The diva attitude | Vancouver Canucks vs TBL Nov 16th | Conor Garland
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The diva attitude | Vancouver Canucks vs TBL Nov 16th | Conor Garland

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āābehold the brave battalion who stand side by side too few in number and too proud to hide the say to the others who did not follow through you're still our brother and we will fight for you.āā
ā lyrics from seize the day (newsies soundtrack)
this is super important to me actually
Good Graces | Conor Garland
"With your favorite athlete, Shoot his shot every night, Want you every second, Don't need other guys."
*** Update 11/03/2024. Hi, so I am aware of his values now, but I will not be taking this down because it is still my art and work ā¤ļø
request: "I was thinking of a fluffy fic between him and a fem!team medic who he is good friends with because of how often he ends up getting hurt, putting himself in the middle of scrums and everything. I know that's kind of just a general premise, but I wanted to leave it up to you where you want to take it from there :)" summary: two times conor wanted to kiss you, and one time you kissed him.
word count: 5.3k
pairing: conor garland x fem!reader
warnings: blood & injury
notes:
hiiii welcome & thanks for requesting. hope I fulfilled your wishes!
i don't know much about garland but I love making players divas so I inserted that here lmao :3
keep requesting new & different players guys!! i love doing it.
You signed your contract for your job with one goal in mindādonāt fall for a hockey player.
Pretty easy, right? Especially since, as a team medic, you largely dealt with them all sweaty, bloody, and generally in a state of chaos. Not attractive at all. Definitely not. Yet here you are, hovering over him again.
Conor Garland, number 8 on the ice and, in your opinion, number one in "most likely to get into a fight over nothing." You fold your arms as he limps into the med room, wearing a ridiculous grin despite the cut above his eyebrow. āThat bad, huh?ā he teases, his voice holding that familiar playful edge. Heās pretending to wince as he climbs onto the exam table, like itās a whole ordeal for him.
You roll your eyes, but youāre already reaching for the gauze, your hands moving on autopilot. āYou know, if you stopped fighting for five seconds, you might actually get through a game without needing stitches.ā
He chuckles softly, but the sound is laced with something else. Itās subtle, but itās thereāa little too relaxed, too content, considering he just came off the ice. āWhereās the fun in that?ā
You look up at him, raising an eyebrow, but the sight of him smiling, like heās enjoying himself a little too much for someone whoās supposed to be injured, throws you off. Heās been doing this a lot lately, showing up with bruises and cuts that couldāve been avoided. Youād never say it out loud, but part of you suspects heās getting into these scrums on purpose.
His eyes flicker to yours, just for a moment, before he quickly looks away, feigning a deep interest in the ceiling. āWhat?ā you ask, crossing your arms again.
āNothing,ā he says, far too quickly.
Right. Sure.
You press the gauze to his eyebrow a little harder than necessary, and he winces, though you canāt tell if itās real pain or exaggerated for your benefit. You narrow your eyes. āStop squirming.ā
He gives a mock salute. āYes, maāam.ā
Despite yourself, a smile tugs at your lips. Thereās always this easy back-and-forth with him, like the two of you have fallen into some unspoken routine. You patch him up, and he finds new ways to annoy you, all with that same boyish grin on his face.
You finish dabbing at the cut, the soft pressure of the gauze soaking up the blood thatās already drying around the edges. As you work, the steady rhythm of your movements almost feels too comfortable, like this is the hundredth time youāve patched him upābecause, well, it probably is.
"Conor," you murmur, half to yourself, half in warning, as you reach for the antiseptic. His skin smells of sweat and ice, a mix thatās become weirdly familiar, like the scent of the rink itself but so uniquely him.
He tilts his head a little, trying to catch your eye, but you focus on the task at hand, avoiding the gaze you know is waiting for you. Your fingers brush against his temple, and for a split second, you swear you feel him tense up under your touch. But itās gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual casual grin.
āYou gotta stop doing this,ā you sigh, and it comes out softer than you intend. The antiseptic stings as you swipe it across the cut, and he flinches again, though not as much as he should.
āDoing what?ā he asks, his voice low, almost playful. Heās watching you again, those brown eyes darkened by the fluorescent lights of the med room.
āThis.ā You gesture vaguely at his face, at the various bruises and cuts that seem to accumulate each time he steps onto the ice. āGetting into pointless fights. You think I donāt notice? Youāre not even supposed to be a fighter, Conor. Half the time, youāre chirping at guys twice your size. Why?ā
The silence between you stretches just long enough to make you uneasy. You feel the weight of his stare, the slight twitch of his mouth like heās holding back from saying something.
He shrugs, but thereās a flicker of something else behind the movement, something unspoken. āPart of the game, right?ā he offers, too nonchalant, like heās testing the waters.
You donāt buy it, not for a second. But what are you supposed to say? Call him out directly? Admit youāve noticed the way he lingers around the med room a little longer than necessary, how his smile stretches wider every time he manages to make you roll your eyes? It feels too much, too real, to acknowledge the way your heart stutters just a little when you hear his name over the PA system.
You sigh again, grabbing the butterfly stitches and nudging his chin up with more force than necessary. His skin is warm, too warm for someone who just came off the ice, and you have to focus hard not to notice the way his jaw clenches under your fingers.
āYouāre gonna end up with a permanent scar if you keep this up,ā you say, and thereās a softness in your voice now, one you canāt quite hide. The words come out before you can stop them. āI donāt want to see you hurt.ā
For a moment, he doesnāt respond, and the quiet stretches on again, filled only by the sound of your breath and the subtle scratch of fabric as he shifts on the exam table. Then, his voice cuts through the stillness, quiet but sure.
āI donāt mind it,ā he says, and it takes you a second to register what heās talking about.
You blink, pulling back slightly to look at him. Heās still smiling, but thereās something different in his expression now, something that catches you off guard. āWhat?ā
āThe scars,ā he says, shrugging again, as if itās the most obvious thing in the world. āI donāt mind them. Means I get to see you.ā
Your heart does a ridiculous little flip at his words, and you curse it for betraying you so easily. You try to play it off with an eye roll, but you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. āYou could just... I donāt know, say hi like a normal person instead of getting into fights?ā
He chuckles, but the sound is softer now, almost fond. āWhereās the fun in that?ā
You press the final stitch into place, leaning back to assess your work. His face is still bruised, still battered, but somehow, he looks completely unbothered by it all. And the worst part? You canāt help but think he looks good like this, even with the mess of bruises and dried blood.
As youāre cleaning up, you feel his eyes on you again, watching with that same stupid grin, like this is all just some kind of game to him. But thereās something else in the way heās sitting, the way heās still lingering on the table long after youāve finished patching him up.
āAre you just going to sit there?ā you ask, pretending to be annoyed, though you know the act isnāt fooling anyone.
āMaybe.ā He leans back, propping himself up on his elbows, looking far too comfortable for someone who was limping in here five minutes ago. āDepends. You gonna kick me out?ā
You roll your eyes, but your chest tightens at the implication, your heart doing that traitorous little skip again. You turn around, crossing your arms, meeting his eyes this time. Heās sitting there, propped up on his elbows, looking at you like youāre the only thing in the room that matters. And maybe thatās whatās been throwing you off latelyāthe way he looks at you. Like these moments mean something more to him than just routine check-ups and bandages.
āConor,ā you say, and this time, your voice has more weight to it, though you canāt bring yourself to say what youāre really thinking. Instead, you gesture toward the door, trying to salvage the situation with a teasing edge. āDonāt you have somewhere to be?ā
āNot really,ā he shrugs, still not moving. āBesides, where else would I go? The ice isnāt as fun as this.ā
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, though itās a losing battle. Heās always had this way of disarming you with a few words, like he knows exactly how to find that crack in your armor.
āWell, you canāt stay here,ā you say, but thereās no real bite to your words, and you both know it.
He swings his legs off the table, wincing slightlyāmore from habit than pain, you suspectāand stands up, but he doesnāt head for the door. Instead, he lingers, too close now, and you find yourself staring at the small cut above his eyebrow, the one you just stitched up. Your fingers itch to brush it gently, to make sure you did it right, but you keep your hands firmly crossed in front of you.
āI think Iām fine now,ā he says, his voice quieter than before. āThanks, doc.ā
The nickname always makes you smile, even when you donāt want it to. āYouāre welcome,ā you reply, but thereās a softness to your tone that wasnāt there a moment ago.
He takes a step closer, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker. For a second, neither of you says anything. His eyes search yours, like heās trying to read something in your expression, something youāre not even sure you understand yourself. But whatever heās looking for, he doesnāt find itāat least, not yet.
āIāll try not to get into too much trouble next game,ā he says with a smirk, though thereās a warmth behind it, something genuine. āBut, you know, no promises.ā
You shake your head, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. āOf course not.ā
He starts toward the door but pauses just before stepping out, his hand resting lightly on the frame. He turns back to you, his eyes softening in a way that makes your chest ache a little.
āHey,ā he says, and thereās no teasing in his voice this time, just something real. āThanks for always looking out for me.ā
You nod, swallowing the lump that suddenly forms in your throat. āJust⦠try to keep yourself in one piece, okay?ā
He grins again, that easy, boyish grin that somehow makes you forget for a second that heās a professional athlete, bruised and battered from a game most people would never survive. āIāll do my best,ā he promises, but thereās something in his tone that makes you think heāll be back sooner rather than later.
Another game, another set of bruises.
Youāre halfway through patching up another player when you feel itāhis presence, the familiar, teasing energy he brings with him. Conor walks into the med room, limping just a little too dramatically to be real. Heās cradling his arm like itās hanging by a thread, his expression an exaggerated picture of pain.
āDoc, I think this might be the one that does me in,ā he says, his voice a mockery of seriousness. The guy youāre helping, one of the newer players, snorts in response, shaking his head as he slides off the table.
You shoot Conor a glance over your shoulder. āIāll be with you in a minute, Garland.ā
The younger player leaves, chuckling under his breath, and suddenly itās just you and Conor again. You can feel the shift in the air, like it always does when itās just the two of you. The playful banter, the teasing looks, that undercurrent of something unspoken hanging between you like a thin thread.
You turn around, and there he is, still putting on that ridiculous act. Heās cradling his arm as if itās broken, but the glint in his eye gives him away. āOh, Iām sure youāre in agony,ā you deadpan, rolling your eyes but unable to hide the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
Conor leans against the table with a dramatic sigh, giving you a pained look, as if heās the one who should be annoyed by all this. āItās bad, doc. Might need surgery.ā
āSurgery, huh?ā you quip, folding your arms as you walk over to him. Your eyes roam over his jersey, scanning for any real signs of injury, but all you see is his usual scruffy, disheveled mid-game self. āI canāt really check if youāve got something serious going on with all that gear.ā
He raises an eyebrow, still in character. āOh, yeah?ā
āYeah,ā you say, keeping your tone casual, but thereās a hint of something else in your voice now. You tap his arm gently, feigning impatience. āTake off your jersey if youāre so hurt.ā
For a split second, the playful energy between you shifts. His teasing smirk falters, his eyes flicker with something you canāt quite place, and suddenly, Conorās posture straightens. The banter evaporates, leaving only the echo of your words hanging in the air. His hands hover near the hem of his jersey, clearly caught off guard by your request.
He stares at you like youāve just asked him to do something much more intimate than you intended, and it takes a moment before he recovers his composure. āUh⦠right. Yeah. Okay.ā
You watch as he hesitates, tugging at the fabric, trying to hide the way his fingers fumble with it. And for once, heās flusteredāreally flustered. Itās not the usual Conor Garland confidence or playful bravado. His face is flushed, the pink creeping up from his neck to his cheeks, and you canāt help but find the sight... oddly endearing.
You shouldnāt be enjoying this, but you are.
He finally manages to pull the jersey over his head, tossing it aside without meeting your eyes, and you catch the briefest glimpse of the toned muscles under his shoulder and chest pads, the faint sheen of sweat from the game still clinging to his skin. You swallow hard, trying not to let your mind wander too far as you force yourself to stay professional.
You step closer, eyes focused on the faint bruise blooming across his ribs, though itās clear heās milking the situation. āThis?ā you ask, pressing your fingers gently against his side. āYou came in here for this?ā
You stare at the bruise, your fingers resting lightly against his skin. Itās small, nothing seriousāa faint discoloration, more from the impact than anything worth worrying about. But you both know this isnāt about the bruise. It never is with Conor.
You donāt pull away, and neither does he. Thereās a moment of quiet, the banter fading into the background, leaving just the two of you in this strange, charged silence. You can feel the warmth of his body under your fingertips, the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. The tension in the room shifts, thickening like a storm cloud.
āYou really thought this was worth all that drama?ā you murmur, your voice soft now, not teasing, just⦠there. You trace the edge of the bruise absently, the pads of your fingers barely brushing against his skin.
Conor swallows, and you catch the movement of his throat, the way his eyes flicker down to where your hand rests on him before darting back to your face. His voice is quieter when he responds, less of that exaggerated confidence he usually carries with him. āWell, I figured⦠might as well get some attention while Iām at it, right?ā
You donāt miss the way he says attention, how it lingers between the two of you, a little too close to the truth. Your heart skips, your pulse quickening in a way you hope he doesnāt notice.
But heās staring at you now, the teasing smile faded, his brown eyes more serious than youāve ever seen them. The air feels thick, almost suffocating, but in a way thatās not entirely unpleasant. Like something is about to happen, something youāve both been tiptoeing around for too long.
Your hand is still on his side, your fingers barely moving, and you can feel the heat radiating from his body, the way heās watching you like heās waiting for something. Maybe you are too. The room feels impossibly small, the space between you shrinking with each breath.
āI⦠probably shouldnāt have made you take off your jersey,ā you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them, a weak attempt to break the tension, to say something, anything, that might diffuse whateverās building between you. But even as you say it, you donāt pull away.
He doesnāt either.
āNah,ā he replies softly, his voice lower now, the usual playfulness gone. āItās fine.ā
Youāre not sure if he means the jersey or the way your fingers are still pressed against his ribs, or maybe both. Either way, the tension doesnāt break. It only tightens, drawing you both closer without either of you moving an inch.
You can feel your pulse in your throat, your breathing shallow, and for a split second, you let your gaze drop to his lips. Itās a brief, unconscious movement, but itās enough. He notices.
Conor shifts, barely perceptibly, but you feel itāthe subtle lean, the way his eyes flicker to your mouth. Your heart pounds, the room spinning around the two of you like everything else has fallen away. Youāre not even sure how you ended up here, this close, this vulnerable, but the pull is undeniable.
Your hand slides down slightly, resting at his waist now, and his breath hitches. You feel the tension in his muscles, the way his body seems to react to your touch, and for a second, you think maybe this is it. Maybe this is the moment youāve both been avoiding for so long, the moment where everything changes.
His lips part, and your breath catches. Youāre so close now, close enough to feel the heat of him, to see the soft curve of his mouth, toā
The door creaks open behind you, and the spell shatters.
You both freeze, the tension shattering as one of the assistant coaches pokes his head in. "Hey, Garland, you still in here?" The coach looks between the two of you, oblivious to what he just interrupted.
Conor jerks back so quickly itās like heās been caught doing something illegal, while your hand falls from him. His face flushes, but not from the gameāthis time, itās from almost being caught in a moment heās not ready to explain.
"Uh, yeah," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly flustered. "Just, uh... icing my bruise."
You bite back a laugh, feeling the heat rise to your own cheeks. The moment is gone, but the weight of it lingers in the air.
"Well, hurry it up. Coach wants to talk to you before you head out," the assistant says, already halfway out the door.
You both stand there for a second after the door shuts, the silence deafening. Conor looks at you, the tension still simmering under the surface, but neither of you speaks. Itās like the almost-kiss is still hanging between you, unfinished and waiting.
Finally, Conor clears his throat. "Guess I should... go."
"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "Guess so."
He hesitates, lingering in the doorway for a second longer than necessary, his eyes catching yours one last time. And then heās gone, leaving you alone with the weight of what almost happened.
Youāve been replaying what happened in your head, the way his eyes lingered, the warmth of his skin under your touch, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you. Itās like a loop that you canāt quite break free from.
But now, that moment feels distant, swept away by the frenetic energy of another game night. Only this time, itās different.
The door slams open.
You jump, turning on instinct, and what you see makes your heart plummet. Conorās standing there, but heās not limping theatrically this time. Blood runs down the side of his face, stark against his pale skin, dripping onto his jersey, which is streaked with snow and sweat. His eyes are wild, his chest heaving, and for the first time, thereās no playful glint, no teasing smirk. Just anger.
"Garland," you breathe, stepping toward him, already reaching for the gauze, but he doesnāt even seem to hear you. Heās pacing the length of the room like a caged animal, his jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscles working beneath his skin.
"Stupid," he mutters under his breath, swiping a hand over his face, smearing the blood. "Stupid, stupid hit."
"Conor," you say softly, trying to get him to focus on you, to stop moving. He doesnāt. His eyes are unfocused, his movements erratic, as though heās still stuck in the heat of the game, reliving whatever hit sent him flying into the boards.
You step closer, cautiously. "Hey, come on. You need to sit down. Let me look at that cut."
He finally stops pacing, but when his eyes meet yours, theyāre blazing. "I donāt care about the damn cut," he snaps, though the anger in his voice isnāt directed at you. Itās frustration, bubbling just beneath the surface.
You swallow, trying to maintain your calm. "I know you donāt, but I do."
He blinks, his brows furrowing, like your words hit something in him, pulling him out of his angry haze. But then he shakes his head, as if heās trying to brush it off. "Theyāre out to get me," he mutters, more to himself than to you, but you hear it.
Your chest tightens. Youāve seen him frustrated before, of course. Hockeyās a brutal game; it comes with the territory. But this⦠this feels different. Conor Garland is many thingsāannoying, playful, sometimes overly dramaticābut angry? Not like this. Not pacing the room with his hands curled into fists like heās ready to punch the wall. You have to do somethingāanythingāto bring him back to himself before he loses it completely.
"Conor, sit down," you say again, firmer this time. "Please."
Something in your voice must reach him because he stops, his shoulders slumping as if all the fight has gone out of him in an instant. He sits on the edge of the exam table, and you move quickly, grabbing the gauze and antiseptic. His eyes follow you, but theyāre distant, like heās not fully present.
You stand between his legs, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, and gently tilt his head back to get a better look at the cut. Itās deep, angrier than you expected, but not the worst youāve seen. Still, the blood has matted his hair, trailing down his temple, and his breathing is shallow, labored.
"This might sting," you murmur, pressing the gauze to his forehead, dabbing at the blood. You try to stay focused, but you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves, his body coiled tight like heās barely holding himself together. His hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles white.
"That guyā¦" he starts, voice low and bitter. "He didnāt have to hit me like that. It wasnāt even about the puck."
"I know," you say quietly, your fingers moving methodically as you clean the wound. "Itās not fair."
For a moment, neither of you says anything. You focus on your work, but every so often, your gaze flickers to his face, to the way his jaw is still clenched, to the way his chest still rises and falls with that uneven breath. You can feel the anger radiating off him, but thereās something else tooāsomething vulnerable, hidden beneath all that frustration.
"Why are you letting this get to you?" you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
Conor doesnāt answer right away. His gaze is fixed on some distant point over your shoulder, like heās trying to hold it together, trying not to snap. But then his shoulders sag, and he drops his head into his hands. "I donāt know," he admits, voice muffled. "I donāt know why itās bothering me so much."
You swallow the lump in your throat, feeling your heart ache for him. Youāve never seen him this rattled, this shaken. Itās unsettling, seeing him like this, and you donāt know what to do other than be here, right here, in this moment with him.
Gently, you reach out, resting a hand on his shoulder. His skin is warm, muscles tense beneath your fingers, but the contact seems to ground him. He lifts his head slowly, meeting your eyes for the first time since he walked in.
"Itās just⦠one hit," he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper now. "But I canāt shake it."
"Itās not just the hit, is it?" you ask, watching him carefully.
He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "No. Itās not."
For a moment, neither of you says anything. You finish bandaging his cut, your hands moving slowly, deliberately, trying to draw out the process because youāre not ready for this moment to end. You donāt want him to walk away like this, all pent-up frustration and unresolved tension.
Heās quiet now, his chest no longer heaving with anger, but his eyesāhis eyes are still filled with something heavy, something you canāt quite place. Heās staring at you, and you can feel his gaze, warm and intent, as though heās trying to find the right words but canāt. Youāre not sure if youāre ready to hear them anyway. Your pulse thrums in your ears, loud and persistent, and for the first time, you realize how close youāre standing.
You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how his legs are framing your hips, how his knees brush your thighs every time either of you moves. His hands rest loosely on his lap now, no longer clenched into fists, but the tension hasnāt entirely dissipated. Itās just shifted into something else, something quieter but no less intense. You can feel it humming in the air between you.
"Conor," you begin, your voice coming out softer than you intended, barely more than a whisper. "Youāre⦠itās going to be okay." You know how inadequate the words sound, but you donāt know what else to say. You just want to fill the silence, to soothe whatever storm is still brewing inside him.
His eyes flicker, and his jaw works as though heās chewing on something he canāt quite get out. "Iām notā" He stops himself, eyes dropping to the floor, and you watch as his shoulders slump again. "I donāt usually⦠Iām not like this."
You donāt respond immediately, just watch him, the way he avoids looking at you, the way his hands flex on his lap like heās resisting the urge to reach for something. Itās strange seeing him so out of sorts, the guy whoās always cracking jokes, always looking for a way to make you laugh, now sitting here, raw and vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.
You take a breath and move closer, letting your fingers brush against his shoulder again. "You donāt have to explain anything to me. Everyone has bad days." Your voice is soft, reassuring, but your heart is pounding harder now, louder, as if itās trying to force its way through your ribcage.
Conor looks up then, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His gaze isnāt wild anymore, but thereās something else in it, something that makes your breath catch. His lips part, and for a second, youāre sure heās going to say something, something that will change everything.
But he hesitates, his throat working like the words are caught there, and suddenly youāre all too aware of the closeness, of the heat between you, of how your bodies are aligned. You donāt move, donāt dare to, because if you do, you might shatter whatever fragile balance youāve found.
"I donāt know how to say this," he finally mutters, his voice rough and low, almost pained. His eyes flick down to your lips, just for a second, and your breath stutters.
Your heart is racing now, louder than before, and you can feel the room tilting, your pulse in your throat as the tension pulls taut. Heās so close, his face inches from yours, the scent of sweat and blood mingling in the air between you, and you realize with a jolt that this is it. This is the moment where everything shifts, where the teasing, the faked injuries, the lingering touches, all of it finally snaps into focus.
Conor shifts again, his knee pressing slightly against your thigh, and his voice drops even lower. "Iāve been trying to tell you, but Iā" He stops, his eyes dark and searching, like heās looking for something in your face. "Youāre more than just⦠I mean, Iām alwaysā¦"
You donāt let him finish. Because before you know it, youāre moving, and youāre pressing your lips to his.
The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if youāre both unsure. His lips are warm, and you can taste the faint tang of his blood on them, but you donāt care. For a moment, everything stillsāno tension, no frustration, just him, here, with you. His hands, which had still been clenched on his lap, slide up to your waist, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss. The anger, the frustration that had been radiating off him moments before, melts away, replaced by something softer, something unspoken but understood.
When you finally pull back, your breath comes in short, uneven bursts. You meet his eyes, half-expecting him to pull away, to say something to ruin the moment, but he doesnāt. Instead, he leans his forehead against yours, his fingers still gripping your waist, holding you there like heās afraid youāll slip away.
āThatās one way to shut me up,ā he mutters, his voice low, teasing, but thereās a softness there too, a warmth you havenāt heard from him before.
You canāt help but laugh softly, your heart still racing. āIt worked, didnāt it?ā
He doesnāt answer right away, just looks at you, his eyes darker now, softer. āYou have no idea,ā he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly against your hip, sending a shiver down your spine. His gaze flickers down to your lips, and for a moment, it feels like the world has narrowed to just the two of you, like nothing else exists outside this room.
For the first time all night, he smilesāreally smilesāand itās like the tension finally breaks. His grip on your waist tightens, pulling you even closer, and for the first time in a long time, everything feels right. The frustration, the anger, the gameāit all fades away, leaving just the two of you, wrapped in a moment that feels fragile but perfect, like youāve found something you didnāt even know you were looking for.
āIām not going anywhere,ā you whisper, and his eyes soften, the vulnerability still there, but less jagged now, smoothed by your words. āBut you need to go out there and win that fuckinā game.ā
āOkay,ā He says, but leans in again, pressing another soft kiss to your lips, this one slower, gentler, as though heās savoring it. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes your cheek, and his smile lingers, the tension from earlier now a distant memory. āBut, weāre doing a lot more of thisāā he gestures between the two of you, āLater.ā
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this is one of my favourite pictures ever they look so kind
i don't have a problem