the luxury of satisfied-vanity

The Last of Us

Joel Miller

Favors

(part 1) (part 2)

Hannibal

Will Graham

Inside 🔗 Private Lessons 🔗 Longing, the gentle word for my violence

-> Bruised

-> Half-states

-> Firsts meets and other things 🧾

DC comics

The Batman

cameras flashes, that's how we crashed

Ted Lasso

Conte(s)extual Support 🔗 Daily Activities

Barley Ilegal

Others

It’s a lazy afternoon, you’re behind the counter of the coffee shop you work at, bored out of your mind, pretending to wipe it down while actually calculating how many more shifts you need before your student loan stops breathing down your neck. It’s the kind of coffee shop that tried to be indie and accidentally became depressing; mismatched chairs, a chalkboard menu that hasn’t been updated in months, one flickering light over the pastry case.

The bell over the door jingles. You don’t look up.

“Welcome to Bean There, Regretted That,” you say flatly. “What’ll it be?”

“Well ain’t that the worst pun I’ve heard all week.”

You look up.

David Clark stands in the doorway like he regrets walking in but also like he fully intended to. A grey hoodie, hands on his jeans pocket, unshaved, that typical smirk on his face. You remember him at your frat parties; selling weed to your friends, selling bad weed to your friends; you hate each other’s guts since you met. It had been one of those overpacked frat parties where the music was too loud and the floor stuck to your shoes. David was there, leaning against a wall, selling to boys who thought they were invincible. You’d noticed him because he didn’t look impressed by anyone, especially not you. There had been a moment, quick, almost nothing, where your sarcasm met his smirk and the air shifted just slightly while he dealt to your friend. But then, that same friend had passed out on the back patio, too much cheap vodka and too many people pretending not to notice. You’d struggled to lift her alone while David stood a few feet away, watching, unreadable. He hadn’t been cruel. He hadn’t laughed. He just hadn’t stepped in. And you’d decided right then that he was exactly the kind of man who only intervened when it benefited him. Later, he’d made some offhand comment about “your daddy’s money,” and you’d shot back something about “creepy older guy vibe.” Neither of you apologized. Neither of you forgot.

He shifts his weight like he owns the place, scanning the sad little pastry case, the empty tables, the chalkboard menu with “Seasonal Pumpkin Something” still written in faded orange chalk even though it’s March.

“What,” you say coolly, tossing the rag onto the counter. “Lost?”

“Relax,” he replies. “Didn’t realize this was members-only.”

“It’s customers-only,” you correct. “You have to order to stay.”

His smirk deepens. “You gonna card me?”

“I’m gonna charge you.”

He lets out a short laugh, stepping up to the counter. “Fine. Surprise me.”

“Bold move,” you deadpan.

You turn to the machine with theatrical seriousness, grinding beans that already smell like they’ve lost the will to live. You consider your options.

Petty? Yes.

You pour him the darkest roast you’ve got, the one your manager calls “artisanal” but tastes like it was brewed in a mechanic’s garage. You don’t spit in it, you’re not a monster, but you do “accidentally” use the oat milk that expired yesterday. Just a splash. Enough to be… interesting.

You pop the lid on and slide it toward him.

“On the house,” you say sweetly. “For old times’ sake.”

He eyes you. “That tone doesn’t match that sentence.”

“Drink your coffee, dipshit.”

He lifts it, takes a confident sip, and immediately freezes.

You watch it happen in slow motion. His face goes through three stages: 1) Confusion 2) Regret. 3) Betrayal.

He coughs once, from the back of his throat, then spits it right back into the cup.

“What the hell is that?” he demands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand violently.

“Notes of charcoal,” you say thoughtfully. “Hints of despair.”

“It tastes like a tire fire.”

“You told me to surprise you!” you say sheepishly.

“I thought you’d gimme yesterday’s coffee.”

You lean on the counter. “That is coffee.”

“That’s a hate crime.”

You shrug.

He glares at the cup like it personally offended him

“Finish your coffee or get out.”

He lifts the cup again, inspects it like it might attack him.

“…You trying to poison me?”

“You’d be dead already”, you point at the door. “Drink or leave.”

He takes another sip, smaller this time, grimaces but forces it down.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re fucking evil.”

“Thank you.”

He sets the cup down.

“You’re gonna regret being this mean to me,” he says.

“Is that a threat?”

“No,” he says, straightening up. “It’s an opportunity’

You lean across the counter. “Why are you here, David?”

He lowers his voice. “Because I need help.”

You snort. “Try church.”

“Because I need your help,” he corrects. “And because you need money.”

That  makes you uneasy, you cross your arms in a defensive pose.

 “You still drowning in student loans?” he asks.

You straighten. “That’s none of your business.”

He tilts his head. “You wouldn’t still be pulling doubles here if it wasn’t.”

There’s a beat, too long. The espresso machine hisses like it’s judging you.

David runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

“I have a few packages coming in. Big ones.”

“Congratulations?” you cock and eyebrow at him.

“It’s sitting just south of the border,” he continues. “And the only way to move it without getting cavity-searched by a bored customs officer is to look aggressively normal.”

“Aggressively normal?”

“A family” he mutters.

“A…family?”

He fights the urge to joke about your confusion, but if he wants this to work out, he had to play it cool. For now.

“A family,” he confirms. “Nobody stops a dysfunctional white family on vacation. It’s America’s camouflage.I’ve got a stripper who can pass for a suburban mom, a kid next door who looks like he’s afraid of his own shadow, a runway girl who’s the middle kid. And you.”

“Me?” your tune goes up a bit.

 “And you,” David says, grinning, “are my daughter. The eldest, college-aged, spending 4th of July with her family. It’s perfect.”

You laugh bitterly, tossing your head back.

 “Absolutely not.”

“You’re twenty-one,” he says. “You look younger, it’s perfect.”

“Why the fuck would I agree to that?”

He leans in, voice low. “Because I’m paying you enough to wipe out a solid chunk of those loans.”

“If, I agree to this idiotic nonsense…I’ll only do if for the money, not because I want to help you.”

“Sure,” he replies. “And I’m doing it for family values.”

The RV looks like it’s been through at least two divorces and one minor felony.

David stands outside it, arms crossed, jaw tight, checking his watch for the fifth time in thirty seconds.

“She’s not coming,” he mutters.

Rose leans against the side of the RV, sunglasses on despite the cloudy sky. “You said that ten minutes ago.”

“She’s not coming,” he repeats. “She likes drama too much to commit.”

Kenny shifts awkwardly beside them, backpack straps clutched like he’s about to board a spaceship. “Maybe she overslept?”

Casey flicks ash onto the pavement. “Maybe she realized this is a stupid plan.”

David exhales sharply. “She’s not that smart.”

“Excuse me?”

The voice comes from directly behind him.

David freezes, slowly turns. And there you are.

Short denim skirt; pink hoodie zipped halfway down, underneath, a white baby tee that reads “A Little Bit Dramatic” in glittery pink script; oversized sunglasses covering half your face, lip gloss aggressively shiny, iced coffee in hand, like you stepped out of a 2004 teen movie.

David blinks once, looking you up and down.

“You’re late,” he says flatly.

You slide the sunglasses down just enough to look at him over the rim.

“I’m fashionably delayed,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

Rose’s lips twitch.

Kenny stares like he’s witnessing a celebrity sighting.

Casey smirks. “Oh my god. She’s perfect.”

You glance at them, then back at David.

“You didn’t think I’d come?”

“I was hopeful,” he deadpans.

You gasp, dramatically. “Wow. And here I was, thinking we had trust.”

His jaw tightens, but there’s something else there now: relief Annoyingly obvious relief.

You take a slow sip of your drink, eyes sweeping over the RV.

“This is it?” you ask, “This is the American Dream?”

“Luxury edition,” David replies.

“I’m deeply regretting this.”

Casey snorts and you two smile at each other.

“I like your shirt” she says.

“Thanks!”

David already feels like the two of you would hit it off just fine.

Kenny waves awkwardly. “Hi.”

You give him an once-over, then lean toward David. “That’s my brother?”

“Adopted,” David mutters.

“Obviously.”

Kenny flinches.

David shoots you a look. “Try not to traumatize the kid.”

You shrug. “He looks pre-traumatized.”

Casey laughs out loud.

Rose crosses her arms, studying you. “So you’re the daughter.”

You glance at David again, then dramatically roll your eyes.

“Unfortunately.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose as he rushed you all in.

Rose immediately claims the front passenger seat. Kenny drops his backpack on the floor and starts poking at buttons he absolutely should not touch. Casey flops onto the couch.

“So when do we start rehearsing our tragic backstory?” she asks.

David turns, rubbing his temples. “Okay. Ground rules. We are a normal family. Suburban. Boring. No drama. If anyone asks, we’re the Millers.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You picked the wrong girl.”

He points at you. “You, especially, need to tone it down.”

You grin, slow and sweet. “Tone what down?”

He opens his mouth, then he looks down at your growing smirk.

“I don’t like that smile”

You drop into the seat behind Rose and across from him, crossing your legs deliberately. “Relax. I’ve got a persona ready.”

“A what.”

You tilt your head, loud and performative. “I’m Daddy’s girl.”

The RV goes silent.

David stares at you like he’s just watched a car crash happen in slow motion.

“Nope,” he says immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“What?” you shrug. “It’s believable. Spoiled. Bratty.

“I am not raising a brat.”

You lean back, arms crossed. “Too late. Genetics.”

Rose, trying very hard not to laugh, claps once. “Honestly, she’s kind of perfect.”

David turns on her. “You’re not helping.”

You swing your legs under the table, tapping the bench, dangerously close to revealing what’s beneath your skirt.

“What’s the issue? People see a guy like you, they expect a nightmare kid.”

“That’s—” he stops himself. “That’s not flattering.”

You grin wider. “Exactly.”

He exhales through his nose, looks away, visibly recalibrating.

“This is not… weird for you?”

You shrug. “It’s acting. I need money. You need to not go to prison.”

“That’s not the same level of stakes!”

“Feels close,” Casey mutters.

David looks back at you, serious now. “You cannot lean into it. No touching. No jokes. No—” he gestures vaguely “phrases like that.”

You lean forward just enough to be annoying. “Relax, David. I can behave.”

He doesn’t miss the way you say his name.

“…You’re enjoying this,” he says.

You lean back, smug. “You asked me to act.”

He shakes his head. “I should’ve hired a golden retriever.”

“Would’ve cost more,” you say sweetly.

David sighs, slumping into the driver’s seat. “This is the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

And as the RV lurches forward, you catch him glancing at you in the mirror, not angry, not amused, just deeply aware that whatever this is, it’s already more complicated than he planned.

The RV pulls into a rest stop that looks aggressively patriotic, flags, vending machines, a giant sign that says WELCOME, TRAVELERS! like it’s judging everyone who enters.

David parks.

“Five minutes,” he says. “Bathroom, snacks, no chaos.”

Rose stretches. Casey hops out first. Kenny nearly trips over his own backpack.

David steps out last, already tense.

That’s when he sees them.

A pristine, shiny RV parked two spots over. A perfectly clean family unloading in slow motion like a commercial for cereal.

White polo dad, blonde mom, two obedient kids, golden retriever energy radiating off them.

“Shit,” David mutters.

You follow his gaze.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “This is like seeing a better version of us.”

“Yes. But they don’t have a version of you”

You narrow your eyes at him.

The dad notices your RV. Waves.

David forces a smile that looks painful.

“Game face,” he mutters to you.

You beam instantly, transforming.

The dad approaches. “Hey there! Family road trip?”

David nods. “Sure is.”

“We’re the Weltons!” the man says proudly. “First time crossing state lines with the kids.”

You step forward sweetly.

“Oh my god, same!” you chirp.

David’s eye twitches.

The mom smiles at you. “And you must be…?”

You loop your arm through David’s.

“I’m his daughter.”

David stiffens.

You tilt your head.

“Daddy,” you add brightly.

There it is.

David’s entire body locks up like someone hit pause.

Rose coughs to hide a laugh.

The Weltons dad chuckles. “Ah, Daddy’s girl, huh?”

You nod dramatically. “Happily.”

David forces a laugh that sounds like a dying lawn mower.

“Teenagers,” he says through gritted teeth.

You squeeze his arm tighter. “Daddy says I’m dramatic.”

The mom smiles sympathetically. “Oh, I remember those years.”

The dad gestures at the RV. “Nice rig! How long you folks been on the road?”

David opens his mouth.

“Forever,” Casey says, practically vibrating with joy as she joins behind you.

You let go of David’s arm to stand next to her. He looks down to the area where your body rested next to him, the warm you left on his skin.

“We just stopped for a quick bathroom brake”, he says, “Oh, here’s my wife, Rose!’

As they chat about politics and the absurd amount of taxes, you and Casey wonder off to the convenience store, you warn the other with a girly smile and a wave, saying “Daddy! We’re gonna get some snacks!”, which send David to a spiral looking over his shoulder.

Inside the store, the fluorescent lighting is unforgiving, the cashier is a middle aged woman reading a tabloid magazine who doesn’t even look up when the door swings open. You grab a basket dramatically.

“I feel like we should get something that screams ‘functional family,’” you announce.

Casey grabs neon gummy worms. “So… nothing here.”

Kenny hovers by the energy drinks, whispering, “Are we allowed to get sugar? My mom— I mean— I mean—”

You glance at him.

“Sweetie,” you say sweetly, “you don’t have a mom. You have trauma.”

He nods immediately. “Right. Trauma. Got it.”

Casey snorts.

You toss a bag of chips into the basket, then spot him.

The Weltons’ son.

He’s pretending to examine beef jerky, but he’s very clearly staring at you through the glass of the refrigerated drinks section.

Casey notices first.

“Oh my god,” she whispers. “He followed us.”

Kenny panics. “Are we being surveilled?”

“It’s called flirting,” you say.

Kenny looks horrified. “In public?”

You push your sunglasses up into your hair, lean casually against the fridge, and make eye contact.

The kid straightens immediately.

He walks over.

“Hey,” he says, trying to sound smooth and failing just slightly.

“Hi” you answer sweetly.

Casey drifts off two aisles down but not really. Kenny stands awkwardly beside you like a nervous bodyguard.

“So,” the boy says, lowering his voice, “you guys headed to Mexico too?”

“Maybe,” you shrug.

He laughs a little too hard.

Casey pretends to compare candy prices but is absolutely listening. Kenny grips a bottle of Mountain Dew like it’s emotional support.

“You in college?” he asks.

You tilt your head, studying him for a second like you’re deciding how much of yourself to reveal.

“Unfortunately.”

He smiles. “What do you study?”

You hesitate just long enough to make it interesting.

“Debt.”

He laughs again, softer this time. He’s relaxing now, starting to feel like he’s got a shot.

Outside, through the dusty front windows, David stands near the RV with Rose and the Weltons’ dad. He’s half-turned toward them, nodding at something about property taxes, but his gaze drifts, subtle, casual, towards the store.

He can see you leaning against the fridge. He can see the boy standing close. He just watches.

Inside, the kid gestures toward the slushie machine.

“You want one?” he offers. “My treat.”

You glance at the spinning blue liquid.

“Tempting,” you say. “But I try not to accept beverages from strangers.”

“I’m not a stranger.”

You smile faintly. “You’re definitely a stranger.”

He grins. “Okay, fair.”

There’s something earnest about him. Harmless. A little naive.

And maybe that’s why you lean just a fraction closer when you speak again.

“So,” you say quietly, “you always approach girls at gas stations?”

He shrugs. “Only the dramatic ones” he looks down at the glittery letters that sit just below your breasts.

Casey makes a choking sound two aisles over.

Kenny whispers, horrified, “He’s flirting back.”

You ignore them.

“Bold,” you say. “I respect it.”

“Thanks. I’m Henry by the way”

“Henry”, you hum, with a smirk, “I’ll take that slushie now..”

He smiles vivid and pull out his wallet.

Outside, David shifts his stance. He laughs at something the Weltons’ dad says, but it’s delayed. His fingers drum lightly against his arm, anxious.

Rose notices, she follows his line of sight toward the store windows and smiles to herself.

Back inside, the kid pulls out his phone.

“So, can I get your number?” he asks, more confident now, handing you the red coloured drink.

You consider him for a moment, biting down the straw.

You could.

You won’t.

But you enjoy the pause.

Before you answer, the store door opens again.

David walks in. He doesn’t go straight to you. He grabs a bag of pretzels off a shelf; walks past the candy aisle; picks up a bottled water.

He ends up near the slushie machine. He doesn’t interrupt. He just stands there, scanning labels like he’s deeply invested in sodium content.

You feel him before you look at him, Henry notices too, his posture changes slightly.

“Uh,” the kid says, lowering his phone. “It’s your dad, right?”

You glance over your shoulder, David meets your eyes for half a second, a steady look.

You turn back to the boy.

“Yeah,” you say lightly. “That’s him.”

David shifts his weight, pretends to read the back of a snack mix bag.

 “Anyway,” you say to the kid, stepping away from the fridge. “It was nice meeting you.”

He blinks. “So… no number?”

You shrug apologetically. “Family trip.”

It’s an excuse that makes sense. It’s clean.

He nods, disappointed but respectful.

“Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Maybe,” you echo.

As Henry walks away from you, he pumps, a little to intentionally, into David’s shoulder, the older greets him with a firm tap on the back, that makes Henry stiffen upright.

“Watch it there, Sport” his tone is ease, but there’s something unhinged behind his eyes as they lock with Henry’s.

He walks off toward the checkout counter, shoulders a little straighter than when he arrived.

You turn toward David. He tosses the pretzels into your basket.

“Ready?” he asks.

You study him.

“Yeah.”

Kenny rushes over. “Did you scare him away telepathically?”

David raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” Kenny mutters.

Casey slides up beside you, eyes sparkling. “You’re both insufferable.”

David hands you the basket.

“Let’s go,” he says.

As you pass him, your arm brushes his, lingering there as you watch him pull out his wallet. Outside, the sun hits hard and bright. The Weltons’ family is still laughing about something near their RV.

David walks a step ahead of you now, like he’s actually there to protect you.

You glance at him.

He doesn’t look back.

But his jaw is a little tighter than it was before.

And when you say, sweet and casual:

“Bye, Henry!” and you wave back at him from the RV stairs.

The boy grins ear to ear and watch your hips as they disappear inside.

After what feels like hours on end until the border, you, Casey and Kenny have done almost everything to keep yourselves entertained; game cards, listening to music, never have I ever, horror storied, roadtrip games, everything. You’ve also eaten everything. Which, after a few minutes of begging, got David to agree stopping for a meal.

The place smells like burnt grease. Red vinyl booths, a waitress named Carol who has seen too much, a jukebox that hasn’t worked since 1998.

You slide into the booth across from David, immediately kicking your sandals off under the table like you’ve been here your whole life.

Rose and Casey sit on one side. Kenny squeezes in next to you.

David grabs a menu.

“Okay,” he says. “Remember. Normal.”

Casey coughs loudly.

The waitress arrives.

“What’ll it be?”

Before you can speak, David cuts you off.

 “Burgers,” he says quickly. “Five burgers. And waters.”

“I want a stake” you say, “please.”

David looks at you quizzical, like he can’t believe you even know that the word ‘please’ means.

“I want a milkshake,” you add.

“You don’t like milkshakes.”

“But, Daddy–”

“Not now, sweetie”

You pout.

The waitress scribbles, unimpressed, and walks away.

The second she’s gone, David leans forward.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You lean back, stretching lazily.

“Playing the part.”

“Well, play it quietly” he says, straighten up.

You prop your chin on your hand.

“You’re stressed,” you observe. “It’s aging you.”

Casey is shaking with silent laughter.

Kenny whispers, “This feels unsafe.”

Rose sips her coffee. “I’m enjoying this.”

You lean across the table toward David.

“Relax,” you say softly. “You can afford it, right?”

He narrows his eyes.

“That’s not the point.”

“Isn’t it?”

There’s something in the way you say it.

You sit back, crossing your legs slowly under the table.

He notices.

You know he notices.

“So,” you continue, louder now, bratty again. “Are we getting dessert too? Daddy?”

Rose coughs into her napkin.

David exhales sharply.

“Stop calling me that.”

“You told me to sell it.”

“Not to weaponize it.”

“Oh, I’m weaponizing it.”

He runs a hand through his hair.

“You’re enjoying pushing me.”

You smile sweetly.

“Very much.”

The food arrives.

Your steak is massive, it takes half the space of your plate. You poke it with a fork like you’ve never held one before.

“Can you cut it for me?” you ask casually.

The entire table goes silent.

David looks at you.

 “You’re joking.”

You blink.

“Am I?”

Casey mutters, “Oh my god.”

Kenny sighs, “She’s going to get us killed.”

You slide the plate slightly toward David.

“Please?”

The waitress is watching from the counter now.

This is public. This is performance.

David stares at you for three full seconds, then he picks up the knife, smiling for his audience.

“You are a nightmare,” he mutters under his breath.

You beam.

“Thank you.”

He cuts the steak and imagines it you instead.

You watch him the entire time.

When he finishes, you lean closer and smiles, opening your mouth to bicker something else, but the stare he gives you is of pure rage.

“Keep going,” he says quietly. “See what happens.”

The challenge lands, you feel the edge of it and for the first time you don’t bark back.

Rose clears her throat dramatically, “Eat your food before this turns into foreplay,” she mutters.

The diner door jingles again just as you started eating.

David doesn’t notice at first. He’s focused on making sure Kenny doesn’t accidentally confess to federal crimes over fries. Then Rose stiffens slightly.

“Oh no,” she murmurs.

You turn. The Weltons. All four of them, scanning the room. And then: eye contact.

The Weltons’ dad lights up, he’s just found his long-lost road buddy.

“Well I’ll be damned!” he booms, already walking toward your booth. “Small world!”

David freezes mid-bite.

“There aren’t many tables left,” the mom says cheerfully. “Mind if we join you folks?”

There it is; the booth suddenly feels smaller, way smaller.

Rose slides over automatically. Casey squeezes in beside her. Kenny shifts awkwardly, knocking his knee into the table leg. There is absolutely not enough space.

The Weltons’ son slides in on the open side.

Right. Next. To. You.

Your thigh brushes his. He smiles.

The Weltons’ dad claps David on the shoulder and wedges himself in at the edge. The table is chaos now, elbows bumping, knees colliding.

You’re half-perched on the edge of the vinyl seat, barely balanced. You shift. There’s nowhere to go. Except…

You glance at David. He already knows.

“Don’t,” he mutters quietly.

The Weltons’ mom laughs. “Oh goodness, we’re all crammed in here!”

You smile sweetly.

“It’s fine.”

And before he can react you slide sideways off your seat, barely full up before sitting down again, at the other end of the table, into David’s lap.

It’s smooth, natural. Almost practical. There literally isn’t room.

But the moment your weight settles, the world shifts. David’s breath hitches, just slightly.

His hands instinctively come up to steady you, just reflex.

Your back rests against his chest and you can feel the warmth of him through thin cotton.

Leaning back against his chest, you turn your head just enough to let yourself be heard through you clenched teeth, performing a grin, “If you get hard, I’ll fucking kill you”.

Across the table, Casey’s eyes go wide.

Rose stares into her coffee like she’s watching a nature documentary.

Kenny looks like he’s turning into a living furnace, he’s all red in the cheeks and sweat begins to coat on top of his forehead.

The Weltons’ son watches you carefully.

“Oh,” he says lightly, trying not to sound amused. “Guess that’s one way to make space.”

You smile brightly.

“Daddy doesn’t mind.”

David closes his eyes briefly.

The Weltons’ dad laughs heartily. “That’s adorable!”

Adorable.

David forces a smile.

“Yep,” he says. “Adorable.”

His hands remain on your waist, light and controlled, but you feel the tension in his fingers, when they dig just enough into your skin through the shirt.

You shift a little, not provocative, just adjusting your balance. The movement sends a ripple through him.

You feel it.

He feels that you feel it.

The Weltons’ son leans in toward you, ignoring the dynamic entirely.

“So,” he says, voice lower. “Still thinking about Mexico?”

You glance at him over your shoulder.

“Maybe.”

David’s jaw tightens slightly.

He doesn’t interrupt.

He doesn’t move.

He just listens.

The Weltons’ son smiles. “We’re staying near the coast for a few days. If you get bored—“

“I don’t get bored,” you reply smoothly.

He laughs. “That sounds like a challenge.”

You feel David’s grip tighten just slightly, barely noticeable, but there.

You don’t turn around. Instead, you lean your head back just enough so your hair brushes his jaw. His breath warms your ear.

Henry keeps talking, about beaches, about ATVs, about bonfires.

You nod politely. But something sharp starts forming in your chest.

Because he’s easy, harmless, and he’s looking at you. And for some stupid, irrational reason, you don’t like how easy this is for him.

You shift again in David’s lap, more deliberately this time; your thighs flat on top of his knee and the curve of your ass perfectly pressed against his lower stomach.

Henry  notices. David absolutely notices, his hand moves slightly lower on your waist, dangerously reaching the line between your bare skin and the rem of your hoddie.

 “Careful, baby,” he murmurs quietly into your ear. “You’re gonna scare him away”

His voice is calm, but lower now, closer, the word ‘baby’ is lingering inside your brain, the raps of his voice and the meaning of it; making you feel very aware of the heated feeling growing inside of you. And of what’s beneath you…You can feel David hard on poking at the side of your ass, you can feel the thud of it as your hips hump into it just an inch.

Henry is still smiling at you, and you suddenly hate his smile.

Because he’s talking like you’re available, like this is simple. Like there’s no complicated, infuriating, hot-and-cold tension sitting right behind you with hands on your waist.

“Actually,” you say suddenly, turning fully toward David instead, “Daddy,” you say sweetly, “can we get dessert?”

The Weltons laugh.

David studies you, there’s something different in your eyes now; not performance; not just bratty theatrics, something sharper. He sees it.

“You want dessert?” he asks evenly, almost kindly.

You nod, “Yes.”

He holds your gaze.

“Alright.”

He doesn’t look away; doesn’t look at the Weltons, just looks at you; those deep brown eyes staring into yours as if he could see inside your head. You shift once more on top of him, closing your legs tightly, chasing a relief for a feeling you hate yourself for having.

“Quit it while you’re at it, baby” David spills into your hair, while smiling at some of the mom’s jokes.

“I’m not doing anything” you bark back, but your voice is shaky and not as bratty as you wanted it to sound.

You spin just enough to catch David’s growing smirk. You fucking hate that smirk, and how good he wears it.

Henry says something you didn’t quite hear, his hands reaches yours to drive your attention from David to himself. The Weltons’ dad chuckles warmly, nodding toward Henry.

“Better keep an eye on that one,” he jokes. “Boys get ideas.”

Henry grins, emboldened, David shrugs casually.

“If she wants to run off with some kid,” he says lightly, lifting his glass, “that’s her mistake to make.”

The table laughs, easy and harmless. You watch as Henry’s smile grows, all white perfect teeth and a slight curved nose pointing up as his whole face lights up with hope, but your brain goes quiet for a second. Because you’re sitting on him, you can exactly where David’s cock sits rock hard under your body, his hand still at your waist, thumbs drawing mindless circles on your skin. And he says that?

You tilt your head slightly, slow.

“Is that so?” you ask sweetly.

He doesn’t look at you.

“Sure, baby” he says. “I’m not the jealous type.”

You narrow your eyes at him. ‘So that’s how you wanna play?’, you think to yourself. You’re not quite sure where you blurred the line of hatred. Maybe it was the way his hand felt on your skin, or the way his tights made a perfectly comfortable seat, how he cracks a joke just for the sake of making everybody laugh, how he treated Kenny with some twist father figure energy, but right now it gets you, how he doesn’t seem to care.

You hum, interlacing your fingers with Henry’s as you lean in closer.

“Okay then, I’ll take the beach trip!” you smile as bright as you can.

But, once you lean in, your body goes upward, backside hovering David’s lap, a few inches in the air as you lean away from him. His hand falling from your wait onto his side, and then you sit back. You sit back hard. Intentionally hard, making David startle as he lets out a strangled sound of pain. Looking over your shoulder with a wicked smirk, you catch his jaw tightening. There it is.

Henry laughs. “You for real?”

“Yes! If Daddy says it’s ok…Maybe I can ride along you guys, since we’re heading to the same place…”

You turn your head just slightly, looking back at David over your shoulder. You push up like you’re about to slide off his lap again.

This time he reacts instantly, tightening his hand around your waist, firmer than ever.

“Sit your ass back down” he mutters quietly.

You freeze. ‘Oh. So now he cares?’

You smile sweetly, dangerously sweet.

“I thought it was my mistake to make.”

He finally looks at you, those dark eyes steady, unreadable, fixed on yours with a kind of quiet focus that makes your stomach twist in a way you refuse to examine. Around you, the Weltons laugh at something Rose says, ice clinks in glasses, a truck roars past outside, the world continues, bright and harmless.

But the air around David goes still.

“Plans changed,” he says calmly.

Henry leans forward, confused but hopeful. “So… she can’t go?”

“No,” David says simply.

David exhales slowly through his nose.

Then he smiles.

It’s not the smirk. It’s worse. It’s the polite, suburban, perfectly composed smile of a father dealing with a difficult daughter in public.

“You’re not going to the beach with strangers,” he adds evenly.

Your jaw tightens. “You just said—”

“I said,” he cuts in, still smiling for the audience, “you could make a mistake. Not that you would.”

A few chuckles ripple around the table.

The Weltons’ dad nods approvingly. “Good man. Gotta set boundaries.”

The word boundaries lands like a spark in dry grass.

He releases your waist slowly, like he’s proving he doesn’t need to hold you.

“But I want to go! Why can’t I go? Why –“

“Watch your tone” he warns.

The defiance in his voice is like a personal insult to you. Who the fuck he thinks he is? Your father? Oh. Yes he is.

“But Daddy, you told me that if I behaved I could have a boyfriend!”, this is loud, this catches the attention of the table, not only yours, but the around you; the restaurant goes quiet.

“And have you behaved?” David voice’s calm, but there’s that sarcastic tone you’ve hated since the first time you heard it, “Have you, sweetie, uh?”

You throw your head back with theatrical exasperation, loud enough for everyone.

“Unbelievable,” you sigh dramatically. “You’re so controlling.”

Rose coughs into her drink. Casey bites her lip to keep from laughing.

You rise from his lap, standing in front of the table, your denim skirt riddling up just enough to expose the softness of your inner tights.

The Weltons’ dad glances over. “Everything alright?”

David shrugs, standing up. As he rises, you realize he’s much taller than you, you push your chin upwards, while pointes downwards, meeting your burning gaze.

 “Ah, you know, spoiled brats, you gotta teach them a lesson” he says lightly.

Heat floods your face instantly.

You let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

His hand closes around your forearm. Finger digging into your skin, not violent, more warning than yanking.

“Ops, Daddy’s mad”

The grip tightens.

“Walk” he orders.

And for some reason, you abide. Maybe it’s the grip, maybe it’s his tone, or the boiling sensation that had flood in your cunt from the way he’s acting.

To anyone watching, it looks parental, casual, a guiding gesture. Up close, it is something else entirely.

“Excuse us,” he says smoothly.

You make a show of resisting, dramatic sighs, exaggerated steps, muttered protests, but you let him guide you. Because the truth hums hot under your skin: You wanted a reaction, you got one.

The walk back to the RV is silent except for your sharp breathing and the gravel crunching under your shoes. His grip never bruises, never hurts, but it never loosens either.

The moment the RV door shuts behind you, the performance collapses. David drops your arm.

You whirl on him instantly.

“Oh, now you let go?” you snap. “In front of everyone you act like you don’t care what I do, but the second I actually—”

“What exactly were you doing?” he interrupts.

You scoff. “Don’t play dumb.”

He watches you carefully.  You pace once across the narrow space, running a hand through your hair in frustration.

“You sit there,” you say, voice sharp, “telling everyone you’re not jealous, that I can run off with whoever I want—”

“I can’t control what you do.”

“No but you did fucking tried, didn’t you?” you snap back.

“I was trying to keep us out of jail! I wasn’t trying to separate Romeo from Juliet, you can go to the beach with that Troy Bolton wannabe, you can have sweet, romantic, boring sex underneath the stars for all care. Just not before we get the fucking drugs!”

“You’re an asshole!” you shout, pushing him against the seats.

“Well, you’re not being Little Miss Sunshine either!”

“You’re sitting there acting like I don’t matter,” you continue, breathless, “like I’m nothing, like I’m just a prop and your cock is rock hard the entire time. You’re such a jerk.”

David doesn’t move.

For a moment, just a moment, he genuinely looks caught off guard. Not embarrassed, or ashamed, just… surprised by your bluntness.

“My what?” he asks slowly.

You throw your hands up, incredulous. “Oh, don’t do that. Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“I really don’t,” he says, voice even, eyes fixed on your face.

Your cheeks burn, but you refuse to retreat.

“You were hard,” you snap. “I was literally sitting on you. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

Silence settles in the RV. David stares at you, then something flickers across his expression, realization followed by something dangerously close to amusement.

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “Jesus,” he mutters.

You stiffen. “What?”

He shakes his head once, then reaches casually into the front pocket of his jeans.

Your irritation spikes instantly. “What are you—”

He pulls it out.

A thick, worn leather wallet.

Big, bulky, rectangular. Heavy enough that when he drops it onto the small table beside you, it lands with a solid, unmistakable thud.

Your brain takes a second to catch up.

The sound echoes louder than it should.

You stare at it.

Then at him.

Then back at the wallet.

“…Oh.”

Heat floods your entire face so fast it almost makes you dizzy.

“That,” David says calmly, tapping the wallet once with two fingers, “is what you were sitting on.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. You replay the sensation in your head, the pressure, the shape, the way you’d convinced yourself, the way you’d built an entire argument around it. Fuck. Did you...did deep down you wished it was his cock? No. No. No. You didn’t.

Mortification crawls up your spine.

“I—” you start, then stop. “That’s—”

He leans back against the counter, folding his arms, watching you unravel with infuriating composure and that irritating cocky grin,

“You were very confident,” he says mildly.

Your humiliation instantly mutates into defensive anger.

“Well you didn’t have to let me think that!”

“I didn’t realize you were conducting a full investigation,” he replies.

You make a strangled sound, turning away, pacing two steps before whipping back toward him again.

“Why would you even keep that thing in your front pocket?”

“Because it’s my wallet.”

“It’s enormous!”

“It holds money. Cards. Identification. Things adults carry.”

“You called me baby!”

“So what? You call me Daddy all the fucking time!”

Your stomach flips in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with anger.

“That is not the same thing,” you say quickly, too quickly.

His eyebrow lifts. “Oh? Enlighten me.”

“It’s… it’s contextual.”

“Contextual,” he repeats slowly, like he’s tasting the word. “Right. And the context being you grabbing my arm and whining when you want something?”

“I do not whine!”

He leans forward slightly. “You absolutely do.”

Your jaw drops, “You’re unbelievable.”

 You move shoving his shoulder as you pass him, more frustrated with yourself than with him. He catches your wrist as you try to move past again, trying to hide yourself in the cramped bedroom on the end of the RV. The contact sends a jolt up your arm once more, not fear, not pain, something sharper, more electric. You stop moving without meaning to.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Your breathing is still uneven, chest rising and falling too fast. Embarrassment lingers, tangled with the leftover heat of the argument, the awareness of how close he is.

“You thought I was just sitting there,” he continues, voice lower now, “talking to strangers while openly—”

He stops himself, the corner of his mouth twitching with mischief laughter.

You groan and try to pull away. “Don’t.”

“I’m just clarifying the accusation.”

“You’re the worst person alive.”

“Debatable.”

“You were not exactly behaving innocently either, you know.”

That catches his attention, his eyes narrow slightly. “Meaning?”

“You were all smug,” you insist. “You didn’t move. You didn’t say anything. You just sat there with that stupid calm face while I—” you falter, flustered, “—while I was right there.”

His expression changes, something quieter settling beneath the teasing.

“I didn’t move,” he says, voice lower, “because you were comfortable.”

The words land softer than you expect. Your irritation wavers, thrown off balance by the sincerity threading through his tone. But you recover quickly, crossing your arms.

“That doesn’t explain the whole baby thing.”

A slow smile curves his mouth. “You liked when I called you that.”

Your breath catches. “That’s not—”

“You lean closer,” he continues, watching you carefully. “You get this look on your face.”

“I do not have a look.”

“You do.”

“Well maybe,” you snap, grasping for control, “maybe you like when I call you Daddy.”

A beat of silence.

Something dark and warm flickers in his gaze brief, but you catch it. Your heart stutters, it was just a bluff…

“OH MY GOD YOU DO!’

“I DON’T!”

“YES YOU DO! You’re such a pervert. You –“

 “Oh, shut up—”

His hand closes around your arm and in one swift movement he turns you, your back hitting the RV door with a solid thud that rattles the thin frame. The sound is loud in the tight space.

And then his mouth is on yours.

Hard.

Not teasing, not playful. All the irritation, the bickering, the tension snaps tight between you and pours into the contact. His hand braces beside your head against the door, boxing you in, leaving nowhere to escape except straight into him.

Your breath vanishes. The impact sends a jolt through your whole body, heat flashing down your spine. For a split second you push at his chest in pure shock, and then your fingers curl into his shirt instead, gripping.

The kiss deepens with your reaction, rougher, more certain. There’s nothing gentle about it. It’s frustration and possession and something dangerously close to relief, like he’s been holding himself back for far too long. His tongue invades your mouth, curling and battling against your own.

Your earlier words, all the teasing accusations, they dissolve into meaningless noise in your head. All you can register is the pressure of him, the heat of his body pinning you against the door, the steady strength in the arm beside your head. Your heart pounds wildly against your ribs.

When he finally breaks the kiss, it’s abrupt. He pulls back just enough for air, but not enough to give you space. His forehead almost touches yours, breath uneven for the first time since you’ve known him.

Your hands are still fisted in his shirt. You realize it slowly and make no move to let go.

“There,” he says quietly, breath warm against your lips, “problem solved.”

Your mind struggles to restart, and your pride scrambles for footing.

“That—” you begin weakly.

“Yes?”

“That did not solve anything.”

David’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then lifts back to your eyes.

His mouth twitches. “No?”

 “No,” you insist, though the word wavers.

“Then keep arguing, baby” he says softly.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out as you feel his hands sliding down your face, down your torso, until settling on your lower body; one gripping your waist, the other cupping a handful of your ass, the skirt barely hides anything and his finger dig into the soft skin of your cheeks. David presses himself against your body.

“Go on. Don’t go quiet on me now”

Your mind scrambles for something sharp to say,  something clever, biting, something that gives you the upper hand again, but nothing comes. The only thing you can think about is the roughness of his lips against yours and how good it feels when he massages your ass.

You hate that.

 “I think,” he murmurs, voice low near your ear, “you’ve been trying to get a reaction out of me all night.”

The hand on your waist traces the zip line of your pink hoodie, only to zip it down, groping your waist, only the thin cotton of your baby tee separating your skin.

 “You push,” he says. “You provoke. You run your mouth just to see who breaks first.”

His thumb traces the curve of your hip through the thin fabric, absentminded, controlled.

“And when someone doesn’t,” he continues, eyes fixed on yours, “you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

Your chest rises sharply. “That’s not—”

His hand lifts, two fingers lightly catching your chin, tilting your face up.

“Yes, it is” he murmurs.

The words aren’t mocking, they’re almost approving.

You glare at him, but your voice comes out softer than you intend. “You started this.”

“You sat on me and declared war.”

You huff, cheeks warm. “You deserved it.”

A quiet chuckle leaves him, low and rough. His gaze drops briefly to your mouth.

“If you wanna act like a brat, I’ll treat like one”

“Is that so, David?”

He cocks an eyebrow at you, pressing his hips against yours, and this time you know where his wallet is.

“Oh, so it’s David now?”

“I can use ‘motherfucker’ if you prefer” you grin, but the feeling of his cock is maddening, his knee pressed against your legs and the hand on your ass starting to play with the stripe of your thong.

“Say it” he demands.

“Motherfucker?”

You don’t get a remark, a sarcastic comment, you get a smack. The sound of his palm against your ass cheeks is loud, not louder then the breathless whine you let out.

“Say. It”

The sting is barely fading, but you don’t give in just yet. You bite your lip, looking straight into his eyes, one hand tracing the line of his jaw.

Another slap. Harder than the first, hitting the other side of your ass, making you startle forward. You don’t need him to ask again.

“Daddy”

He swears under his breath.

“See? Wasn’t that hard, was it baby?” his voice sounds like a coo, but his palm strikes you once more.

“Hey!” you whine, shaking your hips, trying to both, easy the sting and the heat between your legs.

“Shh. I’mma teach you lesson”, both of his hands drift away from you, the metallic sound of his unbuckling belt is barely audible through the drumming in your ears, “Get on your knees.”

You fight the urge to protest, kneeling down until you’re eye levelled to his bulge. David slides down his jeans just enough to expose his cock. It spans freely, the tip already dripping with pre-cum; it’s long and reddish at the tip, you bit your lip, glancing up at him.

“Open wide for Daddy, now”

You do as you’re told, forming a big ‘O’ while sticking your tongue out. He goes in without further notice, making you gag hard on him. He’s out as fast as he’s in.

“What the fuck –“

“What? They way you run that filthy mouth of yours, thought you wouldn’t mind”

 He grins down at you, cock in hand, pumping gently. You hate how sexy he looks from this angle, you hate that his cock is so pretty and that your pussy is dripping wet at the thought of David Clark fucking you so hard at a stupid RV near the Mexican border. What. The. Fuck.

“Be gentle”

“I won’t”

You share devilish smiles. You know he will, but you don’t really want him to.

He slides in again, slower this time. Every inch passing through your tongue, saliva starting to coat at the ends of your mouth as you accommodate him, tears forming ad the rim of your eyes and you batt your eyelashes innocently at him.

“Now, that’s a good girl”, his hands tangle in your hair, holding it afar from your face, while using as a power control, “Shit. Look at you, finally putting that mouth for a good use.”

You roll your eyes, and you’re punished with a tug, forcing you to take more of him. His tip hits the back of your throat, you gag. Again. And again. And again. A muffled sound against his cock that makes him let out ragged breaths. The soft sensation of your lips curling on his cock, the way your tongue twists alongside it; it all drives David into a sense of frenzy he don’t think he experienced before. All the rage he kept for days, all the bickering and teasing, the stolen glances to your ass and your tits, fuck, how good you’ve looked with the little outfit and how insanely hot it was when you tried to yank his chains. He lets it all out.

David’s fucking your mouth ruthless.

The back of your head is trapped between his body and the door, being held by his big hands, keeping you in place as his hips thrust repeatedly into your face. You’re a mess; lip gloss all smudged, mascara running down your cheeks along a few rebel tears, redden and babbling against his cock. He takes in the view, almost apologetic at how ruined you look, David could never imagine how pretty you could look on your knees.

“Jesus Christ. You’re such a good girl. Such a good girl for Daddy” he closes his eyes at the feeling of his tip hitting a certain spot repeatedly, “Taking all of Daddy’s cock…”

He spits into it, gathering along your own dripping saliva. You take it greedily, pushing your mouth of off him, regaining your breath for just a second.

“More, Daddy”, you ask, opening your mouth widely.

“Fuck.”

David spits again, a long stripe of saliva dripping from his lips into yours, glistening with the white lights until it coats into your waiting mouth. He watches as it reaches your face, joining the mess it already is, it’s a blissful vision.

“Swallow now, baby”

You obey, happily smiling as your tongue darts out to lick alongside his length, until you reach the tip; you suck lazily on it, closing your eyes and hollowing your cheeks. You can feel his cock throbbing, desperate in need of relief. You move forward, engulfing his full size until your nose hits his pelvis. Your gags and gulps are muffled sounds he doesn’t quite listen as his own moans are out now; eyes closed and hands curled into fists in your hair.

But he does not cum.

You pull out, breathless, resting your head against his hand.

“What?” you ask, trying to regains your breath.

He keeps his eyes closed, but his smile widens. The hand on your hair caress your scalp gently and you lean into the touch. When all of the sudden he yanks you up again, meeting his lips.

It’s slower than the first. Less rough, more passionate, tasteful, he’s participating in the mess himself left in your mouth; your lips are hot and plump against his own, he bites it down just enough to hear the faint sound you spill into him.

“You’ve been a spoiled brat to me since day one. You think brats like you get to have my cum?” he asks, and, as if trying to make a point, presses his cock against your bare tights.

“But, Daddy…”

“Open your legs”.

You smile. Fuck. Finally he’s going to relief the pool of neediness inside your pussy, you clench around nothing in anticipation; wrapping your legs around his neck, you wait for him. But David doesn’t make a move, he doesn’t manhandle you into the bedroom, or the seats, or even the table, he just stands in there, tapping his tip against your tights.

“Please?” you whiny, but he doesn’t budge, “what are you doing?”

David’s smiles wickedly, pulling down your pink thong just enough to expose the wet spot on the inside fabric, you juices sticking to it like a glue. He rests the tip of his cock there.

“You’re not going to…”

“Not now, baby. You gotta be more patient then that.”

David laughs and leans into your neck, peppering kisses alongside your collarbone. His hands gives his cock a few desperate pumps, and there it is: hot strings of cum paint your panties white. Your legs tremble with arousal at the sight, it pools just perfectly in there, mixing altogether with your own liquids.

“Fuck, baby.” He moans against your ear.

He stays still only for a second, before pulling you panties back on. It sticks in your pussy as he cups it, hearing your whines and complains; David give it too little taps, before drawing his hand away; you feel his cum so warm against your skin, so sticky..

You move your head, in desperate need of his lips in yours once more.

David doesn’t give you the kiss you’re chasing.

Instead, he catches your chin between his fingers, holding you just out of reach, studying the dazed, frustrated look on your face with infuriating satisfaction.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice rough but amused. “You’re gonna bust my ego, lookin’ that desperate.”

You glare at him, breath still uneven. “Shut up.”

A crooked grin spreads across his face. “There she is.”

He smooths your hair back into place with surprising care, thumb briefly brushing the corner of your mouth where your lip gloss has smeared. The gesture is almost gentle, a sharp contrast to the heat that still hums between you.

You swat his hand away. “Don’t act all sweet now.”

“Who’s acting?” he replies lightly.

You open your mouth to argue, then pause as he straightens your hoodie, tugging the zipper up like nothing unusual has happened. His hands linger at your shoulders, steadying you.

“Can you walk,” he asks quietly, “or did I completely ruin you?”

Your eyes narrow. You push past him toward the small mirror, fixing your hair, wiping at your cheeks, pretending your legs aren’t still a little unsteady.

“I’m perfectly fine.”

A beat.

“You look it,” he says dryly.

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder, but there’s no real bite left in it, just warmth, just the lingering charge neither of you is acknowledging.

The tension between you has shifted. Still sharp, still electric, but no longer combative. Something heavier sits underneath it now. Something unfinished.

David retrieves his wallet from the table, sliding it back into his pocket with a deliberate glance in your direction.

You flush instantly. “Don’t.”

He lifts his hands in mock innocence. “Didn’t say a word.”

“You were thinking it.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

You shove his shoulder as you pass. He laughs.

For a moment you both linger by the door, the world outside waiting, normal and loud and unaware. Inside the RV the air still feels warm, charged with what just happened.

You reach for the handle first.

“Remember,” you mutter, not looking at him, you say as if you can't feel his cum against your pussy, “this changes nothing.”

“Sure,” he says easily. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, baby.”

You roll your eyes, but your fingers tighten on the handle.

When the door swings open, nightlight and noise rush in: voices, laughter, the distant hum of traffic. The others look up immediately, curiosity flickering across their faces.

You step out like nothing happened. David follows a second later, relaxed, casual, the picture of composure.

Casey raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay in there?”

You smile sweetly. “Perfect.”

David slings an arm loosely around your shoulders, entirely too comfortable. “Kid just needed a little attitude adjustment.”

You elbow him sharply in the ribs. He barely reacts.

The group moves on, conversation resuming, but as you walk you feel his fingers briefly press into your shoulder, subtle, deliberate, a quiet reminder meant only for you.

You don’t look at him.

You don’t need to.

Something tells you the argument isn’t over.

Not even close.

A/N: i know this was so fucking long. but i had SO much fun writing it. Maybe I’ll do a part 2… All comments are appreciated :3

Morning comes in quietly.

Not sunlight flooding the room or alarms blaring, just that soft, uncertain yellow that slips in through half-open curtains and settles gently over everything. Ted wakes to it slowly, consciousness returning in fragments: the weight of the duvet, the distant sound of a car passing outside, the unfamiliar warmth pressed against him.

Then he realizes he’s not alone.

Your hair is tickling his chin. One arm is slung across his chest, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his T-shirt like you reached for him in your sleep and never let go. Your leg is tangled with his, calf draped over his thigh, bare skin warm and unmistakably real.

Ted freezes.

He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t breathe for a second longer than is strictly necessary.

Sometime in the night, at some point he can’t quite remember, distance gave up. Maybe he’d shifted. Maybe you had. Maybe the exhaustion finally outweighed the caution. All he knows is that you’re wrapped around him now like this is the most natural thing in the world.

Your breathing is slow and even, mouth parted just slightly. The Kansas City Chiefs shirt he borrowed you has ridden up in your sleep, exposing a strip of skin at your hip, and Ted has to shut his eyes briefly, steadying himself against the rush of want that hits him.

He shouldn’t move, but when you shift, murmuring something soft and unintelligible, nose brushing against his collarbone, his arm tightens instinctively, pulling you closer before he can stop himself.

You hum quietly, settling more fully against him.

This is… intimate. More than last night, when you had a few too many drinks at Mae’s and made some bad decisions that led to a one night stand between two coworkers. It’s ess charged, somehow, but deeper. Like something honest slipped in while neither of you were looking.

Your eyes flutter open.

For a split second, you look confused. Then you register where you are, who you’re with. Your gaze flicks up to his face, close enough now that he can see every freckle, every sleepy softness and all the years he carries under his skin.

“Oh,” you murmur.

“Oh,” he echoes, voice rough from sleep.

Neither of you moves.

You blink once, then smile, small, warm, unguarded. “Morning.”

“Morning,” he replies, unable to stop his thumb from brushing lightly against your side.

There’s a beat of silence. Not awkward. Just… loaded.

“We, uh,” Ted starts, then stops. “Looks like we got a little… tangled.”

You glance down at your limbs, then back up at him, amused. “Seems that way.”

You don’t pull away. Instead, you shift just enough to be more comfortable, cheek resting against his chest. Ted feels the movement like a jolt straight through his system.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

“Mhm,” you say. “You?”

He laughs quietly. “I’m… workin’ on it.”

That makes you smile wider, fingers tightening briefly in his shirt like you’re grounding yourself too.

You don’t move right away. Instead, conversation drifts in the way it does when two people are pretending this is normal, not avoiding what happened, just not poking it yet.

You mumble something about the match coming up this weekend, about how Jamie’s been insufferable since the win, about how Higgins keeps labeling folders like he’s afraid chaos might overhear him. Ted hums along, adding his own commentary, half-awake jokes, little observations about Sam’s footwork and Roy’s ongoing war with emotions.

It’s easy. Disarmingly so.

At some point, Ted shifts, careful not to jostle you too much. “You hungry?”

“Always,” you say, voice still thick with sleep.

“Thought so,” he replies. “That’s a team-wide trait.”

You both laugh quietly, and when you tilt your head back to look at him, your eyes linger, not intentionally, just… curiously.

Your gaze catches on his moustache. It’s softer in the morning light. Less coach, more man, his beard starts to grow slightly from the night before.

“You know,” you say, thoughtful, “I’ve been meaning to ask.”

Ted arches an eyebrow. “That sentence rarely leads to good things, but go on.”

“Do you… maintain that every day?”, your hands brush his upper lips, caressing his stache.

He snorts. “This old thing? Oh yeah. Daily ritual. Trim, shave around it, pep talk in the mirror.”

“You talk to it?” you giggle.

“Encourage it,” he corrects. “Positive reinforcement.”

You smile, then, without thinking too hard about it, ask, “Can I watch?”

Ted pauses.

“Watch… me shave?” he clarifies.

“Yeah,” you say easily. “If that’s not weird.”

He considers it, then shrugs, amused. “I reckon I’ve done stranger things before breakfast.”

You disentangle yourselves slowly, carefully, the absence of your warmth immediate and noticeable. Ted heads for the bathroom, flicking on the light, and you follow.

The bathroom feels smaller with both of you in it.

You hop up onto the counter in front of the mirror, sitting easily, legs swinging just slightly over the cabinet doors. The shirt rides up when you move, just enough, the soft fabric bunching at your thighs like it never meant to stay modest in the first place.

Ted notices. Immediately.

He tells himself not to.

Fails.

He clears his throat and turns back to the sink, running the tap, splashing water onto his face like it might cool something other than his skin. When he reaches for the shaving cream, his eyes flick up to the mirror without thinking, and there you are: watching him with quiet, focused attention, chin tilted, eyes following every movement like this is the most interesting thing in the world.

“Alright,” he says lightly, shaking the can once. “This ain’t thrilling television”

“I didn’t say it was,” you reply. “I just want to see.”

Something about the way you say see makes his stomach tighten.

He applies the cream carefully, fingers moving with practiced familiarity. You watch closely, the way his hands work, the way his mouth firms slightly in concentration, the way his shoulders shift when he leans closer to the mirror.

Your legs swing again. Just a little. Ted’s gaze drops before he can stop it.

Your knees. Your thighs. The way the shirt has crept higher now, exposing smooth skin he absolutely should not be cataloguing at eight in the morning, memories from last night burning into his brain. He forces his eyes back up, jaw tightening.

He drags the razor slowly beneath the line of the moustache, precise, careful. You lean forward a fraction, elbows resting on your thighs now, eyes tracking the blade like you’re afraid you’ll miss something.

“You really do this every morning?” you ask.

“Every single one,” he answers, voice a little lower than before. “It’s… meditative.”

“Mhm,” you murmur, watching. “You’re very focused.”

He lets out a soft huff of a laugh. “Occupational hazard.”

He rinses the blade, glances up again, and catches you staring at his mouth. Not the moustache this time. His mouth.

Your eyes flick up to meet his in the mirror. You don’t look embarrassed, quite the opposite, you smile brightly with a hint of mischief in your eyes.

Ted’s breath stutters.

He resumes shaving, slower now, more aware of everything: the hum of the lights, the closeness of you, the way your foot brushes the cabinet when your legs swing again, deliberately or not. He can feel the heat of you even without touching, like your presence alone is enough to throw his equilibrium off.

“You’re watching me like a hawk watches a prey, I’m feelin’ a little exposed here” he says gently, not accusing.

“Yeah,” you admit easily. “You don’t seem to mind.”

He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to.”

That makes you and you shift again, one knee lifting just slightly, the hem of the shirt riding up another inch. Ted's eyes drop before he can catch himself this time, realising your panties are lying somewhere across his bedroom floor.

He stops shaving, the razor hovers mid-air.

"You're makin' this difficult," he says softly.

You tilt your head. "You said you didn't mind."

"I didn't say I had good self-control," he replies.

You smile in a way that makes Ted throb in his boxers.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The air between you hums with everything unspoken: the want, the restraint, the knowledge that this is no longer acidental.

Ted sets the razor down deliberately, like he doesn't trust his hands anymore. He steps back just enough to breathe, eyes still on you.

He breaths slowly, darting his eyes away from you.

“Let’s go. I’mma make you some breakfast” he says tilting his head towards the kitchen.

“Yey!” you cheer girlish.

When you slide off the counter, it’s not graceful, it’s not clumsy either — just real.

Your feet don’t quite find the floor immediately, and without thinking, you reach out. Your hands land on his shoulders, warm and steady, fingers curling into the soft cotton of his T-shirt for balance.

Ted’s breath catches, because momentum does the rest.

You end up pressed against him; close enough that there’s no pretending this is accidental anymore. The space between you disappears in a heartbeat, your chest brushing his, your thighs fitting between his like you’ve always known exactly where to stand.

Ted reacts on instinct. His hands come up to your sides, firm but careful, catching you, holding you there. Not pulling you closer. Not pushing you away. Just… keeping you steady.

Your fingers tighten on his shoulders for a second, grounding yourself.

“Sorry,” you murmur, though you don’t step back.

Ted swallows. “You’re alright.”, though his hands stay where they are.

Your gaze drifts upward, not to his eyes at first, to his mouth. The moustache: freshly trimmed, still slightly damp at the edges. Without really thinking about it, your hands lift.

Just the tips of your fingers brushing against his skin, gentle, curious. Ted goes completely still, like he’s afraid to spook you.

“You know,” you say softly, eyes still on his face, “your moustache…”

His voice comes out rougher than he expects. “Yeah?”

“…it tickles.”

That earns the faintest smile from him, barely there. “Tickles how?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you lean in.

Your lips brush his, just a whisper of contact, enough that the coarse softness of the moustache grazes your upper lip exactly like you promised. It’s brief, controlled, devastating in its restraint.

Ted doesn’t move.

His hands tighten at your waist anyway, thumbs pressing into you like muscle memory overriding good sense. His breath stutters against your cheek.

You pull back just far enough to look at him.

“Like that,” you whisper.

Ted’s eyes are darker now, focused entirely on you. His forehead drops forward until it rests lightly against yours, his grip on you steady but unmistakably possessive.

“Darlin’,” he murmurs, voice low, honest, undone. His hands dart under your (his) shirt, fingertips melting into your hot skin, “you might as well become part of my daily activities if you keep up with this”

You smile.

“I can get used to that…”

Ted doesn’t answer you.

He just exhales like the last of his resistance finally leaves his body.

Not tentative. Not the careful, checking-in press of lips from before. This time his mouth finds yours with intention, warm and sure, like he’s done pretending he doesn’t know exactly what he wants. His moustache brushes your skin again, rougher now, grounding, real, and the contrast makes you gasp softly into the kiss.

That sound is all it takes.

Ted’s hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer, one of his hands travelling down to cup a handful of you ass.

You melt into him.

Your fingers slide up his shoulders, into his hair, and Ted groans quietly against your mouth, a sound he probably hasn't made in years. His kiss turns unhurried but hungry, like he's memorizing the shape of you, the way you respond, the way you fit against him so perfectly it makes his chest ache.

When he breaks the kiss, it’s only to breathe.

And then his mouth trails lower. His lips skim along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth again like he can’t quite let it go. His breath is hot against your skin, moustache brushing, tickling just like you said it would.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, barely audible, before his mouth finds your neck.

The kiss there is softer, intimate in a way that makes your knees feel weak. His lips linger at the hollow beneath your ear, breath warm, his grip on you steady and protective as if he’s afraid you might disappear.

You tilt your head just enough to give him more room, fingers tightening in his shirt.

“Ted…” you ache, legs pressed against each other as the heat in your core grows with each drag of his lips.

“Shh…It’s okay. I got you, pretty thing” he whispers in your ear.

One of his hands trails down between your thighs.

He’s already nervous, that much is obvious. He’s smoothed his moustache three times, adjusted his collar, loosen then tighten his tie, and asked the waiter a suspicious number of questions about the specials “purely conversationally.”

“You’re sure your dad’s gonna like me?” he asks for the fourth time, folding his napkin with the intensity of a man diffusing a bomb.

You sip your wine. “You’ll be fine.”

“That’s what people say right before someone brings up politics,” Ted mutters.

You smile serenely. You already know what Ted is worry about the age gap between the two of you, so you didn’t bring that up.

“He’s a football man,” you add. “You’ll have things to talk about.”

Ted brightens a little. “See? That’s good. That’s common ground. Football’s a universal language.” He pauses. “Well. Mostly universal. Metric system still scares me.”

You reach across the table and squeeze his hand. “Relax.”

“I’m as relaxed as a single mom after she hires a high schooler babysitter,” he lies immediately.

He knows he shouldn’t be this nervous about meeting your father; it’s not like his a teenager, he’s a grown man, with an amazing moustache; a dad, a divorced, grown man. That’s the problem.

"So... how old was your dad when he had you?"

You hesitate just a beat.

Ted's eyes flick to your hand, playing with your hair, mindlessly wrapping it around your finger over and over.

"...Honey?" he prompts gently.

You clear your throat. "Uh. Early twenties."

Ted nods, processes, and smiles. Then, his eyes flick down to the table, to his hands, to his faded wedding ring tan line. Back up to you.

"..Sweetheart," he says carefully, "how old is your dad now?"

You finally look at him. "Forty-six."

The silence that follows is so loud it might as well have its own table.

“…Forty-six?” he repeats.

“Yes”, you offer him the brightest smile you’ve got.

Ted blinks blanking. He pictures himself: the faint smile lines, the moustache he definitely didn't have in his thirties, the quiet certainty of a man who just turned forty-eight and was fine with it until this exact moment.

He swallows hard, "That's... funny."

You cock an eyebrow,"Is it?"

"Well," he says, voice pitching upward just a hair, "it's funny in the sense that I am currently", he gestures vaguely at himself, “older than your father."

You shrug, entirely unbothered. "Yeah, by only two years."

"By any years," Ted squeaks. He straightens abruptly. "I am older than the man who made you. This…” he shuffles his hands between the two of you, “it’s almost a felony! This is barely illegal”.

"Please don't phrase it like that, you say, amused.

Ted presses his lips together. "I'm just sayin There's zero chance your dad's gonna look at me and think I'm his peer."

"He won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because he'll think you're older."

Ted stares at you. "That does not help."

The waiter returns to take orders, blissfully unaware he's interrupting a minor existential crisis.

Ted orders automatically, then leans in, lowering his voice. "Why didn't you tell me this?"

You smile sweetly. "You didn't ask."

"I didn't think I had to ask if I was older than your father."

You take another sip of wine. "You look good for your age."

Ted rubs his face with both hands. "This is how I die."

“Relax, Ted”, you say, for the hundredth time, “I like it…It’s sexy”.

Ted studies your face: the calm, the confidence, the way you seem entirely unbothered by the math that's currently assaulting him. He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You like that I’m older than your dad?”

You shrug. “I like you.”

That disarms him more than any number ever could. He’s expression softens and his shoulders drop.

“Come here” he says leaning in for a kiss.

His lips caressing yours just enough and not barely enough at the same time.

Your father arrived just in time. He and Ted get well quite fast, sharing stories about each other, discussing you; your likings, your quirks, your dad lets out some ridiculous stories about you…

They’re doing just great, Ted is more relaxed, cracking jokes as usual, but then…

The waiter comes by, he offers another bottle of wine. You accept, with a girly “Pour for me, please, daddy!”

Both men grab the neck bottle.

Your father looks at Ted.

Ted looks at your father.

They both look at you.

You bat your eyelashes innocently while toying with another stray of hair that has fallen against your shoulder.

“Oh boy! I, erm…I thought she said ‘Teddy’!”

Your father raises an eyebrow, slowly.

"She didn't."

Ted nods. "Right. Yes. I see that now."

You’re told he’ll be easy to spot.

This turns out to be an understatement.

You’re walking down the corridor outside the locker room, mentally reorganizing the briefing Rebecca gave you: press etiquette, tone control, no metaphors involving food or farm animals. But when you see him smiling at a framed motivational poster like it’s just paid him a compliment.

Tracksuit. Moustache. Coffee in hand.

That has to be Ted Lasso.

He looks up when he hears your footsteps, face lighting up instantly, like the hallway has just become a party.

“Well howdy! I’m—”

You stop in front of him and give him a polite, professional smile that doesn’t invite follow-up questions.

“Yes,” you say, anticipating him. “I know. You’re Ted.”

He pauses, then chuckles, unfazed. “Guilty as charged.”

You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder, already tired in a very specific way. Not of him. Of the idea of him.

“I’m here to help you,” you continue, efficient. “With press, cultural context, and making sure nothing you say becomes a headline for the wrong reasons.”

He nods along seriously, like you’ve just explained the rules to a game he didn’t realize he was already playing.

“Well, that’s a relief,” he says. “I’ve been told I’m real good at sayin’ things the wrong way with the right intentions.”

You consider that. “That tracks.”

He laughs, soft, genuine, and for half a second you have to remind yourself not to be disarmed by it.

You glance at your watch. “We’re running behind. You have a media appearance in twenty.”

“Time flies when you’re acclimatin’,” he says cheerfully, falling into step beside you without being invited.

You walk. He walks. It’s annoying how naturally he keeps pace.

“So,” he says, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, “on a scale from one to ten, how worried should I be?”

You don’t answer immediately. You watch him out of the corner of your eye: the openness, the complete lack of defensiveness, the way he looks like he expects people to meet him halfway.

“Six,” you say finally.

He brightens. “Oh! That’s better than my ex-wife’s Yelp review.”

You stop walking.

He stops too, immediately, like he’s used to matching other people’s rhythms.

“That was a joke,” he adds gently. “Mostly.”

You hold his gaze for a beat, assessing. Not judging. Just… recalibrating.

“Let’s stick to football and optimism,” you say. “Personal disclosures don’t play well here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says solemnly, then winces. “Sorry. That felt like too much.”

“Correct,” you reply, but there’s no bite in it.

You resume walking. He follows.

As you reach the locker room door, you turn back to him. “I’m not here to change who you are.”

He nods, listening.

“I’m here to make sure who you are doesn’t get misunderstood.”

He smiles at that, not the big one. A smaller, thoughtful version.

“Well,” he says, opening the door for you, “I reckon they picked the right person for the job.”

You step inside, already pulling up your notes, standing just off to the side of the press backdrop, tablet in hand, ready for anything. The AFC Richmond press room is its usual mix of bored scribes and vocal bloggers, and the sponsor logos plastered on the walls somehow make it feel like exactly the place you expected to spend the next few months.

When Ted steps up to the microphone, he smiles; big, barefoot-in-Kansas-again kind of smile, and greets everyone with his signature warmth.

“Afternoon, everybody! How’s your day goin’?” he says cheerfully.

You don’t flinch. But if you had an internal eyebrow, it would be on full raise. Because you know exactly where this goes: somewhere pretty quick and definitely meme-worthy.

A reporter asks about last weekend’s tactics — something about midfield positioning and offside traps: and Ted launches into one of his metaphors. You know the pattern well now: “It’s like biscuits and corners… you want ‘em warm, but not soggy…” and you can already feel the headlines forming.

You step in with less ceremony than you feel, quiet, precise.

“Short answer,” you say just loud enough for Ted to hear, “confident for next week. We’re adjusting, and we’re sticking to the process.”

Ted stops mid-smile.

He turns his head just slightly, and it hits you full force, like he genuinely heard you. It’s the way he tilts his chin, grateful but curious, as if you just saved him from flying prematurely off the rails.

“Right,” Ted says, nodding. “Process. Love it. Thanks for that.”

The journalists blink.

Then the cameras click.

You stay quiet after that, fingers on your tablet, eyes forward, professional, unflappable.

But when the room thins and the last journalist trickles out, you can feel someone watching.

Roy Kent is standing in the doorway; arms crossed, expression unreadable.

He nods once, succinctly.

“That was good,” he says simply.

You don’t blush, of course you don’t, but there’s a small jolt in your chest anyway. Roy’s not one for praise, and you take it seriously.

Then he does something very Roy:

“Your dad coached at Chel–,” he says, and pauses like he’s weighing whether you know he knows. “Chelsea?” he corrects.

Your breath ticks just a fraction. That’s the exact club your father used to manage before he retired; the reason half of London either respects you or rolls their eyes when they hear your name.

You don’t say anything at first.

Roy shrugs, half looking away, half giving a nod of solidarity.

“Figured you for someone with experience,” he grumbles. “Not… this.” His thumb jerks toward the press room. “But you handled that well.”

You stare at him a moment: the guard, the authenticity, the sheer lack of social polish in praise, and realize that this is the first conversation not about Ted, but about you in this environment.

And then, from behind you, Ted strolls up, cheerful & entirely unaware that he’s about to light a fuse.

“Roy! Right on time.” Ted claps Roy on the shoulder. You catch the tail end of that?”

Roy grunts. “Yeah.”

Ted turns to you, still smiling. “You were great in there. Real… uh—” he searches for the word, fingers snapping once. “—efficient.”

You nod. “That was the goal.”

“Mission accomplished,” Ted says easily. “Appreciate you keepin’ me from comparin’ football to baked goods again.”

Roy snorts despite himself.

Ted notices and grins wider. “See? Saved me from myself and entertained Roy. That’s what I call a two-fer.”

Roy rolls his eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I don’t know how,” Ted replies cheerfully.

You glance at your tablet, already mentally moving on. “Next media window is Thursday. I’ll send you prep notes tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” Ted says. “I’ll read ’em.”

You give him a look that’s not accusatory, just factual.

“I mean it,” he adds quickly. “I’m a big note reader. Big margin guy.”

“Thrilling,” you reply, dry but not unkind.

Roy shifts his weight, clearly done with the conversation. “Training’s startin’.”

“Right,” Ted says. “Duty calls.”

Roy turns to leave, then pauses just long enough to add, without looking back, “You did fine.”

You blink once. “Thanks.”

He nods and walks off.

Ted watches him go, then looks back at you. “High praise. He once told me ‘that didn’t suck’ and I rode that high for a week.”

You almost smile. Almost.

“I’ll get out of your way,” you say, already stepping aside. “You’ve got work to do.”

Ted hesitates like he’s about to say something else, then seems to think better of it.

“Well,” he says, adjusting his jacket, “good teamwork.”

“Yes,” you agree. “It was.”

And that’s it.

You head down the corridor toward your office, already thinking about schedules and headlines and how to phrase don’t say this in a way Ted will actually remember.

Behind you, Ted walks toward the pitch, thinking mostly about drills and formations and whether he’s finally learning what an offside trap actually is.

It’s just another day at AFC Richmond.

Which, for now, is exactly how it should be.

You spend most of the morning trying to keep Ted on a schedule.

This proves harder than it should be, mostly because Ted treats time like a loose suggestion and buildings like friendly mazes.

“Alright,” you say, walking briskly beside him, tablet tucked under your arm. “We need to record a short media bit before training. Two minutes. Very painless.”

“See, that’s what they said about my wisdom teeth,” Ted replies, already veering slightly left. “Turned out to be a whole saga.”

You keep walking, assuming, reasonably, that he’ll follow.

He does. Just not where you expect.

You’re mid-sentence, explaining framing and tone and how British sports media has a very specific allergy to excessive enthusiasm, when the corridor opens up and suddenly you’re not in a hallway anymore.

You’re in the locker room.

You stop.

Not because you’ve never been in one, you’ve been in more locker rooms than most people your age, but because this one is full. Players half-dressed, half-lacing boots, voices bouncing off tiled walls. People you haven’t met. People who weren’t on your calendar.

There’s a beat.

Then a whistle.

Then another.

A couple of appreciative murmurs ripple through the room—not aggressive, not obscene, just the unmistakable sound of a room full of footballers clocking a very attractive woman where they weren’t expecting one.

You straighten automatically. Professional reflex.

Ted stops too, finally noticing where you are.

“Well,” he says mildly, clapping his hands once. “Mornin’, fellas.”

The noise dips, but not entirely.

Ted doesn’t rush you out. He doesn’t joke about it either. He just shifts a step closer to you, not touching, just… present.

“Alright,” he adds, voice calm, friendly, unembarrassed. “Eyes up. We’ve got trainin’ in five, and I promise you the pitch is way more impressive than I am.”

A few chuckles. Someone mutters an apology. The room settles.

Ted glances at you, lowering his voice. “You okay?”

“Yes,” you say. And you are. Just caught off-guard.

“Good,” he replies easily. Then, to the room at large: “This is—” He pauses, looks at you. “Actually, you wanna do the honors?”

You sigh internally. Outwardly, you nod. “I’m here to make sure he doesn’t say something that gets quoted out of context,” you say. “Carry on.”

That earns you a laugh.

You turn back to Ted. “Media. Two minutes. Before training.”

“Right,” he says. “After this very educational detour.”

You pivot toward the exit. Ted follows.

Behind you, you hear Coach Beard’s voice: dry, unmistakable.

“Did you know who her dad is?”

Ted slows half a step. “Can’t say I do.”

“Former Chelsea manager,” Beard says casually. “Retired. Bit of a legend. Bit of a nightmare, depending who you ask.”

Ted hums, absorbing that. He doesn’t look at you yet.

“Huh,” he says. “That explains the walk.”

You glance back despite yourself. “The walk?”

“Confident,” Ted replies, smiling, still easy. “Like you know where you belong.”

You don’t respond to that. You just keep moving, already recalculating the day’s agenda now that it’s run five minutes behind.

Behind you, Beard raises an eyebrow at Ted.

Ted shrugs lightly. “Huh.”

And then he follows you out, back into the corridor, back into the day.

The days start to blur together in a way that feels oddly reassuring.

You arrive earlier than Ted. That becomes a pattern. You like the quiet before the building wakes up: the hum of lights, the smell of coffee, the pitch still untouched. Higgins is usually already there, shuffling papers with the gentle panic of a man who has never once been truly angry in his life.

“Oh! Morning,” Leslie Higgins says, smiling like he’s relieved you exist. “If you’re looking for Rebecca, she’s in early meetings. Very… Rebecca meetings.”

You nod. “I’ll catch her later.”

Rebecca does catch you later, always impeccably timed. Rebecca Welton sweeps into the hallway, eyes sharp, heels decisive.

“He behaving?” she asks, already knowing the answer will be complicated.

“Yes,” you say honestly. “Mostly.”

She smiles. “Good. Let me know if that changes.”

Keeley is everywhere and nowhere all at once. Keeley Jones appears at your desk one afternoon with a coffee you didn’t ask for and exactly the kind of grin that suggests she’s already clocked you.

“So,” she says, perching on the edge of the desk. “You’re the one keeping Ted from saying something unhinged, yeah?”

“Trying to,” you reply.

She beams. “Love that for you. If you ever want to pivot into branding, call me.”

Jamie Tartt takes longer.

At first, Jamie Tartt just looks at you like he’s deciding whether you’re worth impressing. Eventually, he nods once, like you’ve passed some invisible test.

“You know football,” he says, surprised.

“Yes,” you answer flatly.

“Cool,” he replies, and that’s the end of it.

Roy remains… Roy. Roy Kent communicates mostly in grunts and looks, but he starts looping you into conversations without comment. A schedule tweak here. A timing question there. Functional. Efficient.

Nate hovers. Nate Shelley watches everything, offers suggestions just a second too late, nods when spoken to. You treat him the same way you treat everyone else, polite, direct, neutral. He seems to relax around that.

And Ted.

Ted is… Ted.

Ted Lasso starts showing up when you say he should. Not early. Not impressively. Just… on time. He reads your notes, you can tell because he uses your phrasing, carefully, like he’s trying it on.

You walk together sometimes. Not deliberately, just because your paths overlap. You talk about schedules, and press, and how British weather feels personal.

Once, in the middle of the hallway, he stops walking.

“Oh,” he says. “I almost forgot. I didn’t compare training to baked goods today.”

You blink. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. “Growth.”

It’s easy. That’s the strange part.

You stop bracing. He stops overperforming. The building starts to feel smaller, friendlier; like a place where things function. Just a routine forming around you.

And if, occasionally, you catch Ted repeating one of your sentences word for word in a press scrum, or Keeley grinning at you like she knows something you don’t, you ignore it.

This is just work. Good work.

The kind that sneaks up on you and makes you forget you were ever annoyed in the first place.

You don’t usually stay for training.

Your job technically ends once the media schedule is locked and Ted’s pre-practice obligations are handled. But today, he lingers after the last interview, chatting with Higgins about biscuits, and by the time you look up, the pitch is already alive with movement.

“Y’all mind stickin’ around a bit?” Ted asks, almost offhand, like it’s no bigger deal than staying for coffee. “Might be good for you to see how the team works!”

“Yeah, sure. Could be fun,” you say. Which is true.

You stand at the edge of the pitch, arms folded loosely, watching drills reset. Jamie’s shouting at someone. Roy’s scowling at everyone. It’s familiar territory, even if the badge on the kit is different.

Ted jogs over, whistle hanging from his neck.

“Hey,” he says, holding it out to you. “You wanna blow my whistle?”

There’s a beat.

He blinks.

You blink.

He freezes completely, realization hitting him a second too late.

“I—” Ted clears his throat, already laughing at himself. “I mean— just the whistle. For the drill. Not—” He gestures vaguely with his hands, making it worse. “You know. That. Jee, guess I just got out of context uh…”

You tilt your head, a giggle escaping your lips. “It’s okay. That’s why I’m here.”

Roy snorts from nearby and Coach Beard coughs awkwardly.

Ted exhales, relieved. “Thank you. For savin’ me from myself.”

You take the whistle, testing it once, sharp, clean, authoritative. The players respond immediately, resetting without complaint.

Ted’s eyebrows lift, impressed. “Well I’ll be darned.”

Practice rolls on.

You stay close to Ted as he calls instructions, occasionally murmuring something logistical: timing, rotation, when to wrap for press access. It’s easy. Functional. Normal.

Too normal, apparently.

Isaac jogs past, grinning. “Didn’t know we hired football royalty.”

You don’t react. You’ve learned not to.

Ted, however, looks up. “Royalty?”

“Her dad,” Jamie says, like it’s obvious. “Chelsea. Big deal. Proper legend.”

A couple of players whistle, the other kind this time, good-natured, impressed.

“Ohhh,” Ted says, nodding slowly. “Yeah, that. I forgot, but it does explain a lot though, right?.”

You glance at him. “It explains nothing.”

Roy cuts in without looking at you. “It explains the fucking confidence.”

The murmurs pick up again. Compliments layered with curiosity, nothing hostile, just the energy of a team that’s noticed someone new.

Ted claps his hands once, sharp but calm. “Alright, fellas. Appreciate the enthusiasm, but let’s dial it back.”

They quiet down.

Ted smiles, easy, self-aware. “Trust me, I get distracted by pretty things too. That’s why we’re focusin’.”

A couple of groans. Someone laughs. The drill resumes.

Ted leans slightly toward you, you hand the whistle back to him. “They’ll forget by tomorrow.”

Ted smiles at that. “Yeah. Football memories are selective like that It’s the goldfish rule.”

You tilt your head, but you don’t ask, stepping back toward the sideline as training winds down, already mentally shifting back to schedules and deadlines.

Ted watches the players reset, then glances your way once more, not lingering, not searching.

Just checking that everything’s where it should be.

And it is.

It’s unusual for you to stay this late.

Not because you hate it here, you don’t, but because your Friday nights generally includes pubs, friends, loud music, and the comforting certainty of a second drink. Tonight just… slipped. A few emails became notes, notes became rewrites, and suddenly the building feels different: quieter, hollowed out, like it’s exhaling.

You’re on your way to the cafeteria because you realize, too late, that you forgot to eat dinner.

The lights are dimmed to night-mode brightness, vending machines humming softly like they’re keeping watch. You round the corner, half-looking at your phone, and nearly run straight into someone.

“Oh—sorry,” you say automatically, stepping back.

Ted freezes like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“No, that’s on me,” he says quickly. “I zigged when I should’ve zagged.”

You look at him properly then.

No tracksuit jacket. Sleeves rolled up. Tie loosened and abandoned somewhere else entirely. He looks… tired. Not dramatically so. Just worn in a way that suggests he’s been sitting at his desk for a long time, staring at something that isn’t a screen.

“Didn’t think anyone else was still here,” you say.

“Likewise,” he replies, holding up a mug you’re fairly certain has seen better days. “Figured I’d lost a game of chicken with my own inbox.”

You gesture toward the coffee machine. “That brave enough to try the cafeteria stuff this late?”

He winces. “Brave might be a strong word.”

You grab a bottle of water from the fridge, leaning against the counter while he fiddles with

the machine like it’s a puzzle box. For a moment, neither of you talks.

It’s not awkward. Just quiet.

“Long day?” you ask, eventually.

Ted hums. “Yeah. You?”

“Normal,” you shrug. “I don’t usually stay late. Just… felt like it.”

He nods, like that makes perfect sense. “I get that.”

The coffee machine finally sputters to life. Ted watches it with more focus than strictly necessary.

“You ever notice,” he says casually, “that when you’re keepin’ busy, it feels like you’re outrunnin’ somethin’? And then the second you stop, it catches up?”

You glance at him. He’s still watching the coffee.

“Yeah,” you say. “That’s usually when I go to a pub.”

He smiles at that. Not big. Just appreciative.

“I keep tellin’ myself I’ll do that,” he says. “Then I… don’t. ‘Cause I’m an old fart.”

You don’t comment on that. You don’t need to.

He takes his mug, blows on it once, then realizes it’s probably too hot anyway. You stand there a moment longer than either of you planned to.

Ted takes a careful sip of his coffee, immediately regretful. “Yep. That’s… lava.”

“You never learn,” you say.

“Nope,” he agrees cheerfully. “But I stay optimistic about it.”

You smile softl and take another sip of your water. The vending machine hum fills the space where conversation could be forced, but isn’t.

Ted leans his hip against the counter, relaxed now, like the building being empty has taken some of the performance pressure off.

“Back home,” he starts, “we had this diner that stayed open all night. Place smelled like barbecue sauce on a Sunday. I used to go there after games sometimes. Sit in a booth, pretend I was thinkin’ about strategy when really I was just starin’ at the menu.”

“What stopped you from going?”

Ted shrugs. “Life, I guess. Marriage. Kid. Turns out routines sneak up on you.”

He says it lightly. No pause. No fishing for sympathy.

You respect that.

“I like routines,” you say. “As long as they don’t trap you.”

Ted smiles, small and thoughtful. “That’s a good rule.”

He takes another sip of coffee, braver this time. “Back home, silence used to scare me a little. Felt like it meant someone was upset. Or disappointed.”

“And now?”

“And now,” he says, lifting his mug in a small, self-aware toast, “I’m learnin’ that sometimes it just means folks are comfortable.”

You nod, silent.

“You know,” he adds, more casually, “I like that you don’t rush to fill the quiet either. Makes it feel… honest.”

You consider that for a moment. “I talk all day,” you say. “Press, meetings, people explaining things they already know. Silence feels like a luxury.”

But you don’t stay silent: you talk.

Football, American, England, Coach Beard, the Championship, Ted’s strategies, how Roy howls like a mad dog and about, well, everything. Ted has this power over people, they open up to him, they like him, it’s almost impossible not to. You’d know, you tried not to like him; he’s the exact opposite of your father; you father would call him a pussy, or…well, a wanker for how soft he handles his team, but it’s quite…genuine how much he cares about those players.

After a while, he glances at the clock on the wall and sighs. “Yeah. Probably shouldn’t make a habit of sleepin’ in my office.”

“That sounds like a routine that traps you,” you point out.

He laughs, genuine and easy. “See? Already learnin’.”

You start toward the exit together. At the doors, he pauses, opens it for you and closes it after him.

“Hey,” he says. “Thanks for hangin’ back tonight. Not for work reasons. Just… in general.”

You consider that. “You’re welcome.”

He nods, satisfied with that answer.

“See you Monday?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say. “Bright and early. I’ll try not to let you get lost.”

He grins. “Appreciate the faith.”

You step out into the cool night air, hands in your pockets, already thinking about a warm bath and your bed.

Behind you, Ted watches you go for a second, then sighs and heads home, alone.

The weeks pass almost without you noticing. What starts as coordination turns into routine, and routine into something easier. You’ve ended up at the Crown & Anchor more than once; one beer turning into two, Ted and Beard debating music you pretend not to judge.

You travel with the team now, sit a few rows back on the bus, learn who needs quiet before matches and who needs noise. Ted still calls you “professional” with a smile, but somewhere along the way, the conversations drift off-script: late-night coffee, dumb jokes, honest silences. Nothing is said.

Nothing needs to be. And still, something subtle shifts, the kind of familiarity that sneaks in before either of you realize it’s no longer just part of the job.

It’s well past when you should both be here, again.

The building has gone quiet in that way that feels almost reverent, lights dimmed, hallways empty, the distant hum of the city leaking in through the windows. Ted’s been buried in match footage for hours now, rewinding the same sequence like if he stares long enough it’ll change.

It doesn’t.

You’re sitting across from him at the small table in his office, legs tucked under you, laptop open but forgotten. You stayed because you wanted to finish a thing. You stayed because he didn’t ask you to leave. You stayed because, at some point, it stopped feeling like work.

Ted rubs his face with both hands and exhales.

“Alright,” he says, forcing a smile. “If I rewind this again, I think the tape’s gonna file a restrainin’ order.”

You glance up. “You’re spiraling.”

He laughs softly. “Yeah. That obvious, huh?”

“You’ve watched the same clip six times.”

“Seven,” he corrects. “But who’s countin’?”

You close your laptop. The click sounds loud in the quiet.

“Come sit over here,” you say, nodding to the couch against the wall.

Ted hesitates, just a fraction, then stands, carrying his mug with him like it’s an anchor. He sits at the opposite end of the couch at first, polite distance, posture careful.

You don’t comment on it. For a few minutes, you just sit. No agenda. No screen. The silence isn’t awkward — it’s the kind you talked about before.

Ted breaks it.

“You ever notice,” he says, voice lower now, less performative, “how loneliness sneaks up on you? Like you think you’re doin’ fine, and then one night it just… sits down next to you.”

You turn slightly toward him. “Yeah. When I was a kid, my father was always away, we lived in this big ass house…I felt like I was alone in the world, and in every room I entered, loneliness was there, waiting for me. Eventually, when he was there, I still felt alone…But hey, at least he gave me a Ferrari when I turned 18, right?”

That earns you a laugh, short, but humoured.

He nods, staring at his coffee. “I keep tellin’ myself I’m keepin’ busy. That it’s healthy. New chapter, all that jazz.”

“And?”

“And I think I might just be avoidin’ the quiet,” he admits. No joke this time.

You shift closer, not dramatically, just enough that your knee brushes his. Neither of you moves away.

“You don’t feel lonely like a sad person,” you say gently. “You feel lonely like someone who doesn’t want to be a burden.”

That makes him look at you. Really look at you. There’s something open in his expression now. Vulnerable. Careful.

“I hate that you see me so clearly,” he says, not accusing. Just honest.

“I don’t think you hate it,” you reply.

The space between you feels… thinner. Charged in a way that has nothing to do with urgency and everything to do with awareness.

Ted swallows. “I shouldn’t—” he starts, then stops himself. Shakes his head. “Sorry. That’s not fair.”

“What is?” you ask quietly.

“Wantin’ things I don’t have any business wantin’,” he says. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, and that somehow makes it worse.

You shift again, closer now, shoulder almost touching his arm.

“Do you always assign morality to feelings?” you ask.

Ted huffs a soft laugh. “Only the inconvenient ones. I’m over ten years older than you, yah know.”

You cock an ironic eyebrow at him.

“I said over” he humours.

That earns a small smile from you.

The couch suddenly feels too small. Ted’s aware of your perfume, subtle, warm; the way your blouse slips just slightly at the shoulder when you lean back, the fact that your leg is pressed against his now, undeniably hot through the fabric.

He doesn’t touch you. That’s the problem. Silence crashes in around that.

Ted turns to you, heart pounding, every instinct screaming caution and every other instinct screaming don’t you dare walk away from this.

You’re close enough now that he can feel the heat of you. Close enough that if he leaned in even a centimetre— He doesn’t.

Instead, he rests his forearms on his knees, grounding himself, voice rough.

“We sure do like working over late, uh? Boss owns us a raise, don’t yah think?”

“Yeah…Like I need yet more money” You said, no emotion in your voice.

You sit there, knees touching, shoulders brushing, the weight of what you’ve just quietly agreed settling between you like a living thing.

When you finally stand to leave, it’s slower. Careful.

“Good night, Ted,” you say, voice a little softer than usual.

“Night,” he replies. “Get home safe.”

You pause at the door, glance back once.

He’s still on the couch, hands clasped, eyes following you with an expression that is no longer neutral, no longer confused.

It’s wanting.

And when the door closes behind you, comes the mutual felling that the ground has shifted.

Ted tells himself he’s just havin’ a good day.

Practice went smooth. Nobody yelled. Nobody threw a cone. Roy only swore three times, which feels like progress. Ted’s feelin’ downright accomplished as he heads toward the locker room, rehearsin’ in his head how he’s gonna compliment the team.

That’s when he hears Jamie.

“Oi,” he says, stretching like he owns the place. “So, uh… your media person. She comin’ to trainin tomorrow too?” the accent sparking up.

Ted pauses.

“Maybe,” he says lightly. “Depends on her schedule.”

Jamie grins. “Yeah? She’s fit, very very hot.”

A couple of chuckles ripple through the room.

Ted laughs along, because that’s what you do. “Well, she is very good at her job,” he says. “Also very good at not bein’ reduced to adjectives, so let’s keep it that way.”

“Relax, coach,” Jamie replies. “Just talkin’.”

Ted nods. Keeps smiling. Feels something twist anyway.

Then Sam pipes up.

“Actually,” he says, earnest as ever, “I think she has very good energy. Very calm. It is… grounding.”

That one lands different.

Ted’s smile falters, not visibly, not to anyone else, but inside, it’s like someone moved the furniture without askin’.

“Well,” Ted says, clappin’ his hands once, a little louder than necessary, “sounds like we’re all big fans of my…erm, of her, today.”

Roy looks up from the white board, eyes narrowing.

“What’s your problem?” he asks.

Ted blinks. “I don’t have a problem.”

Roy stares at him for a second longer. Then scoffs. “Right.”

For the next day, you don’t ask to go watch the practice, neither does he asks you to. Ted coaches. Ted jokes. Ted does his job.

And all the while, there’s this stupid, inconvenient awareness buzzin’ under his skin: the image of you leanin’ against the counter late at night, talkin’ about routines. About space. About pubs.

Get a grip, Theodore, he thinks.

After training, he runs straight into Rebecca.

Literally.

“Oh!” Rebecca says, steadying herself. “Careful.”

“Sorry,” Ted says. “Corners and hallways continue to be my nemeses.”

She smiles, then studies him a second too long.

“You alright?” she asks.

“Fit as a fiddle,” he replies automatically.

“Mmm,” she hums. “That’s not an answer.”

Ted sighs, just a little. “Hypothetically,” he says, lowering his voice, “if a fella found himself… distracted by someone he absolutely should not be distracted by, what would you recommend?”

Rebecca’s eyebrow lifts. “Hypothetically.”

“Purely academic,” Ted confirms.

She considers him carefully. “I’d recommend he ask himself why. And whether he plans to do anything about it.”

Ted nods. “And if the answer to that second part is ‘absolutely not’?”

“Then,” Rebecca says gently, “he should probably stop pretending he doesn’t feel it.”

That hits harder than any pep talk ever could.

Ted watches you cross the corridor a moment later, tablet tucked under your arm, focused, entirely unaware of the storm you’re causing by simply existing.

You smile at him in passing. Professional. Easy.

He smiles back, then, the smiles fades.

The win feels unreal in the best possible way.

Ted’s still riding it when Keeley claps her hands in the locker room like she’s calling a meeting no one can escape. Seventies night. Proper one. A club she knows. Theme mandatory. Complaints denied.

“Coach,” Jamie calls out, toweling his hair, “you get to relive your teenage years.”

Ted grins. “Buddy, if I dressed like I did in my teens, we’d all be in trouble, and not the fun kind.”

Nate snorts. “Math doesn’t check out anyway.”

Sam laughs. “I think Coach would be more… disco-adjacent.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Ted says solemnly. “I’ve always identified as adjacent.”

They all tag along. Bus, laughter, music already thumping in Ted’s head before they even get there. It’s loud and bright and exactly the kind of celebration he tells himself he’s good at: group joy, nothing complicated.

Then you walk in.

Ted doesn’t clock the room anymore. Doesn’t clock the music or the lights or Jamie preening like he’s been waiting his whole life for flared trousers. He clocks you.

Behind him, Coach Beard widen his eyes “Holy Mary Mother of God”

Short white skirt. Purple, sparkly blouse that catches the light every time you move, with a crazy low cut that highlight the swell of your chest. Go-go boots like you stepped out of a poster someone put on his bedroom wall in 1979. You look confident, easy, like this is fun, not a costume, not a performance.

Ted sucks the breath in, trying to stead himself from the imagine carved on his brain.

A few of the guys notice immediately.

There are whistles. Compliments shouted over the music. Isaac does a double take. Jamie smiles that smile, the one that usually works.

You take it all in stride, laughing it off, already waving Keeley over, already part of the night.

Ted tells himself to look away.

He doesn’t.

It’s not hunger, exactly. It’s… attention. The kind that sticks. The kind that makes everything else feel slightly out of focus. He watches you talk, move, dance, watches how you belong here as easily as you belong in the office or on the bus or leaning against a counter at midnight.

Someone bumps his shoulder. Beard, probably.

“Careful there Coach,” Beard says dryly. “You’re staring.”

Ted blinks, finally tearing his eyes away. “I was just… appreciatin’ the seventies.”

Beard’s mouth twitches. “Uh-huh.”

Ted laughs, shakes it off, joins the group on the floor because that’s what a coach does when his team wins. He dances badly. He commits to it. He earns groans and cheers in equal measure.

And still, every time the lights sweep the room, his eyes find you again.

You catch him once. Just a glance. Not a moment. You smile, friendly, easy, and turn back to Keeley like nothing’s changed.

Ted’s chest tightens anyway, and so does his khakis.

Get it together, he tells himself. You’re forty-something. She’s not, she’s half your age. This is a celebration.

He dances harder. Laughs louder. Pretends the music is the reason his pulse won’t quite settle.

But even as the night rolls on, disco ball spinning, team shouting the chorus to a song none of them know the words to; Ted Lasso knows one thing for sure: he wants you. And the math, inconvenient as it is, keeps doing itself.

Then you start dancing.

Not for anyone in particular. That’s the problem.

You move like you’re comfortable in your body, like you don’t need to perform or prove anything. Hips loose, shoulders relaxed, hands occasionally lifting to the rhythm like the music belongs to you as much as anyone else. The skirt flares when you turn, the skin of your ass is just a glimpse, the blouse catches the light every time you shift.

Ted doesn’t mean to watch, like a creep. He does anyway.

Jamie drifts in first, of course. He says something in your ear and you laugh, head tipping back just slightly. Ted feels something sharp spark behind his ribs, unexpected and unwelcome.

You don’t get to feel that, he tells himself.

Then Isaac joins, spinning you out and back in with exaggerated flair. Sam claps along from the side-lines, smiling like he’s genuinely happy for everyone involved. The boys orbit you easily, drawn in by the same gravity Ted is pretending not to feel.

Ted stands near the edge of the floor, beer untouched in his hand. He’s smiling. He always is. Inside, he’s cataloguing everything he shouldn’t be noticing: the way your hand rests briefly on someone’s shoulder before moving away, the way you never stay pressed to anyone for long, the fact that your laughter sounds the same whether it’s directed at Jamie or Keeley or no one at all.

That helps. A little.

Then you glance over and catch him watching. Just for a second. You don’t look surprised. You don’t look smug. You just smile, soft and familiar, and lift your chin in a silent question.

You coming or not?

Ted’s heart stutters. He shakes his head reflexively, mouthing “I’m good”, but you’re already moving toward him, weaving through the crowd with that same easy confidence. When you stop in front of him, the music feels louder suddenly, the space between you thinner.

“You look like you’re overthinking,” you shout over the music.

“I do that,” he admits. “It’s one of my core competencies.”

You laugh, step closer so he can hear you better. He catches the faintest trace of your perfume and has to remind himself to breathe.

“Come on,” you say, already reaching for his hand.

You don’t tug. You don’t insist. You just wait.

Ted hesitates, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants to too much. Because this feels like crossing something invisible and important and once he’s on the other side of it, pretending will be harder. Then the music shifts, slower now, heavier, and he realizes everyone is already watching him fail to decide.

“Well,” he says, surrendering with a crooked smile, “I have been told growth happens outside one’s comfort zone.”

You grin and pull him onto the floor.

Ted dances badly. There’s no fixing that, but you don’t laugh at him. You dance with him, adjusting instinctively, giving him space, letting him find the rhythm at his own pace. At one point, you turn, back to his chest for half a beat, not pressing, just close enough that he feels the heat of you through fabric.

His breath catches. His hands hover uselessly at his sides, like he’s afraid to put them anywhere, but the way you’re swaying your hips makes him close his eyes for a second, feeling the electricity burning through him, his hands move, instinctively hovering over your waist, almost touching.

You glance back over your shoulder, eyes meeting his. “Relax,” you say softly.

The colourful lights shine bright in your face, and makes you look like something that came out from a dream, his dream, it’s almost ethereal, like the whole world exists just for you.

Ted swallows. You laugh and turn back, spinning away before he can say anything.

But now, standing there, moving together in the low light, Ted knows something he can’t unknown: you’re incredibly, undeniably, sexy.

And when the song ends and you step away, smiling like nothing seismic just happened, Ted forces himself to smile back, even if he liked the feeling of your body on his, or the fact everyone was to drunk to notice the tightness in his pants, the math hasn’t changed. But neither has the way you look at him.

It happens fast enough that you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

One second you’re at the edge of the dance floor, laughing with Keeley, catching your breath. The next, there’s a body too close behind you, not brushing past, not accidental. Stationary. Intentional.

You step sideways.

He steps with you.

You turn, polite reflex ready, already rehearsing a dismissive smile, and the smile dies before it reaches your mouth.

He’s taller than you expected. Older. Not drunk enough to be sloppy, which somehow makes it worse. His gaze doesn’t flicker or slide away when you meet it; it stays, heavy, appraising, darting lower.

“Hey,” he says, too familiar. “Been tryin’ to get your attention.”

“I’m not interested,” you reply calmly, already angling to move past him.

He blocks you.

Not aggressively. Casually, like it’s nothing.

“You don’t gotta be rude,” he says, leaning in, lowering his voice. “Just wanna talk.”

“I said no.”

That’s when his hand closes around your arm.

Not hard enough to bruise, yet, not soft enough to ignore.

Firm and possessive, making your stomach drops.

You don’t panic. You don’t scream. You straighten instead, spine locking into place, eyes sharpening as you pull once, testing his grip.

“Let go,” you say, low and controlled.

He smiles: thin, amused, and tightens his fingers just slightly. “Relax. You’re safe.”

The lie in that makes your chest tighten.

Before you can react again, a voice cuts cleanly through the noise.

“What seems to be the problem, buddy?”

Ted’s voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be, it carries.

The man turns, annoyed, still holding you. Ted is already there, standing close enough now that the space feels suddenly very small, his wide shoulders squared, posture relaxed but unyielding. His expression is calm, almost gentle.

“That’s my friend,” Ted continues evenly. “And she’s asked you to let go.”

The man scoffs. “We’re just talkin’.”

Ted nods once, understanding something the man doesn’t realize he’s already lost.

“Conversation ends when one person says no,” Ted says. “That’s how it works.”

There’s no aggression in his tone. No threat.

Ted steps closer, not into the man’s space, but into yours, positioning himself between you without touching you yet.

The man hesitates.

Ted’s eyes don’t leave his. “I’m gonna count to three,” he adds mildly. “And you’re gonna let go of her arm before I have to ask someone with a lot less patience to help you understand.”

That’s when the grip loosens, his hand drops away.

Ted’s arm comes around you instantly, not tight, not claiming — just enough to anchor you against him, his palm warm and steady at your back.

“Good choice,” Ted says pleasantly, already guiding you a step away. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”

The man mutters something under his breath but doesn’t follow. Ted doesn’t look back.

He walks you toward the wall, body angled protectively, not rushing, not hovering, just present in a way that makes your breathing finally slow.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “I just—” you start, and then you laugh weakly. “God, that was stupid.”

“Nope,” Ted says immediately. “That was not stupid.”

You sniff, blinking hard. “I just wanted to dance.”

“I know,” he replies, voice low and steady. “You didn’t do a single thing wrong.”

That does it.

Your shoulders slump, the tension rushing out of you all at once, and Ted reacts without thinking: one hand coming up to rest lightly between your shoulder blades, grounding, warm.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “How ’bout we get some air, yeah?”

You nod again, this time leaning just slightly into his touch.

Outside, the night is cool and mercifully quiet. You breathe in deep, head spinning a little now that you’re no longer moving. Ted hails a cab, one arm hovering near you like he’s ready to catch you if needed. When you stumble stepping off the curb, he does catch you, his arm wrapping around your waist to steady you.

“You gotcha,” he says softly.

You laugh, breathless. “I swear I’m not usually this clumsy.”

“I believe you,” he says. “But I don’t mind bein’ a safety net.”

You don’t really remember why, but you ask him not to let you go home; you just remembered the feeling of an empty house, where loneliness haunts each corner.

The car ride passes by like a flash, when you step out onto the pavement, your heel slips again, and this time you don’t even pretend you’ve got it. Ted’s arm comes around you properly now, solid at your back, guiding you toward the door.

You can feel him, heat, strength, the careful way he keeps you close without pulling you in.

“You alright?” he asks again.

“Yeah,” you say. “You make a good safety net.”

Ted flashes a smile, the big ones.

“Well, thank you ma’am”

Inside his flat, the door clicks shut behind you, cutting off the world entirely. You sway slightly, still holding onto him, forehead briefly brushing his shoulder.

“Wow,” you murmur and turn slowly, taking it in. “So this is where you live.”

Ted watches you look around like he’s seeing the place for the first time too. It’s modest. Lived-in. Books stacked where they shouldn’t be, framed photos that suggest memories he hasn’t quite unpacked yet.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She ain’t fancy, but she’s sturdy. Kinda like me, if I’m bein’ generous.”

You smile, swaying just a little, and he’s there immediately.

“Alright,” he says gently. “Let’s introduce you to Mr. Couch over there. You sit.”

You let him guide you, pliant now, the adrenaline finally ebbing. The cushions dip beneath you, soft and comforting.

“I’ll be right back,” he adds.

Ted returns after a few minutes with a mug of coffee, steam curling up between you, and a small bowl of crackers he sets on the table like it’s a peace offering.

“Hydration,” he says. “And carbs. Doctor Ted’s orders.”

You accept the mug with both hands. “You’re very… competent.”

“Well,” he smiles, sitting beside you but not touching, “I pride myself on bein’ prepared for exactly every emergencies.”

You take a sip, sigh softly. Your feet shift, restless.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Can I?”

You blink. “Can you…?”

He gestures, a little sheepish, toward your boots.

You laugh, tired and warm. “Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

You lean back against the couch arm as he shifts closer, careful, deliberate. He lifts your legs gently, resting your calves across his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands are warm as he unzips the go-go boots, sliding them off one at a time.

Long fingers running along your skin, like a ghostly touch, that makes your body shivers and you almost pull away, being only held by his gentle grip on your ankles. He sets your boots on the floor.

“Lord,” he murmurs, thumbs pressing lightly into the arch of your foot. “These are sore.”

You exhale before you mean to.

“Yeah,” you admit. “I wear heels a lot.”

“Well,” he says softly, fingers firm but considerate as he starts to knead the tension away, “you just earned yourself a Ted Lasso’s Coupon for a Free Massage. Congratulations, you can use right away!” he jokes, using a commercial voice that makes you giggle.

His hands are confident, but not rushed. He works his thumbs slowly, circling, pressing just enough to make your toes curl. You sink deeper into the couch, eyes fluttering shut, a satisfied groan leaving your throat.

“You’re… really good at that.”

Ted swallows, gaze fixed on what he’s doing like he doesn’t trust himself to look higher. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been told I’ve got a knack for takin’ care of people.”

His fingers slide up just slightly, tracing the line of your ankle, lingering there; his thumbs dig into your skin in circular motions, easing the soreness away, every movement takes a heavy sigh of relieve from you, or a humming sound that makes Ted’s ears perk up, imagining which other sounds you could make for him.

One foot, then the other, his hands grounding and gentle and entirely too intimate for how quiet the room has become. You simply lie there, legs draped over him, warmth blooming where his hands move higher now, deliberate; you don’t think Ted realize what he’s doing, big hands scanning up your calf, a hot trail left behind, going higher and higher until it reaches your knees.

You let out a low moan, that escaped past your lips before you could register it.

“You’re okay?” he asks, quietly, voice dropping to a tune you’ve never heard before.

Instead of answering, you shift, just enough that your leg presses more fully into his lap. The fabric of your skirt rides up slightly, skin warm beneath his palms. Your foot flexes once, unconsciously, and his grip tightens for a fraction of a second.

His hands slide up another inch, tentative, thumbs brushing the back of your knee and the inside of your tight now, where the skin is softer, more sensitive. The touch is different, less practical, more intentional.

“Still okay?” he murmurs.

You tilt your head, watching him from beneath your lashes.

“It’s okay for you to touch me, Ted, anyway you want.”

That lands.

His jaw tightens, just a bit. His hands move again, firmer now, following the line of your leg upward, careful but undeniably intimate; he grips the flesh of your inner thighs with strength, it’s not about the soreness anymore, it’s about the way your body reacts under his hands.

Your breath catches, you don’t hide it. You crack your thighs open just an inch, barely noticeable, silently allowing him to go all the way.

Ted notices. He always notices.

“Hey,” he says, almost to himself. “We should probably—”

You reach out then, fingers curling around his wrist, the contact is electric.

Ted freezes, pulse hammering beneath your touch. He looks at your hand on his wrist, then up at you, eyes dark with something he’s no longer pretending isn’t there.

“If I keep goin’,” he says quietly, “I don’t know how easy it’ll be to stop.”

Your thumb brushes his skin once. Barely there.

“I know,” you say.

Silence stretches between you, thick and charged. Then, you shift closer on the couch, legs still draped over him, your body angled toward his now, spine erect as much as you can. Close enough that he can feel the heat of you without even touching.

Ted exhales, shaky but controlled, and lets his hand settle exactly where it is, grounding himself in the restraint; fingertips burning where he grips tightens.

“Don’t stop” you ask, your voice so low it’s almost a whisper.

His jaw tightens at that, something dark and hungry flickering across his face before he reins it back just enough to stay present. His hands don’t rush. They explore. Learn. Slide higher until your skirt bunches beneath his fingers, the heat of you unmistakable.

You lean forward without thinking, drawn in by the gravity of him. Your hands find his shoulders again, steadying yourself, pressing closer until there’s barely any space left between you. Ted’s breath hitches when your body settles against his, the warmth, the softness, the undeniable truth of how much he wants you right there.

“Darlin’,” he murmurs, forehead dropping to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin. “You’re gonna gimme a heart attack”

You smile faintly, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re doing fine.”

That earns a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh from him. His hands flex at your thighs, holding you there, grounding himself in the feel of you.

Then his other hand slides up your back, slow and deliberate, palm warm through the thin fabric of your shirt. His touch is protective as much as it is wanting, like he’s holding something precious.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dropping to your lips, and you lean in into his waiting mouth.

It’s deep and unhurried, his mouth moving against yours like he’s savouring the moment, like he’s already memorizing it. His moustache brushes your skin, rough and tickling, as his hand cups the back of your neck.

You melt into him, fingers clutching at his shirt, breath mingling with his. Ted hums softly against your mouth, the sound low and uncontrolled, and the way he pulls you closer tells you everything he’s not saying. His tongue invade your mouth, slowly and precise, as if he’s done it before.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he doesn’t pull away. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing hard.

“I want you,” he says quietly. It’s not dramatic or rushed, it’s ust the truth, spoken aloud. “And that scares me a little.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, your thumb traces the line of his jaw, slow and grounding, like you’re anchoring him to the moment.

“You don’t have to be afraid with me,” you say softly.

That does something to him.

Ted opens his eyes and looks at you fully, really; His deep brown eyes warm and conflicted, something tender and dangerous laced through them. A lock of hair has fallen loose across his forehead, and you think he never looked more beautiful.

He exhales, long and shaky. The sound of someone letting go.

“For a minute there,” he murmurs, almost like he’s confessing to the room rather than you, “I forgot how old I’m supposed to be. Forgot all the reasons I keep tellin’ myself to slow down.” His thumb lifts, brushing your cheek with the same reverence you gave him. “Turns out you don’t seem too concerned with arithmetic.”

You smile at that, soft and unbothered, fingers sliding into his hair, combing through it gently. Ted closes his eyes at the touch, leaning into it before he even realizes he’s done it.

He shifts then, not abruptly, not claiming, just enough to guide you back against the couch cushions, his body following yours naturally, settling between your legs like it’s where he’s been pulled all along. He pauses there, hovering for a breath, giving you time to object.

You don’t.

Instead, your knees relax around his hips, welcoming the weight of him; his shoulders eases at that silent answer.

“Okay,” he murmurs, voice low now. “Okay.”, telling himself more than telling you.

He presses his lips against yours one more time, then his mouth leaves yours and begins a slow, deliberate path along your cheek, kisses pressed there like he’s savouring the space inch by inch. The faint scratch of his moustache makes you laugh softly, a breathy sound that curves straight into his chest.

“That tickles,” you murmur.

He smiles against your skin. “Yeah?” he says quietly, shaking his head and nipping his moustache against your skin.

His lips find the line of your jaw, then dip lower, warm and unhurried, kissing your neck like he’s grounding himself in the feel of you. His breath is hot there, his hand firm at the back of your neck, keeping you where he wants.

He lingers at the hollow beneath your ear, lips barely touching, the pause deliberate, a moment stretched thin with restraint and want. You can feel his breathing change, deeper now, heavier, like his body is catching up to the choice he’s already made.

“Tell me if I’m goin’ too fast,” he murmurs against your skin.

You tilt your head just enough to give him more room. “You’re not. I think…your going too slow” you smirk, tracing your hands along his back, tugging at the hem of his usual blue sweater.

Ted lets out a low breath through his nose, something between a laugh and a surrender, and you feel it in the way his body shifts over yours, heavier now, closer, no longer pretending distance is necessary.

“See? That’s the problem with ‘em young folks”, he straightens just long enough to pull the sweater up and over his head, the movement clumsy with want. “you’re always in a hurry”.

When he tosses it aside, he’s left in nothing but a thin white shirt, stretched tight across his shoulders and chest. When he leans back against your body, you feel it. The weight of his restrained cock, pressing against his pants, undeniable, almost painfully hard.

“Ted…” your hands reach the junction between your bodies, skilled fingers tracing the outline of him, making Ted growl and his body shivers, hot lips pressed against your cheek.

“Fuck you for makin’ me like this” he swears.

That does something to you. Ted never swears, never, but now it gets to you in a different way, it’s a different side of him you only want to unwrap even more.

“You’re not helping me out either” your voice sounds more sultry than you expected, neediness pooling inside your panties and sticking into your skin.

“Ah, don’t you worry ‘bout that, darlin’…I’mma take good care of you.”

The kiss he presses against your lips it’s raw and urgent, his teeth grazing your lower lip hard enough for you to ache and press your hips against his, chasing some relief. His tongue darts off, licking the inside of you mouth before pulling away.

You’re lost in the feeling of his hands all over your body, ever so skilled and warm; his large palms tracing it’s on path getting to know your body like it’s an unexplored island. You only dare to open your eyes again when he lifts the hem of your shirt just enough to expose warm skin beneath, mouth tracing a path along your stomach that makes your breath hitch. His moustache grazes you there too, rough and scratching, and the contrast sends a wave of sensation through you that makes your back arch without thinking.

His hands follows, adjusting himself on his pants, but he doesn’t free himself yet, which for you it’s like a miracle; most of your hook ups would’ve came in their pants with all the foreplay; but not Ted. No. Ted is all about the sensations, the reactions, the reactions he can pull out of you.

Ted lingers there, mouth hovering just above your skin, breath uneven, long fingers playing with the waistband of your skirt. When he looks up at you, his eyes are dark, focused, utterly intent.

“More?” he asks quietly, already knowing the answer.

“Fuck yes”, you breath, hips buckling into him “Please, Ted. More”

He smiles and with one swift movement, riddles up your skirt, pooling it around your waist, revealing the thin fabric of your panties.

“This want you wanted, uh? Guess I kept you pretty worked up, didn’t I?” his index fingers trails a ling against your covered cunt, “Oh boy, look at that...”

He rests his face on your tight, you answer by threading your fingers into his hair again, pulling him back toward you, your hips lifting, trying to meet his hand. Ted chuckles, pressing his thumb against your clit, feeling it pulse between the fabric. He swears under his breath, no longer controlling himself.

“Time to get that pretty pussy what she wants” he says as he pulls your panties to the side, tongue already darting out, licking a long, slow stripe between your wet folds.

Ted eats you out like he’s starving, and he might as well be. His hungry tongue laps at your cunt, his hands grip your thighs to keep you steady against him. His nose brushes just the right spot that makes you arch.

Your breaths turns into moans, loud and clear moans of his name; your eyes shut with strength and a smile paints your face at the feeling. You tried to voice your feelings, but they come out as a rumbling mess as Ted flickers his tongue against your clit. Your hands fly to hit hair, gripping hard to steady yourself.

Ted moans against your cunt, the hum making you squirm.

“You’re so fucking good at this” you manage.

You feel his smile against your skin, but the praise only seem to encourage him. And it’s true, he’s devouring your pussy like he’s done it for years; he seems to know your body better than you, like it was made just for him. And you can’t help but wonder, if it’s a personality trait, or the many years of sexual experiences he has…Considering he’s Ted fucking Lasso, it might as well be both.

You’re already feeling that familiar feeling coiling in, when a finger joins his lips, slowly making its way towards your aching hole.

“Oh…” Ted moves his lips away from your soaked pussy “You’re just beggin’ to be filled ain’t ya?”

“Y– yes, Ted…I’m almost there” you voice sounds like a whine.

He kisses the inside of your tight before inserting his digit all the way in. You let out a breath and you mouth hangs open as Ted twirls his finger, a forward motion that keeps you in the edge and make your vision blurred until all you can see are his brown eyes staring up at you from his place between your legs.

“Do it. Cum for me, darlin’”

It’s the fucking midwestern accent that flips it. You core tightens around his finger, muscles contracting as you cum; the wave of pleasure hitting sharp.

“That’s it…” he smooths, lip brushing past your puffy pussy lips to met your belly button “so beautiful when you cum”

You can’t fight back the smile, shaking hands roaming over his hair; it’s all messy now, from your pulling. You try to fix it but Ted shakes his head, massaging your hip while hovering over your face.

You bite your lip. There’s a subtle wetness of yours in his moustache, you bring your lips to it, gently kissing his upper lip.

“See?” Ted murmurs, voice warm, almost amused. “Sweet as they come.”

You smiled, flustered by the compliment.

The hand that had been steady on your hip slips away as he straightens on the couch, the movement is careful, like he’s putting something back into place.

You frown, the sudden distance is jarring. Still loose, still warm, you shift closer and sit beside him, your shoulder brushing his arm.

“What?” you ask quietly.

Ted turns toward you, expression unreadable for a beat, then opens his arms. “C’mere.”

You hesitate only a second before letting him pull you in. His embrace is firm but gentle, he’s anchoring both of you after the intensity. Your cheek rests against his chest; you can hear his heart, still racing.

You lift your head, eyes drifting downward, noticing what he’s deliberately ignoring. “What about you?” you ask, softer now.

He shrugs, easy but not dismissive. “Don’t you worry about me,” he says lightly. “I’ve had plenty of practice takin’ care of myself.”

The words land heavier than he means them to.

Your chest tightens.

You think of the long nights. The office lights left on. The quiet he joked about but never quite filled. All the ways he’s learned to sit alone with himself and call it fine.

You lift your hand and rest it on his thigh, running it along until it meets his aching cock; your fingers curl slightly, grounding him the way he’s been grounding you all night.

Ted stills.

You look up at him. “You don’t always have to,” you say quietly.

Something in his face softens, the teasing giving way to something real. He covers your hand with his, thumb brushing once, slow and thoughtful.

He leans in and kisses your temple, a hiss escaping his lips as you press more firmly.

“Sit back, cowboy”, you say against his pulsing neck, “I’ve got you tonight”.

He growls and you can’t help but smile wickedly as your hands skilfully undo his belt. Ted lifts his hips high enough for you to slip his cock free; and fuck. It’s hard, pulsating against your palm. It’s big, you can barely wrap your hands around it, it’s red and dripping with pre-cum.

“You’re so beautiful, Ted…”, you say as you gently stroke his length.

Ted curses under his breath and tosses his head back, closing his eyes and focusing on the sensation of your delicate hand against his needy cock.

Having tasted your pussy was heaven, but now, the sensation of you, pretty and younger, stroking his cock feels like a sin, like he doesn’t deserve it. But does it feel ever so good.

“Darlin’?” he calls, his accent coming out a little high pitched; his rigid, body tensed up while his cock throbs in desperation.

“Yes, Ted?”, you ask, lips grazing the skin on his neck, trying to playfully undo the bottoms of his shirt with your tongue.

“If yah keep it on, I won’t hold if off…Ain’t young enough for that…”

You didn’t even realise he was so close to the edge; how tightly he’s holding himself together, how much effort it’s costing him.

You hadn’t realized how much you liked hearing him admit it. You stop your motions. You don't think Ted realizes how sexy that sounds, how it makes your hole clench around nothing.

You let go of his cock while your lips find his cheeks, then his jaw, his nose and finally his lips. Ted kisses back, a large hand cupping your back to move you onto his lap.

You both moan at the subtle contact of his cock against your folds.

“Gonna take care of me, uh?”, he teases, pulling the straps off you shoulder, revealing your breasts, “Jesus. So pretty…”

“Yeah, I’mma take care of you”, you answer, rolling your hips to drag his cock once more against your cunt.

You don’t know if it was you or him, but your finger touch to adjust his cock to your entrance, and you sink into his cock in one swift motion, causing you both to let out a long moan.

His length stretches you open, pussy gripping around him so hard it almost painful.

“You’re so…so soft” he cries, burring his face against your chest.

As you run your hands through his hair, your hips move, both of you breathe heavily. It’s too much, he’s hitting just the spot, your legs feel heavy while you move on top of him.

Ted firm hands grip your waist, forcing you harder against him, his own legs bouncing to meet your rhythm; his lips find your nipples, sucking into the sensitive skin, the rough touch of his moustache making you smile, because nobody eles could ever replicate that feeling.

You spill his name like a prayer, over and over until the string of words comes out as a strangled cry; your orgasm reaching like a bullet train.

Ted closes his eyes, pulling out of you to spill his cum in between your bodies; tights and stomach covered in thin white stripes.

“Fuck, I…”, he tries, but can’t barely hold the sentence together.

“I know” you say back.