Unseen
Summary: When you accidentally witness something you were never meant to, Thiago Di Bianco chooses intimidation over trust. You choose not to be afraid. What starts as silent hostility turns into a dangerous pull neither of you expectedâbecause some wars arenât fought loudly, and some lines are crossed without either side realizing it.
Pairing: Thiago Di Bianco x fem!reader (you)
Warning: None
Tags: A quiet girl who loves books and poetry. A broken assistant coach. Angst. Enemies to lovers. Hurt/comfort vibes. Using the word (name). Authority Figure Conflict.
Word count: 2.1k
Author's note: I couldnât find a Thiago fanfic anywhere, so this happened. I know the movie is a little cringe at times, but Thiago and Taylor absolutely are not skippable. Also, Iâm back after a long while. To everyone who sent requestsâthank you for waiting, and Iâm sorry I havenât been able to reply to each of you yet đ¤
The first time Thiago Di Bianco speaks to you, it isn't a conversation. It's a border drawn in the cold air of the empty school corridor, long after the final bell has rung.
He finds you at your locker, your fingers stained with ink from the poetry anthology youâd been annotating. You sense him before you see himâa shift in the light, a presence that seems to absorb the sound from the hall. When you turn, heâs there, leaning against the row of lockers opposite, his arms crossed over his coachâs jacket. His eyes, the colour of a storm over the sea, hold no warmth.
â(Name).â Your name is a statement, not a greeting. It sounds foreign in his mouth, like heâs testing a word he doesnât like. âWe need to talk.â
You close your locker slowly, the metallic click echoing. âMr. Di Bianco.â You keep your voice neutral, a librarianâs tone. âIs there a problem with my history paper?â
A muscle ticks in his jaw. He ignores your question. âI saw you. Yesterday. Outside the gym.â
You know what he means. Youâd seen themâThiago and Kamila, standing too close in the shadow of the equipment room. The air between them had been so charged it felt like a physical thing, a crackle of unsaid words and old ghosts. You hadnât lingered. You hadnât wanted to. But you had seen.
âI was on my way to the library,â you say, which is true, but feels like a lie under his intense scrutiny.
âWhat you think you saw,â he begins, pushing off the lockers to stand at his full height. Heâs taller up close, and the scent of himâ clean cotton and something darker, like regret, washes over you. âItâs not what it looks like. Kami⌠Kamila is dealing with enough. She doesnât need rumours. This school doesnât need more gossip.â
The protectiveness in his voice is sharp, edged with something desperate. Itâs the tone of a man guarding a fortress thatâs already fallen. It annoys you, this presumption.
âIâm not in the business of creating rumours, Mr. Di Bianco,â you say, slinging your bag over your shoulder. âI have better things to do with my time.â
He steps forward, just one step, but itâs enough to invade your space. âGood. Then we understand each other. Keep what you saw to yourself. For everyoneâs sake.â
Something snaps quietly inside you. Youâve spent your life observing, navigating the emotional minefields of others with careful silence. But thisâ this blatant intimidation from a man who is supposed to be an authority figure, it feels unclean.
You look up, meeting his stormy gaze without flinching. Your voice drops, but it gains a new steel. âWhat I understand,â you say softly, each word deliberate, âis that you are trying to silence a potential witness to something you feel ashamed of. I understand that you are using your position not to guide, but to threaten. And I understand, most clearly, that a man who resorts to this doesnât deserve the respect his title demands.â
The silence that follows is absolute, deafening. His face goes pale, then a flush of anger rises on his neck. Youâve struck a nerve, exposed a raw truth heâs been running from for a decade. You see it in the way his breath hitches, in the sudden, wounded flicker in his eyes before the shutters slam down again.
He doesnât speak. He just stares at you as if seeing you for the first time. Not as a background student, not as a potential gossip, but as a tangible threat to the fragile narrative heâs built his survival upon.
You give him a final, measured look. âIf thereâs nothing else about my academic work, I have to go. Good evening, Mr. Di Bianco.â
You walk away, your heart hammering against your ribs. You donât look back, but you feel his gaze burning into your retreating form, a brand of newfound and unwanted attention.
---
The war is silent after that. Itâs fought in glances across the cafeteria, where he sits with the coaching staff and you sit with a book. Itâs in the way heâs unfairly strict during the one P.E. class you canât avoid, his critiques of your basketball technique sharp and personal. Itâs in the essays he returns to youâyou, the top student in Historyâmarked with unusually harsh, red-inked comments that speak more of his irritation than your comprehension.
You refuse to yield. You meet his harshness with icy, impeccable politeness. You correct his factual errors in class with a calm, devastating precision that makes the other students gasp. You become a quiet, immovable object to his unstoppable force.
The turning point comes on a rain-slicked afternoon. Youâre in the schoolâs neglected greenhouse for your botany project, the humid air thick with the scent of soil and growing things. He finds you there, not by design, you think. He looks lost, his hair damp from the rain, his coachâs jacket clinging to his broad shoulders. Heâs come here to escape, you realise. Just like you.
For a long moment, he just stands at the entrance, watching you gently repot a fledgling orchid.
âYouâre not afraid of me,â he states, his voice rough.
You donât look up. âShould I be?â
âMost people are. Or they tiptoe around me like Iâm a live wire.â
âIâm not most people.â You finally glance at him. He looks exhausted, the shadows under his eyes pronounced. The angry facade has crumbled, leaving behind something hollow and achingly young. âAnd youâre not as frightening as you think you are. Youâre just⌠very sad.â
He flinches as if youâve struck him. No one has ever said it so plainly. Not to his face.
He takes a step inside, the glass door sighing shut behind him. âYou donât know anything about me.â
âI know you carry a guilt so heavy itâs bending your spine,â you say, turning back to your plant, your fingers steady though your pulse races. âI know you punish everyone around you for a crime you think you committed. Starting, it seems, with me.â
The rain drums a frantic rhythm on the glass roof. He sinks onto a rusty bench, his head in his hands. âYou have no idea what Iâve done. What I failed to do.â
You set down your trowel and walk over, sitting on the bench opposite him, leaving a careful space between. You donât touch him. You just offer your presence, a silent witness in this glass-walled confessional.
âI saw the accident report,â you say quietly. Youâd looked it up in the old digital archives of the local paper after your confrontation. A tragic crash on a stormy night. A young girl lost. A family ripped apart. âI read between the lines. It wasnât your fault.â
He lets out a sound thatâs half laugh, half sob. âEverything is my fault. If I hadnât⌠if we hadnât seen⌠if I had just kept my mouth shut, or held the wheel, orâŚâ
The story pours out of him then, in fractured, pained sentences. The perfect neighbour, the hidden affair, the birthday party from hell, the shattered trust, the panicked flight in the rain. The loss. The all-consuming, decade-old loss.
You listen. You donât offer platitudes. You donât tell him itâs okay. Because itâs not. When heâs finished, spent and raw, the greenhouse is filled with a different kind of silenceâsofter, shared.
âYou were a child,â you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. âYou all were. Children in a storm made by adults. You didnât drive the car, Thiago.â
Itâs the first time youâve used his first name. It hangs in the humid air between you, a bridge.
He looks up, his eyes red-rimmed but clear. He searches your face, looking for pity, for judgment. He finds only a quiet, unwavering understanding.
âWhy?â he rasps. âWhy do you even care? After how I treated you?â
You consider the question, tracing the pattern of condensation on the bench beside you. âBecause someone has to see you,â you say simply. âNot the assistant coach. Not the tragic older brother. Not Kamilaâs lost love. Just you. The man whoâs been in the dark for so long, heâs forgotten what the light looks like.â
Something shifts in the space between you. The enemy lines blur, then dissolve entirely. The tension that was once hostile transforms, heating into something else entirelyâa magnetic pull, dangerous and undeniable.
He reaches out, slowly, as if moving through deep water. His fingers, calloused from basketballs and years of clenched fists, brush a strand of hair that has escaped your braid, tucking it gently behind your ear. The touch is electric, a shock that travels straight to your core.
â(Name).â he whispers, and this time your name is a prayer, a question.
You donât have an answer. Not yet. But when his gaze drops to your lips, you donât pull away. The world narrows to the sound of the rain, the scent of earth and him, and the terrifying, beautiful precipice you are both about to fall from.
The war is over. Something far more perilous has just begun.













