#mintyfic

Before I knew it, it was Saturday. David and I hit up the grocery store on the way to grab some refreshments for the party. I was a little annoyed at being mandatory DD, but there was no way I was letting David ever drive my car again. For a boy so hyperfocused on stuff like margins of error and calculated risks, it was impossible for him to learn the boundaries of a moving vehicle. At that moment it suddenly became clear why his parents never shelled out for a car. Though he did have his license, scarily enough. Anyways we got a six pack of some local IPAs and a few hard seltzers for me. I figured if we spent 3 hours at the party and I skipped lunch I could have maybe an hour of a light buzz before dousing it off with a belly full of ribs and bread rolls just in time to drive home. A foolproof plan with almost no margin of error. (note: the main character of this story is not anything close to a math or business major.)

We pulled up to an absolutely huge house. The nicely manicured lawn with small topiaries framing it screamed, “I can afford a gardener and/or a stay at home spouse with a green thumb!” Was it too late to change my major over from liberal arts? David gleefully led me along the side yard to the back of the house. I casually hid behind the drinks I was carrying while searching for a cooler to place them into. The backyard was similarly opulent with enough room for a built in swimming pool, more yardwork, and a covered patio space where someone was grilling. I joined David in making his rounds after we both grabbed a drink. He was cheerful and charismatic as always and casually introduced me to the host, Eric, who welcomed me warmly. He motioned to the poolhouse in the corner in case either of us felt like swimming. It was an offer David had no intention of passing up and he ran off to change. While I went to grab myself another drink, I needed to shake the social anxiety quickly. I leaned down and rifled through the cooler for a third seltzer when a booming voice called for my attention.

“Any chance you reckon you could grab me one of those while you’re down there?” the voice surrounded me from above.

I nodded in acknowledgement and rose up with 2 cans in hand “I took the last lime so all that’s left is grapefruit, hope you-” I paused observing the large hand reaching out; my eyes followed up its sturdy frame and froze at the politely grinning man before me. That voice, those arms, that face! Barring a very elaborate hallucination I was about 95% sure I was face to face with the stranger from the restaurant a few weeks back!

Suddenly all the alcohol in my stomach hit my bloodstream at once and I desperately tried to maintain a calm and collected cover. What was he doing here? Would he remember me? Did I want him to remember me? All those thoughts culminated in the realization that I hadn’t actually released my grip on the can he requested. And his puzzled face suggested things were going to get awkward real quick I didn’t pull myself together.

“Sorry, zoned out there for a second there. You’re alright with grapefruit right?” I said.

The man smiled and said “Well sure! Anything’s fine with me, I gotta cut back on IPAs for a minute,” while absentmindedly patting his stomach. I seemed to have recovered this interaction. I scanned the backyard for David in case I needed an easy out.

“So I’m real sorry about this, I know we’ve met before-“ he continued on.

Panic coursing through me. The jig was up. “-I’m terrible with names…heh…so which one of Eric’s cousins are you again?”

“…cousins??” I was lost. Wait, he didn’t recognize me. This was perfect.

“Ah I’m just here with a friend, I’m Riley” I wanted to lie, but looking at the host over at the grill I imagined it would be just my luck if these two struck up a conversation. I spied David over by the pool I could catch him in time if I walked just slightly fast enough.

“Wait, David’s Riley?” the man said.

I stopped in my tracks and turned back “David’s what now?”

“Ah we’ve been wondering about you! Riley, you’re Riley. David never shuts up about you,” I smiled that David appreciated me more than I knew, “he’s always talking about how you’re gonna get after him when he spills food on his shirts or how he needs to leave because you’re waiting out front for him” and just like that the smile faded from my face, but the man continued on, “-we sorta thought you were his mom!” he broke out into laughter smacking me on the back as if he was laughing with me. Kill me kill me kill me. Was I really that overbearing?

“Oh man! Haha, I guess we haven’t met. I’m Marcus. Pleased to meet ya!” he outstretched his hand to me again this time with a name attached to it. Marcus. I shook it with a renewed calmness. I’ll admit the possibility he worked in the same building crossed my mind, but I never suspected he was the Marcus David similarly hadn’t shut up about for weeks. In a roundabout way Marcus and I sort of knew each other already. Standing next to him I realized how much taller he was. Even with him slouching against the snack table I still had to look up to meet his gaze.

“So I guess David has failed to mention I’m staying at his parent’s beach house for the summer? I just grocery shop and run errands with him” I explained

“Sounds like a mighty fine arrangement. Are you from around here or?”

“I live upstate, so closer to campus. Whereabouts are you from?”

“I hail from the bustling metropolis of Pocono, Indiana” he humbly nodded.

“Well I’m honored, what could have tempted you away from home?”

“Elevation. I was a bit tired of being able to stand on a fruit crate in the center of town and being able to see eight miles in any direction. Y’all don’t know how good you have it with these mountains. The pays not too bad either”

“Well allow me to welcome you to the golden state, You’ll get over the natural splendor soon enough. But I hope you’ll stick around anyway”

“I’ll tell ya I hope that day never comes, but if it does I’ll ask for a raise”

“In any case, I’m glad you’ve settled in with little to no issues”

“So here’s the thing, the only thing I don’t love is the wide range of food you got out here. I’ve never had this much variety every single day. I could have Mexican, Chinese, and sushi all in the same day if I want, and I have! I guess my problem is I love the food here too much HA HA HA That and the damned lunch stipend. It seemed awesome at first, but now it’s costing me way more in new clothes”

“I take it you won’t be donning a swimsuit this afternoon”

“Nah I figure no one wants to see my ass hanging out of my trunks”

“Don’t be so sure” I took a sip of my drink and saw Marcus look at me with a raised eyebrow. Dammit, I said the quiet part out loud.

“Heh It doesn’t matter anyways, I don’t have a pair that I can do up right now. Got any suggestions of where I could go?” he asked.

I thought for a moment and said, “There’s actually a nice board shop not far from where I’m staying. If you give me your number I’ll text you the address.”

“I’d really appreciate that actually” I handed him my phone and he began entering in his contact info.

“Ah so you finally met Marcus, I was hoping you’d show up dude!” David cut in freshly toweled off from getting out of the pool.

‘David! Yeah Riley and I are getting on great.” Marcus said as he handed me back my phone. I quickly texted over the address.

“You hiding out over here eating all the snacks again?” David teased smacking Marcus’s stomach with the back of his hand a couple times

“You better get some before I do!” Marcus laughed while trying to bat away David’s hand.

I’d never get over how brazen normie guys are with each other. Just completely oblivious to the things they say and do in plain view.

“Ah I know where I know you from!” Marcus caught my attention, “you’re the one who gave me your leftov-“

I shoved Marcus (or tried to) to cut him off before David overheard, “yes I was hoping you forgot, but if you keep quiet I’ll take you to the Mongolian place near the board shop”

Marcus nodded and dropped the subject, a smile on his face like he’d won a prize or something. Odd. The rest of the afternoon proceeded less eventfully save for one part. David accidentally belly flopped off the diving board and started looking nauseous soonafter. He and I ended up quietly leaving before I had a chance to say goodbye to Marcus, but when I got home I found a reply that read,

Although that's not saying much at this point in his life. Van has always been at his most self-destructive while attempting to maintain an active social life. He no longer needs that. Van has always enjoyed his solitude, just himself and the words he reads or writes down, the beginnings of another album. He sees the band outside of work occasionally, sometimes their friends will join them, but generally his life is quiet. Simple.

And while Van is good at sex, he's found he doesn't need to seek it out the way he used to. He's no longer searching for intimacy, affection, to feel something as he once was. He's no longer looking for a distraction. Occasionally someone will spend the night, but they're generally friends who also want to fuck.

Van never thought Y/N would be one of them.

He remembers the moment, back when he was a stupid eighteen-year-old, just kicked out of high school, that he knew he'd messed things up with Y/N. That moment when she'd wanted to comfort him, not knowing why he was hurting; when he knew he was so wrong for her, that he would ruin her… When the only thing he could think of was making her feel good by sharing the one thing he was good at.

He feels like that eighteen-year-old now.

Van has seen her at a holiday or two. They discussed her work, his band, but were generally there for family gatherings. He did his best to tell her that it was okay without saying it, that he wouldn't hold her leaving, in love with another man, against her. She seemed to get the idea, and they were something approaching friends again. When her travels brought her through London, they would meet up for lunch or dinner, Larry or another of his friends joining them occasionally.

He wanted her in his life however he could have her. That's not to say he's still hoping for a romantic relationship; that ship has sailed. He'd jumped the gun one too many times and then ran instead of sticking around to witness the aftermath.

As melodramatic as it sounds, the last time they kissed it seemed to him that he would always be the other guy in her eyes – the one to flirt with, the one to kiss, the one she ran to when the boyfriend wasn't who she wanted him to be.

So he opens his door wide for her when she appears, looking for a friend. He gets them takeout, puts on a bad movie. He listens as she tells him how lonely she is, how hard it is to keep relationships.

She won't say it, won't ask. She may not even know it, but he does. He knows exactly what she needs.

She needs someone who will be there when she wants it. Someone to scratch an itch.

Someone to give her intimacy, affection, to help her feel something. She doesn't need strings right now, but Y/N is not a woman who has one night stands, who will throw herself into sex with a stranger. She needs a friend she can trust.

And okay, he can do that. He's single, stable, and while he's probably always going to be a little in love with her, he knows he can live with that. For once, Van is absolutely, without any doubt, positive he can give her what she needs.

(He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it in the past few years; that he hadn't hoped. Chemistry like theirs doesn't happen every day)

So he catches her off-guard, kisses her as he's done countless times before. But this time they aren't teenagers. She isn't the Virginal Y/N of before. He isn't tainting something pure when he touches her breast. He isn't touching some forbidden treasure when he touches her and makes her come for the first time in almost ten years.

This time she lets him kiss her everywhere and she tastes better than he could have ever imagined. He goes down on her right there on his couch, her taste seared forever in his mind.

Van shows her everything he's learnt throughout the years. And he almost manages to do it without thinking about love or loss.

Almost. That first moment when he presses inside her, when they're pressed together, skin to skin, their lips touching in the lightest of kisses, he thinks that this could be it. That he could never touch another again and it would be just fine with him.

He allows it for a moment before shoving those thoughts to the back of his mind, concentrates on the act instead: finds the rhythm that makes her squeeze her eyes shut, her nails digging into his skin, figuring out the spots that make her squirm, pressing his fingers into the areas that make her scream.

He feels like he's auditioning. This is what I can give you. This is how I can make you feel. (He wants her to want more. He wants to be the best she's ever had.)

The hope was that she would be so tired out, she would fall asleep before the panic sets in. Wishful thinking.

He lies calmly as she jumps up, frantic.

"Y/N," he says; cool, calm, casual.

She looks back at him, standing on shaky legs, holding her shirt in front of her like a shield.

He doesn't get up, doesn't change positions, remains lying in his bed, lazily watching her. "If you want to go back to your hotel, I won't stop you. But don't think you have to. We just had some amazing sex, I'd like to have more. If you want that too, come back to bed."

He's not entirely sure it will work. Y/N has always fought hard against this thing between them.

She must see something in his expression that relaxes her, because without a word she drops her shirt and climbs back into bed. When she lays back down she turns towards him, hesitant. "…do we… cuddle?"

He chuckles. "I'm not opposed to it. You're naked, I'm naked, what's not to like?"

She giggles, pressing herself close to him and falling asleep.

Later in the night they wake up for lazy, slow sex, and he concentrates less, goes with the flow, and it's still amazing. In the morning he makes her breakfast before propping her up on his counter and sinking inside of her for what may be the last time.

"I'll see you when you're back in town," he says as she leaves, just like always.

She smiles, kisses his cheek. "See you then."

She doesn't tell anyone.

For most people that wouldn't be too much of a surprise, but Y/N has tried not to keep anything from her family since some big fight they all had. Hell, Y/N had a one night stand while on vacation from uni and her mother was the first person she called in a panic after it happened.

But things are always different with Van. He has always been her secret to keep. It seems that hasn't changed.

Not that her mother doesn't know that they visit with each other sometimes. According to their family and friends, Y/N and Van McCann have crossed that line from awkward exes to friends. Her mother has finally let go of any flame of suspicion she had and Y/N doesn't want to ignite it again.

The next time Y/N sees him, she's scared: scared that everything will change, that things will suddenly be awkward. She's scared that he'll want something she can't give (what a change that would be), that he'll only want sex from her… that he won't want it again. (Because she does want to – that she knows. The things he did to her, the way he made her feel… She never thought it could be like that.)

Her job has her in London a few times a year. Trying to avoid him on his turf would be easy but she doesn't want to. With or without sex, beginning their friendship again has been a very bright part of her life.

It turns out she doesn't have to worry.

The next time she's in London she can't see Van until late. When she calls, he asks her to meet him at the recording studio and she arrives at the end of an open house. Having missed her last time she was in town, the band are excited to see her, and she quickly finds herself at a pub, her suitcase stashed under a table.

It's easy with them, always has been. They tell her stories about the pain-in-the-ass PR they have to deal with, making jabs at Van throughout. She tells them stories about the people she meets: some of them nice, but mostly embarrassing stories. Van stretches his arm behind her chair, casual, easy, and she tries to stop herself from over-analyzing his actions.

Once the awkwardness of their friendship had lifted he'd always been comfortable around her.

She wonders if the sex will only add another level of comfort.

They end up out later than she initially planned and she curses herself for not booking her hotel in advance for once.

"Just come back to my place; we can walk, save some money."

Y/N stops. She wonders if maybe she's missed something, if she should have analyzed his actions more. She's petrified of hurting him again.

Van smirks. "Don't overthink it, love."

And it can't possibly be that simple. Not with them, not with anyone.

But he's standing there with that crooked smile on his face, one that promises mischief and pleasure if only she would follow him. When they were seventeen she was too afraid to allow him to make good on his promises. Months ago he delivered; she decides that there's no way she'll miss out on it again.

She rides him hard that night, admiring the way his muscles strain, the face he makes as he comes. Y/N runs her hands along his lean chest, digging her fingers into his skin.

When they were young, before it all went downhill, he never pushed her, only ever gave when she allowed it. She'd touched him once but felt too strange, nervous that someone would walk in. He'd only sighed that day, pulling her hand away from him, kissing her softly.

It would be a lie to say that she never regrets it. Next time, she tells herself; next time she'll enjoy him fully and slowly.

They don't fall asleep as quickly this time, both still wired from their day. They talk about the articles they've been reading, albums they've bought. She shares some of her best friend's recommendations and promises to bring her Tame Impala records the next time they see each other.

She rolls over when it's time to sleep and smiles as he pulls her up against his chest. She's missed sleeping with someone, skin-to-skin, snuggled up against warm, strong arms. Don't get used to it. You don't know what this is. You can't keep it.

She sleeps in the next day and it's closer to the afternoon when she wakes up. Coffee is waiting for her, pancakes waiting in the microwave. Van is sitting at his laptop, a serious expression on his face as he types.

He gives her distracted answers when she asks about the new album, and she enjoys watching him completely captivated by his art as she eats.

"Van, I have to get going," she tells him an hour later. She laughs at his surprised expression when he finally looks up from his laptop for the first time that day.

"Sorry, I get…" He scratches his head and she loves seeing him flustered for the first time since high school. Even then it wasn't a regular occurrence.

She nods. "I understand. I can get the same way."

In fact, it's a breath of fresh air, seeing someone else become so distracted with their work.

She goes to him this time, knowing how much she would hate being separated from her laptop when she's on a roll.

"I'll see you when you're back in town." His customary goodbye - and she likes it, this lack of pressure.

Y/N leans down and gives him a soft kiss on the mouth which he returns. "See you then."

When Y/N returns to work it's with a light heart. She feels good. There is no boyfriend to worry about neglecting, to make her feel like her priorities are wrong. She and Van will occasionally text but generally work is work. If Y/N's attention isn't there it's with her mother.

Maybe, one day, she'll be ready for that kind of commitment again, but right now it's just a nuisance.

And she's content with it. They see each other again, and they go out to eat. He pays like he always has and the food is good. The sex is good. Not paying for a hotel is good. Being with him is always good.

Everything is good.

Until she's asked on a date. And she doesn't actually want to go. She would have said no either way.

But it gets her thinking.

***

Lucy Anderson comes to town and he's finally forced to consider some things he'd chosen to ignore.

While Van lived a generally solitary life, he still had friends who showed up occasionally. He'd actually met Lucy at a concert – a flight attendant with a wandering heart much like his own. She would come through occasionally, sometimes calling him, sometimes not. When she did she always stayed the night.

He knows Y/N – knows her better than anyone, knows her better than he did when he said it the first time if that's possible. He knows that there is a possibility she may be turning down others for his sake.

A part of him has no desire to sleep with anyone else either. He's happy, satisfied, and sees no reason for it. But this is meant to be about making life easier for Y/N, and he doesn't want to hold her back.

He turns Lucy down and wonders if he'll hear from her again. He won't be heartbroken if he doesn't, but he would be disappointed. Sex or no, she's an avid traveler; conversation with her is always stimulating.

The next time Y/N comes around it's for three days, longer than usual. She arrives at his apartment on his day off, bags in tow. "I didn't want to assume, but…"

He grins. "It's safe to assume."

She's still hesitant as she puts her stuff down. Fidgeting with the sleeves of her coat, she won't meet his eyes. He wonders who asked her out. He knows she didn't go and he fights between smug satisfaction and guilt.

"Van…" she begins, and he remains quiet, allowing her to say her piece. "I don't want a boyfriend right now."

He waits, sure there must be more, but she remains quiet, biting her lip. He contemplates biting it for her and putting off the conversation a little longer.

Instead he sighs, lets her off the hook. "I think that's smart. You're pretty busy; boyfriend would probably get in the way right now."

She's frustrated with his response but he can't give her the answers on this one. Whether she knows it or not, this is her show.

"So we're… what? Friends with benefits? I've done that before, Van; it didn't work out."

That's slightly surprising to hear. He'd wager whoever it was became a boyfriend not too long after. His money's on the Curly Haired Dick from Oxford and he goes with it. "So, in recent years, with the job you have right now, with someone in one specific state, who you can see when you want, you've tried before?"

She's back to fidgeting with the sleeves of her coat again, the ends fraying beneath her fingers. "…Well, no. It was at Oxford."

Curly Haired Dick it is. "Where you were living on the same campus, probably saw each other all the time, maybe even were dating each other's friends."

She blushes and he knows he got it in one.

"Y/N, I'm not saying this is perfect. I am saying the distance helps when it comes to a lot of the potential issues. You want to go on a date? Go on a date. You want to sleep with someone else? Do what you have to do." It hurts to say, but it still needs to be said.

It's clear that it distresses her too. Y/N's always had a jealous streak. "But… I don't always warn you when I come. What if you're… busy?"

He rolls his eyes. "You largely overestimate my social life. I got a lot of that out of my system a long time ago."

She's breaking and he smiles to himself as she walks away from her bag and finally takes her jacket off. "So… what? I'll be sleeping around while you wait patiently for me to visit?"

He snorts at the notion that she would sleep around. She could; she's beautiful, she has a job that would support such a lifestyle. But Y/N is a woman who likes having a boyfriend, a boyfriend that would simply be an annoyance for her at the moment. He's offering her the illusion. Happily. Willingly.

"Don't worry about what I'm doing. You do what you want. But I can promise you that whenever you come to town, as long as you want to, you can have my bed. Preferably with me in it."

They stand quietly, watching each other. In an instant a decision is made and she takes a step forward, kissing him hard on the mouth.

*

Y/N spends her three days with him and is the happiest she's been in years.

Between her own meetings she spends time at Van’s studio making phone calls, organizing albums, buying albums, and editing. Y/N and Van don't act any differently around his friends; Y/N wants to keep this thing between them. It's better that way. Uncomplicated.

She becomes comfortable though. After high school, before the sex began, she'd always been slightly hesitant around him, fearful of the chemistry between them. This physical connection, this raw sexual attraction that always seemed to vibrate throughout her body when she's with him, begging for the two of them to act. Then, after the sex began, before they discussed it, she was worried about giving him the wrong idea.

It's impossible not to touch him now.

She pauses a movie and climbs onto his lap. When they hit play again they're naked and under a throw he keeps on the couch.

She strokes his shoulder as she walks by him, grabs his hand. She comes home from work and kisses him sweetly on the lips before walking away to order takeout. Y/N plays with the boundaries of intimacy and romance, sure there must be rules. In three days, she finds none.

Returning to work is easy. It consumes every aspect of her life for months on end leaving no room for anything else. She misses Thanksgiving and Christmas at home and there still seems to be no end in sight to her work. It feels like forever before she finds herself in London again.

"Take me out," she tells him. "Pick somewhere nice, make a reservation. I want to dress up and go out."

She's daring in her exhaustion and need to be wined and dined.

"Things were a lot easier when the only thing you wanted was Philly cheese steak," he says, fixing the collar of his dress shirt, fitting his blazer to his chest. And, oh, he looks good. So, so good. She almost regrets her initial plans. Almost.

Smoothing down her dress, a little black number that hugs her curves in just the right places, she enjoys the freedom of dressing up for something other than work. She slides on her shoes before sauntering up to him and grabbing on to his blazer. "But it is nice sometimes – to dress up, go out, show off…"

He rolls his eyes.

"There's also something to be said about—" Y/N presses even closer, her lips next to his ear. "—anticipation…"

He narrows his eyes, smiles.

They go out for Mediterranean. It's a nice restaurant, her dress isn't out of place but she spies a few people in casualwear as well. It's perfect.

It's fun in a way she's never enjoyed with Van: drinks, appetizer, dinner, dessert, playful banter over the table, inappropriate touching with hands and feet underneath.

By the time the check comes she's imagining dragging him to a bathroom.

By the time they get to the car she can barely keep her hands off of him. She mouths at his ginger stubble, bites at his ear before forcing herself back in her seat while he starts the car. His hand strokes her thigh and he presses down on the gas when he discovers her lack of panties.

They barely make it into the apartment, throwing their jackets to the ground, high off the urgency and lust between them. He lifts her up and she wraps her legs tightly around his hips, the wall cool against her skin. She grabs at his shoulders, his arms, hastily pulling at the buttons on his shirt, kissing and licking at the skin she can reach. His hands move away from her for a moment and she doesn't register what he's doing until suddenly he's so close and he's pushing deep, deep, deep. As he moves inside her, Y/N wraps her arms tightly around his shoulders, her hand gripping his hair.

It's intense. It's always intense with Van. Exciting and maybe a little frightening but always bringing her back for more. When her feet are back on the ground and they separate, he holds her face in his hands and kisses her deeply. Later, they lie in bed and listen to their albums, occasionally quoting a fragment or discussing the artist.

It's probably the best date she's ever had.

(The next time she sees him he takes her to a punk concert and it's like the old days, except for all the ways that it's not. She dances against him, hot, sweaty, high off the music and his body against hers. They don't make it to the apartment. He takes her in his car, right there in the parking lot.)

***

He hears from her more often now: emails, texts and the occasional phone call. They talk about everything – books and music, her work, Catfish, family, his lyrics. He knows more about her life now than he ever has and it's nice. Very nice.

While still subtle around friends and family (no sex during holidays) when they're alone he may as well be her boyfriend. He's not surprised. It was the point. Y/N needs more than just sex; it's why she hadn't found someone else, why this has worked for so long.

They're practically in a relationship.

He hasn't touched another since they began.

He gave her a key not too long ago, along with a logical reason so she wouldn't overthink the gesture. "This way you can drop off your stuff if I'm at work, since you never seem to let me pick you up."

Which is true. Y/N still drops by fairly last-minute and never lets him pick her up. He's managed to drop her off a few times but only if he found a reason for the airport or train to be on his way.

She hasn't needed to use the key yet – mostly from lack of presence.

It's been seven months since the last time he saw her, the longest he can remember since they started. And he's okay. He's fine. This was always going to be part of the arrangement. The entire point is that he can handle it.

He can. He can handle it.

He'd just underestimated how hard it would be, to actually have her in his life, in his bed, to be with her, inside of her, and know that one day he'll likely have to let her go, let her go, let her go.

Nowadays, Van is a casual drinker, usually when he's with the guys. He's careful. He's always been a careful drinker except for when emotions were high and Van just wanted to drown everything out. There were no more drugs in his life besides the occasional joint passed around after parties with the band and whoever else has stuck around.

Cigarettes are usually his drug of choice. Sometimes when he's writing he'll go through two packs, forgetting to eat, drink, or sleep until he's done.

That night, he's weak. That night, he's lost in his head and he can't escape it. He doesn't want to leave the apartment and he can't seem to find the words to write. It's happened before, it'll happen again, because sometimes he's overwhelmed and there's just too much.

He grabs the bottle of whiskey left in his cabinet and he drinks and he smokes and tries to numb the feeling like he's that goddamn nineteen-year-old again begging the girl to run away with him.

"Van?"

It's the middle of the night when he wakes up to the sound of her voice. He blinks, rubs his eyes.

"Y/N?"

She takes off her jacket, strips down to her underwear and throws on one of his shirts before climbing in bed with him.

And Van must be dreaming, because what are the odds? For her to just appear, right when he's at his lowest. He doesn't know if this is a blessing or the universe's way of saying "fuck you!" because he can't turn her away. Not now. Not when he needs her this much.

She moves closer, worry etched in her expression before she calls his name again, softer this time.

What are the odds? That the woman he'd searched for so many times when he was young (you aren't eighteen any more), going through inadequate replacement after replacement, would be here now?

He takes her entirely by surprise when he grabs her shoulders and shoves her down, climbing on top of her. She goes to kiss his lips and he gives her his cheek instead, mindful of his breath. (Cigarettes and booze, how can you put this on her?)

He touches her under his shirt, bunching it up above her breasts, drinking her in, drunk off her body, before thrusting hard and fast and deep. Her hands are stroking his shoulders, his hair, and he can't help but whisper, "Y/N, Y/N," because for all the times he's done this, lost himself in the body of another when he needed to forget, this is the first time it's her.

They finish together, something which shocks him because he hadn't been thinking too much of pleasure, hers or his, just necessary release. Van doesn't climb off her right away, instead he holds her close, his face hidden in her neck as he feels himself softening inside of her.

"Are you okay?" she asks, stroking his back under his shirt.

He nods. "I'm sorry… Sometimes I—"

"No, no, I came out of the blue. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing."

He rolls off her, running his hand through his hair. He needs a glass of water, needs to take off his sweaty shirt. He needs sleep.

Van turns his head and Y/N is staring at him with concerned eyes.

He smiles. "I'm glad you came."

That night, after they both strip and find water, he holds her tightly, tighter than he's probably ever let himself before, and hopes she doesn't notice. (He knows she does.)

In the morning she wakes him early, mouth hot and wet around him. He returns the favor, hoping it serves as an adequate apology for falling apart inside her the night before.

They're on their way to the shower when she tells him that she has to leave soon – "this trip wasn't exactly planned" – and he can't believe what a fucking mess he was, wasting the time they had.

He tries to make the apology in the shower extra special. From the sounds she makes he thinks he accomplishes it.

Y/N lets him drive her to the train that day and he's surprised to find that she's heading back to Washington so soon and not some other random state or country. He's parked in front and when he looks towards her she's nervous. He waits.

"So… you know how I have that contact here? Of course you do, it's why I'm usually here. Well, he… moved. To New York, actually, which is funny, because he was always saying how he was going to but he never did but now… well. he… did. So, well, the thing is… I probably won't be around as often any more, Van."

That explained her absence the last few months. He inhales deeply, wishing for a cigarette. "Well, I'll see you when I can."

She nods. And it's awkward. It feels like a break up. As if they hadn't had enough of those. What was he thinking? She hesitates for a moment.

"Are you going to be okay?"

And there it is.

He smiles. "I'm a songwriter, love. A night of booze, sex, and general over-dramatics comes with the territory."

***

Y/N starts to think about fate when the plane sending her back to NY from Paris takes her to London in preparation for the blizzard that's practically upon them. Because what are the odds that her job sent her by plane instead of having her drive or take the train? What are the odds that the plane would take its chances because it's such a short flight? What are the odds that they would land in London? (Where she so desperately wants to be.)

She whips out her phone along with her fellow passengers and calls Van.

"I'm sorry, this is so last minute, but the plane made an emergency landing in London, and I know there's a blizzard outside, and I promise I can find a hotel—"

"Y/N, shut up. I'll be there soon."

Of course he would. The Van she knows now has never disappointed her.

She doesn't have to wait outside for too long, but while she's waiting she considers the last time she was here, not too long ago: when Van had fallen apart, truly and completely, in front of her for the first time in their shared history; when she had taken a completely spontaneous trip to see him, reminiscent of Llandudno, years ago. Timing, fate, that she should appear when he needed her most.

The trip to his apartment takes a little longer than normal but Van is confident. "I've had to drive in worse conditions with a much crappier car."

By the time they arrive the storm is really picking up. Van goes to get dinner ready before any kind of power outage may occur and Y/N checks his bathroom cabinets, thankful to find the sanitary napkins she left there last time her period surprised her.

Next Y/N goes looking for candles in case the lights go out, pulling out some blankets as well, a plan forming in her mind. "Maybe after you're done we can turn off all the lights, light up some candles, open the blinds and watch the snow."

He smirks at her, stirring the sauce in front of him. She's excited; Van is a great cook. His tomato sauce is the best she's ever had next to her mum’s.

"Did your dad teach you how to cook?" she asks, walking to the counter to make some coffee. It's something she's wondered since the first time he cooked for her.

He pauses for a moment. Van never gives anything of himself lightly anymore. "Yeah, a lot of it came from working at the B&B. There were also a few nights when I actually stayed in and Larry would also show me a thing or two."

Y/N tries to imagine it and fails. Back then it seemed like Van didn't show an interest in much of anything. She can't imagine him standing and letting Larry teach him how to cook.

"There sounds like there's more to that story…" she prompts.

He laughs, scooping out some of the sauce and tasting it, letting her do the same. She never has much of an opinion, her knowledge of the kitchen still limited, but he always seems to know what it needs.

"There was this lady next door to us, Mrs. Rossi. When I was about seven or eight she would watch me sometimes when Mary was doing whatever Mary would do. She was probably the closest I had to the stereotypical Italian grandma."

"We moved away when I was nine. I'm not entirely sure whatever happened to her… But the cooking came in handy." He starts moving around, straining the penne, grabbing plates. She pours herself a cup of coffee. "The snow seems to be really picking up out there, it's getting dark… I'm all for your plan if we can be naked."

She blushes, still uncomfortable discussing this no matter how comfortable he's made it clear he is. "How about we keep the underwear tonight?"

He nods, understanding. He tried to convince her once that sex during her period wasn't a problem for him but she assured him that she was grossed out enough for the both of them.

They light the candles and set up the apartment before stripping down to their underwear and cuddling under his blankets with their dishes.

"So, why did you say the cooking came in handy? Do you mean at the bed and breakfast?"

He groans. "What's with all the questions tonight?"

"We're going to be snowed in! Who knows how long for… We've known each other for so long at this point and there's still so much we don't know about each other."

He watches her, narrowing his eyes and taking a bite. "Alright. Mary wasn't exactly chef of the year. But using the money we had for groceries and cooking turned out to be cheaper than going out every night."

They eat slowly, her food cold by the time she's finished while they talk. They trade stories about their mothers' attempts at cooking; most of Mary's most famous cooking adventures are from recent years. Van tells one or two from before, casually dropping little anecdotes.

Y/N has plenty of questions after that, and Van answers each one of her questions with a kind of lazy, uninterested tone.

They're facing the window, watching the storm pass by. She's leaning against his chest while he sits against the couch. She sips at her coffee, faintly wishing they'd been able to stop for wine. Granted, Van doesn't seem to need alcohol to loosen his lips at the moment (and after the last time, his breath stinking of whiskey, she's not sure if she wants that right now.)

Her chest feels heavy.

"Alright, the obvious question… how old were you when you lost your virginity?" she asks, and for a brief, horrifying moment she thinks of the casual way he talks of his emotional abuse and wonders if maybe this is a question she shouldn't have asked.

When he laughs in response she relaxes. "Now we're talking. I was fourteen."

"Oh. Older than I thought actually."

"Huh. Wasn't my first sexual experience, but the actual intercourse… fourteen. You?"

"Nineteen," she responds, dreading the questions that are coming. Van already knew that she and the boyfriend before him had given it a second try, but she'd never actually gone into the gritty details. She still hates talking about it.

He nods, "Right. Since we're all so curious tonight, I assumed it was either Jacob or that Curly Haired guy. But I know Jacob was married around the time of Larry’s wedding…"

"Ugh. He was. He was married when we had sex. It was so bad. I didn't even know it was happening until he was pulling out the condom and then it just kind of happened… I was scared, it hurt, I was so horrible to everyone after that…"

He strokes her belly, soothing her cramps, and she's surprised at how comfortable this conversation, this situation is. She tells him the rest of the story: running off to America, how angry she was with her mother for guilt-tripping her, the guilt she tried not to allow herself to feel at the image of Jacob’s wife trying to make her husband happy – then what came later, when the guilt consumed her and she tried again with Jacob because it felt like she had to after all the strife she had caused.

"Wow. Maybe you should have run away with me."

She's shocked for a moment because they'd actually discussed this before, years ago when he told her what a mistake that would have been. How broke he was, what a bad place they both had been in, what a disaster it would have been. And he's saying that would have been better? Wait a minute.

"Hey!" She turns around to smack him when she sees that he's clearly trying to hold in laughter.

For a little while they forget about questions, wrestling and tickling, rolling around the floor. This quickly becomes a make-out session that could rival the ones when they were teenagers

When they pull away from each other to finally breathe he's lying with his back on the floor and she rests her cheek against his chest. She huffs, smiling, "How are you so good at that?"

"Good at what?" he responds sleepily.

It's getting late. The blizzard is still raging and she considers suggesting they move to his bedroom. But it's nice here in their little cocoon, and Van is always so warm…

"The kissing. You've always been such a good kisser. And the sex…"

"Always been good at that too. Practice makes perfect," he replies nonchalantly, and if she wasn't so tired she'd probably hit him again.

"We met when you were seventeen, how much practice could you possibly have—"

"Nope." He's lazily stroking her back as he continues to talk softly. "Definitely not having that conversation."

And it's strange, the way the mind works. She knows the conversation that he thinks will follow. It's one about sexual history and how many partners he's had, but Y/N doesn't really care about that all that much. No, instead her mind goes somewhere else.

"Van?"

And he grunts in response, his eyes closed, but she knows he's listening.

"In the bedroom… at Larry’s party…"

She feels him tense before he's opening his eyes and looking at her. He licks his lips and for a strange moment she wants to kiss him and forget that she'd even brought it up. Somehow, when she thinks about the party years later, that night seems so much more profound than it had at the time.

She cuts him off before he can start. "I know we already spoke about it. Bad timing, you were emotional, and—"

"I wanted to make you feel good. It seemed like all I was doing was hurting you, disappointing you. I didn't want to, but I didn't know how to stop. I mean it when I say sex is always something I've been good at. Until I started to write songs, it seemed like the only thing I was good at. It was the only thing I could think of. The only thing I could offer you."

He looks ready to apologize again but she's tired of apologies from their broken relationship of ten years ago. This time she does kiss him and he returns it as passionately as always.

"I thought it was going to be you. Prom night, or at some point before I left for America. I'd even spoken to my mum about it." She doesn't know what makes her blurt it out, but it seems important to say.

He doesn't seem all that surprised. Just sleepily shrugs. "Figures. Probably better we didn't though. I was leaving no matter what… wouldn't have been fair to you."

She nods and rests her head on his chest, smiling. "You probably would have ruined me for other men."

She's met with silence. Y/N tries not to think too much about what she just said, or may have admitted.

They fall asleep not too long after. The electricity never actually goes out even though the snow continues well into the next day. They sleep, eat, listen to music, and she's delighted to find that Van volunteers more information about his past over this visit than he ever has before. How had they gone all these years without knowing so many things about each other?

The next day, Van offers to drive her to Cheshire so she doesn't have to worry about public transportation after the storm. The roads are generally clear and it's just a two hour drive (just two hours, that's hardly anything) so she agrees.

On the ride there, he tells her about his new album. "Just a few edits and it should be done."

She laments the fact that she won't have time to help with the edits but he promises to email her a copy she can read if she really wanted it before its recording.

It's simple, easy. Just like it's been for years.

When she gets home, she considers the whole trip, the trip that wasn't even supposed to happen. And for the first time, she really thinks about Van and the arrangement they have.

"I wanted to make you feel good," he'd said. Sex was "the only thing I could offer you."

Did he still feel that way? For the past three years he'd given, unselfishly. Whenever she wanted she could drop into his life and he would be whoever she wanted him to be: the friend, the boyfriend, the lover.

Y/N looks around her empty studio apartment. She misses him already.

She takes a deep breath but the heaviness in her chest doesn't go away.

**

They remain in touch. After the third time a conversation becomes phone sex, it's clear that Van isn't the only one having trouble letting go. (They both end up in Cheshire during Christmas and he sneaks into her room at night, breaking their holiday rule.)

It isn't only him that's seeing it either. After almost four years of this arrangement, the people in Van's life are finally catching on.

Bernie drops by one weekend. He tries to be casual but Bernie isn't ever the kind to open up, so when he starts telling Van about his ex-girlfriend before Mary, it's clear that Bernie has an inkling of what's going on.

And Van gets it. He understands how it must look. He even appreciates the concern. But as similar as they may be, Van is not his father. Hell, if Van had been Bernie, he probably would have left with the ex-girlfriend. Either way, Van isn't waiting. If he had any real desire to be with anyone else, he would be. And when Y/N finally moves on (because she will, she always does), he'll continue to live his life.

When she calls him and invites him out in London with her for the first time he doesn't overthink or hope.

"There's a party I need to go to, a work thing really, and I was thinking maybe you'd like to come? You don't have to, I know parties aren't really your thing, but I need a date and I haven't seen you in a while so I thought it might be nice."

She's breaking their long-established holding pattern. He can hear the nervousness in her voice. He's nervous too.

So he gets the girl in the apartment downstairs to trim his hair, grabs some of his work, packs his one suit, tells the guys that he'll be back in a few days, and ignores the looks the bandmates give him.

Van has never actually been to Y/N's apartment — never been to visit her anywhere other than the childhood home in Cheshire or his apartment in London. He's meant to be separate from this life; that's the point.

He barely has enough time to walk through the door before she's jumping him, lips on his, hands grabbing at the fly of his pants, pulling it down while dragging him to bed. It's quick and it's good because it's always good and, shit, it doesn't make it any easier when she's fucking addicting.

"Hi," she says, rolling over.

"You always give the best greetings," he replies, adjusting his pants and sitting up. He looks around the apartment for the first time. It's a studio, a nice one — nicer than any he's ever lived in. It's also fairly barren. "You just move in?"

She blushes. "Actually, this is my fourth apartment since I moved here. I started off bigger but it seemed silly since I barely lived in them, so they just kept getting smaller. Made more sense to keep most of my stuff at Mum's a few miles away."

He nods. Whenever he thought about Y/N's apartment he'd come up blank. Their roles are reversed now; Van is the stable one living in one place, Y/N the nomad traveling the world. A furnished apartment just doesn't suit her lifestyle.

It's already fairly late so they get takeout and find a movie on TV, eating, watching and laughing on Y/N's bed. She touches him often, pets his hair, scratches at his stubble, kisses any area she touches. He imagines this happening more often, happening every night.

It's strange, sleeping in a different bed, different from his apartment or the one he sleeps in at Cheshire. "Been a while since I've slept in a bed that wasn't mine," he says when they lay down to sleep.

There's an awkward silence. "So you bring all the other ladies home with you? I hope you wash your sheets before you let me in them."

It's somehow a conversation they've avoided since this whole arrangement started. He knows from the few holidays they've gone to at the same time that Y/N has dated off and on — "nothing serious," she'd always say, avoiding his eyes every time.

"Nah, I save the good sheets for you."

"Ugh, you only have like one pair."

He kisses her head. "I know."

Y/N wakes him early, takes him for a quick coffee and pastry, and tries to make him play tourist. When he finds a bench for the third time to read, she finally gives up. She takes him to a museum instead where they get lost for hours until they need to rush home.

They need to navigate around each other as they get ready but they're experts at it at this point. Usually, he can guess at what she's thinking, but the smiles she shoots him as they get ready leave him unsure. He ignores any uneasiness and enjoys the attention instead, grabbing gel for the first time in a while; he'd generally given up on his hair after high school.

"I love how well you clean up," she says, taking his tie out of his hand to do it for him.

"Can't have them thinking I'm your kept man." He rubs his jaw, smirking. "Although that would be fun."

"Don't get any ideas, mister. This is a good chance for you to network."

He probably should have taken that comment more seriously. From the moment they arrive at the venue she's introducing him — "This is my friend, Van McCann, he's a songwriter and lead singer for Catfish and the Bottlemen. He and his bandmates are working on their next album."

These moments are usually followed by questions — has he written anything they would have heard, tell them more about Catfish. Van turns on the charm that's necessary when you're a business owner but in the end Y/N sells it best. She apparently even carries Catfish albums in her purse — some people already recognize the name of the band as well as his albums, some people he even recognizes. He makes a note to talk to the band about paying Y/N for promotions.

Y/N touches him frequently, wraps her hand around his arm. It's not his scene but he enjoys the looks he gets, enjoys feeling like she's showing him off, someone she could be proud to be seen with.

It takes about two hours for the atmosphere to become suffocating. Y/N is standing on the other side of the room, chatting with a group of high-profiles and reporters. He stands from their table, meeting her eyes and gesturing towards the back door with an unlit cigarette in his hand. She smiles back in understanding, her knowing eyes, bright as ever, sparkling back at him.

She's turned back to the group while he's still standing there like an idiot. Ten years since he met her and she's still the most stunning creature he's ever laid eyes on. He watches as she grips the attention of the little group. He watches everyone who passes her by, looks at her, and is distracted by her beauty and intelligence. He remembers telling Bernie years before he had no idea why Y/N had chosen him. He's come a long way since then — made a real life for himself, no longer the hooligan turned dropout with no future — but sometimes, at moments like these, he still thinks why me?

Outside is a balcony, overlooking a garden that's too dark to really see. Leaning against a railing, he lights up a cigarette, inhaling deeply and slowly relaxing, reaching for his phone.

People wander outside. Some of them beg him for a light, one or two beg a smoke. He behaves himself, showing pity and giving up his cigarettes to these people in this other part of Y/N's world. Some of them ask what he's reading or listening to, or if he's Y/N’s date. It's a strange title but he willingly accepts it. He makes conversation, telling them about the new album he's working on and is due to be released in a few weeks.

Van doesn't know how long he's been standing out there, smoking, conversing, when Y/N comes looking for him. "Time to go!" she says.

"I'm good if you need to stay," he replies, unsure of what the usual routine is, if the party is actually over or if she's leaving early for his sake.

She grins back and for the first time he gets the distinct feeling that he just passed a test.

"Nope. I got plenty of material; anything else is for the gossip rags. Also, I'm starving."

He laughs, not surprised. The food was good but hours ago, and definitely not enough to fill up Y/N.

She's shoveling food in her face when she asks about the new music he’s listening to, and they discuss it while they eat. Y/N used to say that he helped her thought process, and while he wouldn't admit it for a long time, she does the same for him. He'd already planned on dedicating this album to her; with her to bounce ideas off, the writing process was the smoothest it's ever been.

"Did you at least enjoy yourself a little bit?" she asks, biting her lip.

He shrugs. "It wasn't as bad as I was expecting. Although I think we're going to need to start paying you for promoting us. You're better than the websites."

She grins wide before taking a bite of her burger. He thinks again about tests. He thinks about being actively in Y/N's world, about going to events with her, being Y/N’s date.

He likes the sound of it. Sitting outside at a fast food restaurant’s picnic table, dressed in formal wear, Van thinks about where they started — not the beginning (the beginning was over and done with) but the beginning of this thing between them.

For the first time, he considers the idea that maybe this is more than just the start of something that would eventually end.

***

She doesn't see Van again until his album release party a few weeks later. It's a big event meant to make up for the ones they didn't have for the others. She makes a point to take a few days off, desperately wanting to help, to be a part of this — to be a bigger part of his life.

And, oh, she misses him — more and more with each separation that comes. She misses his hands and his smile, his voice.

When she first enters the studio late morning they're setting things up, Van lifting his head and smiling at her. She feels something deep in her chest, heavy, and she pulls him into a different room, kisses him deeply, loving the feel of his mouth and his tongue and, oh, how she missed him.

Benji tries to tell her they don't need help, but Van and Larry are quick to put her to work, arranging things and answering the phone. They could afford to have people come in and do this for them but Van is stubborn and something of his self-sufficiency has rubbed off on the other two.

Mary and Bernie arrive not too long before the party is meant to begin, Bernie glowing with pride as he always seems to these days. He helps with the food, and Mary informs them that one of their old friends offered to cater their next party.

Y/N's gotten used to working crowds and she does her best: sharing information about Catfish, how well they're doing, who to contact if they want to be featured somewhere. She tells people about Van, his success, his talent, going on and on about this wonderful man who brings so much to her life. It doesn't occur to her how transparent she's being until her mother pulls her aside, asking if there's something Y/N should tell her.

Y/N doesn't tell her yet, but she will soon. This is the longest she's ever kept a secret from her mum and although she knows her mother will be hurt she doesn't regret it. This thing she and Van have been doing has been uncomplicated, smooth, comfortable — all of that would have changed if she'd had to argue with her mum the entire time.

The party continues on and Y/N finds that unlike the first events she'd attended she isn't surrounded by strangers. She tries not to laugh at the surprise on her mum's face as Y/N introduces her to people, friends of Bondy and Bob, a few she and Van ran into at concerts and other record stores.

"I didn't know you came here so often," her mum says, when it's just her, Y/N, and Larry after a group has left them.

"Oh, Y/N isn't here as much as we'd like but after — what, five years? — we've all fallen madly in love with her." Larry laughs, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. Her mum continues to be visibly surprised as Larry tells tales of Y/N's visits. "Y/N here has a way of getting Van to leave his apartment."

A group surrounds them and Y/N is thrilled to see more people she recognizes. She's thankful to see Van surrounded by people who care about him and who want him to succeed.

At some point Benji comes over saying, "Hey, Y/N, I think he's hitting his limit." And Y/N nods, leaving as Bernie joins the group.

Van is talking to a very enthusiastic older couple, hand tightening on his beer. He smiles gratefully at Y/N when she joins them, wrapping his arm around her shoulder tighter than Larry had, introducing her proudly. And that's where she stays for most of the night, stroking his back and rambling when she needs to.

"I hate when all the attention is on me. I can't disappear for a smoke," he murmurs to her at some point and she wonders how she ever thought he was sociable.

No, she knows how — he fakes it well. He fakes it better than he used to. Or, rather, his temper doesn't flare like it used to. She knows he loves this place, that he knows being sociable comes with the job and he considers it worth it. It makes her think of the party she brought him to, how well he did, even after he left for air.

"I'm here," she says, and if they'd been anywhere else she would have kissed him.

"Just as good as a cigarette," he replies, stroking her arm.

She receives three job offers and one person claiming to have a contact somewhere big, at a large London PR firm. "The studio keeps all your articles and PR on hand and I've read them all. Please consider calling," she hears, and she narrows her eyes at Van as he looks on innocently.

To her surprise, she's already considering it.

It's late when the party finishes; late enough that her mother doesn't have time to question her before she, and Mary and Bernie return to their hotel (although she does raise an eyebrow when Y/N tells her she won't be staying at the hotel with them.) Y/N dreads the conversation that will ensue when they all meet up the next day.

She's sitting in bed with her phone while Van potters around the apartment, getting ready to join her. There's something very domestic about their situation, but it's nothing new. The toiletries were waiting for her when she arrived, as well as some jewelry and makeup she's left behind. Her sleep shirt is also here; it seemed ridiculous to take it since she always ended up back here.

Really, she's all over this apartment of his. How could she have missed that all these years?

Y/N has been around the world. She's met all different kinds of men, felt different kinds of attraction and infatuation. She's been on many first dates, but rarely a second. She's shared kisses but never gone back for more. And none of them ever saw her apartment.

Instead, she always finds herself back in London, with Van McCann.

He's wearing his boxers when he climbs in with her, taking the book she hands him.

The feeling in her chest grows heavier as she watches him read, pen in his hand. It took some time but she finally finds the source of the heaviness in her chest. Words. They're words weighing her down.

She doesn't know how long they've been pressing on her. Maybe they've been there since high school, waiting for it to be time. For years she hasn't allowed herself to speak them, afraid of what would happen. She loves her freedom and has feared losing it, but Van has shown her that she can have him and still be free. When she's with Van, she has a different kind of freedom.

"Van?" She looks at him, reaching over and pushing his book down to the bed. He lets it go easily, giving her all his attention instead. "I love you."

There's freedom in saying the words. There's no fear, no regret, because she knows with absolute certainty that he loves her just as much in return.

They reach for each other and he strips her of her nightshirt, drags his mouth down her body.

They make love and she doesn't fear the intensity, she embraces it. She's not the only one who's been keeping their words chained up deep in their chest. He sets them free with whispers against her skin. "I love you. I've always loved you. Only you."

After, as she waits for sleep, her head resting against his chest, she thinks about tomorrow and the talk they'll have.

Tomorrow, maybe they'll decide nothing has to change — that they've been with each other for years now, that they've been in a relationship in every way but name. They know they can navigate it, they know their relationship can survive the distance.

Maybe she'll decide that she's done with her New York job and that she wants to try something new, that she loves the life she's made with him in London. He'll offer to find a new apartment, a bigger one, and she'll smile and shake her head, because she loves the one they have.

Maybe he'll offer to come with her to Paris. Van is confident he can write or record anywhere and he'll always have Catfish. They'll find a new apartment and he'll write, creating his own niche in the nation's capital with her.

Maybe they'll both change cities, go somewhere far. He'll transfer studios while she goes to write reviews for the New York Times like she always dreamed. He'll show her his favorite places from the time he wrote the second album, and they'll discover new ones together, making the city their own.

Maybe they'll both take a long vacation and go on a road trip, better than the first one he took when he was young and angry and alone. They'll drive from country to country, state to state, city to city, stay in hotels, see the sights and maybe this time she'll be the one writing her first song.

Tomorrow, she'll tell the family. Tomorrow, they'll no longer be each other's secret. Tomorrow will be the start of something new.

The icy air conditioning kissed my face upon entering the establishment. I ordered a Maniax combo and took my order placard to a corner table. I realized I probably wouldn’t actually eat the 5 chicken strips my meal came with, but the free upgrade to an XL fresh-squeezed lemonade was all too tempting in my heat stricken state. I patiently waited for my order to come out when a distinguished man came barreling through the entrance over to the counter. He didn’t even look at the menu; just started ordering once the cashier had finished her scripted greeting. For a second I thought I misheard him order a Fanatix combo, a meal that included a whopping 8 chicken strips, before I quickly had to turn my attention to the worker who had brought over my own order. I quickly looked back over at the cashier’s counter to catch the rest of the man’s order, but he’d disappeared as if I’d imagined him. I tucked away into my food keeping an eye on the clock for when David would probably be calling. At over an hour left, I’d be just fine.

After a few minutes I heard the bathroom door swing open and caught the man from before walking out with freshly washed hands. It was at that point I really got a good look at him. He was somewhere in the ballpark of 6ft, stocky with a full head of blonde hair mostly brushed back save for unkempt sections due to the summer heat. Sporting a blazer and slacks, he carried his receipt in hand while searching for a table. Secretly I hoped he’d take a table near me and I was rewarded when he picked the booth just up and over to the left a little. I could observe him casually without totally leering at him.

He removed his blazer before sitting down, pausing to unbutton and roll up the sleeves of his blue button down. I noticed the way the fabric clung to his wide back, either due to the sweat he’d worked up outdoors or his overall sturdy frame. To describe him further the only words to escape my thoughts were “corn fed.” No sooner than he was properly seated did a worker bring out his meal. At which point I quickly learned I’d heard his order correctly, and then some. On top of the hefty 8 chicken strip meal, he’d ordered an additional 2 strips and enough Maniax sauce to dip each and every one of them thoroughly unhindered. This was a man who knew how to eat.

Having left my own meal idle for a bit too long I continued on, checking in on the man’s progress from time to time, somewhat in disbelief that he intended to toss back that much food on his lunch hour, but admittedly more intrigued than anything else. One strip, two strip, he sauced and swallowed them down with vigor. Small splatters of Maniax sauce began to pepper the corners of his mouth. By the seventh strip it became clear that the way his shirt clung to his body was due to the hedonistic way in which he seemed to regularly enjoy his food. Even now, over halfway into his meal and an XL lemonade down he was powering through if only with a little more labored effort. My gaze fell down to his increasingly tortured button down shirt. Leaning back into the booth his swelling belly created a shelf for fallen crumbs and grease. I only wondered what his dry cleaning bill budget must be. Gradually I shifted focus to the buttons surrounding the widest swell of belly. They held on dearly but still bore the brunt of his show of gluttony. Suddenly I was ripped out of my reverie by my ringing cell phone buzzing on my diner table.

“Yo! I got it!” came David’s cheery voice from the phone. To my dismay he was finished interviewing much earlier than anticipated

Scrambling to put any words together I managed to muster a “Congratulations” before David rattled off he was waiting out front and wanted to take me to lunch to celebrate. Oops…

I surveyed what was left of my meal. Three untouched chicken strips and the majority of my fries. I had to lose the evidence, but was already out of time. Against my better judgment I turned my attention towards the hefty gentleman one chicken strip away from finishing his meal and shyly approached his booth.

“hi there, sorry to bother you,” I quietly interjected. The man was caught off guard having just taken a hearty bite of his food, now seemingly intent on swallowing as fast as possible without choking. I silently cursed myself for putting him in exactly the type of position I hated, but continued on explaining.

“-so I actually ordered too much food for myself and just got invited out to eat. Can’t exactly show up with half a Maniax combo in my car heh”

This was weird. I was definitely going to weird him out. Why was I offering my leftovers to a stranger?

“is there any chance you’d want the rest of-“

“Oh man that’s happened to me more times than I can count! I’ll gladly take the contraband off your hands!” the man bellowed right after swallowing. Despite his size I hadn’t really expected him to have such a booming voice.

Reaching a meaty paw out for the food container and stifling back a burp with the other he said “I’ve got room for ‘em rigggggght-” and motioned around his belly with a finger, “-here!” before plunging that same finger into a section of his surprisingly pliable flesh, putting his buttons in immediate danger.

Breaking out into a hearty laugh at his own joke he was quickly caught off guard by the errant burp he thought he’d stifled back.

“Whoops, That one –urp- they sometimes get away from me when I eat at a place like this” he said as he smiled through full, slightly embarrassed, cheeks.

“Well I really appreciate your help. It’s a shame when good food goes to waste.” I tapered off the conversation. The man nodded sagely before I took my leave.

While working my way to the car I realized if he was true to his word he’d be putting a whole 13 chicken strips, complete with sauce and fixings, away just for lunch. I wondered if I’d end up partially responsible for any wardrobe malfunctions when the man returned to work. I was only a bit sad there wasn’t a scenario in which I’d be around to find out. I entertained myself with imagery of potential lost buttons or torn inseams while David rattled off about his new internship. We’d both had a good day.

The lush vines and vegetation poked through the chain link fence on the left side as you and Van backed up to the wooden fence. He put his arms on either side of your head, gripping the tops of the wooden slats with cold fingers.

“I love you,” he passionately stated, drunk eyes rimmed with red.

“I know,” you said, punching his shoulder lightly.

“Like, proper love you,” he reiterated.

“Van, I know,” you giggled, pushing his hot breathy mouth away from your cheek.

“When you gonna let me kiss you?” he asked, before pressing you back to the wall.

“You’re always on about this,” you darted away from his body, boots crunching in the dirt and shoulders leaning on the chain link across from him instead. The vines tickled your neck. “Just let it go, mate.”

“One kiss. I’ll leave it alone forever if you don’t like it,” he said, taking a jumpy step forward and landing in front of you. His movements appeared faster to you in your inebriated state.

“You said that last time you were drunk,” you rebutted, walking around him in a tight circle back to where you originally stood when he started the conversation.

“And you still haven’t let me kiss you,” he laughed, wiggling his eyebrows as he turned.

You were dreamily drunk under the heavy blanket of night, and his eyes revealed a lot more of the emotion bubbling up underneath his thick leather jacket. You didn’t like when he got romantic on you. You took a step back and let your shoulders fall against the wood fence.

Maybe it was because you felt like he’d stop pushing you about the kiss if you gave in, or maybe it was because you felt like the universe owed you a kiss in the unfortunate dry spell you were experiencing in your love life, but you shot him a tentative look that made his eyes sparkle. “You can kiss me. Once.”

He gave a coy thumbs up and took the one step to cross the tiny gap. He placed his hands on your cheeks, and pressed his cold lips to yours. You pushed him off after they comfortably touched for a few seconds, unfortunately unmoving, and your lips made a slight slick kiss sound from the pressure release as he stepped back, guided by your hands.

“That wasn’t as good as I expected from you,” you stated, also confused by your disappointment.

“You didn’t even give me a chance,” he laughed, slouching down to your level. “Next time.”

“Oh, so there’s going to be a next time, huh?” you poked his belly, slightly surprised by the firmness that rested there. He smiled down at the hand that had touched his belly.

“Yeah, tomorrow night. I need you for the reopening of the bed and breakfast. It’s black tie, an’ that. My parents still think we’re goin’ steady and if they don’t think I’m doing somethin’ with my life they’re gonna cut me off from the band, essentially.” He had reverted back to thoughtful Van.

“Are you serious?”

“About which part? All of ‘em, I guess.”

You groaned, and palmed your forehead. Black tie. Sociability. Responsibilities to your friends. Nothing fun to think about when drunk. You stood in silence, playing with the corner of your flannel shirt while watching your cold breath fan out in front of you. The toe of Van’s boot dug around in the dirt beside him.

“Does it still hurt?” he spoke up, voice muffled by the collar of his jacket.

“Hmm?”

“Not being with him.”

“You mean ---”

“Yeah.”

“Well we broke up about a month ago so I’d say I’m over it now.”

He nodded once. “He really broke your heart. I hated to see it.”

“Yeah,” you said, wrapping your arms around yourself. You had no idea why he was asking.

“It gets lonely sometimes, now, being on my own,” you said. A pause from him.

“I know how you feel.”

“Do you?” you asked him sadly, looking up into his eyes for the first time since the kiss. The corner of his mouth dipped slightly, a half apology for fomenting those breakup feelings again.

He hugged your waist, supple leather brushing up against the soft flannel of your shirt, and nuzzled his nose softly beneath your ear as a consolation.

“I know we have to do things like this in public to keep our parents convinced we’re dating but you don’t have to do it constantly when we’re most definitely out of their view,” you said in false annoyance.

His nose poked in the hollow of your neck, and his breath washed over your cold skin. You sat there for a few minutes, hidden tightly in his arms, letting him hug the sad drunk girl out of you. You started to secretly wish he’d stay there for the sake of it; he was warm, and you liked how he felt. The shots’ effects were fully fledged still and your head was swimming with adoration and friendship for him. His lips felt good brushing up against your neck softly in the embrace.

You shakily exhaled, obviously enjoying the contact, and he peeked up at you from where his head was drunkenly buried in your neck.

He pulled back and stared into your eyes for several heartbeats, searching for permission. You stared back at him and before you could think, you closed your eyes and impulsively brushed noses with him. The slightest nod, and his lips touched yours again. It was desperate; your breathing had let on how much you needed someone, anyone, to help you in the moment, and he was more than willing to fulfill your wants.

His hands began to roam your back, fingers splayed over your shirt, flannel pressing into your soft flesh. His tongue swiped out and you let him explore your mouth with his. A soft sigh from him earned him the privilege to dip under the front of your shirt and feel your hip bones. His fingers traveled up and up until he reached the curve of your breast. Your head swam with liquor and lack of oxygen and your incredible decision not to wear a bra and his lips parted from yours ever so slightly.

“You want to come home with me?” you breathily whispered into his lips. You opened your eyes.

The beam of a flashlight hit straight into your retinas from across the yard, and your sharp intake of breath alerted Van to the light. He turned around, and you broke contact with him, sprinting down the gaps between yards with burning lungs as someone shouted curses at you, the crunching of his urgent racing over dead leaves echoing loudly behind you as you ran. The cold ripped your throat apart with gusts of harsh wind and your flannel whipped open with every step; you knew Van was right behind you. A dog barked in the near distance and your adrenaline kicked in.

The rich were always anal about kids like you lurking around, and weren’t afraid of setting their dogs loose on anyone who dared trespass even slightly.

When your lungs were about to burst and your feet ached with a deadly combination of almost-frostbite and exercise, you reached Benji’s backyard gate. His was the closest safe house to The Spot. You and Van both fell into the garden and laughed nervously at the events that transpired. Benji was sat on the small deck with a cup of tea, finger pointing to his watch, as if he were waiting on cue.

“Y/N, half past eleven. Leg it,” he urged, and you groaned.

“I can drive you home,” Van replied. You doubted his sobriety. Despite the scare, you could still feel the alcohol palpitating in your blood.

“Course you can,” Benji sarcastically laughed under his breath, and you sighed. He always teased Van for his chivalry. You decided to ignore Benji.

“No, mine’s just ‘round the corner, I can fast-walk like he said,” you declared to Van, whose languid expression dropped to one of poorly-masked disappointment.

“Let me at least walk you to your gate,” he blurted, cold blue lips shivering in the floodlight on Benji’s deck. You didn’t want to say no to him, but you knew he’d try to make something out of tonight. It had already gone farther than you’d intended. His eyes were still red-rimmed and glassy.

“I’m fine,” you kissed his cheek squarely, avoiding his eyes. You waved to Benji, and after strutting out of his yard quickly with the gate clunking woodenly behind you, you hurried your way down the street.

You jumped the gate to your front door and dug the key out of the flowerpot at the front. No car was parked in the drive; your dad wasn’t home.

“I am the luckiest bitch in the world,” you whispered to yourself, disbelief soaking into the little laughs you emitted when you walked through the door.

You slid through the hallways in your fuzzy socks, enjoying the electrifying static feeling you were picking up along the way. You spotted a note in the kitchen with a box laid out on the table.

Y/N, sweetheart ---

Something came up at work and they need me to go to headquarters in Liverpool for two nights to work out some books they think are fraudulent. I’m sorry but I’ve got to miss Mary and Bernie’s grand reopening tomorrow. I know they’re dead excited for it after the kitchen fire incident. They’ve come a long way. I went ahead and bought that dress you were eyeing at the shops the other day. I know everyone will love it. I figured that’s what cool dads do, right??

Kisses,

Dad

Shit. You replayed the kissing with Van over and over in your head. If you’d actually snuck Van inside and found your father wasn’t home, you really would have done it in the moment. With Van. You shivered, and distracted yourself with the gift.

You pulled open the lid of the box, and sighed happily. Your dad really was the coolest, and the best at cheering you up, despite his current absence.

“Love?” Van asked, slithering his body behind yours on the couch and resting his hand over your stomach. The other hand ran softly through the strands of your hair.

“Mmm,” you hummed in response, snuggling up closer to him and enjoying the safe feeling of him pressed up against you.

“You sleepy already? It’s just now five o’clock.”

You burrowed your head against the couch cushion and mumbled a soft response. “When you’re pregnant, you can do anything you want.”

“I can’t argue with that,” he softly laughed, and pressed a kiss right behind your ear. It sent a tingle down your spine. “I thought you might like to know I’ve thrown some cookie dough in the oven. They’ll be ready in ---” he checked his watch behind your head, “--- exactly two minutes.”

“Dear god, how did I get so lucky,” you said as you turned around on the couch to face him, and kissed his cheek. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, and he helped you sit up, despite you only being three months pregnant. Van walked into the kitchen backwards, pulling you by your hand, orange glow from the fire cast on his face.

Sitting there at the kitchen table eating warm, gooey cookies with Van struck a warm chord in you; it reminded you of your first date with him. He had stood there at your doorstep, snow in his hair, rubbing his ice cold hands together so they wouldn’t shake when he looked you in the eye. He’d taken you to a nice dinner at an upscale restaurant in London, made you laugh so hard you teared up, and afterward, he’d held your hand and walked you down the watery streets lined in Christmas lights. Car lights and shop windows reflected neon at your feet, and the lights around you shined brightly in his eyes as he leaned down to peck your cold lips with his for the first time. When the snowy streets’ concrete coldness had crept into your bones, Van had whirled you both into a small corner shop, and bought you as many warm cookies as he could carry in his hands. He’d thrown them down onto a set of napkins he’d strewn across the diner-style table, and slid across from you in the booth, and helped you devour the delicious sugary pile with the widest, most playful grin.

He had that same playful grin on his face now as he watched you silently recount the memory.

“What?” he asked around a mouthful of cookie in that happy, flirtatious voice of his.

“Just… I love you,” you said, stepping off your chair to come wrap your arms around his waist, your rings almost getting snagged in his black sweater.

“I love you too,” he whispered into your hair.

****

“Can ya bring me a ladder, Van?”

“Fuck no, there’s no fucking way you’re getting on a ladder,” he said, lowly, as he attached a few sparkly red ornaments higher than you could reach on the silver tinsel tree.

“But I want to put the star on!” you whined, plopping down on the sofa, absentmindedly staring at the fire twirl and twist in the hearth. After a few moments between that and watching Van silently load red, blue, silver ornaments onto the tree, you sighed. He turned his head and looked at you pointedly, urging you to speak.

“It’s my tradition,” you said softly, sadly. You got off the sofa, and went to the kitchen. You ate a cookie left over from a few days ago while you dejectedly prepared some hot chocolate with salted caramel, yours and Van’s favorite. You knew it was just pregnant hormones making you upset; but then again, what you feel in a moment is what you feel. So in that moment, you felt sad.

While you were waiting for the almond milk to heat on the stove, Christmas music started playing through the speakers in the other room; Van’s doing. Hearing the little bells jingling and the upbeat music turned your mood to a lighter, happier one. You definitely married the right man.

Two mugs of piping hot chocolate in hand, you carefully walked back into the living room to deliver to Van. He had covered most of the tree in ornaments now, and was doing an adorable little wiggle to the music as he darted around the tree to hang them.  

Van took the hot mugs from you and set them on the end table to cool, and then held your hands, warmed by the mugs, in his.

“Ms. McCann, oh, and little McCann -- care to dance?” he asked (the both of you apparently), and you nodded, smiling coyly at his unnecessary chivalry.

You couldn’t help but snicker as he began to lightheartedly dance with you. He swayed his hips as he moved closer to you, and twirled you around. Those were his two dance moves. Hip sway to the left, hip sway to the right, a little wiggle, and a twirl. A coquettish grin plastered to his face, always.

The song changed to a slower one, and he broke away from holding your hands to wrap you to his chest. Your belly poked his, and he had to lean forward a little farther to hug you fully. You both swayed against each other, just enjoying the company, while Van rubbed circles into your back. Suddenly, he spoke up.

“How ‘bout I go get the ladder, but ya have to promise me that you’ll let me spot you and that ya won’t reach out too far and fall on the tree and die? Or fall backward into the fireplace and die? Or --”

Your eyes rose to meet his, and you cut him off. “Deal.”

***

“I was gonna wait til Christmas to give ya these, but I figured if I did, we wouldn’t get to enjoy ‘em,” Van said when he entered your bedroom a couple of weeks after that, just days before Christmas.

Your eyes brightened at the mention of a gift.

“Yeah, yeah, I know I said I wouldn’t let ya open anything, but this is a different kind of gift.”

He held a box out to you, wrapped pristinely in newspaper with a big red bow. You couldn’t wait to tear it open.

You put it on your lap, and reached around your small baby bump to unravel the ribbon. The paper crinkled and fell to the floor, and you reached inside the box.

One little concert ticket framed, and on the back, Van’s handwriting: “Your first Catfish concert. 20XX.”

One small disc of baked white clay, with the imprint of a key, and Van’s handwriting: “Our first house. 20XX.”

And one small frame with a tiny print of the ultrasound photo you’d received last week, and on the back, Van’s handwriting: “Our first baby. 20XX.”

Your mouth had fallen open by the time you got through each item in the box. Van, who had sat next to you, held you in a one-arm hug.

“Ornaments, for the tree, see,” he said, pointing to the holes he’d made in the tops of each.

“This is….”

“I know, I did amazin’,” and with his flirty comment, you rolled your eyes and half-scoffed, half-laughed, and led him out of the room to put the ornaments on your tree.

***

“My bump is really showing now,” you whispered, a little unsatisfied with your appearance as you stared at your stomach in the mirror. Even under a flowing black dress, you could tell. You ran your hands along its contours, feeling the hard skin beneath, wishing it could go away just for the holiday party.

“You okay in here?” Van questioned as he entered the closet, tucking his shirt into his pants with his belt half-on. He stopped mid-tuck and stood straight. “Y/N?”

“I feel so… gross. Disfigured.”

“W-- No, Y/N, you’re beautiful. Incredibly beautiful. Look at you!” He turned you around to face the mirror from the front, and he stood behind you. He pointed to your bump. “That’s our baby in there! We did that!”

“Yeah.”

He put both his hands around you and rested them on the bump. The warmth radiated from his hands, and you sighed. And then, a thump. Just under his right hand.

“Y/N? Was that --?” His eyes bulged, and he looked over your shoulder at his hands and your belly.

“Oh my god. A kick?” Your eyes started watering. Another thump, in a similar spot. You both gasped.

“Gonna be a good footy player, yeah?” he sniffed, and settled his chin into the crook between your neck and shoulder. You felt one of Van’s tears roll down your exposed shoulder, and let him hold you. You both waited for another kick, but it didn’t come.

“We’re probably going to be late to the Christmas party,” you whispered, breaking the anticipatory silence.

“We have the best excuse,” Van said reverently, wiping his eyes and standing straight again to finish up his outfit. “You let me know if he does it again,” he called.

“We don’t know if it’s a boy or girl yet!” you yelled back to him, now somewhere far in the house.

“Whoever they are, they’re gonna play football!”

When you settled into the car next to Van, the warm fuzzy feeling was still very much there.

***

As soon as you’d stepped through the door, oohs and aahs at how much your belly had grown since your friends and family had last seen you made you feel a little uncomfortable, but Van had gone on to say something like “ain’t she the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen?” or “she’s got the mother glow!” after each and every comment. You couldn’t appreciate his support more.

“D’you know if it’s a boy or girl yet?” Larry asked the two of you after he handed Van’s parents drinks on the way to the table you were sitting at.

“Nope, but Van thinks it’s going to be a football player regardless,” you said back, and Van smiled.

“We felt the little thing kick today. Just before we left,” he recounted to Larry, and kissed your temple. He was so proud.

“That’s amazing! I’m happy for you,” Larry said with a genuine smile. “And Y/N, you look great.” You couldn’t believe you were afraid to leave the house earlier. At the party, you were fawned over by both of your parents, all of your friends, and the rest of your families. The joint celebration you’d decided to have was “the best idea in the entire universe,” according to Van’s cousin.

The party was a hoot, full of the people you loved being as merry as could be. You all told stories about each other in conversation, and eventually, you piped up when Bernie reminded the group of Van’s penchant for good music since he was a kid.

“You know, ever since we’ve been married, Van’s always sung everywhere we’ve gone. And at sometimes it has been completely annoying… Sorry love… but it’s a true joy. I didn’t know how much I could love music until I met Van. And I didn’t know how much I could love Van until he used that music to sing to the baby.”

Everyone “aww”-ed at that line. Van smirked.

“Recently, at night if Van’s bored, he sits at his desk and writes lullabies for the baby. And then he’ll come to me wherever I am -- probably the couch reading a book, or in the bath, also reading a book -- and he’ll set up camp next to me. He’ll play his guitar and sing ‘loud enough for the baby to hear,’ as he says, but as soon as I swat at him and tell him he’s bothering me, he’ll come up close and whisper to my stomach. Something like ‘mum’s a little irritated with us right now, so let’s be a tad quieter, shall we?’ and I chuckle and pretend to be upset still, but there’s nothing more special than watching him sing softly to my belly. And when he’s done he’ll just tell it about his day, or how much he loves me, and honestly, it melts my heart.”

“Bernie did the same to Van! He’d have music on constantly for him. But let me tell you, as soon as Van popped out, that music ability was transferred immediately. Talk about banging on pots and pans, chasing the boy around to keep him out of the cabinets, having to fight him for volume control on every sound device, and listening to him scream-sing at the top of his lungs constantly. Phew! What a handful for just two people,” Mary laughed, and rubbed her son’s shoulder. Everyone chuckled, and more stories were passed.

But you stayed uncharacteristically silent for the rest of the party until it was time to say goodbye.

***

“I don’t know if I can do it,” you whisper to break the silence on the car ride back home.

“Do what?” Van asked, though he’d already sensed what you were on about. You’d been quiet since Mary had spoken to you about baby Van.

“The parenting thing,” you said, rocking a little in your seat as Van pulled the car into the drive. You gathered your gloves and forewent the jacket considering you’d be in the house in a bit. “You had a reputation of being crazy as hell as a child, Van. And I have no doubt that this kid’s going to have at least part of that crazy. I don’t know if I can do all this by myself when you’re on tour.”

You knew you’d hit a tiny nerve in Van when you said that, but it was a valid fear. He took a deep breath and parked the car.

“We’re gonna be great, love,” he said, pulling the key from the ignition and running around the car to retrieve you from the passenger side. He helped you out of the car, and you sighed at how heavy your belly was starting to feel. You staggered into the house, careful of the ice on the sidewalk, under his wing.

You both took off your boots and left them at the front door; he closed it hurriedly behind you, trying not to let the cold air in. You stopped, looked up at him, and spoke again.

“Despite the holiday cheer and all that, which is a great distraction by the way… I’m scared.”

He gestured around to the fireplace, warm and bright; the Christmas tree, lights twinkling, and filled with ornaments of love; all the unwashed cookie sheets and chocolate mugs and plates in the sink; heavy blankets thrown over the couch in a nest; holiday cards sent by tons of friends and family; wet snowy shoes piled right at the door. And two people who were very, very concerned for their first child.