#ghostwrittenbygrace

The place is chaos in the best way. 

Bright lights, springs squeaking under feet, people shouting names that echo off padded walls. You’re laughing as you run away with Ethan, breathless and reckless, socks slipping slightly against the padded surfaces and trampolines as you bounce from one section to the next. 

“Don’t let him get you!” someone yells – you don’t even know who.

You glance back and see JJ, grinning like a menace, gaining on you far too quickly. Panic spikes, playful and sharp, and you pivot without thinking, launching yourself toward the next trampoline- 

-and land wrong. 

Your ankle twists hard on impact. There’s a sharp, white-hot flash of pain that steals the air from your lungs.

“Oh-fuck-“

You stumble, dropping to your knees, hands gripping the padding. It throbs immediately, deep and angry, and when you try to put weight on it, your stomach flips. 

“I’m hurt,” you call out, half-laughing because the shock’s keeping most of the pain at bay for now. “Wait-no, seriously, I think I’ve-”

“Nice try!” Ethan shouts back, already bouncing away, leaving you as bait. “You’re not slick!”

Before you can protest properly, JJ tags you – a quick tap – and he’s gone too, laughter trailing behind them as the game barrels on without you. 

You sit there for a second, stunned. 

Then you try to stand. 

Pain shoots up your leg, and you swear, louder this time, dropping back down immediately. 

“Okay. Okay, no. That’s not- fuck that’s bad.”

The laughter around you starts to feel far away. Your ankle is already swelling, sock tight against your skin, and when you press your fingers to it, you feel sick, and tears start to well up.

A camera dips into your line of sight.

“You alright?” the cameraman asks, voice shifting instantly from filming-bright to concerned. 

You shake your head, trying to stop the tears from falling. “No. I think I’ve actually hurt it.”

That’s when someone calls over a runner. The game pauses in a messy, confused way – people bouncing in place, looking around, unsure. Within minutes, a small medical team is kneeling beside you, asking questions, gently testing your range of movement as you hiss through your teeth every time your ankle moves even an inch. 

And across the park, Harry finally notices. 

At first, he’s just wandering over, curious – hands on hips, still half in game mode. 

“What’s goin’ on?” he asks, distracted. 

Then he sees you. 

Sitting on the padded floor. Sock peeled halfway down. A medic’s hands careful around your ankle. 

His face changes instantly.

“Oh- shit. Oh my god.” 

He drops everything – literally. His camera bounces on the trampoline as he jogs, then sprints, then skids slightly as he reaches you, crouching down in front of you like nothing else in the room exists. 

“What happened?” he asks, voice tight with worry already.

“What happened, are you okay?” 

You try to smile but it comes out as more of a grimace. “I think I twisted it. Badly.”

His jaw clenches. 

“They tagged you and just – left you?” he snaps, looking over his shoulder, eyes searching the room.

You shrug half-heartedly. “They thought I was bluffing.”

Harry lets out a sharp breath through his nose, anger flickering across his face before he reins it in and turns back to you, immediately softer. 

“Does it hurt?” he asks, brushing hair out of your face, thumb gentle against your cheek. “Like- don’t lie to me.”

“It really hurts,” you admit quietly. 

He nods, swallowing. “Okay. Alright. You’re okay. They’ve got you.”

To the medic, he’s a machine-gun of questions:

“Is it broken?”

“Is she gonna need a scan?”

“Should she be moving it?”

“Do we need to go to the hospital?”

“Can i- can I stay here?”

They reassure him, calmly, that it’s likely just a sprain, that you’ll be taken out of the game, that they’ll ice it and keep an eye on you.

The game resumes somewhere behind him – whistles, shouting, laughter – but Harry doesn’t even look back. 

When someone yells, “Harry! You’re seeker now!” he barely reacts.

“Yeah, give it a minute,” he mutters, eyes fixed on you.

Even when he does technically rejoin the game, he doesn’t go far. He lingers near the medic area, half-hiding behind the padding, clearly not paying attention to who’s tagged or who’s running. Every few seconds, he glances back at you, eyebrows knit together. 

When he’s finally allowed back over, he sits beside you, shoulder pressed to yours. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I should’ve been closer.”

You lean into him. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He shakes his head anyway, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Next time someone leaves you on the floor like that, they’re getting beat. I don’t care if it’s a game.” 

You laugh softly, despite everything. 

He smiles back – small, relieved, still worried – and squeezes your hand carefully. 

“Games not worth it,” he murmurs. “You are.” 

You can tell something is wrong with Will before he even says a word. 

It’s in the way he walks into the room – too quick, too sharp, like there’s something sitting under his skin that he can’t quite shake off. His jaw is so tight, his shoulders set in that rigid way you’ve come to recognise, and he barely even looks at you properly when he comes in the flat with James. 

Normally, he would. 

Normally, there’d be a smile, or at least something soft in his expression when his eyes land on you, something that makes you feel like you’re the first thing he notices in a room. 

But today, it’s like he looks straight through you. 

“Hi,” you say anyway, careful, testing the waters. 

“Yeah”, he replies, distracted, already moving past you. 

You blink slightly, thrown off by how quickly it happens. 

It’s not like him.

You try not to let it bother you. 

“Hey,” James says as he follows Will inside, rolling his eyes at his mood.

Everyone has off days. You know that. You’ve told yourself that all day, because this isn’t the first time he’s been like this today. There had been things earlier this morning before he left for work – short replies, a tone that felt just slightly off, a kind of restlessness that didn’t quite make sense but still made you feel like you were doing something wrong without knowing what it was. 

You’d ignored it then. 

You try to ignore it now. 

It doesn’t last. 

You’re in the kitchen, just doing something simple – making tea, moving around quietly, trying to keep things calm, normal – when he comes back in. there’s a tension in the air that wasn’t there before, something that feels like it’s been building, even if you don’t know why.

“Did you move my stuff?” he asks suddenly. 

The question catches you off guard. 

You turn slightly, frowning. “What?”

“My stuff,” he repeats, sharper this time. “On the table. It’s not where I left it.”

You glance over instinctively, then back at him. “I don’t think I touched it.”

“Well, someone has,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair in frustration. 

You hesitate, unsure how to respond. “Maybe you just – moved it earlier?”

“I didn’t,” he snaps. 

The edge in his voice makes you flinch slightly before you can stop yourself.

There’s a pause. 

You swallow. 

“Okay,” you say softly, trying to keep things level. “I was just – suggesting.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not helpful,” he shoots back. 

The words land harder than they should. 

You go quiet.

Because now it doesn’t feel like a bad mood. It feels like you’ve done something wrong. 

It keeps happening. 

Small things, one after the other. 

You ask a simple question. He answers it like it’s an inconvenience. You try to joke. He doesn’t laugh. You offer help. He brushes you off, like you’re getting in the way rather than trying to make things easier. 

By the third time, you’ve stopped trying as much. 

You move more carefully, speak less, overthink everything before you say it, just in case it sets him off again. 

It’s exhausting and confusing. 

Because you don’t know what you’ve done.

The moment it breaks comes out of nowhere.

You’re both in the living room now, James somewhere nearby, half-listening, half-distracted by his phone. The tension has been sitting there for a while, thick and uncomfortable, and you can feel it in the way your shoulders are slightly tense, the way you keep glancing at Will like you’re trying to read something you can’t quite understand. 

“I’ll just grab that for you,” you say, moving to pick something up from the table before he can reach it.

It’s automatic, Small. Harmless.

But apparently, it’s the wrong thing to do. 

“Can you just – stop?” Will snaps suddenly. 

The sharpness of it cuts through the room

You freeze, your hand still hovering mid-air. 

“Stop what?” you ask, your voice quiet now, caught off guard. 

“Just – doing that,” he says, gesturing vaguely, frustration spilling over. “Hovering, getting involved in everything. It’s annoying.”

The words hit harder than anything he’s said so far. 

“I was just trying to help,” you say, your voice smaller than you want it to be.

“Well, I didn’t ask for help,” he shoots back.

The room goes quiet. 

There’s a split second where everything just… hangs.

And then-

“Alright, that’s enough.”

James’s voice cuts in, firm in a way you don’t hear often. You blink, startled, turning slightly as he straightens up properly, his attention no longer on his phone but fully on Will. 

“Mate, what’s your problem?” James continues, his tone sharp now, protective in a way that makes your chest tighten for a completely different reason. 

Will frowns, defensive immediately. “I don’t have a problem.”

“Yeah, you do,” James says bluntly. “You’ve been in a mood all day, and now you’re taking it out on her for no reason.”

Your stomach flips. 

“James, it’s fine-” you start automatically, the instinct to smooth things over kicking in before you can stop it. 

“It’s not fine,” he cuts in, not even looking at you, his focus still locked on Will. “She hasn’t done anything.”

Will opens his mouth, like he’s about to argue, but nothing comes out straight away. 

Because he knows. 

You can see it in the way his expression shifts, the frustration faltering slightly, something else slipping in underneath it – something that looks a lot like realisation. 

“I just-” he starts, but it sounds weaker now, less certain.

“No,” James interrupts, shaking his head. “Don’t. You don’t get to snap at her like that because you’re in a bad mood. Sort yourself out.”

There’s a pause. 

A long one. 

And then Will exhales, running a hand over his face, the tension in his shoulders dropping slightly like something’s finally clicked into place. 

“…yeah,” he mutters, quieter now. “Yeah, alright.”

The shift is immediate. 

Not gone completely – but different. 

He looks at you properly then, really looks, and you see it all hit him at once – the way you’ve gone quieter, the way you’re standing a little more closed off now, the way your expression has changed without you even realising it. 

Guilt flashed across his face. 

“Hey,” he says, softer this time, stepping toward you. “I’m sorry,” he adds quickly. “I didn’t mean- any of that. I’ve just been-”

“In a mood,” James supplies dryly from behind you. 

Will shoots him a look, but there’s no real bite to it this time. 

“Yeah,” he admits. “But that’s not your fault.”

You nod slightly, but its small, hesitant.

“It just felt like it was,” you say quietly.

“It’s not,” he says, firmer now. “Not at all. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

There’s sincerity in it now, real and unguarded.

You swallow, some of the tension in your body easing, but not completely.

“I was just trying to help,” you admit. 

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know. And I made it seem like you were doing something wrong, and you weren’t.”

He steps a little closer, more careful this time, like he’s aware he has to earn that space back. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, softer.

You look at him for a moment, then nod again, a little more certain this time. 

“Okay,”

There’s a small pause. 

Then his hand reaches for yours, tentative, like he’s giving you the choice to pull away if you want to. 

You don’t. 

Your fingers curl around his, and he lets out a quiet breath, relief flickering across his face. 

Behind you, James shifts slightly, the tension easing now that things have settled.

“Good,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Because that was painful to watch.”

You huff out a small, surprised laugh despite everything. Will rolls his eyes slightly, but there’s no real annoyance there anymore.

“Alright, Dad,” he mutters. 

“Someone had to say it,” James replies, completely unapologetic.

There’s a beat, and then he glances at you properly, his expression softening. 

“You alright?” he asks.

The question catches you off guard, but it’s warm. Genuine.

“Yeah,” you say, a small smile forming. “I’m okay.”

He nods once, satisfied, before leaning back again. 

“Good. Because if he does that again, I’m kicking him out.”

“Oi, you don’t even live here-” Will starts. 

“I mean it,” James adds, not even looking at him. 

You laugh properly this time, the last of the tension finally easing away.

Beside you, Will squeezes your hand a little tighter, like he’s making a quiet promise. 

One he fully intends to keep. 

The atmosphere inside Wembley Stadium was electric. 

You’d been to football matches before – local games, a few Premier League fixtures with your dad when you were younger – but nothing quite compared to this. The Sidemen Charity Match 2026 had drawn in a massive crowd, all packed into the stands with an energy that felt less like competition and more like celebration. 

Around you, fans were on their feet, singing, chanting, waving homemade signs. Someone three rows back had brought a whistle. The noise was insane. 

You’d come with your best mate, Maddie, who was currently screaming herself hoarse as one of the players – you thought it might be ChrisMD – made a run down in front of you. The ball sailed past him and out for a throw-in, and Maddie groaned dramatically, collapsing back into her seat. 

“This is mental,” she said, grinning at you. “Absolutely mental.”

You laughed, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. It was mid-April but a chill still ran through the stadium in the shade. The sun cast everything in sharp light: the bright green of the pitch, the colourful kits, the sea of faces in the stands. 

And then there was Will Lenney. 

You’d spotted him early in the match, which wasn’t difficult. He was hard to miss – tall, quick on his feet, with the energy that made him magnetic even from a distance. You’d been watching his videos for years, laughing at his reaction content, his collabs, and his absolutely chaotic review videos. Seeing him in person, actually playing, was surreal in a way you hadn’t quite anticipated. 

“You’re staring again,” Maddie said, elbowing you.

“I’m not staring. I’m watching the game.”

“You’re watching him.”

“It’s a football match. He’s playing football. That’s literally what I’m supposed to be doing.”

Maddie snorted. “Sure. Totally normal amount of focus on number two.”

You felt your cheeks heat and looked away, pretending to be very interested in the scoreboard. It was 6-6 deep into the second half. The energy in the stadium had shifted from playful to genuinely tense – people wanted their team to win, charity or not. 

That’s when you started noticing the paper aeroplanes. 

They’d been happening on and off throughout the game – little white shapes sailing down from the upper tiers, gliding over the heads of the crowd, occasionally making it all the way to the pitch. It was the kind of spontaneous, silly thing that happened at these events. You’d seen one land near the corner flag earlier, and one of the players had picked it up, unfolded it, and laughed at whatever was written inside before tucking it into his sock.

“Do you think anyone’s ever actually gotten a response from one of those?” you asked, nodding toward a fresh paper aeroplane that was currently nose-diving into the seats below. 

Maddie followed your gaze. “From a paper aeroplane? Probably not. Why, you thinking of trying?”

You weren’t. Or at least, you hadn’t been. 

But the idea, once planted, was hard to shake. 

You had paper – a small notebook in your bag that you had for emergencies. And you had a pen. And Will Lenney was right there, running up and down the pitch, close enough that if you got the angle right, if you timed it perfectly…

“Oh my god,” Maddie said, watching your face. “You’re actually considering it.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The look you get when you’re about to do something stupid.”

You bit your lip, torn between the impulse and the overwhelming certainty that this was a terrible idea. What were the odds it would even reach him? What were the odds he’d actually read it? And even if he did, why would he text some random person who’d thrown something at him during a football match?

“Fuck it,” you muttered, digging into your bag.

“Oh, this is going to be brilliant,” Maddie said, leaning over to watch as you tore a page from your notebook.

Your hand hovered over the paper. What are you even supposed to write? Something clever? Something funny? You didn’t have time for clever – the match was going to end soon, and if you were going to do this, it had to be now. 

In the end, you kept it simple:

Will,

 You’re my man of the match, call me? 

And then your number, written clearly enough that there’d be no mistaking it. 

You stared at the words, heart hammering. This was insane. This was genuinely unhinged behaviour. You should crumple it up, shove it back in your bag, and pretend you’d never considered it. 

Instead, you fold it into an aeroplane. 

Maddie watched, delighted. “I can’t believe you’re actually doing this.”

“I can’t either,” you admit. You’d been decent at these as a kid – you just had to hope you remembered correctly. 

The referee blew the whistle. Ninety minutes were up, but it would go into penalties. You had to time this perfectly. If you threw it too early, it might get lost in the chaos of the game. Too late, and he’d be off the pitch before it landed. 

You waited, pulse racing, as the penalties continued. The tension in the stadium was unbearable now – everyone knew it could go either way. And then one of Will’s teammates sent the ball straight into the goal. 

The stadium erupted. 

You were on your feet before you’d even registered the goal, screaming along with everyone else as Will sprinted toward his teammates, arms outstretched, teammates piling on top of each other. The noise was deafening – pure unfiltered joy from thousands of people all at once. 

The pitch flooded, with players, all of them celebrating, hugging, laughing. The energy was infectious, and you found yourself grinning so hard your face hurt. Around you, people were still cheering, chanting, taking photos and videos. 

And then the players started their victory lap. 

They moved around the perimeter of the pitch, high-fiving fans in the front rows, posing for selfies, and giving parts of their kit away. Will was in the middle of the group, still riding the high of the win, his hair a mess and his kit streaked with grass stains.

“Now,” Maddie hissed, nudging you. “Do it now!”

Your hands were shaking as you lifted the paper aeroplane. You’d never been great at throwing – your aim was dodgy at best -  but you’d gotten lucky with seats. You were close enough to the pitch that it wasn’t an impossible distance. 

You took a breath, pulled your arm back, and let it fly. 

For a moment, it seemed to hang in the air. The angle was good. The trajectory was good. It glided smoothly over the rows of seats in front of you, caught a current of air, and sailed down toward the pitch. 

Will was walking almost directly below you now, his back to the stands as he talked to one of his teammates. The paper aeroplane drifted closer, closer- 

And then hit him directly in the eye. 

“Oh my god,” you breathed.

Will stopped mid-step, his hand flying up to his face. He turned, confused, and bent down to pick up the paper that had just assaulted him. Even from where you were standing, you could see him blinking rapidly, his eye already starting to water. 

“Oh my god,” you said again, louder this time, horror flooding through you. 

Maddie was laughing – actually doubled over, tears streaming down her face. “You hit him in the eye!”

“This isn’t funny!”

“It’s hilarious!”

On the pitch, Will unfolded the paper, still rubbing his eye with his other hand. You watched, frozen, as he read what you’d written. His expression shifted – confusion, then surprise, then something that might have been amusement. He looked up at the stands, squinting slightly, clearly trying to figure out where it had come from. 

You ducked. 

It was instinctive and completely pointless – there were thousands of people in the stadium, and he had no way of knowing it had been you. But the mortification was so overwhelming that your body’s only response was to hide. 

“What are you doing?” Maddie asked, still giggling. 

“I just assaulted him with a paper aeroplane!”

“You gave him your number!”

“I poked him in the eye!”

On the pitch, Will was still holding the note, but now he was walking toward the sideline, one hand pressed gently against his eye. You could see him saying something to one of the staff members, who immediately looked concerned. They gestured toward the tunnel, and Will nodded. 

“He’s going to medical,” you said faintly. “Oh my god, he’s going to medical because of me.”

“It’s probably just a precaution,” Maddie said, though she didn’t sound entirely convinced. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

You weren’t sure of anything. All you knew was that you’d just hit Will Lenney in the eye with a paper aeroplane containing your phone number, and he was now walking off the pitch to get it checked out, and you wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. 

“I’m never doing anything ever again,” you said. 

Maddie patted your shoulder. “At least you made an impression?”

Will’s eye was watering like mad. 

He blinked a few times as he walked toward the tunnel, the paper aeroplane still clutched in his hand. It wasn’t painful, exactly – more irritating than anything else – but it had definitely made contact, and now his vision in that eye was slightly blurred. 

“You alright, mate?” one of the medics asked as he approached. 

“Yeah, just – something hit me in the eye,” Will said, gesturing vaguely at the stands. “Thought I should probably get it checked.”

The medic nodded, already guiding him toward the medical room. “Let’s have a look, then”

The room was small and clinical, stocked with the usual supplies – ice packs, bandages, antiseptic. Will sat down on the examination table, still holding the note. He’d read it twice already, and he still wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it.

It was bold, he’d give her that. Most people would’ve just shouted from the stands or tried to get his attention on social media. But a paper aeroplane? That was creative. Chaotic, definitely, but creative. 

Shame about the eye thing, though. 

“Alright, let’s see,” the medic said, leaning in with a small torch. “Look up for me.’

Will let the medic examine his eye. The light was bright and uncomfortable, but he stayed still, trying not to blink too much.

“Any pain?” the medic asked. 

“Not really. Just feels a bit itchy.”

“Mm. Looks like there’s some minor irritation, but nothing serious. No damage to the cornea or anything like that. You’ll probably want to rinse it out when you get home, maybe use some eye drops if it’s still bothering you. But you should be fine.”

“Brilliant,” Will said, relieved. He’d been pretty sure it wasn’t a big deal, but it was good to have confirmation. 

The medic stepped back, making a note on his clipboard. “What hit you, anyway?”

Will held up the paper aeroplane, grinning. “This.”

The medic raised an eyebrow. “Someone threw a paper aeroplane at you?”

“Yep. With their number on it.”

“Did they now?” The medic looked amused. “That’s one way to get your attention.”

“Definitely worked,” Will said, unfolding the note again. The handwriting was neat, feminine. He wondered what she looked like, this person who’d decided that the best way to shoot her shot was to literally throw something at his face. 

“You going to text her?” the medic asked. 

Will considered it. On the one hand, it was a bit mad. On the other hand, his team had just won a football match in front of thousands of people at Wembley, and the adrenaline was still buzzing through his veins. Why not?

“Maybe,” he said, folding the note carefully and tucking it into his pocket. “We’ll see.”

You didn’t hear anything that night. Not that you’d expected to. You’d spent the entire evening switching between hope and dread, checking your phone every five minutes even though you knew he wasn’t going to text. Why would he? You’d hit him in the eye. That wasn’t cute or charming – it was just embarrassing. 

Maddie had tried to reassure you over dinner, insisting that it was funny and memorable and that he’d probably appreciated the boldness. You’d nodded along, but internally, you were convinced you’d ruined any chance you might have had.

By the time you got home, you’d resigned yourself to never hearing from him. You changed into your pyjamas, washed your face, and climbed into bed, determined to put the whole thing out of your mind. 

Your phone buzzed. 

You almost ignored it – it was probably just Maddie sending you another edit about the match. But something made you pick it up, and when you saw the unknown number, your heart stopped. 

Unknown Number: Well, at least you waited until after we won. Could’ve been worse

You stared at the screen, convinced you were hallucinating...

Unknown Number: This is Will, by the way. In case that wasn’t clear

Unknown Number: The guy you assaulted with a paper aeroplane

Oh my god. 

Your hands were shaking as you typed out a response. 

You: I am SO sorry. Is your eye okay??

The reply came almost immediately. 

Will: Yeah, it’s fine. Medic said it’s just a bit irritated. Nothing serious

Will: Though I’m probably going to have to explain to everyone tomorrow why I’m wearing an eyepatch

You: Oh god, are you actually??

Will: No, I’m joking. It’s genuinely fine

Will: But you do owe me an apology

You bit your lip, guilt flooding through you again. 

You: I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you in the eye. I just wanted to… I don’t know. Get your attention, I guess?

Will: Well, mission accomplished

Will: Most people just DM me on Instagram, but I respect the commitment to physical mail

You laughed despite yourself, some of the tension easing.

You: I wanted to stand out

Will: You definitely did that

Will: So, mystery paper aeroplane girl. Do you have a name?

You hesitated for only a second before typing it out. 

You: It’s Reader

Will: Nice to meet you, Reader

Will: Even if you did try to blind me

You: I said I was sorry!!!

Will: I know, I know. I’m just teasing. 

Will: Honestly, it was pretty funny. The lads are never going to let me live it down

You: Oh no. Did they see?

Will: Oh yeah. Got the whole thing on the stream, apparently. I’m sure it’ll be all over the internet by tomorrow

You groaned, burying your face in your pillow. 

You: I’m never leaving my house again

Will: Don’t do that. Then how will you throw things at other unsuspecting footballers?

You: I’m retiring from paper aeroplane throwing. This was my first and last attempt

Will: Shame. You’ve got decent aim

Will: Well, decent-ish

You: I hit you, didn’t I?

Will: In the EYE

You: A hit’s a hit

Will: Can’t argue with that logic

You were grinning now, the mortification fading into something lighter, easier. He was funny. You’d known that from his videos, but it was different experiencing it firsthand, in real time. 

Will: So what made you decide to do it?

You thought about how to answer that. The truth felt too vulnerable - that you’d been watching him all match, that you’d been drawn to him in a way that felt both exciting and terrifying, that the impulse had been so strong you’d acted on it before you could talk yourself out of it. 

You: Honestly?  I don’t know. It was a spur of the moment thing. I saw people throwing them, and I just… went for it

Will: Brave

You: Stupid, more like

Will: No, I mean it. It takes guts to put yourself out there like that

Will: Even if your method was slightly unconventional

You: Slightly?

Will: Okay, very unconventional

Will: But I liked it

Your heart did a little flip. 

You: Yeah?

Will: Yeah. It was different. Fun

Will: Plus, you called me the man of the match, which is always nice to hear

You: You scored a goal. You were brilliant

Will: See, this is why I texted you

You: Because I boost your ego?

Will: Exactly

There was a pause, and then another message came through.

Will: So tell me something about yourself. Something I wouldn’t find on your Instagram

You: How do you know I have Instagram?

Will: Everyone has Instagram

Will: Also, I may have already looked you up

You: Oh god

Will: Don’t worry, your profile’s private. I couldn’t see anything

Will: Which is why I’m asking

You thought for a moment, trying to come up with something interesting. 

You: I’m a terrible cook. Like, genuinely awful. I once set off the fire alarm making toast

Will: TOAST?

You: I got distracted!

Will: How do you get distracted making toast? You literally just put bread in a toaster and wait

You: I have a very short attention span

Will: Clearly

Will: Okay, my turn. I’m weirdly good at mini golf

You: That’s so random

Will: I know. But I’m genuinely undefeated among my mates. It’s my hidden talent

You: I feel like that’s not hidden. Haven’t you done mini golf in videos before?

Will: You’ve watched my videos?

You froze. You’d just accidentally revealed that you were more than a casual fan.

You: …Maybe

Will: How many?

You: I don’t know. A few

Will: A few?

You: Okay, a lot. I’ve watched a lot of your videos

Will: So you knew who I was when you threw the paper aeroplane

You: Well yeah

Will: And you still went for it?

You: I told you, it was a spur of the moment thing!

Will: I’m flattered

Will: Genuinely

You: Don’t let it go to your head

Will: Too late

You laughed, shaking your head. This was surreal. You were lying in bed, in your pyjamas, texting Will Lenney. Will Lenney who you’d hit in the eye with a paper aeroplane. Will Lenney, who was being sweet and funny and making you feel like this maybe wasn’t the disaster you’d thought it was.

Will: What are you doing right now?

You: Lying in bed, texting you. You?

Will: Same. Well, not texting me. Texting you. 

Will: You know what I mean

You: Smooth

Will: I’m very tired. I played ninety minutes of football today

Will: And then got attacked by a paper aeroplane

You: You should probably sleep then

Will: Probably

Will: But I don’t want to stop talking to you yet

Your heart flipped.

You: We can talk tomorrow

Will: Promise?

You: Promise

Will: Okay then. Goodnight Reader.

You: Goodnight, Will

You set your phone down, still smiling. As you drifted off to sleep, you couldn’t stop thinking about how a moment of absolute insanity had somehow turned into the best thing that had happened to you in months.

The YoungLA event is loud in that specific influencer way – music thumping just low enough to talk over, drinks everywhere, people dressed like they definitely planned their outfit a week in advance. Alfie’s got his arm loosely around your waist, thumb drawing lazy circles like he does when he’s overstimulated and pretending he’s not.

You’re half-listening to someone talk about protein shakes when you feel him tense slightly beside you.

You don’t even have to look.

You just now. 

And then you hear her. 

“Hi,” she says, leaning in far too close to Alfie, hand brushing his arm like it’s an accident. “You’re AB, right?”

He blinks, a little slow, already uncomfortable. “Uh- yeah?”

You tilt your head, eyes flicking to her hand. 

It stays there. 

You straighten immediately. 

“Hello?” you say, sweet voice sharp around the edges. 

Both of them look at you. 

The girl smiles at you like you’re an inconvenience. “Sorry, I was just-” 

“He’s taken,” you say calmly. No raised voice. No drama. Just a fact. 

You slid your arm properly around Alfie’s waist now, possessive without trying. 

Alfie, bless him, does absolutely nothing to stop you. 

In fact, he leans into you. 

“Yeah”, he adds helpfully, nodding. “This is my girlfriend.”

The girl’s fake smile falters. “Oh. I didn’t know.”

You glance down at Alfie’s hand on your waist, then back at her. “That’s interesting, because he’s been standing with me the entire time”

Alfie lets out a small, badly contained laugh and immediately hides it by pretending to cough into his fist. 

The girl’s jaw tightens. She looks Alfie up and down once more, clearly annoyed that he hasn’t said anything else/ 

“Well,” she says, tone sharp now, “you didn’t have to be rude.”

You smile, polite and deadly. “I wasn’t. I was being clear.”

She rolls her eyes, mutters something under her breath, and storms off toward the bar and a group of girls, shoulders stiff. 

The second she’s gone, Alfie turns to you, eyes wide and impressed. 

“That was sick,” he says, grinning. “You’re crazy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You looked like you were about to combust.”

“I was,” he admits. “Thanks for saving me. I didn’t know what to say.”

You poke his chest. “You could’ve said no.” 

“Yeah, but you’re better at it,” he says, hands finding your hips again. “I like it when you do that thing.”

“What thing?” 

“Where you go all calm and scary,” he says fondly. “Possessive behaviour.”

You snort, “You’re such an idiot.”

He leans down and presses a kiss to your temple, soft and public and intentional. “Your idiot. And you’re my scary girlfriend.” 

You tuck yourself back into his side, satisfied. 

Across the room, the girl glances back once from her group of friends, sees Alfie still glued to you, kissing you, and she huffs again and turns round. 

It happens too fast. 

One second, Harry’s forehead is pressed to yours, his thumb brushing slow, grounding circles over your knuckles as you squeeze his hand so tightly, he thinks you might break it. 

The next-

A sharp, unfamiliar beep cuts through the room. 

Then another. 

Then several all at once. 

Harry’s head snaps up. “What’s-?”

Someone moves past him. Then another. The room fills with people so quickly it makes his head spin. A nurse is suddenly adjusting something on the monitor; her voice sounds distant, like it’s underwater. 

“Can we get a doctor in here, now?”

The word now lands like a gunshot. 

Harry looks around, wildly, trying to find someone’s face – anyone’s – who isn’t tense. The beeping grows louder, sharper, wrong. Someone pulls a curtain partially closed. Another nurse is already moving toward you with purpose that borders on running. 

“Hey- hey, what’s happening?” Harry asks, voice climbing, despite himself. “You said everything was okay.”

“We need space,” a nurse says, already reaching for his arm.

Harry doesn’t move. “No, I’m not- I’m staying with her.’ 

‘Dad,” she says firmly, and the word barely registers before she adds, “We need you to step outside.”

Dad.

The room feels like it tilts. 

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head. “No. I’m not leaving her. She needs me.”

Another alarm sounds. 

Louder this time.

A doctor says your name sharply. 

Harry’s ears ring. 

“I’m right here,” he says to you desperately, leaning closer, like proximity alone can keep you anchored. 

“I’m here, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

Your eyes flicker to his, unfocused but trying. Your lips part like you want to say something.

He never hears it. 

Hands are on him suddenly – gentle, but insistent – guiding him backwards. 

“Harry, please.”

“Wait- wait, don’t” 

His fingers slip from yours. 

And the door closes behind him with a sound that feels far too final. 

Harry stumbles into the corridor like he’s been shoved out into open air after drowning. He turns immediately, reaching for the handle-

Locked. 

“No,” he breathes, knocking once, then harder. “No, no, no-”

A nurse intercepts him, palms up, calm in a way that feels cruel. “Sir, we need you to stay out here.”

“What’s wrong with her?” he demands. “You said she was okay. You said-”

“We’re just being cautious.”

“About what?” His voice cracks. “That’s my wife. That’s my-”

His words fail him.

The hallway is too bright. Too quiet. Every second stretches until it feels like his chest might tear itself open. 

Then they bring the baby out.

Wrapped in a blanket. Tiny. Silent. 

Harry’s stomach drops straight through the floor. 

“Why isn’t she crying?” he asks hoarsely. “Why isn’t she crying?”

“She’s okay,” the nurse says quickly. “We’re just taking her to be monitored”

“Can I- can I come with you?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

And then she’s gone too. 

Harry sinks into a chair he doesn’t remember choosing, elbows braced on his knees, head in his hands. His breathing comes out in jagged, uncontrollable gasps. He tried to count. In. Out. In. Out. 

It doesn’t work. 

His phone buzzes. He doesn’t check it. He can’t.

Time loses meaning. 

Footsteps approach, hurried and familiar. 

“Harry?” 

He looks up and sees them: Josh and Ethan, faces pale and worried and already bracing for bad news at the sight of him sitting out in the hallway by himself. Josh opens his mouth to ask something, but stops when he sees Harry’s face. 

“What’s happened?” Josh asks quietly. 

Harry swallows. Tries to speak but fails.

His jaw trembled. His eyes burned. He shook his head once, like that might fix it, like if he just reset himself, he’d be able to explain calmly and normally what was happening. Ethan stepped closer instinctively. 

“Mate,” Ethan said softly, “talk to us.” 

Harry tried again. Voice cracking straight down the middle 

“They-” He dragged in a shaky breath. “She had the baby. She was fine and then everything just- it went wrong so fast, and they started yelling, and I didn’t know what they were doing, and then they made me leave.”

Josh’s face drained of colour.

“They took the baby,” Harry continues, words spilling out now, messy and panicked. “They said it was for her safety, but no one will tell me anything, and I can’t- I can’t lose her. I can’t do this without her.”

He breaks completely then, folds in on himself, forehead dropping to Josh’s shoulder as a sob ripped out of him, raw and ugly and completely unfiltered. Josh’s arms came up immediately, solid and grounding, one hand cradling the back of Harry’s head like he was trying to hold him together.

“I’m scared,” Harry sobs. ‘I’m so fucking scared.”

“I know,” Josh says softly. “I know. You’re alright. You’re not on your own.” 

Ethan hovered for half a second before stepping in too, hand rubbing circles into Harry’s back, his voice low and steady. “They’ve got her, mate. Best place she could be. Same with the baby. You’re doing everything right.” 

Harry nodded into Josh’s shoulder, even though it didn’t feel like it. Even though he’d never felt more helpless.

They waited like that, time stretching and blurring together, until finally, a nurse appeared.

“Harry Lewis?” 

His head snapped up so fast he nearly made himself dizzy.

“She’s okay.” The nurse said quickly, and the relief hit him so hard his knees nearly gave out. “There were some complications, but she’s stable now. Your daughter’s doing well, too. We’re just getting them settled.” 

Daughter. 

He laughed and cried at the same time. 

When they finally let him in, the room was dim and quiet, machines humming softly like they were keeping a shared secret. You were propped up in bed, hair a mess, eyes tired but warm, and there, tucked against your chest, was the tiniest little person Harry had ever seen. 

“Oh,” he breathed.

You looked up at him and smiled. “Hi.”

He crossed the room in three strides and carefully climbed onto the bed beside you, curling around you both like he was scared someone might try to take you away again. One arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other resting protectively over the baby’s back, fingers barely daring to move. 

“I thought-” His voice wobbled. “I thought I’d lost you.”

You turned your head and pressed a kiss into his jaw, gentle and sure. “I’m still here.” 

He buried his face in your hair, breathing you in like oxygen, tears soaking into the hospital pillow. The baby squirmed softly between you, and Harry let out a breathy laugh. 

“She’s perfect,” he whispered. 

“Our girl,” you said. 

He nodded, pressing his forehead to yours. Outside the room, he knew his mates were still hovering somewhere nearby, probably pretending not to be emotional wrecks. But in here, curled up together in a too-small hospital bed, the world felt quiet again. 

George is halfway through reading a donation when his phone buzzes. 

Once. 

He ignores it.

Then again. 

He glances down – and immediately breaks into a grin so wide it’s almost embarrassing. 

“Oh, for-” he laughs, cutting himself off. “Hold on, chat.”

He answers without thinking, thumb tapping the speaker automatically.

“Hello?” he says, voice instantly softer.

The chat notices.

WHY DID HIS TONE CHANGE THIS IS A DIFFERENT MAN

“Hi,” you say. “I’m really sorry, I know you’re streaming-”

“It’s alright,” he says quickly. “What’s up?”

You hesitate. “This is gonna sound stupid.”

He leans back in his chair, still smiling like he’s just won something. “Go on.”

“I’m at the shop,” you say, “and I can’t remember which cereal you like. Is it the boring one or the chocolate one?”

George laughs – a proper, fond laugh.

“It’s not boring,” he says defensively. “It’s just… mature.”

The chat erupts. 

HE HAS A CEREAL OPINION THEY LIVE TOGETHER CONFIRMED

“The chocolate one,” he adds, softer. “And get the green milk, not the blue.”

You hum. “Knew you’d say that.”

“You did not.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t” 

There’s a beat where neither of you says anything, and George realises he’s still smiling like an idiot at his monitor. 

“Did you need anything else?” he asks.

“Um,” you say, “do you want tea when I get back?”

His heart does a stupid little flip. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”

The chat loses its mind.

BRO SHE’S MAKING HIM TEA THIS IS SO DOMESTIC I’M GONNA BE SICK

“I’ll let you get back to it,” you say. “Don’t let them stress you out.”

He glances at chat again, full of heat emojis and people begging him for details. 

“They’re already stressed,” he laughs. “See you in a bit.” Then he adds without thinking, “Love you.”

“See you, love you too,” you reply.

The line clicks off.

George stares at his phone for a second, then places it down carefully like it’s something precious. 

He looks back at the screen.

The chat is relentless.

GEORGE YOU’RE IN LOVE THAT SMILE DIDN’T LEAVE JUST SAY YOU’VE GOT A GIRLFRIEND

He exhales, rubbing his face, still grinning. 

“All I did was answer a phone call,” he protests.

Someone types: 

YOU ANSWERED LIKE SHE’S YOUR WHOLE WORLD.

George pauses.

Then shrugs, smile turning smaller, softer. 

“I mean,” he says casually, “she did ask about my favourite cereal.”

The key turns in the lock with a soft click, and you’re acutely aware of James’s hand on the small of your back as he guides you inside. Your apartment is dark except for the ambient glow from the city lights filtering through the curtains. Four dates. Four perfect dates, and now this – the inevitable conclusion you’ve been both anticipating and dreading. 

“Wine?” you offer, your voice steadier than you feel. 

James closes the door behind him, and even in the dim light, you can see the heat in his eyes. “Maybe later.”

He crosses the space between you in two strides, his hands cupping your face as he kisses you with an intensity that makes your knees weak. You’ve kissed before – plenty of times over the past few weeks – but this is different. 

This kiss has purpose, promise, permission. 

Your back hits the wall, and you gasp against his mouth. His hands are everywhere – tangling in your hair, sliding down your sides, gripping your hips. You respond by tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel skin against skin. 

“Bedroom?” he murmurs against your neck, and you nod, taking his hand and leading him down the hallway. 

Your heart is pounding, but not entirely from arousal. There’s that familiar knot of anxiety in your stomach, the one that always appears at this moment. You like James – really like him. He’s funny and kind and attentive, and the chemistry between you is undeniable. 

But you know how this goes. You know the script by heart. 

You’ll have sex. It’ll be nice. He’ll be enthusiastic and probably pretty good at what he does. You’ll enjoy the intimacy, the closeness, the feeling of being wanted. And then, when the moment comes, you’ll fake it. You’ll arch your back and moan and dig your nails into his shoulders, and he’ll feel accomplished, and you’ll feel… fine. Not disappointed exactly. Just resigned. 

It’s not that you can’t orgasm. You can – easily, in fact – with clit stimulation. But penetration? That’s a different story. 

Twice. 

Twice in your whole sexual history have you actually climaxed from penetration alone, and both times felt like statistical anomalies, flukes that you’ve never been able to replicate despite numerous partners and positions. 

You’ve tried explaining it to previous boyfriends. Some were understanding but clearly disappointed. Others took it as a personal challenge, determined to be “the one” who could make you come, which only added pressure and made the whole experience feel clinical and performative. Eventually, you learned it was easier to just… fake it. To give them what they wanted and avoid the awkward conversations and wounded egos. 

James pulls you onto the bed, and you push the thoughts away, determined to be present. His shirt comes off, then yours. His hands are skilled and confident as they explore your body, and you find yourself relaxing into his touch. He’s good at this – attentive to your responses, taking his time. 

“You’re so beautiful,’ he whispers, his lips trailing down your neck to your collarbone. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks.”

“Me too,” you admit, and it’s true. You have been thinking about it, wanting it, even with the anxiety lurking in the background. 

Clothes disappear piece by piece until you’re both naked, and James takes a moment to look at you, his gaze appreciative and hungry. You feel exposed but not uncomfortable – there’s something in the way he looks at you that makes you feel genuinely desired. 

He kisses you again, deep and slow, as his hand slides between your thighs. You’re already wet – that’s never been a problem – and he groans against your mouth when he feels it. 

“Fuck, you’re so ready for me,” he murmurs, and you can only nod, your breath coming faster as his fingers circle your clit with just the right amount of pressure. 

He takes his time with foreplay, and you’re grateful for it. His fingers work you expertly, and you feel the familiar tension building, the pleasure you know you can achieve this way. But before you can get too close, he pulls back, reaching for his wallet to retrieve a condom.

Here we go, you think, steeling yourself. The mental preparation begins: remember to moan, remember to move your hips, and wait an appropriate amount of time before the big finale.

James rolls on the condom and positions himself between your legs, his eyes locked on yours. “You okay?” he asks, and the genuine concern in his voice makes your chest tighten. 

“Perfect,” you assure him, wrapping your legs around his waist. 

He enters you slowly, giving you time to adjust, and you close your eyes, focusing on the sensation. It feels good – It always feels good, that initial stretch, the fullness. You make a soft sound of pleasure that’s entirely genuine. 

“God, you feel amazing,” James breathes, and he starts to move, finding a rhythm that’s steady and deep. 

You move with him, your hands on his shoulders, preparing yourself for the performance. But then- 

Oh. 

Oh fuck. 

Something happens that’s never happened before. James shifts his angle slightly, pulling your hips up just a bit, and suddenly he’s sitting a spot inside you that makes your entire body jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, and it’s not fake, not even a little bit. 

James, interpreting this as general enthusiasm, grins and does it again. And again. 

Each thrust hits that same impossible spot, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body that are completely unlike anything you’ve experienced before. 

You’re not prepared for this. You had your script ready, your performance planned, but this – this is real. This is overwhelming. This is…

“Fuck, James, oh my god, oh my god-” The words tumble out of you in a rush, and you can’t control the volume of your voice. You’re loud, louder than you’ve ever been, and you can’t help it because everything is so intense it’s almost frightening.

“Yeah? You like that? James asks, his voice rough, clearly pleased with himself. He maintains that perfect rhythm, and you’re completely at his mercy. 

“Yes, yes, fuck yes-” You’re practically screaming now, your nails digging into his back, your body arching off the bed. This isn’t the polite, controlled moaning you usually do. This is raw and desperate and completely involuntary. 

James thinks he’s just good at sex. He thinks your reaction is about his skill, his technique, and sure, that’s part of it – but what he doesn’t understand is that you’re not just turned on. You’re shocked. You’re experiencing something you’d almost convinced yourself was a myth, something you’d resigned yourself to never feeling again. 

The pleasure builds with an intensity that terrifies you. It’s not the gentle, gradual climb you’re used to with clit stimulation. This is sudden and overwhelming, a tidal wave that’s going to crash over you whether you’re ready or not. 

“James, I- oh fuck, I can’t- I’m-” You can’t even form complete sentences. Your thighs are shaking, your whole body is trembling, and the pressure building inside of you is almost unbearable.

“Come for me,” James urges, his voice strained with his own approaching climax. “I want to feel you come.”

And you do. God help you, you do. 

The orgasm hits you hard, ripping through your body with a force that makes you scream – actually scream, loud enough that you’ll probably get a noise complaint from the neighbours. Your body convulses, your inner walls clenching around him rhythmically, and the pleasure is so intense it almost hurts. 

James groans, his rhythm faltering as your orgasm triggers his own. He buries his face in your neck, his body shuddering as he comes, but you barely register it because you’re still riding out the aftershocks of your own climax, wave after wave of pleasure that seems to go on forever. 

When it finally subsides, you’re left gasping for breath, your body limp and trembling. James collapses beside you, pulling you against his chest, both of you sweaty and breathless. 

“Holy shift,” he says, laughing softly. “That was… wow. I mean, I knew we had chemistry, but that was amazing.”

You can’t speak yet. Your brain is still trying to process what just happened. You’d come prepared to fake an orgasm, and instead you’d had the most intense, genuine climax of your entire life. From something you’d almost given up on. 

“You okay?” James asks, tilting your chin to look up at you. “You’re quiet. Was it too much?”

“No,” you manage, your voice hoarse. “No, it was… James, that was…”

How do you explain this? How do you tell him that he just gave you something you’d convinced yourself you couldn’t have? That in one night, he’d shattered years of resignation and disappointment.

“That was perfect,” you finish, and it’s inadequate, but it’s all you can manage right now. 

He kisses your forehead, looking pleased and slightly smug. “You were so loud,” he teases gently. “I don’t think I’ve ever made anyone scream like that before.”

You laugh, a little breathless, a little hysterical. He has no idea. He thinks this is normal, that this is just was good sex looks like. He doesn’t know that he’s just performed a miracle.

As you lie there in his arms, your body still humming with residual pleasure, a thought crystallises in your mind with this startling clarity: This is it. This is the one. 

Not just because of the sec – though god, the sex – but because of what it represents. The ease of it. The naturalness. The way your bodies just… fit. After years of awkward explanations and faked orgasms and resigned acceptance, you’ve found someone who can give you this without even trying, without you having to explain or guide or pretend. 

“Stay,” you whisper, and James tightens his arms around you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, and you believe him. 

For the first time in your sexual life, you feel hopeful. Excited. Like maybe you’ve found something – someone – worth holding onto. 

The anxiety is gone, replaced by a warm, glowing certainty. You don’t know what the future holds, but you know this: you’re never faking it again. You don’t have to. Not with James. 

You fall asleep in his arms, sated and happy, already looking forward to the next time. And the time after that. And all the times to come.