#fault lines

You didn’t come here to play around or have fun, it was a punishment the second you came. Or at least it felt like it.

“You have a few weeks here.” Your coach stated. “You need to focus, and strive to be better. This is where your season will start”

Unfortunately, “this” meant him.

Carlos fucking Alcaraz.

The most favored guy on the men’s tour. Where everyone bowed down to him and treated him like some golden boy. You would see him everywhere. In his campaigns, billboards and all over the internet. It was absolutely infuriating.

And now he’s here. Standing right next to you. Shirtless of course.

You sat on the bench watching him hit down the line forehands and backhands over and over again repeatedly like there was no tomorrow. All of them being hit with absolute precision and power. He looked over as he felt your eyes on him. And he smirked. He fucking smirked.

Smirking like he knew something you didn’t.

Like he remembered something.

Your throat tightened.

You should’ve never let him take you to his hotel room during that one after party in Monte Carlo. You shouldn’t have let him kiss you on that balcony. You shouldn’t have followed him into his room and let him fuck you.

It was one night, one mistake. A stupid, but breathless and perfect mistake. You spent months burying that night in the ground, trying to forget, but you just never did.

And now he’s here. Tanned muscles with glistening sweat on them.

He jogged off the court to get a towel and wiped his face and hair with it. You tried not to look. Tried to forget how it felt with your fingers tangled in his roots. But it was too late.

“Didn’t think you would actually show up today.” His voice was low and he acted like nothing had ever happened between you. And thank god for that.

“I’m here to train. Nothing more.” You wanted to seem harsh. To seem like you had changed and become more mature. But inside, you didn’t feel that way.

He grinned, that look on his face was so infuriating, “And I’m not?”

He took a step closer. You felt something shift in the air. Charged and filled with tension. You crossed your arms to try seem more relaxed.

“Guess the universe hates me”

He chuckles before leaning in a bit closer. “Maybe, or it could be something else.” He shrugs and puts that annoying look on his face.

You glared at him while he eyed your body up and down. You swore you could feel something in your stomach.

“Still mad at me?” He asked, his voice a bit softer now.

“No,” shit. Why would you say that? It was too late to take it back now. The truth is, you are mad at him. But it was like the universe threw you into his orbit like some sick joke. A joke you didn’t find funny at all.

“Good.” he muttered “Because I definitely don’t regret it.”

Your heart stopped.

He winked and grabbed his bag and began casually walking towards the locker rooms like nothing happened. What an idiot.

You stood for too long with the racket loosely held in your hand, just watching him fade into the distance. You swore you were over him, right? Over him. Over the way he made you feel. But you couldn’t function. Not when he was near, breathing the same air as you.

Nothing had changed.

The Monte Carlo balcony.

The champagne.

His fingers gripping your waist.

The way he said your name like it was a secret.

Your stomach twisted

Nobody knew about that night. Not your coach, not his coach, not even your friends. You thought you could run away from it.

But Carlos would never let you run away from that day.

“Hello?? Earth to Y/n!” Your coach snapped you out from your thoughts. “C’mon we need to continue our drills.”

“Sorry… I zoned out for a second.” you scratched your neck and headed back to the net for volley drills.

You tried to focus. You really did. But everything just seemed to go downhill. You shanked at least ten balls, you missed an uncountable amount, and the rest were with horrible form. Your coach is staring at you like you’ve gone insane.

“Are you okay?” He asks. You nod to his question and continue volleying, trying to gain more focus.

What you don’t know is, Carlos is watching from a distance. Chuckling to himself and watching the effect he left in you.

You turn to look. And there he is. Just standing there, arms crossed, a small smirk playing on his lips. You want to disappear. You know he saw how he left you feeling. It was like a game to him. A really annoying one.

You wanted to hate him.

You should’ve hated him

But part of you wanted him. Wanted him to come back. Talk to you. Anything besides leaving with a wink and coming back to watch your embarrassing shots that he caused earlier on.

————————————

You finished your practice a few hours ago and now you’re at the academy’s provided gym, on a mat doing half-hearted stretches. You can see the sun set through the big glass windows that act as walls for the place. All the other players have completed their trainings and are at their cottage resting. You were alone. Or at least you thought you were.

Carlos stepped in, still damp from his earlier shower. He looks hot… his hair wet and messy, his hoodie slightly clinging to his damp body and a towel over his neck.

You cursed under your breath. Of course he just had to be here.

He spotted you and smirked. Not cocky like he usually does. A more softer and relaxed one. Like he’s happy to see you.

“Nice… volleys today.” He giggles jokingly.

“Well thanks. Didn’t know that shanking a volley was good. Especially at this level.” Your head hung low, embarrassed from how bad they were compared to your usual composed self.

He grabbed a mat from the small storage box from the corner and set up right next to you.

He began copying your stretches while gazing at you from time to time.

“I miss the connection we had.” He says out of nowhere. Completely uncalled for actually.

You flinched before you could respond. “That was all a mistake. It was never meant to happen.”

He tilted his head, “So why does it feel like you want it again?”

The silence was loud and unbearable.

You opened your mouth to respond and right before your voice came out—

“Y/n, your physiotherapist is waiting for you.” The academy staff member entered the room at the very wrong moment and called for you.

He hadn’t seen you in years. Not since you had left without a word, tired of the strained relationship, the half-hearted attempts at fatherhood that never quite measured up. And now, here you were, moving across the tarmac with a confidence that made his breath hitch. But it wasn’t just you — his gaze was pulled to the little girl sprinting ahead of you, her laughter carrying over the commotion, and then lower, to the small swell of your belly. 

Then he saw the man she was running to. 

Vice Admiral Beau “Cyclone” Simpson stood tall, his normally severe expression softening as he crouched to scoop up the little girl — your daughter — who launched himself into his arms with an unbridled joy that made Maverick’s chest tighten. The man’s hand, strong and sure, settled on her back before shifting ever so briefly to your waist as you reached him. An intimately protective gesture. A husband’s gesture. 

Beau pressed a kiss to your temple, murmuring something only you could hear, before his sharp eyes lifted — meeting Maverick’s stare with an expression that was unreadable, save for the unmistakable glint of challenge beneath the surface. It wasn’t the professional disdain Maverick was used to from the admiral. No, this was something else. Something deeply personal. 

For a long moment, Maverick just stood there, heart hammering against his ribs, the weight of everything — your marriage, your daughter, the life you had built with a man who was supposed to be his adversary — crashing down on him all at once. 

And then, for the first time in his life, Pete “Maverick” Mitchell didn’t know what the hell to say. 

Beau held Maverick’s gaze for a beat longer before his focus shifted back to you, his hand never leaving you. He murmured something low, something meant only for you, and you nodded, fingers brushing over his knuckles in silent reassurance. 

Maverick had seen a lot of things in his time, but this? Seeing you here standing beside a man like him — the very embodiment of rules and structure, of everything Maverick had spent his entire career pushing against — knocked the wind right out of him. 

“Mama, who’s that?” 

The little girl’s voice snapped him back to the present, her curious eyes bouncing between you and him as she clung to Beau’s shoulder. 

Your daughter. His granddaughter. 

Maverick swallowed hard as you took a slow breath before stepping forward, closing the space between you. “Stella, sweetheart,” you said gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead. “This is Pete.” A pause. A hesitation so small, yet so heavy. “He’s my father.” 

Stella’s brows scrunched up, and then she looked back at Beau, as if the pieces weren’t quite fitting together. “But Daddy’s your husband.” 

A flicker of something — amusement, tension, or maybe just patience — passed over Beau’s face as he adjusted Stella on his hip. He didn’t speak, didn’t intervene, just let you take the lead. 

Maverick cleared his throat, forcing himself to meet the little girl’s inquisitive gaze. “That’s right,” he said, his voice rougher that he’d meant it to be. “Your dad and I… we know each other.” 

Stella considered that for a second, then, with all the bluntness of a child, asked, “Are you friends?” 

The silence that followed was deafening. 

A slow, measured breath left Cyclone’s nose, and you exhaled softly, a sound that was more tired than anything. Maverick let out a low chucked, more at himself than anything else, because how the hell was he supposed to answer that? 

You saved him from trying. “Not exactly, honey,” you said carefully, smoothing a hand over her back. “But we do go way back.” 

Stella seemed to accept that answer, but her little nose scrunched up in thought. “Then why I haven’t I seen him before?” 

Maverick flinched. Damn, this kid was sharp. 

You hesitated, and Beau’s jaw twitched like he was biting back a response of his own. There was history here, years of it, and Maverick could feel it pressing down on him from all sides. You had moved on. You had built a life, a family, without him. And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of it, decades too late and with no idea how to fix what had already been broken. 

Finally, you sighed, shifting closer to your husband. “It’s… complicated,” you admitted.

Maverick caught the way Beau’s grip tightened just slightly around your waist at that. Protective, territorial. Like he wasn’t quite sure if here was where Maverick should be. 

And hell, maybe he was right. 

Stella seemed to think it over for a second before shrugging, apparently satisfied for now. Then, just as quickly as she put Maverick on the spot, she turned back to Beau with the boundless energy only a child could have. “Can we get ice cream now?” 

You huffed out a low chuckle, shaking your head. “We just had ice cream yesterday, kid.” 

“But I was really good today.” She turned big, pleading eyes on Beau, the same ones you had used on Maverick as a kid, because damn if they weren’t affective. 

Your husband sighed, clearly resigned to this fate. “We’ll see.” 

Stella beamed, satisfied, and wriggled out of his arms to run towards her “Uncle” Warlock and his family nearby. 

Maverick exhaled, watching her go before turning back to you. There was still so much unsaid, so many things that wouldn’t fit in the space of one conversation. But when his gaze flickered to your stomach again — he hadn’t just missed your life. He had missed this one too. 

“I didn’t know,” he finally said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. 

You studied him for a long moment. Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t entirely hostile. Just… heavy. 

Then, Beau shifted beside you. “We should get going.” It wasn’t rude, but it wasn’t exactly warm either. 

Maverick met his eyes again, and this time, there was something new in them. Not just the usual distrust, but something deeper. A line drawn in the sand. A promise. 

This is my family now.