#mariners baseball

⸻

When you’re half asleep:

You’re barely awake, still tucked under the blankets with your face pressed into his pillow, one leg tangled with his. The room is dim and quiet and warm, early enough that neither of you should be conscious yet.

You feel him move before you really open your eyes.

Just enough to turn toward you.

His fingers brush messy hair back from your face, slow and lazy, and when you squint up at him, Bryan’s already looking at you.

Really looking at you.

You frown a little. “What?”

His thumb drags once over your cheek.

“Nothin’,” he murmurs.

Your voice comes out scratchy. “Then why’re you staring at me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just smiles a little, that sleepy, soft one that barely lifts one corner of his mouth.

“You’re pretty.”

You let out the tiniest groan and pull the blanket higher over your face. “I literally just woke up.”

“I know.”

“I look scary.”

“No.” His hand slips under the blanket, settling warm at your waist. “You don’t.”

You peek at him over the edge of the comforter.

He’s still looking at you like he means it too much.

“Bryan,” you mumble.

“What?”

“Go back to sleep.”

He leans in anyway, presses one slow kiss to your forehead, and pulls you closer until your face is tucked into his chest.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says quietly. “Sleep.”

And with him saying it like that, like it’s the easiest truth in the world, you actually do.

⸻

In the middle of you trying to be mad at him:

You’re standing in his kitchen with your arms crossed, trying very hard to stay annoyed.

He’s late. Not horribly late, not enough to start a fight, but enough that you had time to work yourself up while waiting on his couch for the last twenty minutes.

And now he’s standing there in front of you with that calm expression that only makes it worse.

“You could’ve texted,” you say.

“I know.”

“I was waiting.”

“I know.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s all you have to say?”

Bryan opens his mouth like he’s about to answer, then pauses.

His gaze shifts over your face.

You already know that look.

“Don’t,” you warn.

His mouth twitches.

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever you’re about to do.”

He steps closer anyway, hands sliding into the pockets of his sweats. “You’re pretty when you’re mad.”

You just stare at him.

“Bryan.”

“What?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

That’s the problem. He does sound serious. Way too serious for someone who should be apologizing instead of making your stomach flip.

You huff and turn away, but he’s there in a second, hand catching lightly at your wrist.

“Hey,” he says, softer now.

You don’t look at him.

“I’m sorry.”

You go quiet.

His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist once. “Should’ve texted.”

You finally look up, and his face is closer than you expected.

All soft edges. Low voice. Warm hand.

“Still pretty, though,” he murmurs.

You hate how fast your anger starts slipping.

“You’re the worst.”

He nods once, like he’ll accept that. Then leans down and kisses you anyway, smiling when you kiss him back.

⸻

When you’re wearing his clothes:

You’re standing in his kitchen in one of his hoodies and a pair of sleep shorts, making coffee like you’ve done it there a hundred times before.

The sleeves are too long.

The neckline slips a little.

It smells like him.

Bryan walks in half awake, hair messy, rubbing a hand over his jaw, and stops the second he sees you.

You notice from the corner of your eye. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just leans against the counter and looks at you for a second too long.

“You look pretty in my stuff.”

You snort softly. “It’s an old hoodie.”

“Mhm.”

“And I’m making coffee with dragon breath.”

He steps closer, hand settling low on your back.

“Still.”

You look up at him and immediately wish you hadn’t, because his face is all soft and sleepy and sincere in that way that makes every compliment hit harder.

“Really pretty,” he adds.

And now suddenly making coffee is the hardest thing you’ve ever done.

⸻

In the middle of a completely normal conversation:

You’re sitting next to him on the couch, fully invested in telling him a story.

Something about your day.

Something that annoyed you.

You’re talking with your hands and everything.

Bryan’s listening.

Mostly.

Until he isn’t.

Because at some point he stops paying attention to the story and starts paying attention to your face instead.

The way your mouth moves when you’re rambling.

The way your brows pull together when you’re making a point.

The way you glance at him to make sure he’s still following.

You stop mid-sentence.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He blinks once, like he got caught.

Then, without even trying to save himself, he says, “Sorry. You’re pretty.”

You just stare at him.

“That’s not a normal thing to say in the middle of me talking.”

“Felt relevant.”

You laugh despite yourself, already feeling your face get warm.

Bryan smiles a little and reaches over to push a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Keep going,” he says. “I’m listenin’.”

You know for a fact he is not.

⸻

After kissing you:

It starts soft.

It always starts soft with him.

You’re standing between his knees while he sits at the edge of the bed, your hands loose around his shoulders, his resting warm and steady at your hips. One kiss turns into another and then another, until you can’t really tell who leaned in first anymore.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only enough to breathe.

Your forehead stays pressed to his.

His thumbs rub once against your sides.

You open your eyes and Bryan’s already looking at you.

Really looking.

The kind of look that makes you feel seen down to your bones.

Then, all low and quiet, like it belongs only to this moment, he murmurs, “Pretty girl.”

Your heart does something awful in your chest.

You let out the smallest laugh and try to duck your face, but one of his hands slides up your back, holding you there.

“What?” he asks.

You shake your head, too flustered to say anything useful.

His mouth brushes yours again, soft and lingering.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, even though you’re already there.

Then he kisses you again like he has all the time in the world.

⸻

When you’re not Feeling like yourself:

You’ve been off all day.

Quiet.

A little withdrawn.

Not upset exactly, just not quite there.

By the time you’re getting ready for bed, the feeling’s only worse. You catch your reflection in the mirror and linger too long, picking yourself apart in ways Bryan immediately notices.

He’s leaning in the doorway, watching.

“What?” you ask, already defensive.

He doesn’t bite.

Just walks over and stops right in front of you.

His hand comes up, brushing your hair back from your face with this kind of care that makes your throat feel tight.

“Don’t do that.”

You look away. “Do what?”

“Talk to yourself like that.”

You let out a quiet breath, but you don’t argue.

Bryan tips your chin up just enough to make you look at him.

“You’re pretty,” he says softly.

Your eyes sting a little, which is embarrassing.

His thumb strokes over your cheek once.

“Alright?”

You nod.

He leans down and kisses your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let’s go to bed.”

And later, when you’re tucked into his side and his hand is rubbing slow circles over your back, he says it one more time into your hair.

“Pretty girl.”

Like he needs you to hear it again.

⸻

When he thinks you’re not paying attention:

You’re both in the car, music low, his hand resting loose over yours on the center console.

The sun is starting to set and you’re turned toward the window, watching everything go gold.

You can feel him glance over every so often, but you don’t say anything.

Then, under his breath, quiet enough that he might not have meant for you to catch it, he goes, “So pretty.”

You turn your head immediately. “What?”

His ears go a little pink.

Just a little.

“Nothin’.”

You smile. “No, what did you say?”

He keeps his eyes on the road this time, but his fingers lace through yours a little tighter.

After a second, he admits it.

“Said you look pretty.”

Your stomach flips so hard it’s ridiculous.

“You’re so random.”

“Was just thinkin’ it.”

And then he says nothing else, which somehow makes it worse, because now you’re left sitting there with his hand in yours and that one simple little confession lodged in your chest for the rest of the drive.

⸻

When you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe:

You’re in his kitchen laughing at something stupid.

Really laughing.

The kind where you have to grab the counter, where your shoulders shake, where every time you start calming down you look at him again and it starts all over.

Bryan’s laughing too at first.

Then he stops.

Not because the moment ends.

Because he gets distracted.

You notice it when you glance at him and he’s just standing there looking at you, this soft little expression on his face like he forgot what was happening two seconds ago.

You wipe under your eyes. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

He shrugs, but there’s this quiet fondness all over him now.

“You’re pretty when you laugh.”

Your whole face warms.

“That was rude.”

“How’s that rude?”

“Because now I’m embarrassed.”

One side of his mouth lifts. “Still pretty.”

You turn away so he doesn’t see you smiling harder, and he just steps in closer behind you, chin brushing your shoulder while he laughs quietly to himself.

⸻

While he keeps you exactly where he wants you:

You try to get up.

Maybe because you need a second.

Maybe because the way he’s looking at you is getting unbearable.

You barely make it off his lap before his hand catches your thigh and drags you right back down.

Easy.

Firm.

Like it was never really your choice.

You end up right where he wants you, chest rising too fast, hands braced on his shoulders while his arm wraps around your waist to keep you there.

“Where d’you think you’re goin’?” he asks.

You can’t answer.

His fingers spread against your back, holding you closer while he studies your face like he’s checking exactly how affected you are.

Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because his hand moves up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek once.

“Pretty when you’re overwhelmed,” he says quietly.

Then, with that awful calm certainty he gets.

“Prettier when you stay put.”

⸻

After you’ve been talking big and then fall apart the second he touches you:

You were so confident a minute ago.

Running your mouth, teasing him, acting like you were fully in control of the situation.

Then Bryan’s hand slides to your waist, fingers digging in just enough, and the sound that leaves you is small, involuntary, humiliating.

His head tilts.

That dark little look in his eyes gets worse immediately.

“Oh,” he says.

You already regret everything.

He does it again, same spot, same pressure, and watches your whole body give you away.

“There it is.”

You try to turn your face, too embarrassed to let him see how fast he got to you, but his hand comes up to hold your jaw still.

“Don’t hide.”

Your pulse is going insane.

His gaze drops to your mouth, then lifts back to your eyes.

“Pretty thing,” he murmurs. “All that talk and you still come apart this easy.”

⸻

When you’re desperate and trying not to show it:

You’re in his lap, already annoyed because he keeps stopping right before you want him to.

Every kiss is too short on purpose.

Every touch feels like he’s dragging it out just to watch you lose patience.

“Bryan,” you say, and it comes out thinner than you want.

“What?” he asks, like he doesn’t know.

You glare at him, which only makes his hand tighten on your waist.

His eyes flick over your face, taking in every bit of frustration, the way your breathing’s gone uneven, the way you can’t quite hold his stare for long.

Then he says it, low and rough enough to make your stomach twist.

“Pretty when you’re desperate.”

You freeze.

He leans in closer, mouth brushing yours without actually kissing you.

“Pretty when you’re trying not to beg, too.”

And suddenly glaring at him is not nearly as easy as it was five seconds ago.

⸻

While he’s got you pinned against the wall:

You were talking too much.

That’s the problem.

Smart little comments, that smile on your face, brushing past him like you didn’t know exactly what it was doing. Bryan lets it go for longer than you expect, right up until the second he doesn’t.

One hand on your waist and suddenly your back’s against the wall, his body crowding into yours before you can think of a single thing to say.

Except he doesn’t kiss you.

He just stands there, one hand holding your waist in place, looking at you.

Really looking at you.

Your pulse is loud enough you’re sure he can hear it.

“What?” you ask, but it comes out weaker than you want.

His eyes drag over your face, then back up again.

“Pretty like this,” he says quietly.

Your stomach flips.

“Bryan—”

His thumb moves once against your side. “All that attitude, and you still look pretty when I shut you up.”

That does something awful to your ability to think.

And the worst part is he can tell.

⸻

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