#almost touching

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Ted Lasso was far from an idiot; he had the keen sense to spot a poor decision brewing, even if it unfolded in slow motion. He caught himself staring, his eyes lingering longer than they should, as a sudden, sharp realization pierced his thoughts. This was, without a doubt, a very, very bad idea.

It began subtly, like the faint rustle of leaves before a storm. The first time he experienced that unsettling flutter in his stomach was during a moment so genuine it nearly knocked the wind out of him when you laughed. Not just any laugh, but a glorious, infectious burst that sent your head tilting back, your eyes sparkling with an untamed joy that seemed to dance in the air. The kind of laugh enveloped him in warmth, wrapping around him like a comforting embrace, holding him captive in its jubilant grip. Even hours later, the echo of that laughter would be lodged in his chest, nestled between his ribs like a tantalizing secret he knew he shouldn't hold onto.

Then came the other distractions, those almost imperceptible excuses that kept him at his desk long after he should have left. He'd find himself unconsciously scanning the room,

"Hey there, Social Butterfly," Ted called out, his voice effortlessly cool, its smooth timbre slicing through the gentle hum of the AFC Richmond Training Facility. He sauntered toward the weathered wooden bench where you were seated, basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun, the smell of freshly cut grass mingling with the faint scent of sweat and effort from the nearby practice field.

You lifted your gaze from your phone's glowing screen, a playful smile unfurling across your lips. The sunlight cast a golden shimmer in your eyes, reflecting a hint of mischief and a promise of adventure. You were the kind of trouble that brought joy and laughter to those around you.

“Coach Lasso,” you replied, deftly locking your phone with a quick flick. The screen darkened as you did. The soft click of the lock button was almost inaudible beneath the distant chatter of players and the rhythmic thud of soccer balls being kicked. “What brings you to my little nook of the universe?”

Ted flashed a wide grin, inclining his head ever so slightly, a mischievous sparkle dancing in his eye, the kind that made you think he was always on the verge of telling a joke. "Office? Well shoot, I just figured this was one of those highfalutin' benches!"

A light snort of laughter escaped you, the sound mingling with the rustle of leaves from a nearby tree stirred by a gentle breeze. “Working outside is an advantage I savor whenever I’m not cooped up in that claustrophobic press room, with its buzzing fluorescent lights and walls that seem to close in with every ticking second.”

"Well, color me jealous and call me an overripe banana," Ted chuckled, lowering himself onto the bench beside you with a casual grace that suggested he was perfectly at ease in your presence. The wood creaked slightly under his weight, yet the bench seemed to welcome him as if it were long accustomed to sharing moments of camaraderie and lighthearted banter.

Perhaps his expression hinted at envy, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. Maybe it was how you glided across the cobblestone streets of Richmond, each step flowing seamlessly into the next as if the city itself had been designed with you in mind. Or perhaps it was your quick-witted jabs, those playful yet sincere gestures that made him feel valued, like he was someone worthy of your attention. It could have been a blend of all these moments, floating between you like the gentle breeze that rustled the vibrant green leaves overhead, whispering secrets only the trees knew.

He fished his phone from his pocket, the cool screen catching the light as he turned it toward you. "Alright, Your Royal Highness of the World Wide Web, I need your expert opinion," he said, his voice tinged with playful sarcasm.

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "On what?" you asked, folding your arms as you leaned closer.

Ted swiped through his gallery, landing on the photo, a poorly executed selfie with Coach Beard. Even he couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. "I was tryin’ to snap one of them fancy ‘candid’ photos like the kids do," he explained, "but I think I just made Coach Beard look like he’s questionin’ the very nature of existence. Poor fella looks like he figured out the universe is held together by duct tape and a prayer."

You took the phone, examining the image closely. Your lips twitched in amusement, eyes sparking with humor barely contained.

"Oh yeah," you said, stifling a laugh. "This is bad."

Ted nudged your knee with his own, a warm, friendly gesture. "Hey now, no need to sugarcoat it. Hit me with the hard truth, doc. How bad we talkin’?"

You glanced at him, your eyes twinkling mischievously, fully aware of your effect on him. "Midlife revelation at a gas station at 2 a.m. bad," you replied, grinning.

Ted let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. "Well, dang. Alright then, how do we slap a Band-Aid on this bad boy and make it right?"

"You know that this is my job, right?" you teased, adjusting the brightness on his phone with a deft touch.

"Yep," Ted said, reclining back against the wooden bench, the sun casting a warm glow on his face. "And that’s why I came to the best."

It wasn't supposed to mean anything; it was just words and a compliment. But then you looked up at him, and something unreadable flickered across your face, a fleeting emotion that left him momentarily breathless. Suddenly, he felt it. That thing. The thing he wasn’t supposed to feel.

Your fingers tightened around his phone, the cold metal and smooth glass grounding you in the moment as if anchoring you to the present.

"Alright," you murmured softly, angling the screen just so. "Smile."

He obliged, a warm grin spreading across his face, but his eyes were locked on yours, not the camera. Your breath hitched, just a little, a subtle intake that made your heart skip, just enough for him to notice, and that was it. That was the moment.

In that fleeting instant, he felt it with a certainty that settled deep within him, and this was more than just a friendly encounter, more than casual, more than nothing. Yet he couldn’t allow it to become something. Not yet.

"You’re supposed to look at the screen, Lasso," you chided, your voice betraying a slight tremor.

Ted chuckled, a low, rich sound, and forced himself to lean back, taking a steadying breath. "Well, shoot," he quipped with a playful lilt. "Couldn’t help myself. Had a much better view right here."

Your lips parted as if words were poised to spill out, words that might've changed everything between you, but then, mercifully, an urgent voice cut through the air from across the pitch.

"Lasso! We got a problem!"

Ted exhaled deeply, pushing himself up from the bench before he acted on the impulse tugging at him. "I swear, that man’s ability to interrupt a moment is damn near surgical. If he ever quits football, he oughta consider a career in hostage negotiations," he muttered with a shake of his head.

"Go, Coach," you said, your tone deliberately light, almost too carefully measured. "I’ll be here. Waiting."

And for a second, just a second, Ted hesitated, his steps faltering. Hold me to that, darlin’, he almost said, the words nearly slipping out.

Instead, he nodded, and with a resolve that cost him more than it should, he turned and walked away, resisting the urge to glance back. He knew he might choose differently if he caught you watching him leave. As he moved toward the call for help, he told himself to shake it off and refocus, to get his head straight again.

But then there was the trust. It slowly wove into the fabric of your relationship, settling between you both like an unspoken agreement that couldn’t be ignored. It was evident in how you leaned casually against his doorway one lazy afternoon, your fingers wrapped around your phone, your face a mask of indecipherable emotions.

"Okay, be honest. How bad is it?" you asked him, your voice tinged with apprehension and curiosity.

Ted looked up from his spiral-bound notebook, a pencil poised mid-sentence. His eyebrows knitted together, forming a small crease of concern."Well, that depends," he mused, voice laced with easy humor. "Am I about to find out the world’s endin’, or did you just stumble on an unflattering picture of me on the internet? ‘Cause if it’s the latter, I’d bet good money it’s that one where I look like I just sneezed mid-smile."

You sighed, the kind of sigh that carried the weight of unspoken worries, and stepped further into the room. "The club sent me an article for approval," you explained, a hint of frustration lacing your words. "It’s about our social media growth, but they make it sound like I turned Richmond into a marketing empire overnight."

Ted reached for your phone, his fingers brushing yours just for a second before his eyes dropped to the screen. He skimmed the article, his frown deepening with each word, and the exaggerated praise practically dripped off the page.

"Ah," he murmured, tilting his head. He glanced up, eyes full of quiet understanding. "You’re worried folks are gonna think you’re takin’ too much credit, huh?"

You shifted your weight, crossing your arms defensively, as if shielding yourself from the implications. "I mean… It’s not just me. It’s the team. It’s the whole culture of the club," you said, your voice earnest and sincere. "Feels wrong to act like I did it alone."

Ted deliberately set the phone down on the table, exhaling like he was letting go of something heavier than a breath. His gaze lingered on you for a beat before he spoke, his voice softer and steadier now.

"Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re right to care about that," he said, the weight of understanding behind his words. Then, with a small, knowing smile, he added, "But also… ain’t nothin’ wrong with ownin’ what you did do. ‘Specially when what you did was pretty dang great."

Your lips were pressed together, your brows furrowed, and a question lingered in your eyes. "You really think so?" The words shouldn't have hit him like a gust of wind, but they did. There was a raw vulnerability there, a crack in your usual composure. Ted felt a lump in his throat, a mix of admiration and trepidation. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, "I do."

It could have been nothing, just one of those fleeting moments, or maybe it was the weight of the day’s work. But when your shoulders eased down, and you let out a long, steady breath, it was as if he’d just helped lift an invisible burden from you. Ted knew one thing for sure: this was getting precarious. Later that night, as he lay awake in the dim light of his bedroom, eyes tracing the familiar cracks in the ceiling, your voice echoed in his mind. That small, tentative question: "You really think so?"

And for the first time in what felt like ages, Ted Lasso questioned whether he could keep playing the oblivious fool. He reassured himself it was insignificant. Just a harmless notion, like those whimsical thoughts that drift through a person’s mind before slipping into sleep. Like the persistent itch of a phantom limb, both present and absent at once.

Yet, deep down, nestled where the truth sat like an uneasy visitor in his chest, he acknowledged the shift. It wasn’t manifesting in straightforward, dramatic ways, and he wasn’t bumping into walls, spilling his coffee on essential documents, or tripping over his words like a lovesick teenager. Ted Lasso’s unique way of falling for you is far more subtle, insidious, and impossible to ignore.

It was in the details, those tiny things that spoke volumes. Like how he started inventing reasons to linger near you until he caught himself doing laps around the club just to accidentally-on-purpose cross paths with you. Or how his morning seemed slightly off-kilter if he didn’t hear your voice before practice, even if it was you grumbling about the Wi-Fi acting up or the latest tweak in the algorithm. And then there was the way his gaze always seemed to find you in a crowded room, as if drawn by an invisible thread, no matter how much he forced himself to concentrate elsewhere.

He did what any rational person would do when confronted with a problem they wanted to avoid: he steered clear of it. He made no unnecessary visits to your office, the door with its familiar nameplate that seemed to beckon him, didn’t linger at your desk after team meetings despite the inviting scent of your jasmine tea, and avoided any chance encounters at the coffee machine where he might pretend to need sugar just to hear you tease him about how much he used, a playful glint in your eye.

It mainly worked, the plan of avoidance playing out like a carefully choreographed dance, but it all fell apart when it mattered most. Avoidance thrived only when he fully embraced it, like a cloak of invisibility that could slip off at the slightest misstep. The trouble with Ted Lasso was his talent for disregarding his guidelines, often leading him astray, like a compass that couldn’t quite find true north.

"Coach Lasso, you’re hovering," you called out, your voice slicing through the silence like a knife through butter, clear and precise.

Ted blinked, momentarily disoriented, as if your words had yanked him from a deep reverie, a daydream in which your presence comforted and unsettled him. He realized with a start that he was lingering in your doorway, fingers tapping nervously against the doorframe, caught between wanting to stay and needing to leave.

"Well, now, that’s a mighty serious accusation," he drawled, rocking back on his heels, a boyish grin creeping onto his face. But the uncertainty in his eyes? That lingered. "I was just passin’ by. Y’know, like a tumbleweed. Or a real nosy ghost."

You arched a brow, a skeptical smirk playing at the corners of your lips. "For the fourth time today?"

Ted opened his mouth, a playful retort on the tip of his tongue, yet hesitated, conflicted by the pull of your gaze and the fear that it might reveal too much. You only shook your head, lips twitching in amusement. That was dangerous. It was a push-and-pull he couldn't resist, especially when you looked at him like that, eyes sparkling with a mixture of exasperation and warmth that left him elated and uneasy.

"If you need something, just say so, Coach," you added, your attention shifting to your laptop. Your fingers danced over the keys with practiced ease.

That was the crux of it, wasn't it? He didn't need anything. Yet here he was, standing awkwardly with his hands buried deep in his pockets, unable to tear his eyes away from how the afternoon light caressed your skin, bathing you in a soft radiance. He didn't need to observe how absorbed you were, your bottom lip trapped between your teeth, lost in whatever task held you captive, the slight crease of concentration etched on your brow. He didn't need to feel this pull, damn it. But there it was, undeniable and unsettling.

His fingers twitched at his sides, restless, like they couldn’t quite decide what to do with themselves. The telltale sign of a man caught in the in-between, step forward or step back.

For a moment, he hovered there, stuck in the hesitation. Then, finally, he moved, just enough.

"You workin’ on the latest batch from trainin’?" he asked, aiming for easy, aiming for light. But his voice wavered, just barely, like it wasn’t sure whether to stay steady or give him away.

You hummed softly, your fingers dancing across the keyboard as images flashed on the screen. "Yup. Just picking the best ones for the team account," you explained, your focus unwavering.

Ted leaned over slightly, just enough to catch a better glimpse of the photos, his hand pressing gently on the edge of the desk for support. The zesty aroma of your citrus-scented shampoo wafted towards him, a fresh fragrance that lured him to inhale deeply and savor the moment.

The slideshow continued: Jamie laughed with his eyes crinkled, Sam was caught mid-action on the field, Isaac was with his usual intense focus, and Ted appeared. It was a candid shot from earlier that day, capturing him mid-conversation, a genuine smile lighting up his face. His hands rested casually in his pockets, his posture relaxed, and he exuded an air of ease that seemed to strip away the layers of his Coach Lasso persona, revealing just Ted.

Your fingers hesitated over the keyboard, just for a second, before you scrolled past the photo. And that’s when it happened. A barely perceptible shift, like a thread pulled too tight. The air changed, the moment stretching slightly longer than it should have. It felt like something had been exposed, even if neither of you had meant to reveal it.

Ted felt it, too; the unexpected and unwelcome weight settled in his chest. His breath hitched slightly, his fingers flexing at his sides. He almost let it pass, nearly ignored it, but the words tumbled out anyway.

"That was a good one," he blurted, the admission rawer than he meant.

You let out a small snort, shaking your head. "You’re just saying that ‘cause it’s you."

"Nah," Ted murmured, his voice quieter now. He tilted his head just slightly, eyes locked onto you with an intensity that was both startling and soft.

"You got a knack for capturing people’s true selves."

Your fingers hovered momentarily, suspended above the keys. It was a fleeting pause, yet Ted caught it. He noticed the way your shoulders momentarily tensed before you shook it off. He observed the hard swallow you took before offering him a smile that seemed too restrained.

"Well," you replied lightly, "it’s my job."

Ted hummed softly, his gaze lingering on you longer than he intended. It was supposed to be nothing, just a passing moment. So why did it feel like it meant something more? He mentally shook himself, trying to refocus, to clear his mind. And for a little while, he succeeded.

Until he caught you laughing with Jamie Tartt, Ted felt a knot twist deep inside him, a gnawing uncertainty he couldn't shake. You stood by the media desk, phone poised, likely arranging some promotional post. Jamie, ever the epitome of laid-back charm, leaned lazily against the desk, exuding an air of ease that seemed to come naturally to him. His grin, that infamous Jamie Tartt grin, had likely won over half of London.

Ted tried to convince himself that it shouldn't matter, that he could just brush it off. But when Jamie spoke and you laughed, that genuine, infectious laugh struck him deeply. It wasn't one of those polite chuckles or faint smiles; it was the kind of laughter that had turned his world upside down the first time. The sort of sound made his jaw tighten before he even processed why. Ted continued walking, his steps wavering with indecision, torn between the need to keep moving and the urge to turn back, wrestling with whether maintaining his composure was the right choice.

He knew he shouldn’t be fixated on what Jamie had said to evoke that laughter. He shouldn’t dwell on whether his jokes ever elicited such joy from you. And he definitely shouldn’t be turning around to look.

Yet, of course, that’s precisely what he did. He turned his head just enough to catch Jamie leaning in closer, still talking, that confident grin plastered on his face. Ted exhaled sharply, rubbing his hand over his face in frustration. He was caught between the turmoil of wanting to let it go and the undeniable urge to intervene. No, this couldn’t be happening.

This was why he needed to stick to the plan that shielded him from entanglements he couldn’t afford. Yet every thought of it felt like a betrayal of something more profound. The plan steered his focus toward coaching, away from distractions like the feelings you stirred in him. He felt a longing for things he knew he shouldn’t want yet couldn't reasonably deny.

He assured himself he was fine. He was great. But why did it feel like he was losing a game he hadn’t even realized he was playing? Was Ted really fine?

It was all supposed to be okay. The tightness in his chest should have been merely the consequence of a long day. The jittery energy coursing through him? Likely the result of too much coffee. And the ache in his jaw from clenching? Well, that was just, Damn it. He scrubbed his hand over his face again, torn between staying and walking away from whatever moment had passed between you and Jamie. From Jamie’s too-close proximity, his easy laughter, and the insidious whisper in Ted’s mind, suggesting thoughts he had no right to entertain, yet couldn't completely ignore.

Ted knew he had to stick to the plan, no stealing glances, no eavesdropping, no letting his heart wander, even as every step he took felt like a tug-of-war between what he should do and what he secretly wished for. With each deliberate, measured stride, he tried to distance himself from that clenched turmoil, like stepping away from a shadow that clung too tightly. Near the tunnel’s entrance, he spotted Beard, crouched beside a stack of worn training sheets, scribbling down notes like lifelines. Ted forced himself to merge back into the routine, blending into the ordinary world again, even as his mind wavered on the edge of uncertainty.

Beard barely lifted his eyes from his notepad, his voice rough and unfazed: “You good?”

Ted's response escaped his mouth almost involuntarily, too polished, "Yep," the word tumbling out as if it were a line he'd recited a thousand times. Yet, beneath the surface, his mind swirled with uncertainty, desperately trying to conceal the turmoil.

Beard hummed, a low sound that barely masked his doubt. “Uh-huh.”

Ted leaned against the cool brick wall, his arms crossed tightly in a feeble attempt to shield himself from the relentless tide of skepticism washing over him. He was torn, unable to decide if the doubts were justified or just a figment of his overactive imagination. Despite his efforts, his eyes flickered back toward the room, betraying his resolve. His heart pounded erratically, each beat a reminder of his inner turmoil. All he craved was a distraction, yet even that seemed elusive in the whirlwind of his conflicted thoughts.

Then, amidst the swirling tension, a clear voice sliced through the background chatter.

“Ted!”

It was Rebecca. Her call was an unexpected reprieve, a lifeline thrown into the turbulent sea of his emotions, reorienting his focus toward something new.

“Boss!” Ted’s grin, too broad and too bright, appeared as he spun around. Her presence was impossible to ignore: she strode confidently toward him, the rapid, staccato clicks of her sharp heels echoing against the polished floor. “How’s it goin’?”

Rebecca raised a single, arched eyebrow, her tone teasing. “Oh, how funny. I was just about to ask you that.”

Ted blinked, his surprise palpable. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” she said, smoothing down her blazer as if adjusting her attire and her assessment of him. Her gaze dissected him with almost surgical precision. “You’ve been looking positively adrift all afternoon. Care to share your secret with the class?”

Ted hesitated, waving a hand uncertainly as if trying to brush off her suggestion. "Pshh. Me? Distracted? Nooo, I, " He trailed off, feeling the weight of her gaze and wondering if there was some truth to her words.

Before he could continue, Rebecca raised a careful finger, halting his words. “Ted, before you launch into that absurd charm offensive of yours, don’t try. I’m completely immune.”

Her words clamped shut any lingering impulse to defend himself, and he fell silent.

Her eyes narrowed, and in a low, questioning tone, she pressed, “What’s going on?”

"Nothin’," Ted blurted out, his voice betraying an uneasy haste. The word tumbled out too quickly, too conveniently, as if the lie itself was caught between truth and falsehood, hovering on the edge of his conscience.

Rebecca let out a slow, measured sigh. Then, letting her tone drop to one of conspiratorial familiarity, she remarked, “Does this have anything to do with our social media manager looking especially stunning today?”

Ted's breath caught in his throat, his mind a tangled mess of uncertainty.

"I… what… how could…?" he stammered, each word trembling as he struggled with his emotions and thoughts. He was torn between the need to understand and the fear of what that understanding might reveal.

Rebecca tilted her head, taking a languid sip from her glass, her eyes watching him like a predator amused by its prey.

Clearing his throat and desperately trying to find his footing, Ted floundered to regain composure. "I don’t… She always looks… uh, you know, professional and, uh… put together… like a LEGO set straight out of the box; no pieces missin’, no frustrating instructions." Yet, as he stumbled through his explanation, his fingers nervously fidgeted with his collar, unsure if he was genuinely capturing what he wanted to say or just making things more tangled.

Rebecca dismissed his explanations with a casual wave of her hand. “Yes, yes,” she said lightly, her tone layered with underlying amusement. “But today is different, isn’t it?”

Ted opened his mouth to voice his objections, but uncertainty tangled his thoughts, and the words dissipated before he could speak.

A smirk crept onto Rebecca’s face. “You should see yourself right now,” she teased, her eyes sparkling with knowing mischief.

With a deep, heavy sigh that seemed to rob the color from his face, Ted ran his hand through his hair, caught between resignation and disbelief. "Boss, if this is some elaborate scheme you’ve concocted just to get under my skin, then I’m torn between admiration and exasperation. I’d tip my hat if I were wearing one, ‘cause that’s some awe-inspiring work."

Leaning slightly, her voice dropping to nearly a whisper still slicing through the air like a blade, Rebecca replied, "Oh, I’m not trying to mess with you, Ted. I’m simply pointing out what’s painfully obvious."

Ted pressed his lips into a thin line, his face a battlefield of emotions. He struggled to keep his defenses in place, unsure whether to confront or concede.

Rebecca’s eyes glinted triumphantly, her victory in this subtle battle unmistakable. “And I assume Keeley’s already given you a lecture?”

Ted let out a groan that seemed to resonate with the collective exasperation of the day. “Oh, she’s lovin’ this, Boss, just absolutely thriving.”

Rebecca chuckled softly, a warm sound that carried a note of admonishment. “As she should be.”

Muttering under his breath as if to himself, Ted shook his head. “I gotta find new friends.”

Rebecca’s laughter tinkled, and she patted his arm lightly. “Oh, Ted.” Then, her tone softened further, weighted with concern as she added quietly, “Just be careful with that heart of yours, hmm?”

Ted’s throat tightened, caught between the sincerity of her words and the unresolved tension that roiled inside him like a storm. He felt torn, unable to decide whether to hold onto the hope she offered or to succumb to his doubts.

Rebecca's final, knowing look seemed both a promise of understanding and a silent warning, leaving him more uncertain than ever. As she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing through the corridor, Ted felt abandoned yet relieved, suspended on the brink of something inevitable yet incomprehensible.

Then you walked in, and Ted’s fragile resolve crumbled. He was conflicted, every reason he had clung to for avoiding your gaze dissolving in an instant. The room seemed to conspire against him; its low hum of conversation suddenly disappeared, and curious glances were cast his way, drawn by an unseen force. Who could blame them for being captivated by the tension he felt so deeply?

Jesus, by some miracle of fashion, had made your outfit technically appropriate for the workplace. But the skirt was the first critical misstep. It was jet black, its fabric sleek and body-hugging, dangerously tailored to cling to your hips before narrowing along your thighs. Its length hovered in that maddening area long enough to seem respectable yet short enough to stir a dangerous cocktail of desire. And then there was the subtle slit along the side, a mere whisper of exposed skin with every graceful movement, a tantalizing tease.

The equally arresting blouse was crafted from a soft, deep emerald fabric that draped elegantly over your form. Delicate and inviting, fine buttons traced a gentle line down the front. The top few buttons had undone themselves ever so slightly, just enough to allude to the graceful curve of your throat, hinting at something more enticing below without ever crossing the boundaries into overt scandal.

And the shoes, oh, the shoes, managed to elevate the transgression even further. The modest black heels forced Ted’s mind into reckless territory. Every step in them accentuated the smooth line of your legs, subtly adding height and intensity to your already magnetic presence.

Then Rebecca hadn’t even entirely left the scene. Just as she began to turn, the atmosphere shifted again, a charged, almost palpable pull of attention that made the surrounding chatter dissolve into a hushed tension. Heads pivoted towards you as conversations stalled mid-sentence.

Rebecca, ever the astute observer, came to an abrupt halt mid-step, ensnared by the magnetic allure of the unfolding drama before her. Her eyes landed on you, and a sly smirk danced across her lips—a silent, knowing acknowledgment of the unmistakable truth: Ted was utterly unraveling, as if in that moment, he had been rendered invisible, a mere specter in the room.

When Ted finally found his voice, it emerged in a low, gravelly murmur, as if locked away and battling its way to the surface. The words tumbled, clumsy and unexpected, like clashing cymbals in an otherwise tranquil symphony. 

"That skirt is… wildly impractical for an office setting."

He blinked, momentarily stunned by his audacity. Well, hell. That wasn’t what he intended to say. But the words hung between them, thick with an unacknowledged tension that sent a shiver down his spine, heavy and unsettling, lingering long after the sound faded.

Ted's jaw clenched in ferocity, making the muscles in his cheeks ripple ominously. Every fiber of his being was taut as he wrestled internally to maintain his gaze or divert his eyes elsewhere. You weren’t deliberately provoking him, or perhaps you were; the ambiguity hung between you like a charged cloud. Meanwhile, your heart pounded rhythmically in your chest, a tempest of emotion contrasting sharply with the calm façade you wore. The rest of the room continued its routine, blissfully unaware of the simmering tension crackling beneath the surface..

Rebecca nearly choked on her saliva, the unexpected shock hitting her lungs in a burst. "Oh, darling," she whispered gleefully, her voice a hushed melody filled with amusement.

Ted's whole damn soul felt like it was being yanked out of him, as if an invisible hand was pulling at his very essence. His eyes snapped to hers, wide and frantic, the panic bubbling up too late to disguise beneath a calm facade. Rebecca arched a perfectly shaped brow, her eyes dancing with a mischievous glint, clearly relishing in the unease she had stirred within him.

“Did you?” she grinned, an impish glint in her eyes. “Did you just comment on her skirt?” She leaned in slightly, her presence almost tangible as she watched Ted squirm under her gaze.

Ted cleared his throat awkwardly, his mind spinning in a turbulent dance of uncertainty. "I, uh, I mean, in a purely observational way, strictly from a workplace practicality standpoint," he stammered, words slipping through his grasp like sand. "Y’know, like how a footballer’s gotta have the right cleats, or how a cowboy needs a good pair o’ boots, except, uh, in this case, it’s… a skirt." His hands floundered in the air, his explanation crumbling under the weight of his doubts. "Which, uh… ain’t got much to do with football or cowboys, now that I think about it."

"Observational," Rebecca repeated, her brow rising in a silent challenge that only heightened Ted's inner conflict.

"Yup," Ted replied, though the word felt heavy on his tongue. His eyes darted away from Rebecca as if seeking escape from the scrutiny that made him question everything he’d just said.

Rebecca made a sound deep in her throat, a rich, indulgent hum that seemed to savor the moment, as if storing it away for future amusement.

Ted was torn. The walls of the room seemed to press in on him, suffocating him in his indecision. Then, another voice entered the chaos as if the universe were testing him further.

"She looks good, doesn’t she?"

Ted flinched, his shoulders jerking up in surprise. He couldn't believe it. With his ever-calm demeanor and casual stance, Coach Beard stood beside him, sipping his drink, eyes still trained on Ted. And that? That was it. The last straw, the final thread of his composure snapping.

"Alright, I’m leavin’, before I say somethin’ else that gets me into even deeper waters," Ted announced, his voice rough, tugging at the frayed edges of his jacket. "And trust me, I ain’t exactly Michael Phelps when it comes to swimmin’ outta these messes." His words were laced with a strange mix of humor and resignation, a desperate attempt to mask his inner turmoil.

But even as he resolved to leave, a part of him hesitated, feeling the weight of the room pressing down on him. Without waiting for a response, Ted spun on his heel, his steps heavy with the urge to flee, yet reluctant. Rebecca snorted audibly, a mischievous glint in her eye as she crossed her arms. "Oh no, you’re not." Her tone was playful yet challenging, adding to Ted's inner conflict.

Beard, leaning against the dim corner of the room and swirling his drink, took a deliberate, slow sip. "Not a chance," he added, a hint of a smirk curling his lips, making Ted question his resolve.

Ted’s face twisted into an exasperated groan as he ran a hand across his stubbled cheek. "Y’all are the worst people I know, an’ that’s includin’ the fella who once tried to sell me a timeshare at a funeral." His voice carried a mix of disbelief and sarcasm, each word weighted with regret and a flicker of doubt, as if he wasn’t sure if he wanted to stay or go.

Rebecca’s smile grew wider, lighting up her face with a spark of vindication. Beard shrugged his broad shoulders nonchalantly. "Nah, we’re just the ones who tell you the truth." His voice was calm, as if dispensing hard facts was as ordinary as breathing.

Then, leaning in as if about to drive a final, painful blow, Beard added, "If it makes you feel any better, she hasn’t stopped looking at you either." His words hung like a gauntlet thrown at Ted’s feet.

Ted’s body tensed up, a mixture of surprise and hesitation flickering in his wide eyes as he halted mid-step. The lively buzz of the room both anchored him and made him feel like he was floating, caught between wanting to stay and the urge to flee.

Rebecca’s head jerked up, and her eyebrows arched in immediate curiosity. "Oh?" she prompted, leaning forward slightly.

Beard slowly nodded, his expression smug beneath the low light. Each word was measured and deliberate. "She clocked him the second she walked in." His voice was low and almost teasing, relishing the moment's drama.

Rebecca’s eyes lit up as if a hidden secret had just been revealed. "And?" Her voice danced with anticipation.

Taking another leisurely sip from his glass, Beard stretched the moment, his eyes never leaving Ted’s face. "She smirked." The single word landed like a final, crushing verdict.

Ted's stomach twisted violently as if the ground beneath him had unexpectedly shifted, leaving him unsteady. His eyes flickered around the room, catching Rebecca's triumphant little gasp, which pierced the charged silence. Yet, it wasn't just the words that burdened him; an oppressive, invisible gaze seemed to weigh him down. The hairs on his neck prickled as his peripheral vision confirmed that Beard was now scrutinizing him closely, expressionless and mute yet absorbing every nuance.

Ted's hand, damp with unease, dragged down his face as he exhaled a heavy, conflicted sigh. "Don’t say it. Please. I'm beggin’ ya. Have mercy on a man who's already sufferin’," he implored, his voice a mix of desperation and a reluctant acceptance of his predicament.

Beard raised a single, quizzical eyebrow. "Say what?" he asked, his light tone edged with mischief.

Ted looked heavy with conflicted resignation, as though trapped between resignation and defiance. "You’re gonna say it anyway, huh? Alright. Just… gimme a sec to brace myself," he murmured, his voice cracking with anxiety and an unspoken dread.

After a pause that stretched out like an eternity, Beard’s usual laid-back charm slipped back in with a barb that cut sharper than expected. "Hell of a skirt," he remarked casually, as though commenting on the day’s runoff instead of the turbulent undercurrents between them.

Ted groaned, the sound laden with internal conflict. "Come on, man," he muttered, his eyes betraying a swirl of disbelief, regret, and something like desperate hope.

"I mean, I get it," Beard replied with a more defensive than dismissive shrug, his tone already shifting to a tentative finality, as if he longed to put everything aside.

Ted’s gaze hardened, his voice dropping to a bitter whisper. "There’s nothin’ to get." Each word seemed to wrestle with resignation and anger, a dialogue of a man resigned to his fate yet utterly unwilling to let go.

Beard hummed softly, a murmur that seemed both an acknowledgment of painful truth and an admission of his inability to help. "Mmm." It was the sound of someone who held the keys to painful insights but chose silence over empathy, a silence that echoed between them.

The sound sent a jolt through Ted’s thoughts, an uneasy reminder of how much Beard knew and yet how little he could offer. Scrambling for distraction, Ted nearly forced a change in topic. "You see the lineup for Saturday?" he asked abruptly, as if steering the conversation away from the storm brewing within him.

Beard’s head dipped in a barely perceptible nod. "Yep," he replied, his tone indifferent on the surface but strangely linking their troubled exchange.

"We lookin’ solid?" Ted pressed, his voice laced with a tentative hope that warred with his inner disquiet.

"Yep," Beard answered, his voice flat yet carrying the weight of an unspoken bond amid all their tangled emotions.

Ted exhaled slowly, almost in relief, as if releasing a breath held against his tumous feelings. "Great. Good talk," he drawled, forcing a smile that barely concealed the turmoil behind it. "Yep. Just really productive. Absolutely no lingering thoughts or emotions here. Nope. None at all." The words felt hollow even as he tried desperately to convince himself.

Beard’s grin widened, but it bore a mix of amusement and sorrow. "She’s gonna be the death of you." His words struck Ted like a final, damning judgment, a sentence too heavy to bear.

Ted’s eyes fluttered shut. He was caught between the instinct to defy that cruel forecast and the resigned acceptance of its inevitability, his inner world a chaotic battleground of doubt and despair.

Without further words, Beard patted Ted lightly on the shoulder, a gesture that masked the burden of years of shared struggle and unspoken pain. "Just sayin’," he murmured, as if the comment were both a comfort and a condemnation.

Then, without looking back, Beard turned and strode off into the dim corridor, leaving behind a trail of finality mixed with the bitter taste of shared, conflicted truth. And Ted? Ted remained rooted in place, the grim reality of his doomed fate settling over him in tangled layers of conflict he could neither entirely escape nor ultimately embrace.

Ted was not okay.

He had been weaving a web of lies for himself about many things lately, but this moment? This was the undeniable point where he had to concede defeat. Every time he commanded himself to stop glancing over, to quit noticing the little things, to suppress those feelings, you did something that completely shattered him.

And tonight, at this ostentatious sponsor event filled with clinking glasses and artificial laughter, you would be the end of him.

It began with the tiniest sparks and always started that way. Ted Lasso had navigated high-pressure situations before: championship finals with the weight of expectation bearing down on him, media frenzies with cameras flashing like strobes, and half-time speeches with the entire team watching him as if he possessed the secret formula for a miracle.

He had managed all of it with his trademark smile, firm, unwavering, exuding calm and control. But this? This was a whole different ball game.

Because you walked in, the atmosphere in the room shifted, and suddenly, Ted felt like the air had been sucked out of his lungs. His eyes were drawn to the dress you wore. That dress. Midnight black, hugging your curves like a second skin, accentuated contours that set Ted's thoughts spiraling into territories they shouldn't venture into. The neckline was a delicate scoop, dipping just enough to tantalize, causing his eyes to wander before he could reel them back in. The hemline stopped daringly at mid-thigh, showcasing long, smooth legs that seemed to glimmer under the soft lighting, an alluring distraction.

Ted swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he tried to compose himself. Nothing was obscene about the dress, and its design had no hint of scandal. Yet it was potent enough to unravel him completely. And what made it worse? You appeared utterly unaware of the effect you had. That is, until you turned.

He was caught mid-stare, and his stomach somersaulted. For a moment, panic gripped him. He half-expected you to call him out, laugh, and remark about his gaping mouth or sudden silence.

Instead, you responded with a slow, knowing smirk that was captivating and devastating.

Before Ted could regain his composure, your eyes drifted down to his hands, which were still fiddling clumsily with his tie, the ends slipping through his fingers.

Ted barely managed to steady himself as you stepped closer, your voice a silky blend of amusement and danger, "Struggling there, Coach?"

Your voice was like honey, smooth and lightly teasing, sending a shiver down his spine.

He inhaled deeply, trying to anchor himself and ignore the warmth radiating from you like a gentle sunbeam. "You know, I’ve spent years mastering the art of the Windsor knot, but today?" He sighed, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off the nerves. "My hands just ain't workin' right."

Your smirk widened, a glimmer of mischief in your eyes. "Uh-huh." There was a moment of pause as if you were weighing a decision, and then, with decisive grace, you closed the gap between you. You were too close now, close enough that Ted's heart seemed to race erratically against his ribs. Close enough that the fragrance you wore, a blend of something bright and soft, enveloped him, making his mind whirl with the intoxicating scent that seemed to promise a little too much trouble.

His breath caught in his chest, eyes slightly widening, as a battle raged within him. As your fingers brushed against his meticulously knotted tie, he seemed to lose all sense of himself, teetering on the edge between the desire to stay composed and the urge to surrender to the moment. You worked the fabric loose with a smooth and deliberate motion, as if you had untied ties a hundred times before, and the whisper of silk against your fingertips sent a shiver coursing through him. It was so subtle it could have been mistaken for the chill from the open door behind you, but Ted couldn't ignore it.

He felt its presence in how his spine tensed and relaxed, in the involuntary twitch of his fingers that seemed to reach for and pull away from his sides simultaneously, and in the pounding of his pulse that reassured him while unnerving him as it echoed in his throat. It was just a tie, a simple, ordinary tie. Yet somehow, in that moment, it was meaningless and all-consuming to him, leaving him caught in a web of emotions he couldn't entirely untangle.

Your touch was gentle, your knuckles lightly grazing the column of his throat, brushing against the fabric of his crisp shirt, and grazing the warm skin beneath his collar. Ted clenched his jaw, hands curling into fists at his sides. He was caught between the reckless urge to close the space between you and the desperate need to maintain control.

"You’re quiet," you murmured, your voice dipping to a low, intimate tone that sent conflicting signals through his mind.

Ted exhaled sharply, the air rushing out of him, betraying the turmoil within. "Just concentratin’."

"On what?"

Not your mouth. Not your hands. Not the way you’re standing so close he could count every one of your eyelashes, yet yearning to do that.

"On, uh… not movin’ too much."

You laughed softly, a warm and understanding sound that intensified the war inside him. Ted felt it resonate deep in his chest, stirring feelings he craved and feared. Your fingers tightened the knot, gliding along the fabric one final time, slow and lingering. Then you pulled it tight, too tight. Ted swore he felt it constrict something deeper than his throat, as if it were binding his heart and mind in a tug-of-war.

"There," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, your breath a gentle caress shy of touching his skin. Your hands remained in place for a moment longer, long enough for Ted to think if he moved forward even an inch, but equally terrified of what that might unleash.

Then, as if nothing had happened, you patted his chest right over his heart as if you understood the tumult you were causing within it. Then, you stepped back with a casual grace that left him on edge.

"All set, Coach."

As if the universe had plotted against him, the evening spiraled out of control. Ted sat hunched over his drink at the dimly lit bar, the ice clinking softly as he absentmindedly swirled it. He was deep in conversation with Beard, the chatter of patrons a dull hum in the background, when a word pierced through the noise, sharp and clear: your name. Laughter followed, bright and unmistakable, and everything else faded away. Ted's head turned slowly, his movements deliberate as he tried to mask the turmoil inside. And there you were.

Across the room, you stood at the far end of the sleek, polished bar, your smile radiant under the soft glow of overhead lights. That damned dress, a deep crimson that hugged every curve, seemed to shimmer as if it had been crafted just for you. But what caused Ted’s jaw to set like stone, his fingers to clamp around the glass until his knuckles whitened, was the man beside you.

A sponsor rep, Ted guessed, young, with slick hair and a silver tongue, exuding a breezy confidence that grated on Ted’s nerves. The man’s name remained a mystery, and Ted had no desire to learn it. His attention fixated on the way the man leaned slightly closer, his body language reeking of assurance, his hand hovering just a breath away from the small of your back, hesitating but poised to close the gap.

Your laughter rang out again, a melody that twisted Ted’s insides into knots. You weren’t at fault; you hadn’t crossed any lines. Yet that didn’t stop a searing, irrational heat from unfurling beneath Ted’s ribs, a slow burn that threatened to erupt. Beard, ever perceptive, noticed the shift and murmured, just for Ted, "Don’t do anything stupid."

Ted inhaled deeply through his nose, forcing the corners of his mouth into a tight, strained smile. "Now, why would I do that?"

Beard offered no reply, just a knowing sip of his beer and a sidelong glance. Ted dismissed the unspoken warning, his gaze inexorably drawn back to you. The way you tilted your head, listening intently, the way your fingers idly traced the rim of your glass as if they had a mind of their own. The man leaned in closer, his voice a hushed murmur now, uttering words Ted couldn’t catch, igniting his simmering frustration.

He didn’t need to dissect it; the feeling exploded within him like a live wire. The tension coiled in his shoulders, a taut spring ready to snap, while the glass in his hand threatened to shatter under his white-knuckled grip. He recognized that same predatory stance all too well, the way the other man leaned in, eyes locked in a hunt. Hell, he’d been that guy before, trampling boundaries without remorse. Now, a raging storm churned inside him, a visceral mix of blistering anger and seething frustration. His jaw throbbed from being clenched too fiercely, and he battled against the burning urge to smash something, anything, to release the violent turmoil within. He knew he should avert his gaze, walk away, feign indifference, even though that raw, dark edge gnawed relentlessly at him.

But then the man pushed closer, his invasive presence igniting the breaking point. Ted moved deliberately, each step fueled by an unseen, relentless force. He stalked through the crowded room with grim purpose, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the unfolding scene. Not charging in recklessly, he instead positioned himself strategically within the conversation, close enough to upend the dynamic. “Hey there, y’all,” he said, his voice steady yet crackling with defiant energy.

You turned towards him, surprise flickering across your face, your brows arching in recognition. “Ted.”

Your voice's familiar, comforting timbre had a dual impact; it soothed the simmering blaze in his chest even as it fed its fury. The guy beside you straightened, his eyes sharpening into a calculating glare. “Lasso, right?” he drawled, each word a deliberate provocation.

“Well, that’s what the good people call me,” Ted replied, his voice smooth but undercut by a hint of uncertainty. His smile was wide, but his eyes remained shadowed with inner unrest as he stole a glance at you, striving to dodge the relentless stare of his challenger. “Just checkin’ in. Y’all havin’ a good time?” he asked, though there was a tremor in his tone suggesting that he wasn’t entirely sure he even wanted the answer.

You blinked, a fleeting, inscrutable emotion crossing your features like a shadow. “Yeah. Everything’s great,” you replied, your measured tone leaving room for a lingering doubt.

Ted nodded, sliding his hands into his pockets with a veneer of forced nonchalance, every word laced with an undercurrent of tension. “That’s good. Wouldn’t want any of our fine guests feelin’ neglected,” he said, each syllable carrying a barely contained edge.

You caught the nuance, tilting your head slightly, eyes narrowing as if piecing together a puzzle. The guy beside you shifted uncomfortably, sensing the change in the charged atmosphere, but Ted’s focus remained locked solely on you.

Then, as if to intensify the spark, the guy chuckled, a sound soaked in arrogant confidence and infuriating smugness. “I was telling her she should let me take her out sometime. Show her a good night in the city,” he said, his words hanging in the air like a deliberate provocation.

Ted’s fingers closed into tight fists, knuckles whitening as if straining to contain a brewing storm. His face wore a deceptive mask of calm, yet something snapped like an overstretched wire inside. The ensuing silence was heavy, oppressive. Then, Ted let out a deceptively soft laugh, its underlying edge threatening. Ted placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, not rough or reckless, but firm enough to make a point. His grip didn’t tighten, but it didn’t need to.

"Now," he said, his voice walking a tightrope between easy charm and something dangerously close to sharp-edged fury, "I think she already gets plenty of those, don’t you?"

The words seemed light, almost too light. Yet beneath them, a low and unmistakable warning resonated.

His eyes caught yours, and you both seemed to freeze in that moment, grappling with a sharp edge of emotions that neither fully understood. The smile slipped off your face, leaving only raw tension. And Ted? Ted had already turned, walking away with deliberate strides that belied the turmoil within. If he lingered a moment longer, he might do something reckless, like order the guy to step back or, perhaps more dangerously, pull you into his arms immediately.

Ted's pace was quick, almost like running, yet he kept it casual. It felt like he was fleeing from confrontation, the searing heat of the moment, and the unsettling burn in his palm from gripping the guy’s shoulder. Your piercing, breathless look haunted him as he turned away, leaving a tumult of emotions in its wake.

He needed to clear his head, to breathe deeply and find calm, to bury his hands in his pockets and convince himself he hadn't overstepped. Was he okay? He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure at all.

And then, a warm, blunt voice broke through his thoughts, "Babe, you are so not fine."

Ted didn’t need to glance sideways to know who it was. Keeley had materialized at his side, as she often did, her heels clacking on the pavement with a mischievous rhythm, her eyes alight with amusement and secondhand embarrassment. Ted sighed, the sound long and resigned. "Keeley, "

"Oh. My. God!" Keeley almost choked on a burst of laughter, playfully smacking Ted's arm with the back of her hand. Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "Ted! What. The. Hell! Was that?! I mean, what was that?!"

Ted ran a hand down his face, struggling to mask the flush of embarrassment creeping up his cheeks. "I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about," he muttered, but his Southern drawl was more pronounced, betraying his inner uncertainty. He wanted to deny everything, yet part of him wondered if he should just come clean.

Keeley snorted, her head shaking in disbelief. "Babe," she said, her voice laced with incredulity. "You looked like you were about to square up at a sponsor event. What the hell was that?"

"That’s an exaggeration, " Ted started, but Keeley cut him off.

"That was the most ‘this is my woman, back off’ energy I have ever seen, like, ever, Ted." Her eyes were wide, her lips curled in bewilderment and amusement.

"Keeley, " Ted tried to interject.

"And you just turned and walked off like some tragic rom-com lead who needs to stand in the rain and dramatically process his feelings, babe. I cannot with you right now." She threw her hands up in mock exasperation.

Ted groaned, his shoulders slumping. "Keeley, for the love of all things holy, "

Keeley stopped abruptly, turning to face him squarely. The humor in her eyes softened, replaced by something more tender.

"Ted," she said, her voice dropping to a gentle tone that twisted his stomach. It wasn't teasing anymore. Now, she was looking at him with an insight that made him feel exposed. "This isn't just you being protective, is it?" A slow, knowing smirk spread across her face. "This is something else."

Ted froze, his heart skipping a beat.

Keeley’s brows lifted in a silent challenge. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."

Ted stood stuck in place, his mouth clamped shut, struggling to find words that danced just out of reach. He felt caught between the urge to spill the truth, a truth that loomed large like a tidal wave, threatening to crash down with all its overwhelming and dangerous force, and the desperate wish to keep it buried. The reality seemed too daunting to confront. In the whirl of his chaotic thoughts, he acted on impulse: he turned away, snatched a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s silver tray, hoping the sparkling liquid might help him escape the weight of his reality.

Around him, the party buzzed on, a cacophony of laughter and clinking glasses, but Ted felt adrift, disconnected. He had fulfilled his role, made his appearance, exchanged polite words, and stood under the relentless glare of the cameras. Yet, a part of him longed to stay and face the truth, to see if the confrontation might bring some relief. But the need for escape won out. He slipped onto the terrace, letting the cool night air wash over him, a balm for the fiery tension that smoldered within him like a stubborn ember refusing to die out.

Behind him, your voice sliced through the night, "There you are."

Ted's shoulders tensed as he struggled with fear and resolve. As he slowly turned, you stood at the terrace's edge, arms crossed, your gaze piercing through him like daggers. His heart skipped and faltered, caught in a whirlwind of emotions.

"Hey, darlin’," he managed to say, his voice a mix of forced calm and underlying panic, desperately trying to mask the storm raging within.

You didn’t smile- no quirk of a grin, no light jest. You advanced a step closer, and suddenly, Ted felt trapped, like a deer caught in headlights. "You walked away," you stated, your voice firm and unyielding.

Ted sighed heavily, his hand raking through his hair, fingers tangling in the strands. "Ah, well, you know. Thought I’d let you enjoy your evenin’, "

"Cut the bullshit, Ted." Your words came out sharp, slicing through his weak defense.

Jesus, Ted froze, his heart pounding with fear and defiance. Your voice cut through the tension, a shocking jolt that left him uncertain. You weren't toying around. You had witnessed everything that unfolded inside and were determined not to let him escape this confrontation.

"What was that?" you demanded, each word daring him to respond.

Ted hesitated, caught between the urge to defend himself and the desire to defuse the situation. He forced a chuckle, but it came out strained and insincere in the dimly lit room. "Just checkin’ in on a teammate… "

"Ted."

Just his name. A single word hit him like a lightning bolt. His throat felt constricted, like a desert wind had left it dry and cracked. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers caught in an uncertain dance of curling and uncurling. Their distance felt almost nonexistent, as if a mere whisper could bridge it.

"You wanna tell me why you looked like you were gonna rip that guy’s head off?"

Ted exhaled, the sigh burdened with things he couldn't quite articulate. "I didn’t, "

"You did."

His heart pounded, a relentless rhythm that clashed with his swirling thoughts.

"You wanna tell me why you did that?"

He desperately needed to concoct an excuse that would swiftly cut through the heavy tension surrounding them. Yet, as you stood there, your eyes fixed on his with a piercing, almost challenging look, the prospect seemed impossible. A truth dangled precariously on the tip of his tongue, and he was terrified that if it escaped, it would unravel everything, leaving no chance to retract it.

"Ted."

His jaw tightened, muscles tensing as if bracing for an impending storm.

"Say it," you murmured, stepping closer, your voice dipping into a soft and perilous whisper.

His breath quivered, each inhale shallow and jagged. The distance between you seemed to disappear, yet the silence around him was comforting and suffocating. Ted felt torn between fleeing and staying for the first time, his breath hitching sharply in his chest.

You were standing so close to him that you could almost feel the warmth radiating from his skin. The air between you felt thin and fragile, like a delicate thread threatening to snap, yet it held an undeniable allure. Ted felt the urge to move, to take a step back, to crack a joke and dispel the tension, but another part of him longed to remain where he was, frozen in this confusing moment.

Your eyes were locked onto his, unwavering, challenging him to stop pretending, to finally acknowledge the unspoken words that had lingered between you for far too long.

"Say it, Ted." Usually full of playful banter, your voice was now soft, stripped of all pretense. You weren’t teasing or pushing. Just… waiting.

Anticipating him to shatter the silence between you finally. His jaw was set rigidly, and his fingers twitched ever so slightly at his sides, hands frozen when they should have reached out to you or dismissed the tension with a wave.

"I don’t, " Ted started, his voice a harsh rasp, but then he stopped abruptly, leaving the sentence unfinished. He was torn; fooling himself was one thing, but to lie to you? That was a boundary he struggled even to contemplate crossing.

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head ever so slightly, your lips pressing together in frustration and resignation. "You really can’t say it, can you?" You asked, your words a quiet challenge.

Ted’s throat tightened, his Adam’s apple moving up and down as he tried to muster the courage. He longed to speak, to let those words slip out. Yet, the weight of what they meant held him back. If he let them loose into the world and allowed himself even a fleeting moment of surrender, everything would change, and there would be no way to rewind.

You sighed, shifting your weight slightly, your gaze dropping for a heartbeat before meeting his eyes again with a resolute "Okay."

Ted's brow furrowed, a crease forming between his eyes. "Okay?"

You gave a slight nod, your lips barely moving as you whispered, "Okay. If you can’t say it…"

And then, your body shifted, a subtle movement that erased the final sliver of distance between you. It was almost overwhelming for Ted, leaving him breathless. His chest barely touched yours, and yet his heart pounded furiously like a wild drum within his ribcage. His hands, those unfaithful hands, wavered with uncertainty as they hovered just above your waist, fingertips trembling as they grazed the soft fabric of your dress.

Your breath caught in your throat, a delicate hitch he could feel. He sensed it on his skin, a tightening, a sharp pull that was as dangerous as it was magnetic. Your fingers trailed up the front of his jacket, each touch deliberate, testing, as if mapping uncharted territory. Ted released a trembling breath, a mix of determination and uncertainty swirling within him. His hands hesitated, caught between holding back and drawing you closer, feeling the soft contours beneath his fingertips. It was enough to make his steadfastness waver, caught in his conflicting emotions.

Your fingers paused, and your breath quivered. For the first time, Ted moved, not away, not retreating, but forward. Just a fraction, just enough to shatter the illusion of pretense. He felt you tense, heard the sharp intake of breath, sensed the way you didn’t step away.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath, carrying the weight of a confession rather than a command.

Your fingers curled into his lapels, the fabric bunching under your grip, your pulse matching his wild rhythm. You remained silent, didn’t push him away, didn’t utter the words that would halt this moment. And that? That undid him completely.

His head lowered, bringing his forehead so close to yours that your breaths intertwined in a tender, almost electric, haze. The delicate hint of champagne on your lips tempted him, mixed with the lingering fragrance of your perfume and the comforting aura you exuded. He yearned for more; oh, how he yearned. Yet, an insistent doubt gnawed at him as destiny seemed to weave a different path entirely.

"Coach?" The voice sliced through the night air with the precision of a knife.

Ted's muscles tensed instantly, like a coiled spring. He inhaled sharply, his heart pounding against his ribcage as if he'd been caught red-handed in a secret act. Your hands jerked away as though stung, the heat between you dissipating into the cool evening breeze. Ted turned slowly, every movement deliberate and heavy with reluctance, to face Beard standing at the terrace entrance. Beard's face was a mask of neutrality, but his eyes seemed to absorb everything, leaving nothing unseen.

Ted swallowed hard, stepping back, his fingers fidgeting with the residual sensation of something he hadn't dared to embrace fully.

"Yeah?" His voice emerged rough and strained, foreign even to his ears.

Beard's gaze darted from you to Ted, assessing, calculating. Finally, he exhaled, running a weary hand over his face as though wiping away the moment. "Never mind."

With that, Beard vanished back indoors. Ted turned to face you, his pulse racing and chaotic. You watched him, your breath catching, eyes clouded with a whirlwind of emotions, lips slightly parted, cheeks burning with conflicting feelings. His fingers twitched, flexed, then curled into fists. He exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, but his knuckles stayed white. He felt a desperate urge to speak, to somehow reach across the widening gap that had opened between you. He needed to repair the unseen rift, to act as though he wasn't teetering on the edge of falling apart.

But instead, you took a slow, deliberate step backward, just one, yet it felt monumental, like the conclusion of something teetering on the edge and was now finally letting go.

"We should go back inside," you whispered, the words barely audible.

Ted nodded, the gesture heavy with a multitude of unexpressed thoughts. "Yeah."