#fn91

PAIRING ▸ connor bedard x reader 

GENRES ▸ enemies to lovers, media x athlete, mutual annoyance, slow burn?, everyone notices except them

SUMMARY ▸ working media for the red wings, the blackhawks rival team, means interviewing connor bedard after every game.

connor bedard, unfortunately, hates your smug questions. you, unfortunately for him, enjoy asking them.

WORD COUNT ▸ 5.1k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ sometimes when i see connor i feel feral like that pic of the wolf tearing its shirt off (especially his biceps oml)….also i am like #1 fan of sassy connor so here’s this!!!!! also connor and reader are lowkey losers…lol MY LONGEST HOCKEY FIC YET YAY

it was no stranger to anyone in the hockey world that you and connor bedard had what could be called… a rivalry of some sorts. 

to anyone, the logic behind it all was fairly intuitive - two hockey franchises with a history of hating each other. connor bedard, the on occasion hot-headed blackhawks star hockey player. you, the usually pushy young post-game red wings media talent. ergo, rivalry.

the whole ordeal started almost two years ago, in which connor bedard immediately decided that he, in your first post-game presser and blackhawks loss, did not like you.

it's not like he had no reason to: you knew you were pressing his buttons. you, in your fresh charcoal suit and perfectly straightened hair, in your media debut, did the impossible. you visibly shook the normally stoic connor bedard.

the whole presser presented business as usual: casual questions and comments on turnovers, power plays, and the like. it was very media-formal, boring, and started to drag. you, however, weren't the biggest fan of playing by the media's rules. it was one of the reasons you were there in the first place, a young media talent with a gritty personality and a habit for asking the questions no one else would.

so, you decided to come out swinging. "hi connor, y/n l/n, red wings media. tough loss tonight, any personal thoughts on what went wrong?" your tone was polite, but your smile hinted that you knew exactly what you were doing.

connor then looked up from his stat sheet to find you in the crowd, locking you into his gaze. his intense stare made you for a split second regret everything you said, but to your surprise, he smirked. "tough loss huh…we'll review the tape." the glint in his eye held a little bit of a challenge, but you weren't going to back down.

you then decided that just wasn't enough, and would make it your personal mission to get more out of him. you bring your mic back to your face, "right then. definitely a lot to review."

his face, just for a second, exposed his true shock to your response, but quickly settled back into nonchalance. the rest of the conference goes similarly, you pushing slightly smug questions about the hawks loss to the wings, and connors seemingly-polite, shutdown answers delivered with a grimace. 

by the end, the obvious tension between you two was apparent. you're basically out of your seat at this point, mic warm in your hand from overuse, blood pumping from the back and forth. you were absolutely fired up. connors stare is now glaring, all stoicism lost. he was very clearly pissed, now solely answering with "no comment" which prompted your fiery responses. other reporters seemed to take a back seat on their own questions, instead entertained by the showdown between you two that has occurred over the last forty minutes. suddenly, the hawk's media team breaks the ice as much as they could, as a man stands, blocking connor from your view, "alright everyone, thanks for all the questions. have a good night!"

you smirk. now satisfied with the outcome and starting to pack up your things, you miss the way connor watches your every move as you leave, intrigued. 

later that evening you receive a call from your best friend. "Y/N!!!!! have you been on twitter recently? you're viral!"

dammit. this is what you didn't want to happen. "your first day and you're already stirring the pot! the whole interaction though? it was lowkey hot. did you see the way bedard was looking at you?"

you groan. "yeah girl, he looked like he wanted to blow me up with his mind. please, noooo. i am a professional media-trained representative."

you cant see her face but you hear her scoff clearly annoyed, "sure, media trained my ass! i can think of other ways bedard could blow-"

"ok bye! no more speaking, thank you good night." you hang up the phone, and go on twitter. sure enough you've gone mildly viral, and hockeytwt is all over the press conference between you two.

willsmithhockerlover: WAIT THIS IS HOTTTT WHO IS THIS QUEEN

bedsygirl222: she's better than me…if i was her i would've dove over the table to him

blackhawks412: lowkey i need both of them…MORE PLZ 

this was a whole thing now, unfortunately. game on, connor bedard.

-------

then, what started as one (slightly?) unprofessional press conference quickly turned into a pattern. for the rest of the season, every single time the red wings played the blackhawks, without fail, you were now assigned to connor bedard. and to both of your dismay, the fans and the rest of the media loved it.

it wasn’t even subtle anymore. your boss would glance at the schedule, glance at you, and go, “l/n, you’ve got bedard tonight.” like it was fate. or a freak social experiment. definitely the latter. you did not put fate and connor bedard in the same sentence.

every single time, it played out the same. you’d step up with your mic, composed, polished, a little too confident, and somehow, he’d already be looking for you in the crowd.

waiting.

at some point you knew his presence very well. a little too well for your taste. his stupid blue eyes. the way his hair would be mussed after an especially hard fought game. the way, at times, his gold chain found his mouth when he was thinking about a reflective question. it was torturous.

then started the forty minute dance between you two, connor dodging and rebutting questions, you shooting comments about his performance. 

the tension between you two, at this point, was impossible to ignore by anyone. his teammates would start nudging each other the second you stood up, and you once heard a chirp from nazar "bedsy, look your girlfriends here!" which was met subsequently with a unpolite shove. PR staff would sigh like they knew exactly what was about to happen

other reporters? oh they were watching. not asking questions. not writing notes. watching. because your interviews had officially become entertainment.

“y/n, red wings media,” you’d start, like clockwork.

and connor would lean back slightly in his chair, jaw tightening with a clench just enough to be noticeable. dammit, why did he have to have such a good jawline?

you’d ask about a missed play.

he’d respond with, “no comment.”

you’d ask about defensive breakdowns.

he’d respond with, “we’ll look at the tape.”

you’d raise an eyebrow to his response that reflected your first meeting.

he’d glare. you'd glare. commence a staredown.

wash, rinse, repeat.

at some point, the dynamic stopped being strictly professional. It became something else. a game. and neither of you were backing down. but, if the rest of the media and the hawks were bad, the fans were the worst culprit.

what started as a single clip from your first press conference had snowballed into something… much bigger than either of you intended. because apparently, hockey fans had decided that your ongoing verbal sparring with connor bedard was not, in fact, professional tension,

but chemistry.

every interview was clipped. every glance slowed down. every micro-expression by each of you analyzed like it was game footage. and the comments?

genuinely unbearable. you learned very quickly to never open twitter immediately after a game. you didn’t always succeed.

bedsyfan88: THEY'RE LITERALLY FLIRTING IDGAF redwingsnation: why is y/n the only one who can get him to talk… nhlanalysisss: y this is the most personality bedard has ever shown in an interview user47291: enemies to lovers plot loading…

you slammed your phone face down on your bed.

absolutely not. this was not an “plot.” this was your job. your very serious, very professional big girl job that now, somehow, involved getting into weekly staredowns with one of the most talked about young players in the league.

on connors end, things weren’t much better. it starts in the locker room.

“hey bedsy,” rinzel calls out, barely holding back a grin. “your reporter friend’s here.” connor doesn’t even look up as he pulls off his gloves. “she’s not my—”

“you two flirting again tonight or what?” nazar chimes in.

he finally looks up at that, shooting him a glare that would’ve shut down anyone else. it doesn’t work. “shut up,” he mutters, grabbing a towel and throwing it over his shoulder. “she’s just annoying.”

“yeah?” someone snorts. “then why do you only answer her questions?” connor pauses. just for a second.

long enough for it to be noticed. “i answer everyone’s questions,” he says flatly, seemingly nonchalant.

“no you don’t.”

“whatever,” he mutters, already heading toward the media room. “it’s her job to ask.”

but even he knows that’s not the whole truth. because every time he walks into that room, he finds you first. always. like it’s instinct. like it’s expected. like it’s part of the routine now. and when your eyes meet from across the crowd, there’s that same spark. annoying. familiar. and just a little bit exciting.

------

then one night, unfortunately for you, connor bedard decides to play like an absolute menace. he's usually always good, but three points. clean skating. unreal control on the ice. and worst of all, the wings lose. badly.

by the time you make it into the post-game room, exhausted from yelling, you already know this is going to be different. you spot him immediately in his right side chair as always.

he’s relaxed. too relaxed. leaned back in his chair  in a black blackhawks tee and a backwards cap, one arm slung over the next that showed off his bicep a little too good, talking quietly with nazar until the media settles.

then, as always, his eyes find you. of course they do. and there’s something new there, something you intensely dislike the way it makes you feel. pure confidence. cockiness emanating from his body.

you hate it. you hate the way it's insanely attractive, the way it makes the bottom of your stomach turn with need. you hate the way how much you like this version of connor bedard. you step up anyway.

“y/n l/n, red wings media,” you start, voice steady despite everything. there’s a brief pause, everyone in the room on their toes and holding their breaths. you sigh internally.

and then, against every single instinct in your body,

“impressive game tonight.”

the room goes quiet. like, noticeably quiet. someone in the back actually lowers their camera. connor blinks. once. twice.

his brows pull together slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if this is some kind of trap. “…is that a trick question?” a few reporters snort.

you press your glossed lips together, fighting a smile.

“no,” you say, tilting your head slightly, grinning a bit. “just an observation… no further questions.” you sit then, smoothing your suit pants and hoping no one can hear how fast your heart is beating. a girl CAN be polite. it didn't mean anything, he just had a good game and you had to let him know, right?

he studies you for a second longer than necessary. like he’s trying to read between the lines. like he doesn’t quite trust you. “…thanks,” he says finally, slower this time. and for the first time since this whole thing started, there’s no bite in it. no edge. a few months in, and your first wholesome interaction. slowly, you two smile at each other for a second. its weird. unfamiliar. but,

you feel it before you can stop yourself. a shift. small, but unmistakable. and suddenly, this doesn’t feel like a battle anymore. you look away focusing on your clipboard in front of you, suddenly shy. just so the fans don't look into it too much, sure.

-------

a few weeks later, once you think you've gotten enough of connor bedard, you’re minding your business at your desk, scrolling through clips from the last game, when your boss appears beside you like a bad omen. shes smiling, mischievous from head to toe.

“l/n.” you don’t look up. “…no.” the look is straight trouble, and she only ever looks at you like that before a press conference. 

“you don’t even know what i’m about to say!”

“if it involves connor bedard, the answer is still no.”

a pause. “league media feature. you’re filming it. tomorrow. in chicago.”

you freeze. slowly, you look up.“…with who.”

she doesn’t even try to hide it. “bedard, obviously.”

you drop your head back against your chair. “you’ve got to be kidding me, we don't even play them for another four weeks!”

she sends you a look that you can't quite decipher. "first of all, concerning that you know when we play the blackhawks next. second, everyone knows he's most comfortable around you."

you dodge the second half of what she said. "it's literally my job to know when we play." you deadpan.

"and so is listening to whatever your boss says!" she then walks away, leaving no room for arguments.

so the next afternoon and one short flight to chicago later, you find yourself standing in a empty united center with a camera crew, a clipboard in your hand, and the overwhelming urge to walk out. this was fine. this was professional. this was your job.

you could absolutely spend extended time with connor bedard without losing your mind.

“you’re late, media girl.”

your head snaps up. and there he is. clad in a hoodie, backwards hat, hands shoved into his pockets like he owns the place, even though he does.

you scoff. “ excuse me, i’ve been here for twenty minutes. and i do have a name you know.”

“yeah,” he shrugs, stepping closer. “so have i, y/n.” you blink.

you ignore the way that this is the first time you've heard him say your name and how good it sounds coming from him. “…what?”

he jerks his head toward the other side of the rink. “just didn’t feel like saying hi yet.”

you stare at him. unbelievable. “you’re insufferable.”

“you love it.” you let out a short laugh before you can stop yourself. that’s new.

he notices, his eyes brightening once you laugh. that’s worse.

filming starts.  no press room. no microphones shoved in his face. no audience waiting for one of you to slip up. just you, him, and a camera. “alright,” you say, glancing at your notes. “we’re doing a quick segment on your training habits. try to keep it interesting.”

“oh, i always do.” he rolls his eyes, but there’s no real bite to it.

“yeah, i’ve noticed.” you hum.

“you’re welcome for the personality, by the way. your interviews were getting a little boring before me.”

he lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“oh so you've noticed my interviews before? a fan then, you’re unbelievable.”

“and yet,” you tilt your head, smirking slightly, “you keep answering my questions.”

he pauses at that. just for a second.

“…yeah,” he says finally, quieter this time, smiling at himself. “guess i do.”

the rest of the session is actually to your surprise, fun. you tease him about his multi-step in-depth superstitious training routine. he chirps you about your “aggressive interview tactics.”

once, you bump his shoulder when he makes a comment. he nudges you back, but careful not to knock you on your skates.

it’s easy. way too easy. and that’s the problem. later in your hotel room bed, it hits you slowly. annoyingly, forcing you to sit up. because this interview version of connor bedard? is not the one you’ve built up in your head he’s not cold. he’s not short-tempered. he’s funny. quick witted. a little cocky, yeah, but in a way that makes you want to push back, not walk away.

right before you sleep, your phone lights up.

[instagram: _connorbedard has started following you]

you try to ignore how your heart clenches at the sight of it. fuck.

calling your best friend, you begrudgingly admit, " y/bff/n…hi i know it's like 3am in michigan sorry..but…i think i...like connor? we had this whole thing today and he just followed me on instagram and…"

there’s a pause on the other end. like, a long one.too long.

“…hello? are you there?” you mutter, already regretting everything. and then,

“OH MY GOD.” you wince, pulling the phone slightly away from your ear. "volume, please!"

“you like him? as in—like like him? as in connor bedard, public enemy number one, post-game menace, ‘no comment’ king...him?” you flop back against your pillows with a groan.

“please don’t say it like that.”

“how else am i supposed to say it?” she scoffs. “you’ve spent the last two years verbally sparring with this man on camera and now you’re calling me at three in the morning like—‘hey girl i have feelings.’” you press the heel of your hand to your forehead.

“i do not sound like that.”

“you literally do.”

you sigh, a little pathetic.“it’s just,” you start, then stop, staring up at the hotel room ceiling. “he’s not like that. not… outside of it.”

“outside of what.”

“the interviews,” you say quietly. “the whole thing. he’s, ” you hesitate, like saying it out loud makes it worse. “he’s like nice and funny… i guess.”

she goes quiet again. “…nice? and funny?” she repeats slowly, like the word physically pains her.

“i know,” you groan. “i hate it.”

“oh you are gone,” she says immediately.

“i am not gone!”

“you just said the man you’ve been beefing with for two years is ‘nice.’ and 'funny.' in your world of liking men, you are absolutely gone, y/n.”

you roll onto your side, pulling the blanket up to your chin like it might shield you from the reality of the situation. “it’s not like that,” you insist weakly.

your phone buzzes in your hand. you freeze. she hears it.

“what was that.”

“nothing.”

“y/n.”

you swallow, slowly lowering the phone to look at the screen. a notification. again.you open it before you can stop yourself.

[ _connorbedard: liked your photo ]

your stomach flips. actually flips. you sit up again, faster this time.

“…he just liked my post.”

there’s a beat. and then, “SHUT UP.”

“i’m serious.”

“which one.”

“the one from last week. the…” you stop yourself. “it doesn’t matter which one.”

“it absolutely matters which one.”

you press your lips together, already spiraling. you haven't felt this way about someone is so long, it was driving you crazy. “no it does not. why is he liking my stuff?”

“because he likes you.”

“no, no, that’s not,” you shake your head, even though she can’t see you. “he probably just—i don’t know—accidentally hit it.”

“yeah, he accidentally found your account, accidentally followed you, and accidentally liked your photo. very believable. GIRL WAKE UP! very professional nhl athlete, might i add very rich man, connor bedard likes you.”

you groan, dropping your head into your hands. “please stop. you're torturing me for entertainment.”

“no, because i need you to be serious right now, lock in.” she continues, relentless. “this man has been giving you the most personality he’s ever shown in interviews, he pulled you aside today, and now he’s on your instagram at three in the morning.”

you freeze. “…wait.”

“what.”

“…it’s three in the morning here in chicago.”

another pause. and then, slowly,

“oh my god.”

you stare at your phone. the notification still there. his name. your heart starts beating a little faster. louder. more noticeable. annoying. so, so annoying.

“he’s awake,” you murmur.

“he’s awake and thinking about you,” she corrects.

you bite the inside of your cheek, trying, and failing, not to smile. you've never been the type to be like that but you were fighting the serious urge to giggle and kick your feet. oh god. 

“…shut up.”

“you shut up. what are you gonna do?”

you hesitate. look at your phone again. thumb hovering. this is a bad idea, right? a terrible idea. the worst idea, actually.

“…i don’t know! ” you admit.

but you don’t put your phone down. you don’t mean to open the app again. you really don’t. but your thumb moves anyway, like muscle memory, like curiosity is stronger than your common sense.

his name is still at the top. _connorbedard. following you. liking your post.

awake at three in the morning for some reason that definitely has nothing to do with you. obviously.

you hover. one second. two. three. your phone buzzes.

you physically jolt. “WHAT?” your best friend yells through the phone.

“he—” you scramble, sitting up straighter. “he just—”

you open the message, you feel like a crazed woman.

_connorbedard: safe flight back

you blink. once. twice. “…he just texted me. slid in my dms.”

“WHAT DOES IT SAY.”

you stare at the screen. “he said… safe flight back.”

there’s a pause. “…that’s it?” she says, suspicious.

“that’s it.”

“that’s so lame.”

you let out a breath that sounds halfway between a laugh and a nervous exhale. “it’s not lame,” you mumble. “it’s…normal.”

“it’s boring.”

“he’s a hockey player, what do you want him to say.”

“i don’t know, something with flavor?”

you roll your eyes, but you can’t stop staring at the message. safe flight back. simple. easy. thoughtful. he noticed you were leaving. he thought about it. he texted. your heart does something weird. again.

“okay,” your friend says, suddenly serious. “what are you gonna say back.”

“…i don’t know.”

“y/n.”

“i don’t!” you chew on your bottom lip, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. don’t overthink it. be normal. be professional. at the same time, this is literally just a text. from connor bedard. who you may or may not like. who you have spent two years arguing with on camera. no pressure. you start typing.

stop. delete it. start again. “oh my god just send something,” your friend groans.

“i’m trying.”

finally, you type:

thanks. try not to miss me too much at your game tomorrow.

you stare at it. “…is that too much. like i know he has a game tomorrow, is that weird to say…”

“no send it RIGHT NOW.”

you hit send before you can think about it, then immediately regret it.

“oh my god.”

“RELAX.”

“that was too flirty.”

“that was barely flirty.”

“that was flirty for us.”

you pace your room now, phone clutched in your hand like it might explode. “what if he doesn’t respond.” your bed is now long forgotten about, now pacing in the room.

“he will.”

“what if he doesn’t.”

“he will.”

your phone buzzes. you freeze. “…he responded.”

“READ IT.” you open the message.

_connorbedard: don’t worry. i won’t. you make the interviews a little more interesting.

your stomach drops. in a good way. a very, very dangerous way. you press your lips together, trying not to smile like an idiot.

“…oh.”

“OH??” your friend practically screeches. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN OH.”

you sink back onto your bed, staring at the screen. “he’s flirting.”

“OBVIOUSLY HE’S FLIRTING.” you shake your head, even though you’re full on smiling now.

“no, it’s like…subtle.”

“that is not subtle.”

--------

the next game your teams meet again, everything feels off. or maybe… not off? just way different. you step up to the mic like always, but there's a new feeling. you're buzzed off watching connor play, even very (lowkey) cheering for him. and he succeeds of course with two goals. you're almost excited to see him, to annoy him, to banter like you usually do.

“y/n l/n, red wings media.” he’s already looking at you. of course he is. but he's smirking this time. something only for you.

you tilt your head slightly. “tough game tonight,” you start, tone light, familiar. “anything you’d like to not comment on?” a few reporters laugh.

there it is. your usual jab. he pauses. just for a second, thinking. then, he smirks.

“yeah,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “probably your questions.”

the room reacts. audible laughter.someone actually goes “oh shit—”

your eyebrows lift. you’re smiling before you can stop yourself. “funny,” you shoot back. “you seem to like answering them.”

“only yours.”

the room goes quiet. again. it's that shift again. not tension. not annoyance. something dangerously close to…

you clear your throat.

look down at your notes.

professional. "right. no more from me. unfortunately."

right.

at the end of the night, the press conference wraps up. “alright everyone, thanks for all the questions,” someone from PR calls, stepping in like they always do. “have a good night.”

chairs scrape. people start packing up. the low hum of conversation fills the room again. you exhale, rolling your shoulders slightly, already glancing down at your notes. professional. normal. done.

you turn to leave, but you hear your name being called behind you.

“hey.”

you freeze. you know that voice. the voice that's been your job to press for the last two years. you turn back. he’s still sitting there, half out of his chair now, towel slung over his shoulder again, eyes on you. not the usual look. not sharp. not challenging. just focused.

“yeah?” you say, trying to sound normal. you were absolutely not feeling normal.

he jerks his head slightly toward the hallway.

“one second, please.”

you hesitate. this is already a bad idea. you follow him anyway.

the hallway is quieter. a lot cooler. away from the cameras, the noise, the expectations. just the faint echo of footsteps and distant voices. he leans back against the wall, crossing his arms, watching you like he’s trying to figure something out.

you cross your arms too, more out of instinct than anything.

“what,” you say, raising a brow slightly, slipping back into something familiar. “run out of ‘no comments’ in there?”

he huffs a quiet laugh.

“you wish.” a pause. it lingers longer than usual. and suddenly, there’s no script for this. no mic. no audience. no easy way out. you shift your weight slightly.

“…so? you come out here to chirp me some more? give me a review on my media performance”

he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more, something almost nervous in the motion. you’ve never seen that before. not from him. not from connor bedard, the nonchalant, calm player.

“no,” he says, quieter. “i—”

he exhales, like he’s deciding to just say what comes out of his mouth. “i like it.”

you blink, lost a bit. “…like what.”

“this,” he gestures between you, small but certain. “the banter. the interviews. you.”

that lands. harder than anything he’s said to you in the last two years. you don’t say anything, so he keeps going. a little faster now, like if he stops he won’t start again.

“i noticed you the first time,” he says. “your first press conference. this insanely beautiful girl walked in like she owned the room. and she absolutely did.”

your stomach flips. he lets out a small breath, almost a laugh.

“no one talks to me like that. not like you do.” you swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is. how quiet it is. how there’s nothing to hide behind now.

“…yeah?” you manage, softer.

he nods once. “yeah. and i should’ve been annoyed,” he adds, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “and i was. a little.”

you let out a quiet huff, an easy grin falling on your face. “just a little?”

“okay, a lot,” he admits. “but,” he shrugs, glancing at you again. “i kept waiting for it. every game. every interview.”

your heart is beating too fast now. loud enough you’re convinced he can hear it.

“you make it…” he pauses, searching. “better.” there’s no teasing in it. no smirk. just honest. and that, that’s what gets you. you drop your gaze for a second, then look back up at him.

“connor bedard…you’re saying you like me,” you say, like you need to hear it clearly. like you need to make sure this is real.

he doesn’t hesitate this time. “yeah.. i do.”

something in your chest gives. just a little. you shake your head, almost laughing under your breath.

“you’re unbelievable.”

“you love it.”

you don’t argue. you take a small step closer before you can stop yourself.

“…and if i said i do?” quiet. honest. a little dangerous.

his eyes flick down to your lips. back up. and suddenly, the space between you feels very, very small.

“so,” he says, voice lower now and you feel the bass in his voice, a little more certain this time. “we could… do this without all the cameras.”

you raise a brow, but there’s no real bite to it anymore. “do what, exactly?”

he lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, like he can’t believe he’s actually saying this. “talk. normally,” he says. “without you trying to trip me up and me pretending i don’t like it.”

your lips twitch. “i do not try to trip you up.”

he gives you a look. you sigh, but you’re smiling now.

“…okay. maybe a little.” he shakes his head, amused, then meets your gaze again.

“i was thinking coffee,” he adds, more casually, like it’s no big deal. like your heart isn’t about to beat out of your chest. “or something.”

you stare at him for a second. “or something…you’re asking me out.”

he shrugs, but there’s that hint of nerves again, softer this time. “yeah.”

“unless you’re gonna turn it into a question.”

you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. unbelievable. after two years of this, this is how it happens. not in front of cameras. not in some dramatic moment. just… here. quiet hallway. post-game. him, finally not deflecting. you take a small step closer before you can stop yourself.

“…and if i said yes?” quiet. honest. a little dangerous.

his eyes flick down to your lips again. back up.

“then i’d say i should’ve asked sooner.”

that does it.

his hand comes up, hesitant for half a second before settling lightly at your waist, like he’s giving you time to pull away.

you don’t. of course you don’t.

and then, he finally leans in. it’s not rushed. not messy. just straight passion. like all that tension, all that back-and-forth, all those interviews finally had somewhere to go. the lips you've looked at for the last two years are warm, soft, and for a second you forget entirely where you are. who you are. that you’re supposed to be professional.

your hands grip the front of his shirt without thinking, grounding yourself. he pulls back just slightly, forehead almost brushing yours. both of you breathless. a little stunned.

“…we’re gonna get in so much trouble,” you murmur. he huffs out a quiet laugh, still close enough that you feel it through his body.

“probably.” you smile.

“worth it.”

and this time, neither of you even pretends to argue.