Macklin Celebrini x Reader
Word Count: 5,158 (this was supposed to be a blurb omg)
Warnings: reader is sick (has a cold), hurt / comfort, established relationship, emotional hurt / comfort (heâs so soft), brief mentions of crying, mild angst (more than I intendedâŠoops), let me know of anything else?
Mack comes home a day early from a brutal road trip expecting hugs, kisses, and a few days of making up for lost time.
Instead, he finds a week's worth of evidence that youâve been sick and taking care of yourself alone.
Unfortunately for you, Macklin Celebrini has some very strong opinions about being left out of taking care of the people he loves.
The keys rattle in the lock for only a moment before the door to your shared apartment swings open. He steps in, toeing off his beat-up sneakers easily, placing them beside yours at the door like second nature. Shutting the door behind him with a soft click and flip of the lock.
Immediately, it feels like he can breathe again, shoulders relaxing with a heavy exhale as his hockey bag drops to the floor with a gentle thud - mindful of the people living in the apartment below yours.
None of the main overhead lights are on, but he didn't expect them to be at this time of night anyways. Instead, the apartment glows with the collection of lamps you'd insisted on buying over the years. Warm pools of light spill across the room, softening every corner.
He'd never understood your hatred of overhead lighting.
Then again, he'd never cared much about how the apartment looked.
He'd let you take the lead on most of it, content to nod along whenever another lamp or throw blanket or oddly specific decorative item found its way into the cart. Just wanted to see you happy.
But somewhere along the way, the place had started feeling like home and not just a house
Maybe because you were in it.
Just around the corner, he hears the light murmurs of one of your shows playing on the TV. Your soft laugh flows from the living room melodically, bringing a slow smile to his lips that he couldnât deny even if he tried.
What gives him pause, however, is the painful sounding cough that follows quickly after.
As if that wasnât enough to have warning bells blaring in his head, the helpless sniffle tacked on at the end has worry sinking heavily in his chest.
He freezes, âBaby?â he questions.
The TV pauses instantly, a moment of tense silence following before he hears you call out softly, âMack?â you question back.
It was supposed to be a surprise.
The team had been on a roadie for the past 5 days and they were supposed to spend another night away before returning back to the Bay Area. It had been gruelling, far from one of their better trips, and management had pulled a few strings to get the guys on a flight home a day early. Everyone seemed to agree that a night at home with family might be exactly the reset they needed.
He rounds the corner quickly, coming to a pause as he takes you in. The top of your head is the only thing he can see from this angle, eyes peeking just over the back of the couch, looking like a deer caught in headlights. Even in the dim lighting, he can see the glassy sheen in your eyes and the shadows that lay under them.
Your breath is caught in your throat as you continue to stare at each other for a moment. You donât dare move. Know that heâll get a read on you the second you do, and youâve been so careful with hiding it from him while he was away.
His eyes narrow, lips pressing into a thin line.
Even though you havenât moved, the lack of your normal greeting gives you away. Itâs been days since you last saw each other. Since you last touched.
Youâve lived together long enough to have established a routine for when he gets home from away games. Usually on each other the second he gets in the door - taking just as many days as he was gone, if not more, before you guys return back to your normal routine.
Something is wrong, and his stomach churns with unease.
Worse is that he can see the way you lean in slightly on the couch, drawn to him, wanting to make up for the time away just as much as he does. But you still havenât moved.
If you wonât come to him, heâll go to you.
So, he takes calculated steps towards you, eyes staying on your face as you come completely into his view - taking in all the information he can to figure out exactly whatâs going on. The first thing he notices is the irritated redness of your nose. The second is how much it stands out against the lack of colour in the rest of your face.
Youâre wrapped up in a fluffy blanket and one of his hoodies, hood pulled up over your head. He takes in the tissue box and steaming cup of tea resting on the coffee table.
Water bottle full - untouched - no one here to make sure you were drinking it.
His eyes catch on a plate abandoned on the coffee table. One piece of toast with no more than a few bites missing. Gone cold hours ago.
He notices the slight shivers that seem to wrack your body regardless of the thermostat having been turned up and the soft bundle youâve turned yourself into. A small trash can overflowing with tissues sits beside the couch for convenience. He knows theyâre from more than just a bad afternoon
The way he whispers your name has your heart clenching in your chest painfully, face falling as you take in the look he gives you.
Heâs wrecked. Completely caved in on himself and wearing the most heartbreaking frown.
Youâd recognized the warning signs of the incoming sickness a few days before he left. You had hoped it would all go away within a day or two, nothing to worry about.
Maybe it was how much you missed him. Or maybe it was the lingering fatigue from the exhausting semester youâd just finished. Whatever the case, the worst of it had started the day he left. You hadnât gotten the chance to talk to him until that night - over the phone when the game was over and he was back in his hotel room.
It had been a brutal loss, 5-1, and the team as a whole looked disconnected on the ice. He was already so down about the game; anxious about how the rest of the long road trip may play out when the team wasnât playing anywhere near their best.
So instead, you had kept quiet about the reality of how you were doing at home.
You avoided facetimes when possible, knowing if he got one look at you he would be able to tell something was off. Kept phone calls short, muting when a coughing fit would take over or you needed to blow your nose. But you made sure to text him plenty to make up for it, sending him stupid tiktoks and little things that made you think of him. With the trip going the way it was, it had been enough to keep him from getting suspicious.
Now, seeing the devastated look on his face, youâre not so sure of yourself.
You clutch the blanket a little tighter, like maybe that will keep you from falling apart.
When he rounds the couch, he takes notice of another blanket crumpled and discarded on the floor at your feet. Kicked away during a spike in your fever.
âHow long?â he whispers.
âA few days?â he repeats, eyes wide, like he canât quite believe what heâs hearing.
Your eyes start to water.
You wish it was just the fever.
âI didnât want you to worry,â you start.
âI get to worry.â he cuts in, eyes cutting to yours.
Your chest seizes up. A lone tear falling from your eyes. You sniffle, wiping it away with your sleeve just as quickly as it came.
âWhat was I supposed to do, Mack?â
You gesture helplessly around the apartment.
âYou were halfway across the country.â
âYou had practices. And games. And meetings. The trip was already going bad.â you continue.
âThere wasnât anything you couldâve done.â
His jaw flexes. His eyes squeeze shut.
Finally, his eyes lift to meet yours.
âBut I wouldâve liked the chance to try.â
Another tear rolls down your cheek.
His legs give out and he sinks onto the couch.
Only then does he take in the rest of the area. Everything thatâs been arranged around this one spot.
The phone charger trails from the wall into the nest you've built for yourself amongst the cushions, tangled up in the multitude of blankets. An abandoned mug on the side table beside the couch.
His eyes dart to the kitchen. Two more teacups stacked by the kitchen sink. The kettle left out on the counter with a jar of honey sitting almost half-empty beside it.
He continues to scan the space.
DayQuil. NyQuil. Cough drops ripped open haphazardly. Thermometer.
All lined up neatly on the island counter.
It knocks the breath out of him.
Because he recognizes the way it's organized.
Exactly how he wouldâve done it.
Every short phone call. Every excuse to skip facetime. Every text telling him not to worry. It all suddenly makes sense.
You follow his gaze, cheeks heating up in embarrassment at the state of things. At the state of you.
âI washed the sheets as soon as you left,â you start, âyouâre probably tired, I swear everything in the bedroom is clean, you can go lay down.â
âBaby, why are you not in bed? Why did you wash the sheets?â
âSo I wouldnât get you sick when you got homeâŠâ you trail off.
The silence that follows is devastating.
He says your name like it physically hurts him.
Then, âWhere have you been sleeping?â
But he already knows the answer.
âHere.â you whisper, so quietly he almost doesnât hear it.
The answer knocks the breath from his chest anyways. And for a moment, he canât even look at you.
His gaze drifts back across the apartment.
A week. Your week. Reduced to the evidence scattered around the living room. And he didnât know about any of it.
His eyes squeeze shut briefly.
He slides closer to you on the couch, hooks a finger under your chin and guides your gaze back to his.
âWeâre talking about this later.â he says, softly. But you know itâs a promise.
âMack, I was just trying to-â
His thumb brushes across your cheek and you melt into his touch.
âI know exactly what you were trying to do.â he whispers, voice breaking around the words.
âThatâs why it hurts.â
The words hang between you for a moment.
The hand on your cheek shifts as he presses his palm more completely against your skin, then moves it to your forehead.
His brows immediately pull together.
Then, louder, âWhen was the last time you checked your temperature?â
The question is gentle, but the tone leaves no room for argument.
âI-â you cut yourself off, lips snapping shut. You try to think back, you really do, but the day feels blurry, time slipping away from you in strange ways over the course of the last week.
Because somehow, thatâs worse. Because youâve clearly stopped keeping track.
He brushes the hair away from your face, hand moving to cup the back of your head as he leans in to drop a gentle kiss to your feverish forehead, exhaling a shaky breath before standing up determinedly.
He fixes the soft blanket to better wrap around you, heart clenching at the way he can feel the shivers trembling through your body as he does.
He takes quick strides to collect the little recovery centre youâve made for yourself on the countertop over the last week, already running through a mental checklist. He returns back to you a few moments later, and itâs clear he doesn't want to spend any more time apart from you, especially given the state heâs come home to find you in.
His arms are full. Thermometer, medicine, a fresh water bottle. His expression does something awful when he sets it all down on the coffee table. Careful. Controlled. Like heâs trying to hold himself together by force.
He drops to his knees in front of you. âSit still for me, baby.â
He reaches up, removing the hood from your head lightly, brushing your hair back from your face before tucking it behind your ear. The touch is so gentle it makes your chest ache again.
He presses the thermometer into place. The silence stretches.
You watch his jaw tense as he waits for the reading, watch the way his free hand settles on your knee. Like he needs the contact just as much as you do.
The thermometer beeps and the colour drains from Mackâs face. You donât even have to ask, already know that whatever number appeared on the little screen wasnât one that he liked.
Trying to lighten the heaviness hanging between you, even just a little, you offer him a weak smile, âThat bad?â
His eyes lift to yours, and for a second, he just looks at you.
Then, his hand comes up to cup the side of your neck, thumb stroking the fever-warmed skin tenderly. He sighs, head dropping briefly to your shoulder as a humourless chuckle escapes his lips. The ones you really wish you could be kissing right now instead of all this.
You reach up automatically, fingers threading through his messy locks. Already in a state of disarray from how much he must have been fidgeting with it during the travel day home to you. He lets out a shaky breath at your touch.
Head lifting as his eyes flick back up to yours, âDonât ask questions you already know the answer to,â he murmurs.
You scratch along his scalp like that can help ease whatever heâs feeling. His eyes close, shivering at the touch, before snapping back open with an intensity that has your breath catching.
âWhenâs the last time you took anything?â
You wince. Fingers stilling in his hair. Macklin stares at you. Just stares.
âIf you didnât like my answer about my temperatureâ - or lack thereof - âyouâre definitely not going to like my answer to that one.â you reply jokingly.
His eyes widen slightly, brows lifting in quiet disbelief. âPlease donât tell me-â
The rest of whatever he was about to say dies on the tip of his tongue the second a cough tears through your chest.
You double over slightly, elbow coming up to cover your mouth. Wincing when another violent cough follows closely behind it.
Any trace of humour - which, granted, was very little - disappears from the room.
Mackâs hand is on your back in an instant. Steady. Warm. Grounding as you wait for it to pass. When you finally manage to catch your breath again, heâs rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades.
âHow come you didnât take any this afternoon?â he asks quietly. Not accusing, or angry. Just trying to understand. Because with you, he knows thereâs always a reason underlying it all.
You look away, donât want to bear the weight of whatever reaction he has to what you say next.
âI was saving it for tonight because I knew it would run out if I took it this afternoon.â
Silence follows. You immediately regret saying it.
You try to smooth it over, âI was going to run out and get more tomorrow before you got back,â but it doesnât land as intended.
His eyes close. Not dramatically, only for a second, like he physically needs to pause.
When he opens them again, thereâs something wrecked sitting behind them.
Your name drips from his lips, barely above a whisper. You suddenly wish youâd kept your mouth shut.
He needs to do something. Needs to take care of you. Canât sit with the weight in his chest right now.
He reaches behind him, long fingers wrapping around the water bottle he grabbed minutes ago. He holds it out to you expectantly and waits.
You eye him, not quite sure how to handle him like this. Feels like everything you say is only making it worse. You grab it from his hold, fingers brushing against his. You take a sip then put it down.
His eyebrows rise. âReally?â
You huff, âI drank some earlier.â But the evidence of your old water bottle still sitting on the table - completely full - tells a different story.
He looks at it. Then to you. Then just stares. â... Baby.â
And, of course, you cave under the look in his eyes. You bring the bottle back to your lips, drinking it down with a pointed look. The water eases the burn in your throat and your shoulders release some of the tension theyâd been holding.
âOkay,â he sighs, sitting back on his hunches, hands dropping to rest on your knees, thumbs stroking absentmindedly. And you can tell heâs thinking.
Then, a moment later, âOkay.â This time, thereâs finality in it.
âCome on.â he says, coming to a stand in front of you. Hands grasping yours.
You blink, âWhere?â and the stare you get back is completely unimpressed. âBed.â
Your head starts to drop back, rolling on your shoulders. You sigh heavily, drawing out his name, âMacklinâŠâ
âPlease,â he says, quietly. Your eyes snap back to him at the tone. And the look heâs giving you stops you cold. Not frustration. Not impatience. Something far worse.
Like heâs asking for this. Like after everything heâs come home to, he needs this one thing from you. Needs to know youâre finally going to let him take care of you.
Heâll get on his knees again and beg if he has to. But he needs to see you resting in bed. Canât stand the idea of you on the couch out here for another night. Doesnât even want to see it for another minute.
The defeat is written all over you. No strength to fight with him on it right now.
âI can walk.â you say, trying to maintain at least some of your dignity if this is how it's going to play out.
Which doesnât stop him from slipping an arm around your waist anyways. You open your mouth to argue, but the look he gives you shuts it immediately. His other hand slides beneath your knees.
âMacklin.â you say more firmly.
He looks at you, âBaby. I know.â
Then, heâs lifting you anyway. As if carrying you has nothing to do with whether you can walk and everything to do with the fact that he needs to hold you right now. Like letting you walk there yourself was never really an option.
Your body betrays you, relaxing the most itâs been all week into his steady arms.
Missed this. The warmth of him, the certainty of him. The feeling that you donât have to do everything alone.
He looks so determined. Jaw set, eyes focused. So gorgeous, even like this.
His grasp remains tender, holding you just a little tighter to his chest. One of your arms wraps around his neck, the other coming to rest over his heartbeat. The one thatâs beating just a little too fast. The furrow in his brow tells you itâs out of worry. You hate being the reason for it.
The bedroom is dark and cold.
True to your words - not that he ever doubted you - it's completely spotless; everything wiped down and sanitized, clean sheets and perfectly made bed. The slightly sterile feeling makes him choke, reminds him more of the hotels that heâs been in the last week and how they lacked the warmth that you always bring wherever you go.
He pushes the feeling down. Places you gently on the untouched bed, immediately pulling back the fluffy duvet and soft sheets to help you slide in.
He can see the way youâre trembling and makes a split second decision. âArms up, baby.â he murmurs. Can see the frown pulling at your lips and the question shining in your glassy eyes, but you trust him. It makes his heart ache. He immediately moves to assist you in pulling the old hoodie off your frame, cursing softly at the way your shivers intensify the second itâs gone.
He moves with urgency to pull the hoodie heâs wearing over his head. The fabric warm from where it had been sitting against his skin. He guides your hands through the sleeves before carefully helping to settle it around your shoulders. The second itâs on you, his scent surrounds you. Nose burying in the neckline with a shaky sigh, shoulders dropping just a little. The way you cuddle up into the warmth of it makes him melt on the spot.
He covers you up before your shivering can get any worse, pulling the covers up till they reach your chin as you lay amongst the fluffy pillows. He takes one of the soft blankets you had out on the couch with you and lays it over top.
He reaches to the bedside table, switching on the lamp and illuminating the space in a soft glow. Moving to do the same with the salt lamp on the dresser beneath the TV, grabbing the remote while heâs over there.
Your gaze follows him over the edge of the blankets as he moves about the room. He flicks on the TV, goes through the practiced motions of putting on one of your comfort movies. The one he knows you like to watch when youâre not feeling well.
You almost start tearing up again.
He comes back over to you, taking a seat on the edge of the bed beside where youâre bundled up. You look like a sick little marshmallow blinking up at him, swallowed up by his hoodie and the mountain of blankets and pillows surrounding you. For the first time since hearing you cough from the living room, the feeling in his chest eases. Not much. Just enough to breathe a little easier.
His hand drifts back to your cheek, thumb stroking over the warm skin. Eyes unbearably soft as he gazes down at you. Your hand finds its way out of the pile of blankets to rest on his, fingers sweeping over the back of his hand, like that can convey even a little bit of what you wish you could say to him right now.
âI really wish I could kiss right now.â
Itâs barely a whisper, spoken with the kind of longing he usually saves for airports and road trips.
Whatâs different is the way he squeezes his eyes shut, like saying it out loud feels selfish right now.
âMe too.â you whisper back, lone tear rolling slowly down your temple.
He thumbs it away easily.
The breath that leaves him sounds painful, like relief and agony tangled together.
He turns your hand over in his, threading your fingers together before lifting your knuckles to his lips.
The kiss lingers longer than it should.
âHow long ago did you make that piece of toast?â he asks, quietly.
He sighs, presses another kiss to the hand still clutched in his.
His lips move against your skin as he continues, âHave you eaten anything else since then?â
âIâm going to go make soup. And then Iâm going to come right back.â he says. As if he needs to reassure himself that leaving the room doesnât mean leaving you.
âOkay. Thank you.â you whisper.
His eyes squeeze shut. Then, heartbreakingly, âOf course, baby.â
He gives your hand one last squeeze, one last kiss before he tucks it back beneath the duvet and rises to his feet.
For a moment, he just stands there. Like he canât quite get himself to leave yet. Like walking away from you, even for 20 minutes to make soup, feels wrong after spending the last week not knowing any of this was happening. His fingers trail over the blanket one final time before he forces himself toward the door.
The second he disappears into the hallway, the room feels quieter. Emptier. Closer to how it felt all week.
Later, youâll blame the sickness for how emotional youâve been during this whole thing. The fever. The exhaustion. The fact that youâve barely slept.
But right now, curled up beneath his hoodie and surrounded by the lingering warmth heâd left behind, you feel every bit of it.
He comes back not even 25 minutes later, carrying a tray, a packet of tissues held between his teeth.
You sit up slightly, eyes widening and breath hitching as you take it all in.
âMacklinâŠâ you trail off breathlessly, not quite sure what to say.
A bowl of steaming soup sits in the middle. Crackers. Medicine and tea arranged carefully to the side. Your phone charger. A napkin. A spoon. A full water bottle. Even a handful of cough drops sitting in their wrappers.
The tray looks like a physical manifestation of every worried thought heâd had in the last 25 minutes.
Everything about it suggests that he walked around the apartment asking himself what you might need before deciding to just grab all of it and get back to you.
He gives you a moment to sit up a little bit straighter before placing the tray gently across your lap. Then, he reaches for your charger, plugging your phone in and setting it within armâs reach on the bedside table beside the tissues.
âBe right back,â he says. You barely have time to take a sip of water before heâs gone, walking out the door again. A minute later you hear rummaging from the hallway closet.
He reappears carrying the humidifier. His eyes immediately find you.
Making sure youâre okay before continuing toward the ensuite.
âMack, I can go eat at the table, baby. Itâs okay.â
âDonât even start with me right now.â
The faucet runs briefly, shuts off. Then he's back again, steps a little bit more careful as he tries to balance the water in the humidifier, plugging it in beside the bed.
A soft stream of mist begins curling into the air almost immediately.
Only then does he seem remotely satisfied.
âDo you need anything else?â he asks.
You look at him for a moment. Really look at him.
The messy hair. The exhaustion sitting beneath his eyes. The way heâs been moving around the place since he got home, like if he lets himself stop for too long heâll have to think about all the things he missed.
âJust you.â you say, honestly.
Something in his expression crumbles
The tension leaves his shoulders in a slow exhale.
Looking like he might unravel at any moment.
âYeah,â he murmurs. âOkay.â
Like that was the answer heâs been hoping for.
He kicks off his sweatpants, tossing them haphazardly into the laundry bin, then climbing in beside you. Close enough that your knee bumps his. Like neither of you are willing to waste another second apart.
You side eye him as he steals another cracker from your tray. Eyes deadlocked on the movie with an intensity thatâs almost laughable.
âYouâre getting crumbs in the bed.â
He blinks. Turns to you with a pout thatâs hard to take seriously when he has cracker crumbs dusting his lips. âBaby.â
You point toward the growing collection scattered across his chest. He has the nerve to look scandalized.
âYou spent almost a week sleeping on a couch and surviving off half a piece of toast.â
He points at the unfinished bowl balanced in your lap. âEat your soup.â
Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you. Small and scratchy. Immediately followed by a cough. But his hand is on your back before the coughing even finishes, slow up and down motions. Never missing a beat.
You donât think heâs gone more than 30 seconds without touching you since he joined you in bed. Not that youâre complaining. It still doesnât feel like enough after spending the last week missing him.
The tray is eventually abandoned on the bedside table. The movie continues to play softly in the background. Only a small warm light turned on now.
At some point, you end up tucked against his side beneath the blankets. Neither of you remember exactly when.
Your head rests against his chest. His heartbeat steady beneath your ear. One hand traces lazy patterns along your back while the other occasionally drifts up to play with your hair. Twisting a strand around his finger. Untwisting it. Starting over.
You donât even think he realizes heâs doing it.
âYou should have stayed with one of the guys tonight.â
The words are so quiet he almost misses them, but he can feel your breath along his skin.
His arms tighten around you immediately. âWhy?â
âBecause Iâm probably going to get you sick.â
A quiet laugh vibrates through his chest beneath your cheek.
He presses a lingering kiss into your hair.
You can hear the small smile in it,
âThereâs nowhere else Iâd rather be.â
The answer settles somewhere deep inside your chest. Warm. Certain. You donât argue. Donât tell him heâs being stubborn. Because deep down, youâve always known heâd choose this.
The movie is still playing when your words begin to slur together. Your responses growing slower. Softer. Until eventually they stop altogether.
Mack waits until your breathing evens out before reaching for his phone.
More cold medicine. The throat lozenges you like. Electrolytes. More soup ingredients. Crackers. A few easy snacks he knows youâll actually eat.
Something sweet, too. Just to hopefully make you smile tomorrow.
He adds it all to a list heâll stop and grab first thing in the morning.
Hopefully while youâre still sleeping.
Hopefully while youâre getting the rest youâve needed all week.
Then, he looks down. Youâre sound asleep against his chest. Cheeks flushed pink and nose stuffy. One hand curled loosely in the fabric of the hoodie heâd given you, still holding on even in your sleep.
Itâs the most peaceful youâve looked since he walked through the door.
The sight nearly undoes him.
He sets his phone aside without another thought, careful not to jostle you. His now free hand settling against your shoulder, rubbing slow comforting circles before pulling you just a little closer.
The blanket gets tugged a little tighter around you and a gentle kiss presses into the top of your head. His hand continues its slow path along your shoulder and across your back. The humidifier hums softly from the corner.
And for the first time all week, youâre not carrying it by yourself.
A/N: all my work is written and owned by me. Please do not steal my work, put it into AI, or on any other platform.
