#mfls

Day One

It started small.

You didn’t even notice it at first — how you hesitated before pressing “like” on his latest photo, how you scrolled past the fan edits without stopping to watch. But Jack did.

That night, when he came over after practice, you were curled on the couch with Netflix on. Normally, you’d be half-asleep on his chest while he absentmindedly played with your hair. Tonight, you stayed on the other end of the couch, legs tucked up, pretending to be caught up in the show.

“You good?” he asked casually, tossing an arm along the back of the couch.

“Yeah, just tired,” you lied.

He believed you—at least for that night.

⸻

Day Two

The comments were worse the next day. He’s a player. He’ll break her heart. She’s just another distraction until he finds someone better.

You turned off your notifications but the words stuck like glass splinters. When Jack texted Want to grab lunch? you stared at your phone until the screen dimmed. You finally typed Can’t, busy, though you weren’t.

By the time he showed up at your door later with takeout in his hands and that boyish grin on his face, guilt weighed heavy in your chest.

“Thought I’d bring the food to you instead,” he teased, stepping inside.

You forced a smile, kissed his cheek, and set the bags on the counter. You didn’t notice how his smile faltered when you turned away too quickly.

⸻

Day Three

Jack wasn’t stupid. He might joke around with his teammates, play dumb in interviews, but when it came to you — he noticed everything.

So when you leaned away from his touch in the car, when you answered fine to every question, when your phone buzzed with notifications you refused to look at, he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

That night, he followed you into your bedroom as you pulled off your his hoodie and tried to act like nothing was wrong.

“Alright,” he said, voice firm in a way that made your heart stutter. “What’s going on with you?”

You froze. “Nothing, I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.” He stepped closer, his jaw tight, but his eyes soft, almost pleading. “You’ve been different for days. Don’t tell me I’m imagining it.”

You swallowed hard, the words you’d been holding back spilling out before you could stop them.

“Everyone says you don’t love me, Jack. That I’m just temporary, that you’ll get bored and move on. They say you’re a player, that I’m stupid for believing you want me. And maybe… maybe they’re right.”

The silence afterward was deafening.

Jack’s face crumpled, like the air had been punched out of him. He closed the space between you in a heartbeat, his hands gripping your sides, steady but gentle.

“Stop,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t you ever believe that.”

Your eyes burned. “But what if—”

“No.” His voice broke, raw and unguarded. “They don’t know me. They don’t know how I look at you when you’re asleep, or how I can’t play a game without checking my phone after just to see if you texted. They don’t know that when I think about the future, you’re in it. Every. Single. Time.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks. “Then… tell me it’s love Jack. Tell me it’s real.”

Jack cupped your face, thumbs brushing your skin like he could wipe away every doubt. His lips pressed to your forehead, lingering.

“It’s love. It’s real. You’re it for me. No noise, no rumors, no bullshit can change that. Just us.”

When he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed or frantic—it was steady, grounding, like a vow sealed in the quiet of your bedroom. And for the first time in days, you let yourself believe him.

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