His body comes willingly allowing you to lead him like a dog, fussing only lightheartedly with playful remarks about how needy you are being. "Alright—quit it." He mumbles shrugging his shoulder out of your grasp finally, slouching up against the wall opposite you.

The hall is dark clouding your features, though he can still make out the little frown on your face, it's cute as fuck paired with your crossed arms. His tongue wets his lip gently, tugging the flesh between his teeth, you watch bewitched, the furrow of your brows smoothing over in your trance.

Mattheo's lips twitch growing into a grin full of arrogance noticing the reaction, he clears his throat finding it adorable how your eyes blink away the fog, lifting to meet his and the grump returns.

"Aw don't scowl, your too cute when you do that."

Your glower deepens in response, scolding yourself for allowing your guard down. It's not a surprise that he can still get to you, the two of you don't stay a part for very long. But as of right now, you are so not happy with him.

"Cut it. When were you gonna tell me?"

Mattheo scratches the curve of his neck, there's a loud pop when he clicks it lazily, the topic of discussion little interest to him. "Hm, tell you what?"

Your eyes narrow, with impatience, irritation setting in your tensed jaw. "Theo said he saw you with Parkinson. That true?"

Mattheo huffs quietly at the mention of his friend's interference, he's certain they love the drama and chaos more than he loves you. But nevertheless, you two are broken up he doesn't owe you a proper answer, his stubbornness answering for him with a shrug, "and if it is true?"

"then you're a fucking prick who can't keep a damn promise."

He releases a low mocking laugh, "you want to talk about promises, I have a whole list of shit you broke too—"

"So, it is true!"

"That's what you're focusing on. Merlin, do you hear yourself. If the jealousy wasn't so cute, I'd rip my ears off."

You scoff with disbelief, "jealous? Now that's just insulting Mattheo."

He shrugs, rolling his muscles back, allowing the tension and seriousness of the convo to chip off him. Taking a step closer, his hands capture your waist and pull you into him with playful force. He smirks at the quiet complaint that escapes you, his grin only widening at the attempt of dissatisfaction you're pretending to make.

Your eyes narrow, fighting to ignore his proximity, the way it weakens your heart, and try to change the subject. "Your breath stinks."

He laughs, not believing you.

"I don't know why you're so mad, I've done nothing wrong."

You technically know it's true, but that doesn't mean you want to give him that satisfaction of being right. Nothing worse than a big-headed Mattheo.

"I'll be the decider of that."

"I'm an open book with you, hit me. Interrogate me, maybe even tie me to a chair." he purrs playfully.

Your eyes roll back, "you're ridiculous. You'd enjoy that too much."

He grins, "maybe. you know how much I like you in charge."

"Says the subject who never listens."

He rolls his eyes, with a huff before hardening his gaze. "You always have my full attention, what does it matter if I zone out one of your many whines."

You cross your arms grumpily, "boyfriends aren't suppose to do that."

"Good thing I'm an ex then."

"That doesn't mean shit when we get back together — and we will," a threatening finger points at him, and he grab it pressing a light kiss to the flesh. Humming in agreement at your counterpoint, his teeth scrape nipping at the tip, "stop it."

"Why?"

You give him a deadpan look but don't pull your hand back which he takes as a sign to continue. His other hand caresses your waist, his thumb sliding under the shirt, relishing in the heat of your skin. Kissing down your finger, rolling your wrist to press gentle kisses up your arm making you shiver and squirm from the brush of his tickling stubble.

Your bodies are inches apart from one another, the air is warm with charged energy and Mattheo can't pull his hands from you. You look so pretty watching him, tilting your neck back habitually exposing the delicate skin to him further. He can't even remember why you were fighting when your submissive like this, his thoughts clouded by the sweet smell of your perfume.

"Do you really want me to stop?" He whispers, the heat of his breath warm against your ear. You both know the answer, it all depends on how stubborn your feeling right now.

Your breath is shallow, cheeks inflamed with humiliation at how easy he gets to you. Weak, an emotional wreck of obsession wrapped in love for him.

Instead, you stuff all your gooey emotion inwards, and throw your arms around his neck, tugging him closer by the shoulder. He turns his head to meet you, and it's so plainly obvious that he feels the same way. His usual brown eyes, appear a darken void, pupils twice as large, they search your face for any sign this isn't what you want.

"Yes. I'm not doing anything with you while your dicks contaminated." You finally answer.

There's a pause, a moment that lingers additionally long it stalls your breath awaiting the expected raging bull. "Well it's a good thing I had nothing to do with Parkinson then."

Your eyes flutter blinking back his words, there's no use even trying to hide your expressions, as they flash across your face like a slideshow.

He spots the smile too quick, rolling his eyes with amusement. "You're vicious you know. As if I would ever put my dick anywhere near that."

"I don't know what you do in your spare time Riddle." You respond, brushing a hand through your hair with feigned casualness, struggling to hold in the giddy smile from breaking through. "I was just looking out for your hygiene that's all."

He snorts, taken back by the ridiculous of the answer, the jealously is so delicious he's feeling a little lightheaded from the ego boost.

"Last I remembered you told me to stick my dick where the sun don't shine." He teases with a snicker, recalling the words of anger you lashed at him only days before. He chuckles watching the flicker of irritation resurge behind your eyes at the truth, "Now you care about my hygiene?"

You sigh dramatically, pursing your lips in thought, you brush his shoulders of imaginary dust before you pat his biceps lightly like a supportive friend. "Well, I'm gonna have your babies someday, and somebody has to keep you in prime condition."

Mattheo spurts a sound you've never heard before, caught between a cough and a wheeze. Folding forwards in front of you, he laughs swept completely off guard by the casualness in which you decide to bring up future offspring.

"Fucking hell you're mental aren't you." He's smiling so much his dimples dig into his cheeks, enjoying the familiar banter between the two of you. How you keep finding ways for him to love your insane ass more, he doesn't know. Straightening up, he gives your hips a loving squeeze. "Admit you were jealous and we can arrange all your wishes baby."

You scoff irritated at the ease in which he just accepts your answer, "Was never jealous." Your arms crossing in denial, "but you lied to me."

"I merely tweaked the truth a bit! It's not lying baby." He tilts his head, playing innocent with his big brown eyes. "It got your attention though, didn't it." He smirks with triumph, "And! It got you right back in my arms."

"You let me believe you slept with her! And I grabbed you dimwit don't take my credit." You huff, eyes only narrowing harder at this adorable puppy face.

He scoffs playfully, "Who gives a crap, we still ended up together didn't we. Like we always do. Because damn right your gonna have my babies."

Finally, your face relaxes and your smile settles back home at his words. Mattheo matches it, his heart soaring because it’s one of his favourite moments. When all the shadows evaporate taking away the snark, the biting hatred and leaves behind the glowing sun and his sweet Angel. He feels the urge to tuck your hair back, cocoon you in his love and forgive every shitty thing said between the both of you.

His lips are on yours in lighting, a palm caressing the underside of your cheek with a gentleness that is absent from his kiss. It's as if the last 48hours cease to exist, time rewinding back past all the blurriness of messy arguments, an distance that causes pain only heartaches after nights alone. His grip is firm, comforting as your lips smack together, breaths stolen by one another.

Your hands have lost all sense of control, roaming widely under his shirt feeling every ridge of his muscles, spiking his skin alive you can't help but grin when he shivers.

Mattheo pulls back, shooting a lighthearted glare at your devious delight, "Don't get ahead of yourself sweetheart, your not in the driver seat."

You smirk, purring back flirtatiously, "That's okay, I don't mind being the passenger princess."

He laughs, finding your submission adorable, "Oh that is good news." He comments with light sarcasm, "And here I was worried I'd have to punish you for all that dancing you were doing on Pucey."

Surprise overtakes you, having entirely forgotten about your own scandalous moment earlier in the night. You grin up at him innocently, amusement dancing in your eyes as you giggle, “Oh that.”

“Yeah that. Got about two seconds to try and talk your way out of that.” He grunts unamused, a cheeky pinch sneaking under your skirt before he’s wrangling you over his shoulder, your loud squeal ringing in his ear.

Hard days were never something that you truly expected. Sure you could picture all the worst possibilities and know that something bad will happen but you still never catch the full feeling of your reaction until you're sitting in it. You don't particularly want to show your upset but at the same time, you haven't turned your lips up in hours. The whole day just went downhill from the start. Once you start to think of the specifics you feel tears well up in your eyes. You just needed to get home. That's all. 

You weren't going to cry on the way home you'd do it in the safety of your own walls. You hoped your roommates, Evan and Barty, were in their room. You couldn't face them like this, you needed to hold on to the last bit of dignity you still had with them. You could never keep a hold of yourself with them. You snorted in your laughter even though their jokes weren't that funny. You fell over your words and came away from your conversations wishing you could try again. You stared too hard and ended up getting caught. You'd share too much information in an attempt to impress them. 

All you wanted was to go home, curl up in your blankets, and cry until you felt like a raisin. You felt the weight of your day double as you slipped your key into your front door. You hooked your keys onto the key holder on the wall. You shrugged your coat off, throwing it at the coat tree. You felt your tears building up as your walls slowly slipped away. The familiar home relaxed them even then you wanted to hold strong until you got to your room. You couldn't toe your shoes off fast enough, getting so frustrated you reached down and yanked your shoe off. You flung it at the shoe rack, ignoring that it wasn't anywhere near the other one you had slipped off. 

As you left the foyer, stepping towards your bedroom, Barty and Evan’s door opened. Barty leaned against the frame, crossing his arms over his chest. His sweatpants were riding low on his hips, showcasing his happy trail. His shirt was butchered and jaggedly cut along the bottom of his rib cage.

“Hey baby, have you ever tried that cake-” Barty paused when he saw the anger and tears pulling at your face. He straightened up, dropping his arms to his sides. 

“What's the matter?” Barty asked. You shook your head and waved him off. You could easily slip away now, get to your room before Evan found out. Barty could let something like this slide but not Evan. Evan must've been summoned by your thoughts because just as you thought you could get away scot-free Evan’s hand slid over Barty's shoulder. His form appeared after that, slipping next to Barty past the doorframe. He furrowed his eyebrows at you. You grumbled incoherently as you realized you weren't going to be able to get out of this one. 

“Are you okay?” Evan asked. You hated how easily Evan was able to massage away your wall with just his tone. You had been holding the tears back so well too. Just a few more minutes and you could’ve made it to your room. You wanted to just say ‘yes’ and to retreat your room. You wanted to swallow your tears and act mature… by hiding your feelings, obviously. Unfortunately what you wanted and what Evan's presence caused was something entirely different. 

Something about him just broke your walls so easily. It wasn't his tone, it wasn't his words, it wasn't his charming attitude, it was just him entirely. Evan could just lay his eyes on you and you were falling apart at his feet. You wondered if maybe Barty felt the same. 

Your throat tightened with sadness and your eyes welled with tears. You shook your head, looking away from him. Evan’s breath hitched and covered it up with a hum. He stepped around Barty and held his arms out for you. You didn't bother fighting the urge to hide in them. You wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek into his shirt. Evan’s arms warmed your back, it pushed you closer to tears. Evan hummed, the vibrations comforting you. 

You felt Barty's hand join at your back, rubbing up and down. You let the tears go, crying into Evan's sleep shirt. Barty’s hand continued its comforting circles. You let it all go, all the frustrations of the day. Evan and Barty didn't stall for a second. They let you choke it all out, your shoulders shaking with tears. 

A few minutes later, your tears slowed. You sucked in a breath, pulling away from Evan. Evan drew his hands away from your back, cupping your face instead. Barty didn’t move his hand, continuing to rub circles on your back. You steadied yourself with your hands on Evan’s waist. 

“Do you want to lie down?” Evan asked, raising an eyebrow at you. You nodded, feeling the urge to slink back into his arms again. Evan released your face, slipping his hand into yours. He tugged you towards his and Barty’s room. You ignored the gnawing feeling that you were intruding. Barty stayed back, the sounds of him shuffling towards the kitchen behind your head. Evan nudged his bedroom door open with his foot, dragging you after him. 

You were rarely in Evan and Barty’s room. How frequently did one really need to be in their roommates’ bedroom? Not very. You’d ventured in once or twice before when Barty asked you to get something, or when Evan overslept and you had to nudge him awake so he wasn’t late for work. Though Evan rarely overslept anyway. 

Some nights you’d wake up with a deep desire for water, wandering for the kitchen with your eyes closed. You pull down a glass, fill it, and take a sip before noticing Evan’s presence. You still have your lips on the edge of the glass, halfway through the motion of tipping it up.

Evan was frozen on the windowsill, a lit cigarette still half between his fingers. The moonlight made his eyes shine like the way you’d catch a marsupial stealing your garbage in the middle of the night. His thumb flicked, making the bright cigarette bounce and the dark ash fall outside the window. You raised an eyebrow, lowering your glass. Evan sniffed, pulling his hand to his mouth again. He sucked in a deep drag of his cigarette, the end’s color glaring in the dark room. You kept your eye on him as you chugged the rest of your glass, finishing off the water completely. Evan stuck his hand out the window again, tilting his head back as a plume of smoke floated above his head. You set your glass in the sink deciding to wash it in the morning. 

“You know if you wake up in the middle of the night with intense thirst, it means you’re dehydrated,” Evan said, his voice still quiet from his distance. You groaned, flipping him off and shuffling back to bed. You ignored his chuckle behind you, still too tired to think of a good quip. 

Evan dropped your wrist, dragging your attention back to the moment. Their room was messy, but not terribly. It was a little obvious who was the messy one. The clothing on the floor you had only seen Barty wear and the large pair of black boots thrown at the foot of the bed were definitely his too.

Evan’s shoes were precisely set next to the door. The dresser shoved in the back corner seemed like his too, with multiple books stacked on top. All fiction, Barty couldn’t stand fiction novels.

You could easily deduce which side of the bed was whose, the right, closest to the door, had a pillow on the floor, and the blanket was skewed and clumped. The left had a pillow tilted but on the mattress and the blanket was set straight. The nightstand on the right had a tented book that appeared to be a self-help book on romantic relationships and a knocked over cologne bottle, the cap missing. Barty seemed to be about three chapters in, if that. You raised an eyebrow, slowly turning to Evan. Evan pressed his lips together and shrugged. 

“Barty’s a little messy. I’ve learned to live with it.” Evan muttered, his hand flying out to set the tipped-over cologne bottle on Barty’s nightstand upright. You hummed, still glued in your spot. Evan ignored it, stepping over Barty’s boots to get to his side of the bed. He slid under the blankets, smacking the mattress next to him on Barty’s side. You joined him, picking Barty’s pillow off the floor on the way there. You tossed it onto the bed, laying down and dropping your head on it. Evan let out a huff through his nose and gently brought his hand to your face, tracing the lines of your face. You closed your eyes and let your mind and body rest now that you were finally home. 

It probably wasn’t a good thing that you associated your sense of home with your roommates. It’s an obvious connection but maybe not to this degree. Your apartment didn’t feel whole without them.

At some point, they were going to pack their bags and move, or maybe you would, either way, you’d be without your two very peculiar roommates. You’d miss their strange habits. You weren’t sure you could find another roommate who would walk around the house on all fours if he got too sleep-deprived and your other roommate who would use stares as a form of communication. You weren’t sure if you could move on from your freaks of shared living quarters friends. They made you feel free and utterly comfortable. You knew they wouldn’t judge you for any of the slightly odd things you did because they did far worse things. 

You shouldn’t feel so attached to these two and yet here you were, snuggled up in their blankets. You weren’t going to even think of the strange urge to lean forward and kiss them both that washed over you far too frequently. Evan’s hand slipped away, instead pulling your hand away from your chest to hold onto it himself. You felt sleep pulling at your mind, his soft fingertips on your skin slipping away. Your lungs filled and released like a rocking wave with ease. Your body stopped moving, joints going rigid with sleep. 

And then Barty slammed open the door, the doorknob knocking back into the wall. You jolted, your rest shattering like a glass vase. You sat up on your elbows, looking back at the door. Evan sat up straight, annoyance weighing his brow down. 

“Barty!” Evan chided, staring at the man in the doorway with disbelief. Barty turned around with three bowls cradled in his arms. A spoon was held between his teeth, his foot jutting out to find the edge of the door. He hooked the back of his heel over the edge, kicking his leg back to close the door. Barty tried to respond, the spoon in his mouth making it choppy. A few strings of guttural sounds slipped out from behind his teeth, making the general shape of a sentence. You let them stir in your head for a moment, trying to decipher them. 

Evan shook his head, not understanding a lick of what Barty said. He turned to you, to see if you caught it but you doubted you could’ve caught it if there wasn't a spoon in his mouth. You threw a hand up, giving up entirely. Barty let out a scoff, joining you two at the side of the bed. He set down one of the bowls on his nightstand, next to his book. He leaned down over his bowl, tilting his head to the side. Barty opened his mouth, letting the spoon clatter inside the bowl. You sat up, looking inside to see his favorite ice cream inside. Barty stuck the other two bowls out to you and Evan. You gently took it from him, looking between Evan and Barty. 

“I didn’t have hands, it’s hard to be quiet when you’re opening a door with no hands,” Barty said. His hand flapped, silently telling you to scoot over. You scooted into Evan’s side, leaning back against the bed frame. Barty flung himself into the mattress, making you and Evan bounce up and down for a moment. You stared at Barty in displeasure with your rather cold bowl in your hands. You pictured the moment from outside your view, Barty’s relaxed and stretched frame on the bed. You and Evan glaring while bouncing with your bowls held away from you. You would’ve laughed if your nap hadn’t been rudely interrupted. Barty sat up, pulling his bowl off his nightstand into his lap. He stuck his spoon into his ice cream, bringing the spoonful to his mouth. He looked up and paused in his eating. 

“What?” His words were muffled by the ice cream in his mouth. You sniffed, turning to look at Evan. Evan shook his head at Barty. 

“We were peacefully sleeping, Barty,” Evan said, still accepting the ice cream and pulling his spoon up to his mouth. You decided they had no problem with eating in their bed, scooping out your own bite. 

“Yeah in my bed. That I paid for, thank you for your service, Barty. We love you, Barty. You’re so sexy, Barty. Please, Barty, let us repay you for your kindness. That’s what I want to hear out of your mouths right now, not complaints.” Barty said, tipping his voice up to mock your voices. You glanced at Evan to make sure you heard right. You kept your eyes on your ice cream as you readied another mouthful. 

“I’m not saying that.” You muttered before taking a bite into your mouth. Evan hummed in agreement. 

“You must’ve forgotten to take your pills this morning because I would never say that.” Evan frowned, licking his spoon clean before taking another bite. Barty quickly swallowed his scoop before faking a gasp. 

“You don’t love me? Wow okay, I see how it is.” Barty joked, a smile playing on his lips. Evan froze, staring at the blanket to run back through Barty’s words. He dropped his spoon into his bowl. 

“Well, no. I do love you. I take back what I said.” Evan said, keeping his eyes on Barty to make sure his point was taken seriously. Barty cooed, leaning forward over your lap. He puckered up his lips and you leaned back. Evan met him in the middle, pressing a kiss to Barty’s lips. You stifled a groan at being trapped both between and under them. 

“Gross. I have feelings too, you know.” You muttered, trying to look anywhere but the kiss between your two rather attractive roommates. They pulled back from each other, returning to their original seats. You felt your shoulders relax, knowing the discomfort was finally over. You looked down at your bowl, stabbing your spoon into your ice cream again. You are startled at the feeling of their lips pressing against both your cheeks in two brief kisses. They pulled back returning to their ice cream. 

The crackling of the fire in the hearth was the sole sound that stirred the stillness, each pop and hiss echoing through the chamber like a whisper of fate. Draped in heavy maroon velvets, the man in the high-backed chair let out a weary sigh, his gaze sharp as steel as it settled upon the figure opposite him.

"How am I to know you’ll keep your word, Salazar?" He asked, "You've never been one to turn away from glory — especially when it's for your own name."

His companion, cloaked in darker hues, paused. A slow, sly smile crept across his face — thin, deliberate, and far too familiar. Godric couldn't help but think of his companion’s namesake — all that was missing was a forked tongue singing sweet lies.

"Then let us bind our names as one," Salazar said at last, his tone smooth as still water, "What glory comes to Slytherin shall then be glory to Gryffindor as well."

Godric narrowed his eyes, fingers running through his beard. A humorless breath escaped him, half laugh, half warning, "You’ve no daughter, Salazar."

"Not yet, that much is true," The other replied calmly, "Yet that is the very point — a safeguard. Let us seal the pact with magic: when our descendants are come of age, they shall wed. Should they fail to do so… then let their bloodline be forfeit."

Godric regarded him in silence, the fire casting shifting shadows across his face. After a long pause, he stood.

"Very well," He said, "You have a deal, old friend."

***

Potions was hardly the class you needed to attend when you were this sleep-deprived. Snape gave out instructions quick and fast and one after the other — and it was difficult enough to catch all of them while wide awake. In your current state, it was a blessing you were understanding every second word.

You’d been plagued by nightmares all night — visions of a dark room barely touched by light, the hiss and rattle of a snake’s tail, and a searing golden thread weaving itself through your chest, leaving a burning trail in its wake as it tied a tight knot around your heart. You woke up feeling like something ancient had looked directly into your soul.

The classroom buzzed with low murmurs and the occasional clink of glass as students moved about, carefully preparing their assignments. You stood at your workstation with Hermione, watching your cauldron bubble gently as she measured out powdered moonstone.

“Careful,” She muttered, “Snape said too much will make it foam—”

Before you could respond, there was a loud laugh from the back of the room.

“Oi, Nott — your stirring looks like a troll having a fit!” Blaise teased, shoving Theo lightly from behind.

Theo rolled his eyes, scoffing, “You wish your potion looked half as decent, Zabini—”

But Blaise gave him another nudge — harder this time, more of a shove.

Theo stumbled back, and before you could react, his shoulder slammed into yours with full force.

You gasped and staggered forward, crashing into the classmate standing in front of you. You hit Mattheo Riddle square in the chest — hard.

And then — everything went wrong.

The moment his skin brushed yours, the room exploded in light. A brilliant, blinding pulse of gold erupted between you — not fire, not lightning, but magic, raw and ancient and alive. The light burst outward in a shockwave that swept through the room.

Every cauldron detonated at once.

Glass shattered. Potions hissed and spilled across the floor. Shrill screams echoed off the stone walls. Smoke and sparks filled the air.

You and Mattheo stumbled apart, dazed and breathless — and yet, the golden thread of light still shimmered faintly between your fingertips.

Everyone in the classroom froze.

Hermione had her wand half-raised, eyes wide. Ron was crouched behind the table, shielding his potion-splattered notes. Harry looked between you and Mattheo like he’d just witnessed the first sign of the apocalypse.

“What the hell was that?” Malfoy demanded from across the room, brushing sludge off his robes.

“Did you see that light?” “She cursed him—” “No, he cursed her—!”

“Enough!” Snape bellowed, storming out of the smoke cloud, looking more furious than you’d ever seen him.

But before he could speak further, another voice cut clean through the chaos like a blade.

“Miss (L/N). Mr. Riddle. You will come with me. Now.”

Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway, as if the castle itself had summoned her the second it happened. Her eyes were sharp as steel behind her spectacles, and the look on her face made your stomach twist with dread.

Mattheo didn’t say a word. He just shot you a glare — like this was somehow your fault — and stepped past the wreckage toward the door.

You followed in stunned silence, the echo of that magic still buzzing in your bones.

You had no idea what had just happened. But it had changed something. And you could feel it — whatever this was… it would never be the same again.

***

The heavy oak doors to the Headmaster’s office creaked open on their own, and you stepped inside behind McGonagall, your nerves fraying with every step. Mattheo Riddle trailed a few paces behind you, shoulders squared, jaw clenched like he was ready to bite someone’s head off.

Professor Snape was already inside, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He didn’t even blink when you walked in — just tilted his head like he was mentally cataloguing your sins.

But it was Dumbledore who drew your attention. He stood in front of his desk, hands clasped, that same maddeningly calm expression on his face.

"Ah. Miss (L/N)," He said warmly, "And Mr. Riddle. Good. You're both here."

You barely had time to open your mouth before he added, with a small twinkle in his eye:

“And… a very happy birthday, (Y/N).”

You blinked, “Um… thank you, Professor?”

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. It wasn't the usual eccentric kindness you were used to from him. There was something off about it. Something purposeful.

You glanced nervously at McGonagall, who was avoiding your eyes for once, lips pressed into a thin line. Snape still hadn’t moved.

“…Did I do something wrong?” You asked, voice quiet, “Because I didn’t—”

“You didn’t,” Dumbledore cut in gently, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

You exhaled — a brief flicker of relief — before his next words sent your stomach plunging.

“But you have… reached a rather important day. One that has long been awaited.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “What are you talking about?”

Dumbledore turned, walked behind his desk, and drew out a drawer. From it, he retrieved a scroll of ancient parchment — so old and brittle that it looked like it might crumble if you breathed too hard. Strange runes glowed faintly along the edges in gold and green ink.

“It may surprise you,” Dumbledore said slowly, unrolling the scroll with care, “to learn that you are not the first in your family to attend Hogwarts. In fact… you are of a very old line. One that traces directly back to Godric Gryffindor himself.”

Your mouth parted slightly, “Wait—what?”

“And Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore continued, without looking at Mattheo, “descends from another of our founders — Salazar Slytherin.”

Mattheo scoffed, crossing his arms, “Yeah? So what?”

Dumbledore’s eyes lifted, suddenly sharper — older, “So… a pact made a thousand years ago, in secrecy and desperation, has finally come to pass.”

“A pact?” You echoed, staring at the glowing scroll, “What kind of pact?”

McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence — tight and grave, “A magically binding agreement. Between the founders themselves. A vow that, should descendants of their lines be born in the same generation… they would be joined. In marriage.”

The word hit the room like a curse.

“A marriage,” Dumbledore confirmed, “Written into the fabric of their magic itself. Designed to activate when the conditions were… finally right.”

You stared at him.

“No. That’s — that’s insane.”

“I would be inclined to agree.” Snape muttered dryly.

Dumbledore continued, unshaken, “The spell lay dormant for centuries. Until today.”

“Because we — because I touched him?” You asked, turning toward Mattheo, who now looked two seconds from spontaneous combustion.

“Because you are now of age,” Dumbledore said gently, “and the pact recognizes you both. When your magic met his — it awakened.”

Snape finally spoke, voice cold, “You both witnessed the first sign today. The flare. The bond. Arcane magic, woven into your blood, has reawakened. You can no longer deny it.”

You stumbled back a step, hand pressing over your chest like you could still feel the thread of it under your skin — humming, burning.

Mattheo was the first to break the silence. His voice came out low, sharp, “So that’s it? I’m supposed to marry her because two dead men thought it was a good idea a thousand years ago?”

He scoffed, disgusted. “Are you all completely mad?”

Dumbledore held up a hand, “For now, I only ask that you both take this seriously. This magic is older than all of us — and it is already in motion.”

You swallowed hard, your voice shaking, “…And what happens if we don’t?”

Dumbledore hesitated — and that alone made your heart stop.

“It is my belief,” he said quietly, looking straight at you, “that if the vow is not fulfilled…you may lose your magic. Possibly… even your life.”

Your breath caught.

No. No, no, no—

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like you might vomit. Your lungs refused to expand. You barely heard McGonagall calling your name as your knees gave slightly.

Mattheo let out a humorless laugh, “Then let her die for all I care. I’m not marrying her. I don’t care if the whole castle burns down.”

And then he stormed out, slamming the door so hard that several portraits shouted in protest.

You stood frozen, tears burning your eyes. Even though you hadn’t wanted this marriage either, something about his words — how easily he said it — made something inside you crack.

“Am I really going to lose my magic?” you asked in a whisper, “Am I going to die?”

McGonagall was at your side instantly, her hand warm on your back as you began to sob, trying and failing to breathe through the panic.

Your first day as an adult. And already… you’d been sentenced to death.

***

The entrance to the Slytherin common room slithered open with a hiss, the chill of the dungeons seeping into Mattheo’s skin as he stepped inside. The low greenish light cast shadows across the stone walls, the usual scent of damp earth and smoke curling in the air.

“Oi, there he is — the man of the hour,” Blaise called from the corner, lounging on a leather sofa with Theo and a few others scattered around, “Thought you'd get stuck in detention for the rest of your life. Was worth it though — we got to leave class early.”

Mattheo forced a scoff, striding toward them with the practiced swagger he wore like armor, “The old crones are all senile.”

Theo snorted, “What happened anyway? She bumped into you and you lost your mind ‘cause her filthy hands doth not touch the pure skin of Mattheo Riddle?”

A few of the others laughed. Mattheo didn’t. He just dropped into the seat next to Blaise, jaw tight.

“I bumped into her. That’s all.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, “Bumped into her and what, set off a bloody fireworks show? Draco took four showers to get the Bubotuber pus out of his hair.”

Mattheo’s fingers tightened around his wand, “I said it was nothing.”

But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel it again — a dull tingling in his head, a sharp kind of pain right behind his eyes that made him screw them shut.

He raised his wand, needing a drink of water.

“Accio.” He muttered, aiming at a glass across the room.

A spark of light flickered. The glass wobbled. Then nothing.

Theo blinked, “Mate, what the hell was that? You losing your touch?”

Mattheo frowned, “I’m just tired. Had one of the most bizarre conversations of my life.”

He gripped the wand tighter — too tight — and tried again.

“Accio.”

A more violent spark this time — and then CRACK. The glass shot across the room like a bullet and slammed into the stone wall behind them, shattering into a million pieces. A few people flinched. Someone swore.

Mattheo didn’t look at the shards of glass.

He was staring at his hand.

It was shaking. Barely — just a tremor in his fingers, almost imperceptible — but it was there.

“Mattheo?” Blaise’s voice was cautious now, “You alright?”

Mattheo’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

Something was wrong. It was the way his magic felt. Like it wasn’t entirely his anymore. Like something was tugging on it — pulling threads loose in places he couldn’t see.

He stood abruptly.

“I’m going to bed.”

And without another word, he stalked off toward the dorms, leaving the others exchanging uneasy looks behind him.

***

The warm glow of the Gryffindor common room wrapped around you like a fragile shield as you pushed open the portrait hole. The chatter and laughter of your friends filled the air — Ron sitting cross-legged by the fire, Hermione quietly reading a book, and Harry leaning against the armrest, eyes lifting as you entered.

“(Y/N)!” Hermione’s smile faltered the moment she saw your face, “Are you—?”

But before she could finish, something inside you broke loose. The tight control you’d clung to shattered, and tears spilled unbidden down your cheeks.

You stumbled forward, unable to stop yourself, and Harry was instantly at your side, arms wrapping around you with steady strength. You leaned into him, your body shaking as sobs wracked your frame.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Harry murmured softly, his voice gentle as the warmth of the fire, “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You let the tears fall, the hurt and fear and confusion pooling in your chest and spilling out at last.

Ron and Hermione watched quietly, giving you space, their eyes full of concern but never pressing for answers.

***

The first light of dawn crept faintly through the narrow, green-tinted windows of the Slytherin dormitory, casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. Blaise sat up on the edge of his bed, nudging Mattheo’s shoulder with a lazy, “Oi, Mattheo, time to get up.”

There was no response.

He frowned and gave the shoulder another shove, “Wake up, you bloody tosser, or we’re gonna leave you here.”

Still nothing.

Theo, pulling on his uniform, raised an eyebrow, “He’s out cold or something?”

Blaise frowned deeper, reached out, and gently rolled Mattheo onto his back.

They both froze.

Mattheo’s face was ghostly pale — the usual sharp lines softened, drained of color. His eyes remained shut tight, breathing shallow and uneven.

But it was the dark crimson stains that stole Blaise’s breath — blood soaked the pillow beneath Mattheo’s head, seeping into the white sheets, splattered around the bed like a grim painting. Fresh, vivid, unmistakable.

Blaise’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Fuck… is that blood?”

They leaned closer, horror rising as trickles of dried blood traced haunting paths from his ears, nose, and the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly, Mattheo began to cough — a wet, painful hack that shook his whole body. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. His coughing turned into choking, a gargling, desperate sound as he struggled against the blood flooding his throat.

“Get a professor!” Blaise yelled, panic sharpening his voice.

Theo didn’t hesitate — he bolted from the room, racing through the dungeons to find help.

***

You pushed open the doors to the hospital wing, your heart thudding hard in your chest. Professor McGonagall’s owl had found you at dinner— a curt summons with no explanation, only urgency in the hurried scrawl of her handwriting.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. The soft clinks of vials and the distant rustle of linens were the only sounds as you stepped inside. The smell of antiseptic and iron hit you all at once — sharp, metallic, unmistakable.

Your pace slowed as you spotted them.

McGonagall. Dumbledore. Snape. And Madam Pomfrey.

All gathered around a single hospital bed.

The pit in your stomach grew deeper with every step as you approached.

It wasn’t until you rounded the bed that you saw who lay in it.

Mattheo.

Your breath caught.

He was barely recognizable. Pale — deathly pale — with dark shadows under his eyes and dried blood flaked around his mouth and nose. His usually sharp, arrogant features were slack with exhaustion. Soaked cloths were piled on the table beside him, stained deep crimson. A silver basin sat on the floor, half full with water and flecks of blood.

You stared, frozen, mouth parting in disbelief.

“…What—” Your voice cracked, the word barely a whisper, “What happened to him?”

No one answered at first. Madam Pomfrey wrung out another bloodied cloth and dabbed gently at the side of Mattheo’s mouth. He flinched but didn’t stir.

You looked at McGonagall, your voice harder now, “Professor?”

McGonagall exchanged a glance with Dumbledore, then stepped forward.

Dumbledore sighed quietly, folding his hands before him, “The effects began soon after the vow was unfulfilled.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“When Mr. Riddle rejected the vow — forcefully — the binding magic retaliated. Violently.” McGonagall said, her voice tight with strain.

You blinked, “Wait — so this is because he said no?”

Snape nodded, eyes cold and grim, “The pact is ancient, arcane, and sentient in its own way. It punishes defiance.”

“And if… if we don’t go through with it?” You asked quietly, the words sticking to your throat like ash, “He’s going to die?”

No one spoke at first.

Then Dumbledore nodded, solemn, “Yes.”

You stared at them, waiting for someone to laugh. To say it was a test or a joke or some horrible misunderstanding.

But they just stood there, faces lined with worry and exhaustion.

Your hands curled into fists.

“So let me get this straight,” You said slowly, your voice rising, “He tells me to drop dead — literally — storms out, acts like I’m some sort of plague, and now I’m supposed to what? Save him? Marry him? Because he decided to spit in the face of something he didn’t understand?”

Snape arched a brow, about to respond, but you cut him off with a sharp shake of your head.

“No. I’m not doing this. He made his choice. He wanted me to die instead. He said it himself — let her die for all I care. So where’s that bravado now, Riddle? Hm?” You looked at him again, still unmoving, still barely clinging to life, “You wanted me gone. So why the hell should I save you?”

No one tried to stop you when you turned and stormed out of the room, fury choking your throat.

But as you stepped into the corridor, just before the doors swung shut behind you, you heard voices behind you — low, urgent.

“…his breath is getting fainter.”

“At this rate, I’m not sure he’ll make it through the night.”

Your steps faltered.

And for a moment — just one — the triumph you thought you’d feel turned into something much heavier.

Like guilt.

Like dread.

But you walked away anyway.

***

The Gryffindor common room was quiet, the fire long since reduced to embers. You sat curled up on the armchair closest to the hearth, knees to your chest, the hem of your pajama pants twisting around your ankles. You hadn't moved in hours.

You couldn’t sleep.

Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was Mattheo — pale, barely breathing, the blood, the stillness, the weight of it all pressing in around you like a vice.

You told yourself he deserved it.

You told yourself you were right.

But then you remembered the way his lips were tinged blue. The way Madam Pomfrey’s hands shook when she dabbed the blood from his face. The way no one — not even Dumbledore — had been able to hide the fear in their eyes.

And then there was the way your heart had twisted in your chest when you heard them say he might not make it to morning.

It was past midnight now. The castle was silent.

You stood before you could think, arms wrapping around yourself for warmth as you padded barefoot through the corridors, the stone cold beneath your feet. You didn’t even bring a robe. Just your pajama pants and an old sweater. You didn’t care.

You just… had to see him.

The doors to the hospital wing groaned softly as you slipped inside. The lamps had been dimmed, casting long shadows across the rows of beds. Only one of them was occupied.

Mattheo.

“Miss (L/N)?” Came a voice from beside him, but you couldn’t even make eye contact with your professor — your eyes were locked onto the boy lying in the bed, on the verge of death.

He hadn’t moved.

His skin was even paler now, his breathing barely visible beneath the thin blanket draped across his chest. The basin beside the bed had been cleaned, but the faint scent of blood still lingered in the air.

You stood there for a long moment, arms still crossed tightly over your chest.

“I’ll do it.”

The words came out quieter than you expected. Like a secret. Like a surrender.

Your voice trembled as you took a step closer, “I’ll marry him.”

You looked over at McGonagall, throat tight, and nodded.

“I’ll do it,” You said again, “If it’ll stop this. If it’ll save him.”

Dumbledore appeared from the adjoining room, his eyes tired but gentle, “Are you sure, my dear?”

You looked down at Mattheo — at the stubborn furrow in his brow, still etched there even now. At the way he looked like a ghost in his own body.

“No,” You whispered, “But I’d never forgive myself if he died and I knew there was something I could’ve done to stop it.”

“You’re going to have to cast the spell yourself, Miss (L/N),” McGonagall said softly.

You nodded, eyes still locked on Mattheo.

You sat in the chair beside his bed and reached out — slowly, hesitantly — to take his hand.

It was cold.

But you held it anyway.

The silence in the hospital wing was thick — like the room itself was holding its breath.

Mattheo didn’t stir as you sat beside him, his hand heavy and cold in yours. Madam Pomfrey stepped back, her hands clasped tightly. Dumbledore watched you with a strange sorrow in his eyes. McGonagall stood beside him, her expression unreadable. And Snape... Snape looked like he already knew how this would end.

You looked down at Mattheo’s face — pale, drawn, lips parted ever so slightly as he struggled to breathe. If someone had told you a week ago that you’d be holding his hand like this, whispering a marriage vow to save his life, you would’ve laughed in their face.

But now…

You swallowed hard, lifting your wand with your free hand. It shook.

“What do I say?” You whispered.

Dumbledore stepped forward. “Repeat after me. Word for word. The spell will bind your magic, your life force, and your future to his — should he survive the bonding.”

You nodded, your grip tightening around Mattheo’s fingers.

Dumbledore spoke first, slowly and clearly, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

You repeated it softly, every word a thread stitching itself into the air, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

“…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

Your chest ached as the words left you, “…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

“…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

You could barely breathe as you whispered the last line, your throat tight with tears, “…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

Your wand pulsed with heat.

The tip glowed softly — a deep crimson — and then dimmed as the magic released into Mattheo’s chest in a slow, golden ripple, like sunlight spilling through water.

You felt it then — not a physical tug, but something… inward. A lurch in your core. A sudden pull between your body and his. Like your magic had reached out and fastened itself to his, anchoring to something inside him you couldn’t see.

A soft gasp escaped his lips.

You froze.

Mattheo’s hand twitched.

Then — a cough. Wet. Weak. Painful. His eyes cracked open, red-rimmed and glassy, and they locked onto yours.

“…You?”

His voice was barely a breath. But you heard it. Felt it. And then he passed out again — but this time, his chest rose just a little easier. The color returned, faintly, to his cheeks. The trembling in his hand stilled.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your wand falling to your lap.

It was done.

The pact was sealed.

You were married.

You dropped his hand, a sob racking through your body, “What have I done?”

McGonagall’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, her voice low but steady as she tried to ground you.

“You did something extraordinary tonight,” she said softly, “You saved a life, Miss (L/N). And that is never something to be taken lightly — no matter the circumstances.”

You nodded numbly, eyes fixed on the folds of your pajama sleeve. Your fingers were clenched, digging into the fabric, trying to stop the tremor still moving through you.

You hadn’t let go of the weight of what you’d done — not yet. The spell still lingered in your veins like fire and ice, like a tether. You hadn’t spoken since.

Not until a low, ragged breath tore through the silence.

And then a voice — hoarse, furious:

“What the fuck did you do?”

You froze.

Mattheo.

You turned slowly toward the bed, where he was now sitting upright — or trying to, at least. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his breathing was still shallow, but his eyes were wide and dark with realization. With rage.

He was staring straight at you.

“No,” He muttered, shaking his head like he could undo it just by refusing to believe it, “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t go through with it.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just sat there, stunned, heart pounding like a war drum in your throat.

“I—” You tried to speak, but your voice caught.

He swung his legs off the bed, swaying with the effort. His skin was ghostly pale, but the venom in his voice was unmistakable.

“You had no fucking right,” He spat, “You just wanted to play the hero — and now I’m the one chained to a decision I didn’t make.”

“Mr. Riddle,” Snape said coolly from across the room, “had she not acted, you would be dead. Is that what you would’ve preferred? That we stand by and let you bleed out?”

Mattheo didn’t even glance at him. His eyes stayed locked on you — like you’d cast the killing curse instead of saving his life.

“You think I should thank you?” He snapped, “You think shackling me to you makes you noble? It doesn’t. It makes you soft. Weak. All of you are fucking insane.”

You flinched like he’d struck you.

The silence that followed stretched taut — unbearable.

And then, barely above a whisper, your voice broke through.

“You’re right.”

Mattheo blinked.

Your hands clenched tighter in your lap, nails digging into your palms, carving crescent moons into your skin.

“I shouldn’t have done anything,” You said, louder now — your voice rising with every word, like something was building, choking you, “I should’ve turned around and walked out of this damn hospital wing. I should’ve let you bleed out, just like you wanted. Would’ve saved us both a lifetime of regret.”

McGonagall called your name — gentle, warning — but you didn’t stop.

“You think it makes me weak?” You hissed, tears blurring your vision, “Fine. Be grateful someone so weak was destined for you. Because no one else would’ve ever willingly bound themselves to you. No one else would’ve looked at what you are — the person you are — and still chosen to save you.”

Mattheo’s glare deepened. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack. His hands trembled at his sides — too weak to ball into fists, though you could see him trying.

But you weren’t finished.

“I’m cursing my ancestors for tying me to a monster like you,” You said, standing as you wiped at your face, trying to chase away the tears that refused to stop, “You hate this so much? Then do something about it. Go throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower.”

You paused — your voice cold as ice.

“Then maybe you’ll finally be good for something.”

The room went deathly still.

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and walked out, each footstep pounding like thunder down the hall, your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sobs clawing their way out of you — fury burning in your chest.

And behind you, no one said a word.

***

The next few weeks at Hogwarts felt like walking on glass.

Despite the long list of grievances — the near-lethal bickering, the glares that could freeze hell over, and the occasional hex cast under the table — there was one thing you and Mattheo Riddle agreed on:

The marriage bond was to remain a secret. Or so help you, you’d Obliviate the entire school.

But silence didn’t mean peace.

In fact, ever since the night in the hospital wing, things had gotten worse.

You’d gone from mutual avoidance to open warfare. The moment your sleeves so much as brushed in a corridor, the air would shift — like the castle itself was bracing for impact. Even the portraits had learned to duck when you passed.

Your professors were at their absolute limit.

McGonagall had nearly taken her hat off in frustration during Transfiguration, and Snape — who normally relished assigning detentions — looked ready to swallow an entire cauldron of Felix Felicis just to avoid your next row.

The problem was: detention didn’t help.

You and Mattheo would just end up arguing behind closed doors. Or worse — he wouldn’t even show up. And if he didn’t show, why the hell should you?

Snape had tried to separate you. McGonagall had tried silent partnering spells. Flitwick had attempted a rotation chart. None of it worked.

Because the truth was simple: You two weren’t combustible. You were already on fire.

And the next explosion was only a matter of time.

It was supposed to be a simple lesson.

“Today, we’ll be practicing small-to-medium object-to-animal transfigurations,” McGonagall announced crisply, the chalk behind her scribbling across the board on its own, “The object must retain its original mass, and the animal must be fully functional.”

You weren’t even looking at Mattheo.

A single brush of shoulders in the corridor was enough to spark full-blown arguments. The professors had resorted to full-on assigned seating just to keep you apart.

Naturally, your desk was at the very front of the room.

And Mattheo’s?

Two rows behind and off to the right.

Far enough to ignore. Close enough to still feel him.

You gritted your teeth and raised your wand.

The matchbox on your desk trembled once — then, with a small pop, sprouted whiskers and legs, fur rippling across the surface like ink in water. It let out a high-pitched squeak and bolted.

Right off your desk.

The mouse-thing tore across the floor, weaving between desks like a heat-seeking missile until—

It launched itself onto Mattheo’s parchment, knocking over his inkpot and scrabbling up his sleeve.

His reaction was instant.

Mattheo shot to his feet, chair crashing backward with a loud bang, “Are you fucking serious?”

You stood too, wand half-raised, “It was an accident!”

“Every spell you cast ends up ruining lives,” He snapped, voice like shattered glass, “Why should today be any different?”

The class froze, eyes darting between the two of you.

Blaise’s jaw tightened. Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. Even Ron glanced nervously toward McGonagall, who remained impassive but clearly tense.

Your throat tightened like a vice.

“You’re one to talk about ruining lives,” You spat, stepping forward, heat flashing under your skin, “Next time I’ll let your skull hit the floor and see how noble I feel.”

“Oh, I’m the mess?” He scoffed, closing the distance, “I’m not the one who decided to play God—”

“You’re right. You’re not capable of caring about anyone but yourself.”

His eyes flashed, “I’d rather Avada myself than give a shit about you.”

“Do us both a favour and go ahead, Riddle!”

Your wand was in your hand before you even realized it.

“I swear to Merlin—”

Mattheo’s wand was already raised, aimed directly at you, “Do it. Go on. Every Gryffindor dreams of taking out a Riddle. Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve. Put me out of my fucking misery.”

“ENOUGH!”

McGonagall’s voice cracked through the room like lightning.

With a single flick of her wand, both of yours went flying — clattering across the stone floor.

She strode forward, every inch of her trembling with fury.

Neither of you said a word.

“Outside. Now.”

You turned first, jaw clenched tight. Mattheo followed a beat later, shoulders stiff with rage.

And as the door slammed shut behind you, you both stormed off in opposite directions, breaths ragged — not looking at each other. Not speaking.

But the silence buzzed louder than any scream.

Because neither of you said it aloud. But in that moment, you both knew: Something was going to break soon.

And it wouldn’t be the bond.

It would be you.

***

Snape had been more successful than usual at keeping you both apart during lessons. Your workbenches were set far, far away from each other, and all the tools and ingredients you’d need were already placed before class began. While it was completely unlike him, Snape had gone through the painstaking effort of making sure you’d never have to leave your bench—and thus wouldn’t run into each other.

Mattheo was halfway through slicing the stubborn boomslang skin when the knife slipped from his fingers. A curse barely whispered under his breath. He glanced down at the thin line of blood trickling from a cut on his palm.

“Are you bleeding?” Lorenzo’s voice cut through the quiet classroom, unexpectedly loud.

The noise struck you like a jolt to the chest. Your heart hammered in your ribs, and without thinking, you whipped your head around, eyes scanning the room in sudden panic.

For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. Was he sick again? Coughing up blood like last time? Was he hurt worse than before? Why? You had cast the spell, fulfilled the vow. Why was he bleeding? Was it because your magic was wearing off? Were you losing your magic?

Mattheo caught your frantic gaze from across the room. His brow furrowed as he watched the flicker of worry on your pale face—completely out of place among the usual sharp barbs you threw his way.

Why are you looking at me like that? his eyes seemed to ask.

You looked away quickly, biting the inside of your cheek. Your gaze flicked over his form, lingering briefly on the wound in his hand. Slowly, you sank back onto your stool, exhaling shakily when Harry leaned toward you with a concerned, “Are you okay?”

You just shook your head, forcing a faint smile. Nothing worth mentioning.

Mattheo’s confusion deepened.

He glanced once more at his bleeding palm, then back at you, narrowing his eyes.

The same person who tells me to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower is worried when I bleed?

A sardonic smirk tugged at his lips—bitter and cold. Pathetic, he thought. She’s weaker than I thought.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Hilarious.”

***

The dormitory was quiet, the other girls already asleep — or pretending to be. You lay motionless in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the moonlight tracing pale lines across your blanket.

It was the stillness that made it unbearable. No shouting, no clashing wands, no chaos to hide behind — just the raw, aching silence where your thoughts had nowhere to go but inward.

Your fingers curled in the sheets, heart leaden in your chest.

You’d read about soulbonds. You’d studied the magic. You understood the implications.

But knowing something intellectually wasn’t the same as feeling it. It wasn't the same as feeling that familiar tug in your soul whenever he was around. Not even affection, just recognition. Because deep down, his soul was yours now, and yours belonged to him.

Your husband.

Could you ever fall in love with someone else? Could you be touched, kissed, adored by anyone else without this bond protesting? Could you ever stand before another person in a white dress and vow yourself to them, when somewhere, in the deepest part of your soul, you were already tied to Mattheo Riddle?

Was this all your life was going to amount to? Would you ever be able to have children? A family?

Your chest tightened, a quiet grief building behind your ribs — not because you wanted him, but because now you might never get to choose.

Not really.

Not freely.

You turned to face the wall, eyes burning.

You hadn’t even wanted this. You had only done what was necessary. You’d cast the spell. You’d saved his life. You’d paid the price. And now the rest of your life might not be yours to live.

***

Mattheo slammed the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. His dorm was dim and cool, shadows sprawling over the stone walls like claws. He paced across the room like a caged animal, rage simmering just beneath his skin.

Every time he closed his eyes, he felt his soul reach out of his body, looking for his other half. His magic was writhing in protest—one part of him aching to return to his wife, the other wishing the bond had never been forged at all."

He grabbed a book off his desk and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a loud thud, scattering parchment.

No.

He wasn’t going to be tied to this. He wasn’t going to be one of those cursed bastards in old fairy tales, shackled to a girl because of some ancient, romanticised magic.

It wasn’t fair.

You weren't fair. Always so self-righteous. Always so brave, so noble. Like you were above it all. Like saving him meant you got to own his future.

He sneered, dragging a hand through his hair.

He’d go out with someone else tomorrow — hell, two people, maybe. Just to prove it meant nothing. Just to remind himself that he still had a choice. That no invisible string could dictate who he was or who he wanted to touch.

And if some part of his chest felt heavy beneath that anger — if his stomach clenched at the memory of you going pale with concern, like you cared about him — well, he wasn’t going to fucking think about that.

Mattheo pulled off his school robes with more force than necessary and threw himself onto his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.

This was just magic.

He didn’t believe in fate.

***

The greenhouse was muggy and buzzing with low conversation, the scent of damp moss and pollen thick in the air. You were partnered with Hermione — thankfully — while Mattheo was stationed several tables away, buried in a hushed conversation with Theodore and Lorenzo.

It should’ve made you feel safe — that distance — but your skin still prickled every time someone said his name. Every time he laughed like nothing between you had cracked wide open.

Professor Sprout bustled through the rows of tables, cheerfully guiding everyone toward the trays of unmarked magical plants, “Careful, class — some of these are… temperamental. I want you to handle them gently. We provoke nothing, understood?”

You nodded absently. Beside you, Hermione was flipping through her textbook, muttering classifications under her breath. Somewhere behind you, Mattheo’s voice filtered through the noise — low, unmistakable. Like smoke curling through your awareness.

You didn’t look. You didn’t need to.

Your soul already knew he was there. You could feel him. Feel his magic.

And it was driving you insane.

Your eyes scanned your workstation, landing on a thick-stemmed plant with curling, faintly shimmering leaves. It looked harmless. Almost pretty. Distracted, your hand reached toward it—

“Wait—!” Hermione started, too late.

The plant struck fast. Its leaves snapped open like jaws, revealing rows of tiny, sharp teeth.

You flinched back—

But not fast enough.

A hand caught your wrist and yanked.

Mattheo’s grip was unrelenting as he dragged you away from the plant’s snapping maw. The force of it knocked you into him, your chest colliding with his shoulder.

The scent of mint, smoke, and fresh grass hit you like a punch to the gut.

You froze.

Mattheo didn’t look at you. His hand stayed firm around your wrist, holding it up like it had personally offended him. His eyes were locked on the plant, jaw tight.

“For fuck’s sake,” He muttered, low and sharp, “Fancy losing an arm, do you?”

Your jaw clenched, “I didn’t ask you to—”

But your voice faltered.

Because your skin was touching.

And the moment it did, the air around you pulsed.

Raw magic cracked through the greenhouse like thunder. The floor trembled beneath your feet. Pots exploded. Vines twisted violently from their containers. One of the plants let out a shriek that made your bones vibrate.

Professor Sprout spun around, eyes wide, “What in Merlin’s name—?!”

Students shouted and scrambled back, clutching their wands as chaos erupted.

“Bloody hell,” Theo muttered somewhere to your right.

The plant that had nearly taken your hand shattered its entire pot in a final, violent explosion — soil and ceramic fragments flying.

And in the middle of it all, Mattheo did the last thing anyone would’ve expected.

He didn’t let go.

He pulled you closer.

One arm locked tight around your waist as he turned into you, shielding your body with his own like it was instinct. His back took the brunt of it — shards of ceramic and clumps of dirt pelting his robes and shoulders as the pot burst behind you.

You couldn’t breathe.

For one suspended second, the rest of the world vanished — the screaming vines, the spells, the panic. All you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Mattheo’s jaw was clenched, his eyes still fixed forward.

But his grip told you everything you didn’t want to understand.

Then, almost as if realizing what caused the chaos — who caused it — his body tensed even more. And suddenly, he let go like he’d touched flame.

You stepped back just as quickly, as though the heat between you hadn’t seared itself into your skin.

The distance snapped back into place.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t even glance at you. Just turned on his heel, stalking back to his workstation with his robes covered in dirt, hair mussed, and jaw tight — like nothing had happened.

But something had.

You watched him go, eyes falling to the soil on his back from where he’d pulled you close.

Then you looked away.

Neither of you spoke of it — not to each other, not to anyone else. But under your breath, the bond whispered what you both refused to say:

Husband. Wife.

And the magic remembered.

***

The steps up to the Astronomy Tower were slick with night dew, the stone worn smooth beneath Mattheo’s boots. The sky was a deep navy above them, scattered with stars, and the wind tugged at their robes as he and his friends climbed — Theo, Blaise, Draco, and Lorenzo trailing behind, their laughter low and easy.

“If we get caught, I’m throwing you all under the bus,” Draco huffed, “Making me leave my silk sheets for a smoke. I don’t even smoke! We’re not girlfriends going to the toilets together — why do I have to be here?”

Mattheo barely heard him.

They were nearing the final bend of the stairwell when he stopped short, his hand shooting out to halt Blaise mid-step.

“What—?” Blaise started, frowning.

Mattheo didn’t answer. His head tilted, brows drawing tight.

A voice floated down the stairs.

Yours.

The wind nipped at your cheeks, but you didn’t mind. It was quiet up here — calm — and that was rare these days.

You sat cross-legged on the ledge, a Chocolate Frog wrapper fluttering beside you. Harry leaned nearby, arms folded against the cold, chewing on a Bertie Bott’s bean with an expression like he’d swallowed a lemon.

He spat the offending thing over the ledge.

“Haz!” You exclaimed, grinning, “Was that dirt-flavored?”

“Vomit!” He cried, chugging his hot chocolate — and immediately burning his tongue, “Oh Merlin—hell—it was vomit-flavored!”

You burst into laughter — a belly-deep kind of laugh, bright and contagious, ringing through the tower like wind chimes in summer. And something about it hit Mattheo like a punch to the ribs. It flared through him like wildfire, warm and sickening and wrong. He didn’t know why it mattered. He didn’t care.

He shouldn’t care.

Harry blinked, turning to look at you — really look, “There’s that smile.”

You tilted your head.

He smiled, “Haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”

You grinned, “Really says something about your joke-telling, doesn’t it, Haz?”

He scoffed, bumping your shoulder, “You only laugh when I’m in pain.”

“Seriously though,” He said, softer this time, “What’s going on with you lately?”

You tried to play innocent, “What do you mean?”

He gave you a look, “Don’t do that. You know what I mean. What’s going on with you and Riddle?”

Mattheo’s lungs went tight.

“It’s very hard for you to hate someone, (Y/N),” Harry continued, “I should know. Despite everything those snakes do, you still manage to stay cordial with Berkshire and Zabini.”

“But you,” Harry said, nodding at you, “you’re practically on the verge of murder when Riddle walks into a room. What did he do to piss you off that badly?”

You sighed, shoulders sagging, “He’s an ass.”

Harry didn’t argue.

“He’s rude, arrogant, violent… thinks the world owes him something.” You paused, chewing your lip, “But the more I think about it… the more I feel like I owe him an apology.”

Mattheo’s pulse stuttered. His jaw clenched. He didn’t know why he was still standing there. Why hadn’t he turned around? Why were his feet not moving?

But his heart was pounding.

Harry blinked, “You? Apologize to Mattheo Riddle?”

“I know,” You groaned, resting your head against Harry’s shoulder, sipping your hot chocolate, “It sounds insane. And he’s still awful. He says the nastiest things and looks at me like I’ve ruined his life.”

“I hope there’s a but coming or I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s for a psych evaluation.”

You laughed softly.

“But,” You admitted, “I think I was wrong too. I didn’t ask for any of this… but neither did he.”

Silence. Just the wind and the sound of distant owls.

“He’d be lucky to get an apology from you,” Harry said finally, “But if he throws it in your face, I’ll hex his eyebrows off.”

From the stairwell, Mattheo turned without a word, brushing past the others. His expression unreadable. His hands clenched.

“Mate?” Lorenzo whispered.

Mattheo didn’t respond.

He lit a cigarette with a flick of his wand, the smoke curling from his lips as his eyes fixed on nothing.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he muttered. “This spot’s taken.”

***

The courtyard was cold and quiet, moonlight catching in puddles across the cobblestones. Mattheo walked fast, hands buried in his coat pockets, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His friends trailed behind, boots scuffing against wet stone, all of them exchanging looks like they were watching a wounded animal pace in circles.

“So,” Blaise drawled, jogging to catch up, “you gonna tell us why you just froze like you saw a bloody Dementor?”

Mattheo didn’t look at him, “Didn’t.”

“You did,” Theo said, grinning, “I thought you’d been Petrified for a second. And then just stood there. Listening.”

Mattheo exhaled through his nose, jaw ticking.

“Oh, come on,” Draco groaned, dragging his feet, “You stopped us cold like you’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. And then just stood there listening to Potter, of all people, like he was singing you a bloody lullaby.”

Mattheo scowled, “He was being loud.”

“Oh yeah, loud enough to make your heart stop apparently,” Blaise said, his grin growing, “Or—oh, wait—was it her voice that got you all twitchy?”

They all knew it was you that had him pausing. It was obvious, but they wanted to stretch this out as long as possible.

Draco made a scandalized noise, “Was that what it was? Is little Matty catching feelings?”

Mattheo shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, “Don’t call me that.”

“She said she owed him an apology,” Lorenzo sang, clutching his heart, making the others guffaw, “Oh, their lovers’ tiff finally coming to an end.”

“She also called him an ass, arrogant, violent, and someone who thinks the world owes him something,” Blaise added helpfully.

“Sounds like foreplay to me.” Theo commented.

Mattheo didn’t dignify that with a response. He took another drag off his cigarette and kept walking.

“You’re acting weird.” Theo called after him.

“You’re acting like she matters.” Lorenzo added.

“She doesn’t.” Mattheo said coolly.

Blaise snorted, “You stood there for ten minutes listening to a private conversation. Be serious.”

“She was loud." Mattheo repeated.

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m leaving.”

Mattheo threw a middle finger over his shoulder without turning around.

***

Your conversation with Harry had left you with one undeniable truth: you owed Mattheo a long-overdue apology.

The more you thought about it, the more you realized how ambushed he must’ve felt—going from dying to waking up magically bound to a girl he didn’t even like. If you were in his position, you would’ve been upset too.

'I probably wouldn’t have said he should’ve died… and I definitely would’ve reacted differently after learning he saved my life, but I digress.' You thought, gathering up your books as you prepared to leave the library.

It was almost curfew, and you didn’t need another reason to land yourself in detention. At the rate you were going, expulsion was starting to feel like a real possibility. Yet another reason to apologize to Mattheo and smooth things over.

The only issue? You couldn’t seem to actually apologize.

Not for lack of trying—you’d made several attempts—but every time, you froze. Mattheo was always surrounded by his friends, who, you were fairly sure, still didn’t know about your secret. And even when he was alone, you’d chicken out—whether out of pride or the fear that another argument would explode before you got the words out.

As you made your way toward the exit, your eyes caught on a familiar figure hunched over a table.

Mattheo Riddle. Asleep, head down on his Charms essay.

He was alone. Relaxed.

This was probably the best time to say something, you thought. But just as you reached out to touch his shoulder, you paused. Would he be the type to bite your head off for waking him?

Instead, you slowly sank into the seat beside him and decided to wait until he woke up.

So this is my husband, you thought, eyes scanning his face. His dark curls fell over his forehead, brushing his nose and making him scrunch it every few seconds with an unconscious little sniffle. You almost reached out to brush them away before stopping yourself, opting to lean your cheek against the table instead, so you could get a better look.

He was handsome—no denying that. Of course, that was only when his face wasn’t twisted in a scowl or a sneer aimed at you.

Thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks. A scar ran across his nose—one he’d gotten during a fight back in fourth year. You still remembered the chaos of that week, how everyone buzzed with gossip, applauding his opponent for landing a permanent mark on the Slytherin prince.

Your heart clenched at the memory. People had cheered over him getting hurt?

That didn’t seem right. Then again, he wasn’t exactly known for his kindness either. Maybe that was why.

You sighed, letting your eyes drift closed, lulled by the soft scratching of quills and the low crackle of the fireplace. Your breathing began to slow, your body relaxing next to his.

A few minutes later, Mattheo stirred.

His eyes opened slowly—and the first thing he saw was you. Sleeping beside him. Peaceful. Your face mere inches from his own.

He didn’t move at first, just stared.

You looked so calm… so soft. Your lips slightly parted, lashes brushing your cheeks. His gaze moved to where your hands nearly touched on the table. His pinky brushed against yours, and at the contact, something warm bloomed inside him—like drinking something hot and sweet on a cold day.

Then, from the spot where your skin touched, golden butterflies began to shimmer and rise. They floated gently up, delicate and radiant, then dissolved into glittering dust that rained over the two of you like pixie dust.

It was in that moment your eyes began to flutter open, the warmth rushing through you, tugging you gently back to consciousness.

You met his gaze—those deep, stormy eyes lit with gold, reflecting the butterflies as they danced around you.

Silence fell over the moment, thick and delicate like a spun sugar spell.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your voice barely audible, “For everything.”

His eyes softened, “I know. I’m sorry too.”

You slowly pushed your hand closer, not quite holding his, just letting your fingers rest against his—craving his touch a little longer.

***

The corridors were bathed in shadows as you crept beside Mattheo, the glow of torches casting golden light across the stone walls. It was past curfew—well past—and your shoes squeaked louder than you wanted with every step.

Your hand still tingled from where it had touched his. You tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the butterflies, or the way his voice had softened when he told you he was sorry, too.

Mattheo was walking close—too close—but neither of you said anything. His shoulder brushed yours once, and both of you stiffened like you’d been hit with a jolt of electricity.

“This is such a bad idea,” You whispered, glancing behind you, “We’re going to get caught.”

“Then move quicker.” Mattheo muttered, though you could hear the smirk in his voice.

You rounded a corner—and froze.

Footsteps.

You both ducked into the nearest alcove, pressing into the shadows. Filch’s voice echoed down the hallway, muttering about rule-breakers and “ruffling Mrs. Norris’ feathers”—which didn’t even make sense, because she was a cat.

You were both holding your breath, your back against the wall, Mattheo right in front of you. Too close again. His hand twitched, like he was going to reach for you, steady you—

You shuffled back with a hissed whisper, “Don’t touch me!”

His brows rose, and you could see his smirk even in the dark, “Why? Scared I’ll bite?”

“No,” You snapped, “I’m scared if you touch me, this entire corridor is going to light up like a bloody fireworks show.”

His grin faltered. A flicker of remembrance crossed his face—the butterflies, the sparkles, the magic. That same electricity was crackling between you now, humming beneath your skin like the promise of a storm.

“…Right.” He muttered, glancing away.

You both fell silent, pressed against your opposing walls, hands braced against the stone, breaths so shallow so that your chests wouldn't brush. Filch’s footsteps faded down another corridor.

When it was safe, you stepped out of the alcove. Mattheo followed—quieter now.

As you reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, you paused, blinking. Mattheo had followed you all the way there—even though the Slytherin common room was in the opposite direction. He clearly knew that, with the way he was now standing still, waiting as you whispered your password and the portrait swung open.

You turned around to find him watching you with an unreadable expression.

“Goodnight, Mattheo.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

“Get back safe, yeah?”

He chuckled, “Should be easy without you jumping at every bloody sound.”

You let out a soft huff of a laugh, offering him a small smile before stepping through the portrait hole. It closed behind you with a gentle thud.

The Fat Lady raised an eyebrow and smiled down at Mattheo, “Someone’s in love.”

He scoffed, “Don’t be daft.”

“Tell that to the lovesick grin on your face.”

It was only then he realised he was smiling. And that his heart hadn’t quite stopped racing.

Fuck.

***

The Astronomy Tower was quieter than usual, the moonlight casting soft shadows across the stone floor. You’d come up for some air, textbook in hand, hoping the cool night would lull you into drowsiness. It hadn’t.

You didn’t expect company—not at this hour, anyway.

“Merlin’s sake,” A voice drawled from the stairs, “why are you always here?”

You looked up to find Mattheo Riddle squinting at you, cigarette already between his lips, brows raised like you were the one interrupting him.

“I could ask you the same thing.” You shot back.

“I asked first.”

“And I’m ignoring you first.”

He scoffed, “Hilarious. You think you’re so clever.”

You shrugged, eyes drifting back to your book, “You can smoke here if you want. I don’t mind.”

You expected him to roll his eyes and leave—maybe mutter something smug under his breath. But he surprised you by stepping forward instead.

He moved to sit on your right, but you quickly lifted your hand and waved him off, “Not there. Sit on my left.”

He blinked, “What? Why?”

You gestured lazily at the breeze wafting through the open arches, “Wind’s blowing that way. I’d rather not get a face full of your lung rot.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes but, to your mild surprise, moved without argument, settling beside you with a muttered, “Bossy.”

You ignored that, flipping a page in your book.

He caught sight of the title and groaned, “Please tell me you’re not actually doing homework at midnight.”

You gave him a small smile, “Can’t sleep. Figured reading this would bore me enough to pass out.”

He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, “Suppose that’s one way to do it.”

Silence fell for a moment—not uncomfortable, just quiet. Then, casually, you said, “I didn’t expect to see you in the library the other day. Didn't think you knew where it was.”

He smirked, “Charms essay’s due Monday. Figured I’d get it out of the way early.”

“That’s… surprisingly responsible of you.”

“Well,” He shrugged, “I’m going to that Hufflepuff thing by the Black Lake on Sunday. Didn’t fancy writing it hungover.”

You nodded, “Right. Forgot that was happening.”

Mattheo glanced at you, curious, “You’re not going?”

You shook your head, “Nah. Can’t swim. Bit pointless standing around while everyone else is diving in.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, quietly—almost too quietly—he said, “You should go anyway.”

You turned to look at him.

The moonlight lit up the edge of his face, the glow catching in his curls and the smoke curling from his lips. His eyes were on the sky now, not on you.

"Maybe I will."

***

The party at the Black Lake was in full swing by the time you arrived with your friends. You wore a hoodie over your swimsuit, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses perched on your nose, and your hair pulled back into a lazy bun that still somehow looked effortlessly good.

You hadn’t even planned on swimming—you just wanted to be out, feel the sun, maybe dip your feet into the water. You hadn’t thought twice about who else might be there.

Until you saw him.

Mattheo.

He was already waist-deep in the lake, surrounded by a cluster of Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws, laughing at something Theo said, water glistening on his shoulders. You weren’t looking at him. Not really.

You were looking in his direction.

At least that's what you told yourself.

You peeled off your hoodie as you neared the shore, tying it loosely around your waist before sitting at the rocky edge. Your legs dipped into the cool water, toes wiggling beneath the surface. You laughed at Ron and Harry as they cannonballed into the lake, sending up twin waves that splashed a few nearby Hufflepuffs. Hermione plopped down beside you with a fond eye roll, choosing to keep you company rather than swim—knowing full well you couldn’t.

And that was when Mattheo noticed you.

It was subtle—just a pause in his sentence, the flick of his eyes toward the shoreline. His laughter dimmed, something warm rushing through him despite the chill of the lake. Like sunlight breaking through glass.

Theo cracked another joke that made the group laugh again, but Mattheo didn’t join in. His eyes flicked back to you. Not obviously—just every few seconds. Like he couldn’t help it.

Like he was trying to figure out when the hell he started noticing the curve of your hips, the way your skin shimmered slightly from sun lotion, or how the sunlight kissed the top of your cheekbones.

And you?

You didn’t look at him once.

At one point, you stretched your arms back behind you, tilted your head toward the sun, letting it soak into your skin. Just for a moment. And when you sat back up, your eyes flickering over the lake to find him again.

Mattheo was gone.

Underwater.

Fully disappeared.

He resurfaced a few seconds later, farther out now—like he’d needed to cool off, or distract himself, or maybe just stop thinking.

You pulled your legs out of the water and wandered off with Hermione to get something to drink, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you left.

He watched the whole time.

*

You had just stepped away from Hermione to grab another drink, the sun warm on your skin, the breeze tugging at the hem of your hoodie where it clung to your still-damp legs. You didn’t even register the footsteps behind you until it was too late.

“Come on!” Someone called—a Hufflepuff boy you vaguely recognized from Charms, “You haven’t even been in the water yet!”

Your eyes widened, “Wait—”

And then you were airborne.

You hit the lake with a splash, the cold shocking through your bones, clamping around your lungs. Panic seized your chest like a vice.

Your arms flailed, legs kicking uselessly. You bobbed to the surface once—twice—each time barely catching breath before slipping under again. Your hands slapped helplessly at the water’s surface.

And then—

Strong arms. A chest against your back. That comfort and warmth that spread through you almost immediately that made you want to melt.

Mattheo.

You realized it only as you were pulled above water again, his arms locked around your waist as he powered you toward the shore. He dragged you up onto the rocks like you weighed nothing, water cascading off both of you.

You collapsed to the stone, coughing violently, lake water pouring from your mouth as your lungs fought to breathe.

Mattheo was crouched beside you, one arm bracing your back to keep you upright.

But there were no butterflies. No sparks. No golden shimmer between you.

Just him. You. And that familiar warmth pulsing in your chest.

Someone stepped forward, reaching to help—maybe the boy who’d thrown you in.

Mattheo saw red.

He grabbed the outstretched hand and shoved it away, his voice sharp and venomous, “Get your fucking hands off my wife.”

The guy froze mid-step.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mattheo snarled.

“It—it was just a joke! She wasn’t even that far out—”

“She can’t fucking swim, you twat!”

Silence rippled across the party. Heads turned. All eyes on you.

Mattheo glared at the boy like he wanted to throw him in and hold him down. He hadn’t moved his arm from your back. “Watch your back.” He growled.

You reached up with a shaking hand and pressed your palm to his chest.

“Mattheo—hey—” You rasped, still hoarse, lungs raw, “Calm down. It was an accident.”

His eyes dropped to yours, his jaw clenched tight. Slowly, his expression softened.

He brushed a soaked strand of hair from your cheek, voice lower now, “You alright? Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?”

You shook your head, “Don’t be such a worrywart. I’ll be fine.”

He let out a slow breath, something cracking open in his chest at the sight of you like that—drenched, shivering, eyes still wide with shock.

“I’ve got you.” He whispered.

And that’s when it hit you.

There was no magic reacting between you. No sparks. No glow. No reminder of your bond.

Maybe it was because you felt the pull without it. The weight of his hand on your back, the panic in his voice, the fury in his eyes when you were in danger.

Before, the magic needed to show you. To remind you your souls were tied together.

Now?

You already knew.

You stared your hand on his chest for a second. “There’s no spark.” You murmured.

Mattheo just looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes, “We don’t need one.”

***

You were wrapped in a blanket by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, a warm mug in your hands, now fresh out of the shower and in warm clothing, when Hermione sat beside you with a look. Ron and Harry flanked your other side like they were forming an intervention.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, “Alright. Spill.”

You blinked innocently, “Spill what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Ron said, “You nearly drowned and he pulled you out like bloody Prince Charming—”

“—and then threatened to murder a Hufflepuff on your behalf.” Hermione added.

Harry leaned forward, “You two have been fighting for weeks and now he’s—what? Your personal lifeguard?”

You shrugged, sipping your cocoa, “He was there. It’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep?” Hermione echoed, “He carried you out of the lake like it was a scene from Pride and Prejudice.”

Ron frowned, “You were holding his hand. Voluntarily.”

You pulled the blanket tighter, “I almost died, Ronald. Excuse me for not being picky about which hands I grabbed.”

Hermione still looked skeptical, “(Y/N) he literally called you his wife. There's something you're not telling us. Next we're going to find out that you're married and have 3 kids.”

You choked on your drink, “Excuse me?!”

“You heard me,” She repeated, smug now, “You’re blushing.”

“Because I'm cold! Because an idiot threw me in the lake and I almost died!” You declared, indignant.

“You’re a terrible liar.” Harry muttered.

***

Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dungeons, Mattheo was toweling off his hair, clearly having just changed out of his soaked clothes, when Theo, Draco, Enzo, and Blaise all rounded on him.

“So,” Draco said casually, “You gonna explain why you went full bloody Gryffindor with that dive and rescue?”

Mattheo didn’t look up, “She can’t swim.”

“Yeah, we gathered that,” Blaise said, “but most people don’t growl at the guy who pushed her in like they’re about to duel him at dawn.”

Enzo snorted, “You literally threatened the bloke who threw her in. I reckon he started crying because he doesn’t want the infamous Mattheo Riddle to rearrange his face.”

Mattheo tossed his towel aside and flopped onto his bed, “He’s lucky I didn’t drown him.”

“Oh, he’s in deep,” Theo laughed, “Pun intended.”

“Funny.” Mattheo muttered.

“Look,” Blaise said, “if you like her—”

“I don’t.”

All four blinked at him.

Mattheo sat up, “I said I don’t like her. End of.”

Enzo raised a brow, smirking, “Right. Because you just protect every girl and call her your wife like it’s nothing.”

Mattheo’s jaw clenched, “It was a slip of the tongue. Nothing more.”

Theo added, “Didn’t even flirt with anyone at the party.”

“I wasn’t in the mood.”

Draco smirked, “He didn’t want to flirt with anyone else besides his wife, guys. This is adorable.”

But Mattheo had already stopped listening to them.

He stared at his hand.

No magic.

But definitely a spark.

***

Hogsmeade looked completely different when you were on your own, with no distractions from friends pulling you along. Your eyes wandered over the little town, taking in all the unusual shops you’d never visited before.

A familiar voice cut through your thoughts.

“Wow, wandering Hogsmeade alone, huh? That’s kinda sad, (L/N).”

You frowned, “Well, Hermione and Ron are on a date, Harry and Ginny are on a date, so I have no one else to keep me company. I would’ve been on a date myself, if someone hadn’t declared me his wife in front of the entire student body.”

That was true. You’d planned to go out with a cute Ravenclaw from your year—but he’d bailed last minute. Didn’t say why, but you knew. It was because of Mattheo’s declaration, and how he’d practically threatened the boy who’d thrown you in the lake. Not just that, girls kept coming up to you, apologizing for flirting with Mattheo, not knowing you were—something. You had to firmly deny it. You weren’t dating Mattheo Riddle. Not at all. You were secretly married, bound eternally by your ancestors. But dating? No way.

Mattheo’s brow raised as he stepped beside you, “You had a date?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Is that a problem now? You didn’t seem to mind chasing after anyone in a skirt before.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?” You pressed.

He hesitated. A beat passed.

Then another.

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

Your brows furrowed, “Sounds like it matters to me.”

His throat bobbed, “Does it?”

Your breath caught. This was the moment. Say it. Say you care. Say you feel it too.

“…I don’t know,” You whispered, “Does it? To you?”

Mattheo looked at you, really looked at you—and for a split second, the truth shone in his eyes. The thing he wanted to say.

“Forget it.”

Your chest sank.

“Right.”

You let out a small breath, softer now, “Thanks, by the way, for saving me that day. I meant to say it sooner.”

Without waiting for a reply, you leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Then you turned and walked away, heart pounding, leaving the words hanging between you.

***

You stepped nervously into the office, the heavy door clicking softly shut behind you. Professor McGonagall sat poised behind her desk, her expression unreadable—but not unkind. Dumbledore reclined slightly in his chair, hands folded, his twinkling eyes settling on you both with quiet intent.

“Please, have a seat.” McGonagall said crisply.

You obeyed, heart hammering, and slid into the chair beside Mattheo.

“We’ve noticed a... shift between the two of you,” Dumbledore began, his voice gentle and measured, “From frequent discord to something far more... cooperative.”

McGonagall nodded, “It appears you’re managing your circumstances with considerably more maturity than when this began.”

You swallowed, “Yes, Professor. We’re trying.”

I’m actually falling in love with the person who tried to curse me to death not too long ago, if that’s what you mean by maturity.

Mattheo shifted beside you—silent but steady. His presence grounded you, even as tension lingered in the air. You kept your hands clasped tightly in your lap.

“As you're aware,” Dumbledore continued, “this bond you share is highly unusual, and it will require careful thought and handling. We wanted to begin a conversation about what the future might look like.”

McGonagall leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady, “We’re speaking not only of the magical implications, but also the emotional and academic ones. Your lives are going to be affected by this, one way or another.”

Dumbledore offered a soft chuckle, “But know this—you’re not alone. We’re here to support you both, in any way we can. That is why we asked you here.”

McGonagall added, “Think of this as the beginning of an open conversation. A safe space to ask questions or raise concerns—without judgment.”

You glanced at Mattheo. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, but he met your gaze.

Then McGonagall continued, carefully, “It’s important to consider all possibilities. Including how you might feel about the idea of... other partners.”

Your breath hitched. Your gaze flicked to Mattheo.

He didn’t speak. But his jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened.

Other partners?

When this began, you’d imagined—hoped, maybe—that someday you could fall in love with someone else. That the bond wouldn’t define your life. That maybe this could just be something you learned to live with... and move on from.

But it had never occurred to you that Mattheo might have thought the same.

Your stomach twisted. The idea of him with someone else—smiling at them the way he sometimes looked at you when he didn’t think you were watching—sent a sharp pang through your chest. Laughing with someone else. Touching them. Loving them.

No. You didn’t want that.

Dumbledore’s gaze softened. “Unfortunately, despite our efforts to investigate the depth of your bond, we still don’t fully understand all the implications. Which is why it’s best to be prepared. Bonds like yours... they can be complex.”

You nodded mutely, eyes fixed on your hands. A heavy ache bloomed in your chest—low and insistent. You weren’t ready to imagine a future where he wasn’t yours.

Even if you were never truly his.

***

You left the office in silence.

Neither of you spoke as you walked down the spiraling staircase, the echo of your footsteps louder than anything else. The corridor was quiet, dim with late-afternoon shadows filtering through tall windows. But the silence between you was deafening.

Mattheo’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight. You kept your eyes ahead, refusing to let him see the storm behind yours.

Other partners.

The words echoed like a curse. The ache in your chest hadn’t faded—it had only sunk deeper. You didn’t know what was worse: the idea of loving someone who didn’t feel the same… or the thought of watching him fall for someone else.

Then, just as you turned a corner, Mattheo stopped walking.

“So,” He said stiffly, gaze still fixed on the stone floor, “you ever think about it?”

You blinked, “Think about what?”

He didn’t look at you. His voice was low, carefully neutral, “Moving on. Being with someone else.”

Your heart skipped. You stared at him, caught off guard, “I—I don’t know. I did… at the beginning. When all of this felt like a curse.”

He nodded, slow and almost imperceptible.

You hesitated, “What about you? Have you thought about being with someone else?”

A pause. Longer than it needed to be.

His jaw flexed, “I don’t know.”

You nodded too, trying to mirror his indifference even though your stomach had begun to twist into knots, “It’s okay if you have, Mattheo. I mean... it’s only natural, right? We didn’t choose this.”

“You’re right,” He said quietly, “We didn’t.”

You stopped in front of the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady eyed you curiously from her portrait, but didn’t say a word.

Mattheo offered you a small, hollow smile—the kind people give when they’re pretending not to bleed—and turned to leave.

You watched his retreating back. You knew you were going to cry the moment you were alone, so what did it matter?

“But,” You said loudly.

He stopped. Turned.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve, “But I think I’d still choose you… if I had the choice now.”

Silence.

It blanketed the space between you, thick and charged.

Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something in his eyes fractured—like a crack through glass, sudden and sharp.

He stepped back toward you, slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. His voice, when it came, was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

You shook your head, “I mean it.”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize you—like he didn’t quite believe it, but desperately wanted to.

His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You make me crazy,” He said, almost helplessly, “You drive me up the fucking wall, and half the time I want to strangle you.”

A faint laugh escaped you—wet and shaky.

“But the thought of you with someone else,” He whispered, “Makes me feel like I can’t breathe.”

Your heart stuttered.

He stepped even closer now, “So no. I haven’t thought about being with anyone else. Not really. Not since you.”

The air was thick between you. Charged. Magnetic.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, “Mattheo…”

He raised a hand, hesitated—then tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment too long.

“If I had the choice,” he said, “I’d still choose you too.”

Neither of you moved.

And then, slowly, cautiously, you leaned into him—your forehead brushing his, your breath mingling with his in the narrow space between you.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

His hand slid from the back of your neck to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing softly against your cheek. You tilted your face toward him, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out everything else.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rough or rushed like you thought it might be. It was slow. Gentle. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast.

You melted into him, fingers curling into the front of his robes as he pulled you just a little closer—close enough to feel the shudder in his chest when you exhaled.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his again, both of you catching your breath in the quiet.

He didn’t let go.

Neither did you.

And in that small, stolen moment outside the common room, the world felt… still.

Like maybe—for the first time since the bond was formed—you weren’t fighting fate anymore.

You were choosing it. You were choosing him.

Bonus

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@haniscrying

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

Mattheo Riddle Taglist:

It has been a tough week. The game that weekend had been too close, so Coach Jensen was being extra hard on them during practices. And then his philosophy paper (which he admittedly barely studied for) came back with a glaring D, and combined with the previous F’s he’s gotten, he needs at least a B in all his course work for the semester if he wants to pass the class. Garrett’s sore, his head hurts, he can’t focus enough to understand what the fuck Kierkegaard is talking about, so really it’s a respite that one of the girls Dean invited over for air hockey and beers made eyes at him when he passed by the living room on his way to the kitchen. It takes three more unsubtle glances, a raised eyebrow, and a tilt of his head, and suddenly Garrett’s week is becoming marginally better with his arms caging the girl (what’s her name again?) against his bedroom door and his mouth attached to her tits. Somewhere downstairs, his friends’ muffled voices playing video games and air hockey can still be heard, but his ears are more focused on the helpless noises coming out of his company’s mouth. 

He moves with efficient experience, tugging her jeans down her waist and unclasping her bra with a snap of his fingers. She giggles when he guides her to his bed and drops between her thighs, but the laughter quickly turns into choked moans the second he presses his tongue into her. It’s there, his head between her legs and her hands gripping his hair, that his bedroom door slams open, causing the girl to yelp and Garrett to snap his head up in shock. 

“Angel, what the fuck?” Garrett sputters at the sight of his best friend, immediately throwing his blanket to cover the naked girl on his bed and scrambling up to his feet. 

Angel–not because that’s her name, but because their first Halloween as friends when they were twelve, she had come as an angel complete with a wide-span, white feathered custom wing that sliced a jagged wound on Garrett’s bicep when she turned around and accidentally hit him with it. It turned out that she hadn’t assembled the wings correctly, and a loose wire had been the culprit. They spent two hours in the emergency room with their year coordinator because Garrett’s dad didn’t bother to drive up to their boarding school and check on him, her in her angel costume sans the wings (which she threw away violently in solidarity with him) and him in his Wolverine get up, hair gel, claws, and all. Garrett thought it was the funniest thing ever, telling her that their costumes matched after all, and had proceeded to call her Angel (from X-men, that is) for the foreseeable future. 

She seemed unbothered at having caught him with his head between a random girl’s legs, but that’s not really the most compromising position they’ve seen each other in in their over ten years of friendship. If anything, she seemed annoyed, but Garrett knows her like the back of his hand, so he immediately clocks the mask and the underlying problem in the twitch of her eyebrows and her raw-bitten lower lip. Something’s wrong.

“What’s wrong?” He asks immediately, tugging his sweats back in place. 

The girl in his bed scoffs. “Are you kidding me?”

Garrett doesn’t wave her off, but it’s a close thing. He stands straighter, jaw clenched. “Angel?”

She finally meets his gaze. “I need you.” 

Just three words, but they get his heart beating against his chest in mixed anxiety and concern. “You got me.”

“Okay.” She nods, finally allowing her eyes to flick towards the increasingly annoyed girl (whose name Garrett still can’t remember) in his bed. “I’ll wait for you downstairs. Brush your teeth, please.”

And then she turns around and leaves. 

For a moment, his room is silent, the kind that sits awkwardly in the atmosphere, and then Garrett clears his throat and faces–Zoe? Zara?--with a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that.”

She stares up at him expectantly, her bare torso still covered by his thin sheets. 

Garrett scratches at the nape of his neck. “You should probably go.”

Her jaw drops immediately. “Unbelievable.” 

But she really shouldn’t have been surprised. If everyone on campus knew who Garrett Graham was, then everyone also knew that his best friend comes first. Always.

By the time he manages to get downstairs, mouth minty cool because he knows better than to face his best friend with pussy breath, Zoe (that’s her name!) had already shoved his chest and left the house, which is a relief. He spots his favorite cockblocker right away in the kitchen, idly chatting with Logan and Tucker, but Garrett can tell her heart isn’t in it. The second she sees him, she lifts her hand and twirls his car keys in her finger, giving him a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Garrett feels another tug in his chest at the sight, but he knows she hates talking about her problems with an audience, so he decides to put a pin in it. At least until they’re alone together. 

“I’m driving,” she says, getting up from the stool. 

He rolls his eyes, reaching over to snatch the cap on Tucker’s head and put it on his own, backwards and all. He ignores the consequent “hey!” that comes from his friend’s mouth and instead makes a face at her. “Do I have a choice?”

“No,” she grins sarcastically, patting his chest and walking out the door, him close on her trail. 

They’re only driving for about seven minutes when Garrett bites the bullet. “So–”

“Zip it, Professor X,” she interrupts, which in turns makes him glare at her. She knows how much he resents that nickname–he’d had a buzzcut one time in 9th grade, he wasn’t bald at all, and she still won’t freaking drop it. “At least let me get my fries first.”

It’s only then that Garrett notices the nearby Wendy’s she seems to be driving towards. “I swear to god, Angel, if you interrupted me just because you wanted fast food–”

“Oh, poor Garrett and his sad little blue balls,” she mocks, pouting her lips. “However will he recover?”

“I hate you,” he deadpans, but there’s a traitorous grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “I actually, bone-deeply hate you.”

“You love me,” she corrects him, pushing at the turn signal.

“I can love you and hate you at the same time,” Garrett tells her, face mock-serious. “I contain multitudes. Right now, it’s veering towards ‘I hate you,’ though.”

She flashes him a smile, but it’s all wrong. “Well, you’re not the only one.”

Immediately, the teasing air evaporates, and Garrett feels his eyebrows come together in confusion. “What does that mean? Angel?”

But his best friend remains frustratingly silent. She goes on to order for the two of them, only acknowledging him when it’s time to pay, which makes him scoff but hand over his card anyway. The grin she gives him then is a little more real, a little more Angel, so at least the tight ball of anxiety in Garrett’s chest loosens a little. She finds a parking spot easily, and for ten, torturous minutes, she does nothing but eat her heart out and ask him insignificant questions about the game last weekend and how practice was. Garrett tries to indulge her a little, but when she opens up another insignificant topic, this time about her Art Criticism professor, Garrett can’t take it anymore. 

“You’re killing me here, Angel,” he sighs, stealing a fry from her. “I’ve kinda been panicking about what’s wrong for the last half hour, so if you could please with a cherry on top get to it, it would be much appreciated.”

She glares at him for his bluntness for a few seconds, before her shoulders visibly deflate and her lower lip begins to tremble.

“Hey,” he sits up immediately, one hand reaching out to grip her chin. “Talk to me. It’s me. What’s wrong?”

She takes a few steadying breaths before saying, “I’m a horrible person.”

“No, you’re not,” Garrett counters immediately, eyebrows furrowing even further. “You’re the best person I know. Who told you that?”

“Garrett,” she says helplessly, and the break in her voice makes his head pound. 

He wants names of the people who hurt her and he wants to hunt them down one by one. But getting angry in that moment isn’t exactly appropriate, so he swallows down his rage at seeing the most important person in his life hurt and crowds further into her space instead, guiding her face so she can look at him. “Angel.”

She shuts her eyes tight, and every tear that drops to her face feels like a gunshot to his chest. “I did it.”

“What did you do?” Garrett asks, forcing himself to keep his voice soft and stable. “Angel, you’re really scaring me here.”

She looks at him, then, and then utters the words Garrett never thought he’d ever hear. “I broke up with Jason.”

“What?” He backs away a few inches in shock. 

“I broke up with Jason,” she says again, clearer this time, and Garrett feels something loosen in his chest. Disbelief, yes, but also something more hidden. Something that feels a lot like relief.

“She did what?” Dean exclaims, pulling his helmet off his head in shock. 

Garrett sighs at his dramatics but repeats his words, anyway, his tone of voice still a little disbelieving, himself. “She broke up with him. For real. Like, permanently. I’m helping her find a new place after practice.”

“Well, shit,” Dean says, face still looking puzzled. “What did the asshole do?”

Garrett pushes his sweat-slicked hair back away from his face. “That’s just it. Mayor Jason did nothing. Like, absolutely nothing.”

“What does that mean?” Logan chimes in, unflinching at the mocking nickname and obviously just as invested in the story of his best friend’s love life. 

“She told me that she just woke up one day and realized that it wasn’t working out anymore. That she…doesn’t love him anymore, I guess.”

Tucker falls down on the bench next to Dean, having heard the words himself. “Shit.”

“I know,” Garrett sighs, fiddling with his gloves. “I kind of feel bad for him.”

Dean laughs at that. “Dude, you hated the guy.”

“I don’t hate him.”

Logan shoves his shoulder. “You literally call him Mayor Jason.”

Garrett scoffs. “He wants to be a politician!”

This makes his friends laugh even harder, and Garrett finds himself chuckling along. “I just think he’s a pretentious asshole. But Angel loved him, and he was good to her, I think, so no, I don’t hate him.”

“Damn,” Tucker says, shaking his head. “I always thought those two would, like, get married and have kids and stuff.”

Garrett feels his stomach drop at the words, but there’s no denying the truth behind them, especially when even he agreed. “Me too.”

“Is she okay, though? Does she regret it?” Dean asks, beginning to put his helmet back on. 

Garrett thinks about their text messages that morning; all playfulness and banter, nothing out of the ordinary. But then he remembers her words in his car the other day, the way she cried into his chest. He clears his throat. “She feels terrible about it. But she’ll be fine.”

“Of course, she will,” Logan reassures him with a pat on his chest. “She’s got you, G. She’ll be just fine.”

He’s at the student union center getting a gatorade in one of the vending machines when she purposefully bumps her shoulder to his, pressing their sides together.

“Ouch,” Garrett deadpans, reaching a hand out to press the necessary button and waits for his drink to fall. 

She nudges him further, until his senses are assaulted by the smell of the strawberry shampoo that she’s been using since high school. “What are you doing tonight?”

That makes Garrett pause for a second. It wasn’t Saturday so he definitely didn’t miss brunch, and they haven’t scheduled their movie nights for that month, either. No games until next week, too. Slowly, he turns to her, eyes full of suspicion. “Why do you ask?”

“Don’t be weird, Garrett,” she rolls her eyes, her shoulder still pressed to his. “What? Do you have plans?”

He crouches down to get his Gatorade. “I was actually planning to study for my Philosophy class. I have an oral exam coming up.”

She snorts; an ugly, raw, Angel sound that automatically makes Garrett feel ten thousand times lighter. “Oral exam? Oh, is that what you were doing when I walked in on you–”

“Shut the fuck up,” Garrett interrupts her with a hand to her mouth, the tips of his ears burning. That only serves to make her laugh more, the heat of her breath scorching his palm. 

“Come by my place later, come on,” she tells him, one hand reaching out to grip at his hoodie. 

Garrett throws his head back in exasperation. “Angel, I really need to do well on this exam. I might not be allowed to play if I fuck it up.” 

“I’ll help you!” She raises her voice, lips stretching into a smile at his disbelieving look. “I swear! I took that class freshman year.”

He immediately frowns at that. “Wait, you did?”

“Yes?” She gives him a weird look, tugging at his hoodie to get him to start walking with her. His feet follow immediately. Traitors. “It’s a pre-requisite to this class I really wanted to take.” 

“How the fuck did you pass that class? It’s hell!” Garrett says, lips turning into a slight pout. “And you passed it your freshman year?”

She laughs again, a high, twinkling sound, looking back at him. “Oh, babe. Don’t you worry. I got you.”

“What’s the catch?” He continues to ask, taking her hand from his hoodie so he could grip it with his own. It feels natural, just like the hundred thousand times they’ve held hands before she got herself a boyfriend. Garrett tries to ignore his heart pounding in his chest.

“You’re my best friend,” she widens her amused eyes at him, squeezing his fingers. “There’s no catch.”

“I don’t believe you for a second, Angel.”

Over the next few weeks, Garrett tries to convince himself he’s being totally normal about the fact that his best friend is taking over his life. 

She texts him after practice to go have dinner. After he bullshits his way to a B+ for his Philosophy oral exam, she drags him to IKEA and makes him help her pick out new furniture for her place. He’s over at her apartment nearly every single day, helping assemble said furniture and unpack her moving boxes (it takes too long because she forgot to label them). She bullies him into studying with her, and it’s the most time Garrett has spent in the library since his first year (except he doesn’t actually study; he tries to do his course work for about twenty minutes before giving up and going on his phone while she’s nose-deep in her readings beside him). She shows up at the hockey house unannounced like she usually does, but this time more frequently, sometimes even getting the other guys to join in on their movie nights. One time she even helped Tuck with dinner. They go on random drives so much that his car feels practically hers as much as his. Their Saturday brunches become a daily thing. 

And Garrett knows nothing is wrong about any of this. It’s nice to not have to schedule their hang-outs anymore. It’s refreshing that all he has to do to see her now is to send her a text and vice versa. He doesn’t even care that the last time he hooked up with someone was that interrupted time with Zoe more than a month ago. Nothing is wrong about his best friend suddenly just being there. All the time. Except when they’re walking together around campus and she’s hooking their arms together or, God forbid, intertwining their fingers, Garrett’s breath catches in his throat and he finds it a little harder to breathe. Or when she shows up at practice unannounced wearing his old high school jersey with a tray of coffee for him and the other guys in the team and his heart stutters in his chest. 

So no. He’s not being completely normal about it. He just can’t figure out the reason why.  

He slams his locker shut before leaning against it. “It’s weird.”

Dean looks up at him from where he’s unlacing his skates. “What’s weird?”

Garrett frowns down at him for a second before averting his eyes. “Angel.”

“Oh, boy,” Logan says, and he sees the rest of his friends exchange knowing looks. 

“What?” Garrett asks, looking between them. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

They’re still smiling at each other like they know something he doesn’t, which fucking sucks. 

Dean’s shoulders begin to shake in laughter. “I have never been wrong a day in my life. Goddamn.”

“What?” Garrett presses, growing more annoyed by the minute. 

Dean continues to laugh, even tutting at him appeasingly. “Don’t you worry your pretty curly head about it, G. You’ll know soon enough.”

“Fuck you,” he says automatically, but the heat isn’t there. 

Dean takes the curse in stride. “So what about your ‘Angel’ is weird?”

The words distract Garrett enough that he forgets about their weirdness entirely. “I don’t know. Everything? I know we’re best friends. She’s the most important person in my life. But I feel like we’ve been…I don’t know, spending so much time together recently. Like, we haven’t spent this much time together since high school, probably, and we were stuck in the same boarding school and taking all our classes together then, so that’s saying something.”

Logan chuckles and shakes his head at him. “G, your best friend just got out of a serious, 3-year relationship. They were living together at one point. Of course you’re going to spend more time with her now. More than half of her day just freed up by being single alone.”

“And I bet she’s bored,” Tucker adds, nodding. “Imagine all the free time all of a sudden. Even her own apartment is probably too quiet now. I remember that Jason guy can talk.”

“Yeah, about apolitical bullshit that no one but him cares about,” Garrett mutters under his breath. 

Dean makes a face. “I’m not getting the problem here. Are you boys getting the problem?” Logan and Tucker dutifully shake their heads, making Dean point at him. “See? That’s such a non-issue, dude. So you’re spending more time with your best friend. Your steak is too buttery. Your bread is too soft. Nyada nyada.”

Garrett throws a glove at his face that he manages to dodge at the last minute. “It’s not that. It’s just…Okay. If one of you makes fun of me for what I’m about to say, I will crush you like a bug. Get it?”

The three look at him expectantly. 

Garrett sighs, training his eyes up the ceiling. “When we were in our senior year in high school and Angel started dating Jason…I kind of had a hard time adjusting.”

Dean looks way too delighted at his words, making Garrett throw another glove at him. This time it hits him right in the center of his chest. 

“Don’t make it a thing,” Garrett warns, giving them a look before sighing again. “Back then we were–I don’t know how to explain it. Attached at the hip? Two halves of the same person? Just. Inseparable, I guess. No one could tell where she ended and I began. And I loved that about us. She was the only family I have. The one I chose. And then Jason happened, and I lost that. The casual intimacy and closeness. It suddenly wasn’t appropriate anymore. I never heard a peep from her, but I was a guy. I could tell our closeness bothered him. So eventually I dealt with it. I adjusted. But it was hard. And to say I didn’t mourn our relationship then would be a lie.”

Tucker leans forward. “How did you adjust?”

Dean smirks. “Let me guess: by fucking half of the senior year population?”

“Fuck you,” Garret tells him again. “But yeah. Kind of. But that’s not even the point! The point is I get the sudden free time, okay? That’s what I felt when she got a boyfriend. All these things I used to do with her suddenly aren’t feasible anymore, so instead I spend hours of my day with nothing to do. Eventually, yeah, I found something to fill the time, but it was hard. I thought I was losing my best friend, and I couldn’t do anything about it because then I might lose her for real. I was a dramatic 18-year-old. Whatever. But what happens when she glues us together again, forms us a routine of being constantly together, and then she gets another boyfriend? That’s bullshit.”

Logan, Tucker, and Dean slowly exchange another look. 

“What?” Garrett asks. 

Logan shakes his head. “Are you hearing yourself, man?”

“What?” He repeats, getting even more confused than before.

“Oh my god,” Dean laughs, slapping his thighs. “He’s fucking hopeless, man. I give up.”

She’s already drunk when Garrett gets to the party, and he knows this because she lights up instantly at the sight of him, her entire body practically vibrating from where she’s standing. “Garrett!!!”

“Hey, Angel,” he says, receiving her tackle with a short grunt. “How much have you had to drink?”

She ignores his question completely, burrowing her face in his chest. “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been waiting for you for ages.”

Garrett allows himself to chuckle at how obnoxious his best friend is being. He shuffles both of their bodies so that he’s leaning against the fridge, his feet planted firmly on the ground in case she intends to tackle him again. His hands rub her back in slow circles, and Garrett immediately takes note of the goosebumps lining her skin. She’s wearing a tight brown tank top and low-rise jeans, and he puts his hands on the slit of skin of her back showing underneath her top and pulls away just enough to see her face to face. “You cold?”

“No,” she answers instantly, then steps forward even closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “I need to tell you something, Charles.”

It takes him a moment to place the name, and when he does, he rolls his eyes. He’s never living down that fucking buzzcut. “What is it, Angel?”

“I ran into Jason’s friends at lunch,” she continues saying, voice low enough that Garrett has to strain his ears. He nods at her to continue, which she does, voice shaking. “He hates me.”

For a second Garrett isn’t sure whether she’s going to cry, but then her shoulders start shaking, giggles leaving her lips uncontrollably. “He fucking hates me, Prof.” 

Garrett tightens his arms around her, unsure how to approach the situation. “I’m sure he doesn't, Angel.”

“No, he does,” she nods her head in resignation. “And I don’t think I care. I’m a horrible person.”

He pinches the exposed skin of her back, making her yelp. “Enough of that. I won’t let you talk shit about my best friend anymore. Stop it.”

She shuffles closer again, getting on her tiptoes and burying her face against his neck. Every word out of her mouth sends a hot breath against his skin that Garrett tries hard to ignore. “I wish he cheated. Or neglected me. I just wish he did something bad so I wouldn’t be feeling all this guilt.”

“You don’t mean that,” Garrett says against her hair, squeezing her tightly against him. 

“I wish I could say that I’m in love with him,” she continues. “What if I never was? Isn’t that crazy, G? We’ve been together for almost four years. We’ve exchanged I love you’s countless times. But in hindsight, what the fuck do I know about love? If I had truly loved him, how can I wake up one morning and just…stop?”

“That’s just it, though,” Garrett says, which makes her pull away to look at him. “It’s scary.”

“What?”

“Love,” he shrugs. “How fickle it is. What happened to you scares me. What if it doesn’t stop at just romantic love?”

She almost smiles at that. “What, you think I’m going to wake up tomorrow and just decide you’re a repulsive best friend and I want you out of my life?”

“Don’t even joke about that, Angel,” he chides with a fake shudder, and something in her expression melts and softens. 

She steps closer, enough that their noses are touching. “Wanna know something?”

Garrett swallows the lump that suddenly formed in his throat. “What?”

“Jason would hate to see us like this,” she says, and Garrett tenses up instantly, intending to pull away, but she tightens her grip around him.

He takes a few seconds to reply. “I know.”

Garrett sees the way her eyes dilate at his words. “Is that why you pushed me away?”

“I didn’t push you away,” he denies immediately, but even as he says the words his breath stutters in his chest. 

She smiles a little sadly. “Of course you did, G. One minute we’re inseparable and the next we had to pre-sched our hang outs because you’re fucking every girl in school.”

The blunt way she puts it makes Garrett squeeze her hips, and he doesn’t miss the way her breath hitches at the action. He feels like he’s underwater, like everything suddenly became muffled around them. The only clear view is her. His best friend. The most important person in his life. 

Best friend, he repeats the words in his head. Come on, Graham. That’s your best friend. 

“Want to know the funny thing?” She asks again, nudging their noses together. 

Garrett almost chickens out and doesn’t ask. But her gaze is a challenge in itself, and he’s nothing if not competitive, so he forces the words out of his mouth. “What, Angel?”

“The night before I broke up with him, I closed my eyes and imagined my future. Ten, fifteen, twenty years from now. What I wanted it to be. What I think it would be. And,” she cuts herself off with a chuckle, alcohol breath fanning against Garrett’s face. “Jason wasn’t there. He was nowhere to be found.”

Garrett clenches his jaw. “Really?”

“Uh huh,” she confirms, extending one hand up to push back his hair. “Wanna know who was?”

But Garrett already knows the answer. It’s clear as day. Still, when she pushes up on her tiptoes to whisper it to his ear, he feels his world begin to crumble, the words devastating in their honesty. 

“You,” she says, and then she smiles a little cruelly. “My best friend.”

That night wouldn’t be the first time Garrett Graham jerks off to the thought of his best friend. But it’s the first time he doesn’t feel guilty about it. 

He swings his stick harshly. The puck misses the goal.

Another swing. Miss again. 

Swing. Miss.

“Fuck!” Garrett throws his stick to the ice, skating away. 

From the stands, his three friends watch him, faces in varying states of winces. 

“That,” Dean says, voice low. “Is a cry for help.”

Logan scrunches his nose up. “Amen, brother.”

Tuck nods along. “Amen.”

“What can we do about it, boys? Our cap needs an intervention.” Dean says, still eyeing Garrett’s form critically.

Logan chuckles. “Unless we get him to admit he’s in love with his fucking best friend? Nothing.”

“Not nothing,” Dean says with a smirk, lifting up his phone.

Twenty minutes later, she’s there in the tunnels, head whipping around in search of Garrett. 

“Angel!” Dean calls out, making her turn towards him. “Over here!”

She speedwalks towards where he’s standing, wearing a Briar U hoodie Dean’s pretty sure is Garrett’s and loose sweats that may or may not also be Garrett’s. “What happened? Where is he? And don’t call me that.”

“Oh right, sacred nicknames, I forgot. Sorry.” Dean says all of this with a knowing smile on his face, which she decides to ignore. “G’s in the shower. We’re gonna head out. You go do your best friend magic on him and take care of our cap.”

She rolls her eyes but dutifully drops down to one of the benches in the hallway to wait for him. When Garrett steps out of the locker room, he’s wearing a navy zip-up hoodie and his hair is still dripping wet from his shower. He almost jumps at the sight of her.

“Angel,” he says in surprise, his grip on his bag tightening. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know, Prof X. You tell me,” she says, getting up and dusting off her sweats. “Dean says you need an intervention.”

Garrett closes his eyes at that. “I fucking hate him.”

“Come on,” she inclines her head before hooking her arm to his. “You can hate him in the comfort of my new apartment. Movie night?”

The last thing Garrett wants is to spend an entire night pressed up against the best friend he’s trying and completely failing to convince himself he feels nothing for, pretending to watch a movie he could care less about. But clearly the universe had other plans, so now they’re cuddled on her couch, a half-empty box of pizza on the coffee table in front of them and High School Musical 3 playing on the tv.

“Troy Bolton is so hot,” she comments after one of the song numbers, licking her fingers to clean off the pizza sauce. 

Garrett clears his throat and tells himself the view doesn’t affect him. “He’s so short, though. How does he expect to be a collegiate point guard with that height?”

“Good thing it’s a movie,” she emphasizes the last word, nudging his stomach with her elbow. “It’s escapism. Besides, with a pretty face like that, size won’t even matter.”

That makes Garrett’s eyebrows raise to his hairline, his head twisting to shoot her a knowing smirk. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” she juts her chin out and insists, glaring at him. “Sorry you can’t relate.”

Garrett knows she’s making a dig at his looks, but he can’t help but twist her words, his smirk practically a permanent fixture on his face at the moment. “Yep. Never had a problem with size, I’m afraid.”

He watches her jaw drop at his words, laughs out loud when she suddenly slaps his shoulder multiple times. “You are infuriating.” 

“You love me, Angel,” Garrett teases her, hoping she doesn’t hear the way his heart jumps at the bold words. 

“I wish I didn’t.”

He’s still chuckling when he finally catches her hands, stopping her continued assault. “You don’t mean that.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“You love me,” Garrett says again. And maybe this time she hears the catch in his voice, the underlying seriousness beneath the teasing, because she freezes in her spot, both her hands still held tightly in his. 

She looks at him for a few seconds. “I do, yeah.”

Garrett feels like he stops breathing. When he speaks again, the word sounds like a warning even to his own ears. “Angel.”

He feels her shift against him until she’s practically on his lap. “What? Don’t you love me too?”

Garrett is suddenly hyperaware of every point of contact; her thighs almost bracketing his hips, the heat of her skin seeping through their clothes, her hands still dwarfed by his. In the background, Zac Efron is singing something about screaming, but the sound is dull and muffled. He can’t focus on anything except her. 

“You’re dangerous,” he manages to rasp out. 

He thinks of all the times they found themselves in this position; all the times Garrett found himself wanting to cross the boundary they’ve drawn when they were twelve and decided they needed to be in each other’s lives forever as best friends. The summer before high school when they became each other’s first kiss because it’d be embarrassing to be in 9th grade without any experience. His sixteenth birthday when a game of spin the bottle had them doing it again, deeper that time, with tongue. Junior prom when they went together as friends and right there on the dancefloor, Garrett had to grapple with the fact that he wanted to kiss his best friend badly. 

It had always been there in the crevices of their friendship; the unspoken need for more, for intimacy and connection. It had been easier to handle when Jason happened, because finally the boundaries were physical and concrete in the form of another person. But now, in the couch he helped her assemble in the new apartment he helped her find and move into, with her body pressed against his so closely and tightly he can feel every breath she takes, the boundaries might as well be nonexistent. 

“This is a bad idea. You just got out of a relationship.”

She almost smiles. “I know.”

“You’re my best friend,” Garrett says again, but he’s not sure whether it’s her he’s convincing or himself.

She shifts again. Garrett closes his eyes at the feeling. “Garrett. You’re my best friend, too.”

A pause. 

They’re not really sure who moves first, but in the next breath their lips are pressing together, a moan punching out of his throat from the sensation. She plants her hands on his shoulders to anchor herself, straddling him properly now. Almost immediately, she begins grinding down on him, and his body’s reaction is instant. 

“Fuck, Angel,” Garrett exhales a heavy breath, torn between wanting to close his eyes or savoring the sight of his best friend on top of him. “Come here.”

He guides her by her jaw so he can kiss her again, deeper, his tongue tracing her lower lip before slipping inside her mouth. She tastes like the soda she had been drinking. It takes Garrett back to that birthday party when they were sixteen, their classmates all around them cheering while he got to properly taste her for the first time. He thinks about sitting there finishing the spin the bottle game with a raging hard on inside his pants, hoping the light is too dim for anyone to notice. 

He bites at her lips again, causing a soft noise to come from her mouth that absolutely destroys him, enough that his hips juts up without control. 

She pulls away and begins tugging at his zip-up hoodie, chest heaving harshly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Take this off.”

He helps her along dutifully, watching with dark eyes as she tosses the piece of clothing behind her. “Fuck, Garrett, I love your shoulders.”

“Yeah?” He breathes out, letting his hands bunch her top upwards and over her head until she’s left in a lacy lilac bra, sheer enough to leave nothing to the imagination. 

She gives a trembling nod, taking his tank top off too. Her nails trace down his torso, watching his abs contract in fascination. “Got myself off for the first time thinking about them.”

“Jesus Christ, Angel.” Garrett huffs, his breath leaving him. It only gets worse when she reaches behind herself to unclasp her bra, revealing her full breasts, nipples dark and tight just like he imagined. As if he can’t help himself, his face drags forward until he’s close enough to close his mouth around one bud, his hand taking care of the other. 

A choked cry leaves her mouth, head throwing back in pleasure. One of her hands skirts the waistband of his sweats, and then she palms his cock through the fabric like it wouldn’t absolutely ruin him. His hips jerk up again. “You want me?”

The question almost comes off as cruel. Does he want her? As if there’s a world in which Garrett doesn’t. As if he doesn’t feel as if he had been born to worship her like this. 

“You don’t even know how much,” he murmurs against her skin. He kisses over the moles in her chest and shoulders that he used to make fun of when they were kids. 

She shimmies out of her shorts and underwear, and the sight of her thin damp curls short-circuits Garrett’s brain. He isn’t even aware of her hands sliding his sweats down, just enough to free his cock with an angry bob. His blood thuds in his ears loudly. 

She shuffles closer again, until they’re almost chest to chest, hovering above him and teasing the head of his cock at her entrance. “Since when?”

Maybe it’s the intimacy he’s been craving since he first learned what it’s like to want his best friend, or maybe it’s his dick talking, but the honest words are out of his mouth before he could stop them: “Since forever.”

He feels more than sees her body tense up, and in mere seconds she has shuffled away, still within reach but the inch of increased space makes his heart drop to his stomach nonetheless. Shit. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She asks, face going pale. Her eyes scan his face steadily, and he knows guilt is written all over him in capital letters. 

Garrett tugs his sweats up with a sigh. “Angel–”

“Garrett,” she says, voice hard. The lack of a nickname sends a pang through his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He pushes his hair back and leans his head against the couch, eyes trained to the ceiling. “I’m sorry.”

He hears her shuffle around, knows that it’s her getting dressed, the final nail in the coffin that was their night together. The panic is slowbuilding in his stomach; half of his wits are still stuck to two minutes ago when they were flushed together making out with wild abandon.

How the fuck did he let this happen? More than that, what the fuck is going to happen to them? She’s his best friend. She’s been in his life for over ten years. She’s held him during losses, nursed him when his dad beat him to shit. She’s the only one who truly knows him inside out, and now he’s on the verge of losing her because he couldn’t keep it in his pants. 

“That’s not what I asked.”

Garrett attempts to look at her. She’s wearing her top again, arms crossed over her chest and still staring at him in horrified expectancy. He pries his eyes away immediately, instead focusing on the loose thread in the throw pillowcase next to his lap. When he speaks, his voice comes out defensive. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

“The truth, Garrett,” she says, the hard edge to her voice still there. 

Garrett throws his head back again. Anything just to avoid her eyes. “I know it’s wrong, alright? You’re my best friend. We shouldn’t–I shouldn’t have ever—but I couldn’t help it. I’ve wanted you probably since before I even knew what wanting someone meant.”

She inhales a sharp breath. “High school?’

“Yeah, mostly,” he admits, clenching his jaw. “Maybe even before then.”

“Fuck, Garrett,” she breathes out, making him shut his eyes tight. 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

They’re silent for a few seconds before she speaks again. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

That finally gets him to look at her, if a little incredulously. “Are you kidding? I didn’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose you.”

Her face twists, like she’s in pain. “But you blew me off.”

He sits up at that, his confusion clear as day. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Garrett,” she laughs his name out tiredly, shaking her head. “Don’t you remember? The summer before our senior year. We spent almost every day together. We held hands and cuddled and you kissed me everywhere except my lips constantly. Everyone else thought we were dating. And I thought…I thought we were getting there.”

He swallows harshly. He doesn’t know what to say. The memory of that summer hit him like a brick. The train rides spent flushed against each other, his hands on the back pocket of her jeans. The amount of times he stopped himself from just crossing the line and kissing her for real. 

“I fell for you. Hard.” She tells him, causing his mouth to gape open. “I thought we were on the same page. But then we got to Stacy’s party at the end of summer and everyone asked where we stood and you completely blew me off. She’s just my best friend–that’s what you said. And then you let all these girls hang all over you the entire night. It doesn’t get any clearer than that.”

Garrett opens his mouth. “But–”

“Jason asked me out a few days later and I figured why not. Might as well.” She shoots him a sad smile. Her eyes are wet, and Garrett hates himself for making it happen. “I grew to like him eventually. And you started pulling away. Maybe part of it was on me for getting a boyfriend and not having enough time for you anymore. But every time I saw you with a different girl, it just proved to me what I realized at that party. You didn’t want me. I was just your best friend. And if I wanted to keep you in my life, I had to be okay with that.” 

Garrett shakes his head. His heart is thrumming so loudly in his chest he’s sure she can hear it from where she’s sitting. “I wanted you. So bad. I was so scared that it would ruin everything that I never said anything. And then you got together with Jason. It killed me to see you with him. To know that I could never hold your hand or kiss you or put my arms around you anymore because he might get mad. Those girls were just–”

“I know what they were,” she interrupts, a resigned smile on her face. “Still sucked, though.”

“Yeah.” 

A cheer comes from the TV. Garrett almost forgot it was still playing. The characters launch into the finale song, the one at graduation. At least it does the job of filling the silence. 

Finally, she lets out a long sigh. “This was a mistake.”

He can’t even explain the hurt that shoots up his chest at the words that just left her mouth. He wants to build a time machine and go back to three hours ago, debating pizza flavors and movie options without a hint that their night will get derailed. He wants to go back to that summer before their senior year and kiss her right there on the train. But Garrett is no scientist and time travel doesn’t exist, so instead he chooses to say nothing, waits for more hurtful words to come. 

“You’re right,” she continues, beginning to play with her fingers. “I just got out of a relationship. This isn’t–” she shakes her head. “It’s not good. For me or for you.”

Garrett shakes his head. “Don’t say that. Don’t–” His mouth struggles with the words. “You can regret this. Me. But don’t ever think that there’s a reality where you’re not good for me. That’s impossible.”

She looks at him like it hurts her to do it. Garrett reaches down to get his shirt off the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and somehow that makes it worse. 

Garrett puts his shirt back on with as much dignity as he can muster. He bites his lip in contemplation. “Why’d you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Kiss me.” He can tell by the look on her face that she wants to argue about who did the kissing, but thankfully she drops it. 

“The truth?” She asks quietly, making him nod his head. She pauses again, like she’s thinking about lying anyways, and then thinks the better of it. “I’ve wanted to do it for so long, and for the first time in my life I felt like you actually wanted to do it too.”

“I did,” he tells her, voice just as quiet. “I do.”

“I’m sorry, prof,” she smiles at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Did I ruin everything?”

Garrett wants to cross the space between them and hold her. It kills him that he hesitates. “No. Never. I love you, Angel.”

“I love you too,” the words get caught in her throat the way they tend to do when she’s about to cry. “And it’s because I love you that we can’t do this. Not now, anyway. Four years is a long time, G. Even if I’m not in love with Jason anymore, jumping into something with you so quickly after him would feel…I don’t want to use you in that way. Not if…”

“What?” He asks. “Not if what?”

She blows a deep breath. “Not if I want this to be for real. Us.”

Garrett feels his own throat constrict at that. “You do?”

“Of course, I do,” she almost laughs, but instead she settles for a shy smile. “What do you say, Xavier? You down to wait a few more months?”

When Garrett laughs back, it’s breathy and wet and all embarrassing. “Angel, I’ve been waiting for years. A few more months is nothing.”

She finally shuffles over and sits next to him, nudging his shoulder with hers. “You don’t have to leave.”

He feels himself grinning. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, voice more casual now, one hand reaching for the remote to pick their next movie. “Zac Efron looked super hot in Hairspray too.”

You wake up in unfamiliar sheets on a very familiar chest. The smell of the room brings back memories of last night.

You hadn't drunk much, wanting to be fully alert for your first night with Garrett. You were glad to wake up headache-free, it would make opening your eyes and facing the day easier. Still, you weren't ready to open your eyes yet, not ready to wake up from this dream.

You can feel his chest slowly rising and falling and you snuggle in closer. You don't know much time passes as you replay every caress, every kiss, every whisper in your ear that Garrett had given you last night. It was overwhelming, actually.

You keep your eyes closed as you feel him unwrap your arm from around his waist. He presses a kiss to your forehead before you feel the mattress lift as he gets up.

You can hear him hurriedly rustling around the room. Eventually, you peak one eye open to find him standing with his back to you. He's wearing the jersey he usually uses to train in and he's got his bag on his back.

"You sneaking out on me," you tease, your voice still husky with sleep.

Garrett whirls around to face you, panic in his eyes, "No... Oh my God. No. I was going to write you a note." He sheepishly lifts up the notepad and pen in his hands.

You bite back a smile as you take him in. His shoulders are shrugged as he offers you a lopsided grin. His hair is still a mess, likely from the activities of last night, and his lips are still puffy. How could this be the same man that showed you a whole new world last night?

"You look really cute in the morning." Your words make Garrett's nose scrunch.

"Only in the morning?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, all other times you're devastatingly handsome."

He throws his head back, a loud laugh slipping past his lips.

A silence settles in the room; his hazel eyes feel heavy on you as he watches your face.

"Was last night... good for you?"

He asked you this a million times last night, kept checking in to make sure you were okay and still enjoying it. It was such a turn on.

"It was..." you shake your head as if the word you're looking for would just fall out of your mouth, "incredible," you settle on.

"It's really important to me that last night was good for you." You wonder to yourself what you did to deserve a Garrett Graham.

"It was," you smile, voice small. Garrett smiles a soft smile back at you, but his eyes are still boring into your soul.

Considering he's fully dressed and has his bag on, you wonder if you're making him late for something. "What was the note going to say?"

"Coach has called extra practice, so I have to go," he sounds guilty, like he's doing you an injustice by leaving.

"Oh," you say as you throw off the covers, "no worries, I'll go."

"No!" Garrett's voice comes out louder than intended. He clears his throat and starts again. "No, you don't have to rush out. Take your time. There's food in the fridge, help yourself. I've left a toothbrush and a towel in the bathroom for you. Your clothes are there but I left you out some of my clothes in case you want to wear something fresh."

You look over to where he's pointing. Your clothes are neatly folded on his dresser next to a pile of his clothes, also neatly folded. You remember him, respectfully, ripping off your clothes last night. You sure as hell hadn't cared where they landed as they were taken off nor had you gotten up to fold them after. Which meant he did. He was so. darn. cute.

"Will you be here when I get back?" His voice pulls you from your thoughts.

"Do you want me to be?" You ask, you didn't want to come across too clingy, no matter how badly you wanted to pull him back into bed and spend the rest of the day with him.

"I do," he smiles, "I'll be back in an hour, two tops. Make yourself comfortable, don't go."

"Ok." You keep your voice casual but inside you're screaming and kicking your feet.

Luckily for you, the project partner that you had been assigned was the most dedicated of students. For any one idea or piece of research you contributed, Luca contributed two more. The only catch was, his schedule only aligned with yours during evenings and weekends.

That’s why, for the last two weeks straight, your social life had basically been non-existent. You spent all of your free hours hunched over textbooks, creating and scrapping PowerPoint presentations, and trying to understand research articles written by people with decades more experience than you had.

You and Luca were creating something you felt truly proud of, the hours and sacrifices you were making made sense.

Unluckily for Luca, he also had the misfortune of being genuinely funny, annoyingly handsome, and completely oblivious to the fact that the men you usually spent a significant amount of time with were... territorial.

Admittedly, giving enough attention to your two needy men was a challenge you were losing recently. You often went back to your dorm exhausted, having only managed to send a few texts to the group chat before falling into deep sleep.

On the rare occasions they did finally catch you, like today, you were usually about to rush back off to the library.

“Again?” Dean asked, arms crossed as he leant against your dorm room doorframe. “You’re going to spend time with him again?”

Your eyes narrowed at the accusatory tone. You cared for Dean, more than you could admit out loud without having spoken to Beau about it first, but he had no right to be implying whatever it was that he was implying.

“That’s usually how group projects work, Dean.”

Beau scoffed from where he was lounging on your bed and Dean turned to glare at him.

“You think this is funny, Maxwell?” Dean asked, his voice devoid of its usual teasing angle. “Because I’m failing to see the punchline here.”

Beau rolled his eyes, tossing his phone onto the mattress, the relaxed posture he’d had gone. He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m not laughing at you.”

“I called you three times last night,” Dean said, turning back to look at you. “Every single time, it went straight to voicemail. Then I get a text at two in the morning telling me how you were still with Luca?”

A sharp spike of annoyance hit your chest, masking the sudden heavy ache of guilt that was rising. “I just want to pass the semester, Dean. We’re only focused on working.”

“Right...” Dean mocked, crossing his arms tighter over his chest. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. “With a man who happens to be a 6’2 varsity athlete who keeps his desk close enough to touch your shoulder. I know his game. I know the type. I am the type.”

“You’re being unreasonable,” you retorted, your fingers gripping the strap of your backpack. “If you can’t trust me to sit in a brightly lit library with a classmate, then we have much bigger problems.”

“It’s not about trust,” Dean growled. The defensive mask he always wore was slipping, revealing the terrifyingly fragile insecurity beneath it. He hated how much he cared about someone he technically wasn’t in a relationship with. He hated that another man was occupying your mind. “He’s looking at you, he’s making you laugh, and you’re letting him take up every single second of your day while we’re left with whatever scraps you have left.”

The heavy silence that followed Dean’s words was suffocating, ringing in your ears like the aftermath of a physical blow. You felt an uncomfortable and nauseating swirling in your stomach, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs as you stared at the raw hurt on his face.

“Scraps?” You whispered, looking between the two of them, it wasn’t fair that you felt guilty right now. “Is that really what you think this is?”

“Isn’t it?” Beau’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet. “Dean’s acting like an asshole, but he isn't entirely wrong. You come back here, you drop your bag, you sleep for eight hours, and then you leave again. We barely see you.”

You looked at Dean, waiting for his face to break out in a smile or a teasing wink that told you he was just messing with you. But it wasn’t there, his face was tense, lips pressed into a thin, straight line.

Even worse, when you looked at Beau, his face mirrored Dean’s.

“I have a deadline,” you said, your voice trembling as you adjusted the heavy strap of your backpack. “A deadline that dictates seventy percent of my grade. If I don't go right now, I'm letting Luca down, and I'm ruining my own semester.” You turned to look directly at Dean, your tone turning sharp. “And honestly, Dean, you don’t get to be jealous. I don’t want to get into this with either of you right now.”

Dean flinched at your words, his jaw tightening so hard it looked painful. A flash of raw, ugly envy crossed his features before he forced his wall back up.

“We’re just... feeling a bit neglected, babe,” Beau said, his tone softening. He looked at your tight grip on the backpack strap and sighed heavy. “Look, I get it. I know it’s seventy percent. I know you’re stressed out of your mind trying to pass this class, and we want you to. We’re proud of how hard you work. It’s just... we miss you. Just go finish it, okay? We’ll be right here when you’re done.”

The sudden reassurance made a tight knot in your chest dissolve, the wave of relief hitting you instantly. You managed a small nod toward him. “I miss you too. I promise, the second it’s submitted, I’m all yours.”

You looked over at Dean, but he still wasn’t making eye contact with you.

You opened your mouth to say something. To defend yourself, or maybe to tell him how much you actually missed him. But you hadn't officially spoken to Beau about what Dean meant to the two of you yet. You were still operating in this grey, unlabelled, territory where Dean joined you on weekends, and the weight of what you wanted to say felt too massive to drop now.

“I’m leaving,” you said, turning on your heel.

Dean let out a bitter laugh, stepping back just enough to clear the doorway. “Right. God forbid you keep Luca waiting.”

You didn’t look back as you pushed past Dean and stepped into the hallway. The walk to the campus library was a blur of angry tears and a suffocating weight in your chest. You spent the next four hours staring at a laptop screen next to Luca, but your mind was back in your dorm.

The next day, you’d finally submitted the final draft of your project. You didn’t go back to your dorm, opting to immediately make your way to the hockey house. You shot a quick text to Beau, asking him to meet you there.

When you pushed open the door to Dean’s bedroom, Beau was already there, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Dean was stretched out on the other side of the bed, his back resting against the headboard with his headphones around his neck, staring blankly at his phone screen.

“It’s done?” Beau looked up at you.

“It’s done,” you breathed, stepping into the room. “We submitted it.”

You waited for Dean to look up, to offer a sarcastic comment or a lazy smirk, but he didn't even move. He kept his eyes pinned to his phone.

“Dean, what’s up? Please look at me.”

Dean slowly lowered his phone, his eyes flicking to yours. “Congrats. I’m happy for you.”

His voice sounded anything but happy.

Your eyes flicked over to Beau’s, you weren’t sure you understood what was happening here, but clearly, he did.

“I think you’re going to need to fill in the blanks for her, Dean,” Beau said.

“You told me I don’t get to be jealous,” Dean whispered. “And you’re right, aren’t you? I don’t. I’m not your boyfriend.”

“Oh.” You felt the oxygen rush out of your body. “No, Dean, that’s not what I meant. I–.”

“It’s fine,” Dean cut you off. He tossed his phone onto the blankets and stood up from the bed. “People come to me for a good time, not a long time or a serious time. And that’s fine by me.”

It clearly wasn’t fine by him. His jaw was ticking again.

“Dean, I don’t see you like that, we don’t see you like that,” you said, gesturing between you and Beau. “I just meant you didn’t get to be jealous of me and Luca, when I saw you and some puck bunny laughing it up the other day.”

Dean’s head snapped to your direction.  

“You... what?” Dean stammered, his arms slowly uncoiling from his chest.

“I saw you by the athletic centre on Wednesday afternoon,” you confessed, the words spilling out fast. “You were laughing with some blonde and she was practically throwing herself at you. I was stressed out of my mind about this project, completely exhausted, and then I see you doing that. So, when you started interrogating me about Luca, I snapped. I said you didn't get to be jealous because I was hurting.”

From the edge of the mattress, Beau snorted. He rubbed a hand over his face, a look of profound relief softening his features. “Jesus Christ, you two are idiots.”

“I don't even remember her name,” Dean whispered. “We spoke about the game, that’s it. I swear.”

“Okay.” Is all you said.

“Okay?” Dean asked.

“Yes. Okay.”

Dean’s brows furrowed at your cryptic words.

“I think what she’s trying to say, in a non-emotionally constipated way, is,” Beau said, coming over to wrap an arm around you, “we like you and it’s about time we’re absolutely clear on what we want.”

“Exactly,” you agreed softly, leaning into Beau’s sturdy side.

Dean’s throat bobbed, his shoulders dropping. “What do you want?”

“I want you to be our boyfriend,” you said clearly, making sure every single syllable sank in. “Officially. Publicly. Will you?”

"It was an impulse buy," you say. "You should keep it, actually. I never wear it, and it looks nice on you."

Lily's smile takes on a different quality. One you've seen before, and are too afraid to investigate. "Thanks. Do you want any help there?"

You lower your hand, frowning at the overlarge bump of eyeliner in the middle of your lash line. "I'm useless without Marlene."

"Aren't we all," Lily agrees. She comes to join you in the bathroom. "But I think sometimes it's easier when you're not working on yourself. Can I?"

You turn, passing her the pencil. Lily wets a cloth and takes her face in her hand to hold you still while she cleans off the mess you've made.

"It always looks like I've hardly done anything," you say with your eyes closed, "so I add a bit more, and then I look insane."

"You don't," she chides softly, though there's a smile in her voice. "You look gorgeous, it's just that you can only see the problems. And like I said, it's easier when someone else does this for you."

"Because you have a steadier hand?"

"No." She hardly has to murmur for you to hear, and you're struck, rather abruptly, with the epiphany of how close Lily is to you. Marlene does your eyeliner for you nearly every time you go out, but it's never felt like this. "Perspective."

Lily sweeps the dry side of the cloth across your lid, creating a fresh palate, before setting it down. You open your eyes, catching only a glimpse of her before she cups your face again, liner in hand, and gestures for you to close them.

Your body has caught onto what's happening now, though. Your every nerve thrums with awareness. You feel the brush of faux fur against your leg as she steps closer. The graze of her knuckle as she draws the pencil gently across your lash line. The (perhaps imagined) warmth of her closeness. Your heart flutters in your throat.

"If you wanted," you say, using the opportunity of your closed eyes to muster a bit of courage, "we could just stay here. Then you could go home after two, and Mary would be happy with you."

A pause. "Actually, I wouldn't mind dancing for a while," says Lily. Her hold shifts as she moves to your other eye. "I liked your first idea, though. Maybe we stay for a little while, and then when we're sick of it, come back here for the night."

Her thumb brushes beside your eye, correcting something, and your breath catches. Lily's touch lifts.

"Would that be okay?" she asks.

You blink your eyes open. This close, you can see the flush risen beneath her freckles that you couldn't when she was in your bedroom. You think Lily has to know she's beautiful, but sometimes you wonder if she knows the extent of it. You feel confident that even if she did—if she understood her power to stop hearts, to derail trains of thought and upset swarms of stomach butterflies—she'd only use it for good. That's just who Lily is.

"Yeah," you reply. "That sounds perfect."

"Great." She smiles and brushes a thumb under the corner of your eye again. "Well, done. You look really pretty."

"Thanks to you."

“I looked there already.”

“You very clearly didn’t,” you laugh.

He squints at the tie like it personally offended him before grabbing it. “Okay, well. In my defense—”

“You really don’t have one for this.”

“I was gonna say I’m tired.”

“You slept for twelve hours last night.”

He rolls his eyes and jokingly says, “It’s hard being me.”

You snort softly and go back to fixing your earrings while he disappears back into the bedroom.

Tonight is the wedding of Tyler Toffoli and Cat Toffoli, well technically a vow renewal mixed with an outrageously fancy anniversary party with family and friends, but everyone’s been calling it “the wedding” anyway.

The entire Sharks team got invited, which means Macklin has spent the last three days pretending not to care about this event while somehow asking you seventeen separate questions about what you’re wearing, if you're excited, what you think it will be like, etc.

A knock sounds against the bathroom doorframe, breaking you out of your thoughts, “Can you help me?”

You look up immediately, “With what?”

“My tie,” he says sheepishly. 

You smile to yourself. Of course.

When you walk into the bedroom, he stops in front of the mirror on the back of the door, in his dress pants and a white button-down, the tie hanging untied around his neck, while he looks mildly irritated about the entire situation.

Your expression softens a little involuntarily, he looks unfairly good, even if he doesn’t necessarily look put together. 

“What?” he asks immediately, catching you staring through the mirror.

“Nothing,” you quickly answer. 

“That’s a lie.”

“You clean up nice,” you admit.

The corners of his mouth lift instantly. “Yeah?”

“Don’t let it get to your head, handsome.”

He grins, “Too late.”

You roll your eyes fondly and step closer, putting your hand on his shoulder and pushing a little so he turns to face you. Once he’s turned around you fingers automatically reach for the tie around his neck, and the second you move into his space, his hands settle at your waist.

Always touching. It’s become his biggest habit, and you can’t really complain, it’s nice having that sense of knowing he’s always there.

“You know,” he says casually while watching your hands work, “I should probably learn how to do this myself eventually.”

“You say that before every formal event, and I always agree with you.”

“And yet here you are,” he retorts. 

“Macklin.”

He defends himself immediately, “I’m just saying maybe I like when you do it.”

Your chest warms stupidly at him saying that. You tighten the tie properly before smoothing the collar of his shirt down afterward, “There.”

He looks down at you instead of turning to the mirror again, “Perfect.”

You furrow your brows and a small smile creeps onto your face, “You didn’t even check.”

“Don’t need to,” he exhales shortly. 

You stare at him for half a second before laughing softly and patting lightly at his chest, “You’re ridiculous.”

He hums, his eyes not leaving your face. You start to move away to finish getting ready yourself, but before you can, his fingers hook gently into your wrist.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Turn around.”

You blink at him before slowly turning to face the mirror.

“Oh,” he says quietly behind you.

Your dress is deep blue, silky fabric falling smoothly down your body with an open back that dips lower than anything you’d normally wear. You’d struggled with the ties at the nape of your neck for almost ten minutes before tying them halfway decent, and telling yourself it was something to worry about later. 

Macklin’s hands settle lightly near the dip of your back for a second, his knuckles brushing up and down your skin lightly, “You need help?”

You nod, “Please.”

His fingers skim carefully against your neck as he takes the ties between his fingers, slowly figuring out the best way to secure them while making them look nice.

His movements are incredibly gentle and unhurried, and you feel his fingertips graze your skin once he figures it out. Your breath catches slightly at the touch of his skin on yours. When he's done, the front of the dress finally looks right and feels secure.

“You look…” he starts quietly, before you can thank him for helping you.

You glance back over your shoulder. “What?” you ask softly.

He just shakes his head once while your eyes meet his in the mirror, like he can’t figure out the right wording.

“Beautiful. You’re beautiful."

The sincerity in his voice hits harder than the compliment itself, and your expression softens instantly, “Thank you.”

His eyes meet yours in the mirror then, warm and impossibly tender. For a second neither of you move.

Then Macklin clears his throat lightly and pats your waist once. “Okay,” he says, “If we leave now we’ll only be fashionably late instead of offensively late.”

⊰══════════════════════⊱

The “wedding” is beautiful, insanely beautiful. 

String lights glow overhead, tables are lit by candlelight, and soft music drifts across the outdoor reception space while the California sunset melts gold across everything.

You barely make it ten feet into the venue before Macklin gets pulled into conversations by teammates, coaches, friends, family of the Toffolis that have heard nothing but good things about him.

You don’t really mind though, you like watching him here. Suit jacket slung perfectly over broad shoulders, tie slightly loosened now because he kept messing with it on the drive over, smiling easily while talking to people. Like this is his element, just talking to and being around other people. 

Every once in a while he glances across the room just to make sure you’re still nearby, and every single time without fail, his eyes soften when he finds you. 

Dinner passes in a blur of laughter and champagne and stories from people at your table.

Sometime between courses, Macklin steals a bite of food directly off your plate without asking, which honestly shouldn’t surprise you anymore, considering he’s been doing that since you were teenagers.

You immediately narrow your eyes at him from across the candlelit table, “Did you just take my ravioli?”

He shrugs, still chewing.

“You literally have the exact same thing on your plate; you don't have to steal mine.”

“Yeah but yours looked better,” he argues.

You stare at him blankly while he grins and takes another bite before you can stop him. “That’s unbelievable actually,” you mutter, trying not to laugh.

“You still love me.”

You just swat at his hand as he tries to pick off another piece of food from your plate.

The people around the table are deep in conversation, something about old Sharks stories and hopes for a playoff run, but Macklin barely seems interested in any of it now that food’s been placed in front of him.

“You should try this,” he says suddenly, cutting a piece of steak before holding the fork toward you.

You blink at him. “First you're stealing my food and now you're giving me yours?”

“It's like a trade,” he says easily. “Just try it.”

You laugh softly under your breath but lean forward anyway, letting him feed you the bite while he watches your reaction way too expectantly. Your eyes widen slightly. “Okay wait, that’s actually incredible.”

“I told you.”

“Better than the ravioli. Can I have some?”

Macklin immediately slides half his plate toward you without hesitation, “Of course, take whatever you want.”

Your chest warms a little at how automatic it is for him, like he wants you to enjoy everything more than him.

Later, when dessert arrives, you end up too full to finish yours, but Macklin steals bites from your plate between conversations anyway.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mumble as he takes another forkful of your cake.

“You weren’t eating it.”

“I was going to, I was saving it.”

He laughs, “No you weren’t.”

You try to glare at him, but it completely falls apart when he reaches over to wipe a tiny smear of frosting from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. The gesture is so casual and practiced, that it makes your stomach flip anyway.

“There,” he says softly, like he doesn’t even realize what he just did.

You stare at him for half a second too long. “What?” he asks immediately, catching your expression, thinking something is wrong.

“Nothing,” you answer quickly.

His eyes narrow slightly like he knows you’re lying, but before he can say anything, someone further down the table starts calling for everyone to head toward the dance floor.

Macklin glances toward the music starting up across the reception space before looking back at you again.

“You want to dance?” he asks from beside you.

You think about it briefly before answering, “Depends.”

“On?”

“How embarrassing you’ll make it.”

He mocks offense, “I’m a phenomenal dancer.”

You stare at him, your blank expression not faltering this time. 

He grins. “Okay that was a lie.”

A slower song starts playing then, and Macklin stands before you can even fully process it, “C’mon.”

You blink up at him. “Seriously?”

“Yes seriously.”

“You hate dancing.”

“I don’t hate dancing. Plus you like dancing, so come on.”

You open your mouth to argue again, but still, he holds his hand out expectantly until you finally laugh and take it. 

The second you step onto the dance floor,  his hands settle at your waist while yours loop loosely around his neck.

“You know,” you say lightly as you start swaying together, “our wedding would have better music than this.”

His eyebrows lift instantly, “Our wedding?”

You immediately laugh, “You know what I mean.”

“No no, keep going,” he insists. 

“You’re annoying,” you say, with no real annoyance in your voice whatsoever. 

He smiles thoughtfully, “I just think it’s interesting you jumped straight to our wedding specifically.”

You narrow your eyes while he grins smugly.

“I’m being serious though,” you continue. “This playlist is too safe.”

“What would you play then?”

You gasp dramatically, “Oh my god, you don’t know me at all.”

“I’m just asking!”

“You need songs people scream-sing to, like songs everyone knows and everyone likes.”

“At a wedding?”

“Yes.”

“Horrible take.”

You scoff, a somewhat offended look on your face, “It’s a fantastic take.”

He laughs softly under his breath while pulling you slightly closer, so your bodies are flush against one another. 

“What would you play then?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “Stuff people can actually dance to.”

“You just said you hate dancing.”

“I hate public dancing.”

“That’s exactly what dancing at a wedding is, especially if it’s your own wedding.”

He grins, and the conversation keeps light after that, all just jokes. Teasing about terrible wedding songs and which flower arrangements are the best, and whether or not he’d ever allow a cheesy photo booth at a wedding (he wouldn’t, and you agreed).

“You’d cry during your vows,” you tell him confidently.

“No I wouldn’t,” he tries to protest. 

“You absolutely would.”

“Well I think you’d cry first.”

“I definitely would cry first, I can’t argue with that.”

“See?” he teases. 

“But you’d still cry, especially if I was already crying.”

He hums thoughtfully like he’s genuinely considering it, “Maybe…probably.”

The music changes again to a different song, slower now. The dance floor dims slightly beneath softer lighting while conversations around you blur together.

Macklin’s hand slides absentmindedly against the small of your back, while he keeps his other firmly at your waist.

“You know what I’d want?” he asks quietly, the conversation becoming more intimate. 

“What?” you reply. 

“A really small wedding.”

You blink slightly, surprised by the sincerity in his tone now, “No huge thing?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “I mean…maybe enough for family and friends, but nothing insane.”

“I like that idea, I’d want a small wedding too.”

His expression softens a little, “What else would you want?” he asks.

You smile softly, “I think I’d want it somewhere warm.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Somewhere near water maybe, I think that would be nice.”

He nods slowly like he’s filing that information away somewhere important.

“And good food,” you continue seriously.

“That’s your priority?”

“Yes, absolutely. Bad food means a bad wedding because everyone would be in a bad mood.”

“That’s crazy,” He laughs again, forehead dipping briefly against yours while you sway together.

You don’t notice at first how the conversation slowly continues to change throughout the night. At some point the joking fades away completely, because suddenly you’re talking about first dances, and whether vows should be private before the ceremony or spoken publicly. About what it would be like with kids running around the reception and what honeymoon destinations are at the top of your list. 

Every answer comes easily, like you’ve both thought about it before, as if a part of each of you has quietly wondered what forever together would actually look like. 

The craziest part might be that neither of you seem scared by it, you're discussing it like you're excited.

Later, after dancing and dinner and speeches, your heels finally start killing you. They’ve actually been killing you almost all night but you’ve gotten good at ignoring it. You try not to complain about it, but Macklin notices the discomfort on your face. 

“You okay?” he asks immediately while you walk back toward your table and you sit down immediately.

“Fine,” you huff, immediately regretting it because there’s annoyance and upset laced in your tone. 

“You sure?” he asks. 

You sigh dramatically, “My feet hurt.”

“How bad?”

“Like maybe I’ll amputate them when we get back to the hotel.”

He snorts softly before immediately crouching beside your chair.

“Macklin.”

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Taking these shoes off your feet, “ he says as he immediately starts working on the delicate ties wrapped around your ankles from your heels.

His hands are warm against your skin, and his movements are slow and careful like he’s handling something fragile. The ribbon on your shoe has knotted more from hours of dancing, and he frowns softly in concentration while loosening it.

“You tied these too tight,” he murmurs.

You know better than to argue, because his stubbornness wouldn't let you, so you just let him do his thing. His eyes are still focused downward while his thumb brushes lightly against the inside of your ankle after finally undoing the knot. The red marks left behind from the ribbons make his expression soften immediately.

“Oh, baby.”

“It’s fine,” you mumble, suddenly embarrassed by how gentle he’s being about it.

“No, that looks like it hurts, does it hurt?”

“Just a little sore,” you admit, “It’ll be fine in a little while.” 

You watch him quietly as he slides the heel off your foot carefully, setting it on the floor next to him before he immediately moves to the other one.

There’s something about the way he does it that makes you realize how lucky you got with him. No teasing, no rushing, just complete attentiveness, like taking your shoes off to make sure you’re comfortable is suddenly his top priority.

The second heel comes free shortly after, and he lightly rubs his thumbs over the sore spots on the backs of your ankles.

You melt further into the chair you’re sitting in, “Oh,” you sigh.

He smiles softly, amused, “That better?”

“So much better.”

He keeps his hand around your ankle for another second longer than necessary before gently setting your feet back on the cold tile of the floor and standing up again, placing a kiss on your cheek as he does. 

Without a word, he slides your shoes underneath his own chair so nobody accidentally kicks them away. The gesture is so small and would be completely irrelevant to anyone else but for some reason your chest gets a little tight. 

“What?” he asks softly, catching your expression.

You smile faintly. “You’re just really good to me.”

His entire face changes at that, “Well,” he says quietly after a second. “Yeah.” He says it like it’s completely obvious, like there isn’t another option because to him you deserve nothing but the best, all the time. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

By the end of the night, you’re completely exhausted. The good kind. The kind that comes after you have a really good day, surrounded by people you care about, and the day after you get to do absolutely nothing except rest and think about how good this day was. 

You end up leaving the venue barefoot, your heels dangling from Macklin’s hand while his other hand stays firmly wrapped around yours. The night air hits you immediately and you shiver, it feels so cold compared to the warmth of the reception hall. 

Without even pausing, Macklin slips his suit jacket off his shoulders and drapes it around you carefully.

“Mack, you’ll be cold.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me.”

You try to argue again, but he’s already tugging the jacket more securely around your shoulders, smoothing the lapels down. It smells exactly like him. His cologne that you love, and laundry detergent from the dry cleaners. Of course there’s that something underneath it all that’s very distinctly him. 

“Better?” he asks quietly. You nod, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself, “Much. Thank you.”

He pulls you closer by the hand, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, “Anytime, baby.” 

The parking lot is farther than you remembered it being earlier, and the path cuts through a stretch of grass surrounding the venue. Macklin immediately slows his pace when he notices you looking down at the pavement.

“Careful,” he says softly, tightening his hold on your hand, “There’s rocks over here.”

He guides you carefully around a rough patch in the sidewalk, still carrying your shoes and his loosened tie thrown over his shoulder now.

“You know,” you mumble sleepily, leaning slightly into his arm as you walk, “this is very husband behavior of you.”

Macklin glances down at you immediately, lips twitching, “Oh yeah?”

You hum in response. 

He smiles, “You calling me your husband already?”

You smile lazily, “Maybe.”

He doesn’t say anything, but that might be his favorite thing you’ve ever said to him. 

The grass is cool beneath your feet when you step off the sidewalk, and Macklin immediately moves closer beside you.

“Wait,” he says quietly. Before you can ask what he’s doing, he gently pulls you toward the smoother path, his dress shoes already flattening the grass.

“Walk where I walk,” he murmurs.

Your heart stutters stupidly at the gesture.

The venue lights glow warmly behind you now, and the music is faint in the distance. Everything feels quieter out here, and much slower in contrast to the celebration you were just at.

You’re tired enough at this point in the night that you stop filtering your thoughts.

“I liked tonight,” you say softly.

Macklin looks over at you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile faintly, “It was just so happy.”

He grins, “Yeah it was.” 

You keep walking slowly across the grass, your body warm inside his jacket, and exhaustion is beginning to make you softer around the edges.

“Mack?”

“Hm?”

“If we ever get married,” you mumble sleepily, “I think it’ll be perfect.”

He smiles immediately. “Yeah?” 

“Yes.”

“I’ll be sure to make sure everything’s perfect for you,” he says softly. 

“Even if I say no country music at all?” 

At that, he gasps dramatically, “Okay, now we’re having our first fight.”

You grin tiredly up at him while he opens the car door for you.

“You love me,” you say. 

“I do,” he responds immediately.

Then, quieter as he helps you carefully into the seat so your bare feet don’t touch the pavement again, he says: “So much.”

⊰══════════════════════⊱

The car ride back to the hotel is almost silent, save for the sound of the heat running through the vents and the tires humming against the pavement. Your heels are abandoned somewhere on the floorboard while you sit curled sideways against the center console, feet tucked under you on your seat. 

Macklin’s suit jacket is now draped over your lap because you got colder halfway through the drive, and neither of you are really talking anymore; you’re too sleepy.

Your fingers lazily play with his while the city lights blur past outside the windows.

“Mack?” you mumble softly after a while.

“Hm?”

“Thank you for being so sweet to me.”

His hand tightens slightly around yours, “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“Okay...but thank you anyway.”

He laughs quietly under his breath, and glances down at you in the passenger seat. 

Your breathing has evened out and your face is completely relaxed, hand still in his. He realizes you’re asleep, and his eyes soften even more. 

When he comes to a red light, one of his hands comes up carefully to brush hair away from your face while you sleep, your head resting on your seat, tilted slightly towards him. 

Macklin steals glances at you the rest of the drive to the hotel. At your smudged makeup from the long night, your sleepy, relaxed look, the way you adjust your hand in his even while you’re asleep. At one point he shifts your hand, and brings it up to his lips to press a soft kiss against your knuckles, then another to the back of your hand.

And then the thought hits him so hard it almost startles him; I’m gonna marry her. He’s thought about it before, hypothetically. The two of you had been talking about it all night but nothing you said was ever that serious. He doesn’t think it in a vague distant way, now it’s more like a fact settling somewhere at the front of his mind, and he’s never been more sure about anything in his life.

requests are open ♡ Also, I've been wanting to expand who I write for lately, so if there’s anyone you’d like to see, lmk!! :)

“I looked there already.”

“You very clearly didn’t,” you laugh.

He squints at the tie like it personally offended him before grabbing it. “Okay, well. In my defense—”

“You really don’t have one for this.”

“I was gonna say I’m tired.”

“You slept for twelve hours last night.”

He rolls his eyes and jokingly says, “It’s hard being me.”

You snort softly and go back to fixing your earrings while he disappears back into the bedroom.

Tonight is the wedding of Tyler Toffoli and Cat Toffoli, well technically a vow renewal mixed with an outrageously fancy anniversary party with family and friends, but everyone’s been calling it “the wedding” anyway.

The entire Sharks team got invited, which means Macklin has spent the last three days pretending not to care about this event while somehow asking you seventeen separate questions about what you’re wearing, if you're excited, what you think it will be like, etc.

A knock sounds against the bathroom doorframe, breaking you out of your thoughts, “Can you help me?”

You look up immediately, “With what?”

“My tie,” he says sheepishly. 

You smile to yourself. Of course.

When you walk into the bedroom, he stops in front of the mirror on the back of the door, in his dress pants and a white button-down, the tie hanging untied around his neck, while he looks mildly irritated about the entire situation.

Your expression softens a little involuntarily, he looks unfairly good, even if he doesn’t necessarily look put together. 

“What?” he asks immediately, catching you staring through the mirror.

“Nothing,” you quickly answer. 

“That’s a lie.”

“You clean up nice,” you admit.

The corners of his mouth lift instantly. “Yeah?”

“Don’t let it get to your head, handsome.”

He grins, “Too late.”

You roll your eyes fondly and step closer, putting your hand on his shoulder and pushing a little so he turns to face you. Once he’s turned around you fingers automatically reach for the tie around his neck, and the second you move into his space, his hands settle at your waist.

Always touching. It’s become his biggest habit, and you can’t really complain, it’s nice having that sense of knowing he’s always there.

“You know,” he says casually while watching your hands work, “I should probably learn how to do this myself eventually.”

“You say that before every formal event, and I always agree with you.”

“And yet here you are,” he retorts. 

“Macklin.”

He defends himself immediately, “I’m just saying maybe I like when you do it.”

Your chest warms stupidly at him saying that. You tighten the tie properly before smoothing the collar of his shirt down afterward, “There.”

He looks down at you instead of turning to the mirror again, “Perfect.”

You furrow your brows and a small smile creeps onto your face, “You didn’t even check.”

“Don’t need to,” he exhales shortly. 

You stare at him for half a second before laughing softly and patting lightly at his chest, “You’re ridiculous.”

He hums, his eyes not leaving your face. You start to move away to finish getting ready yourself, but before you can, his fingers hook gently into your wrist.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Turn around.”

You blink at him before slowly turning to face the mirror.

“Oh,” he says quietly behind you.

Your dress is deep blue, silky fabric falling smoothly down your body with an open back that dips lower than anything you’d normally wear. You’d struggled with the ties at the nape of your neck for almost ten minutes before tying them halfway decent, and telling yourself it was something to worry about later. 

Macklin’s hands settle lightly near the dip of your back for a second, his knuckles brushing up and down your skin lightly, “You need help?”

You nod, “Please.”

His fingers skim carefully against your neck as he takes the ties between his fingers, slowly figuring out the best way to secure them while making them look nice.

His movements are incredibly gentle and unhurried, and you feel his fingertips graze your skin once he figures it out. Your breath catches slightly at the touch of his skin on yours. When he's done, the front of the dress finally looks right and feels secure.

“You look…” he starts quietly, before you can thank him for helping you.

You glance back over your shoulder. “What?” you ask softly.

He just shakes his head once while your eyes meet his in the mirror, like he can’t figure out the right wording.

“Beautiful. You’re beautiful."

The sincerity in his voice hits harder than the compliment itself, and your expression softens instantly, “Thank you.”

His eyes meet yours in the mirror then, warm and impossibly tender. For a second neither of you move.

Then Macklin clears his throat lightly and pats your waist once. “Okay,” he says, “If we leave now we’ll only be fashionably late instead of offensively late.”

⊰══════════════════════⊱

The “wedding” is beautiful, insanely beautiful. 

String lights glow overhead, tables are lit by candlelight, and soft music drifts across the outdoor reception space while the California sunset melts gold across everything.

You barely make it ten feet into the venue before Macklin gets pulled into conversations by teammates, coaches, friends, family of the Toffolis that have heard nothing but good things about him.

You don’t really mind though, you like watching him here. Suit jacket slung perfectly over broad shoulders, tie slightly loosened now because he kept messing with it on the drive over, smiling easily while talking to people. Like this is his element, just talking to and being around other people. 

Every once in a while he glances across the room just to make sure you’re still nearby, and every single time without fail, his eyes soften when he finds you. 

Dinner passes in a blur of laughter and champagne and stories from people at your table.

Sometime between courses, Macklin steals a bite of food directly off your plate without asking, which honestly shouldn’t surprise you anymore, considering he’s been doing that since you were teenagers.

You immediately narrow your eyes at him from across the candlelit table, “Did you just take my ravioli?”

He shrugs, still chewing.

“You literally have the exact same thing on your plate; you don't have to steal mine.”

“Yeah but yours looked better,” he argues.

You stare at him blankly while he grins and takes another bite before you can stop him. “That’s unbelievable actually,” you mutter, trying not to laugh.

“You still love me.”

You just swat at his hand as he tries to pick off another piece of food from your plate.

The people around the table are deep in conversation, something about old Sharks stories and hopes for a playoff run, but Macklin barely seems interested in any of it now that food’s been placed in front of him.

“You should try this,” he says suddenly, cutting a piece of steak before holding the fork toward you.

You blink at him. “First you're stealing my food and now you're giving me yours?”

“It's like a trade,” he says easily. “Just try it.”

You laugh softly under your breath but lean forward anyway, letting him feed you the bite while he watches your reaction way too expectantly. Your eyes widen slightly. “Okay wait, that’s actually incredible.”

“I told you.”

“Better than the ravioli. Can I have some?”

Macklin immediately slides half his plate toward you without hesitation, “Of course, take whatever you want.”

Your chest warms a little at how automatic it is for him, like he wants you to enjoy everything more than him.

Later, when dessert arrives, you end up too full to finish yours, but Macklin steals bites from your plate between conversations anyway.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mumble as he takes another forkful of your cake.

“You weren’t eating it.”

“I was going to, I was saving it.”

He laughs, “No you weren’t.”

You try to glare at him, but it completely falls apart when he reaches over to wipe a tiny smear of frosting from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. The gesture is so casual and practiced, that it makes your stomach flip anyway.

“There,” he says softly, like he doesn’t even realize what he just did.

You stare at him for half a second too long. “What?” he asks immediately, catching your expression, thinking something is wrong.

“Nothing,” you answer quickly.

His eyes narrow slightly like he knows you’re lying, but before he can say anything, someone further down the table starts calling for everyone to head toward the dance floor.

Macklin glances toward the music starting up across the reception space before looking back at you again.

“You want to dance?” he asks from beside you.

You think about it briefly before answering, “Depends.”

“On?”

“How embarrassing you’ll make it.”

He mocks offense, “I’m a phenomenal dancer.”

You stare at him, your blank expression not faltering this time. 

He grins. “Okay that was a lie.”

A slower song starts playing then, and Macklin stands before you can even fully process it, “C’mon.”

You blink up at him. “Seriously?”

“Yes seriously.”

“You hate dancing.”

“I don’t hate dancing. Plus you like dancing, so come on.”

You open your mouth to argue again, but still, he holds his hand out expectantly until you finally laugh and take it. 

The second you step onto the dance floor,  his hands settle at your waist while yours loop loosely around his neck.

“You know,” you say lightly as you start swaying together, “our wedding would have better music than this.”

His eyebrows lift instantly, “Our wedding?”

You immediately laugh, “You know what I mean.”

“No no, keep going,” he insists. 

“You’re annoying,” you say, with no real annoyance in your voice whatsoever. 

He smiles thoughtfully, “I just think it’s interesting you jumped straight to our wedding specifically.”

You narrow your eyes while he grins smugly.

“I’m being serious though,” you continue. “This playlist is too safe.”

“What would you play then?”

You gasp dramatically, “Oh my god, you don’t know me at all.”

“I’m just asking!”

“You need songs people scream-sing to, like songs everyone knows and everyone likes.”

“At a wedding?”

“Yes.”

“Horrible take.”

You scoff, a somewhat offended look on your face, “It’s a fantastic take.”

He laughs softly under his breath while pulling you slightly closer, so your bodies are flush against one another. 

“What would you play then?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “Stuff people can actually dance to.”

“You just said you hate dancing.”

“I hate public dancing.”

“That’s exactly what dancing at a wedding is, especially if it’s your own wedding.”

He grins, and the conversation keeps light after that, all just jokes. Teasing about terrible wedding songs and which flower arrangements are the best, and whether or not he’d ever allow a cheesy photo booth at a wedding (he wouldn’t, and you agreed).

“You’d cry during your vows,” you tell him confidently.

“No I wouldn’t,” he tries to protest. 

“You absolutely would.”

“Well I think you’d cry first.”

“I definitely would cry first, I can’t argue with that.”

“See?” he teases. 

“But you’d still cry, especially if I was already crying.”

He hums thoughtfully like he’s genuinely considering it, “Maybe…probably.”

The music changes again to a different song, slower now. The dance floor dims slightly beneath softer lighting while conversations around you blur together.

Macklin’s hand slides absentmindedly against the small of your back, while he keeps his other firmly at your waist.

“You know what I’d want?” he asks quietly, the conversation becoming more intimate. 

“What?” you reply. 

“A really small wedding.”

You blink slightly, surprised by the sincerity in his tone now, “No huge thing?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “I mean…maybe enough for family and friends, but nothing insane.”

“I like that idea, I’d want a small wedding too.”

His expression softens a little, “What else would you want?” he asks.

You smile softly, “I think I’d want it somewhere warm.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Somewhere near water maybe, I think that would be nice.”

He nods slowly like he’s filing that information away somewhere important.

“And good food,” you continue seriously.

“That’s your priority?”

“Yes, absolutely. Bad food means a bad wedding because everyone would be in a bad mood.”

“That’s crazy,” He laughs again, forehead dipping briefly against yours while you sway together.

You don’t notice at first how the conversation slowly continues to change throughout the night. At some point the joking fades away completely, because suddenly you’re talking about first dances, and whether vows should be private before the ceremony or spoken publicly. About what it would be like with kids running around the reception and what honeymoon destinations are at the top of your list. 

Every answer comes easily, like you’ve both thought about it before, as if a part of each of you has quietly wondered what forever together would actually look like. 

The craziest part might be that neither of you seem scared by it, you're discussing it like you're excited.

Later, after dancing and dinner and speeches, your heels finally start killing you. They’ve actually been killing you almost all night but you’ve gotten good at ignoring it. You try not to complain about it, but Macklin notices the discomfort on your face. 

“You okay?” he asks immediately while you walk back toward your table and you sit down immediately.

“Fine,” you huff, immediately regretting it because there’s annoyance and upset laced in your tone. 

“You sure?” he asks. 

You sigh dramatically, “My feet hurt.”

“How bad?”

“Like maybe I’ll amputate them when we get back to the hotel.”

He snorts softly before immediately crouching beside your chair.

“Macklin.”

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Taking these shoes off your feet, “ he says as he immediately starts working on the delicate ties wrapped around your ankles from your heels.

His hands are warm against your skin, and his movements are slow and careful like he’s handling something fragile. The ribbon on your shoe has knotted more from hours of dancing, and he frowns softly in concentration while loosening it.

“You tied these too tight,” he murmurs.

You know better than to argue, because his stubbornness wouldn't let you, so you just let him do his thing. His eyes are still focused downward while his thumb brushes lightly against the inside of your ankle after finally undoing the knot. The red marks left behind from the ribbons make his expression soften immediately.

“Oh, baby.”

“It’s fine,” you mumble, suddenly embarrassed by how gentle he’s being about it.

“No, that looks like it hurts, does it hurt?”

“Just a little sore,” you admit, “It’ll be fine in a little while.” 

You watch him quietly as he slides the heel off your foot carefully, setting it on the floor next to him before he immediately moves to the other one.

There’s something about the way he does it that makes you realize how lucky you got with him. No teasing, no rushing, just complete attentiveness, like taking your shoes off to make sure you’re comfortable is suddenly his top priority.

The second heel comes free shortly after, and he lightly rubs his thumbs over the sore spots on the backs of your ankles.

You melt further into the chair you’re sitting in, “Oh,” you sigh.

He smiles softly, amused, “That better?”

“So much better.”

He keeps his hand around your ankle for another second longer than necessary before gently setting your feet back on the cold tile of the floor and standing up again, placing a kiss on your cheek as he does. 

Without a word, he slides your shoes underneath his own chair so nobody accidentally kicks them away. The gesture is so small and would be completely irrelevant to anyone else but for some reason your chest gets a little tight. 

“What?” he asks softly, catching your expression.

You smile faintly. “You’re just really good to me.”

His entire face changes at that, “Well,” he says quietly after a second. “Yeah.” He says it like it’s completely obvious, like there isn’t another option because to him you deserve nothing but the best, all the time. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

By the end of the night, you’re completely exhausted. The good kind. The kind that comes after you have a really good day, surrounded by people you care about, and the day after you get to do absolutely nothing except rest and think about how good this day was. 

You end up leaving the venue barefoot, your heels dangling from Macklin’s hand while his other hand stays firmly wrapped around yours. The night air hits you immediately and you shiver, it feels so cold compared to the warmth of the reception hall. 

Without even pausing, Macklin slips his suit jacket off his shoulders and drapes it around you carefully.

“Mack, you’ll be cold.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me.”

You try to argue again, but he’s already tugging the jacket more securely around your shoulders, smoothing the lapels down. It smells exactly like him. His cologne that you love, and laundry detergent from the dry cleaners. Of course there’s that something underneath it all that’s very distinctly him. 

“Better?” he asks quietly. You nod, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself, “Much. Thank you.”

He pulls you closer by the hand, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, “Anytime, baby.” 

The parking lot is farther than you remembered it being earlier, and the path cuts through a stretch of grass surrounding the venue. Macklin immediately slows his pace when he notices you looking down at the pavement.

“Careful,” he says softly, tightening his hold on your hand, “There’s rocks over here.”

He guides you carefully around a rough patch in the sidewalk, still carrying your shoes and his loosened tie thrown over his shoulder now.

“You know,” you mumble sleepily, leaning slightly into his arm as you walk, “this is very husband behavior of you.”

Macklin glances down at you immediately, lips twitching, “Oh yeah?”

You hum in response. 

He smiles, “You calling me your husband already?”

You smile lazily, “Maybe.”

He doesn’t say anything, but that might be his favorite thing you’ve ever said to him. 

The grass is cool beneath your feet when you step off the sidewalk, and Macklin immediately moves closer beside you.

“Wait,” he says quietly. Before you can ask what he’s doing, he gently pulls you toward the smoother path, his dress shoes already flattening the grass.

“Walk where I walk,” he murmurs.

Your heart stutters stupidly at the gesture.

The venue lights glow warmly behind you now, and the music is faint in the distance. Everything feels quieter out here, and much slower in contrast to the celebration you were just at.

You’re tired enough at this point in the night that you stop filtering your thoughts.

“I liked tonight,” you say softly.

Macklin looks over at you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile faintly, “It was just so happy.”

He grins, “Yeah it was.” 

You keep walking slowly across the grass, your body warm inside his jacket, and exhaustion is beginning to make you softer around the edges.

“Mack?”

“Hm?”

“If we ever get married,” you mumble sleepily, “I think it’ll be perfect.”

He smiles immediately. “Yeah?” 

“Yes.”

“I’ll be sure to make sure everything’s perfect for you,” he says softly. 

“Even if I say no country music at all?” 

At that, he gasps dramatically, “Okay, now we’re having our first fight.”

You grin tiredly up at him while he opens the car door for you.

“You love me,” you say. 

“I do,” he responds immediately.

Then, quieter as he helps you carefully into the seat so your bare feet don’t touch the pavement again, he says: “So much.”

⊰══════════════════════⊱

The car ride back to the hotel is almost silent, save for the sound of the heat running through the vents and the tires humming against the pavement. Your heels are abandoned somewhere on the floorboard while you sit curled sideways against the center console, feet tucked under you on your seat. 

Macklin’s suit jacket is now draped over your lap because you got colder halfway through the drive, and neither of you are really talking anymore; you’re too sleepy.

Your fingers lazily play with his while the city lights blur past outside the windows.

“Mack?” you mumble softly after a while.

“Hm?”

“Thank you for being so sweet to me.”

His hand tightens slightly around yours, “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“Okay...but thank you anyway.”

He laughs quietly under his breath, and glances down at you in the passenger seat. 

Your breathing has evened out and your face is completely relaxed, hand still in his. He realizes you’re asleep, and his eyes soften even more. 

When he comes to a red light, one of his hands comes up carefully to brush hair away from your face while you sleep, your head resting on your seat, tilted slightly towards him. 

Macklin steals glances at you the rest of the drive to the hotel. At your smudged makeup from the long night, your sleepy, relaxed look, the way you adjust your hand in his even while you’re asleep. At one point he shifts your hand, and brings it up to his lips to press a soft kiss against your knuckles, then another to the back of your hand.

And then the thought hits him so hard it almost startles him; I’m gonna marry her. He’s thought about it before, hypothetically. The two of you had been talking about it all night but nothing you said was ever that serious. He doesn’t think it in a vague distant way, now it’s more like a fact settling somewhere at the front of his mind, and he’s never been more sure about anything in his life.

requests are open ♡ Also, I've been wanting to expand who I write for lately, so if there’s anyone you’d like to see, lmk!! :)

The first sign that something is wrong is the silence.

Not the peaceful, domestic kind you get on a slow Monaco morning — the kind where the sea hums against the rocks and Charles pads around the apartment humming whatever tune is stuck in his head. No, this is the charged silence. The kind that means your boyfriend is thinking very hard about something, and that something is probably stupid.

You find him on the sofa, arms crossed, jaw set, staring at his phone like it personally offended him.

“Hi, love,” you say, leaning down to kiss his cheek.

He doesn’t move. Not even a twitch.

Oh. He’s really in it.

You slide onto the sofa beside him. “Okay. What’s wrong.”

“Nothing,” he says, in the tone of a man who is absolutely lying.

You raise a brow. “Charles.”

He exhales through his nose, still refusing to look at you. “I am fine.”

“Charles.”

A beat. Then, with the most tragic sigh you’ve ever heard:

“I saw something.”

You try not to smile. “Something like…?”

He finally turns the phone toward you, and there it is — a TikTok edit of you and your co-star from your latest film. A montage of behind-the-scenes clips, red carpet moments, and a shot of him lifting you during a stunt rehearsal. The comments are full of ship names and heart emojis.

But that’s not what makes Charles’ jaw clench.

It’s the audio.

Your song.

The one you and Charles claimed after a road trip two years ago. The one he plays every time he picks you up from the airport. The one he hums when he’s cooking. The one he swears is “ours and only ours.”

“Oh,” you say softly. “They used—”

“Yes,” he snaps, offended on a spiritual level. “Our song.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Baby—”

“And the comments,” he continues, scrolling aggressively. “Look. Look at this. ‘They have better chemistry than any real couple.’ Better chemistry than any real couple? Any?”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “You know they’re just fans having fun.”

“I am fun,” he insists, deeply unconvincing. “I am very fun.”

You kiss his shoulder. “You are.”

He huffs. “I am not jealous.”

You snort. “You’re pouting.”

“I am not pouting.”

He is absolutely pouting.

You take the phone from his hand and set it on the coffee table. “Charles.”

He stares straight ahead, arms crossed tighter. “I do not like this ship.”

“I know.”

“It is a bad ship.”

“I know.”

“He is not even your type.”

You smile. “And what is my type?”

He finally looks at you, eyes softening despite himself. “Me.”

You cup his cheek. “Exactly.”

He melts a little — but only a little. “Still. They should not use our song.”

You climb into his lap, straddling him, and his hands immediately settle on your hips like it’s instinct. “You want me to tell the entire internet to stop using it?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “Tell them it is copyrighted. Tell them it is illegal.”

You laugh, pressing your forehead to his. “I don’t think that’s how copyright works.”

“It should be,” he mutters.

You kiss him — slow, warm, reassuring. His hands tighten on your waist, his pout easing as he kisses you back. When you pull away, his eyes are softer, less stormy.

“You know I love you,” you whisper.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But I do not like seeing you with him.”

“It’s acting.”

“I know.” He sighs. “But the edit… it was very well done.”

You grin. “So you admit it was a good edit.”

“No,” he says immediately. “I admit nothing.”

You laugh again, brushing your nose against his. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous,” he insists, then ruins it by tightening his arms around you like you might disappear. “I just do not like sharing.”

“You’re not sharing,” you say softly. “You’re my boyfriend. He’s my co-star.”

He nods, but you can tell he’s still thinking about it. So you take his face in both hands, forcing him to meet your eyes.

“Charles,” you say gently. “There is no ship. There is no chemistry. There is no secret romance. There is just a very good editor on TikTok and a bunch of fans who like to imagine things.”

He blinks. “So you do not think he is handsome?”

You laugh. “He’s fine.”

“Fine?” Charles repeats, like he’s testing the word for danger.

“Fine,” you confirm. “But he’s not you.”

He softens again, leaning into your touch. “Good.”

You kiss him once more, slow and lingering. “You want to know something?”

“Yes.”

“I only ever listen to that song with you.”

His breath catches, and you feel him relax fully for the first time since you walked in. “Really?”

“Really.”

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. “Okay. Then I am less angry.”

“Less?”

He shrugs. “I am still a little angry. But I will survive.”

You smile against his neck. “My dramatic boy.”

He nudges your temple with his nose. “Your boy.”

You stay like that for a moment — tangled together, the tension gone, the apartment warm and quiet again.

Then Charles pulls back slightly, eyes narrowing. “But if they use our song again—”

“Charles.”

“I am just saying.”

“Baby.”

He sighs, defeated. “Fine. I will try to be normal.”

You kiss him again. “Thank you.”

“But I am still blocking the account.”

“CHARLES.”

He grins, finally teasing again. “What? I am protecting our intellectual property.”

You shove his shoulder, laughing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me.”

“I do.”

He kisses you, soft and slow, thumb brushing your cheek. “Then come here,” he murmurs. “Let me remind you why we have a song.”

You settle against him, his arms wrapping around you, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. He presses a kiss to your hairline, then another, then another.

“Next time,” he whispers, “I want to be in the edit.”

You laugh. “You want fans to ship us?”

“Yes,” he says proudly. “I want them to know I am the main character.”

You shake your head, smiling. “You already are.”

He beams, satisfied at last, and pulls you closer.

And just like that, the storm passes — replaced by warmth, by soft kisses, by the quiet certainty that no TikTok edit in the world could ever compete with this.

With him.

With the two of you.

the familiar melodies of taylor swift are gently playing through your wired headphones - wired because you've lost two pairs of airpods and can't afford a third set. instinctively, your eyes find the rearview mirror like you're the one driving, your own exhausted face starting back at you. you frown at yourself, looking away.

your taxi driver is taking, his thin lips moving animatedly expressing as he - oh he's talking you.

you tug your headphones out, abruptly stopping your music. "i'm sorry, what was that?"

"are you from new york? or vacationing?" the driver repeats himself, eyes kind from where he glances at you in the mirror.

"i'm here for work, actually." you tell him, deciding to pack up your phone and headphones for the remainder of the drive, shoving them in your duffle bag.

"ah okay, what do you do for work?"

you knaw on your lip - you've never really known how to answer that question. you're technically a professional figure skater. you went to boston university for skating and competed on the world woman's figure skating team. but that didn't always pay the bills, so you split the rest of your time working reception at a house league arena and teaching figure skating to kids 5-7.

"I teach figure skating," you settle on. the taxi starts to move again, the driver taking a sharp left turn that jolts you sideways in the backseat.

"some kids need your help here?" the driver laughs gently, working the wheel to weave the car through traffic.

you breath a little chuckle, eyeing the traffic. "something like that."

a few weeks ago you had been approached by somebody apart of the social administration team for the national hockey league asking if you'd be interested in a mini youtube series where they had professional skaters come and teach nhl players how to figure skate.

at first you were going to pass on the opportunity. your boyfriend of two years had broken up with you only a week before the nhl reached out to you- claiming he wasn't in love with you anymore and needed a fresh start. you were crushed - and honestly still are. you thought there was no way you'd be able to focus on teaching professional athletes how to arabesque properly all while navigating you're first real breakup.

but after really mulling it over, you decided that it could be the distraction you needed in your healing process. you told them yes and two weeks later you were on the train from boston to new york city - all your stuff packed in your nike duffel bag. it shouldn't be too overwhelming, you think. after all, it wasn't just you that would be teaching, there'd be four other figure skaters there with you. the email wasn't too informative about how it would all work, but it gave you basic information like schedule, times, and the actual idea of what was being filmed.

you'd each be assigned an nhl player from the teams in the surrounding areas, and you'd be responsible for not only teaching them how to figure skate, but creating a brief routine for the nhl youtube channel - then again preformed for one of the local kids hockey teams. as well, all proceeds from the video would be given to the kids - which was obviously amazing.

the taxi pulled up to the sheltered entrance of your hotel, which thankfully the nhl was paying for. after all, this trip wasn't one where you'd be getting commission and were solely here voluntarily - so you appreciate how kind the nhl has been with expenses.

"here you go," your taxi driver turns over his shoulder and gives you a warm smile, "need help with your case?"

you shake your head, "i've got it, thank you." digging through your bag to grab some cash, giving it to the old man before making your exit.

he thanks you politely. "good luck teaching those kids," he says. "I know how hard they can be to get through to."

"oh i'm ready for it."

with that you make your way into the hotel, checking in at the reception desk. the hotel is like ridiculously nice and a bag boy even takes your suitcase from you and preemptively delivers it to the room before you get there.

immediately once you get into your room, you exhale tiredly. you shower quickly, barley getting to admire how stunning the bathroom was because of your lacking levels of energy. you don't even dry your hair before you're getting into bed, setting an alarm before closing your eyes.

your stomach is tickling with nerves as you begin thinking about your day tomorrow - the unknown of it all making you anxious. you just pray your designated nhl player is a good listener, patient and a good partner.

— Day One

"and this is the rink - obviously nothing crazy but it is the rangers practice facility so it's definitely nice," mark, the main personal of the admin team gestures to the stark white rink behind him, an excited smile on his face as he talks to you all.

just the smell of the ice has you smiling, and any lingering feelings of anxiety you were feeling about this week were disappearing. you breathe happily, taking another look around the arena facility.

"look at that ice." beside you, another figure skater gleams, her dark brown eyes transfixed on the sheet in front of you. she had introduced herself earlier as shay, her bubbly personality quickly exposed as she started asking you a million questions excitedly. "I can't wait to tear it up."

you quirk a brow slightly, lips pulling into a smile. "well, i'm not sure how much actual figure skating we'll get to do between teaching."

she groans and you giggle at her dramatics.

"alright, guys so," mark claps his hands together, gathering all figure skaters and media personals attention. "we're going to head back to the meeting room and the players will be arriving shortly - once they get here we will go over the process of partnering up and the schedule."

you enter the meeting room soon after, shay at your side - a spring in her step. as you make your way back to the table you'd earlier left your duffle bag (stuffed full with anything you may need), you can't help but feel eager to learn which players would not only be participating, but which player you would be assigned to.

the skaters take various seats in the room, but mostly stick together - opting for the two oval tables towards the side of the room. demi, a small blonde girl, takes a quick seat beside you, immediately resting her chin on her palm as she leans in. "who do you guys hope is here?" she smirks, her voice quiet as she asks. demi doesn't wait for an answer before she speaks again, "i'm hoping for trevor zegras."

out of the corner of your eye you watch as shay gives an unimpressed look. you fight off the knowing smirk that begins to make its way on to your face - you weren't going to be the one to tell the blond that the chances of zegras coming to new york from the other side of the country was very unlikely.

"i'm hoping for somebody who doesn't mind a challenge," you say gently, "doesn't matter who."

demi just hums uninterested, eyes leaving you and moving over towards the front of the room. just as she does so, mark along with another older gentleman enters the room, the latter of the two holding a stack of papers in a brown folder, the word "CONFIDENTIAL" stamped in bold font on the front.

instantly, you become nervous again. the door reopens a few seconds later, and five men walk into the meeting room, laughing and chatting with one another as they do so. based on the pure build of them, you know they are the nhl players you'd all be teaching. you didn't know too much about hockey, and without them wearing their teams jersey you had no idea who played for who. they all look around the same age, which was likely around yours.

in the middle of the five hockey players stands a very tall man - so tall that immediately you feel nervous. teaching somebody that tall and long limbed to figure skate would be difficult and an extreme learning curve. you can only hope whichever skater gets paired with him is patient (and you hope it's not you or shay). ideally somebody shorter and stocky would be best as they'll have an easier time learning spins and bends.

"alright, now that we are all here," mark starts, taking the stack of papers into his hands. "i'm going to go over the jist of what we're doing." he flips open to the first few pages, scanning it quickly before he starts again. "okay so, here's how it's going to work. James and I have preemptively paired each skater with one of our athletes, which was completely random - rempe don't start." one of the players laughs gently, dismissing marks teasing.

"the next couple days will have a lot of filming, so be prepared for the cameras and for my media crew to be all over you." another round of laughs echo throughout the room, and you smile gently. "to my hockey players, please be kind and respectful with the skaters - there already doing a great deal by coming here to teach you, so don't make it difficult."

James is the one to continue, his deep voice projecting around the room. "any and all proceeds from our tiktok and youtube accounts will be given to the new york rockets little league team. as well, the figure skater and assigned player will be preforming a mini routine for the rockets team before our hockey players will be playing a game with them - understood?"

a murmur of agreements can be heard throughout the meeting room. mark clears his throat, beginning to read off his papers. "shay biles, raise your hand for me," like told, shay happily puts her arm in the air, waving slightly. mark beams, "perfect, okay, john beecher this is your partner."

john waves back gently, nodding his head in greeting from across the room. shay definitely got lucky, you think. john seems kind, his eyes gentle and smile bright as he looks at shay. beecher is a name you've heard living in boston, and your younger brother has definitely screamed his name at the tv while watching the bruins. you feel a bit upset that you hadn't gotten john, at least that way you'd have living in boston to relate to.

one of the girls you hadn't really had a chance to talk with is called out next, and she gets paired with an islanders player. she seemed relatively content with her partnership, her smile wide and eyed slightly shiny as anthony greeted her from across the room- perhaps she was a fan of duclair.

demi is called for next. the blonde grins smugly, waving her fingers in a way that seems very amorous. "dawson mercer this is your figure skating partner." the nhl star in question raises his hand from between his crossed arms in greeting, giving the bright blonde one quick wave.

you swear you can hear demi mumble something to you about dawson being 'kinda cute', which makes you feel a bit awkward - you don't know is demi wants you to respond or just stay quiet and nonchalant. shay seems to of heard demi's comment, and she nudges you side gently. shay's smile is barley noticeable, but you see it, and you have to hide you face.

"okay, y/n y/l/n..." mark calls your name and your stomach swoops. the reality of the situation all feels a bit daunting - reminding you of when a teacher would randomly call on you in primary school. your hand moves upwards, your elbow still resting on the table top as you wave gently. mark smiles triumphantly, "ah wonderful - okay matt rempe this is your partner."

it feels like the room goes silent, the constant mumbling and laughter from the table of nhl players comes to a halt. nervous and confused, you eye them all, waiting with anticipation for matt rempe to make himself known - although based on the pause of commotion in the meeting room, it seems like everybody but you is already acquainted with him.

just then, the tallest one that had caught your eye earlier leans forward. you can feel your stomach come up your throat before quickly dropping down to your feet. matt's lips tug up in a slinky smile, jerking his head once in greeting. you can't believe your luck. of course you'd get paired with the borderline giant guy - you can't even begin to fathom how much taller he'll be on skates. you're not too sure yet how you're going to teach him to figure skate gracefully, especially when it comes to spins and gliding - both of those naturally being more difficult to do when you're taller.

you look away. the combination of matt's confident greeting and your own personal turmoil about his height all too much. you swallow nervously, fuck.

you can already tell from the way matt carries himself and how his co-workers act around him that he is the kind of guy who's very...vainglorious. that had you feeling even more timid about teaching him - still dealing with the affects of your heartbreak and learning how to handle everything on top of that was a very different feeling.

and just as the cherry on top, demi leans closer to you from across the table, her voice a quiet, teasing hum as she talks out of the side of her mouth. "lucky duck - you got the hottest one."

double fuck.

soon after the mini breakdown in your head - all figure skaters, hockey players and media personnel were directed back down to the ice level of the rink. the former two groups quickly getting ushered towards the dressing rooms of the practice facility to change into appropriate clothes for skating.

thankfully all the other skaters opted for a more toned down, casual figure skating attire, so you don't feel out of place in your flare leggings, leotard and align zip up. shay looks like she's wearing something similar to you, smiling at you warmly before leaving. so that anxiety slowly settles down.

shakily, you pull your hair into a ponytail, tugging to ensure it's tight and in place. you take a slow breath, preparing yourself for the day ahead of you. slipping on your skates, you've already decided you're not going to let any hockey player change your self-healing journey - the main reason you accept the offer was to heal. you breathe a smile, tightening your skates.

as you approach the ice, you take a momentary pause - observing the scene infront of you. most of the other skaters were enthusiastically chatting with their assigned nhl players, laughing and smiling as they stretched. the atmosphere around you was filled with anticipation and excitement, which had you stomach buzzing.

you step onto the sheet of ice, your eyes darting throughout the sea of skaters and media team. there's more people and camera crew than you were originally expecting, with a good chunk of the arena filled with professional filming cameras, wires, and photographers. with a push forward, you begin to make your way into the crowd, weaving through the chaos in search of matt rempe.

you've heard talk about the name matt rempe - living in a hockey based household with your brother and dad, his name was bound to come up. unfortunately, the talk you've heard hasn't been all sunshine and flowers. matt has made a name for himself in the nhl by fighting - which obviously wouldn't be a problem with your teaching because hopefully he doesn't want to fight you. that as well as his flirtatious personality though has you still feeling a bit worried.

you still haven't caught sight of him yet, which seems odd considering his towering frame. you're definitely not the shortest of all the figure skaters by any means, but you definitely have a smaller stature in compared to your partner and some of the others crowded towards the one side of the rink.

you push forward as you glance over your shoulder - eyeing behind yourself to try and catch sight of matt. you come to a halted stop, your body being held still.

"whoa," a voice breaths with laughter above you, large hands finding your shoulders to stop your movement. "gotta watch where you're going- just saved you from tripping over a pile of wires."

you jerk your head up, finding the soft but teasing brown eyes of matt rempe staring down at you. "matt!" you exclaim loudly. he raises his brows with amused suprise, which immediately has you flushing with embarrassment - you curse yourself for your uncool exterior. "hi! matt. sorry, I'm your skater, my names-"

"y/n," matt says your name - tone a combination of gentle and amusement, your clear borderline frantic state fresh on his mind. he releases the gentle grip on your shoulders in favour of dropping his hands back down against his side. "I remember."

"right, sorry." you laugh gentle, hands nervously fiddling with the zipper of your jacket - a bad habit you'd always had has been fiddling with your clothes as a distraction. you think it's because it helps focus your energy on something else - negative or positive. during your breakup, you think you destroyed two separate strings of hoodies.

you clear your throat, dropping your hands. "have you ever figure skated before?" instantly you regret your awkward question - and you try not to cringe at yourself.  you can only hope you don't come across...unintelligent or discombobulated. the chances of a hockey player participating in this sequence of figure skating related events/ filming of he knew how was very unlikely.

matt looks himself up and down before eyeing your through his lashes, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "I definitely have not."

you chuckle awkwardly, ringing your hands. "right, of course not. you probably would've turned down all this figure skating stuff if you knew how. after all why would you willingly volunteer to get bossed around and be taught something you already knew how to do! sorry, I feel like i'm rambling."

"you apologize a lot." matt laughs, eyes glimmering with charm in the arena lighting above. "you don't need to."

"sorry-" matt's brows raise, immediately cutting you off from another apology. "im not going to finish that."

matt smiles fondly.

just then, somebody approaches you both. he looks maybe 2 or 3 years older than you, with dark hair and standing around 6 feet tall. he's got a phone clutched in his hand, and a media lanyard around his neck. "hey," he smiles when he approaches, "i'm david. i'm apart of the social admin team for the nhl and i'll be filming you guys for the tiktok content - which will be today."

you shake his hand gently, "y/n, nice to meet you." matt follows suit, shaking david's hand in greeting. david briefly discuss the filming process with you and matt, and tells you what to expect with the cameras while you're teaching. david’s instructions, although speedy, make you feel more confident in the day - finally having a clear rundown of the process lifting a weight of your shoulders.

david directs you both towards the benches where some of the other partners are stood - waiting their turns in front of the camera. some groups are  with their own social media team, filming for instagram and tiktok accounts. the lighting is dimmed on your half of the rink, providing the filming side with correct studio lighting. there's a small dunkin coffee station set up right by the bench entrance, filled with multiple coffee flavours, takeaway cups, creamers, sugar and even a box of donut holes.

you grab yourself a large paper cup, filling it to the brim with decaf. you don't even bother grabbing cream or sugar - taking three hearty gulps of coffee in hopes to get some hyperactive energy.

lowering the cup from your face, you catch sight of somebody as they skate up beside you. you glance over, just to see matt grab one of the cake flavoured deserts and shoving the whole thing in his mouth. he catches your gaze, and he smiles - mouth full of donut and all.

your brows raise in surprise, his clear comfortability almost has you feeling envious - for his sakes you're trying your best to lighten up and he just is already. you clear your throat twice, "need some coffee to wash all that down?"

matt eyes your cup and he almost makes a face. he swallows heavily, shaking his head. "i'm good - takes more than tiny donut hole to take me down."

you nod with understanding, an amused smile pulling at your mouth - you raise your cup, taking a sip to mask your enjoyment.

matt indulges in one more donut, dusting his hands free of any icing against the front of his rangers jersey. you cringe momentarily, resisting the urge to reach out and wipe away any remnants. "so," matt starts, finishing the last few chews of the donut, "how long have you seen skating?" 

"my whole life," you tell him, happily taking another sip of your drink. "my mom was a figure skater so as soon as I could walk she put me in lessons," you continue, "which obviously seems a little controlling - but i'm glad she did...the opportunities i've had and the memories i've made are just unbelievable."

you pause and take a moment to think about your figure skating journey and just how thankful you are being put in lessons that young - you're not sure where you'd be without skating. you lost your mom when you were 15 - only 8 years ago. figure skating was always a way to stay connected to her and her memories. seeing your dad's blissful face when he watches you compete is always so fulfilling.

matt nods almost solemnly, as if he knows what you were thinking off. he shifts so his entire body is turned towards you, giving you his full attention. "that's actually pretty amazing - where do you compete?"

"i've gone to worlds a handful of times, which is just crazy at my age." you laugh in disbelief just at the thought. first time you went to worlds was when you were 16 years old, and a two more times when you were 17 and 18. you were one of the youngest competitors at being freshly 16 - only two girls from japan and canada being the same age.

matt's brows furrow, "how old are you know?"

"23 right now," you answer, "but I started competitively training when I was 12 and went to the first championship series when I was 16."

"holy crap," he laughs, nodding his head impressed - lips quirked in a half smile. "do you still train competitively? is all this your full time job?"

after another drink of your coffee, you sigh with ponder. "honestly - no. I still work in figure skating - teaching kids in my free time at the arena back home - hence why i'm here. it's just...." you trail off, brows furrowed as you try and find the right words. competing at the levels you used to was a lot. the diet was extremely strict, the training was intense and your mental and physical health was not good. you love skating and you'll always continue to teach it, but actually competing is something you'd never subject your body to again.

"too much." matt nods in understanding, answering for you.

you smile in conformation, "too much." you can tell by matt's sad and understanding smile that he knows exactly the strain and intensity you'd dealt with - he is an athlete after all. you clear your throat, "but i'm excited to be here though, I promise."

he dissolves into laughter, shoulders shaking. "don't worry, I didn't think you weren't."

you breath in relief, your moment of silent worry that matt would think you weren't grateful for the opportunity you were in slipping away. "so how come you decided to do this?" you ask curiously, topping up your coffee cup with more decaf. it overfills, sloshing over the rim as you look at him. silently, you curse, releasing the latch to stop the liquid from pouring out.

matt smiles fondly as you switch hands, moving your cup out of your wet hand. thankfully, it's not scorching so you're not burnt but you're wet and a little embarrassed. you're trying to shake the liquid off your hand when matt wordlessly grabs a napkin out of the stack on the table, gently grabbing your wrist as he pats your skin with it.

you swallow gently, watching him clean the coffee off your hand. matt doesn't seemed fazed, eyes focused on your sticky skin as he answers your question. "honestly, I don't think I was their first choice - they asked Schneider first but he declined. i'm glad they asked me next though, because i'm always looking to try new things." your hand is dry now, and matt balls the napkin up before throwing it into the trash can. he smiles, "and figure skating is on skates right, so I mean i've already got that part down."

in a moment of vulnerability, you spin back to properly face him. you go to speak, "can I be honest with you?"

he nods.

you continue, "tall people and figure skating don't always go hand in hand- when you're tall things like twizzles and jumps and flexibility don't come as easy. so when I first saw you I remember thinking I felt bad for your partner," you laugh once, "and then once I found out that you were my partner I got really nervous. I just...," you pause, sighing, "I don't want you to feel like you can't do it properly or as well as some of the shorter players or feel upset because I can't show you everything- i'm rambling again, sorry I-"

"y/n," he hums playfully, "the only thing i'll be upset about is if you keep apologizing for no reason." he spins on his skates so that his back is towards the coffee table, his side bumping into your front teasingly. he rests against the edge, hands gripping the table to keep himself steady.

you breath a laugh, mimicking his position. your arms brush together, and you belly sort off...wobbles. "I know, I know - I just want this to be good."

"it will be," matt smiles triumphantly.

david comes shuffling over again, now with a mini ring light attached to the media branded cellphone. he beams, coming to a shaky stop. he gestures to his phone, "i've got to get you two for a tiktok before the youtube crew takes you." david then goes into what you need to say and maneuvers you both to a more aesthetically appealing background.

you begin, smiling brightly at the camera and praying your eyes aren't squinty with the bright light. "hi tiktok i'm y/n and ill be teaching new york ranger, matt rempe, how to figure skate this week."

"stay tuned for exclusive content and behind the scenes on the new york rangers tiktok and instagram page - as well for the full videos on youtube." matt concludes, looking down at you briefly.

"great - that's amazing guys! i'll catch up with you both later." then david scoots away, back towards the exit off the rink where some media tables are set up - full of equipment, passes and extra water bottles and snacks.

next thing you know you and matt are both being ushered in front of the cameras for your segment of todays filming. like david, one of the directors - a middle aged blonde woman with a encouraging voice - tells you how to start and what to say. she ensures you if either of you need a break and/or further instructions to not hesitate to stop and ask.

with that being said, matt begins to video off. he stands tall, large arms held behind his back as he stands perfectly on the mark. "I'm matt rempe from the new york rangers and today I'm learning how to figure skate," matt smiles with exaggerated nervousness, eyeing you.

you giggle quietly, "and i'm professional figure skater, y/n y/l/n and today i'll be teaching matt the basics of figure skating - starting off easy for ole matt."

his arms come loose, and he holds his hands up in a surrender like position, turning towards you. "okay if im being honest I think i'll get the hang of this pretty easily," matt admits confidently.

smirking, you eye him, "let's see." you push off, skating away gracefully, spinning back around to face your partner. "ready for your first set of moves?"

"born ready."

-

you finishing off one of the quicker spins, making your final turn before gracefully skating out of the motion - demonstrating for matt.

his brows raise in shock, eyes slowly meeting the camera. staring down the lens. he shrugs doubtfully, cracking his neck in preparation. "my turn."

matt tries to recreate the spin, slowly and wobbly twizzling around the ice. it's definitely not perfect as he can't seem to stay in the same area and he only makes it around four full times before beginning to slip out. "that's crazy." he laughs in disbelief. "show me again."

"just-" you sigh with a smile, getting back into position to twizzle around once again. "like that."

matt tries again, and although his second attempt was more more successful, he was still a bit unstable with his movements. the tall athlete comes to a wobbly stop, brown eyes closing in discomfort. you know that face all too well and immediately you know he hasn't spotted - which is your own fault for not teaching him. "i'm dizzy,"matt puts his hands on his knees, leaning over to try and ground himself. "I don't even know how you do that."

once he's no longer feeling nauseous, you quickly teach him the importance of knowing how to spot.

-

matt's hands are heavy in yours, his grip tightening to mimick your hold as you both attempt another jump - granted it's a bit difficult considering his height. regardless, it's successful and he lands pretty much perfectly.

you encourage him further as you both skate, praises happily spilling from your mouth as you him skate gracefully - well, as graceful as somebody that tall can. you slow ever so slightly, tightening your grip again to signal for another jump.

matt's tongue pokes out and his brows furrow with concentration. he pushes off the ice like you showed him, jumping into the air. he lands again, a warm laugh leaving him. "oh my god!"

"great!," you beam, bringing you both to a slow stop. then you tell matt that he has to attempt jumping on his own and his once smile is quickly flipped.

-

"okay matt we gotta dip," you hum knowingly, already sensing his disappointment - matt's earlier distain towards low level figure skating moves ringing in your head. "dig real low."

like suspected, matt groans - it's not that he doesn't want to try and do the move because he knows that's why he's here and he wants to make your experience pleasant. he's groaning because he knows how him trying will end.

matt's first dip down to the ice is successful, and you gleam, gliding along beside him. "look at how low you are!"

matt continues to slide along the ice, one of his long legs extended in front of him. he's practically holding his breath, concentrating on making another successful dip down. it isn't much longer before he slips, landing roughly on his back.

matt groans in displeasure, his arms falling dramatically as he rolls on the ice. the sight of the tall man laying on the ice like a child has you laughing into your palm, eyeing him gently.

he pushes back onto his knees before standing to his full height, brows furrowed. "are you laughing at me?" matt questions you, his own laugh slipping out between his uncomfortable groans - the wind just about knocked out of him from the fall.

your hands fall from your face, raising in surrender. "i'm not even laughing cause it's funny. it's just like-"

"I was digging for you." matt claims cheekily - referring to your earlier comment about matt needing to dig deeper into figure skating. "I wanted to go low for you." he's gently rubbing his elbow, a grimace still on his face.

"I know. you were actually very low I was impressed."

-

you expertly lean into your spin, bending your back to complete the movement.

matt squints unsure. "i'm having a hard time committing to that right now."

-

you move forwards, quickly stopping your skates as you swing your body from side to side - skate blades tearing into the ice in a jerk like motion.

matt watches you closely from where he takes a momentary break against the boards. "oh so we are doing slow mo now?"

"yup." you chirp, rounding back towards him.

"fuck me," he huffs out, pushing off the wall. they'll definitely have to bleep that out.

-

your back is practically pressed into matt's chest, breathing gently as you push your bodies together. "give me your other hand," you remind him gently. "goes on the hip."

like told, matt's large hand rounds in to the dip of your hip, securely holding onto your body in preparation for a glide. against your other hand, his fingers flex slightly, fixing his grasp.

"okay and you're going to push off the ice."

"okay," he mumbles from above the top of your head. he goes to push off the ice, but from pure instinct he kicks off too strongly and too quickly - his legs wobbling as he practically launches you both. matt curses, toe picking to a stop.

"woah," he breaths a laugh. "not smooth, eh? let's redo that."

you laugh gently, and you pull him back into proper position. "you got it, just focus on the journey rather than the destination."

"I can't concentrate when you're looking at me like that." matt says, a small teasing smirk following as you both get ready to glide again.

"oh my god." you mumble.

-

matt's breathless, hands on his hips as he collects himself after trying to do more practice on his solo jumps. he looks dead at you, lips tugging up into a smirk, panting as he tries to collect himself. "we don't need to do any triples axels today."

you giggle through your own breathlessness, sympathetically patting his padded shoulder. "you've worked hard enough."

"i'll do a triple axel probably next session." he jokes, shrugging nonchalantly. you scoff, pushing against his shoulder teasingly.

-

"i'm sweating," matt huffs.

-

"why are you standing like that?" you laugh, pausing your demonstration to skate over towards matt.

"what do you mean? that's just how I stand." it's definitely not how he stands - and he's looking rather uncomfortable as he attempts to balance on his toes, his knees bent.

you can only laugh in disbelief. in an attempt to fix his awkward posture, you push against his chest with one hand, trying to angle him backwards while your other hand attempts to keep his lower back in proper position. "you're ridiculous - you look like jason kelce ready to catch a football."

-

"I think my hips are too far forward," matt hums thoughtfully, teetering uncomfortably.

"yeah?" you question.

"yeah," he nods with confirmation, swishing his hips around in a circular motion - trying to loosen his muscles. "they're too tight - everything's too tight." he sends an exaggerated wink in your direction, trying to further us attempt at a dirty innuendo.

you splutter, heat rising to your face. "stop it."

-

finally after a tiring and eventful couple hours, you and matt are done skating and filming for the day. it's only a couple minutes of an interview like questionare on the other end of the ice - away from jamie drysdale as his figure skater begins to go over turns before you get to get changed.

you're exhausted by the time you're walking out of the change room - swapping your athletic zip up for an oversized hoodie and figure skates for your slip ons. you let your ponytail down, fluffing the kinks from your hair as you begin to make your way down the hallway towards the parking garage entrance.

thankfully, yesterday when you arrived you had an email from the nhl informing you that your rental car, courtesy of the nhl, had arrived to your hotel and the keys were with reception. you're very thankful, because spending all your money on taxis wouldn't be ideal.

you’re right at the car, your finger already placed against the unlock button on the rented key fob when someone calls your name, the familiar voice echoing through the concrete parking garage.

matt comes up beside you just as you turn around - a friendly grin on his lively face.

you smile politely. "hey."

he breaths a greeting, "hi." matt doesn't say anything else - only continuing to look down at you gently, an unknown expression along side his gaze.

your brows come together with amused confusion, your lips changing into a slight smirk. "everything okay?" you ask, leaning back against your car door.

he blinks out of his stare, shaking his head slightly. "yeah, sorry. just wanted to thank you for today - you're really patient and like super chill. i'm looking forward to tomorrow and working with you further - god knows I didn't make it the easiest task."

"oh," you breathe, "thanks, matt that's really kind of you to say. you're great at this, don't worry."

he laughs softly, "thanks - still not sure about those spins though."

you giggle gently, the thought of matt's green complexion and woozy eyes still fresh in your mind. you tug your tongue, poking at his bicep "spotting," you remind him.

"right, spotting," he kisses his teeth, nodding with thought. his mouth opens briefly, nothing but silence coming out - but then he sighs, "you're ridiculously good, y/n, i've been blown away by you."

you swallow thickly, completely shocked at his kind words and warmhearted complexion. he smiles sheepishly, like he might be embarrassed by his straightforward compliment. you muster up a grin, fiddling with the edge of your sweatshirt. "that means a lot to me - thank you."

"you're welcome," he says sheepishly, rubbing one of his large palms over the back of his neck. matt steps backwards, eyes meeting yours. "i'll see you tomorrow, y/n."

"i'll see you tomorrow, matt."

— Day Two

like yesterday, you and matt ended up being one of the first skating partners to be filmed. which was kind of nice, because after the hour or so of teaching him, you got to have a break. granted today both you and matt had to stay for some extra interview style filming and then proceed to begin to practice the 40 second - 1 minute routine needed for a few days time.

you had already finished your question session for the day, so you were sat comfortably on one of the benches. the sounds of shay's skates gliding across the ice as she taught john some more complex spins was a soothing noise - giving you a moment to reflect.

last night after your long day spent with matt, you had gotten back to your hotel exhausted once again - eyes practically fluttering closed on the elevator ride up. you had briefly checked social media before heading to bed in search for some brain distraction before sleep - only to be met with your exes instagram story with another girl: the two looking very cozy together.

that sent you into a depressive spiral, which included lots of self doubt and crying. it's not even the fact that he had moved on from your relationship quickly, but the thought of him having no regards for how you may feel had you feeling sick - your self doubt and insecurities in full force.

your eyes had still hurt from your night of crying when you woke up - definitely still puffy as you showed up at the rink. you definitely hadn't been as layed back today, and most of your responses were short and quick - your movements not as precise or clean. your heartbreak was beginning to affect you on the rink...all because of a stupid instagram story. you honestly felt bad for matt having to deal with you and you can only hope you're not ruining his experience.

the sound of somebody stepping up onto the padded area of the benches has you snapping out of your daydreaming, looking up at the source to see matt hobbling towards you - the padding affecting his skate blades.

matt was coming from filming some interview content with david like you had previously done - now taking a seat beside you on the bench before you'd both have to practice the routine. matt sits close enough to you that his arm bumps yours, but he doesn't seem to mind the closeness - making no effort to move away from you, keeping your limbs pressed together.

"good job today." you smile gently towards him, but it doesn't meet your eyes. quickly, you turn your attention back towards the rink - john beecher's laugh a nice distraction.

matt smiles politely even though you're not looking at him, "thanks - you too."

you shoot him a questioning glance, but there's a ghost of a smile on your face - his little quip getting to you. it makes matt beam, eyes trained on you even as david zooms over to take some behind the scenes pictures of you both - he's gone before you even have a chance to pose.

you find the ice, instinctively thinking about your ex once again. you're almost angry at yourself for doing so - you took this opportunity to try and heal and get over the heartbreak back in boston. and matt was so nice yesterday, already providing you with a comfortable distraction in your healing journey.

matt nudges his skate covered foot against yours, pulling you out from another moment of daydreaming. "you trying to steal some teaching techniques from shay or something?"

"what?"

"you keep zoning out over there." he laughs gently, his elbow nudging into you in one last attempt to get you to crack.

you laugh, but it's definitely forced - shaking your head as you try and clear your summersault of thoughts.

matt sighs, eyes dancing over your dull expression. "sorry if this comes across weird, but...are you okay?"

you shoot him a glance. "what do you mean?"

he shrugs, "I don't know you just look off - sorry if that's too harsh. it's just…yesterday you looked much more, I don't know, happier? or maybe more hyper? sorry if i'm overstepping, just thought I'd be a decent human being and ask." matt seems to nervously run a hand over his flowing hair, awkwardly tugging his jersey away from his neck as he rambles. "i've noticed something all day and I just thought...I don't know."

you frown gently. you've never been one who could easily control your emotions and they are always easily depicted on your face. today was no exception, and matt has clearly caught it. although you weren't planning on getting into your lingering heartache, you owed it to your partner to at least give him something. besides, matt noticing something was up with you based solely on your body language and waiting until you weren't in front of cameras to ask about it....was rather sweet and considerate of him.

matt continues to apologize to you, his eyes frantically searching your face for any notable signs of discomfort.

you press further into his side to gather his attention, doing your best at sending him a playful smirk. "hey if i'm not allowed to excessively apologize without a reason - neither are you."

your teasing has matt breathing a sigh of relief, but his brows still are drawn together in question. "so i'm not overstepping?"

you shake your head. "you being perspective and asking me if i'm okay is not overstepping."

his brows change, shooting up in suprise. "so you're not okay is what you're telling me?"

you sigh gently, "just...having a hard time recently. nothing that deep, truly. stupid stuff."

on cue, your cell phone resting in your lap lights up with a notification, and like clockwork both you and matt look down at the glowing device. the notification isn't even the problem - just some stupid twitter notification about sydney sweeney and her new movie.

"is that your boyfriend?" matt asks you gently.

he's referring to your lockscreen picture - one that contains you and your ex laying together on the beach. matt had seen the lockscreen photo that you still hadn't had the heart to change - too attached to the memories of what once was. that was the problem.

"no, sorry - he's," you pause, debating if you're really about to tell matt - a guy you're just really getting to know - about your sad excuse of an ex. "he's my ex-boyfriend."

you can practically see the gears turning in his head, his eyes darting around your face to further take in your expression. matt puts all the clues together, humming gently. "is that why you're upset?"

for a brief moment you continue to debate about what to say. telling an nhl player about your ex wasn't exactly what you were expecting to do today, but you also don't really have any sort of outlet for your feelings. back home you sort of don't have any friends - your best friend ashley had moved to ohio for school a year ago and you had your family, but even they could be dismissive and non understanding about your heartbreak. you think matt may just be the next best thing.

"yeah," you finally sigh, "he broke up with me only a couple weeks ago."

"i'm sorry," matt says immediately, eyeing you softly. "what happened - if that's okay to ask?"

"well," you laugh breathily, your disbelief clear in your tone. "he decided that after two years he didn't love me anymore - and based on his story last night…he's already moved on. i'm not even upset that he's moving on, it just hurts to see you know?" you're weren't really expecting to spew all that, but matt doesn't seem to mind as he nods thoughtfully.

"yeah," he agrees, "similar thing happened with my ex, so in some capacity I can understand how you're feeling." he pauses, eyeing the ice once again. you find yourself following suit, watching as shay shows john how to properly do his spread eagles. "you're pretty badass for dealing with my gangly limbs and whining all while being heartbroken- if I was in your spot I probably wouldn't of come."

"that's why i'm here, actually," you laugh thoughtfully, "I thought it would be a nice distraction from all that bullshit going on at home. teaching you how to skate and making new memories. plus, you don't whine as much as I thought you would've." glancing back towards him, you see that he's already looking down at you - a smile tugging at his lips at your teasing.

"really? glad to hear i'm a good student then."

you squint at him, "well I didn't say you are good."

the sound of your further teasing has matt cackling, his head tilting back as he takes in your comment. you giggle gently, already feeling the slightest bit lighter.

"oh okay, I see how it is!" he smirks, "well, my dearest teacher is there anything I can do to improve my grade?"

you're glad that matt has taken well to your teasing, and has even continued to further your lighthearted back and forth - a pleasant conversation to help distract you from your rather tiring day. the combination of a rough night without much sleep and practically exercising all day has you left feeling exhausted.

you tap your chin in a faux thought, lips pursing outwards as you hum, "maybe if you can teach me how to throw a left hook i'll bump your mark up."

"oh so you're only here to brush up on your fighting techniques," he pauses with a hearty laugh, "I see how it is!"

you shrug unapologetically, crossing your skate covered feet over.

"do you watch hockey?" matt hums after a moment. you frown at his rather unprompted question, and you watch him quizzically - his large body bent as he re-ties his skates. you don't say anything at first, so he looks back at you over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised. "I'm only asking because you seem like you knew that I fight - I won't like...banish you if you're not a rangers fan."

you laugh. "sort of," you pause, taking a thoughtful breath. "my brother and my dad - who I live with back in boston, well, they're big bruins fans -" matt makes a disgruntled face out of habit, which has you stifling a giggle. you continue, "i've heard your name before because you fight - my brother likes you."

matt nods understandably. "what's your brothers name?"

"gavin - he just turned 10." a pang of homesickness hits you, and you really wish that your family was in new york with you, exploring the city and watching you teach.

matt smiles gently, "I'll have to meet him one day."

"he'd like that." you say instantly - not even thinking about what that would mean. how that would include matt rempe being with you in boston, or how it would be you and gavin visiting him in new york. "what about you, any siblings?"

"sisters," his face lights up, "steph and alley. they stay in calgary with my mom."

"they must be really proud of you." you hum truthfully, resting your chin on your shoulder as you smile up at him.

his smile widens, clearly very close with his mom and sisters. "they are - but i've honestly never seen them more excited about me skating, than they've been knowing you're teaching me figure skating." he laughs.

"are you telling your family about me?" you squawk with joy, eyes glimmering with playfulness.

before he has a chance to respond, the sound of demi's high pitched voice is interrupting - and it has you looking away from matt's face and back towards the rink. demi is looking at dawson with impatience, her tone coming across very short and irritated. poor dawson, you think, he must be dying inside. although you're not sure if you were any better than that today, remembering your rough start.

thankfully the devils forward just smiles and nods understandably- and you can only hope demi's temper comes across as a staged dynamic between the two of them: bossy and forgiving.

beside you, matt leans in closer, his breath warm against the shell of your ear as he whispers. "looks like I definitely ended up with the best skater." you meet his eyes curiously, and that has matt subtly gesturing towards demi, brows raised in disbelief as her impatience has now turned into obvious flirtation. you're glad matt thinks you're more tolerable than demi.

you snap your hand up towards your mouth in an attempt to cover and stifle your giggle. both of you watch as dawson tries to attempt a cantilever after demi's poor demonstration, and you can't help the roll of your eyes as demi immediately begins reprimanding him.

although her teaching skills were anything but good, you can tell that dawson also wasn't really trying and wasn't as loose with his movements - in fact, it kind of looks like dawson doesn't want to be there at all.

you turn your head into the side of matt's arm, directing your whispers into him so your voice has no chance of carrying throughout the arena. "seems like I got the best nhl player."

matt smirks once you pull away, and he bumps his  shoulder with yours. "obviously."

you scrunch your nose, "even if he is a goon."

matt's head snaps towards you, a look of shock combined with amusement on his face. "hey!" he scolds with a laugh.

matt doesn't have an opportunity to tease you further, words interrupted when shay and john make their way towards the bench, both of them looking tired after their skating session and interviews. regardless, they are both smiling and chatting cheerily as they sit down beside you.

shay is instantly bringing a ray of sunshine with her, happily greeting you and instantly chatting and giggling to you about some crazy thing she heard demi tell another one of the skaters regarding something matt doesn't quite pick up on.

he's too busy noticing how shay's presence seems to be one of the last puzzles pieces in helping you feel better and look more relaxed. your eyes continue to widen and sparkle as you laugh, and how you don't seem to venture off into daydream land while listening to john and shay animatedly go over how john almost ate shit during a glide. it's all very sweet. matt barley knows you and already he doesn't want to see you feel anything but happiness. 

without any deliberation, matt grabs your phone from your lap quickly, a smirk on his face once he sees your shocked face. he opens the camera icon, bringing your phone upwards so it is capturing all four of you on the bench. you don't get a chance to scold him before matt gets their attention. "hey guys, let's get a picture."

"oh yeah," beecher smirks, bumping into shay - which sends her body sliding into yours, and like a butterfly affect sends you into matt's side, tightly tucked into him. "everyone try to look happy and not exhausted." beecher playfully adds.

shay playfully rolls her dark eyes - clearly used to johns personality already. to further his point, john holds two fingers up behind shay's head, giving her faux bunny ears for the camera. shay leans into further your side, her head on your shoulder as she blows a kiss - while you choose to wrap your hands around matt's building forearm, practically hugging his limb as he snaps the picture.

later when you're back in your hotel room - there are three things that take you by somewhat of a surprise. the first being two instagram follows from john beecher and matt rempe - you follow both back immediately.

the second is your brother linking you a tiktok.

it's a clip of you and matt from a distance, clearly filmed by david - the two of you were whispering to one another and giggling, and it was captioned 'plotting'. your brother had texted his excitement about you getting partnered with matt rempe - which had you smiling.

the surprising part wasn't even the tiktok, it was how at ease you looked in his presence. you almost can't fathom it, because it's not just about looking at ease but you were at ease around matt.  you want to try and deny it, but you can't - whatever you're beginning to feel in his presence is undeniable.

you knaw at your lip, going into your camera roll to find the photo matt had taken of you all a few hours ago - four smiling faces starring back at you. you all look happy and like you want to be with one another - unlike the picture of you and your ex on your lockscreen. you sigh gently, but there's a gentle, content smile on your face. you make the new picture your wallpaper, replacing your ex for good.

— Day Three

you knock three times against the large wooden door of the quick home, softly to not seem too eager but loud enough so you'd be heard.

you sigh gently, adjusting the bag against your shoulder so it sits comfortably. you can't believe you're actually here - waiting for matt rempe to let you inside jonathan quick's home. this morning when you woke up, you had an instagram message from matt - some corny text that pretty much asked for your number. which, obviously had your stomach swooping and as you gave it to him.

spending the past few days with matt has been really...pleasant. although you've literally known him for only three days- the amount of time spent together makes that feel like it's been years. you're pleasantly surprised with how nice, funny and adaptable matt has been with you. thinking back to before you met matt, you can't even fathom how silly you had felt leading up to everything- the nerves you had been battling regarding the week now seem ridiculous. and you hate to sound like demi, but matt's face is certainly a bonus to everything else - you also hate how that thought is beginning to make you feel.

you had spent a good amount of time today choreographing the mini routine with matt during your lesson. you wanted to make sure matt had a say in what was happening so that way you could ensure he was capable and comfortable with the routine. it all seemed to be going very well, and matt had seemed to really have a grasp of the routine.

so tonight when he texted you asking for some more help and practice - going as far to invite you to the quick's house where he'd be living for the upcoming season - you had been slightly confused. it wasn't like today was your only day for practicing the routine as all the skaters and respective nhlers had two hours tomorrow morning before needing to preform - that way it was fresh in their mind. so you'd been a bit unsure of why he wanted to have you come over tonight when tomorrow you could provide any clarity and help he was seeking.

regardless of those thoughts, you drive over to the house...ready to help matt practice your figure skating routine in a nhl superstars living room - yeah, what is your life right now. through all the disbelief and curiosity of the situation though, you did want to succeed in your partnership and win the kids votes with your routine, so you're happy matt was serious about it all.

the door clicks open, and the butterflies in your stomach flutter quickly. the idea of spending extra time with matt have the little bugs increasing in speed, sending your skin through joyful vibrations. matt smirks, leaning against the doorframe. "hey."

"hi," you breathe, adjusting your hoodie as you do so. matt looks so comfortable, clad in a black henley top and team branded athletic shorts- showing of the muscles he's put on during the offseason. suddenly you feel a bit sloppy - not even bothering to take your hair down from its scraggly bun before coming over. you chuckle awkwardly, "you called for me?"

your poor attempt at a posh accent lands, and matt's laughter is warm, filling your chest with its own hot feelings as he chuckles about your joke. "I did - wanna come in?"

you nod. matt opens the door wider, gesturing for you to make your way into the large foyer. immediately you feel out of place, the grand entryway practically the size of your living room and kitchen combined back home. it's almost completely silent inside, saved from the youtube playing quietly in another room. "this is really nice." you breathe out, kicking off your shoes beside the welcome rug.

matt huffs in laughter - a sound that's become way too familiar. from behind you, matt grabs the strap of your bag, his long fingers brushing your shoulder as he slips it off your arm. "I know right - i'm very lucky."

brushing off matt's touch on your shoulder, you laugh once, blindly following matt as he moves through the large space - presumably leading you towards one of what you assume is many living spaces.

"and who would've thought i'd also be getting lucky" you attempted joke quickly turns your face hot, the realization of what just come from your mouth has you feeling embarrassed. you slow in your steps, covering your burning cheeks with your hands. "wait, that came out wrong."

matt laughs over his shoulder, shooting you a playful glance. "you little freak." he teases, "I never would've thought the sweet, innocent looking girl who I first saw across the room in the meeting room would be such a little perv."

his obvious teasing and taunting smirk had you groaning with further embarrassment, dragging your feet as you make your way in his direction. "matt i'm literally dying here - throw me a bone at least."

matt's brows raise with surprise, and his laughter increases - like he's in disbelief. then, it hits you, another accidental sexual innuendo burning your face to an impossible shade of red. your mouth parts at a loss for words, and your eyes close to further your shocked state. "i'm just going to leave."

matt reaches out to you and he grabs your wrist gently, dragging you through the last bit of remaining space between you. the feeling of his touch has your eyes snapping open, you once parted lips snapping closed quickly. you stare up at him with softness and a little bit of shock- now closer than you ever could have imagined.

his bottom lips juts out - all wet and pouty as he slowly blinks down at you. "don't leave - I need you here."

you swallow nervously and automatically your breathing quickens in space. matt's words are sitting heavy in your ears and millions of thoughts about his soft confession swirl around your head. softly, you question his words. "you need me here?"

matt's pout transforms into a gentle smirk and his eyes squint at you questionably. you can see the teasing comment brewing from a mile away. "yeah because I want to go over our routine - get your mind out of the gutter, y/n."

"oh my god." you sigh, your eyes rolling playfully as matt begins to giggle to himself like a school boy. you shake your head in admirable disbelief, "you're such a-"

matt interrupts, "an amazing and perfect guy?"

"little shit." you correct, quirking a brow upwards in his direction.

"whatever you say ma'am," matt sing songs, his grip on your wrist tightening ever so slightly, guiding you in the direction of the living room - babbling how if you keep making unnecessary sexual comments he'll never get to learning the routine properly.

all you can do is hide your growing smile and blush while his back is turned.

matt knows the routine like the back of his hand. you show him solo once before you make him join in - and he almost perfectly execute his moves. it slightly furthers your confusion about him asking for extra help from earlier, but you brush those thoughts away. you get about 30 minutes of practice in and although neither of you are on ice skates, it's still a successful practice -  matt is moving as if there was a set of blades beneath him.

it isn't long before matt is sighing dramatically, taking a break from twizzling - he just about had carpet burn on the soles of his feet from the friction. he takes a messy gulp of water, the sound of plastic crinkling echoing through the empty house. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, "okay i'm beat - I gotta save the rest of my energy for tomorrow."

you laugh softly, quirking your head as you eye him. "I think you've got enough energy built up to last for the rest of your life."

"yeah yeah," he dismisses your teasing remark with a smile, hand waving you off. "wanna watch a movie or something?"

you eye him, "a movie?"

he nods, completely unfazed by your doubtful tone. "yeah - ever heard of one?"

you ignore his blatant teasing, your eyes flickering towards the large rustic clock hanging above the kitchen nook - directly across from the large family room.  "are you sure?" you question, wide eyes darting between the time and matt's awaiting face, "it's almost 8...I don't want to intrude."

matt scoffs gently, like he was disgusted that you'd even think that. his lips tug upwards in a soft smile, spinning his water bottle between two fingers like a basketball would. the sight of him toying with the plastic bottle is a momentary distraction, and you find yourself watching his long fingers like a weirdo.  "I like spending time with you - so yes im sure."

matt's words have you looking away from his hands, and you find his soft stare even more distraction than his fingers.

oh.

"you do?" you question meekly, gently fiddling with your hoodie once again. your nerves are growing once again, but this time they're purely because of matt and his borderline romantic confessions. that combined with his eye contact, and constant teasing smile have you feeling rather giddy.

he nods like it should be obvious to you and then he just starts to just walk away - gesturing for you to follow him with a simple nod of the head over his large shoulder.

you're not sure what you were expecting from matt's bedroom, but you don't think it was what you were seeing. it was just so...homey. it's in the basement of the quick house - which was obviously a ridiculously nice and expensive looking spare room.

the room has clearly had a woman's touch, with elegant decor and furniture, but matt had definitely made his mark around the space. his laundry is spread out on the floor near the hamper - not in it and there are a couple miscellaneous knickknacks on top of his bedside table and the tall dresser in the corner.

he's got a pair of wireless beat headphone's hanging off the corner of a picture frame - an image of him and his mom staring back at you. his bed is made, but it's still messy with a throw blanket pulled astray near the top of the bed and pillows squished together - looking like that's where he'd been lounging before you got here.

there's a few hockey sticks sitting up against the closet door and -

"are you going to come join me over here or am I just going to pick the movie all by myself?" matt's annoying teasing question has your eyes falling in his direction. you blush at how entranced you had been by his bedroom - reminding yourself of a 13 year old girl who is in her crushes space for the first time.

to further his point, matt pats the empty side of the bed, beckoning you over with the hand that wasn't holding his remote. in your snooping daze, you'd completely disregarded matt getting comfortable in his bed and turning on the tv -further illuminating the room.

"i'm not a dog," you giggle, making your way over to him despite your attempt at sounding annoyed. you climb into his rather large collection of blankets, burritoing yourself between them. your limbs immediately thank you as they finally have a chance for relief. "and if you think i'm letting you pick a movie you're certainly wrong."

matt gets himself into a more comfortable position, resting his head on his arm as he scrolls through the options on netflix. he turns his head towards you leisurely, and the pillows puff at the movement. "and why's that?"

you shrug gently, eyes meeting his. "you'd probably pick like...slapshot or something that I don't want to watch."

he laughs softly. "and your pick would be better?"

immediately, you hum with confidence. "absolutely it would."

his brows raise and he silently challenges your claim. "okay and what movie would that be?"

naturally, your eyes flat back towards the tv screen - the small collection of movies matt had stopped on mid scrolling staring back at you. there's nothing that initially catches your eye, but right at the end of the list there's one film that nobody could resist.

"pitch perfect," you state, looking back towards matt. his eyes are still on you and his face expression is soft. you clear your throat gently, and your eyes flicker. "not only is it actually funny, but it's a unique story with friendship and romance - there is truly nothing better. it's probably my favourite." you weren't lying, it was one of your favourite movies. something about the film had always held such a special place in your heart, and you couldn't never ignore it when you saw it.

matt could tell you were passionate about the movie franchise based solely on the way your eyes flickered as you talked. he's seen that look on you before - anytime you laughed at his jokes or when you were skating it made an appearance. matt shrugs nonchalantly and clicks the play button. "i've never seen it."

your eyes widen with surprise, "really? matt oh my god." the lighting from the movie's opening scene is shining on you, illuminating both of your flushed faces in the dim bedroom. "well thank god I saw it on there."

"thank god," matt mimics you teasingly. "now quiet down i'm trying to watch the movie."

you laugh into the pillow you'd stolen earlier, trying your best to focus on the movie playing and not matt's side profile - but it proves to be rather difficult.

unfortunately, it's not long before your eyes start fluttering, the long day catching up to you. soon enough, you feel them properly close and you're not strong enough to fight off the much needed sleep.

matt feels a gentle pressure on his shoulder, and he finds that your head has gravitated towards him in your sleep. the sight of your rosy cheeks and puffy lips have him smiling fondly, doing his best at staying still to ensure you would be well rested for tomorrow - he'd make sure to wake you in the morning with plenty of time for you to get ready.

slowly, his eyes flicker back towards the movie that he's obviously seen many times before - he grew up with three woman in the house for gods sake. he just couldn't disappoint that sparkle in your eyes.

— Day 4

you wake up groggily at first, eyes squinting through the unfamiliar bedroom. you focus on the hockey sticks against the wall and feel the warmth of a body next to yours and soon you come to - finally recalling your whereabouts.

you sit up quickly. "oh my god I fell asleep." you sigh, hands panic searching through the blankets in a desperate search to find your phone. in your peripheral, matt hold's out your phone - and you don't miss the teasing look he gives you with it.

"I was just about to wake you up - wasn't going to let you be late." matt mumbles sleepily. he shoves your phone into your hoodie pocket before you have a chance to take it from his hand.

you jump out of bed hurriedly, fixing your disheveled messy bun as you do. his comforting words fall on deaf ears, and you feel panicked. you can feel your heart reaching and the adrenaline pumping through your body. "i've got to shower and then I have to make sure i've got my preforming clothes ready - oh gosh, I also was supposed to text shay and help her go over a move for her routine and-"

"hey," matt says gently, gently taking ahold of your biceps - grounding you. you didn't even notice him get out of bed, as you were too busy going over the endless notes app you had curated in your head. his thumbs stroke against your skin soothingly, distracting you from your moment of anxiety. "I made sure you'd have enough time for anything like that, okay? and look I don't even need to wake you up, so you've got a few extra minutes to spare. you're okay."

you nod at his reassuring voice and for the first time since waking up in a state of confusion and panic, you feel like you can breathe properly. "okay," you smile gently, allowing a much needed exhale to escape from your heavy lungs. "i've gotta go now."

matt releases his comforting hold on your arms, shuffling backwards a few steps to give you some space. although you definitely weren't opposed to his presence so close, you now didn't have to crank your neck upwards to look at him properly. "okay," matt responds, running a hand through his sleep disheveled hair.

"thank you!" the relief you feel in that moment is like nothing else, and you finally let yourself smile properly. although, you still feel rushed thinking about everything you needed to do in the next two hours. you're just thankful matt was planning on waking you with enough time to spare. you're overcome with gratitude for matt's kind gestures spanning over the last 24 hours and you can't help yourself from showing it. quickly, you dart up on the tips of your toes, placing your hands on matt's thick chest for balance as you reach up to plant a kiss on his cheek.

matt's eyes widen with surprise, and an amused smile tugging at his mouth at your action. he looks down at you softly, but you don't catch it, too rushed in gathering yourself and heading out. "i'll see you later!"

you're out of the quick's house faster than your feet can handle, and you make it to your rental car parked in the long oval driveway in record time.

it's not until your driving away, gracie abrams voice soothing you over the radio as you turn onto the road does your brain catch up to your own actions. your mouth falls in shock.

you had kissed matt. on the cheek granted, but still. you curse yourself, holding a hand to your forehead to try and calm your rapid heart and burning skin.

-

nervously, you knaw on your thumb - nibbling on the skin around your nail bed until it becomes uncomfortable. the metallic taste on your lips is a momentary distraction from your own frantic brain. you can't stop thinking about matt - more specifically, the kiss you had smacked onto his cheek as the sun was rising.

your mind is reeling thinking about what he is making of your random burst of affection. is he weird out or uncomfortable by the kiss? did he care? did he not want to preform with you anymore? does he regret inviting you over last night?

it doesn't help that you're at the practice arena and matt hasn't shown up yet. all the other partners had been on time, and all of the skaters and respective nhl stars were already going over their routines. not you though - you waited nervously in the musky scented hallway, still tearing away at your thumb as you watched the doors.

you think that matt must be upset with you. he was late because the kiss had put him off and he was procrastinating spending time with you. your lips release your thumb and immediately you run the hand over your freshly styled hair, feeling yourself become somewhat emotional as you begin to pace the hall.

just as think to call it quits, pack up your stuff and just go home, the door swings open. matt walks in  looking slightly breathless, eyes heavy as he searches the area. he spots you rather quickly and begins to make his way over, an unreadable look on his soft features.

immediately, you start to apologize. "i'm so sorry matt! I shouldn't have kissed you - it was so rude and unprofessional of me! I can understand if you're mad at me or want a new partner." you ring your hands out nervously, eyes not once straying from his face - desperately trying to get an insight on his expression.

matt's eyebrows pull tightly towards the centre of his face, and he shakes his head confused. "what? i'm not mad at you."

you swallow, "you're not?" matt shakes his head no, and a small smile begins tugging at the one corner of his mouth.

still feeling confused and worried, you find yourself frowning, "then how come you were late?"

"am I late?" he questions curiosity, not intending to receive an answer. matt doesn't make an effort to actually check the time or anything, and he only shrugs with nonchalance- his always playful smirk growing. "I stopped at a coffee shop - do want decaf or regular?"

you blink. "what?"

he laughs once. matt puts the takeout tray down on one of the benches lining the hallway corridors, slipping the two drinks out from their respective holes. you hadn't even noticed matt had been carrying coffees until just now - when he walked in, you were too damn anxious to focus on anything. he lifts the two cups closer to you, "decaf coffee or regular coffee? I don't have a preference so i'm fine with either."

"decaf," you finally mumble. matt smiles, passing you the local cafes branded paper cup. you eye the lid, fiddling with the opening flap as you try and and attempt to collect your own scrambled thoughts. "so you're not weirded out?"

matt swallows his mouthful of coffee, "by what?"

you laugh once, tone full of disbelief. "I kissed you."

his brows raise, "yeah you did."

"i'm sorry I don't understand what's happening right now." you sort of laugh out - the confusion of the whole situation coming to a head. you press your hand to your forehead, looking towards matt through your lashes as you try and gauge his unreadable facial expression. you're not so much worried about him being angry with you now, because clearly that's not the case. he seems really casual about the whole thing, which has your stomach flipping.

"right now," matt takes a step towards you, practically pressing himself against you with his frame. his tongue slips out, wetting his bottom lip as he stares down at you. "we are having some coffee before heading out to practice our figure skating. we are also briefly discussing how you jumped me this morning and attacked me with a kiss."

his teasing and exaggerated explanation immediately has you feeling much lighter about the situation- your earlier panic dissolving. you gently scoff at him, and you can't think of anything else besides flicking him in the chest - a small punch of retaliation. "matt seriously I was panicked thinking I fucked this up."

he laughs gently, a shake of his head following suit. "no," his words are like a whisper, a gentle tone that kisses the skin of your face as he speaks. there's a twinkle in his eye, one that comes anytime he wants to push your buttons. "i'm used to your pervy antics by now." with his free hand, matt reaches towards you and fluffs your hair around, covering your face as he does.

you screech, the sound quickly forming into a giggle as you try and swat him away. it proves to be a difficult task without your vision and the use of both hands - your decaf cup still clutched tightly, liquid sloshing around as you squirm.

matt's laughter subsides and he slows to a pause - his free hand gently brushing any strayed curled hair back into its proper place. your vision is back, no longer impaired by the strands of your hair.

he swallows gently and you can feel his fingers tickling along your hairline. matt tucks some final strands comfortably behind your ear, fingers grazing the shell. your previous smile slowly fades as you watch him and his eyes that are solely focused on you. matt's hand doesn't leave the side of your face, fingers cradling your over cheek and against your ear.

you have never been so entranced by anybody like the way you are with matt. for god sakes, you've only known the guy less than a week, but there was something about him that felt so much like home - a safe space for you and your heart. it was almost scary how quickly you find yourself beginning to heal because of a man you barley know. but that's just it, you think, it feels like you've known him a lifetime.

"let's get to practicing," matt says reluctantly, pulling away from your body after stroking your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. the cool air of the arena replaced his warm embrace and you shiver gently. he places down his coffee cup beside the tray he'd earlier left on the bench, "I can see duclair's routine and it looks too good - we gotta beat him."

you breathe out with laughter, placing your cup beside matt's almost full one. "let's not forget the reason we are just starting practice is because you were late." you begin to walk with matt towards the rink, the icy scent filling your nostrils.

matt scoffs, "yeah because I got you a coffee." he steps onto the ice, immediately twirling so he's facing you. wordlessly, he helps you step out onto the ice, grabbing your hand.

"bribery will get you nowhere."

he snorts, "okay you better remember that when you try and plant another kiss on me-"

you yelp, hand coming up to cover matt's mouth before he can continue.

-

matt had absolutely blown you away. he nailed the mini figure skating routine, which not only made you feel good about your teaching abilities but also had you feeling proud of matt - his hard work and commitment to learning something new was admirable.

the feeling of finishing the routine was amazing in itself - but when matt had smiled brightly down at you before wrapping his thick arms around your waist in a hug, spinning you around (the perfect twizzle may you add) was just even more incredible. you don't even find yourself caring how the affection might look in the eyes of the camera or the thousands of fans who will be watching. you’re too happy with everything to worry.

once all the routines have been preformed, the little league team had decided that demi and dawson were the winners. although you were slightly disappointed with loosing, you heard some of the boys giggling about how 'hot' demi was and how cool it was that dawson knew jack hughes - so you weren't too concerned about your routine being lacklustre: the win wasn't decided on skill.

so although the kids didn’t declare you and matt the champions - matt's lingering touches and sweet grin had you feeling like a winner.

— Day 5

"we are not naming him rempire state building."

you pout at matt's statement and your arms tighten further around the gigantic duck plushie. "please - I love that name."

"it's not even a name." matt challenges, his laughter like a sweet melody over the rambunctious sounds of bells and coasters. he continues, "it's just my last name added onto a famous skyscraper."

you tut your tongue, "and that's just it - your last name." cradling the duck closer to your face, you rub the fluffy fur along your soft jawline. matt gives you an unimpressed look, but the smirk pulling at his lips contradicts his stare.

the wind picks up slightly, and a cool breeze comes - slipping between carnival booths and rides and sending a chill over your exposed skin. shivering, you hug the duck plushie closer, attempting to warm yourself up.

the goosebumps on your skin have you wishing you’d brought some kind of jacket. that has you thinking back to only a few hours ago, when matt texted you.

matt rempe

hey, beecher and drysdale wanted to take you, shay and emilia out to the carnival tonight for your last night in new york!

matt rempe

also as like a huge thank you for putting up with our annoying asses for the past week

matt rempe

please say yes to me or ill cry

y/n y/l/n

big baby

y/n y/l/n

i'd love to go to the carnival with you

matt rempe

i'll pick you up in 30

matt rempe

and bring a jacket, it's supposed to get cold

obviously, you forgot a jacket. the wind continues its gnarly sweep, and the summer night temperature drop has you thinking of fall weather. you subconsciously seak human warmth and you shuffle in close, tucking yourself into matt's side.

matt chuckles knowingly at your shivering. he picks out some of the fluffy cotton candy he'd be keeping in his hoodie pocket - letting the sticky desert melt on his tongue. "I told you to bring a jacket."

"I forgot." you're pouting again, tucking your face into the duck.

matt swallows the treat in his mouth, and his steps decrease in speed as he comes to a slow stop. wordlessly, he pulls off his black sweatshirt, and he holds it out to you. "here."

"I don't want you to be cold." you say timidly, your eyes darting between the article of clothing and matt’s expectant eyes.

"I don't want you to be cold," he laughs softly, furthering his gesture. "give me perv so you can put the hoodie on."

you eye him. the real reason matt didn't want to name your beloved stuffed duck that he'd won at one of the balloon popping games rempire state building was because he wanted to name it perv. immediately you expressed your disagreement- you were not naming the cute stuffed duck perv.

regardless, you hand him the duck in exchange for the article of clothing. the cool summer air has you further feeling chilled and you don't waste anymore time. you pull on the sweatshirt, and immediately your enveloped by the lingering body heat and smell of matt. "thanks."

he smiles, passing back the stuffed animal which you immediately begin hugging tightly once again. matt reaches into the pocket of now your hoodie, pulling out the bag of cotton candy so he can further snack as you begin to start walk along again.

"I think you should rethink the name perv," he pitches between chewing, his arm brushes against your shoulder as you both leisurely stroll the fairgrounds. "it's cute."

"it's not cute," you squawk, "it's quite literally perverted." reaching towards him, you reach into the plastic bag and rip off some of the blue cotton candy. plopping it on your tongue, your fingers become sticky as it melts, and you suck the crystallized candy clean off.

matt watches hazily and he swallowing thickly. clearing his throat, his eyes find the crowd infront of him once again, distracting himself with the busy grounds. "you're no fun." he says after a pause, and he side eyes you playfully with a smirk on his face. "just wanted to name it after you."

you laugh loudly and steal some more cotton candy from the mixed bag. "that makes it worse! why you insist on calling me perv is way beyond me."

suddenly, beecher throws his arm around your shoulders, coming up behind you with shay hot on his heels. it scares you momentarily, but you have no chance to scold him as john starts steering you towards the other side of the carnival grounds. "we're all doing that."

to accentuate his words, he points towards the neon lights of the laser tag sign. it lights up the dusk fallen fair - hues of green, blue, and red covering your body as john guides you towards the pop-up.

"oh god," shay all but whines from behind you, her feet dragging. "I suck at laser tag." she states once you’re all standing at the end of the lineup, her dark lips forming into a pout.

john's arm leaves your shoulders so he can turn towards shay - presumably to pester her about her lack of enthusiasm.

matt pulls on the pocket of your (his) sweatshirt, tugging you towards him and eliminating the little bit of space that was between you. you hold your breath with anticipation, letting matt practically manhandle you as he tucks you into his torso. he looks down at you with a playful expression, "you've played laser tag before?"

matt’s possessive handling from just moments ago has your adrenaline running and you’re not sure if you can form a coherent sentence. you shake your head no, glancing up towards matt through your dark lashes. clearing your throat, you ask, "is it hard?"

he smirks, "you'll be fine."

you're definitely not fine. you’ve since discovered that laser tag is not your forte, and to make it worse, matt got put on the opposite team with shay, emilia and jamie. you had beecher on your team, but he was no help. you haven't seen him since the beginning of the game when he started to run away from you - shouting about he had the perfect snipping spot.

the laser tag gun is heavier than you expected, and you keep having to dodge acne prone teenagers who have their sights set on targeting you.

the light up vest you have to wear is hurting your shoulders, the rough material rubbing against your skin uncomfortably with every move you take. the neon signs are providing the only light source in the space, and you keep have to squint to get a proper look at your surroundings.

for what feels like the hundredth time, you peek around the corner you've been hiding behind, trying to look through the shadows to make sure the coast is clear. you want to at least make it to the other side of the course before the game ended. a shadow dashes by, quick on their feet. you hold your breath, trying to stay still to not get caught. just when you think you're in the clear, the silhouette turns to you and darts behind your corner.

the lighting above adjusts, flashing a dark blue. you continue to hold your breath with anticipation and prepare for the stranger to shoot your target and eliminate you. the light moves over their face, and you can finally see them properly. instantly, you breathe out with relief.

matt's smirk makes your stomach feel warm as he looks down at you, his laser gun hanging loosely at his side. "how's it going?" he asks playfully. matt reaches towards your vest, teasingly tugging on the arm opening.

you huff with exhaustion and let the gun you’d be dripping for dear life fall to your side. "I haven't gotten a single target because i've been too scared to move - I don't think i've left this corner in 10 minutes. and these kids from your team, by the way, keep trying to find me."

matt chuckles lowly, his teeth igniting underneath the blacklight above. "I know - they keep talking about trying to get out the 'hottie'" he air quotes with his fingers, mimicking their words.

you pull an uncomfortable face, and a strangled whine passes through your lips, your eyes closing with a combination of embarrassment and annoyance. "i'm toast."

the sounds of running shoes stomping on the ground and children's laughter grows louder, signalling that they were getting closer to your hiding spot. your eyes widen.

quickly, matt wraps an arm around the dip of your waist and he pulls you against his chest. he spins you both around so that you're pressed further against the wall, deeper in the corner. you're both completely enveloped in darkness, and you can only make out the silhouette of matt’s features.

your mouth opens, but your words immediately dir on your tongue. quietly, matt shushes you with a playful quirk to an eyebrow, the top of his index finger brushing along your bottom lip to further his point.

all you can muster is a slow nod in response, as you’re too overwhelmed by the feeling of matt all over you to form any words. the way his strong chest flush was against your breasts, and his hips pushing against the pudgy part of your stomach. matt's arm is still tightly nestled around your waist, and he makes no move to change that.

you can only hope that he can't feel your rapid heartbeat or staggered breathing - the nerves you was currently experiencing were just downright embarrassing.

"this may be a bad time," matt's voice is barley audible over the sound of the post malone song playing over the speakers and the distant sounds of people laughing and talking. "but you smell really good."

you tilt your head farther back to and properly look at him. your chin practically presses to his chest as you do, reminding you of just how tall he is. "what?" you whisper meekly in question.

"all I can smell is your shampoo," a faint smirk appears at the corner of matt's mouth. "I can't help it, your head is right under my nose."

you were adorably struck, a little smile beginning to grow on your lips. "so what you're trying to say is you've been sniffing me?"

he huffs out a laugh, "no - it's just a strong scent."

you swallow gently, blinking slowly. between you bodies, your hand begins to tingle with numbness, and you slowly maneuver it out- pressing your palm flat shading matt’s stomach. you fight the urge to clutch the material of his soft shirt in your hands - wanting to grasp as much of him as you could.

matt jerks slightly, and his eyes meet yours through the dark. his adam apple moves as he swallows thickly, and you can feel his fingers flex around the softness of your waist.

you breath quickens, and you drop the laser gun to the ground. matt doesn’t flinch at the sounds, his eyes never leaving your face. now with your hand free, you let it slide along the side of matt’s torso, slowly tickling him with your nails. you need him in every way possible. you need his laughter, and his teasing smiles, and his touch, and you desperately need his kiss.

you lick your lips slowly, your tongue making sure all creases are moistened. “matt,” you whisper with vulnerability. this time, you don’t fight your own urges, and you let your fingers take whole of his shirt, keeping him pressed to you. “being with you is healing my heart.”

a genuine smile takes over matt’s face - not one of his slay playful or teasing smiles, but a real one. his eyes hold admiration, darting between your face as if he can’t decide which feature of yours to look at. at some point, he must have also abandoned his gun - the hand he was using to hold it now reaching towards your face. matt holds your cheek tenderly, thumb pushing some hair off your face and holding it to your ear.

“I see her!” the shrill voice of a pre-teen yells out from behind some faux rock structure.

matt pulls away quickly and bends down to grab his laser gun. it has you blinking hard, shaking your head to try and clear the fog that had clouded there within the last few minutes. your skin is on fire, and your aching all over. thoughts of matt now feel impossible to not have.

you lean down to grab your own abandoned gun. as you stand back up, you’re met with the familiar teasing eyes of matt, and he’s borderline laughing to himself. he’s got his laser gun pointed at you, the stream of red light directly hitting your target.

"matt," you warn, "don't even think about it." although you’re pleading, you can help the giggling that falls from your mouth along with your words. you can’t even form the thought of shooting him first, too wrapped up in the attention of right now.

matt cocks his head playfully, "think about what?" he questions you brightly, gun still aiming directly at your glowing vest.

you take off, running back out into the main area of the course. you can feel matt hot on your heels, and the adrenaline of it all has you shrieking in laughter as you try and escape him.

usually after such an intense moment with somebody, you were unable to shake off the shaking feelings and tension that came with it. but with matt, you’re immediately moving forward. the comfortability you’re experiencing with him is something you’d never believed in. honestly, you never really though friendship could exist in romantic interests.

if their was anything you learned from you ex, it was that relationships were meant for sex, lying, and deception. now you know that’s not what a relationship means and having trust, fun, and friendship is the only kind of relationship foundation you deserved.

— Three Weeks Later

opening your email to find a thank you from the nhl social admin team a week after arriving home was a nice surprise. the mass email was inviting you and the other figure skaters to an all expenses paid trip to new york, where you'd get to watch the rangers home opener.

the way your stomach flipped at the thought of seeing matt again was so sensational. you weren't aware that it was possible for you to miss somebody as much as you did him.

the morning after the arcade, matt has insisted on driving you to the train station after he helped you return the rental car. he didn’t want you to pay for an uber, and frankly you didn’t feel like it either. the goodbye hurt you, and you remember your throat feeling scratchy with emotions while he hugged you. matt had pulled back, momentarily eyeing your soft lips….and then the train started to board and you had to leave matt and new york behind.

your chest clenches at the thought, but instead of pain that had been tugging at your heart- it was beating for a whole knew reason.

you accepted the trip offer immediately and you were already planning on what you’d wear to your first ever hockey game - nothing to do with wanting to look your best for your crush…totally not.

briefly, you think about texting matt to tell him about the trip you’d be making, but you ultimately hesitate. you don't want to affect his play or focus in the rangers home opener. if all he can think about is you watching in the crowd, it could negatively impact his game. long story short, you’d hate to be the reason he feels overwhelmed.

you had texted shay soon after responding to the email invite, and she had excitedly told you she’d be making the way down from pittsburgh to be there. thankfully, shay was up to date on your ongoing feelings for matt, so the together the two of you brainstormed over text, ways to suprise matt.

your stomach was spinning with excitement for the remainder of weeks before you’d be with matt again.

—

hockey games were turning out to be more fun than you initially expected. the fans around you were all so enthusiastic and cheerful that you couldn’t help but join in. shay and you had been chanting and jumping for three whole periods. anytime the rangers scored the building became electric, and you understood why the players would thrive off that feeling.

like planned, with only 5 minutes remaining in the third and final period of the game, rangers leading 6-2, you opened the camera on your cell phone. first, you and shay smiled brightly for a picture, both of you wearing your blue and red rangers memorabilia. the second picture was the ice, capturing the players zipping around from 15 rows up the stands.

y/n y/l/n

*attached: two images

hey I think shay and I got lost? can you

help us identify this arena ??

the period ends soon after, and you and shay wait a few minutes for the majority of the crowd to disperse. then, using your passes gifted from the nhl social administration team, you both make your way towards the players tunnels.

your phone buzzes.

matt rempe

what?

matt rempe

are you seriously here?

instantly, you’re smiling and the butterflies fluttering around your belly increase by thousands. you lean back against the cool wall to keep yourself from buckling forward - knees going weak with anticipation.

y/n y/l/n

come out of the locker room and find out

a couple of long, antagonizing minutes pass before you see matt. he walks out of the locker room, appearing from behind the grand new york rangers branded doors. his eyes dart through the cluster of his teammates, their families and staff collected in the waiting area - eyes frantically searching for you.

like gravity, your eyes finally lock. instantly, your mouth morphs into a smile, and you push off the stone wall so that you're once again standing upright. you pocket your cellphone in your jeans back pocket, and your cheeks burn with warmth.

matt pushes his way through the crowd, apologies tumbling off his lips quickly as he rushes through the room to try and get to you.

shay mentions something about seeing you back at the hotel room, but you can’t even fathom her words. as matt gets closer to you, you can feel your body spin with excitement - it's all so different from anything you've felt before. it’s refreshing and feels just so right.

finally, matt gets through everyone and he finally reaches you. instantly, he grabs ahold of your flushed cheeks with his large hands. the smell of arena shower soap fills your senses, and your grin triples in size. the scent is so familiar- so matt.

he doesn't say anything to you, but he does lean down and connects your lips together. it feels so right. it feels like he’s the puzzle piece you’d been missing, or the feeling you’d get when you’d find your airpods after months of looking everywhere - kissing matt feels like decaf coffee and the rush of figure skating and the most beautiful song lyrics.

you didn't know kissing could be so pleasant. the way matt's lips caress yours and skillfully slip along yours have you melting into a sticky puddle.

you sigh into his mouth, and your own hands reach out to touch him. they slip into the opening of his his suit jacket, resting on the sides of his strong torso.

matt’s back is bent forward in a way that's borderline uncomfortable, and soon his upper back will start to burn from the strain - but matt didn't care. he had missed you so much…more than he's ever missed anybody in his entire life. the feeling was so unbelievably foreign to him, but he never wanted it to go away - never wanted you to go away.

your lips separate for a second, and you take the opportunity to catch your breath. you chest is heaving along with matt’s but that doesn’t stop him for almost immediately leaning back in - pressing two more much softer kisses to your glistening lips.

one of his teammates whistle teasingly in the room, but you can't even hear it - the only sounds in your ears is the pumping of your own blood, and matt’s breathy groans against you.

he pulls away and a slow, flirtatious smirk crawls its way across matt's flushed face. his thumbs gently run along the indent of your cheekbones, a soothing feeling contrasting your frantic heart. "I should've done that the moment I met you." he breathes the confession.

your laughter was a familiar and welcoming melody, dancing through the crowded room and filling matt's chest with joy. "that would've been ridiculous, matt." you tell him honestly, hugging his torso and resting your chin on his chest.

"yeah," he agrees with a playful gleam, "but that's how long i've been meaning to do it. I haven't stopped thinking about since the moment I saw you in the meeting room last month. when you left on that train, I thought I was going to fall to my knees in agony.”

his dramatics have you rolling your eyes, but you’re grinning nonetheless. “you’re such a-“

“little shit?” matt interrupts knowingly.

you shake your head, “charmer.”

the air between you turns thick once again. matt leans back down towards you, and he captures your mouth in another breath stealing kiss.

he pulls back an inch, eyes still closed as he rests his forehead against yours. “can I confess something really charming?”

you giggle. “oh god, what is it?”

“I don’t even like coffee - only bought two that day so you’d have options.” he smirks playfully.

“little shit.”

matt blows a raspberry to the space between your neck and shoulder, erupting a shriek from you as you try to escape his tickling lips.

you'd make the long distance work - you'd both work together to make your new connection work from different cities. although, you think it can't be too difficult. if you can manage to fall for a stranger with a broken heart, just imagine how much you can accomplish with a healed one.

“God, I love this song.”

The sound came blasting through the speakers, crackling over the noise of voices as you pressed your palms flat against the sticky wooden table before you, a soft smile curling at your lips as the synth began to build softly through the crowded bar.

You were currently wedged into the corner booth of a smokey bar, your third drink dripping condensation onto the beer mat below and soaking it through. The London heat had settled over the city like something cruel, clinging to your skin and offering no relief indoors or out.

You looked up to find Lando already watching you.

Not just looking. Watching. 

A gleeful grin spread across his face like he’d been waiting for this exact reaction. “Tears for Fears? Really?” he asked, amusement laced through every word as he lifted his lukewarm beer to his lips.

“It’s a classic, the melody is so damn good. You just don’t get it,” you teased, leaning forward over the table and keeping his bright eyes captured in yours. “Some of us have taste, Norris. You don’t need to be so jealous.”

Lando barked out a laugh, his head tipping back as a bead of sweat disappeared beneath the collar of his t-shirt. Your eyes followed before you could stop them. Which felt like something you probably shouldn’t unpack.

“Yeah, because liking eighties tracks means you have taste.”

“You’re just jealous,” you shot back, taking a sip of your vodka cranberry before nodding your head to the rhythm. “I know you don’t get to appreciate music the way I do, you’re too busy being world champion.”

Lando grinned at that and, as always, your own smile widened in response. There had always been something deeply unfair about his smile. Maybe it was how easily it dragged one out of you. Maybe it was because, after all these years, it could still make your pulse skip in a way that felt vaguely concerning.

You chose not to think too hard about either.

Ever since you’d first met back before either of you could properly form a coherent sentence, Lando had been your best friend. You’d met during primary school when he’d accidentally pulled your braid trying to climb to the top of the climbing frame and you’d shoved him off in revenge, fully expecting him to burst into tears.

Instead, he’d looked back up at you from the ground, eyes bright and face split with a grin. He’d pointed right up at you and proudly declared that you were his best friend.

And that had pretty much been it.

Twenty years later and here you still were. Cramped into the corner of a London bar, enduring the first stretch of summer heat after you’d begged him to come out with you before he disappeared back into racing after a short break.

Your other friends had all bailed at the last minute, though that never really bothered you. You loved them, you really did. But no-one got you like Lando did. And, if you were being completely honest, you liked knowing no-one got him quite like you either.

“You and your bloody tunes,” Lando muttered. Before you could ask for another drink, Lando was already sliding your usual towards you after catching the bartender’s eye. “You looked like you wanted another,” he shrugged.

Your chest did that annoying fluttering thing again. You ignored it. Best friends knew each other’s drink orders. That was normal.

Probably.

“I didn’t even know you ordered,” you said softly, your voice catching in your throat.

And Lando just shook his head before launching into a story about what he and Max had apparently gotten up to earlier that week, chaos spilling from every word. You listened the way you always did, entirely invested in whatever nonsense left his mouth.

Halfway through the story, he reached across the table and brushed a strand of hair away from where it had stuck to your lip gloss. The movement was absentminded. Casual. Like he’d done it a thousand times before.

Maybe he had. He didn’t pause. Didn’t seem to realise what he’d done.

You, unfortunately, noticed immediately. Along with the warmth crawling up your neck. You blamed the weather. 

Then he laughed again at his own story and instinctively looked at you first. Like your reaction was his favourite part. It always was. And that felt dangerous enough that you quickly looked away.

Later, you both stumbled out of the bar and dragged yourselves giggling through warm London streets towards the tube station, your hand wrapped tightly around his as you crossed the road.

It stayed there longer than necessary. Neither of you mentioned it. 

You were too busy laughing as he dramatically complained about nearly being recognised by a group of drunk girls outside a kebab shop.

And you didn’t notice when he pulled out his phone. You didn’t notice the soft smile that overtook his face as he looked at you. You didn’t notice him opening a playlist with your name buried in the title.

Or adding the song from the bar carefully alongside years worth of moments he’d never been brave enough to say out loud.

Instead, you kept talking. And Lando kept loving you quietly.

Just as he always had.

You knew surprises weren’t exactly Lando’s thing. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the kind everyone else liked. Surprise parties. Birthday presents. Unexpected wins.

What he hated was being surprised. Which just so happened to be one of your favourite hobbies.

It wasn’t often you managed to sneak up on him. The first time had been after school when he’d invited you over for tea and his mum had cornered you in the living room to show you baby pictures while begging Lando to wash the dishes.

(You ignored the way your twelve-year-old heart had done something embarrassingly dramatic at the sight of his wild curls, chubby cheeks and eyes that somehow looked exactly the same.)

You’d eventually escaped his mum and crept into the kitchen where Lando stood elbow-deep in soap suds. The scream he let out when you grabbed his shoulders had been truly spectacular. You’d laughed so hard you nearly cried.

But what had stuck with you wasn’t the scream. It was how quickly his entire body had relaxed when he realised it was you. How his panic had dissolved into laughter almost instantly.

You’d loved that. Maybe a little too much. And so, naturally, you made it your mission to do it again whenever possible.

Which explained why you’d kicked off your trainers before slipping your key into the door of his Monaco flat. Max had texted to let you know Lando was still in the gym downstairs, giving you plenty of time to execute your masterpiece.

You’d told Lando you couldn’t get time off work to watch him race in Monaco this year. You were still offended he’d believed you so easily.

Your trainers dangled from your fingers as you padded through his flat, your overnight bag heavy against your shoulder as you made your way to the spare room.

Your phone buzzed moments later.

[10:52am] Max F: eagle has left, eta 5 mins.

You bit back a laugh. You quickly shoved your bag and shoes into the wardrobe before making your way into the kitchen, pressing yourself against the wall behind the partition.

He always went straight to the kitchen after the gym. Always. You knew him embarrassingly well.

You heard the key turn in the lock and had to physically stop yourself from laughing. Then came his humming. Soft and absentminded. The sound of shoes being kicked off. Sock-clad footsteps against the floor.

Your stomach fluttered stupidly at how easily you could picture him. Then he appeared.

Sweaty hair. Grey vest clinging to his skin. Back muscles shifting as he bent into the fridge. You stared for slightly too long. And firmly blamed the weather for the sudden heat rushing through your body.

He grabbed a snack before placing his phone on the kitchen counter. Then wandered into the living room.

And suddenly, a truly terrible idea struck you. You slipped from your hiding place and grabbed his phone, unlocking it with the passcode permanently burned into your brain.

His mum’s birthday. Normal best friend information. Entirely normal.

You opened Spotify and searched for the loudest, most obnoxious song you could think of, fully intending to blast it through his headphones. Then your eyes caught something.

A playlist. Your name.

Your breath caught. Before your brain could fully process it, you clicked a heavy metal song and turned the volume all the way up.

A scream erupted from the living room. You clamped a hand over your mouth to stop your laughter as something crashed loudly to the floor.

“I fucking knew Max was being dodgy!” Lando shouted. His footsteps thundered back towards the kitchen.

You darted toward your hiding spot. Too slow.

A hand wrapped around your wrist. His phone was snatched from your hand before your back slammed gently into his chest. You squealed as his arm curled around your waist, locking you against him while you kicked uselessly.

“One day I’m actually going to have a heart attack, you know,” Lando laughed into your ear. “And my death will be entirely your fault.”

The warmth of his chest pressed against your back. The smell of soap and sweat. His breath ghosting your skin. Entirely too much. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t have me any other way, would you?” you laughed, still reaching for his phone.

“What are you doing?” Lando asked as you dug your elbow into his side. He yelped, his arm shooting upward as you jumped for his phone.

“I wanted to be nosey.”

“You’re always nosey,” he murmured, tightening his arm around your waist as you wriggled. Your entire nervous system seemed alarmingly aware of where his hand rested.

Then you said it. “I thought I saw a playlist with my name.”

Everything stopped. His arm loosened. His breathing changed. And when you looked up at him, all the laughter had vanished. You jumped once more and managed to grab his phone. You barely made it two steps before his hand wrapped around your wrist again.

Tighter this time.

“Stop,” you froze. Then quieter: “Please.”

The word hit you like cold water. You turned. Lando looked terrified. Actually terrified. His eyes were wide. Jaw tight. Bottom lip caught between his teeth. Like whatever was on that phone mattered far more than you understood.

And suddenly this didn’t feel like a joke anymore. Your smile faded. “I’m sorry,” you said softly. “I didn’t mean to…” you handed him his phone. “I was just taking the piss, Lan.”

He shoved the phone into his pocket far too quickly. Then forced a grin onto his face. “I know, idiot,” he said too fast. Too rehearsed. “I finally got you back,” he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around you. “Now give me a hug and tell me why I shouldn’t rescind your spare key.”

You squealed as his sweaty body crushed into yours while you shoved at him. Everything looked normal again. Everything sounded normal again.

But later that night, curled up in his spare room, your mind kept replaying the same thing. 

The playlist with your name. And the look on his face when you almost opened it.

Like you’d come dangerously close to discovering something he wasn’t ready for you to know.

And for the first time in your life, you found yourself wondering if there were parts of Lando you didn’t know at all.

And strangely— the thought made your chest ache.

Weeks had passed since that day in his flat. And no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, you couldn’t. 

There had been something in Lando’s eyes that day. Fear. Real fear. The kind you’d almost never seen directed at you. And it had lodged itself somewhere beneath your ribs ever since.

Even now, as you stood in the crowd of orange, watching him climb onto the top step at the podium, you couldn’t quite shake it.

His face was split by that blinding smile. His eyes were red with exhaustion and pride. Champagne soaked his race suit. His family stood beside you, screaming themselves hoarse. Your arms were wrapped tightly around one of his sisters as all of you looked up at him like he’d hung the bloody moon. Another home win. Another milestone.

And yet— something still felt wrong.

Lando had never hidden things from you. Never snatched his phone away. Never looked at you like you’d stumbled across something dangerous. You knew his passcode. God, he would regularly throw his phone at you to answer texts when he was driving or too hungover to form a sentence.

So why had a playlist made him panic?

You’d thought about asking him. A hundred times. But every time, you remembered the way his breathing had changed. The way his hand had shaken. The way he’d looked almost cornered.

So you stayed quiet.

You briefly considered asking Max. Then immediately decided that was perhaps the worst idea you’d ever had.

And if you were being honest— this wasn’t even new.

There had been long drives through English countrysides where you’d reached to change whatever painfully generic playlist he had on, only for him to slap your hand away and tell you to stop ruining the vibe.

There was the time at university when you’d asked for his Spotify login while drowning in dissertation stress and he’d told you he refused to become your personal bank account.

At the time, you’d rolled your eyes. Now you wondered if he’d simply panicked.

Your forehead rested against the cool car window as the drive back to the hotel dragged on. Your thoughts were louder than the celebrations happening around you. What was he hiding? And why did it hurt this much?

You knew him. You knew how soft he got at three in the morning. How cruel he could be to himself after bad races. How he always put his family before himself. How much he truly hated fish. How he once admitted, quietly, that if racing hadn’t worked out he thought he might’ve liked photography.

You knew everything. And he knew everything about you. Or at least— you’d always thought he did.

A horrible thought crept in.

What if one day that changed? What if one day you stopped being the first person he called? What if someone else knew him better? What if one day he built a life that didn’t instinctively make space for you?

The thought hit so hard your throat tightened. You’d cried about that exact fear once. Drunk and exhausted and clinging to his shirt while you sobbed that one day he’d outgrow you. 

He’d held your face and promised— never. 

And yet.

You swallowed hard and forced yourself back into the conversation around you. Celebration plans. Dinner reservations. Afterparties. You nodded where appropriate and prayed you were being ridiculous.

Because you didn’t know how to be anything less than what you were to him. And maybe that was its own problem.

Lando opted for a low-key celebration. Which was how you found yourself dressed up and sitting cross-legged on his hotel bed while he got ready.

He’d locked himself in the bathroom. Not before enduring several minutes of you relentlessly mocking his curl routine until he’d practically slammed the door in your face.

Steam curled beneath the bathroom door. You could hear him humming softly to himself. His suitcase lay half-open on the floor. One of his hoodies was tossed across a chair. His aftershave lingered in the room. Everything felt unbearably him.

You’d been ready for over an hour. He hadn’t even needed to ask before texting you his room number and telling you to wait there so you could leave together.

You were halfway through losing a stupid game on your phone when boredom finally won. With a dramatic sigh, you flung yourself backward onto the bed.

And that was when you saw it. His phone.

Sitting on the bedside table. Left completely unattended.

Your stomach dropped. 

Don’t. Your brain screamed at you not to do it. It was invasive. Cruel. Not you. But the ache in your chest had grown too loud to ignore.

Slowly, you sat up. Your hand trembled as you reached for it. Even then, you hesitated. Because if he found out— if this broke whatever existed between you— you weren’t sure you’d survive it.

But you needed to know. 

So you unlocked it. Opened Spotify.

And froze. There it was. A playlist.

The cover photo was from his thirteenth birthday party at Laser Quest. You in blue. Him in red. Your hair in ridiculous pigtails. His curls completely feral. Both of you grinning like your lives depended on it. His arm wrapped around your shoulders. Your hand gripping his waist. 

Your chest tightened. Then your eyes moved upward.

songs that sound like home (your name)

Your breath left you in a shaky exhale. Then you noticed the number beneath it. Dozens of songs. Years worth.

And as your trembling finger pressed play— your entire world tilted.

And the memories came rushing back like a flood.

2013 — Little Things.

“I still don’t understand why we have to learn this stuff. Like, when am I ever going to use algebra in real life?” you whined dramatically, lying on your stomach across your bed with your school skirt wrinkled beneath you and your legs kicking lazily in the air.

You’d been staring at the same equation for nearly ten minutes and were no closer to understanding it.

Lando, meanwhile, was absolutely no help. He sat cross-legged on the floor with his back pressed against your bed, sketching absentmindedly in his English textbook that you were almost certain he was supposed to be writing in.

“If you ever want to be my engineer one day, then you really do need to learn it,” he replied, tipping his head back to grin at you.

You rolled your eyes and leaned over the edge of the bed to flick his forehead. “You’re boring, Norris. I thought you said you were just bringing me with you. I didn’t realise I had to earn my place.”

You rolled onto your back, staring dramatically at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to your ceiling while late afternoon sunlight spilled through your curtains.

“You’re annoying,” Lando shot back. “Why would I keep you around for free?”

“Can’t believe you’d treat your best friend like this,” you snorted. The words came softer this time, your amusement melting into something quieter.

Eventually, the room settled into a comfortable silence. Lando continued doodling in his exercise book while pretending to write something profound. And you stared at your maths worksheet, silently begging it to explain how on earth you were supposed to simplify 4m + 5 + 2m - 1.

Your laptop sat open on your desk, music crackling softly through its poor-quality speakers. Then familiar guitar strings floated through the room. A grin immediately tugged at your lips.

“Oh no,” Lando groaned.

You ignored him entirely and started singing along. Loudly. Slightly off-key. Entirely committed. Lando shook his head, though he was already smiling.

“Oh come on, Lan,” you sang between lyrics. “How can you not love this song?”

“You love every song.”

“I do not,” you gasped dramatically. “I only like the ones with good lyrics.”

“Good?” he scoffed. “I think you mean questionable.”

“Hey,” you leaned over the edge of the bed again and lightly smacked his curls before letting your fingers absentmindedly tangle through them. “You just don’t understand One Direction the way I do.”

Lando let out an exaggerated sigh as the song continued to play. The guitar plucked softly through the room. Your singing gradually became quieter.

Then softer. Then faded completely.

He frowned. The gentle tugging in his hair had stopped. The whispered lyrics had disappeared.

Lando pushed himself up from the floor and turned. You were lying on your back. One hand rested over your chest. The other was still stretched toward where his hair had been moments before.

Your eyes were closed. Your breathing had evened out. Your lips still moved faintly with the lyrics, like your body hadn’t quite realised you were falling asleep yet.

And Lando— stilled. Completely.

The world narrowed to the soft hum of your laptop. The warm afternoon light spilling across your bedroom floor. The rise and fall of your breathing.

He noticed everything. The way the tip of your nose was pink from rubbing at your allergies all afternoon. The tiny crease between your brows that only appeared when you were tired. The way your lips looked impossibly soft as they ghosted the final lyrics.

I’m in love with you and all your little things.

Lando’s breath caught. Because that was it, wasn’t it? It wasn’t one big moment. It was every tiny thing. Every laugh. Every argument. Every song. Every stupid maths worksheet. Every version of you.

And all he could think was— oh fuck.

Later that night, despite loudly maintaining that he hated the song, he still found himself adding it to a playlist. He told himself it was because the song reminded him of that afternoon. Of you singing badly. Of your terrible maths skills. Of your weird obsession with One Direction.

He ignored what it really meant. Even then— he knew he was lying.

2014 — Happy.

You were gripping Lando’s arm hard enough to probably cut off his circulation. Your face was buried firmly in his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut as terrifying sounds blasted through the television speakers.

You had absolutely no idea why you’d convinced yourself this was a good idea. It was a rare free Friday night for Lando. Karting had started taking over his life and weekends like this were becoming rarer and rarer.

He’d begged you to come over. You’d tried to be responsible and told him he needed rest. Then thirty minutes later you’d shown up at his house in your comfiest clothes holding a bag of Kinder chocolate, popcorn, and a horror DVD your older cousin had sworn was “more funny than scary.”

Your cousin was a liar.

Lando had protested immediately. You were both pathetic when it came to horror films and always had been.

He’d suggested literally anything else. But all it had taken was one dramatic pout and your best puppy dog eyes before he gave in with an exhausted sigh.

And now— you were both suffering the consequences.

Another horrifying screech echoed from the television. You practically climbed into his lap.

“Jesus Christ,” Lando yelped.

“Don’t say his name right now,” you whispered frantically. “What if that makes it worse?” 

Lando stared at you for a long moment. Then burst into laughter. You glared. “This is serious Lan.”

“You’re literally shaking.”

“You are too.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Because annoyingly— you were right.

You were pressed so tightly against him that your legs were half tangled with his, one of your hands clutching the fabric of his t-shirt. And Lando was trying very hard not to think about any of that. Particularly not the way your hair smelled like your shampoo. Or how your heartbeat seemed to sync with his every time you clung tighter. Or how he would quite happily sit through ten thousand terrible horror films if it meant you kept holding onto him like this.

He also tried very hard not to think about how fast his own heart was beating.

By the time the film finally ended, you were scrambling for the remote like your life depended on it.

“I don’t understand why you do this to yourself,” Lando groaned from the sofa, throwing the last piece of chocolate into his mouth. “You hate horror films.”

“Because it gives me an adrenaline rush and I always forget how much I hate being scared.”

“That is genuinely one of the stupidest things you’ve ever said.”

“Thank you.”

You flipped through channels desperately. Anything to erase the images now haunting your brain.

Then— music. Your entire face lit up.

“Oh no,” Lando groaned immediately. The opening beats of Happy filled the room. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Lan,” you launched yourself off the sofa and grabbed both of his wrists. “It’s a happy song. You know you secretly love it.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“You’re lying.”

You tugged him upright before he could protest further. Soon you were dancing wildly around his living room. Completely off beat. Sliding in socks across the wooden floor. Nearly knocking over a lamp. Laughing so hard neither of you could breathe properly.

Lando tried resisting for approximately twenty seconds. Then, as always— he gave in.

Because he always gave in to you.

You spun beneath his arm. He nearly dropped you. You both collapsed into hysterical laughter. And for the first time since the film ended— you forgot to be scared.

By the time the song ended, you were breathless. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

And when his mum entered the room to politely tell you both to stop screaming lyrics at midnight, you dissolved into fresh laughter.

As she walked away shaking her head, you fell straight into Lando’s arms. Still giggling. Still breathless. Your head rested against his shoulder as your breathing slowly steadied. And for a moment— everything felt warm. Safe. Easy.

Lando looked down at you as you melted into him without hesitation. Trusted him without question. And something in his chest tightened painfully.

Later that night, despite loudly declaring Happy was the most irritating song ever written— he still added it to the playlist. Because now all he could hear when it played was your laughter.

And all he could think about was how much he loved being the person who made you feel safe.

2017 - Feel Good.

You had been quiet the entire car ride. Which was deeply unsettling. You were rarely quiet. Usually your words spilled out faster than your brain could catch them.

But tonight— nothing. Lando kept glancing over at you as he drove through quiet streets with no real destination in mind. He was just driving.

Because when you’d called him sobbing so hard he could barely understand you, all coherent thought had abandoned him. He’d thrown on shoes. Forgotten a jacket. And left his house within thirty seconds.

When he pulled up outside yours, his chest had tightened painfully. You were wearing one of his old hoodies. One he’d left at your house months ago. Your shoulders were slumped. Your usual bounce completely gone.

You looked so heartbreakingly small walking toward his car that Lando had to physically stop himself from getting out and pulling you into his arms.

Instead— he unlocked the door. You climbed in. Offered him the smallest smile imaginable. And absolutely shattered him.

Your eyes were red and swollen. Your lips looked raw from chewing at them. Mascara streaked beneath your eyes. Like you’d been crying long before you called him.

And Lando wanted— desperately— to fix it. He wanted to ask who did this. He wanted names. Addresses. Potentially a shovel.

Instead— he started driving.

An hour passed before you finally spoke.

“He broke up with me,” your voice sounded shredded. Like every word hurt to say. Lando’s stomach dropped. He knew exactly who you meant. The older boy from college you’d spent weeks talking about. The one who made your face light up. The one Lando had smiled politely about while quietly dying inside.

You’d spent weeks gushing about how sweet he was. How thoughtful. How funny. And every single time Lando had wanted to scream— I could love you better than this.

Instead, he’d smiled. Because that’s what best friends did. Even when it killed them.

You let out another broken sob. Your face disappeared into the sleeve of his hoodie. There were dark mascara stains smeared across the fabric. And Lando thought they were the most precious thing he’d ever seen.

Because it meant you came to him. Always him.

His grip tightened around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He wanted to reach for your hand. Wanted to wipe your tears away. Wanted to tell you this boy was an idiot. Wanted to tell you he’d spend the rest of his life proving you deserved better.

Instead— he reached forward and turned on the radio.

A familiar beat blasted through the speakers. You looked at him through wet lashes.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re crying too loudly.”

A watery laugh escaped you. And Lando nearly drove into a lamppost because that sound felt like oxygen returning to his lungs.

By the chorus, your fingers were tapping against your knee. By the second verse, you were quietly singing. By the end— you were smiling. Small. Fragile. But real.

And Lando would’ve replayed that song a thousand times if it meant seeing that smile again. After that— you talked. About how he’d broken up with you over text. About how humiliating it felt. About how stupid you felt for not seeing it coming.

And Lando listened. He said all the right things. Soft things. Steady things. The things best friends were supposed to say. Even while every selfish part of him wanted to ask why you kept choosing boys who would never love you properly.

At some point your words slowed. Then stopped entirely. He glanced over. You’d fallen asleep. Your head resting against his shoulder. One hand loosely tangled with his on the centre console.

Like touching him was instinct. Like it was home.

Lando nearly broke right there.

Instead— he kept driving. Long after he should’ve taken you home. Long after the petrol warning light came on. Because he knew the second he dropped you off— you’d wake up heartbroken again.

And if he could give you one more hour of peace— he would. He always would.

Later that night, after helping you inside, past your concerned parents and making sure you drank water and washed your makeup off— he searched the song just to add it to the playlist.

Because it made you smile through heartbreak. Because your laugh had returned. Because your hand had reached for his without thinking. Because for one brief moment— it had almost felt like you were his.

And he was weak enough to treasure even that.

(You never told him your boyfriend had ended things because he said he couldn’t compete with Lando. That secret stayed buried deep inside you. Right next to the terrifying truth that maybe— you hadn’t wanted him to.)

2018 — Yellow.

You’d been there for almost every version of Lando. You were there when he first discovered karting. When he’d come home after watching races with his dad, eyes bright and voice breathless as he talked about how one day that would be him.

You were there through his years in junior formula. Through impossible schedules. Through wins. Through losses. Through exhausted phone calls and rushed airport goodbyes.

You’d attended enough races with his family that people occasionally assumed you were a Norris too. Neither of you ever corrected them.

When he joined McLaren’s young driver programme, you’d cried so hard his sisters laughed at you. When he became a reserve driver, you sent him embarrassing videos of yourself sobbing at your television.

And when he finally got the call— a Formula One seat. A real one. Next year. Alongside Carlos Sainz. You thought your heart might burst from pride. And maybe break a little too.

It wasn’t technically a going-away party. Everyone knew Lando would be home constantly. Mostly because he physically couldn’t stay away from his mum for very long.

But it was still a celebration. A marker. A before and after. You’d helped plan everything with his mum and sisters. 

And now the night had blurred into one long haze of laughter. Fairy lights hanging from the garden fence. Smoke from the barbecue lingering in the summer air. Music drifting from speakers. Too much food. Too many drinks.

Your feet aching from dancing. Your stomach hurting from laughing. And beneath all of it— grief. Quiet. Sharp.

Because everything was changing. And you hated yourself a little for mourning something you should’ve been celebrating.

You were proud. God, you were proud. But you were sad too. And no matter how hard you tried— you couldn’t seem to shake it.

By the time the evening began winding down, most people had retreated inside for warmth. Everyone except you and Lando.

You sat wrapped in a blanket in the garden. Your legs stretched out in front of you. Lando lay beside you with his head in your lap. Your fingers lazily moved through his curls as both of you stared at the sky.

“That one’s definitely Orion.”

You snorted. “That is absolutely not Orion.”

“It is.”

“It’s literally a plane.”

Lando squinted. “That feels unnecessarily embarrassing for me.”

You laughed softly. And he thought again how it was his favourite sound in the world.

Then a song began drifting through the garden speakers. Your entire face lit up.

Lando smiled instantly. “You really love this song.”

“I’m going to get it tattooed one day.”

He tilted his head slightly to look at you. “Oh yeah?”

“Definitely.”

“Where?”

You frowned thoughtfully. “Haven’t really thought that far ahead.”

He laughed quietly. “Of course you haven’t.”

Then— silence. Not awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just full.

Your fingers slowed in his hair. Your eyes drifted downward.

And suddenly you became painfully aware of how close his face was. How soft his expression looked. How his eyes kept flicking to your mouth.

Your breathing faltered. So did his. Your hand moved from his curls to his jaw. Your thumb brushing softly across his skin. Lando stopped breathing entirely.

For one suspended, impossible moment— you leaned down. And Lando genuinely thought his entire life was about to begin. He wondered if this was it. If every year of waiting had somehow led here.

Your lips parted. His eyes fluttered shut. And then— 

“Thank you,” his eyes opened. You were smiling sadly. “For always being there for me,” your fingers still traced his jaw. “I’m really going to miss you, Lan.”

And just like that— the moment shifted.

Lando swallowed the sharp sting of disappointment. Because of course your first instinct was to love him gently. Even when accidentally breaking his heart.

He reached up and covered your hand with his. “I’m not leaving you,” his voice was quiet. Certain. “I could never leave you.”

Your throat tightened. “You promise?”

He sat up slightly. Close enough that your noses almost brushed. “I promise that no matter where I go,” his eyes locked onto yours. “You’ll always have me.”

And maybe that should’ve felt like friendship. Maybe it should’ve felt simple. Instead— it felt like standing too close to something life-changing.

So you did what you always did when things with Lando felt too big. You smiled. He smiled back. And neither of you mentioned how close you’d come to changing everything.

And once again, almost ritualistic, long after you’d gone home, Lando added Yellow to the playlist. Because it sounded like summer. Like promises. Like almosts. Like you.

And if he spent an embarrassing amount of time wondering what would’ve happened if you’d leaned just a little further— well. That stayed between him and the playlist.

2019 - Liability.

You hadn’t even stepped into the hotel room yet and you could already feel his frustration. It clung to the air. Heavy. Sharp.

The race had gone horribly. And you knew him well enough to know exactly what was happening inside his head.

He was brutal with himself. Always had been. He could win and still focus on what went wrong. He could achieve something incredible and immediately tear himself apart over what he should’ve done better. And no matter how many times you reminded him how extraordinary he was— that voice in his head always seemed louder.

You’d spent years trying to quiet it. Tonight was no different. You knocked softly on his hotel door. Then waited. And waited.

Your stomach twisted. Because there was always a chance he wouldn’t let you in. That he’d choose isolation instead. And you’d respect that. Even if it broke your heart.

Then finally— the door opened. Lando stood there in grey sweats and an old t-shirt. His hair was messy. His eyes tired. His jaw tense.

But the second he saw you— something shifted. Not completely. But enough.

You lifted the bag of sweets in your hand like a peace offering. “I come bearing emotional support sweets.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. And he stepped aside.

That tiny movement felt like victory.

You’d learned a long time ago that pushing Lando never worked. He talked when he was ready. Your job was simply to stay.

So that’s what you did. You kicked off your shoes and dramatically launched yourself onto his bed. Sprawling across it like you paid for the room yourself. Lando sat near the headboard, shoulders still rigid with tension.

“Never thought I’d get to see this side of the world,” you said after a while, opening the sweets. “Becoming friends with you was actually a brilliant financial decision.”

A small laugh escaped him. Forced. But present.

You kept going. “You know, I found these bracelets at a market yesterday,” you held yours up proudly. “I was going to get you one but they didn’t have idiot sizes.”

He huffed a real laugh this time. Your chest warmed. Progress. “The dumplings here are incredible by the way. Life-changing, honestly,” he looked at you properly now. “I think I might move here solely for dumplings.”

“That feels dramatic.”

“You know me.”

“I unfortunately do.”

And so it continued. You rambled. About markets. About your flight. About bad tourists. About a waiter who hated you. Anything to pull him out of his own head.

And slowly— his shoulders dropped. His jaw unclenched. His eyes softened.

By the time an hour passed— his smile looked real again. And your heart nearly burst with relief.

“Do you want to listen to some music?” you asked softly. You moved beside him at the headboard, slipping beneath his duvet like you belonged there. Maybe you did.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

Your shoulder brushed his. Then stayed there. Neither of you moved away. Your pulse did something strange. You ignored it.

You pulled out your phone and opened a playlist you’d carefully built for nights exactly like this. Songs for when Lando forgot how incredible he was. Songs for when you didn’t have the right words.

Lorde began playing softly.

The room went quiet. Your fingers found his hand beneath the duvet without thinking. Like muscle memory. Like instinct.

Lando looked down at your intertwined hands. Then at you.

Your head rested against his shoulder now. Your breathing slowly evening out. He could feel every inhale. Every exhale. Every place your body touched his felt electrically alive. His heart stuttered painfully against his ribs.

And then— you fell asleep. Typical. But, you were still holding his hand. Still tucked against his side. Still trusting him with every fragile part of yourself.

Lando looked down when you let out the tiniest snore. And he smiled so hard it almost hurt. Because no one knew how to love him like this. Quietly. Patiently. Without asking for anything in return.

And God— he was so hopelessly in love with you it felt terminal.

Later that night, after carefully untangling himself so he wouldn’t wake you— he added more songs to the playlist. Because it reminded him of your hand finding his in the dark. Of your head on his shoulder. Of how your love always arrived in the exact form he needed.

And how terrifying it was that you still didn’t realise you already owned his entire heart.

2024 - cardigan.

The atmosphere was electric. It buzzed through your veins so violently you thought you might explode from it. The screams. The chanting. The tears. The heat.

Everything blurred into one overwhelming moment. And yet somehow— all you could see was him. Standing on the top step. His first win. Finally.

Your face was soaked with tears. Your cheeks hurt. Your chest physically ached from how hard your heart was pounding. You’d watched the entire race barely breathing as he defended against lap after lap.

And when he crossed that finish line— you’d screamed so loudly that his mum had burst into laughter before pulling you into her arms.

Only then had you realised you were sobbing. Properly sobbing. Completely undignified. You didn’t care.

Your best friend had just won his first Formula One race. And the world finally felt correct.

You’d always known he was destined for this. Even before either of you really understood what racing meant. There had always been something extraordinary about him.

You saw it the day he’d looked up at you from the ground after you shoved him off the climbing frame. That ridiculous grin. That spark in his eyes. That certainty.

Maybe that was why you’d agreed to be his best friend so easily. Because some part of you knew your life would always be brighter with him in it.

You watched him disappear into a sea of orange as the celebrations roared around him. His family clung to him. His team cried. Champagne sprayed everywhere.

And you stayed back. Even though every part of you wanted to launch yourself at him. Wanted to kiss his stupid smiling face. Wanted to tell him you loved him.

That thought hit you so suddenly you almost stopped breathing. You blinked it away. Absolutely not. You were emotional. That was all.

Then he stepped onto the podium. And you forgot how to breathe all over again. Because he looked— beautiful.

There was no other word for it. Sunlight caught in his curls. His jaw sharp beneath the spray of champagne. His smile so bright it bordered on blinding.

As the British anthem played, all you could think was: He belongs there. He always had.

Hours later, once the chaos in the garage had calmed slightly— you ran. Straight at him.

Lando barely had time to react before you launched yourself into his arms. He stumbled backward with a startled laugh before his hands locked around your waist. Lifting you effortlessly.

Your legs instinctively wrapped around him. And suddenly— everything else disappeared. The noise. The team. The cameras. The celebration.

Gone. 

All you could feel was him. Warm. Sweaty. Sticky with champagne. Real. Your face buried into his neck. His breath hot against your skin.

“I’m so fucking proud of you, Lan,” you whispered brokenly. Your voice cracked. “You were incredible today.”

His grip tightened around your waist. And when he spoke, his voice sounded dangerously soft. “I’m just glad you were here.”

Your entire body went still. Your heart stuttered violently. Because he said it like it mattered. Like you mattered.

And that felt far too dangerous to unpack.

So like always, you didn’t.

Later, exhausted and slightly tipsy, you found yourself in the backseat on the drive to the hotel. Your forehead rested against the cool glass. Your headphones played softly. Your entire body hummed with emotional exhaustion.

Then— his hand landed on your bare knee. You physically jolted. Electricity tore through your body so sharply your breath caught. It felt like every nerve ending you possessed had suddenly become aware of him.

You turned sharply. Lando was already watching you. His curls still damp. His cheeks flushed. His eyes impossibly soft. Golden under the streetlights. He looked unfairly beautiful.

He nodded toward your earphones. You pulled one out slowly.

“What’s on the playlist today?” His voice was quiet. His thumb absentmindedly brushed across your knee. Once. Twice. Your brain completely short-circuited.

You forgot every word you’d ever known. Forgot how breathing worked. Forgot your own name, probably.

“I—” Nothing. Your lips parted uselessly.

Lando’s eyes dropped to your mouth. Then flicked back up. And suddenly the air felt dangerously thin.

So instead— you shoved the earbud toward him. Coward.

He took it. Listened for a moment. Then laughed softly. “Taylor Swift?”