immediate. He drops to one knee so they’re eye level, forearms resting on his thighs, posture steady and grounded.

“You saying my name,” Roy asks carefully.

Your son nods like this is obvious.

“Roy,” he repeats, softer now, experimental.

Roy swallows.

Something in his expression shifts—not into a smile, exactly, but into something rawer. Like a door cracked open where there wasn’t one before.

“That’s… yeah,” Roy mutters. “That’s me.”

Your son leans forward and pats Roy’s knee, satisfied.

Roy goes very still.

From the hallway, Keeley appears like she’s been summoned by the universe’s sense of timing.

“What’s going on—” she starts, then stops dead. “Oh. Oh my GOD.”

Roy doesn’t look at her. “Don’t.”

Your son looks between them, intrigued. “Roy.”

Keeley claps a hand over her mouth. “He said it. He SAID IT.”

Roy finally looks up, glare locked and loaded. “You say one word and I will end you.”

Keeley’s eyes are shining. “He learned your name before mine.”

“Good,” Roy says gruffly. “Yours is long.”

You’re still frozen, heart pounding, something warm and frightening spreading through your chest. You’ve been careful—so careful—about not letting your son attach too deeply to anyone who might disappear.

And yet.

Here he is.

Roy straightens slowly, clearing his throat. “He, uh. He hears it a lot.”

“He does,” you say faintly. “But he doesn’t usually… repeat names.”

Roy nods like this is important information. “Right.”

Your son chooses that moment to try standing again. He pushes himself up using Roy’s knee as leverage, wobbling dangerously.

Roy’s hands shoot out instantly, catching him before he can tip.

“Oi,” Roy says sharply. “Careful.”

Your son giggles, delighted by the contact.

Roy steadies him, big hands gentle and precise, holding him upright until his legs give out and he sinks back down again.

“There,” Roy mutters. “You’ve got to plant your feet.”

You watch the interaction with something like awe. Roy is focused, intense, like this is a drill he takes personally. Like your son’s balance is a problem he intends to solve.

“Roy,” your son says again, quieter, content.

Roy exhales, long and slow.

“Yeah, mate,” he says, voice low. “I’m here.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t trust yourself to.

But something settles, deep and undeniable.

This isn’t a phase.

It’s the beginning of a pattern.

---------

Training days are loud in a way that feels intentional.

Whistles. Boots scraping against grass. Ted’s voice carrying across the pitch with its easy encouragement, Beard’s quieter corrections threading through it like punctuation. There’s a rhythm to it all—movement and pause and movement again—that you’ve come to recognize even if you don’t fully understand the drills themselves.

You’re meant to be back inside.

That’s what you told yourself when you stepped out onto the edge of the training pitch with your son bundled against your chest, his little jacket zipped crooked because he wouldn’t stop wriggling long enough for you to fix it. You just needed air. Five minutes. Enough to reset before the afternoon emails and calendar juggling and the kind of quiet efficiency your job demands.

The pitch feels different from the offices. Open. Alive.

Your son notices immediately.

He stiffens in your arms, craning his neck to see everything at once. The wide stretch of green. The players moving fast and purposeful. The sound of boots hitting the ball.

And then he sees Roy.

Roy is in the middle of a drill, barking something sharp at Jamie, arms cutting through the air as he gestures. He looks exactly as he should here—commanding, intense, wholly in his element. The Roy Kent the world knows.

Your son’s face lights up like he’s spotted something sacred.

“Roy,” he says, soft at first. Almost to himself.

You smile despite yourself. “Yeah. That’s Roy.”

The players jog past, resetting. Roy turns slightly, attention still on the drill, unaware.

Your son shifts in your arms, excitement bubbling up. He leans forward, hands gripping your jacket, breath quickening.

Then, with the full force of his tiny lungs, he shouts.

“ROY!”

The sound cuts through the pitch like a bell.

Clear. Loud. Unmistakable.

Everything stops.

Ted freezes mid-sentence, one hand still raised. Beard’s head snaps around. Jamie stumbles slightly, thrown off by the sudden interruption.

Roy stops dead.

For a half second, you think he might be angry. You brace automatically, heat rising up your neck, already forming an apology in your head.

Then Roy turns.

He scans the edge of the pitch. Finds you. Finds your son.

Your son waves.

Roy blinks.

Once. Twice.

Then something breaks open across his face—not a smile, exactly, but a startled softness that has no place on a training ground and doesn’t seem to care.

He lifts a hand.

Just a small wave. Subtle. Almost shy.

Your son gasps like this is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

“Roy!” he shouts again, triumphant now.

Ted bursts out laughing.

“Well,” he calls, clapping his hands together. “I believe we’ve got a new assistant coach in attendance.”

Jamie squints. “Is that a baby.”

Roy doesn’t look away from your son. “Yes.”

Jamie frowns. “Why’s he shouting your name.”

Roy’s mouth twitches. “Because I’m important.”

Keeley, who has appeared at the sideline like she always does, presses a hand to her chest. “Oh my GOD. He knows you.”

“He shouts at everyone,” Roy says automatically, but his voice lacks conviction.

Your son squirms, desperate to get down. You lower him carefully onto the grass, hands hovering just in case. He wobbles, steadies, then promptly sits down with a plop, utterly unconcerned.

A ball rolls loose from the drill, coming to a stop a few feet away.

Your son stares at it.

Then at Roy.

“Ba,” he says.

Roy exhales slowly, like a man preparing himself. He jogs over, picks up the ball, and crouches down in front of your son with the seriousness of someone entering negotiations.

“That’s a football,” Roy says.

Your son beams. “Ba!”

Roy nods. “Good. Now—” He places the ball gently in front of him. “Kick it.”

Your son immediately falls over.

Flat onto his bottom. No tears. Just surprise, followed by laughter.

Roy swears under his breath. “Right. Okay.”

“He’s still figuring out his balance,” you say gently, crouching beside them. “He’s not quite—”

“I know,” Roy cuts in, then softens. “I know.”

He steadies your son, hands firm but careful, guiding him back upright. “Feet first,” Roy mutters. “Plant ’em.”

Your son tries again. One foot lifts. The other buckles.

He topples sideways into Roy’s knee.

Roy catches him without thinking.

Your son laughs so hard he hiccups.

Roy closes his eyes briefly, like he’s recalibrating. “You’re meant to kick the ball. Not yourself.”

Your son pats Roy’s leg, delighted.

Ted watches from a distance, arms folded, smile quiet and knowing.

“That kid’s got heart,” Ted says.

Roy snorts. “He’s got no core strength.”

“He’s got time,” you say, smiling now, the earlier embarrassment long gone. “So do you.”

Roy glances up at you, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I suppose he does.”

Eventually, the whistle blows again. Training resumes. Roy stands, brushing grass from his knees.

He hesitates.

“You can stay,” he says gruffly. “If he’s… enjoying it.”

Your son shouts his name again, as if on cue.

Roy sighs. “Alright. But if he starts coaching, I’m drawing the line.”

You laugh, and this time you don’t try to stop yourself.

As Roy jogs back onto the pitch, he glances over his shoulder once more. Your son is still sitting in the grass, clapping every time Roy moves.

Roy straightens.

Plays harder.

And for the first time in a long while, you watch him and think—not with fear, not with caution, but with a growing, fragile certainty—that this might be something real.

Something steady.

Something that lasts.

----------

It becomes a routine without anyone officially agreeing to it.

You bring your son in on the days when childcare doesn’t line up or meetings run long or you just can’t justify the extra stress of juggling one more thing. People stop blinking at the sight of him toddling through the corridors with his little backpack bumping against his spine. Mae keeps a banana behind the desk “just in case.” Keeley buys him a tiny Richmond hoodie that’s two sizes too big and declares it fashion.

Roy pretends none of this is happening.

Roy is also the one who notices when your son’s shoes are on the wrong feet and crouches down to fix them without comment. He’s the one who moves chairs out of the way before the kid can trip. He’s the one who wordlessly positions himself between your son and anything sharp, heavy, or moving too fast.

You notice.

You don’t say anything.

The afternoon Roy decides to “properly” teach him football is one of those deceptively quiet ones. Training’s done. The pitch is empty except for the late sun stretching shadows across the grass. You’re meant to be finishing up emails, but your son has reached the point of the day where sitting still is an insult.

Roy appears in the doorway like he’s been thinking about this all day.

“Bring him,” he says.

You look up from your screen. “Bring him where.”

“The pitch.”

You hesitate. “Roy, he’s—”

“I know how old he is,” Roy interrupts, already grabbing a spare ball. “I’m not an idiot.”

That’s debatable, but you let it go.

Out on the grass, your son is immediately delighted. He toddles forward with determination, arms slightly out to the sides for balance, eyes fixed on Roy like he’s been promised something important.

Roy drops the ball at his feet.

“Right,” Roy says, hands on hips. “We’re starting simple.”

Your son stares at the ball.

Then he sits down.

Roy exhales slowly. “No. Up.”

Your son looks at him, puzzled, then pushes himself upright again with a grunt that sounds far too serious for someone so small.

“There you go,” Roy mutters. “Now. Kick.”

Your son lifts one foot.

He wobbles.

He falls over.

Roy closes his eyes.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “He’s really trying.”

“I can see that,” Roy says through his teeth. “But he’s got no stability.”

Roy crouches, steadying him again, adjusting his feet like he’s lining up a player before a free kick.

“Feet apart,” Roy instructs gently. “Balance.”

Your son listens with rapt attention.

Then he immediately lunges forward and hugs Roy’s knee.

Roy freezes.

“…That’s not what I meant,” he mutters.

Your son laughs, delighted, then pats Roy’s shin and says, proudly, “Roy.”

Roy swallows.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s me.”

He tries again.

They repeat the cycle—stand, wobble, fall—over and over. Roy’s frustration grows in increments, each one carefully contained. He never raises his voice. He never snaps. He just keeps resetting, recalibrating, like if he finds the right approach, he can make this work.

Finally, Roy sits back on his heels, staring at the grass.

“You’re strong,” Roy tells your son, like this is a revelation. “You just don’t know how to use it yet.”

You sit down nearby, cross-legged, watching the two of them. “That’s kind of how learning works.”

Roy huffs. “It’s inefficient.”

Your son crawls over to the ball instead, slapping it with both hands. It rolls an inch.

He beams like he’s scored the winning goal.

Roy’s shoulders sag.

Then, slowly, he starts laughing.

It surprises both of you.

It’s not loud. Not showy. Just a breath of sound pulled out of him before he can stop it.

“Alright,” Roy says, shaking his head. “Fine. We’ll work up to it.”

Your son crawls into Roy’s lap without asking, settling there like it’s the most natural place in the world.

Roy stiffens for exactly half a second.

Then his hand comes up, steady and sure, resting between your son’s shoulder blades.

You watch them, something warm and unfamiliar blooming in your chest. This isn’t a moment you planned for. It’s not something you asked for.

It’s just… happening.

Later, as you pack up to go, Roy hands you the ball.

“Take it,” he says.

You blink. “Roy, that’s yours.”

He shrugs. “I’ve got loads.”

You hesitate. “Thank you.”

Roy nods, then pauses, glancing at your son, who is busy chewing on the rabbit’s ear again.

“He’ll get there,” Roy says gruffly. “On his feet.”

You meet his gaze. “I know.”

Roy hesitates, then adds, quieter, “So will you.”

You don’t answer right away.

But you smile.

And when your son shouts “ROY!” one more time as you leave, Roy lifts a hand in response without even looking back, like it’s already muscle memory.

Like this—whatever it is—has already settled into place.

----------

By the time autumn settles properly over Richmond, no one asks why your son is there anymore.

He just is.

His little coat hangs on the same hook every time you come in. His name—written in your handwriting—has been added to the whiteboard in the admin office under On Site Today, half as a joke, half as a fact. Mae keeps wipes in her drawer now. Ted brings over his morning tea and crouches to your son’s level every single time, greeting him like an equal.

Roy pretends he hasn’t noticed any of it.

Roy is also the one who notices when your son starts getting fussy around half three, like clockwork. The one who times his own breaks to coincide, who appears in your doorway with a muttered, “Come on, then,” already reaching for the spare hoodie you keep draped over the chair.

You follow him outside one afternoon without thinking twice.

The pitch is empty again, grass darkened with recent rain, the air sharp and clean. Roy sets your son down carefully, boots planted wide, ready to catch him if he topples.

Your son toddles forward three steps.

Then four.

Then five.

He wobbles violently, arms windmilling, determination written all over his face.

You suck in a breath.

Roy drops to a crouch, hands out, voice steady. “That’s it. Keep going.”

Your son falls—forward this time—straight into Roy’s chest.

Roy catches him, solid and unyielding, and your son squeals with laughter, utterly unbothered by gravity or consequence.

Roy exhales, something like relief passing through him.

“He’s getting stronger,” you say quietly.

Roy nods. “Yeah.”

You watch him hold your son, the way his hands are sure now, practiced. The way your son reaches for him without hesitation, fingers curling into Roy’s shirt like that’s where safety lives.

It should scare you.

It does scare you.

But it also feels like standing in sunlight after a long winter—too bright at first, almost painful, but impossible to deny.

Later that week, Keeley corners you in the hallway, eyes sparkling.

“So,” she says, drawing the word out. “You and Roy.”

You nearly drop the file you’re holding. “What about us.”

Keeley grins. “Oh my God, you don’t even know you’re doing it.”

“Doing what,” you ask weakly.

“Co-parenting,” Keeley says brightly. “Emotionally. Practically. Vibes-wise.”

You flush. “We’re not—he’s just… he’s kind.”

Keeley softens, just a touch. “Yeah. He is.”

Across the room, Roy is kneeling, tying your son’s laces with fierce concentration. He doesn’t look up, but you know he hears.

Roy is aware of more than he lets on.

That night, when you’re packing up to leave, your son overtired and warm against your shoulder, Roy walks you out without being asked. He stops beside your car, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

“You need help tomorrow,” he says. Not a question.

You hesitate. Old habits die hard. “I can manage.”

Roy looks at you. Really looks.

“I know,” he says. “But you don’t have to.”

Your throat tightens.

“…Okay,” you say.

Roy nods, satisfied. “Good.”

He hesitates, then reaches out, tugging your son’s hat down properly over his ears. Gentle. Careful.

“See you tomorrow, mate,” Roy murmurs.

Your son stirs, eyes half-opening. He smiles.

“Roy,” he says, sleepy and certain.

Roy’s mouth softens. “Yeah.”

You drive home with your heart full and frightened and hopeful all at once.

Weeks pass.

Then months.

Your son learns to kick properly—just once, just barely, the ball rolling forward like it’s a miracle. Roy celebrates like he’s won a cup. Ted films it. Rebecca watches from the window, expression unreadable and fond.

Somewhere along the way, Roy starts eating dinner at your flat on Wednesdays. Somewhere else along the way, your son starts falling asleep on Roy’s chest without question. Somewhere else again, you stop flinching when Roy reaches for either of you.

You don’t mark the moment it becomes a family.

You just wake up one morning and realize you’re no longer doing this alone.

Roy never says it outright.

But one evening, as he’s carrying your sleeping son to bed, moving through your flat like he belongs there, he pauses at the doorway and looks back at you.

“You know,” he says gruffly, “I’m not going anywhere.”

You swallow, nodding. “I know.”

Summary: A quiet, slow-burn Roy Kent fic about showing up, staying put, and loving someone through hospitals, healing, and hope—ending with remission, a roaring crowd, and Roy playing like there’s something worth fighting for.

The corridors of St. Jude’s don’t smell like hospitals on television.

They don’t smell like dramatic, sterile inevitability—like bleach and beeping machines and tragedy edited down into something digestible.

They smell like lemon-scented disinfectant and children’s shampoo and the cheap, burnt coffee that lives forever in waiting rooms. They smell like someone trying. Like someone insisting this place be more than what it has to be.

Roy Kent hates it immediately.

He hates the way his trainers used to smell like this when he was fifteen and limping home with a knee wrapped too tight. He hates how his stomach turns like it remembers before he does. He hates the posters on the walls with cartoon organs wearing sunglasses. He hates the fact that the posters work, because a little kid in a wheelchair just laughed at a liver in a top hat and now Roy’s chest feels like it’s doing something embarrassing.

He’s standing by the main entrance, hands shoved into his coat pockets, jaw set like he could bite through steel, while Ted Lasso bounces on the balls of his feet beside him with the bright, irrepressible energy of a man who thinks he can charm fluorescent lighting into being warmer.

“Okay,” Ted says, clapping his hands once like they’re about to run drills. “Team Richmond Community Care Day. We’re gonna go in, we’re gonna say hello, we’re gonna—”

Roy turns his head slowly. “If you say ‘we’re gonna make a difference’ I’m leaving.”

Ted’s smile doesn’t falter. “I was gonna say we’re gonna listen more than we talk.”

Roy grunts, suspicious.

Beard is there too, of course, big and steady and wearing his serious face like he’s bracing himself for Roy’s mood to ricochet off the walls. Keeley is a whirlwind in a Richmond jacket that’s definitely custom and definitely cost more than Roy’s first car, hair perfect, eyes already scanning for the shy kid in the corner who’ll need someone to crouch down and meet them where they are.

Rebecca arrives last, composed as ever, heels clicking, expression soft in a way Roy rarely sees outside the stadium after a win.

“You’re late,” Roy mutters before he can stop himself.

Rebecca’s mouth twitches. “I’m sorry my charitable commitments weren’t scheduled around your constant rage, Roy.”

He huffs. Ted looks delighted, like someone just handed him a biscuit shaped like friendship.

A nurse meets them at the door. She’s kind-eyed, tired in that practiced way, hair pulled back tight, badge dangling with a little football charm on it. She looks at Ted, then Rebecca, then Keeley, then Beard. She gets to Roy and pauses for half a second longer.

“Roy Kent,” she says, not a question.

Roy’s shoulders tighten. “Yeah.”

Her smile is small but real. “My nephew’s obsessed with you.”

Roy has no idea what to do with that information, so he does what he always does when he’s unsure: he frowns harder.

The nurse doesn’t seem bothered. “Thank you for coming. We’ve got an activity room where most of the kids will be, and a few rooms for patients who can’t come down. If you’re all right with it, we’ll start with the group and then split up.”

Ted nods. “Sounds perfect, ma’am. Lead the way.”

Roy follows, and he tells himself he’s only here because Ted asked him. Because it’s part of the club’s community obligations. Because Rebecca is watching and he’s not going to be the one who makes this harder.

He tells himself all of this right up until they pass a wall display full of children’s drawings—stick figures in Richmond kits, a wonky lion, a football the size of someone’s head—and something in his throat goes tight, sharp and unexpected.

He doesn’t speak.

He just walks.

The activity room is bright. Too bright. Sunlight spilling through tall windows, cheap plastic chairs, beanbags, tables with crayons and paper and those little pots of glue that never really wash off your hands. Kids are everywhere in different kinds of okay—some laughing, some quiet, some wearing masks, some with tubes, some with that distinct stillness of children who have learned patience far too early.

They look up when the doors open.

There’s a ripple through the room like a breeze moving over grass.

“Ted Lasso!” one kid squeals, and Ted goes immediately soft around the edges, hands out like he’s greeting a puppy.

Keeley is instantly surrounded. She drops to her knees without hesitation, asking names, complimenting trainers, making a big deal out of a glittery sticker like it’s a medal.

Rebecca moves more carefully, but she moves. She sits with a girl in a headscarf and listens like it matters.

Beard finds a kid wearing a Richmond scarf and gets into a serious discussion about whether goalkeepers are secretly the most important players on the pitch.

Roy stands just inside the doorway, arms crossed, scanning the room like he’s assessing threats. He can feel eyes on him. A few kids stare. A few whisper. One older boy—thirteen maybe, all angles and suspicion—doesn’t look impressed at all.

Then a small voice, blunt as a thrown stone, cuts through.

“You’re shorter in real life.”

Roy turns.

It’s a boy in a wheelchair, maybe ten, hair buzzed down to nothing, face pale but eyes sharp and bright. There’s a Richmond kit on him that looks slightly too big, the sleeves swallowing his wrists.

Roy stares back. “I’m not.”

The boy shrugs, unimpressed. “On telly you look like you could punch a wall in half.”

Roy feels his mouth twitch despite himself. “I can.”

The boy’s eyebrows lift. “Do it.”

Roy snorts. “No.”

The boy looks him up and down, like he’s measuring Roy’s honesty the way adults measure blood pressure. “My physio says I’m not allowed to punch walls.”

“Your physio’s right,” Roy says, then adds, because he’s not an idiot, “walls punch back.”

That gets a small, surprised laugh out of the boy.

Roy moves closer without fully deciding to. He stops beside the wheelchair, hands still in his pockets. “What’s your name?”

The boy doesn’t answer immediately. His chin lifts a fraction. “Finn.”

Roy nods once. “Right. Finn. What’re you doing in here instead of… wherever kids are supposed to be.”

Finn’s expression hardens for a second, quick and practiced. “Here.”

Roy hates the way his own chest reacts—like it wants to protect something it has no right to. “Fair enough,” he says, voice rougher than he means. “You like football?”

Finn stares at him like Roy has just asked if he likes breathing. “Obviously.”

“What position?”

Finn’s eyes flash. “Striker.”

Roy almost smiles. Almost. “Of course you are.”

Finn leans forward, conspiratorial. “What’s the worst injury you’ve ever had?”

Roy’s mouth flattens. He considers lying. He considers softening it. He looks at Finn’s face and realizes the kid will hate him for either.

So Roy tells the truth.

“Knee,” he says. “And it never stops hurting. You just… learn how to live with it.”

Finn studies him, quiet for a moment. Then, like it’s a test, he says, “Does it scare you.”

Roy’s throat tightens. He swallows it down. “It did.”

Finn nods like that’s enough, like honesty is currency and Roy just paid the entry fee.

They talk for a while—football, injuries, how stupid referees are, how midfielders run too much for no reason. Roy answers questions. He doesn’t perform. He doesn’t pretend. He just… is.

And Finn—Finn glows with it. Not in a cheesy way. In a real way, like someone turned the volume down on his fear for five minutes.

Roy is in the middle of telling Finn that being angry all the time doesn’t actually make you strong, it just makes you tired, when a nurse appears at Roy’s shoulder.

“Roy?” she says softly. “Sorry. There’s a patient upstairs who can’t come down. He’s a big Richmond fan. He asked… specifically… if you could stop by.”

Roy’s first instinct is to say no. Not because he doesn’t care. Because he does, and caring feels like stepping onto thin ice with bare feet.

Ted’s voice floats over from across the room, gentle. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Roy.”

Roy’s jaw clenches. He looks at Finn. Finn’s expression is unreadable now, like he’s bracing for disappointment as a reflex.

Roy hates that.

He exhales through his nose. “Fine,” he grumbles. “Show me.”

The upstairs corridor is quieter. The kind of quiet that holds its breath. The nurse walks quickly but not rushed, like she’s practiced moving efficiently without making it feel urgent.

She stops outside a door. “Room 312,” she says. “His name is Milo.”

Roy nods once. He lifts a hand like he’s going to knock, hesitates, then knocks anyway—two short raps that sound too loud in the hallway.

“Come in,” a voice calls.

Roy opens the door.

The room is dim, curtains half-drawn. There’s a bed, machines, a rolling table with untouched food. A boy lies propped up against pillows, thin and small under the blanket. His hair is gone. His eyes are huge in his face.

He looks at Roy for half a second.

Then his mouth drops open. “No fucking way.”

Roy blinks. “Watch your language.”

Milo grins, delighted. “Sorry. No fucking way.”

Roy’s mouth tightens. He’s trying very hard not to smile. “You’re Milo.”

Milo nods quickly. He looks like he’s vibrating with excitement and exhaustion at the same time. “You’re Roy Kent.”

“Yeah.”

Milo stares. “You’re real.”

Roy glances around the room, uncomfortable. “I’m not a ghost, mate.”

Milo laughs, then coughs. The laugh turns into something that makes Roy’s stomach flip. Milo waves a hand dismissively, like his body betraying him is just inconvenient.

Roy steps closer, careful. There’s a chair beside the bed. He doesn’t sit right away. “Heard you wanted to see me.”

Milo nods, then frowns. “I thought you’d be meaner.”

Roy’s eyebrows lift. “I can be.”

Milo squints. “Do it.”

Roy sighs. “No.”

Milo looks vaguely offended. “Why not.”

Roy stares at him, blunt. “Because you’re in a hospital bed.”

Milo pauses. Then his grin returns, slow and smug. “So you’re nice.”

Roy’s throat tightens. He shifts his weight. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Milo’s eyes flick past Roy’s shoulder, toward the corner of the room.

Roy turns.

You’re there.

You’re sitting in the chair by the window, half-hidden in shadow, shoulders slightly hunched like you’re trying to take up less space. There’s a tote bag at your feet, overstuffed with the kind of things people bring when they don’t know what to do with their hands—snacks, a book, maybe a spare hoodie. Your hair is pulled back in a messy knot that looks like it gave up hours ago. Your face is tired in a way that’s not about sleep. Your eyes are sharp, though. Watching. Tracking.

You meet Roy’s gaze without flinching.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then you stand, not quickly, not dramatically. Just… politely. Like Roy is a guest in your brother’s room and you’ve been raised to offer courtesy even when your world is on fire.

“Hi,” you say. Your voice is quiet but steady. “I’m—”

“His sister,” Milo says immediately, because of course he does. “She’s bossy.”

You tilt your head, deadpan. “I’m keeping you alive. That comes with a tone.”

Roy’s mouth twitches again. He clears his throat, awkward. “Roy.”

“I know,” you say, and there’s no fangirling in it. No breathless awe. Just fact. “Milo talks about Richmond like it’s a religion.”

Milo points at Roy triumphantly. “See? Told you.”

Roy looks back at Milo. “You swear a lot.”

Milo’s eyes sparkle. “It’s from her.”

You point at Milo now. “He learned it from the internet.”

Roy grunts like that explanation is worse.

The air in the room shifts. It’s warmer now, somehow. Not because the situation is less awful. Because there’s a rhythm to the conversation that feels… normal. Like you and Milo have fought hard to keep normal alive in here, even if it’s held together with sarcasm and stubbornness.

Roy gestures vaguely at the chair. “Can I sit?”

You nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

Roy sits down, carefully, like he’s afraid the chair will collapse under the weight of what this room holds. He looks at Milo. “So. You’re a Richmond fan.”

Milo nods. “I’ve watched every match since Ted came.”

Roy’s eyebrows lift. “Since Ted.”

Milo’s face goes serious for a second. “He makes it feel like… you don’t have to be perfect to be worth something.”

Roy’s chest tightens again. He doesn’t look at you, but he can feel your gaze flicker—quick, appreciative, like Milo just said something you’ve been trying to put into words for months.

Roy swallows. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “That’s his whole thing.”

Milo’s eyes narrow. “And you?”

Roy’s brows knit. “What about me.”

Milo stares at him like he’s reading something between the lines. “You act like you don’t care, but you do.”

Roy’s stomach drops, irritated and impressed. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Milo shrugs. “Finn says you’re honest.”

Roy’s head snaps slightly. “Finn?”

Milo grins, wicked. “Finn’s my friend. He’s downstairs. He’s gonna be so jealous.”

Roy exhales, something like a laugh. He looks at you without meaning to.

You’re watching him differently now. Not with awe. With recognition. Like you see the shape of him more clearly than most people do.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, and it lands like a hand on his shoulder. “For coming up here.”

Roy shifts, uncomfortable. “It’s nothing.”

Your mouth quirks, just a little. “It’s not nothing.”

Roy doesn’t know what to say to that, so he does what he does best. He changes the subject like it’s a defensive formation.

“What do you do,” he asks you, then immediately regrets it because it’s none of his business and he sounds like a bloke trying to make small talk at a funeral.

You don’t seem offended. You glance at Milo, then back at Roy. “I used to work at a café,” you say. “Then… this happened.”

The way you say it—this—like it’s a weather event you couldn’t predict and couldn’t outrun—makes Roy’s jaw clench.

Milo rolls his eyes. “She’s being humble. She basically lives here.”

You give Milo a look. “I do not live here.”

Milo smirks. “You’ve got a toothbrush in the bathroom.”

You sigh, caught. “Fine.”

Roy’s chest does something unpleasant. He looks at the tote bag, the messy hair, the tired eyes, the steadiness holding everything together. He’s seen this kind of person before. Not in tabloids. Not on television. In real life. The ones who don’t get applause. The ones who just keep going because stopping isn’t an option.

Milo shifts, wincing slightly, and you’re on your feet instantly, hands gentle, adjusting his blanket, checking his face, scanning like a medic.

Roy watches you do it. The competence. The quiet.

You catch Roy looking and, for a moment, something flickers across your expression—self-conscious, almost. Like you hate being seen in the middle of your own endurance.

Roy clears his throat. “He’s lucky,” he says gruffly.

You freeze for half a second, then your shoulders drop just a fraction. “Yeah,” you say softly. “He is.”

Milo looks between the two of you, suspiciously pleased. “Are you flirting.”

Roy’s head jerks. “No.”

You blink, startled, then laugh—a short, surprised sound that immediately turns into something tight around the edges, like laughter is a luxury you don’t always trust.

“Absolutely not,” you say, recovering. “Roy Kent doesn’t flirt. Roy Kent growls.”

Roy glares at Milo. “Stop winding her up.”

Milo’s grin is bright and fierce. “I like you.”

Roy looks at him, and something in his throat burns. He nods once, rough. “Yeah. You’re alright.”

Milo’s eyelids are getting heavy. The excitement is fading into fatigue. His hand shifts under the blanket like he’s reaching for something.

You take it immediately, fingers lacing with his without thinking.

Roy watches that too.

Milo mumbles, “Stay till I fall asleep.”

You lean in, forehead almost touching his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Milo’s eyes flick to Roy. “Make him stay too.”

Roy stiffens. “What.”

Milo’s voice is slurred with tiredness now, but the grin is still there. “So he can… tell Finn I met him.”

Roy looks at you like he’s asking permission without knowing how. Like he doesn’t want to intrude. Like he’s terrified of leaving for reasons he refuses to name.

You nod once, small. “If you’ve got time.”

Roy huffs, but it’s softer than his usual huff. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Fine.”

So Roy stays.

He sits in that chair while a boy with too-large eyes drifts to sleep. He listens to the machines. He watches you watch Milo like your whole body is a shield.

He doesn’t talk much.

Neither do you.

But when Milo finally falls asleep, breathing steady, the room loosens a fraction, like it’s been holding its breath too.

You exhale carefully. You look at Roy. “He’s going to brag about this for the rest of his life,” you whisper.

Roy’s mouth twitches. “Good.”

You hesitate, then quietly pick up the empty cup on the table and move it aside, tidying without realizing you’re doing it. Your hands shake slightly when you think no one’s looking.

Roy sees it anyway.

“You eat today?” Roy asks, blunt.

Your eyes flick to him, startled. You open your mouth, probably to lie, because people like you always lie about that.

Roy’s stare holds you there. Unforgiving. Not cruel. Just… insisting.

You swallow. “Not really.”

Roy nods once, like he expected it. Like he’s furious on your behalf and doesn’t know where to put it.

“I’ll get you something,” he says, already standing.

You blink. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Roy cuts in, gruff. He looks at Milo, asleep. He looks at you, tired and upright through sheer will. “That’s why I’m doing it.”

You stare at him for a second, like you don’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t make you beg.

Then, very quietly, you say, “Okay.”

Roy nods once and leaves the room.

In the hallway, his chest feels tight and wrong and full. He walks faster than he needs to, like movement will burn the feeling off.

It doesn’t.

On his way back, he passes Ted at the nurses’ station, chatting with three staff members like they’re old friends. Ted’s eyes flick to Roy’s hands—two protein bars and a bottle of water from the vending machine, plus a packet of those terrible cheese crackers that Roy grabbed because he remembered his niece likes them and his brain apparently thinks all small people eat the same.

Ted’s eyebrows lift, gentle.

Roy scowls. “Don’t.”

Ted’s smile turns soft. “Okay.”

Roy turns away before Ted can say anything that might make him feel something inconvenient.

He goes back into room 312.

You look up when he enters, like you’d been listening for his footsteps despite yourself. Roy holds out the food awkwardly, like it’s a weapon he doesn’t know how to use.

You take it carefully, like accepting kindness is a fragile thing.

“Thanks,” you whisper.

Roy shrugs. “Eat.”

You snort softly under your breath, a tiny sound. “Yes, coach.”

Roy’s mouth twitches again, more noticeable this time.

You peel open the crackers. Your hands are steadier now that they’re doing something. You take a bite, and the way your shoulders relax just slightly makes Roy feel something fierce and satisfied and unsettling.

After a moment, you say, very quietly, “Most people come in here and they—” You gesture vaguely, searching for the word. “They do pity.”

Roy’s jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

You look down at the crackers, voice low. “Milo hates pity.”

Roy nods once. “So do I.”

You glance up at him then, and there’s something in your eyes—tired recognition, gratitude, a kind of cautious hope that doesn’t trust itself yet.

“Thank you,” you say again, softer.

Roy shifts, uncomfortable, because this is the part he never learned how to handle. The part where someone sees him doing something decent and tries to name it.

He clears his throat. “Don’t make it weird.”

Your mouth quirks. “Roy Kent doesn’t do weird. Roy Kent does growling.”

Roy glares. “Alright.”

You bite your lip like you’re trying not to smile too hard, like smiling in here feels dangerous because it makes the world feel briefly normal and normal is something you’re afraid to lose.

Roy’s chest tightens again.

He looks at Milo, asleep, then back at you.

“What’s your name,” he asks, voice rough.

You blink, then answer, simple. “Y/N.”

Roy nods like he’s filing it away somewhere important without wanting to admit it.

“Right,” he mutters. “Y/N.”

Your eyes soften. “Right.”

And for a moment, in the dim hush of a hospital room, with a boy finally resting and the world held at bay by quiet stubbornness, Roy Kent feels something shift into place—small, solid, inevitable.

Not a whirlwind.

Not a fairy tale.

Just the beginning of a pattern.

Roy showing up.

You letting him.

----------

Roy comes back two days later.

He tells himself it’s because Ted asked for feedback on the visit. Because Beard mentioned something about scheduling another one. Because Rebecca likes follow-through and Roy is nothing if not professional.

He tells himself a lot of things.

What he does not tell himself is that he woke up that morning thinking about the way your hands shook when you thought no one was watching, or the way Milo had looked at him like Roy was something solid in a room full of uncertainty. He does not tell himself that he’d checked the fixture list, done the math in his head, and realized he had the afternoon free.

He definitely does not tell himself that he hopes you’re there.

The nurse at the desk recognizes him immediately this time. Her eyebrows lift, amused. “Back already?”

Roy scowls. “Is that a problem.”

She smiles. “Room 312. Visiting hours technically ended ten minutes ago, but I didn’t see anything.”

Roy grunts something that might be thanks and heads down the corridor before he can overthink it.

The door to Milo’s room is half-open.

You’re inside, sitting cross-legged on the chair this time, shoes kicked off, Milo propped up against pillows with a tablet balanced precariously on his knees. He’s scowling at the screen like it personally offended him.

“That’s not offside,” Milo snaps.

“It absolutely is,” you say, leaning in. “Look at his foot.”

Milo scoffs. “You don’t understand football.”

Roy clears his throat.

Both of you look up.

Milo’s face lights up so fast it almost hurts to see. “Holy shit.”

“Language,” you say automatically, then freeze when you realize who’s standing there. Your eyes widen a fraction. “Oh—hi.”

Roy nods. “Alright.”

Milo drops the tablet like it no longer matters. “You came back.”

Roy shifts his weight, uncomfortable with how much that matters. “Yeah.”

You stand, smoothing your shirt like you’ve just remembered you’re a person who exists outside this room. “We didn’t know you were coming.”

Roy shrugs. “I was nearby.”

It’s a terrible lie. The worst kind. You don’t call him on it.

Milo squints. “You don’t live near here.”

Roy glares. “You interrogate everyone this much?”

“Yes,” Milo says cheerfully. “It’s how I know when people are lying.”

Roy exhales through his nose. “Brilliant.”

You smile, small and tired and real. “Do you want to sit?”

Roy does. Same chair. Same careful way of lowering himself like he might break something invisible.

Milo launches immediately into explaining the injustice of referees, of football video games, of life in general. Roy listens. He doesn’t check his phone. He doesn’t rush. He corrects Milo once or twice, gently, and Milo accepts it like it’s gospel.

You watch them, quiet.

At one point, Milo yawns so hard his whole face scrunches up, and you’re instantly there, adjusting pillows, tugging the blanket higher, brushing your thumb across his forehead like muscle memory.

Roy’s chest tightens again. It keeps doing that around you. It’s irritating.

Milo blinks at Roy, suddenly serious. “You gonna come again?”

Roy hesitates.

You don’t look at him. You keep your eyes on Milo, like you’re giving Roy an out without making it obvious.

“Yeah,” Roy says finally, gruff. “If you want.”

Milo’s smile is slow and satisfied. “Good.”

He falls asleep not long after, exhaustion claiming him in waves. You sit back down, quieter now, like the room itself has shifted into something sacred.

Roy stays anyway.

Minutes pass. Then more.

Outside the window, the light fades.

You’re the one who breaks the silence. “You don’t have to keep coming.”

Roy stiffens. “I know.”

You nod, accepting that. “I just didn’t want you to feel… obligated.”

Roy looks at Milo. At you. At the room that smells faintly of lemon and plastic and survival.

“I don’t,” he says. Then, after a beat, “Feel obligated.”

You glance at him then, searching. Whatever you find seems to settle you, just a little.

“Okay,” you say softly.

There’s a pause. The kind that invites honesty if you’re brave enough.

“I don’t usually let people in here,” you admit. “Not for long. They come, they say the right things, and then they leave. Milo notices.”

Roy’s jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

“He pretends he doesn’t care,” you continue. “But he does.”

Roy’s voice is rough. “Course he does.”

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “I’m just… careful.”

Roy nods once. “Good.”

You look up, surprised. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Means you’re paying attention.”

Your mouth curves into something almost-smiling. “You always this encouraging?”

Roy snorts. “Don’t push it.”

The quiet settles again, but it’s different now. Less tense. Like you’ve acknowledged the shape of the thing without naming it.

When Roy stands to leave, it feels heavier than it should.

“I’ll see you,” he says, then stops because that’s vague and stupid. He clears his throat. “I mean. If that’s alright.”

You nod, immediately. “Yeah. It’s alright.”

He hesitates at the door. Looks back once more at Milo, asleep and peaceful in a way that feels hard-won.

Then he leaves.

After that, Roy comes back regularly enough that no one comments on it anymore.

Sometimes it’s after training. Sometimes it’s on days off. Sometimes he just drops by for ten minutes, stands awkwardly in the doorway, and leaves Milo a packet of crisps he smuggled past the nurse.

You start expecting him without letting yourself rely on it.

You don’t text. You don’t exchange numbers. There’s an unspoken understanding that this place—this room—is its own world, and whatever is growing here has to move at its own pace.

Roy learns the rhythms of Milo’s good days and bad ones. He learns which jokes land when Milo’s nauseous and which days silence is better. He learns that Milo hates being told he’s brave but likes being told he’s stubborn.

Roy also learns you.

He learns that you don’t ask for help even when you need it. That you drink terrible coffee because it’s there, not because you like it. That you apologize when people bump into you, even when it’s clearly not your fault.

He learns the way your shoulders tighten when doctors linger too long, the way you stand straighter when Milo’s scared, the way you finally sit when he’s asleep like your body’s been holding itself together with willpower alone.

One evening, Roy finds you in the corridor outside the room, back against the wall, phone pressed to your ear, voice low and tight.

“I understand that,” you’re saying. “I do. But we’ve already submitted the paperwork. Yes. Yes, I know. I’m saying the delay is on your end.”

There’s a pause. Your jaw clenches.

“No,” you say, sharper now. “You don’t get to tell me to be patient. He’s a child.”

Roy stops a few steps away, instantly alert.

You exhale hard through your nose, forcing your voice back down. “Fine. Thank you.”

You end the call and just stand there for a second, eyes closed.

Roy doesn’t pretend he didn’t hear. “Who was that.”

You open your eyes. “Insurance.”

Roy’s hands curl into fists. “Bastards.”

You huff a humorless laugh. “That’s one word for it.”

“You alright.”

It’s not a question.

You hesitate, then shrug. “I will be.”

Roy studies you for a moment. Then he says, “You shouldn’t have to be.”

Something in your expression cracks—not enough to break, just enough to let the truth show through.

“Someone has to,” you say quietly.

Roy’s voice is low. “Yeah. But not alone.”

You look at him then. Really look. At the way he stands like he’s braced against the world. At the anger he carries like a shield. At the care threaded through it all, fierce and unshowy.

You swallow. “I don’t know how to… let someone do that.”

Roy nods, like he understands exactly. “I do.”

There’s a moment—brief, charged—where it feels like something could tip one way or another.

Then Milo coughs from inside the room, and the spell breaks.

You both move at the same time.

Later, when Milo is asleep and the machines hum steady, you sit beside Roy on the windowsill instead of across the room. It’s closer than usual. Not touching. Almost.

“Why do you come,” you ask quietly, not accusing. Just curious.

Roy stares out at the darkening sky. “Because he asked.”

You consider that. “And me?”

Roy’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t look at you. “Because you don’t.”

Your breath catches, sharp and silent.

“Oh,” you say.

Roy risks a glance. Your eyes are bright in the low light, something soft and dangerous flickering there.

“Roy,” you begin.

He cuts in, gruff and panicked. “I’m not— I’m not saying anything. Don’t make it into something.”

You smile faintly, sadly. “I wasn’t going to.”

Silence again. But this one is thick. Acknowledged.

When Roy leaves that night, he pauses at the door.

“Y/N.”

You look up.

“You eat today?”

You laugh softly, because of course he asks that. “Yes.”

Roy narrows his eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

You sigh. “I had a sandwich.”

He nods, satisfied. “Good.”

And then, because he’s Roy Kent and vulnerability is something he approaches like a dangerous tackle, he adds, “I’ll be back Thursday.”

Your chest warms in a way you don’t quite trust yet.

“Okay,” you say.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe him.

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

The word remission does not sound real when the doctor says it.

It sounds like a placeholder. Like a word that belongs to other people. Like something that lives in pamphlets and hopeful statistics and stories you don’t let yourself believe because believing feels dangerous.

You’re sitting in the same chair you’ve sat in for months, hands folded so tightly in your lap your fingers ache, Roy beside you this time because somewhere along the way he stopped asking and you stopped pretending you didn’t want him there.

Milo is swinging his legs, impatient, pretending he doesn’t care. He’s grown in the last year—taller, broader in the shoulders, hair finally thick again. He looks like a kid instead of a patient, and the sight of it still startles you sometimes.

The doctor clears her throat, smiles.

“There is no evidence of disease,” she says. “Your scans are clear. Your bloodwork looks excellent. We’re calling it remission.”

Silence.

Your brain refuses to cooperate. It stalls, skids, reaches for something familiar like fear or preparation or the next fight.

Milo blinks. “So… I’m done?”

The doctor nods. “You’re done.”

Milo’s face does something strange—like it forgets how to hold itself together. His mouth opens. Closes. He looks at you.

“Y/N?” he asks, voice small. “She means it, right?”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t. Your vision has gone watery, the room tilting like you’ve just stepped off something very high.

Roy’s hand closes over yours.

It’s solid. Warm. Real.

“She means it,” Roy says, voice rough but steady. “You did it, mate.”

That’s when Milo breaks.

He laughs, loud and bright and disbelieving, and then he’s crying, and then you’re crying too, clutching him to your chest like you might still lose him if you let go. Roy’s arms come around both of you, broad and unyielding, like he’s holding the world in place.

You don’t remember leaving the office.

You remember the bell.

You remember Milo ringing it hard, over and over, the sound echoing down the corridor, nurses clapping, someone cheering. You remember burying your face in Roy’s shoulder afterward and shaking with something that feels like grief and joy and relief all tangled together, your body finally letting go of a weight it’s carried for so long it forgot what life was like without it.

Roy doesn’t say much.

He doesn’t need to.

He just stays.

Life does not magically become easy after that.

But it becomes possible.

Milo goes back to school. Slowly at first. Then faster. He complains about homework like it’s a personal insult. He eats everything in sight. He argues with Roy about football tactics like he’s forgotten there was ever a time when he couldn’t.

You go back to work. Not the same café—something better. Something you chose because you can choose again now.

Roy is… Roy.

Still gruff. Still swearing. Still allergic to unnecessary emotional displays. But somewhere in the middle of hospital corridors and late nights and shared silences, he became yours.

Not loudly. Not all at once.

It happened in the small things.

In the way he started keeping spare food in his flat because he learned you forget to eat when you’re tired.

In the way you stopped flinching when your phone rang.

In the way Milo started calling Roy “family” without checking first.

Roy never says I love you easily. When he does, it’s quiet and blunt and said like a fact, not a promise he’s afraid might break.

And you believe him.

The match is packed.

Nelson Road hums with noise and color and anticipation, the air sharp with cold and fried food and the electric buzz of thousands of voices layered on top of each other.

You’re sitting in the stands with Milo beside you, both of you bundled up in Richmond scarves. Milo’s got Roy’s number on his back, the fabric still stiff and new. He looks ridiculous and perfect.

Roy knows you’re here.

You didn’t tell him you’d be sitting this close to the pitch, but you did text him a single, understated: We’re in the stands. Don’t fuck it up.

He replied with: Cheeky bastard.

Milo leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the pitch like this is the most important thing in the world. Maybe it is.

“There he is,” Milo says, pointing as Roy jogs out for warmups. “He looks nervous.”

You snort. “He’s not nervous.”

Milo grins. “He is. He always scratches his jaw when he’s nervous.”

You glance down at the pitch.

Roy scratches his jaw.

You smile.

When the match starts, the crowd roars, and Milo roars louder than anyone. He shouts Roy’s name like it’s a spell, like volume alone can push him forward.

Roy plays like hell.

Hard tackles. Sharp passes. Barking orders. He moves with the kind of intensity that once scared you before you understood it—how much of himself he pours into everything he does, how deeply he feels the weight of responsibility.

Midway through the second half, Richmond scores.

The stadium explodes.

Milo is on his feet, screaming, jumping, grabbing your arm like he’s afraid the ground might vanish beneath him. You laugh, breathless, caught up in the noise and the movement and the sheer, overwhelming normality of joy.

Roy turns toward the stands.

He scans.

Finds you.

Finds Milo.

For just a second, the world narrows to the space between you.

Roy thumps his fist against his chest once—over the crest—then points, sharp and unmistakable.

Right at Milo.

Milo freezes.

His mouth drops open. “Did you see that,” he breathes. “Did you see that? That was for me.”

Your throat tightens. You pull him into a fierce hug, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Yeah,” you whisper. “It was.”

When the final whistle blows and Richmond wins, the night feels unreal in the best possible way.

Later, Roy finds you both near the tunnel, sweat-soaked and glowing, adrenaline still buzzing under his skin.

“You two cause all that noise,” he grunts.

Milo beams. “Obviously.”

Roy ruffles his hair, then looks at you. His expression softens, just for a moment, like he’s letting himself be seen.

“Glad you came,” he says.

You smile. “We wouldn’t miss it.”

Milo looks between the two of you, satisfied. “Told you he plays better when we’re here.”

Roy scoffs. “That’s not how it works.”

Milo smirks. “Sure it is.”

You watch them, heart full to the point of ache, and you realize something settles quietly into place.

This is it.

Not a fairy tale. Not perfect.

But real.

And strong.

The air in Bhutan was thin enough to taste.

Each breath scraped cold against the lungs, sharp with incense and snow, the mountains rising like the spines of ancient gods around the gathered crowd. Prayer flags snapped and twisted between stone pillars, their colors bleeding together in the wind—reds and blues and golds blurring into something restless, expectant.

Thousands stood in silence.

Witches and wizards from every corner of the world, wrapped in layered robes, lanterns swaying gently from their hands like captured stars. The mountain itself seemed to be listening.

Albus Dumbledore stood at the edge of the dais, hands folded within his sleeves, spine straight despite the tremor that ran beneath his skin. His breath came measured, careful, as though he feared that breathing too deeply might fracture something already cracked beyond repair.

The Qilin approached.

Its hooves made no sound against the stone, its silver eyes ancient and knowing. It radiated truth the way the sun radiated heat—impossible to escape, impossible to endure unscathed.

Albus told himself to focus.

To anchor himself in the present. In the ritual. In the fragile hope that this, finally, might prevent Gellert from tearing the world open.

And then—

He felt you.

Not with his eyes. Not even fully with magic.

With something older. Something that had never learned how to let go.

Your presence brushed against his like a remembered melody, soft but unmistakable—a cool burn, like starlight on water. The same as it had always been.

Different from Gellert’s fire. Different from Albus’s storm.

Balanced between them.

His lungs locked.

Somewhere on the lower terraces, half-hidden by shadows and stone, you stood wrapped in a dark, unremarkable cloak. To anyone else, you were just another observer—quiet, still, forgettable.

But Albus had never been able to forget you.

He did not turn. He did not search.

If he looked at you now, he feared his legs would carry him forward like a foolish boy, and the world would see exactly how weak he still was.

So he stared at the Qilin instead, even as every step it took made him acutely aware of the empty space beside him.

The space you used to occupy.

Years ago. Before blood and ideology and ambition had poisoned everything.

When the three of you had been young and incandescent, convinced that brilliance and love were enough to save the world.

You had stood between them then—not as a divider, but as a bridge. You had tempered Gellert’s fire and steadied Albus’s storms. You had asked the questions neither of them wanted to answer.

And when they refused to listen—

You had walked away.

Not in anger. Not in accusation.

Just… gone.

Your silence had been far worse than shouting.

I will not stay and watch you become monsters, it had said. And I will not let you turn me into one too.

Neither of them had recovered.

Because losing you hadn’t just been heartbreak.

It had been destabilizing.

Like gravity itself had vanished, leaving both men spinning—brilliant, destructive, unmoored.

And now—

You were here.

Alive. Changed. Unmistakable.

Albus felt something inside him splinter, slow and painful.

He kept his hands steady through sheer force of will. Kept his eyes forward. Kept pretending he wasn’t one heartbeat away from collapse.

You watched him from the shadows, body still, posture relaxed in the way of someone who had learned how to contain themselves. Your magic coiled close to your skin, disciplined, controlled—nothing like the reckless power you had wielded in your youth.

But your eyes betrayed you.

They softened when they found Albus.

They hardened when they slid to Gellert.

Years collapsed into a single breath.

Gellert felt it too.

His composure faltered for just a fraction of a second—long enough for you to see it. His breath hitched, sharp and involuntary, as his gaze snagged on yours like a wound reopened.

Then the moment shattered.

The Qilin bowed.

Not to him.

Gasps rippled through the crowd like a physical force. The illusion peeled away from Credence, truth spilling out of him in something like agony. Whispers turned to shouts.

Gellert’s carefully constructed reality cracked.

“You are no son of mine.”

The words were cruel. The wand lift was worse.

Cold white magic gathered, lethal and absolute.

Credence flinched.

Albus inhaled—

—but you moved first.

You didn’t run.

You simply were there.

A blur of shadow and wind, stepping into the spell’s path with the calm certainty of someone who had already decided how far they were willing to go.

Your hand rose.

Two fingers extended.

The Killing Curse struck your palm.

And stopped.

The air screamed.

Magic compressed violently, folding in on itself like glass under impossible pressure. The spell collapsed into a single white spark and vanished against your skin, leaving nothing behind—not even a scorch mark.

Silence crashed down over the mountain.

Even the wind froze.

Gellert’s wand dipped.

Albus’s world tilted violently off its axis.

You lowered your hand slowly, breath fogging the cold air, expression unchanged. The hem of your cloak settled around your boots as if nothing extraordinary had just occurred.

Gellert stepped forward, drawn as if by gravity he had never learned to resist.

“You,” he breathed.

You didn’t answer.

He hadn’t earned your words yet.

His eyes traced you with desperate reverence—your face, older now, sharper with experience; the familiar line of your shoulders; the power humming beneath your skin, honed into something formidable.

“You came,” he whispered, voice splintering. “After everything… you came.”

The look on his face—unguarded, ruined—was one only you and Albus had ever been allowed to see.

Albus reached you first.

His steps were silent. His voice barely more than breath.

“…I thought you were gone.”

You turned toward him, just enough.

“Not gone,” you said softly. “Just tired.”

Something in him broke open.

He didn’t look at your mouth, but his eyes wanted to. His heart certainly did.

Gellert’s jealousy flared, hot and immediate.

“Tired,” he echoed bitterly. “You left. You abandoned us.”

You faced him fully then, and the mountain ceased to exist.

“I left because you refused to stop,” you said quietly. “Both of you. You were destroying yourselves—and asking me to help you justify it.”

Gellert recoiled as if struck.

Albus closed his eyes.

“I loved you,” you continued, voice heavy with truth. “Both of you. More than you loved yourselves. More than you loved the future you were burning to the ground.”

Gellert staggered closer.

“And now?” he whispered. “Do you still—”

“You tried to murder a boy to win an election,” you said, cutting him off. “You tell me.”

His wand trembled.

For the first time, he looked small.

“Come with me,” he begged. “We can fix it. We can remake it all.”

“Gellert.”

You said his name like a final mercy.

Something inside him shattered beyond repair.

Albus reached for you—not demanding, not claiming. Just… hoping.

You stepped into his touch.

Barely.

Enough.

Gellert saw it.

The agony on his face wasn’t rage.

It was grief.

He fled as he always did—from consequences, from love, from himself—magic erupting as he vanished into the sky.

He never looked away from you.

Not once.

When the world settled again, Albus turned to you fully.

“Why now?” he asked.

You met his gaze, softer than you had been with anyone else.

“I couldn’t let him fall alone,” you said. “And I couldn’t let you break with him.”

“And after?” he asked quietly.

You held his gaze.

“That depends,” you said, “on whether either of you can learn to love something other than your ghosts.”

Albus closed his eyes.

When he opened them—

You were still there.

A/N: Based on this request 'A very girly girl , loves everything pink and girly , hobby is photography - loves taking pictures esp of Rebecca if you want to include thatIs Rebecca’s biggest simp “yes ma’am”  The perfect mix of a sweetheart and a brat like Yes I like annoying Rebecca but it’ll be in the softest sweetest ways that make her roll her eyes at me with a smile she tries to hide .  A little insecure due to not quite being seen as sexy and usually seen as cute due to girlish build (writing from experience lol) worries Rebecca will get bored of her in bed due to not being curvy enough. Clumsy, soft , nerdy yet bratty and a little sassy (aka balanced!✨). For the smutty part: PRAISE KINK. Down for whatever at the soft & worship section!'

Warnings: NSFW content (praise kink, soft dom!Rebecca, oral f!receiving, body worship, insecurity, emotional aftercare), some angst around body image/insecurity, fluff and emotional intimacy, very sweet/bratty reader archetype.

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

You were pink.

From the bow clipped in your hair to the lace trim peeking from under your cardigan, to the strawberry milk lip gloss you reapplied without shame mid-meeting, you were pink. Soft, clumsy, the girl who tripped on nothing and then apologized to the table. A sweetheart. A brat. A walking contradiction in frilly socks.

And God help her, Rebecca Welton was gone for you.

“I cannot focus on these numbers when you’re taking pictures of me like I’m a centerfold,” she murmured without looking up, pen poised over a contract.

You, lying dramatically on the office couch in a pastel miniskirt and heart-shaped earrings, barely suppressed a grin behind your camera. Click. “But you are a centerfold. My personal one. Miss August, actually.”

Her eyes flicked up, lips twitching into that look—the one where she wanted to be annoyed but couldn’t quite manage it, the one that made you feel like the sun was shining just for you.

She signed the contract with a sigh and said, “You’re incorrigible.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The way her breath caught—just slightly, just enough for your bratty heart to thrill—was better than the shutter snap.

--------

Rebecca didn’t understand you, not fully.

Not the overflowing shelves of pink Hello Kitty trinkets in your flat, not the framed candid photos of her she always somehow found flattering, not how someone so soft could be such a menace. You were all “ma’am” this and “but Rebeccaaaa” that, teasing her with pouts and giggles and fluttering lashes, until she’d sigh and manhandle you into her lap, where you immediately folded like butter in the sun.

She didn’t understand you, but she adored you. Even when you tripped over nothing and nearly knocked over her wine. Especially then.

But tonight, you weren’t giggling. You weren’t teasing. You were curled in her bed with your arms crossed and that distant look in your eyes. Your lashes were damp. Your gloss was gone. And Rebecca, brushing her hair back in the mirror, turned and frowned.

“What is it, darling?”

You blinked fast. “Nothing.”

That tone—fake chipper, too-high. It snapped something in her chest.

“Sweetheart.” She sat beside you, hand warm on your thigh. “Tell me.”

You stared at her legs instead of her eyes. She had gorgeous legs. You’d photographed them at least twelve times, with different heels. “I just…” you mumbled, voice shrinking. “I don’t want you to get bored.”

Rebecca blinked. “Bored?”

You bit your lip. Then the words tumbled. “I know I’m not—curvy. Not like, sexy sexy. I’m cute. I’m small and girly and sometimes people treat me like I’m a little kid. Even when I try to be sexy it’s just—adorable.” Your voice dripped self-loathing on that word. “And maybe one day you’ll wake up and think, God, I miss grown women with hips and—God, this is so stupid—”

“Stop.” Rebecca’s voice was low and firm, but not angry. She tucked your hair behind your ear, fingers so gentle they made your throat burn.

“Sweet girl,” she said. “You are not stupid. You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and the only thing that will make me stop wanting you is death or memory loss. And if it’s memory loss, I guarantee I’ll fall in love with you all over again.”

You hiccupped a laugh, then covered your face. “Stop it,” you mumbled, flushed. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“Then cry.” Rebecca leaned in and kissed your forehead. “And then let me show you exactly what I think of this sweet little body.”

-------

She undressed you like a ritual. Like peeling ribbon from a gift she’d waited too long to open.

Your breath hitched as she slipped your cardigan down your arms, kissed your wrist where you were always clumsy and bruised. “Softest skin,” she murmured.

When she lifted your camisole, she paused. “Is this okay?”

You nodded, eyes shy.

“Words, darling.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The groan she gave—low, reverent—made your stomach clench.

The camisole joined the pile on the floor. Rebecca knelt between your knees, hands framing your waist. Her thumbs brushed over your ribs, your tummy, the soft slope of you. “How could anyone think this isn’t sexy?” she whispered, almost to herself. “You’re so delicate. So pretty.”

You bit your lip, squirming.

She leaned forward and kissed just under your breast, then lower. “You deserve to be worshipped.”

Her mouth moved in slow, reverent paths down your body. Your panties—cotton, pastel, little strawberries—were damp by the time she peeled them off. She looked at them with a smirk, then up at you.

“I could spend hours here,” she said, parting your thighs.

Your hips twitched. “You say that every time…”

“Because it’s true.” She kissed the inside of your knee. “Now lie back, my sweet girl, and let me remind you who you belong to.”

It started soft. Always did. Her tongue slow, deliberate, exploring you like a prayer. Her hands anchored you, stroking your hips every time you trembled.

“Doing so well,” she murmured into you. “So sweet for me.”

Your thighs trembled around her head. You covered your mouth, too shy to let the whimpers loose.

Rebecca paused, lifting her head. Her lips were wet. “None of that,” she said gently. “I want to hear you.”

“I—It’s embarrassing—”

“Sweetheart,” she cooed, crawling up your body. “There is nothing you could do in bed that would embarrass me. Do you know why?”

You shook your head, lip trembling.

“Because I adore you. Because everything you do is you, and that is my favorite thing in the entire world.” She kissed your jaw. “You whimper? I want to hear it. You beg? I’ll make you repeat it. You soak through your little pink panties just from kissing?” She grinned against your ear. “That’s just a Tuesday.”

You giggled despite yourself.

“That’s my girl.” Her mouth returned to you, and this time, you didn’t hide.

You moaned. You gasped. You babbled her name with half-formed praises and desperate pleas. And Rebecca never once stopped telling you how good you were.

“Such a perfect girl.”

“So pretty when you come.”

“I could live between your thighs.”

She held you through the first orgasm, then licked you through a second. After that, you were too dazed to count.

-----------

After, she held you close. Your head on her chest, your fingers tracing idle shapes over her skin.

“Rebecca?”

“Yes, love?”

“I like annoying you.”

Rebecca laughed. “I know.”

“I mean it in a nice way. You’re just so elegant, and tall, and in control. And then I show up with bubblegum lip gloss and pink sparkles and it’s like…” You peeked up. “Like making the Queen of England roll her eyes at me.”

Rebecca blinked. “Did you just call me the Queen of England?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll take it.”

You giggled.

She kissed your temple. “And I love when you annoy me.”

You blinked. “You do?”

“Yes.” She smiled, that real one, the crinkly soft one that made your heart ache. “Because you’re the only person in the world who can make me laugh and lose my mind in the span of thirty seconds. Because you see me as a person, not just an image. And because when you look at me through that lens…” she nodded at your camera on the nightstand, “you make me feel like I’m worth capturing.”

You blushed so hard you hid in her chest.

She laughed, then stroked your back until you peeked up again. “I’m never going to get bored of you,” she said. “Not when you bring joy into every room. Not when you say ‘yes ma’am’ in that voice.” She kissed your nose. “Not when you climb into my lap with a pout and call me Rebeccaaa like I haven’t been thinking about you all day.”

You whispered, “Even when I’m clumsy and weird and not like other women?”

“Especially then.” Her voice turned serious. “You are my soft, bratty, perfect girl. And I wouldn’t change a single thing.”

-------

Later, you took a photo.

Rebecca was dozing, long hair spread over the pillow, the silk sheet just barely clinging to her hip.

You framed it carefully. Clicked the shutter. Smiled.

Then set the camera down and curled into her arms, where you belonged.

The sun streamed through the white curtains of the loft, casting golden light across the breakfast table scattered with crumbs, half-eaten pastries, and wrinkled wrapping paper. Laughter echoed through the space as Henry recounted a ridiculous story from the last time he and his “Uncle” Killian tried to fix the Jolly Roger’s leaky galley faucet.

Your sister, Emma, was half-sipping coffee and half-trying not to choke from laughter, while your father grumbled something about how “real pirates didn’t need plumbing.”

It was warm. And it was messy. And it was home.

You sat curled on the couch in Killian’s lap, wearing one of his loose white shirts over your jeans, your head tucked against his shoulder. His arm was around your waist, a lazy thumb tracing circles just above your hipbone.

Birthdays had always been bittersweet for you and Emma. Shared since childhood, yes—but rarely celebrated. At least not in the way you’d wanted. Not with cake or candles or streamers. Not with family.

But here you were. Together. Alive. Whole, in that imperfect way survivors tend to be.

Snow had made a double-decker vanilla cake with raspberry frosting and Emma’s name spelled in yellow icing, yours in pale blue. It tilted a little to the left and had finger marks where your baby brother had poked it—but it was perfect. Because it was made with love.

You looked around the loft—at the people you loved, and who loved you back—and felt something tight and hot catch in your throat.

You hadn’t always believed you’d get this. That you deserved this.

But Killian had. Every single day.

And when he gently nudged his nose against your temple, you tilted your face up to him, eyes shining.

He smiled that soft, crooked smile that made you feel like a girl again. Like magic wasn’t something you had to fight to keep, but something already in your hands.

“You alright, love?”

You nodded, your voice thick. “Yeah. Just…” You reached up and brushed your fingers through his dark hair. “I’m so damn happy.”

His smile widened, but there was something unreadable in his eyes. Something… waiting.

He kissed your forehead and murmured, “Then I suppose now is as good a time as any.”

Killian shifted slightly, and you sat up as he reached into his leather coat pocket.

“Wait,” you said, brows raised. “I thought the earrings were my gift.”

“They were the decoy,” Emma said with a smug smile from the kitchen. “We were all in on it.”

You blinked in confusion. “All of you?”

Killian’s grin turned wolfish. “Aye, Swan. Even your mother—though she was sworn to secrecy under pain of death.”

Snow laughed from the armchair. “To be fair, you said ‘death by kraken.’ I didn’t know you were serious.”

Killian ignored the quip and handed you a small wooden box, about the size of a jewelry case, but older—carved with delicate flourishes and painted in faded navy and silver.

Your hands trembled slightly as you took it.

The lock was simple. A sliding brass latch, smooth with age.

You looked up at Killian. “Is this… something from your travels?”

His eyes were unusually soft. “Open it and see.”

You flicked the latch.

Inside, nestled on dark velvet, was a key.

An old key. Iron wrought and heavy, its bow carved in the shape of a swan, your namesake.

And next to it, folded neatly, was a note.

You picked it up with careful fingers. The parchment was thick, edged in gold.

In Killian’s looping hand, it read:

“To the woman who made me believe in second chances, To the one who reminds me that home is not a ship, or a sword, or a past to run from— But a person to come back to, every time. Happy birthday, my heart. Come see what we’ve built. —Killian”

Your breath caught.

Tears filled your eyes as you looked back at him. “You—what is this?”

He reached into his coat again and pulled out a rolled map, gently spreading it on the table where the others now watched with glowing eyes.

“It’s a house,” he said simply. “Outside town, near the cliffs. Close to the sea. I found the land months ago and had it built from scratch. Every brick, every timber—I picked it for you. For us.”

He tapped the corner of the map. “It’s ours. If you want it.”

Emma was the first to speak, her voice awed. “You built her a house.”

“Gods, mate,” David muttered. “You’re making the rest of us look bad.”

Killian didn’t take his eyes off you. “It’s not grand. But it’s private. Safe. There’s a garden, and a small stable if you want a horse. Even a study I imagined you filling with stories.”

You choked a laugh and wiped your eyes. “You really built me a house?”

“I built us a home.” He took your hand gently. “I know we’re already building a life—but I wanted a place that was ours alone. Not borrowed from others. Not haunted by what came before.”

You felt the dam break then—soft sobs escaping as you leaned into him, wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder.

You felt him exhale, arms wrapping tightly around your back.

“I love you,” you whispered into the crook of his neck. “Gods, Killian, I love you so much.”

You felt his smile against your skin. “Then say you’ll come. That we’ll live there. Grow old there. Fight over wallpaper, and laugh in the rain, and—”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes to all of it.”

When you pulled back, he cradled your face in his hands and kissed you—slow and reverent, like you were something holy.

The kind of kiss that doesn’t just promise forever.

It builds it.

—

Later that day…

You stood on the porch of the little cliffside house, your fingers still tight around the key he’d given you.

The wind tugged at your jacket, and the sea stretched endlessly before you, dancing under the gold-streaked sky.

The house was beautiful. Cozy. With deep blue shutters, a white-painted fence, and a rounded doorway like something out of a fairytale. The garden was wild with flowers—roses and foxglove, ivy and heather. And just visible beyond the trees was a path that led to the shoreline.

Killian stood beside you, hands in his pockets.

He hadn’t said anything. Just waited for you to take it in.

“It feels like it’s always been here,” you whispered. “Like it was just waiting for us.”

He looked down at you, his eyes shining. “That’s because it was.”

You turned toward him, key clutched in your hand. “Are you really ready for this? For land. For walls and roofs and garden weeds and—”

“And mornings where I wake up beside you?” he finished, stepping closer. “Evenings where I listen to you hum while you read? Knowing where we’ll sleep and eat and laugh without fearing someone will take it away?”

He brushed a strand of hair from your face.

“I’ve been ready since the day you looked at me and didn’t see the pirate I was—but the man I could be.”

You bit your lip and then reached for him.

“I want this,” you said. “I want you.”

He kissed you again—gentle this time, grounding.

And when you unlocked the door and stepped into your new home hand-in-hand, you knew that for the first time in your life…

You weren’t just celebrating a birthday.

You were stepping into everything you’d ever dreamed of.

Cristina hated silence in the OR.

She hated the artificial stillness—how the room could hum with quiet while someone’s heart threatened to stop. She hated how residents hesitated mid-suture, the way an intern’s fingers would freeze over an open chest when the pressure hit. She hated the millisecond pause between “clear!” and the jolt of paddles.

And today, she hated you.

You stood just behind the line of the sterile zone, arms folded loosely behind your back, your expression unreadable. You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. You didn’t do anything.

Cristina glanced up from the trauma patient splayed open on the table, her gloved hands clamped around a bleeder that wouldn’t stop pumping.

“Pressure’s dropping,” the intern muttered, panicked.

Cristina hissed under her breath. “Give me suction. Clamp. Retract—”

But the kid fumbled. The suction slipped. The clamp missed. Blood surged again—fast, thick, arterial.

“She’s crashing,” Cristina snapped. “You can’t wait this long on a clamp—just move—”

Then your voice cut through the room.

“Step back.”

Not a shout. Not a reprimand.

Just—flat. Cold. Certain.

Every eye turned. The intern dropped the tool with a clatter. Even the monitor, for a moment, seemed to hush.

Cristina didn’t move.

You held her gaze.

And then—damn it—she stepped back.

You gloved up in one smooth motion. No rush, no wasted movement. You didn’t chide or sigh or make a show of competence. You just moved. Two clamps, sponge, sponge, done.

The vitals steadied.

The bleeding stopped.

And Cristina was left standing there, soaked in someone else’s failure.

“Close her up,” you said to the room. “And next time, if you don’t know where the bleed is, don’t guess. Ask.”

There was no cruelty in it. That made it worse.

You turned to Cristina.

“Dr. Yang. Walk with me.”

⸻

In the corridor, she followed you in silence.

Not because she wanted to—but because she couldn’t not.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t slow down.

Cristina’s fists were tight at her sides.

“You just let it happen?” she said finally. “You wait until we choke, then you swoop in and save the day?”

You stopped. Turned.

“I let people try,” you said. “I know when to step in.”

She stepped forward, voice rising. “So you’re some calm puppet master now? Watching us scramble just to feel superior?”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, but your tone didn’t waver.

“You’re fast, Yang,” you said. “But you don’t trust the quiet. That’s your weakness.”

Cristina froze.

You weren’t yelling. You weren’t smug. You were just… looking at her. Like you could see more than you should.

She hated that.

You turned away and stepped into the elevator. She didn’t follow.

She didn’t sleep that night.

⸻

Later that week.

Cristina walked into the break room and nearly turned around again.

You were there—alone, sitting at the far table, flipping through post-op notes with a coffee gone cold beside you.

She debated ignoring you.

You glanced up, once. Nodded.

That was it. No smug smile. No bait.

But she crossed the room anyway. She hated herself a little for it.

“There was nothing I could’ve done differently,” she said, standing by the vending machine, hands on hips. “It wasn’t about control—it was just chaos.”

You looked at her.

“Sometimes they’re the same thing,” you said. “Depends what you’re afraid of losing.”

Cristina let out a low scoff, more breath than sound.

“Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

“I’m not.” You looked back at the page. “I’m watching. You talk enough on your own.”

She hated how calmly you said it.

She hated that she stayed.

⸻

Two weeks later.

She was presenting at cardio rounds when you interrupted.

Not rudely—just one quiet question.

“What would you have done differently, post-clamp?”

Cristina answered without hesitation. Confident. Controlled.

You nodded once.

She didn’t smile, but her chest lifted a little.

She saw the way your gaze lingered, not unkind, not impressed—just… seeing her.

And it stuck with her all day.

⸻

Another scene. On-call room. Night.

Cristina was curled sideways on a cot with a tablet full of imaging reports when you walked in, coat half-off, hair mussed from the rain.

She didn’t look up.

“Didn’t know you slummed it with the mortals.”

You paused in the doorway, then stepped inside.

“I needed quiet.”

“Right,” she muttered. “Your favorite weapon.”

You didn’t take the bait.

You just dropped your coat, sat on the opposite cot, and leaned forward to untie your shoes in slow silence.

Cristina glanced at you.

Something about you looked tired. Not just physically. Worn at the edges.

It unsettled her.

“I was wrong,” she said quietly, surprising even herself. “That day in the OR. I panicked.”

You didn’t look up.

But you said, evenly, “Good. That means you won’t do it again.”

She swallowed.

“That’s it?”

You glanced at her now. No smile, no praise.

Just the same even look you always wore when things mattered.

“Do you need more?”

Cristina looked away first.

She hated that answer.

She also kind of loved it.

⸻

Final scene. Cafeteria. Morning.

She caught you alone, halfway through a banana and halfway through ignoring everyone.

Cristina sat down across from you like it was her table, not yours.

You didn’t protest.

“I’m better now,” she said. “I’ve been better.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“And I want in on your next valve case.”

You peeled the banana, paused.

“Earn it.”

Cristina leaned in slightly. “That’s all you ever say.”

You met her eyes, steady as always.

“Because it’s always true.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. Not a smile. But something close.

She stood.

“I will.”

You watched her go, thumb brushing idly along the edge of your coffee cup.

You didn’t smile either.

But something shifted in your stillness.

Just a little.

Like the quiet before the cut.

Seattle Grace had seen its fair share of egos. But yours didn’t announce itself. It arrived.

You didn’t walk into rooms—you occupied them. Quietly. Deliberately. As if you’d already been there. As if the air was yours, and the rest of them were just breathing borrowed oxygen.

Derek Shepherd had weathered five department heads, three hospital chiefs, and more budget meetings than he cared to count. But you? You were different. And that unsettled him.

Made him curious, too.

You didn’t interrupt as he made his pitch for surgical expansion—he spoke uninterrupted, unchallenged, his voice filling the silence with polished numbers and self-assured logic. You made no comment. No shift in posture. Barely even blinked.

He was used to commanding rooms. But right now? He wasn’t sure he even held your attention.

“I think the data speaks for itself,” he said, tone clipped just enough to betray his irritation. “Cutting surgical expansion now would be—frankly—regressive.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was tactical.

Finally, you blinked. Then nodded, once.

“It’s a good presentation.”

His shoulders dropped, barely perceptible.

“But not a necessary one.”

The words landed like a scalpel.

“…Excuse me?”

You rose from your chair with calm precision. Every movement efficient. Controlled. As if the entire room operated within your structure.

“I approved the surgical budget yesterday,” you said, walking to the floor-to-ceiling window. The Seattle skyline stretched out beyond the glass—washed in steel and fog. “You’re not here to win a fight, Dr. Shepherd. You’re here because I wanted to see how you behave when you think you’re winning one.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

You turned back toward him.

“You’re talented,” you said. “But your instinct to persuade me told me something important.” A beat. “Either you don’t trust my decision-making… or you needed to hear yourself say it.”

You walked back to the table.

“Which is it?”

He straightened. “I believe in what we’re doing. That’s not ego.”

You studied him. Eyes steady. Unflinching.

“You don’t have to name it ego,” you said. “You live in it. But I’m not here to dismantle you. I just expect you to recognize who’s actually making the decisions.”

Derek met your gaze.

“Then why bring me in at all?”

Your lips curved in a quiet half-smile. Not kind. Not cruel. Just… knowing.

“Because I enjoy watching someone try.”

⸻

It started with a glance.

You were coming out of a neurology consult—clipboard in one hand, phone in the other—when Derek saw you again. Weeks had passed since the meeting. No emails. No follow-up.

But you’d been there. Always present. Always watching.

You moved through the hospital like a cold current—quiet, strong, and entirely unbothered by what swirled around you. People stepped aside when you passed. Residents lowered their voices when your heels clicked down the hall.

When the elevator doors opened, you stepped in alone.

Derek followed without thinking.

“Dr. Shepherd,” you said with a polite nod. Cool. Controlled. Minimal acknowledgment.

He stood beside you. Not close. But close enough.

“You like being untouchable,” he said suddenly, eyes fixed on the numbers ticking above the door.

You didn’t look at him. “I don’t need to be liked.”

“That’s not what I said.”

The elevator hummed. Floor six ticked past.

“I don’t care about the game,” you said. “Only the outcome.”

“You don’t think people perform better when they trust you?”

This time, you turned.

“I don’t need their trust,” you said. “I need their results.”

The air thickened.

Then you stepped forward—just half a step. Just enough for him to catch the clean, sterile trace of your perfume. Something like linen. Something metallic underneath.

“Do you need people to like you, Dr. Shepherd?” you asked.

He didn’t answer.

You already knew.

The elevator chimed. You stepped off.

And Derek didn’t move for a full five seconds.

⸻

It was a high-risk craniotomy. One of those line-between-miracle-and-disaster surgeries.

Derek was locked in—hands steady, focus absolute. The nurses worked like clockwork. The tension buzzed beneath the surface.

And you were watching.

From the gallery.

Leaning against the glass. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. But he felt it—that shift in gravity that happened when you were in the room, even from two floors up.

You weren’t observing. You were evaluating.

After the surgery, Derek stepped out of the scrub room, adrenaline still trailing his spine.

You were already waiting.

Clipboard in hand.

“You handled the bleed well,” you said evenly. “But your right-hand suture was two seconds late.”

He blinked. “Didn’t realize we were timing my hands now.”

“We time everything,” you replied. “When lives are involved, two seconds isn’t a detail. It’s a margin.”

He stiffened.

Then you stepped in. Just slightly. Barely close. But enough to be felt.

“You’re brilliant, Dr. Shepherd,” you said, voice low. “But brilliance without discipline is just luck. And I don’t let this hospital run on luck.”

Then you walked away.

And Derek stood there, feeling like he’d just been struck by something he hadn’t seen coming—something quiet. Steady. Inevitable.

⸻

The hospital had fallen into its nighttime hush. Most staff gone. Lights dimmed.

Derek stayed late, reviewing charts.

He didn’t expect your office light to still be on.

The door was slightly open.

He knocked once, lightly.

“Come in.”

You didn’t look up. You were writing in a leather binder, pen moving cleanly across the page. Your coat hung off the chair. Sleeves rolled. Hair loose. The image stripped down. Human.

Real.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Derek said as he stepped inside.

You looked up, mildly. “Working.”

He nodded toward the desk. “Always?”

“Always.”

He approached slowly.

“You don’t let people in often,” he said softly.

“I don’t need to.”

“Not even to be understood?”

You glanced at him.

“Being understood is dangerous,” you said. “It creates expectation. Vulnerability. Debt.”

He studied you.

“Maybe I want to understand you.”

A pause. A long one.

“Why?”

“I don’t know yet.”

You held his gaze.

You didn’t lean forward. Didn’t smile. Didn’t soften.

You simply let him see. What you allowed. No more.

“I won’t be someone you fix,” you said. “And I don’t bend just because someone flashes charm.”

He stepped a little closer, the air between you shifting.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” he murmured. “I want to learn what makes you unbreakable.”

You were still. Then:

“You’re still assuming I am.”

Silence.

And then—for the first time—you broke eye contact first.

You closed your folder. Rose from your chair. Brushed past him. Your fingers just grazed his wrist.

Barely there. But he felt it.

“I don’t offer myself in pieces,” you said at the door. “If you want something from me, understand this: it comes whole. And it comes slow.”

And then you left.

But this time…

⸻

The first thing they noticed about you was the silence.

Not a meek silence. Not the kind that asks to be overlooked. Yours was heavy, pointed. The kind that stilled a room mid-step and made grown surgeons blink like students again.

You didn’t sweep into Grey Sloan Memorial—you settled in. Quiet as breath. Heavy as command.

Word spread before the Board’s email finished loading: She’s the one who restructured the trauma systems in conflict zones—South Sudan, Afghanistan, Colombia, Seoul. That woman? She’s practically a legend. The war doctors talk about her like she’s folklore.

Owen Hunt had heard the name before. He just hadn’t expected it to be you.

You stepped into the trauma conference room at exactly 05:58, two minutes before the meeting. No rush. No hesitation. Your boots clicked once, then stilled. A clipboard rested in your hand, worn at the edges, but impossibly clean.

“Good morning,” you said, to no one in particular. Just a statement. Measured. Low. Steady.

Owen looked up.

His expression barely changed—but you caught the shift. Recognition. Calculation. Something beneath the surface.

You returned the look, impassive.

“I’m Director [Y/L/N]. Trauma lead, effective immediately.” You didn’t wait for pleasantries. “I expect readiness, not reverence. If you’re here to debate, you’ll lose. If you’re here to follow, then follow well. That’s all.”

The table was dead silent.

Owen’s jaw tightened. You wondered if he’d speak. Push. Challenge. The last director had lasted less than six months with him.

He didn’t.

But the way he watched you—like a soldier watching a sniper on the other side of the field—made it clear: a confrontation was coming. And it would not be civil.

You almost welcomed it.

⸻

He was late to your first official debrief.

Two minutes, forty-seven seconds, by your watch. You didn’t glance at the clock. You didn’t need to.

You were halfway through reviewing the helicopter accident case when he slipped into a seat at the end of the table, arms folded, eyes unreadable.

You didn’t acknowledge him. You didn’t need to.

You kept your voice even as you flipped to the report.

“Dr. Hunt—your decision to allow the patient’s mother to override medical advice during active intubation. Walk us through it.”

He looked up sharply.

“She had a right to decide.”

“Correct,” you said, evenly. “And you had a responsibility to keep her alive. She had a 94% chance of survival if you had acted independently.”

“I wasn’t going to take away her autonomy.”

“She wasn’t in a mental state to consent to death, Dr. Hunt. You knew that. You chose to wait. And she died.”

Your voice didn’t rise. That made it worse. He could feel the weight of every word like a scalpel pressed flat against skin—no cut yet, but imminent.

“This isn’t a battlefield,” you said. “We do not hand out comfort in place of action. You don’t get to call it empathy when it costs a life.”

He didn’t flinch, but the line of his jaw pulsed.

“This was a judgment call.”

“And it was the wrong one.”

The silence crackled.

You moved on without waiting for a response.

But later, when the room had emptied and he walked past your office door, he paused. Just for a second.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

⸻

The crash came in just before dawn. A school bus flipped on I-5 in the pouring rain. Dozens injured. Two trauma bays already full when the first child arrived.

You were on the floor before the second ambulance hit the lot.

“Divert non-critical to Mercy West. I want two clear rooms for peds priority, and someone page Grey.”

Your voice never raised. It didn’t need to. The storm was already here, and you moved through it like a general through smoke—controlled, surgical, certain.

Owen was in Trauma 3. You saw him out of the corner of your eye, already elbow-deep in a boy no older than eight, chest caved in, vitals bottoming out.

Normally, you’d take the bay. This time, you watched.

He moved fast, but not frantically. His hands were bloody, yes, but precise. He didn’t shout. He didn’t freeze. His eyes scanned the monitor, the vitals, the crushed thorax—all at once.

“Clamp,” he ordered. “Now.”

His resident hesitated. You saw it. So did he.

“I said clamp.”

The voice was quiet. Steel, not volume.

The resident obeyed.

You watched him adjust for the kid’s weight. Predict the blood drop. Switch ventilation seconds before the heart rate dipped.

You stayed at the doorway. Still. Not intervening. Not leading. Observing.

Not instinct, you thought. Discipline.

The boy stabilized.

And when the stretcher rolled out of the bay, Owen finally looked up. Sweat on his brow. Something flickering behind the mask.

You nodded once.

“There’s more discipline in you than I thought.”

That was all you said.

But it landed like a verdict.

⸻

He stayed behind after debrief three nights later.

The others filtered out. You stayed in your seat, finishing your notes with the same dispassion you brought to everything.

He hovered.

“Got a minute?” he asked, voice rough.

You didn’t look up. “You’re already using it.”

He took a breath. “You’re not easy to work for.”

You set your pen down.

“That’s not a requirement.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m not trying to make this personal.”

“But it is personal,” you said softly. “That’s your problem, Dr. Hunt. You want medicine to be a battlefield. You want to feel something every time you cut someone open.”

He didn’t deny it.

You stood.

“I come from places where there isn’t time to feel. Where your instincts mean nothing if you can’t prove them. I don’t yell because it wastes breath. I don’t panic because it costs lives. You think I’m cold?”

“I think you’ve buried things so deep you can’t feel them anymore.”

The silence pulsed.

Then you said, “And I think you wish you could do the same.”

He stepped closer.

“Maybe I do. But I also think we’d make a good team if we stopped trying to break each other.”

You met his eyes.

“You want my approval.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But he didn’t deny it.

You let the moment stretch. Then you walked past him, brushing his shoulder with yours—not enough to break the tension, just enough to acknowledge it.

“Then earn it.”

⸻

It was the roof again.

It was always the roof when you didn’t want to be seen.

The wind was sharp, the air damp, and the city below you moved like an echo.

Owen found you there.

You didn’t turn.

He stepped beside you and said nothing for a long while.

Then, “I watched a boy bleed out in Iraq because I waited too long to push blood. I thought I could hold the line. Buy him time. I didn’t. He was twelve.”

You looked ahead.

“I lost a girl in Sudan for the opposite reason. Acted too fast. She seized when the fluid flooded. Her mother was right there. Screaming.”

He glanced at you. “You never told that story before.”

You nodded once. “And I won’t again.”

You turned to him now, finally.

“People think I’m made of iron. But it’s just… silence. That’s what survives.”

The rain started again.

He reached out slowly. Not touching. Just offering.

You didn’t take his hand. But you didn’t move away.

---------

You always kept band-aids in your backpack.

It started out practical — first aid kits were your thing, maybe because so many people around you were constantly throwing themselves into danger. But at some point, it became… a habit. A ritual. The soft tap on your shoulder from Scott or Stiles, the sheepish wince on Lydia’s face, even the sarcastic “nurse Y/N” from Jackson — all signs that someone needed you.

Isaac needed you often.

And Erica? Erica didn’t ask. But she let you see her bruises before anyone else.

You weren’t a werewolf, but you were pack-adjacent. They’d claimed you without saying it — not with claws, but in the way they’d show up at your locker just to check on you, the way they flanked you in the halls, or the way Isaac growled (literally growled) when someone pushed past you too hard.

Since the bite, Erica had been louder, bolder. She moved like a predator. She used to hide in oversized hoodies and keep her gaze fixed on the floor. Now she leaned into you when she talked, smiled with too many teeth, and always touched your arm for just a little too long.

Isaac, on the other hand, had turned quiet and watchful. Not shy — just patient. Calculating. He had the eyes of someone who saw more than he let on.

It was… confusing. And lately, tense.

They didn’t used to act this way. Not before the transformation. Not before the bite.

You were sitting on the bleachers, crisscross applesauce, focused on wrapping gauze around a very scratched-up Erica.

“Seriously,” you muttered. “What, did you and Isaac start a cage match at midnight?”

Erica grinned, lips stained red from a healing split. “Maybe.”

You sighed and smoothed ointment over a cut. “You two are gonna kill each other.”

“Unlikely,” came Isaac’s voice from behind.

He was holding a hoodie — your hoodie — and handed it to you without looking at Erica. His gaze fixed on your hands, still bandaging her.

“You forgot this,” he said. “You always get cold.”

You blinked. “Thanks…”

He sat beside you without invitation, his thigh brushing yours. Erica tensed.

You noticed it. The shift in her scent. The way her lips twitched like she might bare her teeth.

“Hey,” Isaac said suddenly, glancing at her. “Don’t you have claws? Shouldn’t need Y/N to play nursemaid.”

“I heal slower when I’m tired,” she snapped. “Or maybe I just like when she takes care of me.”

“You’re not the only one who needs her.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You looked between them, heart pounding, realization dawning like a slow storm.

“Oh my god,” you said quietly. “Are you… are you fighting over me?”

Isaac looked away, jaw clenched. Erica huffed and ran a hand through her curls.

“I’m not fighting,” she said. “I’m just saying — I saw her first.”

“You saw her. And I knew her,” Isaac retorted.

“She was always sweet to me.”

“She was sweet to everyone.”

“But not the same way.”

You stood up too fast. “Okay, that’s enough!”

Both their heads snapped toward you. Their eyes glowed faintly — golden and electric.

“I’m not a prize,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m not a bone for you two to fight over.”

Silence.

Then Isaac stood, stepping forward. He didn’t reach for you. Just stood close enough that you felt the heat of him, the familiar tension he always held around you like a storm that hadn’t broken yet.

“We’re not trying to scare you,” he said, softer now. “We just… didn’t expect it. Realizing.”

Erica, too, was suddenly less sharp. She bit her lip, uncertain. “It’s like… after the bite, everything was clearer. My confidence. My strength. And you.”

You crossed your arms. “What about me?”

“You were the only one who ever looked at me like I mattered before the bite,” she whispered. “Like I was worth anything.”

Isaac nodded. “She took care of me even when I couldn’t speak. Even when I flinched if anyone got too close.”

You swallowed. “I didn’t do any of that for you to—”

“Fall for you?” Isaac finished.

Your breath caught.

“Yeah, well,” Erica said, brushing hair behind her ear. “Too late.”

You ended up in your room with both of them — not by design, but because Erica followed you when you stormed off, and Isaac followed her like a shadow.

Now they stood at the edge of your space like wolves at the threshold.

You pulled your blanket around your shoulders. “This is crazy.”

“Maybe,” Isaac said. “But it’s true.”

Erica glanced at him. “So what now? We arm wrestle for her?”

“I’m not losing her to you.”

“I’m not letting you win.”

“Then maybe she chooses.”

You flinched. “You’re acting like I’m property.”

“No,” Erica said, stepping forward. “We’re acting like we’re scared.”

You looked up.

She dropped to her knees in front of you, then pressed her face into your lap. “I’m scared,” she admitted. “Because I’ve never felt this way. Because you make me feel human.”

Isaac joined her — sat beside you, his hand brushing yours.

“I can be patient,” he murmured. “I just need to know if there’s a chance. For me. Or her. Or both.”

You stared at them — your wolves, your troublemakers, your soft-hearted monsters.

You reached out slowly, one hand in Isaac’s curls, the other on Erica’s cheek.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” you whispered. “But I care about both of you. And I don’t want to choose.”

They both looked up — surprised, hopeful, hungry.

“You don’t have to,” Erica said quietly.

Isaac leaned forward, brushing his lips against your temple. “We can share.”

You flushed. “Is that a thing?”

“For us,” Erica murmured, “it could be.”

And when they leaned into you — not to fight, but to hold, to press into your warmth like it was the only thing anchoring them to this world — you didn’t pull away.

Maybe it could be a thing.