#fluff fics

☆┆Roger ;

⟢ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏ Wealth, fame, power.

Everything this world had to offer. From the deepest secrets of the past, to its riches and so on.

The one piece.

The man who'd attained it all, sailing the seas alongside his notorious crew, all making names for themselves, and of course, that didn't exclude you.

Numerous, countless adventures, aboard the Oro Jackson, you grew fond of every single person in the Roger Pirates, and one particular man. Roger himself.

The king of the pirates himself. A threat to every naval base, hell— A threat to even the most dangerous pirates. Despite having obtained life's full bounty. He'd never ceased looking at you like you were more precious than the one piece itself.

Which, to him, you were.

Roger was a man who loved with every fiber of his soul. Never failing to show so through even the smallest gestures.. well, they were small to him, atleast. Often giving you his share of their treasure findings, throwing himself infront of you in battle for defense, and afterwards, prioritizing checking up on you before the others.

Public display of affection? Never a problem. For someone as fierce and brave as him, Roger was never ashamed of displaying his affection towards you infront of anybody. He prized you and held you close like a sacred gem, a trophy. Never hesitating to hold your hand and kiss you, with something along the lines of; "This is my future wife, everyone!!" and laughing warmly at his own words and the sight of your embarassed face, from the bottom of his heart.

But,

All the laughter, the joy, the thrill of adventure alongside your beloved, didn't come with no consequence. Because even though everyone was proud and content, there was a sense of impending doom you simply couldn't get off your chest.

For his days were counted.

Roger would soon die.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏ It's been a few days since you'd reached Laugh Tale. The news were spreading all over the world, with Gol D. Roger now earning the glorious title of; King of the pirates.

Everyone was proud, including himself. They'd been partying for days, almost non-stop. It seemed like you've been hearing their laughter and boisterous cries and cheers for a decade, echoing late into the night as they danced, feasted and reveled in celebration.

The air smelled of spiced rum punch and roasted meat, mingling with the salty tang of ocean breeze ahead of you. Away from the noise, arms rested on the railing as you leaned against it. Your head spiraled, you'd tried partying with them. It's not that you weren't proud of the news and his accomplishments aswell, but for very obvious reasons, you simply couldn't enjoy it. It was like blasting music at a funeral— It was morally wrong.

Your fingers drummed restlessly against the edge of the railing. While your eyes were gazing at the moon, hanging low, casting a comforting light on the waves lapping peacefully on the anchored ship's hull. Your mind wasn't exactly there. Thoughts wandering to Roger, his pending death, his illness. You knew he would never get caught by marines, but one way or another, he just had it coming.

And the thought of that, made a tear or two drop from your eyes, eyes fluttering close for a moment as you sulked and basked in the stillness of your thoughts.

And then, a hand on your shoulder. Rough, big, yet ever so gentle on your skin. Squeezing gently.

You haven't heard a single sound as he approached, cape billowing in the slight wind, rippling with every step.

"It's not like you to leave the parties, Y/N!" Roger spoke up, voice deep and gravelly. He always sounded joyful, but there was an undertone of concern etched in his words.

Not hearing a response from you, he gently turned you around to face him, sighing at your sulking face.

"You're not thinking about that again.. are you?" His expression hardened for a moment, before turning into a smile again, placing his free hand on your other shoulder.

"How do you expect me to dance and have fun when I know what's coming soon, Roger." You eventually spoke up, your eyes never meeting his, hands clenching at your sides.

He moved to now stand beside you, arm draping over your shoulder and pulling you close and walking back to where everyone was.

"Don't worry your pretty little head, just enjoy it now !!"

"Hey — !"

A cheerful laughter boomed out of him over your protest as he dragged you alongside him, against your will, thank you very much.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏ And so, the night wore on. You'd somewhat managed to drown your thoughts with the intense partying and story-telling. Having company sure helped. Though only temporarily.

Though you couldn't say the same for your Roger. He never knew when to stop when it came to taking shots, always up for a challenge. Completely down on the floorboards of the main deck, snoring his heart out, cheeks flushed red and his mustache slightly damp from the rum that spilled.

With a sigh, you kneeled beside him, shaking his shoulder lightly. "Hey.. wake up, Roger."

"He never takes it easy, does he?" Rayleigh chuckled from a nearby crate he was seated on, arms crossed over his chest. He was surprisingly sober-looking for the amount of drinks he had with the others.

You sighed, eventually giving up. You leaned down, arms crossed on his chest as you laid your head between them on it.

Rayleigh took in the sight, a small endeared smile peeking at the corners of his mouth. Leaning back against the wall, he spoke again ;

"You're worried about him, aren't you, Y/N ?" The blonde remarked, hand on his chin, scratching the bits of his beard as he looked at you with a raised eyebrow.

"You know, Rayleigh. How could I not be? He's too.. not worried." You mumbled, afraid to wake him up.

"He's just Roger, you know how he is."

"Well, he's too Roger, then." You scoffed, rolling your eyes in mock annoyance. Rayleigh let out a small laugh despite himself, before continuing;

"You wanna know what he told me?"

"Hm?"

A pause, a long, deafening silence, before he stood up,

"..Actually, it's better if you talk it out with him, instead of hearing it from me." Rayleigh retracted, before striding away, and into the shadows he went.

You didn't want to push it further, your gaze now turning to your beloved. Head still on his chest, now in his direction, admiring and studying every inch of his face like he'd disappear the second you looked away.

With his eyes still closed, Roger's lips curled into a faint smirk, his hand reaching behind your head, fingers curling in your hair and ruffling it in a playful gesture.

"I won't die yet, my love." The pirate mumbled, almost like he was saying it to himself, but it was very clear he was conscious and speaking to you. "And when I do, I don't want a single tear from you, you hear ?? That's not like you, at all!!" He continued, chuckling constantly as he spoke, his smile growing wider.

Your expression faltered, your mouth opening in a silent speech, nothing came out. Unsure of what to say.

You tilted your head, leaning into his hand as it tangled in your hair, reaching to hold it there with a gentle squeeze.

"..I won't." You tittered through a cracked voice, tears forming in your eyes. Ones you didn't allow to fall.

His hand on your hair tightened just the slightest bit, not enough to hurt, just to pull your face closer to his and kissing the top of your head.

"You just did!" Roger laughed, and you could feel the sound vibrating on his chest, while still scratching your hair.

"I didn't." You sniffled, like you were sucking the tears— burning in your eyes, threatning to fall, —back into your very skull.

"Well don't!" He chuckled, a hand reaching to roughly, yet playfully pinch your cheek.

You laid down fully with him on the floor, gazing at the starry night sky above you, through heavy lidded, sleepy eyes. Silence reigned the comfortable moment, before he spoke again;

"I'll always be with you, Y/N. Even when you think I'm gone." Roger smiled. Like he was speaking absentmindedly, his words came naturally, always soothing you.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏ You relaxed. You genuinely smiled again. For the first time in days.

☆┆Zoro ;

⟢ ࣪ ﹏⚔︎﹏ The strongest beast in the world's whereabouts; Onigashima island, in Wano-Kuni,

More specifically, upper side, right dome on the rooftop. An expansive, windswept battlefield perched atop the massive skull-shaped island fortress.

The air up there is thick with tension and raw, oppressive energy. A restless wind howls constantly across the rooftop, tugging at your cloak, hair billowing from it. The sky is an angry canvas of storm clouds roiling overhead.

You could almost taste the acrid tang smoke, blood, and something more sinister, mingling in the air. Each smell fighting for dominance in your nostrils with a bitter edge to them.

Every step of yours echoed in the vastness of the rocky island. A sinister, pulsating glow leaks out from the cavernous eye sockets of the colossal skull, casting the rooftop in an eerie, hellish red illumination. An unnatural hue, like the skull itself was alive with some malovelent force in its depths.

If this wasn't hell, you don't know what is, at this point.

Holding your hand close to your chest, you walked around the roof recklessly, yelling a name with each step you took. His name.

"Zoro !! Zoro?! Where are you, damn it ! Give me a sign you're there!" You shouted, your voice echoing again. No response. But your walking never ceased.

"Damn it.. I hope he's okay.. that King guy is no joke. Man.. he sure looked intimidating." You sighed to yourself. Like your own words were keeping you company. Or rather, distracting your from how absolutely terrified you were of this dark inferno.

"I'm sure he couldn't hold a candle to Zoro, though!" You added to yourself, with what looked like a really forced smile.

Meanwhile, what you weren't aware of, was that Zoro had already won. Having long beat that guy. Though, completely demolished from the injuries of the battle and the aftermath of Chopper's injections to get back on his feet again, even if temporarily.

He had heard your voice echoing from a distance. His ears perking up and picking up the sound almost immediately through his half-conscious state. His expression slightly faltering, eyes now wide open.

His grip on his swords tightened again, like he was trying to get up, to find you, to protect you again. Giving a very failed attempt at sitting up, his body immediately rejecting the movement.

"Shit.. Why would she come up here.—" Zoro grunted, his eyes squinting again from the pain.

But, you soon approached his location, spotting him from his perky green hair even from such a distance.

Your heart almost ceased beating, you stopped in your tracks for a split second, before now running towards him, stumbling on a few rocks.

He looked he owed the Grim Reaper money.. and maybe he did. Who knows. But that's definitely the face of a man who proudly went through hell and back.

You finally reached him, kneeling beside him immediately, your hand reaching under his head to prop it on your lap comfortably.

"Zoro!? What happened to you?? Where's that.. pterodactyl guy.. or whatever he was- Whatever, are you okay??!" You blurted out, one question after the other. And he looked at you with a plain, dead expression.

"Tch..— 'This an interrogation? I'm not even hurt, woman." The green-hair grumbled, though his breathing was sharp, unsteady. Like it was intentionally selling him out.

You looked down at his face, meeting his gaze, before his quickly tore away from yours, his eyes half lidded, closing against his will, refusing to admit he was tired, and definitely injured.

With an ever so slight smile, you sighed. Fingers absentmindedly through his hair.

"I'll get you out of here, stop acting so tough, for once." You cooed, your arm draping over his shoulder, propping him against you and standing up with him.

You didn't get a response, his shoulders slumping, weight shifting, leaning entirely against you as he finally allowed himself to rest.

⟢ ࣪ ﹏⚔︎﹏ It's been.. how long now? Maybe two days.

Or three,

Or five.

You lost count,

Every thought filling your mind was simply.. well, none. Atleast, none other than worry, concern, and perhaps a few tears you allowed to slip when nobody was looking.

The battle was long over anyway, the injured blissfully sleeping and healing. The flower capital being the central location for medical care.

It was awfully quiet now, compared to the screams, the shouting, the loud banging and clinks of swords crashing in seemingly endless fights.

And you? You were restless. You paced around in Zoro's cabin like you were performing some sort of resurrection ritual. Like you'd somehow heal him with enough worry and tightening his refreshed bandages every five minutes.

But you decided to sit still for now, sitting beside the edge of his bed, your hand reluctantly making its way towards his own. Your warmth contrasting with his limp, cold limb.

Zoro was very much strong, undefeated for god knows how long. The type of strong that made aura emit from him the second he takes a fight seriously. The type that makes people straighten their backs and whisper rumors to eachother about the name he made for himself.

But,

Even someone like him had his limits. Hell, you'd seen it for yourself, the state he was in. And always pretending to be okay.

You sighed, and closed your eyes, another tear unconsciously dropping down your cheek. Your hand absentmindedly tightening on his, lightly. Like a prayer.

And then you felt it.

A twitch,

A twitch of his finger.

A sign.

And then, an ever so slight squeeze on your hand, followed by a faint, groggy groan.

Without opening his eyes, he murmured; "..Mmh, I would've liked waking up to something better than you wheeping over me.. Moron."

You didn't even let him say anything else, your eyes widening in surprise, the good kind. As you lunged at him into a tight hug, your arms draped around his neck like your life depended on this grasp.

Zoro opened his eye with an "Oof" sound, startled, hands hovering above your back.

"Hey— Calm down, will you-?? I'm still-"

"I was so worried, you've been out for days, it's not like you- !! I'm so glad, Zoro !" You managed to speak between sobs, completely ignoring the fact that you cut him off mid sentence.

Though, he didn't quite complain. You couldn't tell if he was just too tired to bother, or he just didn't for your sake.

Probably both.

His calloused hands eventually landed on your back, reciprocating the hug, his gaze never meeting yours as you nuzzled your sobbing, snotty face deep into his neck.

With a lazy eye roll, he gave you one, singular, awkward pat on the back. Like trying to fix a broken vase with tape and apologies. The swordsman was never quite good with actions, or words.. or any type of affection at all, but you could tell he appreciated the care.

"..Stop crying, you're soaking me in your snot, it's gross — You're wheeping like I just crawled out of my grave." Zoro mock-complained, though, the odd, rare softness in his voice betrayed his words.

With an embarassed chuckle, you pulled away, wiping the mess on your face with the back of your sleeve, a wide, relieved smile plastered on your face.

There was a moment of silence, not the bad kind. A comforting silence, like a reality check. A check that he was actually here, safe and sound. Your eyes never left him, as if you were scared he'd evaporate from the room the moment you looked away.

But Zoro, he didn't look. He peeked from the side of his eye once, and when he realized you were looking, his gaze promptly tore from yours.

"..Stupid. I would never get killed by someone like him.. Hell, I wouldn't get killed at all." He mumbled under his breath, more to himself than to you.

But you heard it. Because of course you did. And to which you responded;

"You literally met the grim reaper. I was worried sick."

"Wh— How do you know about that ??" Zoro raised both eyebrows, utterly disbelieving.

"You kept muttering something about owing money to it and how you'd actually fight death itself if it showed up again."

His ears reddened, lips turning into a flat line.

"You've always had strange dreams." You chuckled.

He blinked, once. Very slowly, then spoke again.

"..You— I— I've nothing to say."

"So you admit how dangerous that was? You're not invincible Zoro. I.. never doubted your strength, but I can see who we're up against in the new world, and.."

You trailed off, looking away.

"..I swore I wouldn't lose again, Y/N—"

Your eyes darted to him again, and for the first time during this interaction, he met your gaze. Eye to eye.

"—I'll be perfectly fine, as long as I don't have to worry about you crying a river the moment I'm injured. Every fight comes with an inevitable cost."

Zoro spoke firmly, like a vow, a promise. Both to himself, and to you. You especially. An unyielding tone washing over his deep voice.

His hand drifted to hold yours again. A rare move from someone who wasn't quite the best with affectionate gestures. But, from watching you, he picked up one or two things he thought would bring you a semblance of comfort. Though it was really awkward

"I.. Promise I'll always come back to you." Zoro mumbled, his cheeks dusted with a faint blush as he actively avoided looking at you. "..I guess." He continued, more to himself than to you.

You squeezed his hand back, like you were anchoring yourself to it, a warm, fond smile peeking at the corners of your lips with a small nod.

⟢ ࣪ ﹏⚔︎﹏ And surprisingly? You believed him. From the bottom of your heart, you once believed this moss-headed, sword wielding, booze drinking moron. He wasn't one for words. But definitely one for keeping promises like he meant them. And he did.

☆┆Mihawk ;

.⋆♱ ࣪ ﹏⁺ ཐིཋྀ In the Grand Line, lied thousands of strange places and weird islands, of all shapes and kinds. And one of them harbored the strongest swordsman in the world, and what so happens to be your husband.

Kuraigana island.

A place shrouded in dark skies and the kind of silence that came before storms. It was awfully quiet, and oddly peaceful for such an eerie looking island.

But fairly speaking, you'd probably have long lost your mind in here by now if it weren't for Mihawk's company.

And previously, for the past two years. These strange individuals came crashing like they always belonged here. A pink haired goth that looked like she was going through a phase, (though she looked really cute). And another swordsman who apparently already knew your husband from a duel. And somehow managed to convince him to endure two harsh years of training.

Very bold, even you wouldn't do that.

And you? You weren't directly involved in any of it, but you grew awfully fond of their presence. A sharp contrast to your previous, quiet life.

It was never silent anymore.

The contast banter between Perona and Zoro, half the rooms being redecorated in pink curtains and cutesy plushies, Zoro complaining about 'not having drank booze in like, forever', (forever: a few weeks. It was a non-negotiable condition in exchange for Mihawk's training).

"Oi— Ghost girl ! Did you put pink glitter on my swords ??!" Zoro shouted.

"They were grey, dull, bland and ugly! You have to admit they're so much better- and cuter now!" Perona rolled her eyes, giving him a bored look with a hint of a satisfied smirk at his frustration.

"I'll cut you up one of these days." He sighed.

"Try me." She giggled. And Mihawk facepalmed, hard.

"I wanted a peaceful life, why am I stuck babysitting two idiots and making sure every meal isn't diabetes-infested bagels." Your husband complained as you were getting ready for bed. Plopping yourself on the velvet sheet covered mattress beside him, you giggled at the remark, before placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, and a smile.

Not a word, just one glance at you, and a sigh, an accepting one.

Because even though it was a mess, a very chaotic one. God, you were delighted. And he could read you like an open book, he knew far too well. You enjoyed laughing fondly as your beloved pinched his forehead like he could massage his way out of the whole situation.

And for once since this started, seeing that smile on your face, Mihawk didn't mind it that much, for your sake only.

Though, there was a lingering feeling you couldn't shake off. You knew this would come to an end eventually, and in the spur of the moments, you didn't think about it.

But it eventually came. Slowly. It started with Zoro leaving first. You were the slightest bit upset, but atleast Perona stayed.

Not for long, either.

At the shore, only a few weeks later, you waved her off as she sailed away on her own, feeling a heavy tug on your chest, like a piece of you was now gone. That big goodbye smile plastered on your face immediately faded the moment she turned her back to you and left.

And of course, Mihawk noticed. Silently. But he knew. He didn't show much emotion himself, only crossing his arms and telling her to take care of herself. The thing that bothered him the most was that you were upset.

.⋆♱ ࣪ ﹏⁺ ཐིཋྀ

The days rolled into roughly a week. A week since silence haunted the castle again. No more shouting, arguing, playful banter, daily training sessions, bandaging up Zoro's wounds.

It was just you and hawkeye, alone again.

Seated beside you on a fancy, velvet arm-chair, Mihawk flipped through newspaper pages, his mind rarely drifting to the two. Unlike you, he was coping with their departure much better. He wasn't one for emotional attachment, he was just curious whether he'd get to see his apprentice's face on the news soon. His hand absentmindedly twirling his wine glass, the liquid moving around the edges smoothly, meeting his lips occasionally.

And you? Well, you've been sulking, loudly. Not with words, but you made it very obvious that you weren't taking this well. Sat beside a window, you stared out into the eerie horizon, zoning out, before propping an elbow on the table infront of you, one side of your cheek resting in the palm as you finally spoke up.

"It's really quiet, isn't it?"

"Mhm. Sure is." Mihawk responded quietly with a sip of wine, not even looking up from the newspaper.

You pouted, your free hand drumming your fingers on the table,

"Mmm..." You mumbled a hum.

No response.

You continued doing the same sound, over and over, louder each time. Until he cracked, putting the newspaper aside and meeting your gaze.

"Alright, what is it?" He spoke, composed and calm. Atleast until he saw unshed tears burning in your eyes, raising an eyebrow curiously.

"..I miss them." You confessed, quietly, like telling a sin. Though it wasn't much of a confession to him, since he knew, the moment he studied your expression as you watched them leave.

"I know you do."

"..Don't you??"

"They weren't keeping me alive or anything, we had an agreement, that was the end of the deal." He spoke, firm, unyielding.

"You're heartless."

"You wouldn't be married to me." He countered with a shrug and an ever so slight smug grin.

"..Fair." You sighed, voice slightly shaky with tears you were deseperately holding back. Inhaling deeply through your nose, trying to seem calm and composed.

Mihawk felt just a tinge (totally not just a tinge) of empathy. With a bit of hesitation and internal conflict, he pushed his chair back, making space for you. Silently calling you over with open arms.

You, on the other hand, never hesitated when he did this. Instantly getting up and plopping yourself on his lap, arms draped around his neck like silk, his own wrapping around your back, just tight enough to offer comfort.

Because unlike his usual stoic and cold demeanor, Mihawk had an undeniably soft spot for you. Which was natural, for being his wife. You loved how calm and rational he was in these situations.

For a while, he gave nothing but a warm embrace, a hug that held a million promises without a single word.

"..They're not deceased, or anything of the sort. You'll see them again.. Somewhere out there, at sea." Your lover spoke, deep, smooth voice barely a whisper tingling against your ear. "..Don't worry."

Don't worry.

It was just two words, but coming from him, they meant the world. You unconsciously clung onto him tighter, pulling your face back just enough to face him.

"..You always find the right words." You smiled, your hair slightly falling down from your face.

"Only for you." Mihawk responded, promptly reaching and tucking the strands behind your ear, leaning closer and pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek, then another one around your lips, then to your lips directly, moving to your jaw. His thumbs tracing circles on your back absentmindedly.

"What's this for?" You spoke between giddy giggles, more like a pleased, intrigued question than a complaint. Your own hands caressing the back of his head, combing through his hair.

He paused mid kiss on your neck, just right under your ear, looking up at you with those ever so seducing, golden hues.

"Can't I show my crying wife comfort?"

"Never said that."

"Good." Hawkeye hummed in content, continuing his kiss pampering, before whispering in your ear again.

"When everyone leaves, I'll be here. Always."

He promised, firmly, solemnly, sincerely. His voice carried a sense of commitment, earnestness and eternal loyalty to you, the love of his life.

"..Don't cry again."

And right there, every shred of sorrow in your heart seemed to vanish in a moment's notice. You just got reminded that you have a loving husband who would quite literally end an entire fleet and a bloodline with a vegetable knife and carve your initials into their graves, without you even asking.

And you loved it.

You loved him.

“Do you remember when we promised to marry each other?” Umemiya asked without letting any more perturbation pool in his mind pushing it at the back.

“Of course, I remember,” you exclaim with utmost surprise laced underneath your whispering voice blinking your eyes wide open. You can feel how heavy your eyelids are from the exhaustion of the entire day. The guests, the greeting, the gifts, the elders. . it was like walking inside a moving train.

“I see,” Umemiya hums, “what else do you remember?”

Your eyebrows warp. “What about you?” you question back, “Why do you ask? Did you forget?”

“Of course not.” Umemiya’s voice turns up a notch. How could you ask him such a thing? How could you even say such a thing to him. “babe, why do you think I asked?” He exclaims with a pout forming over his face trying to defend himself from your tease. He knows that you are not immune to his pout.

“I don’t know. You tell me.” You whisper making him pout more but it is so short-lived that it is hardly pinnable. You are facing each other so close which is why you could tell.

“Well, ‘cause. . .” He scoots closer to you. “This is our wedding night but we’re just lying in bed.”

You snort out a chuckle pulling your lips inward. “So, what do you wanna do then?”

“You know what . . .Umemiya pulls you closer to your body with so much ease that it makes you wonder if he is fatigued as he looks, as he claimed to be before going to bed.  “We could . . .cuddle.”

You failed to hold in the laughter anymore that was bubbling in your stomach. His arm is resting on your back as you shake with joy in his chest. There is a crescent spreading on his face as he watches you, giving you the time to laugh it out. You pause, inhale a breath, and slightly chin up your face to meet his gaze. It is as serene as the night sea of winter.

“Haji, what do you think we’re doing now?” 

“Ummm. talking perhaps.”

You snuggle into his chest a little more. He pulls the duvet to cover you and him as well. It is warm underneath. The sound of waves crashing onto the shore reaches up to the room. You can hear them. Indeed, it was a good decision to go to a beach for a honeymoon but perhaps not in this skin-slicing winter.

“Are you sure that we're not going to fuck?” Umemiya questions as if he does not already know the answer. You give him a nod with a smile painted on your face.

Umemiya feels your head graze against his chest in a ‘yes’. He smiles at that placing a soft kiss on your forehead before finally giving in to the exhaustion.

“Good night, mrs.umemiya hajime.”

The air in the bathroom was thick and cloying, smelling faintly of the expensive lavender soap Dominik’s mother had sent.

To Y/N, it was suffocating. She sat on the cold, unforgiving tiles, her back pressed hard against the vanity cabinet, knees curled so tightly to her chest she thought her bones might fuse together. The small plastic stick lay abandoned by the sink, its digital screen not displaying words, but two stark, undeniable pink lines.

An accusation. A life sentence.

Her heart wasn't just beating; it was a frantic, caged bird slamming against her ribs. Each panicked thud was a drumbeat to the echo of her mother’s voice, a record she’d spent a lifetime trying to break.

“You’ll never make it as a person, much less a mother.”

The words, once a dull ache, now cut with the precision of a scalpel. And the cruelest part? In this dizzying, terrified silence, she believed them.

Her hands trembled violently as she snatched the test from the counter. She yanked open the bottom drawer, a tomb of half-finished lotions and abandoned makeup bags, and shoved the evidence deep into its shadows, burying it beneath a tangle of hair ties and forgotten lipsticks. As if out of sight could mean out of existence.

But her mind, the ultimate traitor, dragged her back. Not to a major event, but to a mundane moment of sin.

A single piece of chocolate. A small, perfect square of dark, bitter-sweet comfort melting on her tongue. The memory was so vivid she could almost taste it.

Then, the voice, sharp as a whip crack from the doorway. “Are you aiming to become a cow or something? You know damn well no one would want to marry a cow. God, you’re so stupid. I keep telling you to cut sweets, and you don’t listen, pathetic useless waste of space.”

The shame had been a hot flush. But worse was the next day. Her mother, humming in the kitchen, the scent of fresh coffee filling the air. A smile as she kissed Y/N’s younger sister on the cheek. “I love you all equally,” she’d chirped, her tone so convincingly warm that if not for the fresh, aching hole in Y/N’s chest, she might have been fooled.

She was never loved equally. Her siblings received praise; she was given a leash. They were the shining examples; she was the cautionary tale.

And now, faced with the terrifying specter of motherhood, all she could see was her own reflection warping into the woman she hated most. She would become that voice. It was inevitable.

The bathroom door creaked open, shattering the memory.

“Hey?” Dominik’s voice drifted in, soft and warm, a stark contrast to the cold dread in her veins. “You okay, szívem? You’ve been in here a while.”

She jolted, scrambling to her feet. She splashed icy water on her face, the shock helping to steady her breath. She practiced a smile in the mirror, a small, tight thing that didn’t reach her eyes, before turning to face him.

“Yeah,” she lied, her voice unnaturally bright. “Just… my stomach’s acting weird again.”

Dominik leaned against the doorframe, his broad shoulders filling the space. Worry was etched into the lines of his handsome face. “You sure? You’ve been pale all morning.”

She nodded, too quickly. “Positive. Must be something I ate.”

He studied her for a long moment, his gaze so perceptive she felt transparent. But he didn’t push. That was something she both loved and hated about him, his profound respect for her silence. He gave her space, even when she used that space to build fortresses around herself.

“Alright,” he relented, his voice a gentle murmur. He took a step closer, brushing a stray hair from her forehead. “You know,” he added, almost casually, “you’d be the best at anything you set your heart to. Don’t ever forget that.”

The kindness was a physical blow. Her throat closed up, tears threatening to spill. She wanted to crumble, to confess, to scream her fear into the safe harbor of his chest. But the words were trapped behind a wall of terror. Instead, she just nodded, slipped past him, and buried herself in the mindless motions of the day.

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The days dissolved into a hazy, guilt-ridden blur. The secret lived in the drawer, but she carried its weight everywhere.

It was there at breakfast, when Dominik reached across the table, his hand enveloping hers with a boyish grin as he recounted a joke from training. The pure, uncomplicated joy on his face made her want to vomit.

It was there at night, when he fell asleep beside her, his breathing deep and even, an arm slung possessively over her waist. She would lie awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, counting the ways her lie was poisoning their perfect world.

It was there in the afternoons, when he’d collapse on the couch after a brutal training session, resting his head in her lap with a contented sigh, trusting her to be his sanctuary while she fought the violent urge to sob because she was betraying that very trust.

Every kindness he offered, a cup of tea, a back rub, a silly text in the middle of the day, only honed the edge of her guilt into something sharper.

A few weeks later, he cornered her with that look again. They were in the kitchen, and he was fiddling with the hem of his hoodie, a telltale sign of his anxiety.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said, his voice low. “More than usual. Is everything okay?”

Her chest constricted. No. Nothing is okay. I’m drowning and I’m taking you down with me. The words sat on her tongue, bitter and desperate.

But what came out was, “Just tired. It’s nothing, Dom.”

He frowned, his brow furrowing. “I don’t like seeing you like this. It feels like you’re a million miles away.”

She forced a laugh, the sound brittle and foreign. “You’re imagining things. I’m fine.”

He didn’t look convinced. Not one bit.

The worry gnawed at him all through training. During a water break, he found himself next to Mohammed, the veteran’s calm presence a magnet for his spiraling thoughts.

“Hey, Mo?” Dominik’s voice was uncharacteristically strained.

“What’s up, brother?” Mohammed asked, taking a swig from his bottle.

“It’s Y/N,” he blurted out, the frustration leaking through. “She’s been acting so strange and distant. I don’t know how to… speak to her. Has your wife ever been like that? Where it feels like she’s hiding a whole world from you?”

The Egyptian chuckled softly, a knowing glint in his eye. “Every woman has a whole world inside her, Dom. That is not news. But distant? Yes. Sometimes they go to a place we cannot follow.”

“But how do you bring her back?” Dominik pleaded, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Every time I ask, she says she’s fine. It’s like she’s building a wall, and I’m just watching her do it.”

Mohammed’s expression softened into something more serious. “You cannot knock the wall down. You must wait by it. Let her know you are there, waiting, when she is ready to come out. Be steady. That is the best thing. Your presence, not your pressure.”

Dominik sighed, the advice feeling both wise and utterly insufficient. “I just hate feeling like she’s alone in whatever this is.”

“Then make sure she knows she is not,” Mohammed said simply. “Without saying a word.”

That night, Dominik tried to embody that very presence. He pulled her onto the couch, wrapping her in his arms, the television casting flickering shadows across the room.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” he murmured into her hair, his hand rubbing slow, grounding circles on her arm. “Anything at all. I am not going anywhere.”

Her heart shattered. She wanted to believe him so desperately it was a physical pain. She wanted to spill the entire awful truth, the test, the fear, the ghost of her mother hissing in her ear.

But fear was a louder voice. What if he leaves? What if he looks at you with disappointment? What if you fail him, fail this child, fail yourself?

“I know,” she whispered back. But the words felt like a betrayal.

Later, alone in the bathroom again, she pressed her feverish forehead against the cool mirror. Her reflection looked back—tired, haunted, a stranger. Her trembling fingers drifted to her stomach, still flat, but somehow different.

I can’t do this.

The solution whispered to her from the darkest corner of her mind. A clinic. A procedure. A way to erase the mistake before it became real, before she could ruin a life. But then she pictured Dominik’s face, full of love and excitement for a future she might unilaterally erase, and a guilt so profound it choked her rose up in response.

She slid down onto the tiles, just like that first day, and sobbed into her hands, the sound muffled by the relentless hum of the extractor fan. She didn’t know what terrified her more: becoming a mother, or losing the only man who made her feel worthy of love.

The cruelest truth settled over her like a shroud. She wasn’t just hiding the pregnancy from Dominik.

She was hiding it from herself.

When the house was finally quiet, she curled on her side, drifting into an uneasy sleep. Dominik stayed awake, his arm a heavy, comforting weight across her. He watched the pale moonlight trace the worry lines on her face, even in slumber.

He noticed it then, a new detail: how she clutched the extra pillow tight against her stomach, her fingers curled into the fabric like a lifeline. It was a small, subconscious thing, but it made his chest ache with a protective ferocity.

He brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, careful not to wake her. “What is going on in that beautiful head of yours, szívem?” he whispered into the darkness.

There was no answer but her shallow, uneven breath. He sighed, pressing a lingering kiss to her temple. He wanted to shake her, to demand answers, to tear down the walls. But the gentler, wiser part of him, the part that loved her, knew that would only make her build them higher.

He lay back, staring at the ceiling, and decided to trust Mohammed’s advice. He would be steady. He would be present.

Slowly, he slipped his hand into hers where it rested on the pillow, lacing their fingers together. He squeezed gently, a silent promise in the dark.

I’m here. Even if you won’t let me in yet, I’m not going anywhere.

And though she didn’t stir, her fingers twitched against his in her sleep, a tiny, unconscious reflex that gave him just enough hope to hold on.

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The confrontation finally came on a Tuesday. Dominik had come home early, hoping to catch her before her afternoon nap. The flat was silent, but the bathroom door was closed. And then he heard it, the faint, unmistakable sound of retching, followed by a choked sob.

His heart plummeted. “Y/N?” His voice was sharp with alarm as he dropped his bag and crossed the room in three strides. He knocked on the door. “Open the door. Please, baby, open the door.”

A long, painful silence. Then, a weak whisper. “I’m fine.”

The lie, delivered now, in this context, shattered his patience. He pressed his forehead against the cool wood, his voice cracking with a mixture of fear and frustration. “No, you’re not. Don’t tell me you’re fine when I can hear you getting sick. I’ve watched you for weeks. You’re not sleeping, you’re barely eating, you’re hiding from me.” His voice rose, laced with a pain he couldn’t conceal. “Do you even trust me anymore?”

Inside, Y/N leaned against the sink, tears streaming down her face. She wanted to open the door. God, she wanted to.

“I said I’m fine,” she repeated, her voice breaking.

Dominik’s fist hit the doorframe, a dull thud of pent-up emotion. “Stop saying that! Stop pretending like I can’t see you falling apart! Do you think I’m blind? Do you think I don’t notice when you run to the bathroom every morning, when you wear my sweaters to hide, when you flinch when I touch you?” His breath hitched. “I’m not stupid, Y/N. Something is wrong. And if you won’t tell me… then what am I supposed to do?”

The silence that followed was heavier than any wall.

“I can’t tell you,” she wept, her voice barely audible.

“Why?” he begged, his own voice raw. “Why can’t you tell me? I’m supposed to be your person. But you’re locking me out like I’m the enemy.”

“Because if I tell you,” she choked out, “everything will change.”

He leaned his head back against the wall, exhaustion and hurt washing over him. “Maybe it should,” he said, the fight leaving him, leaving only a hollow ache. He turned away, his footsteps retreating. “You know what hurts the most? It’s not that something’s wrong. It’s that you don’t trust me enough to share it.”

The sound of him walking away was the final crack in her foundation. She couldn’t let him leave like that. Not after everything.

The door creaked open. Y/N emerged, slumped against the frame, utterly broken. In her trembling hand, she clutched the small, white plastic test.

Dominik’s eyes fell on it, and the world stopped. The color drained from his face as a thousand realizations clicked into place at once. The sickness, the hiding, the fear. His chest tightened, a maelstrom of shock, understanding, and a dawning, terrifying joy.

“How long?” The words were a whisper, fragile.

She flinched. “I… I don’t know how to say it.” She sank onto the couch, drawing her knees up. “I didn’t… I didn’t plan for this.”

He moved closer, slowly, as if approaching a spooked animal. His hands hovered. “Y/N… you have to tell me. I need to know. How far along?”

Her grip tightened on the test. “Three months… maybe a little more,” she admitted, each word a struggle. “I… I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” His voice was incredulous. “You think hiding this from me doesn’t hurt me? That watching you suffer alone doesn’t tear me apart?”

She pressed her face into her knees, a shudder wracking her body. “I was scared. I’m still scared. I… I don’t even know if I can do this, Dom. What if I mess it up? What if I become ..."

“You can’t know that,” he interrupted, his tone firm yet unbearably soft. He finally closed the distance, cupping her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. There was no anger there. Only worry, and a love so deep it made her want to believe. “Look at me. You are not alone in this. Whatever comes, we face it together. But you can’t shut me out. Not like this. Not when it’s us.”

The dam broke. Sobs tore from her throat, great heaving things she couldn’t control. “I didn’t mean to hide it! I’m just so terrified. Terrified I’ll become like her. Terrified I’ll fail… I’ve thought… I’ve thought about ..."

Dominik’s hand covered hers, squeezing hard. “Shhh. Don’t. Don’t say that. We’ll figure it out. Together. Whatever you feel, we face it together. But you are not walking this road alone, Y/N. Not ever.”

He pulled her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her as she finally, finally broke apart. He held her through the storm, whispering her name, anchoring her with his steadiness.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into her hair, his own tears mingling with hers. “I’ve always got you.”

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The first ultrasound was a revelation. Dominik held her hand the entire time, his thumb stroking her knuckles. When the grainy, black-and-white image flickered to life on the screen, a tiny, bean-shaped being with a flickering, rapid heartbeat, Y/N gasped.

“That’s… that’s our baby?” she whispered.

Dominik’s grip tightened, his eyes wide with awe. “Yeah,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. “That’s them.” He looked from the screen to her, his eyes shining. “You see that? You’re doing that. You’re amazing.”

The technician smiled. “Would you like to hear the heartbeat?”

A sound filled the room then, a fast, strong, rhythmic whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. It was the most beautiful sound Y/N had ever heard. She looked at Dominik and saw tears streaming freely down his face. He leaned down and pressed a fierce, loving kiss to her forehead.

“Our baby,” he whispered.

Later, as they left the clinic, he couldn’t stop grinning. He kept one arm around her, his hand resting possessively on her still-flat stomach.

“A little person,” he said, wonder in his voice. “Our little person.”

Y/N smiled, a real, genuine smile that reached her eyes for the first time in months. The fear was still there, a cold knot in her stomach, but it was now shared, its weight halved by his unwavering presence.

“I still don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted softly.

“Neither do I,” he said, laughing. “But we’ll learn. Together. I’ll read all the books. I’ll annoy Mohammed with a thousand questions. I’ll be there. For everything.”

And he was. He attended every appointment, asked more questions than she did, and began talking to her belly every night, his voice a low, soothing rumble.

“Hey, little one,” he’d say, his lips close to her skin. “It’s your dad. Just reminding you to be nice to your mom in there. She’s the strongest person I know.”

The day they found out the sex was the day the future truly began to feel real. The technician moved the wand and smiled. “Well, looks like you’re having a little girl.”

The air left Dominik’s lungs in a rush. “A girl?” he repeated, his voice cracking. He looked at Y/N, his eyes swimming with tears of joy. “We’re having a daughter.”

He kissed her, deeply, passionately, right there in the examination room, oblivious to the technician’s chuckle. “A little girl,” he whispered against her lips. “Our daughter.”

They spent the afternoon dreaming aloud, debating names between kisses, Dominik insisting she would have her mother’s eyes and her father’s stubbornness.

The fear didn’t vanish, but it was slowly being crowded out by something else: hope. And love. An immense, terrifying, all-consuming love that started with the two of them and now reached toward the future, toward their daughter.

One evening, as they lay in bed, his hand splayed over her now-prominent bump, feeling their daughter kick, Y/N spoke into the quiet.

“I’m still scared sometimes,” she confessed.

Dominik turned to her, his face serious in the moonlight. “I know, szívem. So am I. But we’re scared together. And that’s enough. That’s everything.”

She believed him. Finally, she believed him.

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The pain was a living thing, a tidal wave that pulled her under and spat her out, over and over. The hospital room was bright, sterile, a universe away from their lavender-scented bathroom.

“I can’t,” Y/N sobbed, her body trembling with exhaustion. “Dom, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he insisted, his voice firm but his eyes soft, never leaving her face. He was perched on the bed beside her, one hand crushing hers, the other wiping sweat from her brow with a cool cloth. “You are the strongest person I have ever known. You are doing this. Look at me. Just look at me.”

She locked onto his gaze, a blue anchor in the storm of pain. She pushed.

And then, a new sound pierced the air. A strong, indignant cry.

Time stopped.

A moment later, a nurse placed a tiny, squirming, perfect human being on her chest. She was red and wrinkled, with a shock of dark hair and a furious little mouth.

Y/N’s sobs turned into a disbelieving laugh. “Hi,” she breathed, her voice ragged with wonder. “Hi, baby girl.”

Dominik was weeping openly, his forehead pressed against Y/N’s temple, his large, calloused finger stroking their daughter’s tiny, perfect hand. “She’s here,” he choked out. “Oh, God, Y/N. Look at her. She’s perfect.”

He looked from his daughter to the love of his life, his heart so full he thought it might burst. “You were incredible,” he whispered, kissing Y/N’s tear-streaked cheek. “Absolutely incredible.”

Y/N leaned into him, their daughter cradled between them, the three of them forming their own complete, unbreakable universe. The fear, the secrets, the pain, it all melted away in the face of this.

Dominik looked down at his daughter, her tiny fingers now curled around his. “Welcome to the world, kislányom,” he whispered, his voice thick with a love so profound it reshaped his very soul. “Your mom and I… we’ve been waiting for you.”

He kissed Y/N again, slow and deep, a promise of a thousand tomorrows.

They were a family. And for the first time, Y/N knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that everything was going to be okay. More than okay. It was going to be beautiful.

The first night home was a symphony of tiny sounds. The soft whir of the baby monitor, the creak of the floorboards as one of them paced, the delicate, snuffling breaths of their daughter, Amelia, swaddled tightly in her bassinet beside their bed.

Y/N was propped up on pillows, exhaustion a heavy blanket over her, but sleep felt like a betrayal. What if she missed a breath? What if she needed her?

“You need to sleep, szívem,” Dominik murmured from his side of the bed. He was on his side, watching her watch the baby, his own eyes dark with fatigue but soft with adoration.

“I can’t,” she whispered back. “What if she stops breathing? What if I roll over and don’t hear her?”

He slid out of bed and came to her side, kneeling so they were level. He placed a gentle hand on her arm. “Then I will watch her. My turn. You sleep for two hours. I promise, I will not take my eyes off her. Not for a second.”

The trust she had struggled to give him months ago came easily now. She nodded, her eyelids already drooping. “Just two hours,” she mumbled, already sinking into the pillows.

Dominik didn’t move from his spot on the floor. He rested his chin on the mattress, his face inches from Amelia’s. He watched the rise and fall of her tiny chest, counting her breaths like they were the most precious things in the world.

“You have her nose,” he whispered to the sleeping infant. “And her stubbornness, I think. That’s okay. You’ll need it.” He reached out, his finger dwarfed by her miniature hand. She grasped it in her sleep, a reflex, but it sent a bolt of pure, undiluted love straight to his heart. “I’m here, kislányom,” he breathed. “Always.”

True to his word, he woke Y/N after two hours with a cup of tea and a warm bottle. “She’s perfect,” he reported, his voice rough with emotion. “She sighed seven times and made a little snort that sounded exactly like my father. It was magnificent.”

Y/N took the tea, her heart swelling at the sight of him, the elite athlete, revered on pitches across Europe, looking more proud of counting baby sighs than any goal he’d ever scored.

The weeks that followed were a beautiful, exhausting blur. They learned her rhythms, her cries, the hungry wail, the tired whimper, the frustrated shriek that meant a diaper change was urgently required. Dominik became an expert swaddler, his large, precise hands folding the blankets into a perfect baby burrito that Amelia found deeply soothing.

One afternoon, Y/N found him in the nursery, Amelia cradled in one arm while he attempted to assemble a mobile with the other, the instructions scattered at his feet.

“You know,” she said, leaning against the doorframe, “the box says ‘some assembly required,’ not ‘requires a PhD in engineering.’”

He looked up, a screw held between his teeth. “She deserves the best,” he mumbled around it. “This monkey is supposed to play Brahms. Brahms! She’s cultivating an appreciation for the classics.”

Y/N laughed, the sound still surprising her with its ease. She walked over and took the baby from him, inhaling her sweet, milky scent. “I think she’d be just as happy with you humming the Liverpool chant.”

“Nonsense,” he said, finally getting the pieces to click together. “She’s a cultured lady. Aren’t you, kislányom? Yes, you are.”

But the old fears, though quieter, didn’t vanish entirely. They crept in during the 3 a.m. feedings, when the house was silent and her mind was too tired to defend itself.

One such night, Amelia was fussier than usual, arching her back and refusing to latch. Y/N’s milk let down with a painful rush, a physical manifestation of her frustration. Tears of exhaustion and inadequacy welled in her eyes.

“Shhh, baby, please,” she begged, her voice cracking. “Please, just eat. For Mummy. Please.”

The more she pleaded, the more Amelia cried, a feedback loop of despair. The voice, her mother’s voice, slithered from the shadows of her sleep-deprived mind. See? You can’t even do this simplest thing. You’re failing her already.

A sob escaped her. She felt paralyzed, trapped in the rocking chair with her crying child, a perfect portrait of maternal failure.

Then, a warm hand settled on her shoulder. Dominik, awakened by the cries. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He simply knelt beside them, his presence a calm in the storm.

“Hey,” he said softly, his thumb stroking her arm. “It’s a tough night. That’s all it is.” He looked at Amelia’s red, furious face. “And you, little miss. You’re giving your mum a hard time, eh? Let’s take a breath.”

He didn’t take the baby. Instead, he leaned in and began to sing. It was a old Hungarian folk song, his voice a low, off-key rumble that was somehow the most beautiful thing Y/N had ever heard.

“Aludj el, gyermekem, aludj el...”

Amelia’s cries hiccupped. She turned her head towards the sound of his voice, her little brow furrowed in concentration. Y/N’s tense muscles began to unlock. She guided Amelia back, and this time, she latched on, feeding greedily.

Dominik kept singing, his hand now resting on Y/N’s knee, his song for both of his girls. When he finished, the only sound was Amelia’s contented swallowing.

Y/N looked at him, her vision blurred with tears of relief. “How did you know?” she whispered.

He smiled, wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “I didn’t. I just knew you weren’t alone. We never are.”

It was the final, crucial brick laid in the foundation of her new certainty. The fear might visit, but it would never again move in. It had been evicted by a love that was louder, stronger, and shared.

A few months later, they ventured out to a team BBQ at Virgil van Dijk’s house. It was their first big social outing as a family. Y/N felt a flicker of the old anxiety, worried Amelia would cry or she’d do something wrong in front of everyone.

They were greeted by a wall of curious, smiling footballers. Amelia, perched on Dominik’s hip in a tiny Liverpool kit, stared wide-eyed at the giants surrounding her.

“Who is this little champion?” Virgil boomed, his voice surprisingly gentle.

“This is Amelia,” Dominik said, puffing his chest out with pride.

One by one, the hardened athletes melted. Trent Alexander-Arnold made silly faces. Andy Robertson offered her a clean (and approved) teething ring. Mo Salah, a seasoned father himself, gave Y/N a knowing wink. “She is beautiful. You are doing great.”

At one point, Y/N went inside to get a drink, leaving Dominik chatting with Konaté. When she returned, she stopped short at the sight that greeted her.

Dominik was sitting on a garden bench, away from the main crowd. Amelia was curled against his chest, fast asleep, her head tucked under his chin. One of his large hands splayed across her entire back, holding her secure. He wasn't talking to anyone. He was just looking down at her, completely mesmerized, whispering softly to her in Hungarian. The afternoon sun cast a golden glow around them, illuminating the absolute, unwavering devotion on his face.

Y/N’s breath caught. This was it. This was the picture that would forever be etched in her mind, the man, the father, the love of her life, utterly captivated by their daughter. There was no audience, no performance. It was just them, a perfect, self-contained universe of love.

He must have felt her gaze because he looked up, his eyes meeting hers. The smile he gave her was slow and deep, filled with a joy so profound it was almost sacred. He didn’t need to say a word.

She walked over and sat beside him, leaning her head on his shoulder. Together, they watched their daughter sleep.

“You were right, you know,” she said softly, breaking the comfortable silence.

“About what?” he murmured, kissing her hair.

“That we would be okay.” She looked from his face to their daughter’s and back again. “We’re more than okay.”

He squeezed her closer. “I told you. You’re the best at anything you set your heart to.” He nodded down at Amelia. “And being a mother? It’s your masterpiece, Y/N.”

The old echo tried to surface, the ghost of her mother’s criticism. But it was faint now, drowned out by the sound of her daughter’s breathing, the steady beat of Dominik’s heart under her ear, and the new, strong voice in her own head, her voice, that finally, completely, believed him.

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The first year of Amelia’s life passed in a kaleidoscope of firsts, first smile, first tooth, first wobbly steps held tightly by her parents’ fingers. The fear that had once been a constant, cold companion for Y/N had been warmed away by the relentless, sunny love of her little family. She still had moments of doubt, shadows that passed over her heart, but they no longer settled in. They were chased away by Dominik’s steady hand in hers, or by Amelia’s gummy, triumphant laugh.

Amelia was a year old, a whirlwind of curiosity and joy with her mother’s eyes and her father’s determined spirit. They’d settled into a beautiful, chaotic rhythm. Life was no longer about surviving the day, but about savoring it.

One crisp autumn afternoon, Dominik suggested a picnic in Sefton Park. “Just the three of us,” he said, bouncing a giggling Amelia on his hip. “The leaves are changing. It’ll be beautiful.”

They found a perfect, quiet spot under a canopy of gold and crimson. Dominik spread out a thick blanket while Y/N unpack the picnic basket, simple sandwiches, Amelia’s favorite banana pieces, and a bottle of sparkling apple cider.

“Remember this?” Dominik said softly, holding up the cider. “We had this the night we found out we were having a girl.”

Y/N smiled, a flush of warmth spreading through her. “I remember. You cried.”

“You cried more,” he shot back playfully, his eyes crinkling.

They ate, they laughed, they watched Amelia toddle after falling leaves, her chubby hands outstretched. The sun was beginning its descent, casting a long, golden light through the trees. It was perfect. Peaceful.

Dominik reached into the diaper bag, pulling out a small, crinkly book. “Hey, kislányom, come here. Daddy has a story.”

Amelia wobbled over and plopped into his lap, her attention captured by the bright pictures. Y/N watched them, her heart so full she thought it might burst. This was her world. Right here.

“This is a special story,” Dominik began, his voice taking on a theatrical tone that made Amelia look up at him with wide eyes. “It’s about a family. See? There’s the daddy.” He pointed to a clumsily drawn stick figure with a football. “And there’s the little girl.” A smaller figure with a scribble of dark hair. “And there’s the mommy.” He pointed to the third figure, drawn with a heart over its chest. “And the daddy loves the mommy more than anything in the whole world.”

He turned the page. The next drawing was even simpler. A large circle with a smaller circle inside it. “This is a ring,” Dominik said, his voice dropping into a more serious, intimate register. He wasn’t just talking to Amelia anymore. Y/N felt the air change, grow stiller, more charged.

Dominik looked directly at Y/N, his blue eyes blazing with a love so intense it stole her breath. “And the daddy wanted to give the mommy a ring. To ask her a very important question.”

With his free hand, he reached into his jacket pocket. Amelia, sensing the shift, patted the book and babbled, “Mama! Mama!”

And as Dominik held up a small, velvet box, Amelia, following a routine they had practiced a dozen times in secret, reached her tiny hand into the box and fumbled out its contents. It wasn’t a toy ring. It was the most breathtaking diamond Y/N had ever seen, set on a delicate band of rose gold, catching the last of the sunset and scattering tiny rainbows across the blanket.

Tears sprang to Y/N’s eyes instantly. Her hands flew to her mouth.

“The question is,” Dominik continued, his voice thick with emotion, his gaze locked on hers as Amelia proudly held up the ring, “will you make me the happiest man in the world? Will you and Amelia officially become my family forever? Y/N, will you marry me?”

Amelia, pleased with her important job, waved the ring and let out a happy squeal, “Da!”

It was the most perfect, most them moment imaginable. The grand gesture filtered through the beautiful, messy reality of their love. Sobs of joy shook Y/N’s shoulders as she nodded, unable to form words. She launched herself forward, wrapping her arms around both of them—her fiancé and her daughter—pulling them into a tearful, laughing, perfect embrace.

“Yes,” she finally choked out, her voice muffled against his neck. “Yes, a thousand times yes.”

He took the ring from Amelia’s grasp and slid it onto her finger. It fit perfectly. He kissed her, a deep, promise-filled kiss that held the memory of their past struggles and the bright hope of their future.

“I love you,” he whispered against her lips. “I have never been more sure of anything.”

Amelia, squished between them, giggled and clapped her hands, the official seal of approval on their new beginning.

The wedding was not a large affair. There was no guest list of hundreds, no cathedral, no stress over seating charts. It was exactly what they both wanted: small, intimate, and profoundly personal.

__

They were married a few months later in a tiny, sun-drenched stone chapel in the Hungarian countryside, near Dominik’s family home. The guests were their anchors: his parents, beaming with pride; a handful of his closest teammates and their partners, Mohammed, Virgil, Trent and many who had become their extended family; and one very special flower girl.

Amelia, now a year and a half, walked down the aisle clutching her grandmother’s hand, a crown of tiny flowers perched adorably on her dark curls. She wore a miniature version of Y/N’s dress. When she saw her parents waiting at the altar, she let go and toddled the last few steps on her own, straight into Dominik’s waiting arms. He scooped her up, holding her on his hip as he turned to watch his bride.

Y/N walked down the aisle alone. It was a conscious choice. She was no longer the girl hiding in the bathroom, tethered to the ghosts of her past. She was a woman walking into her future, strong and whole, on her own two feet. She carried a simple bouquet of lavender, a nod to the day that had started it all.

She looked at her husband-to-be, holding their daughter, his eyes shining with unshed tears, and her own vision blurred. This was her family. Her redemption. Her joy.

The ceremony was short and heartfelt. They exchanged simple, traditional vows. But then, as they held hands, Amelia now contentedly playing with the ends of Y/N’s veil, Dominik asked the officiant for a moment.

He turned to Y/N, his voice low and clear, meant only for her and the few loved ones witnessing their promise.

“Y/N,” he began, his thumb stroking her knuckles. “I vow to always be your safe place. To hold your hand through every storm, real or imagined. I vow to make you laugh every day, because your smile is my favorite sight in the world.”

He took a deep breath, his eyes glistening. “But most of all, I vow to spend every day of the rest of my life showing you what I already see. To show you that you are not the sum of your fears. You are not the echo of words that were meant to break you.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, tears streaming freely down her face now.

“You are so much more than your emotional scars, szívem,” he whispered, his voice fierce with love. “You are strength. You are resilience. You are the most incredible mother to our daughter. You are my best friend, my greatest supporter, and the love of my life. I vow to be the mirror that always reflects back to you the beautiful, capable, and deeply loved woman you truly are.”

It was the most perfect vow ever spoken. It wasn’t just a promise of fidelity; it was a promise of healing, of seeing her, all of her, and loving her more for it.

Y/N, through her tears, managed her own, simpler, but no less profound promise. “I vow to let you,” she whispered back. “I vow to believe you. And I vow to love you, and our daughter, with every single piece of my heart, forever.”

They kissed, with Amelia giggling between them, to the sound of their loved ones’ joyful tears and applause.

The reception was held under a canopy of fairy lights in the garden of a rustic farmhouse. There was hearty Hungarian food, plenty of wine, and music. Dominik, of course, stole the show with a surprisingly graceful traditional dance with his mother, before sweeping a laughing Y/N into a waltz.

Later, as the stars came out, they sat together at a quiet table, Amelia finally asleep in a travel cot nearby. Mohammed raised his water glass.

“To Dom and Y/N,” he said, his usual playful demeanor softened into genuine warmth. “I remember when this one,” he nodded at Dominik, “came to me with a heart full of worry. He did not know how to fix what was broken. But I told him, you cannot fix it. You can only be steady. You can only be present.” he smiled, looking at Y/N. “And he was. He is. You both fought for this. It is a beautiful thing to see. To love that chooses to fight, every day.”

It was the truest toast anyone could have offered.

As the night wound down, Dominik led Y/N to a quiet spot away from the lights, under a ancient oak tree. He pulled her into his arms, resting his chin on her head.

“Happy?” he murmured into her hair.

“I didn’t know it was possible to be this happy,” she replied, her voice muffled against his chest. She looked up at him. “Your vows… Dom, how did you know that was exactly what I needed to hear?”

He cupped her face, his touch infinitely gentle. “Because I see you. I have always seen you. The real you. The one that was hiding under all that fear. And now,” he smiled, a slow, sure smile, “the whole world gets to see her, too. My wife.”

The word sent a thrill through her. Wife.

“I love you, Mr. Szoboszlai,” she said, testing the new title.

“And I love you, Mrs. Szoboszlai,” he replied, before kissing her under the starlight, a perfect seal on their perfect day.