#eric garcia fic

You spot him before he spots you. Eric is standing near the buffet table with a plate he clearly filled just to avoid talking to people. He pokes at a croquette like it personally offended him. His shoulders sit a little too stiff, his eyes flick over the room like he is scanning for exits instead of teammates.

You would laugh if your stomach was not doing that weird little flip it always does when you see him. It is so stupid. You face world class defenders every week and here you are getting shy about a man who gets stressed by tapas.

The annual Barça dinner is loud in the way only football teams can be. Tables packed together, music a little too lively, laughter bouncing off the high walls of the hall. Everyone is dressed up and pretending they are not checking who has the best outfit. It is fun. It is chaotic. It is also the perfect setting for your brain to remind you that you have a crush on Eric García.

You try to ignore it. You try to just enjoy the night. You grab a drink, greet a few teammates, talk about the season so far, pose for a picture with Alexia who insists on twirling you by the arm. But your eyes keep sliding back to the other side of the room.

Back to him.

He looks good tonight, which annoys you. He looks like he took a deep breath in front of a mirror and decided to be brave about something. You have no idea what. Maybe life in general.

You are still staring when Ferran walks into your line of sight. He follows your gaze, then makes a face like he just caught two teenagers liking each other and wants credit for noticing.

You sigh. “Do not say anything.”

Ferran grins, the most annoying grin a man has ever worn. “Too late. I already thought it.”

You nudge him lightly. “Please behave. For one night.”

“Why would I behave when I can cause problems and help mi hermano at the same time?”

Your brain pauses. “Tu hermano?”

“Eric.” Ferran tilts his head toward him. “You know he likes you, right?”

You choke on air. Literally choke. Ferran slaps your back way too hard to be helpful.

“He what?”

“It is so obvious,” Ferran says. “He sees you and his whole soul leaves his body. Like poof, gone. Empty eyes. No thoughts. Only you.”

Your face burns. “You are lying.”

“I am not. I asked him once if he thought you were pretty and he turned red like a tomato and said he did not want to talk about it.”

You blink fast. That sounds like Eric. Exactly like him, actually.

Ferran steps behind you and gives you a firm push. “Go talk to him.”

“No.” You dig your heels in. “Ferran.”

“My job here is done.” He nudges you again. This time, you stumble a little forward into Eric’s line of sight.

Eric freezes like he has been hit by a spotlight. He looks at you, then at his plate, then back at you, and you can see the exact moment panic starts doing laps inside his brain.

You decide to be kind. You give him a small smile as you approach.

“Hey,” you say, “having fun?”

He swallows like fun is the last thing he was having. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. You?”

“I am good.” You try to say it casually, but your heart is beating too fast. “You look nice tonight.”

His ears go pink immediately. “Thanks. You look amazing. I mean, you always look good, but tonight you look, um… yeah.”

You bite back a smile. “That was surprisingly smooth.”

“It was not,” he mutters.

“It kind of was.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, then tries again. “Ferran made you come over, right?”

You laugh softly. “He shoveled me over like a cow at a farm.”

Eric winces. “I swear I did not ask him to.”

“I believe you.” You lean slightly on the table. “But I am not unhappy I ended up here.”

His eyes flick up, startled and hopeful.

“I like talking to you,” you add.

“Oh.” He blinks, then clears his throat. “I like talking to you too.”

You both stand there, awkwardly adorable, which would be funny if it was not your life.

A little silence settles between you. Not uncomfortable, just warm. The kind where you feel aware of every inch of space between you.

Eric shifts his weight. “I wanted to talk to you earlier, actually. I just did not know if you would want that.”

“Why would I not?”

He gives a helpless little shrug. “You are you.”

You frown. “What does that mean?”

“You are one of the best strikers in the world,” he murmurs, eyes on his plate, “and you are kind and funny and pretty and way out of my league. So sometimes I do not know what to say.”

You stare at him. You absolutely did not expect that level of honesty from a man who looked like he might pass out just from eye contact.

“Eric.”

He keeps staring at the croquette like it is the only safe object in the room. You reach out and touch his wrist lightly. He looks up immediately.

“I like you too,” you say gently.

His mouth falls open. “You do?”

“Yeah. Kind of a lot.”

He looks like someone just told him he won the lottery but also that the lottery is emotional intimacy.

“Wow. OK. I was not prepared for that.”

You smile. “Is it a bad thing?”

“No. No, it is a great thing. It is the best thing. I am just… processing.”

You shift closer, bumping your shoulder softly against his. “We can process together if you want.”

That earns you the tiniest, sweetest smile. “Yeah. I would like that.”

Behind you, someone whistles. It is absolutely Ferran. You do not need to turn around to know. He shouts something like “Finally,” and you roll your eyes while Eric groans into his hands.

“I am going to fight him,” Eric mumbles.

You laugh. “No, you aren’t.”

“I might.”

“You can’t beat him. He is taller.”

Eric sighs dramatically, but he is smiling now, the tension melting off him like sand falling from fingers.

The dinner goes on. People move around you. Conversations spin like little storms. But Eric stays by your side. When you walk to your table, he walks with you. When you sit, he pulls out your chair. When someone asks him to take a picture, he glances at you first like he wants to be sure you are not leaving.

Late in the night, you both end up outside on the terrace. It is quieter out here. The city lights flicker in the distance and the air tastes more like night than celebration.

Eric leans on the railing. “Can I be honest about something?”

“Please do.”

“I have liked you for months.” His voice is soft. “I just never wanted to bother you.”

“You never bothered me,” you say. “You never could.”

He studies you for a long moment. “Can I be honest about one more thing?”

You nod.

He steps a little closer. “I am probably going to mess this up, because I am not suave like some guys on the team, but I really want to kiss you.”

The confession hits you in the chest. Warm, dizzying, perfect.

You walk up to him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm. “I really want to kiss you too.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes dropping to your mouth. “Is that your official permission?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “It is.”

Eric lifts his hand to your cheek like he is making sure this is real. You lean into his touch. His other hand settles lightly at your waist, hesitant but wanting. You rest your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat.

And then he kisses you.

He kisses you like he has been thinking about it every day. Slow at first, careful, then a little deeper when you tug him closer. He tastes like a hint of wine and a lot of nerves, and all of it feels ridiculously perfect.

When you pull back, he is smiling like a man who has just discovered joy exists.

“Well,” he breathes, “I guess that did solve some things.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “It really did.”

You stay like that for a while. Talking. Laughing. Looking at each other with that new knowledge between you. The world fades to a hum and the night feels softer than before.

When everyone starts saying their goodbyes, Eric walks you to your car, hands tucked in his pockets, staying close like he is already used to it.

“Can I see you tomorrow?” he asks. “Not in a football way. In a me and you way.”

You grin. “Yeah. I would love that.”

He exhales, relieved and happy. “Good. Vale. Cool. I will text you.”

When you slide into your seat, he leans in through the open door and kisses your cheek, shy and sweet.

You drive away feeling light, warm, and maybe a little giddy.

Turns out Ferran was right.

You lean against the kitchen counter, arms folded, and tilt your head as Eric scrolls through his phone. His beard has gotten thicker over the past months, framing his face in a way you know many people find attractive. But you can’t help yourself. You miss the smooth-faced boyish charm he had back in his Manchester City days, when he looked so young and fresh.

“Eric,” you say, trying to sound serious.

He hums without looking up.

“You need to shave.”

That gets his attention. His eyes flicker to you, one brow arched in disbelief. “Shave? What’s wrong with it?” He rubs his jawline like he is admiring his own work. “This beard is a masterpiece.”

You groan dramatically, crossing the room to poke at his cheek. “It’s prickly. Scratchy. I liked your face better when I could actually see all of it.”

Eric smirks, leaning back in his chair. “You just want me to look twelve again.”

“Not twelve. Just…” You trail off, gesturing vaguely at him. “Clean. Sharp. Cute.”

He chuckles, clearly enjoying how desperate you sound. “You really hate it that much?”

“I don’t hate it,” you admit, tugging lightly at the hair on his chin. “But I know what’s underneath and I miss that face.”

“Too bad,” he says with a smug grin, returning to his phone.

Your jaw drops. “Too bad?”

“Too bad,” he repeats, clearly entertained. “This beard is here to stay.”

You pout, leaning against his shoulder in exaggerated defeat. “You’re so cruel to me.”

Eric laughs, wrapping one arm around you. “One day you’ll thank me for it.”

You keep trying though. Over dinner, you mention how nice he looked in those old pictures you keep saved. When you are cuddled up on the couch, you sigh about how soft his skin used to be. Every chance you get, you drop hints or outright beg him, but he never cracks. It becomes a playful back-and-forth, one of those small couple arguments that never really holds weight but always leaves you smiling.

Still, you cannot let it go.

A few weeks later, you walk into the bathroom and nearly drop the towel you’re holding. Eric is standing in front of the mirror, electric razor in hand, and his beard is halfway gone.

“Wait, wait, wait,” you gasp, rushing to his side. “You’re actually doing it?”

He smirks at your reflection in the mirror. “You wore me down.”

You squeal, covering your mouth with both hands. “Finally!”

“Don’t get too excited,” he warns, carefully guiding the razor along his jawline. “You might not even like it anymore.”

“Are you kidding? I’m going to love it.” You bounce on your toes, too impatient to wait. “Do you want me to help?”

“No, thank you. Last time you tried you almost gave me a bald spot in my hair.”

“That was one time!” you protest, but you let him finish on his own, hovering behind him like a child waiting for candy.

When he rinses off the last of the shaving cream and pats his face dry, you gasp again. It is like seeing him in high definition. His cheeks are smooth, his jawline sharp, his whole expression brighter without the beard. He looks younger, yes, but in the best way.

“Eric García,” you whisper dramatically, cupping his face in both hands. “You’re beautiful.”

He laughs, cheeks turning pink under your touch. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” you insist, peppering his cheek with quick kisses. “Look at you. You look like the sun is shining just for you.”

Eric groans playfully, squirming as you continue to kiss all over his face. “Stop, you’re going to make me blush.”

“That’s the point.” You grin, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose before moving back to his jaw. “Oh my God, it’s so smooth. I can’t stop touching you.”

He tries to step back but you hold him in place, your fingers tracing along the curve of his cheekbone. “Careful,” he warns softly, though the smile tugging at his lips betrays how much he is enjoying it.

You press another kiss to his temple. “I told you I’d love it.”

Eric sighs, wrapping his arms around your waist. “You’re impossible.”

“You love me,” you remind him, nuzzling your nose against his freshly shaved cheek.

“Unfortunately,” he teases, though the way he kisses your forehead right after tells the truth.

You both end up sprawled on the couch, your head resting on his chest. Your hand keeps wandering back to his face, tracing along his jaw as if you still cannot believe it. He shakes his head each time you giggle, muttering that you are going to drive him insane.

At one point, he catches your wrist and presses your palm to his mouth. “Are you going to stop touching me anytime soon?”

“Not a chance,” you say, kissing the corner of his lips. “This is my reward for winning the beard war.”

Eric chuckles, pulling you closer. “Fine. Just don’t complain when it grows back.”

You narrow your eyes, suddenly serious. “You’re not going to grow it back.”

“We’ll see,” he teases.

“No,” you say firmly, poking his chest. “We will not see. You’re staying like this forever.”

He grins, clearly delighted by your stubbornness. “I’ll think about it.”

“You’d better,” you mutter, leaning up to kiss him properly this time. His lips are warm, his clean-shaven cheek brushing against yours in a way that makes you melt.

When you finally pull back, you cannot resist kissing his cheek again. Then the other. Then back to the first.

Eric groans, hiding his face in your shoulder. “You’re obsessed.”

“Absolutely,” you agree without hesitation.

You don’t know it yet, but the first time Eric kisses you, he already knows.

It’s not the fireworks kind of kiss. There’s no rainstorm, no grand sweeping gesture. Just him walking you home after a long dinner with friends, his fingers brushing yours until he finally just links them properly. He kisses you when you reach your building, smiling like he’s been waiting patiently for the green light and it finally turned.

It’s the way he lingers after, like he’s memorizing. It’s soft. Careful. Like he’s cataloguing the moment so he can tell your future kids about it.

You think he’s just being sweet. You don’t know that Eric García, serial defender of hearts and backlines, has already decided he’s all in.

Date two: he picks the restaurant not for the menu, but because it’s near a park you mentioned liking once.

He listens. Like really listens. Not in the generic nod-and-smile way, but in the “you mentioned your childhood dog once and here he is asking for photos of him a week later” kind of way.

And when he walks you through the park after dinner, hands in his coat pockets, he talks about things like building a home someday and teaching his kid how to play football. You blink at him, caught off guard.

He glances sideways. “Too much?”

You laugh and say no. It’s not. It’s… refreshing. You haven’t met a guy who wasn’t scared of the idea of a future longer than six months.

He shrugs. “When I date, I date to marry. That’s just how I’ve always been.”

And somehow, he says it like he’s telling you he likes coffee black. Like it’s a simple fact of who he is.

You say nothing, but you tuck the moment away in the corner of your heart, where you’re already a little too fond of him.

Six months in: your friend goes through a breakup and vents that guys “just don’t commit anymore.”

Later that night, as you curl up beside him on the couch, you murmur, “Do you think you’re a little intense with love stuff?”

Eric pauses the movie. Turns to you, fully. “Intense?” he repeats, brows lifting. “I don’t know. Maybe. Why?”

You shrug, playing it casual, even though you’re nervous. “I guess you just know what you want.”

“I do,” he says, no hesitation. Then, gently, “Do you not?”

You look at him for a long time. The living room is quiet. His arm is warm around you. You think about the toothbrush in your drawer at his place. The way his mom sends you voice notes. The way he texts home? when he means your apartment or his, and how neither of you correct it.

“No,” you say finally. “I think I do.”

Eric kisses your temple. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t gloat. Just lets it be what it is.

A year later: he drives you to a family wedding. You’re in the passenger seat, shoes kicked off, legs crossed up on the dash, and he’s got one hand on the wheel and the other on your knee.

“You’d make a really good groom,” you say teasingly, watching the road.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. You’d cry at the altar.”

He grins. “Of course I would. I’ll be looking at you.”

You pretend you’re not blushing, swat his arm like it’s not a big deal, but something shifts in the car. It’s not a joke. Not really.

Later that night, during the father-of-the-bride speech, you glance at Eric. He’s already looking at you.

Two years in: you have your first real fight. You say things you don’t mean. He walks out to breathe. You think he’s left for the night.

But he comes back twenty minutes later with takeout and a quieter voice. He sits beside you, not asking for forgiveness yet, just reaching for your hand.

“I don’t walk away,” he says. “Not from things that matter.”

You cry. He cries. It’s ugly, but it’s real. And when you both fall asleep tangled in the sheets, swollen-eyed and heart-bruised, you know this is the kind of love you fight for.

Three years in: he proposes with zero theatrics.

It’s a Sunday. You’re sitting on the floor of the living room surrounded by puzzle boxes. You’re wearing mismatched socks and his hoodie, and there’s a documentary playing you’ve both stopped paying attention to.

He reaches into the couch cushion, pulls out a ring box, and places it in your lap like it’s no big deal.

You blink. “Is this real?”

“Very,” he says.

“You’re serious?”

“Always.”

You look at him, your chest aching in the best way.

“I love you,” he adds, soft. “I want to build a life with you. All of it. The fights, the kids, the weird furniture we’ll argue about. I want it with you. Only you.”

You say yes, of course you say yes.

And then you cry. Again.

Wedding day: he doesn’t cry at the altar. or so he says.

He tries not to. God, he tries.

But the second he sees you, looking at him like he’s already yours forever, he breaks. Just a little. Not a sob. Just one of those sharp exhales that escapes when your chest is too full of something too good. But he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand as his groomsmen snigger behind him.

You reach for him as soon as you can. Hands finding his like a promise.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods. Smiling. Eyes glassy. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

And as you both repeat your vows, no dramatic pauses, no booming declarations, just quiet truths between hearts that have already done the work, you realize that this was never about the ceremony.

It was about every moment before it. All those days when he chose you again and again. Through small gestures. Honest words. Gentle patience.

Eric García doesn’t just date to marry. He commits to the daily things. The ordinary, beautiful, deeply rooted things.

You knew the shouting would start the moment you opened your mouth. It always did. The second you walked into the living room with your bag half packed and your voice steady enough to fake calm, your father’s eyes had narrowed in that way that made your stomach twist. You’d lived with that twist for years, long enough to recognize it like an old scar.

“I’m moving out,” you’d said, quiet but clear.

The reaction was instant. A storm ripping open. His voice rose, sharp and booming, filling the house in a way that made the walls feel small. He demanded to know who put the idea in your head. He demanded to know why you thought you could just leave. He accused. He spat out old failures you’d never committed. He made you feel small again, the way he always did when he needed control.

You tried to keep your breath even. You really did. But your hand shook around the strap of your bag and your throat tightened until it hurt. There was a moment where you thought you’d apologize just to make it stop. You’d done that so many times that the word had become meaningless to you.

But something in you had shifted over the past few months. Something had changed because someone had shown you what gentle sounded like. What patient looked like. What safe felt like.

Eric.

And maybe you weren’t brave enough to say that to your father’s face, but you were brave enough to step back when he took a step forward. You were brave enough to keep your voice steady when you said, “I just want space.”

He didn’t hear it. He never did. He kept shouting. You kept shrinking. Until eventually, you grabbed your keys with a trembling hand, whispered something that wasn’t quite goodbye, and walked out the door.

You didn’t realize you were crying until the cold air hit your cheeks.

Your vision blurred as you climbed into your car. Your hands shook so hard you had to grip the steering wheel until your knuckles ached. You could hear echoes of his voice in your head, the way it always stayed long after the argument ended.

You didn’t have a destination. Not really. But your body chose for you. It always did when everything fell apart.

You drove to Eric’s place.

You texted him only once when you parked outside, fingers barely functioning.

Can I come in?

He answered in less than ten seconds.

Of course. Door’s unlocked.

Your chest loosened by a tiny notch.

You got out of the car and went straight to his front step, wiping your cheeks with your sleeve even though it didn’t help at all. Your eyes stung. Your throat was burning. You felt heavy and empty at the same time.

When you pushed the door open, the warm light hit you first. Then Eric turned the corner from the kitchen and froze.

His face softened so fast you almost broke right there.

“Hey,” he said quietly, already stepping toward you, already reading you with that careful attention that made you feel seen instead of judged. “What happened?”

You opened your mouth to reply but the words didn’t come. They never did when emotions got too big. You pressed your lips together, trying. The second you inhaled, a shaky breath escaped instead.

Eric didn’t push. He never did.

He just moved closer, slow enough that you could step back if you needed. When you didn’t, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and guided you inside, gently closing the door with his other hand.

The moment his arm settled, your body snapped. Tears spilled again, harder this time, and you choked on a sound you didn’t recognize.

You felt Eric pause. Then both arms came around you. Strong. Steady. Warm. His chin rested lightly on top of your head. You felt the slow rise and fall of his breathing against your cheek.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You didn’t know how long you stood there in the hallway, crying into his chest while he held you like nothing in that moment mattered more. His shirt grew damp. Your breathing stuttered. He kept rubbing slow circles on your back, the kind that made your shoulders drop from your ears, the kind that started to loosen the knots in your chest.

Eventually, the tears slowed into shivers. You leaned back slightly, wiping your face again even though you knew you looked awful.

“Sorry,” you muttered.

Eric frowned gently. “Don’t be. You’re allowed to cry.”

You shook your head. “I hate it.”

“I don’t,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing beneath your eye. “Means you trust me.”

You looked down at his hand. Your throat felt tight in a new way now.

He took your bag from your shoulder and set it aside. “Come on. Sit down for a bit.”

You followed him to the couch without thinking. Your body felt drained, like every step was heavier than the last. You sank into the cushions and Eric sat beside you, close enough for your knees to touch. He didn’t say anything for a moment, giving you space to gather yourself.

You stared at your hands. They were still shaking slightly.

He noticed. Of course he did. His hand slid over yours, warm and steady, grounding you in a way nothing else could.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asked, voice soft.

You hesitated, then nodded.

“My dad started yelling,” you whispered. “I told him I want to move out and he lost it.”

Eric’s jaw tightened, just a little, before he eased it again. “He shouldn’t talk to you like that.”

“He always does,” you muttered. “It’s normal.”

His fingers tightened around yours. “It shouldn’t be.”

You took a shaky breath. “He said I’m ungrateful. That I think I’m better than everyone. That I’m disrespectful. He kept going and going and I just… I couldn’t stay.”

Eric listened without interrupting. He always listened like what you said mattered.

When you finished, your voice was barely audible. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You always have here,” he said instantly. “I’m serious. You can come any time.”

Your chest twisted again, but not painfully this time.

You hadn’t realized how cold you felt until Eric pulled a blanket over your legs. He adjusted it gently, then leaned back with you, his shoulder brushing yours.

He didn’t force you to be strong. He didn’t tell you to stop crying or calm down. He didn’t minimize anything. He just stayed beside you, solid and patient, letting you breathe.

After a minute, he spoke again. “You don’t deserve to be treated like that. Not by anyone, especially not someone who’s supposed to protect you.”

“It’s been like this for years,” you whispered. “I’ve gotten used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to get used to pain,” he said. His voice stayed soft, but there was something fierce under it. “You deserve a place where you feel safe.”

You stared at the wall for a moment. Then, quieter, “I feel safe here.”

Eric blinked. The reaction was small, but you saw it.

He cleared his throat lightly. “I’m glad.”

Another silence passed, this time comfortable. When your breathing finally steadied, Eric shifted just a bit closer.

“You don’t have to go back tonight,” he said. “Stay here. I’ll sleep on the couch if you want the bed.”

You shook your head fast. “No. I don’t want you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable if it helps you,” he replied without missing a beat.

Your chest warmed again.

But you didn’t want him sleeping on the couch. You didn’t want distance. Not after everything.

“Can I stay in your room?” you asked quietly.

His eyes softened. “Yeah. Of course.”

He stood and offered you his hand. You took it, letting him pull you up. You followed him to his room, where he flicked on a warm lamp instead of the overhead light. The room looked soft in that glow.

He grabbed an extra hoodie from his dresser and handed it to you. “Here. It’s soft. You’ll like it.”

You smiled a little, the first one all night. “Thanks.”

He stepped outside while you changed. When you opened the door again, he peeked inside with careful eyes.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Better,” you said. “Thanks to you.”

He hesitated for a second, then stepped inside. He didn’t reach for you right away. He waited, letting you choose the pace. When you sat down on the bed, he sat beside you, close but not crowding.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he murmured. “I wish you didn’t have to carry it alone.”

You swallowed. “I don’t feel alone when I’m with you.”

Something in his expression changed. Softer. Tender in a way that made your stomach flip.

He lifted his hand, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted. You didn’t. His fingers brushed your cheek, light and warm.

“You deserve better than the way he talks to you,” he whispered. “You deserve someone who talks to you with kindness.”

Your throat tightened again. Not painfully. More like you were full of something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Thank you,” you said, voice shaky.

He shook his head gently. “You don’t need to thank me for caring.”

You looked at him. Really looked. The soft eyes. The gentle expression. The quiet protectiveness you felt every time he spoke to you.

You didn’t mean to lean into him, but you did. Your head rested on his shoulder, and he froze for a moment before relaxing, letting his cheek brush your hair.

His arm wrapped around your waist, careful and warm.

“You’re safe here,” he whispered. “I promise.”

You closed your eyes. For the first time all night, your lungs filled fully.

Eric kept holding you, steady and patient, as if he had all the time in the world. His thumb traced slow lines up and down your arm. Your breathing matched the rhythm of his.

After a few minutes, he spoke again, even softer.

“If you ever decide to move out, I’ll help you,” he said. “I’ll help you pack, I’ll help you find a place, whatever you need. You don’t have to do it alone.”

You felt your chest swell.

“You’d really do that?” you whispered.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I’d do anything for you.”

You didn’t mean for tears to gather again, but they did. Soft ones this time. Ones that didn’t hurt.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face. His eyes flicked to yours, searching gently.

“Eric,” you whispered. “Thank you. For everything.”

He smiled quietly. “I’m just glad you came here.”

You nodded, wiping a stray tear. “I always feel better here.”

“I’m glad,” he repeated, brushing your hair back. “And you can stay as long as you want. Even if that means staying forever.”

Your breath caught.

His expression shifted when he realized what he’d said. Not embarrassed, just sincere in a way that made your stomach flutter.

He cleared his throat a little. “I mean it. You’re not a burden. You’re not too much. You’re never too much for me.”

You felt something settle inside you. Something warm. Something steady.

You leaned forward again, resting your forehead against his shoulder. He let out a quiet breath and wrapped both arms around you.

Neither of you moved for a long time.

And for the first time in years, you didn’t feel small. You didn’t feel wrong. You didn’t feel like you were surviving someone else’s storm.

You felt safe.

You felt wanted.

You’re backed up against the kitchen counter, hands gripping the edge behind you like it’s the only thing tethering you to Earth. Eric is standing between your legs, close enough that you can feel the heat from his chest, close enough that his breath ghosts along your jawline. And he’s not touching you. Not really. Just standing there. Staring. Waiting.

You hate how smug he looks, like he knows he has the upper hand. Because he does. And he always has.

“You gonna keep looking at the floor or are you gonna actually say something?” he murmurs, voice barely louder than the soft hum of the fridge beside you. His fingers rest casually on the counter on either side of your thighs. He’s not trapping you. He’s letting you stay. And that makes it worse.

“I wasn’t looking at the floor,” you lie, flicking your gaze up to meet his, only to immediately regret it. His eyes are darker than usual, watching you like he’s already undressed you twice and is just waiting for you to catch up.

He doesn’t believe you, of course. “You always do that when you’re nervous.”

You laugh, but it’s breathless. “Why would I be nervous?”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Maybe because I caught you looking at me like you wanted to crawl into my lap two hours ago.”

You try to scoff. You try to be offended. But it’s impossible when he leans in just enough for the tip of his nose to brush yours. Barely touching. Like he’s testing the line and daring you to cross it.

“Eric,” you whisper, not entirely sure if it’s meant to be a warning or a plea.

He hums like you just told him something sweet. “What?”

“This is... dangerous.”

“Only if you want it to be,” he replies.

And then he leans in, lips brushing your cheek. Not kissing. Just skating across your skin until he gets to the shell of your ear, where he pauses. “Do you want me to stop?”

You shake your head, too quick, and he laughs, low and satisfied.

But then you glance away again, toward the fridge, or the floor, or anything that isn’t the wicked look on his face. That’s when his tone sharpens. Not cruel. Not rough. Just firm.

“If you look away from me again, I swear I’ll stop.”

You blink, heart slamming against your ribs. You’ve never heard him speak like that before. Like he means it. Like he knows exactly how far you’d let him go.

Your eyes snap back to his.

“Better,” he says, nodding once, approving. “You can look at me when I touch you.”

Your throat tightens. “You haven’t touched me yet.”

Eric smirks like that was the plan all along. “Would you like me to?”

And there it is. The last thread of control in your hands. You could say no. You could tell him this was a mistake, that you were just tipsy and caught up in the moment, that it didn’t mean anything. But it wouldn’t be true.

You’ve wanted this. You’ve wanted him.

“Yes,” you breathe.

That’s all it takes. His hands slide off the counter and onto your thighs, warm and sure. He drags his fingers slowly up your skin, squeezing just once, enough to make your breath hitch. He watches your face the entire time, looking for any sign you’ll flinch or falter, but you don’t.

You’re not afraid of him. You’re afraid of how much you want him.

“Good,” he murmurs, dragging his hands under the hem of your shirt, resting just above your hips. “Because I don’t think I can stop thinking about you.”

Your lips part slightly, a quiet inhale escaping as he dips his head and presses a soft, deliberate kiss to the corner of your mouth. You turn your head to chase it, to kiss him properly, but he pulls back just enough to keep you hungry.

“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he admits, voice thick and steady. “All week. Walking around in that little top like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

You grin, finally regaining a sliver of your nerve. “Maybe I did.”

His grip tightens just slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to say don’t play dumb. “Then don’t pretend you didn’t know I’d eventually do something about it.”

This time when he kisses you, it’s not soft or teasing. It’s slow and consuming. You taste mint and something warmer, something uniquely Eric. His mouth moves against yours with purpose, like he’s been waiting forever and refuses to rush it.

You tangle your fingers in the back of his shirt, dragging him closer, and he hums approvingly. His hand slides up your back, under your shirt, warm and grounding. It’s not desperate. It’s not rushed. But it’s intentional.

And when you try to close your eyes, try to just melt into it and forget the way he’s watching you, he pulls back again.

“What did I say?” he asks, mouth swollen, eyes locked on yours.

You blink slowly. “Eric-”

He tilts his head, smile barely there. “Eyes on me.”

Your cheeks are flushed. “Bossy.”

He laughs. “Only with you.”

He kisses you again, this time softer, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. His hand slides up your neck, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there, not to control, just to keep you close. Just to make sure you don’t disappear.

When he pulls back, barely an inch, he whispers against your lips, “Stay with me.”