#heidmanning

YES THATS WHAT I WAS THINKING!

I was going to leave cheater cheater at just 2 parts, but I’m glad someone thinks the way I do lmao.

Cheater cheater 3- arch manning

It's quiet in the living room in that comfortable, lived-in way. Not the heavy silence I used to drown in three months ago, but the kind that hums softly under the sound of a movie playing and the occasional shift of fabric against fabric.

I'm curled up on the couch, my legs tucked beneath me, my arms curled to Heids side, Heid's arm draped loosely around my shoulders. His hand rests warm and steady against my upper arm, thumb absentmindedly tracing small circles like it's second nature. The TV glows low in front of us, some random movie neither of us is actually paying attention to. It's more background noise than anything else.

I realize, distantly, that I'm okay.

Not pretending. Not forcing it. Actually okay.

Three months ago, I couldn't imagine this version of myself—calm, grounded, not flinching at the thought of Arch's name. Back then, everything hurt. The betrayal, the public humiliation, the feeling that I'd been made a fool of in front of the entire world. But time did what time always does. It softened the edges. It gave me space to breathe again.

And somehow, through all of that, Heid had been there.

Not loudly. Not intrusively. Just... present.

He'd started texting me not long after everything blew up online. At first, it was simple stuff. Checking in. Asking if I was eating. Sending dumb memes at two in the morning when he knew I couldn't sleep. He never asked me to talk about Arch. Never defended him. Never reported back to him, either. I knew that for a fact.

Heid had chosen me as a person, not a side.

The movie shifts into some dramatic scene, swelling music and emotional dialogue, and Heid snorts softly beside me.

"This is where he realizes he messed up," he mutters. "Way too late."

I huff a quiet laugh. "That's every movie."

"And real life," he adds lightly.

There's no weight to it. No tension. Just an observation.

I lean my head back against the couch, eyes drifting from the screen to the ceiling. "You ever notice how movies make grand apologies look romantic?"

"Yeah," Heid says. "In real life, they're usually just... awkward."

"And insufficient," I add.

He nods. "Very."

We fall into silence again, the easy kind. His arm stays where it is. I don't move away. I don't feel the need to.

I think about how different this feels from before. With Arch, everything was intense. High highs. Crushing lows. Love that burned hot and fast and left scars when it imploded. With Heid, there's no urgency. No pressure. Just a steady presence that doesn't demand anything from me.

It's... nice.

The movie credits start to roll, white text crawling up a black screen. Heid reaches for the remote and clicks it off, plunging the room into a softer quiet, lit only by the afternoon sun filtering through the curtains.

He glances down at me. "You hungry?"

I consider it. I actually consider it—not in that distracted, numb way I used to, but genuinely checking in with myself.

"Yeah," I say slowly. "I think so."

He smiles. "There's this really wild idea I had."

"Oh no," I deadpan. "Here it comes."

"What if," he says, dragging it out, clearly amused, "we went and got lunch from your favorite place."

I turn my head to look at him. "You remembered my favorite place?"

He shrugs, but there's a small, pleased smile tugging at his mouth. "You talk about it a lot. And you light up every time you do."

My chest tightens just a little—not painfully, just warmly.

"That place is dangerous," I warn. "Once you go, you're addicted."

"Worth the risk," he says easily.

I sit up, stretching my arms over my head. My body feels good—strong, rested. I've been taking better care of myself lately. Going to the gym because I want to, not to punish myself. Eating meals that actually nourish me. Sleeping through the night. Therapy. Long walks. Small joys.

Healing, I've learned, is mostly made up of small, unglamorous choices.

"Okay," I say, swinging my legs off the couch. "But you're driving."

"Why do I feel like that's a threat?" Heid laughs, standing too.

"Because you speed," I point out.

"I do not speed," he protests. "I confidently exceed the limit."

I grab my bag from the side table, shaking my head. "I should've known."

We slip on our shoes and step outside, the Texas air warm and bright. The sun hits my face and I close my eyes for a second, just letting myself exist in the moment.

The drive is easy. Windows down. Music playing low. Heid drums his fingers against the steering wheel, relaxed, comfortable. I watch the road roll by, feeling oddly peaceful.

At a red light, he glances over at me. "You good?"

I smile. "Yeah. I really am."

He studies me for a second, like he's checking for cracks. "Good."

There's something sincere in the way he says it. No agenda. No hidden meaning.

We pull into the parking lot of my favorite place, the familiar sign making me grin before I even realize it. As soon as we walk inside, the smell hits me—warm bread, spices, comfort.

"You're smiling," Heid notes.

"I can't help it," I admit. "This place just... makes me happy."

"Then I'm glad we came," he says simply.

We order, grab a table by the window, sunlight spilling across the wood. I catch myself laughing more than usual, talking about nothing and everything—work, random thoughts, plans I'm making for myself that don't involve anyone else.

He listens. Actually listens.

At one point, my phone buzzes on the table. I glance at the screen out of habit, then flip it face down without checking.

Heid notices but doesn't comment.

I realize, suddenly, that I haven't checked Arch's social media in weeks. Haven't wondered what he's doing or who he's with. The chapter feels... closed.

Not erased. Just finished.

As we eat, I feel light. Not giddy. Just steady.

"You know," Heid says after a moment, almost casual, "I'm really proud of you."

I look up, surprised. "For what?"

"For how you handled everything," he says. "You didn't let it break you. You actually... built something better."

I swallow, emotion brushing my throat. "It didn't feel like that at first."

"It never does," he replies. "But it shows now."

I smile softly. "Thank you. For being there. For not making it weird."

He chuckles. "I specialize in not making things weird. Mostly."

"Mostly," I agree.

We finish lunch slowly, in no rush. When we leave, the sun feels warmer, the world a little brighter.

Back in the car, as we pull out of the lot, I glance at Heid and feel a quiet certainty settle in my chest.

I'm not sad anymore. I'm not angry. And holy fuck, it feels amazing.

—-

The door clicks shut behind us, and the familiar quiet of my house settles around us like a blanket. Lunch was good, the drive home easy, and now the late-afternoon sleepiness hits both of us at once.

Heid kicks his shoes off near the entryway while I toss my keys in the bowl by the door. No awkwardness. No hesitation. Just comfort.

"Nap?" he asks, eyebrows raised like he already knows the answer.

"Nap," I confirm.

We make our way to my room. The bed is unmade—messy pillows and a throw blanket half-falling off the edge—but neither of us cares. It looks inviting. Lived-in. Real.

I crawl onto the left side out of habit. Heid slides in next to me, lying on his back with his hands behind his head. I don't even think about it—I drape myself across his chest, curling into him like I've done this a thousand times. His arm wraps around me immediately, like it belongs there.

The ceiling fan hums quietly. Afternoon light filters through the curtains in soft stripes.

"Best lunch decision of my life," Heid mumbles.

I smile against his shirt. "Told you it was dangerous."

"Worth every bite."

We talk lazily about nothing—his mom's weird obsession with scented candles, the terrible movie we half-watched earlier, whether dinosaurs would have enjoyed baseball if given the chance. He makes everything feel light. Easy.

I rest my hand over his heart. It beats steady beneath my palm.

Heid tilts his head so he can see my face. His fingers trace along my jaw, slow and careful, like he's giving me room to pull away if I want. I don't.

He hooks a finger under my chin, guiding my gaze to his.

"You sure?" he asks quietly—about the closeness, the shift happening between us.

I answer by closing the space first.

Our lips meet softly—no rush, no urgency. Just a warm, tentative kiss that deepens when his hand slides up to cradle the back of my head. His other hand keeps drawing gentle circles along my arm, grounding, reassuring.

I kiss him again—longer, braver this time.

His breath stirs against my mouth, and there's a tiny smile between the next kiss, like he can't help it. Like he's been waiting for this without ever expecting it to actually happen.

Then—of course—

His phone starts buzzing in his pocket.

We break apart, both pausing, breath mingling in the inch of space between us.

He glances at the screen.

His jaw tightens.

Arch.

Heid exhales slowly, bringing the phone to his ear while I remain draped across him, my heart suddenly pounding louder in my chest.

He doesn't move his arm away from me. Doesn't push me off. If anything, his thumb keeps rubbing soothing circles on my skin—quietly promising that whatever's coming doesn't change where I am or who I'm with.

He answers calmly, voice low.

"Yeah?"

I can't hear Arch's voice at first, but then he's yelling—so loud the speaker cracks around the edges.

"Why the fuck is my little brother taking my ex to lunch? Huh? News flash dick, people know who you are. They will take pictures and it be all online."

My stomach drops, but Heid stays relaxed beneath me—composed in a way that almost feels defiant.

There's more—shouting, accusations, venom.

"What the fuck, Heid! You just like my sloppy seconds? How long have you been fucking her?"

The words slice into me even though I know better than to let them. Old pain burns in my throat, memories I've spent months burying clawing to the surface.

Heid's fingers curl against my arm, steady pressure. A silent Don't listen to him.

I keep my eyes on Heid's chest, rising and falling evenly beneath my cheek.

Arch keeps going—voice rough and wounded and cruel all at once.

"Well news flash—she leaves when things get hard! Good fucking luck. Don't ever talk to me again."

The call ends abruptly.

Silence spreads through the room, heavy and motionless. The kind that waits.

Heid lowers the phone slowly, dropping it to the mattress beside him. His hand never leaves me. His heartbeat never stutters.

He doesn't curse. Doesn't explode. Doesn't defend himself with petty jabs in return.

He just breathes—and keeps holding me.

For a long moment, I don't say anything. I don't move. I just listen to the thrum of his pulse beneath my ear, that quiet reassurance that not everyone handles heartbreak by trying to break others too.

Finally, I whisper, "You didn't tell him I was here."

"Nope. You don’t deserve to have to go through his grieving now."

"He was wrong," I add, voice small but sure. "About me. About... everything."

"I know," Heid says softly. "He was hurting. And angry. And wrong."

He could've driven the dagger in deeper. He doesn't.

He shifts just enough to look at me, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch is gentle. Respectful. Steady.

"You didn't leave because it got hard," he says. "You left because he made staying impossible."

Emotion swells hot in my chest—relief, gratitude, maybe something bigger simmering underneath.

I take a slow breath. "Thank you."

"For what?" His brows raise slightly.

"For not making this messy," I say. "For not making me feel like something to fight over."

He nods once. "You're not a battleground. You're a person."

My throat twists around a tiny, unexpected ache.

"I'm sorry he said those things," he murmurs.

I shake my head. "I'm not. It just proves I made the right choice."

He smiles—a small, warm curve of his lips meant only for me.

"Well," he says quietly, "choice or not... I'm really glad you're here."

And God—so am I.

I shift up just enough to press my forehead to his. He closes his eyes, breath brushing across my lips. Lifting softly to press his lips to mine in a delicate way.

There's no label. No rush to define what this is or what it might become. Just two people healing in the same direction.

His thumb traces my cheek.

"Wanna go back to our nap?" he asks, a little hopeful.

I huff a soft laugh. "Only if you keep being my pillow."

"I'm committed," he promises.

We settle again—me curled on top of him, his arms secure around my waist. The air feels softer. Safer.

Outside, the world continues spinning with all its gossip and noise and unresolved anger—but in here, all I feel is warmth.

All I feel is forward.

And as my eyes flutter closed again, one truth settles deeper than the fear that once ruled me:

Arch's version of my story is no longer the one I have to live in.