Max had just won another race. It had been a wet race. 2 drivers ended up crashing due to the conditions on track, Max almost crashing as well, but despite the tricky conditions he still managed to come out on top. After the race, when you and Max got back to your guys’ hotel you decided to give him a reward for that difficult win. You let Max, of course pick his reward and he choose thigh fucking. Which wasn’t a surprise, considering you knew Max had a big thing for your thighs for some reason. Anyway, you helped Max strip naked before you did the same. You guys got in bed and let Max cuddled into you, his hard cock slipping in between your thick thighs. Max sighed happily at the feeling of your soft flesh around his cock. You smiled at his reaction and reached up and began playing with his hair. Max slowly beginning to thrust in and out of your thighs. You praising him as he does this, telling him how good of a racer he is and how proud you are of him and his achievements, and how good of a partner he is to you and how he treats you so well. Max’s pace gradually increasing as you praise him. Max always had a big praise kink and god did you use this to your advantage at times. So it wasn’t a big surprise that not even 4 minutes after Max started fucking your thighs he cummed, the sticky thick substance painting your thighs. You cooed at Max, praising him for this, Max’s face flushing red at this. His cock starting to slowly get hard again despite having just came. Max knew it was going to be a long night, but he didn’t mind. He knew you’d take care of him and all of his needs.
Imagine having Max put on one of his old racing suits and ripping a hole in the ass of it so you can fuck him in it. Then having him bend over your car in your guy's garage, his face pressed against the hood as you brutalize his pretty hole, stretching it out, making it loose and sloppy. He's so cock drunk, tears running down his race, he's drooling onto the sleeve of the race suit as he tries to keep himself quiet not wanting the neighbor's to know what is going on. He's in absolute heaven in that moment.
you convince max to let you fuck his tits. both of you enjoy it too much
kinks tit fuck, quickie
other tags praise-degradation kink, submissive kink
MASTERLIST ⠀MAXTOBER LIST ⠀REQUEST ME ⠀ TAGLIST⠀ PATREON GUIDE
radio "comments and reblogs are much appreciated!" this is less of a quickie but i just wanted to emphasis the titfucking so bad ,,, holy fuck. srry chat this is the most indulgent i've been. i love his tits no one shame me
It's been an unsaid thing in the paddock for a while—that Max Verstappen has the biggest tits. It's funny, really. You can appreciate a woman’s size every now and then, of course. When it comes to Max, though, it's just jaw-dropping. You laugh each time someone calls him Titstappen or Vertitties online.
Putting your hands on Max’s pecs, you slide your cock between them with a grunt. Max always gets so red like this. When you’re both short on time, and his driver’s room is cramped, he blushes so red, just like now. He puts his hands to his face, whines, as he feels his nipples getting pinched.
“So cute," you whispered, hips moving teasingly slow, “Can you feel how hard you are, Maxy? So fucking hard while I fuck your pretty tits.”
A moan that could rival porn actors comes out of him. "Stop…” he whines, palm over his eyes. "Just—just shut up. This is a one-time thing, okay?”
You have the feeling that you’ll be doing this again.
Pushing his pecs together, you start to thrust between them. You're not the only one getting some pleasure from this. Max is whining with each push, acting as if he's getting fucked.
Toying with his nipples only makes him louder. The pink things perk from abuse. Max is just placated over each little movement. Every fuck, every pull, and every praise that falls from your mouth.
“Just like that, you know what I want.”
“Fucking hell, Maxy. Your tits are so fucking fat."
“Gonna let me paint your face like a good boy?"
“Slutty little tits always begging for more. So cute."
You're stroking your cock along with the thrusts. Groaning, you feel orgasm quickly forming. Max's mouth is open wide, lips red from biting on it earlier, and it's begging to be painted on. Why would you deny him such a simple pleasure?
Moving away from his tits, you kneel in front of his face. With every quick stroke, you spurt out your release. He whines. Pulling his hands away from his face, you make sure to get his cheeks—just under his eyes.
Smiling, you laugh as you grind the tip of your cock against his lips. “Wasn't that bad, huh?" you tease.
He's too flushed to make a comeback. So, he just whines and wraps his lips around the head and licks the remaining cum off. You could get really fucking used to this.
“A part of me wants to leave you alone, a part of me wants for you to come home.”
༘♡ ·˚꒰ nate jacobs 𝐱 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄
➤ 𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙔, As Cassie is forced to confront a painful reality and continues to marinate in her jealousy — beneath the surface of vacation photos and domestic sweetness, cracks begin to show. Nate’s growing desire for a bigger future—one with a house, more permanence, and possibly another child—collides with Y/N’s fear of losing himself.
➤ 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂, 𝟏𝟖+𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈. ADULT LANGUAGE. SEXUAL THEMES. ANGST.
➤ 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝘿𝙎, 10.4k
➤ 𝘼𝙐𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙍’𝙎 𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙀, here’s part 2 of this chapter. sorry again for having to split it in half, but Tumblr has a limit 😭 anyway, enjoy the angst of it all.
𝙋𝙍𝙀𝙑𝙄𝙊𝙐𝙎 ➜ YOUR SACRIFICE
𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 up on the dock because it was the only place that didn't ask anything from you.
The cabin behind you was too warm, too full, too alive with other people's voices and expectations. Even the bedroom you shared with Nate felt crowded now, heavy with the remains of the argument from that morning—the clothes on the floor, the unmade bed, the question still hanging in the air like smoke.
Do you want kids with me?
You had walked past all of it without really deciding to. Past the living room. Past the kitchen where Marsha was probably cleaning something that was already clean. Past the porch and down the wooden steps until your bare feet touched the cool boards of the dock.
Now you sat at the edge, legs hanging over, feet dipped into the dark water.
The lake was cold enough to bite, but you didn't pull away. The chill grounded you. It gave your body something simple to focus on while your mind tried to survive the mess of everything else.
Above you, the last traces of sunset had bled out of the sky, leaving behind deep navy darkness and the first sharp pinpricks of stars. The trees surrounding the lake had become black silhouettes, their branches shifting gently in the night breeze. Somewhere in the distance, insects hummed. Water lapped softly against the dock posts, quiet and repetitive, almost like breathing.
You stared out across the lake and tried to let the silence drown out the words your manager had said.
Tried.
It didn't work.
Your phone buzzed beside you on the dock.
Once.
Then again.
Then again.
The screen lit up with Nate's name, pale against the dark wood.
You didn't touch it.
A text preview appeared, then disappeared.
My Man, My Man❤️🏈
Where are you?
Another.
My Man, My Man❤️🏈:
Y/N, answer me.
Then another.
My Man, My Man❤️🏈:
I'm not trying to fight. Just tell me you're okay.
You looked away from the phone and back to the water, jaw tightening so hard it hurt.
You weren't okay.
You didn't know how to tell him that without unraveling completely.
The worst part was, you wanted him.
Even angry, even hurt, even bruised by the way he had looked at your career uncertainty and somehow found room for a baby inside it—you wanted him. You wanted his arms around you, his mouth near your temple, his low voice telling you he had you.
But you were scared that if he touched you right now, you would break.
And if you broke, you weren't sure you'd be able to stop telling the truth.
Your phone buzzed again.
You closed your eyes.
Footsteps sounded behind you not long after.
Heavy. Familiar. Too controlled to be anyone else.
Nate didn't call your name right away. You heard him step onto the dock, the boards creaking under his weight, his pace slowing as he got closer. For a second, you thought he might simply sit beside you without saying anything.
He didn't.
"What the fuck, Y/N?"
His voice cut through the quiet—low, rough, fear sharpened into irritation.
You didn't turn around.
Nate stopped a few feet behind you, breathing hard like he'd been searching for longer than he wanted you to know. "I've been texting you," he said. "Calling you. You just disappeared."
You stared at the black water. "I'm sitting on a dock, Nate. Not fleeing the country."
"That's not funny."
"Wasn't trying to be."
He let out a frustrated breath, and you could feel him trying to keep himself from snapping harder. "You left the room, didn't tell anybody where you were going, and ignored your phone. After the day you had. After everything."
You finally looked over your shoulder at him.
In the dark, he looked less polished, less controlled. He stood there in a hoodie and sweats, hair still messy from running his hand through it, face tight with worry he didn't know how to soften. The porch light from the cabin reached just far enough to outline him in warm gold, but his eyes stayed shadowed.
"You can be mad at me," he said, voice rougher now, like the words had scraped their way up his throat. "You can not want to talk to me. Fine. But don't just vanish. Not out here. Not after the day you had."
That hit.
Because it wasn't anger underneath his tone. Not really.
It was fear.
You looked away again before your face could change too much.
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. The lake filled the silence for you.
Then you let out a breath that shook more than you wanted it to.
"I got dropped from my team."
The words came out flat.
Too flat.
Behind you, Nate went completely still.
"What?"
You swallowed, eyes fixed on the rippling reflection of the sky. "My team dropped me."
Nate moved then, but only one step. Like he wanted to come closer and didn't know if he was allowed. "Y/N..."
"And I fired my management," you continued, because if you stopped now, you might not start again.
The dock creaked softly as Nate shifted his weight.
You laughed once under your breath, but it broke at the end. "So that's fun."
Nate didn't say anything.
Good.
You didn't think you could handle sympathy yet.
You pulled your feet from the water slightly, then let them sink back in, watching the surface shiver around your ankles.
"My manager called earlier," you said. "The call in town. They were trying to negotiate with my current team. Keep me on. Make it work." Your jaw tightened. "But the offers they were bringing back were insulting."
Nate's voice was low. "Insulting how?"
"Money. Terms. Control over meets. Reduced visibility. Clauses that basically said they could bench me whenever they felt like it and still own pieces of my calendar." You shook your head, anger briefly cutting through the grief. "My manager didn't think they were insulting. They thought I should consider them because staying was better than nothing."
Nate's jaw clenched. You could hear it in the silence.
"So they wanted to explore other options," you continued. "Other teams. Other cities. Bigger offers, better terms, fresh start, all that bullshit."
You paused, throat tightening.
Then softer, "I told them no."
Nate's breath caught.
You turned slightly, but not enough to face him fully. "I told them no because I didn't want to leave."
His face changed. Even in the dimness, you saw it—the immediate shift from confusion to realization.
You looked back at the lake before the look could undo you.
"No matter how mad I am at you," you said, voice breaking around the edges now, "I didn't want to leave you behind."
Nate said your name, barely audible.
"And I wasn't going to ask you to quit your job just so I could chase mine somewhere else," you continued, the words spilling faster now, like a dam splitting. "I wasn't going to make you choose between your career and me. I wasn't going to ask you to leave your team, your life, your family."
Your chest tightened painfully.
"And I definitely wasn't going to ask you to leave Luca."
The name landed softly, but it split you open anyway.
You pressed the heel of your hand against one eye, furious when moisture gathered there again.
"Hell," you whispered, voice cracking now, "I didn't want to leave Luca."
Nate came closer.
You didn't stop him this time.
You couldn't.
"I know he's not mine," you said, staring down at the water. "I know I'm not his father. I know where I fit and where I don't. But I love that kid, Nate. I love the way he runs into a room like he owns it. I love the way he asks questions like the universe personally owes him answers. I love that he calls his stuffed turtle Kevin. I love that he looks for me now."
Your voice broke harder, and you hated it.
"I couldn't just disappear from his life because some team in another city made a better offer."
Nate lowered himself beside you on the dock without another word.
The boards groaned faintly under his weight. He sat close, but not touching yet, as if giving you one last chance to pull away.
You didn't.
"So now," you said, wiping angrily at your face, "I'm an unemployed track star with no team and no manager."
The words were bitter.
Humiliating.
Terrifying.
You had said them in your head a dozen times since the call, but out loud they sounded even worse. Final. Pathetic. Like your entire identity had been stripped down to a headline no one would even bother writing.
Nate inhaled sharply beside you.
Then his arm came around you.
Not sudden. Not demanding. Just there—solid, warm, careful. His hand settled against your upper arm first, then slid around your shoulders when you didn't pull away. He drew you into him slowly, like he was afraid one wrong move would make you retreat back into yourself.
The second your body touched his, something inside you gave out.
You folded into him, forehead pressing against his chest, and the tears came harder than you wanted. Not dramatic sobs. Not loud. Just silent, furious, exhausted tears that shook through you while Nate wrapped both arms around you and held on.
"I'm sorry," he whispered immediately. "Baby, I'm so sorry."
You shook your head against him, trying to breathe.
"I'm sorry for the argument," he continued, voice rough. "I'm sorry I made your career sound like something we could just... work around. I wasn't hearing you. I was thinking about what I wanted, and I turned your fear into my future. That was fucked up."
You squeezed your eyes shut.
His hand moved over your back, slow and steady.
"And I'm sorry about your team," he said. "I'm sorry they didn't value you the way they should have. I'm sorry your manager didn't fight for you. I'm sorry you had to make that choice while we were fighting."
His voice cracked slightly on the next part.
"And I'm sorry you thought you had to sacrifice that much alone."
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
His face was close, eyes glossy in the dark, jaw tight with restraint and guilt. He looked wrecked—not because the situation was about him, but because he understood now how deeply it had cut you.
"I didn't know what else to do," you admitted, voice small in a way you hated. "I couldn't choose a city over everything we've been building."
Nate cupped your face with one hand, thumb brushing the damp skin beneath your eye. "You should've told me."
"I know."
"I would've figured it out with you."
"You shouldn't have to give up your career for mine."
"And you shouldn't have to give up yours for mine," he said immediately. "That's the point."
You looked away, throat tight.
He gently turned your face back toward him—not forceful, just enough.
"Listen to me," he said. "I got you."
You let out a shaky breath.
"I mean it," Nate continued. "Team or no team. Manager or no manager. Baby or no baby. House or apartment. Whatever happens next, I got you."
His forehead rested against yours, his voice dropping lower.
"You are not some house boyfriend waiting around for me to come home. You're not an accessory to my life. You're not here to fit into whatever picture I start imagining when I get emotional." His thumb stroked your cheek. "You're you. Y/N L/N. The man I fell in love with because you didn't bend for anybody. Not even me."
A broken little laugh slipped out of you despite everything.
His mouth softened.
"And I need that man," he whispered. "Not a quieter version. Not a version who gives everything up so I can feel like I built a family." His voice deepened with conviction. "You are my family. You were my family before Luca, and you're my family now. Nothing changes that."
You stared at him, tears still clinging to your lashes.
"What about the baby?" you asked quietly.
Pain flickered across his face, but he didn't dodge it.
"I want one," he admitted. "I think I do. Someday. With you." He swallowed. "But I want you more than I want the idea of a baby. I want us whole before I want us bigger."
That broke something open in you—not hurt this time, but relief so sharp it almost felt like pain.
Nate pulled you back into him, pressing a kiss to your temple, then another to your hair.
"You're mine," he murmured. "And I'm yours. That's the center. Everything else has to orbit that, not replace it."
You clutched the front of his hoodie, fingers twisting into the fabric as if holding on could keep the world from shifting again.
"I'm scared," you whispered.
"I know."
"I don't know who I am without running."
"You're still you."
"I don't feel like it."
His arms tightened around you.
"Then I'll remind you," he said. "Every day until you remember."
The lake moved beneath your feet, cold water lapping gently against your ankles. The night stretched wide around you, dark and uncertain. Behind you, the cabin glowed warm with the life you hadn't planned and were still somehow building.
You stayed on the dock in Nate's arms, both of you bruised by the day, both of you still angry in places, still scared in others.
But connected again.
Not fixed.
Not fully.
But no longer standing on opposite sides of the hurt.
Eventually, Nate shifted beside you, his arm tightening slightly around your waist, the fabric of his hoodie warm against your side.
"Come on," he murmured, voice low and rough from the long day.
You didn't move right away, eyes still fixed on the dark water. "Where?"
His thumb brushed over your hip, slow and grounding, fingers splaying wide like he needed to feel you solid and real. "Inside."
You exhaled softly, already tired at the thought of standing up, of walking back into the light and the noise and the eyes that would inevitably notice something had shifted. "I'm comfortable."
"You're sitting on a dock with your feet in cold lake water after one of the worst days you've had in months," he said dryly, the familiar edge of teasing threaded through the words but gentler now. "You're not comfortable. You're stubborn."
You huffed a faint laugh, but it barely made it past your throat, more breath than sound. "Both can be true."
Nate turned his head, looking down at you. In the near-darkness, his face was mostly shadow, the porch light from the cabin reaching just far enough to catch the sharp line of his jaw and the faint stubble along it. But you could still see the softness in his eyes—the worry that hadn't left him, the guilt that sat heavy behind it, and underneath both, that familiar devotion, the one that always made him look like he was prepared to carry the weight of the world if it meant you didn't have to.
"You should go shower off the day," he said quietly, the words careful, like he was offering instead of telling.
Your eyes drifted back toward the water, the surface rippling faintly around your submerged ankles. "That sounds like a metaphor."
"It can be literal too."
You didn't answer right away.
Nate leaned closer, his voice dropping lower, softer now, threaded with something intimate and raw. "Let me take care of you tonight."
The words hit differently because he wasn't saying them with his usual cocky confidence. There was no teasing grin. No smug tilt of his mouth. Just tenderness, low and rough from everything that had happened between you—the fight, the tears, the fear you had finally let him see.
You swallowed, throat tight.
"Nate..."
"I mean it," he said. His hand slid from your arm to the back of your neck, thumb stroking the tense muscle there in slow, firm circles. "No more arguing tonight. No more career talk unless you want to. No more baby talk. No more trying to solve your whole life before bed." His forehead brushed your temple, warm and steady. "Just let me take care of you."
Your throat tightened all over again, but this time the ache was quieter, less jagged.
He kissed your cheek once, then your jaw, lingering there for a breath, lips soft against the stubble you hadn't shaved that morning. "Hot shower," he murmured against your skin. "Get you warm. Get the lake off your skin."
His hand moved slowly down your back, broad and warm through the thin fabric of your shirt, pressing just enough to ease some of the tension knotted there.
"Then a massage," he continued, voice dipping into something familiar—gentle, intimate, threaded with just enough heat to make your stomach stir despite the bone-deep exhaustion. "Your shoulders are tense as hell. Your back too."
You closed your eyes, breathing out through your nose, the night air cool against your damp lashes.
"And after that?" you asked, already knowing you shouldn't, but the words slipped out anyway.
Nate's mouth brushed close to your ear, breath warm.
"And after that," he whispered, the words slow and deliberate, "some much needed fucking."
The suggestion settled low in your body, warm and dangerous, pulling a quiet reaction from you before your mind could catch up. You didn't have the energy to sass him properly. Not after the day you'd had. Not after crying on the dock. Not after spilling out every fear you'd been trying to hold behind your teeth for hours.
All you managed was a slow look in his direction, eyes heavy.
Nate's mouth curved faintly, but the smile was softer than usual, almost careful.
"Only if you want that," he added, the teasing edge giving way to something earnest. "Otherwise, I'll just hold you until you fall asleep."
That was the thing that undid you.
Not the heat in his voice. Not the promise of his hands on you. Not the familiar pull between you that had somehow survived even the ugliest parts of the day.
It was the choice.
The reminder that he wasn't trying to take anything from you. He was offering. Waiting. Letting you decide.
You looked down at the water, then back at him, too tired to build a wall around your answer.
"I don't have much left in me tonight," you admitted, voice rough.
Nate nodded, his fingers brushing over your cheek once more. "Then don't spend it talking."
Before you could respond, he shifted fully, pulling his feet from the water and rising to his knees beside you on the dock. You frowned slightly, confused.
"What are you doing?"
"Taking care of you," he said simply.
"Nate, I can walk."
"I know."
That was all the warning you got before his arms slipped beneath you—one under your knees, the other around your back—and he lifted you clean off the dock like you weighed nothing.
You let out a startled sound, arms flying instinctively around his neck as he stood with you cradled against his chest, bridal style. Cold water dripped from your feet onto the wooden boards below, tiny splashes catching the faint starlight.
"Nate," you muttered, but there was no real bite in it, just exhausted fondness.
He looked down at you, brows lifting slightly in mock innocence. "What?"
"You're dramatic."
"You like that."
"I tolerate it."
"You love it."
You were too emotionally wrung out to deny it convincingly, so you just looked away, resting your cheek against the solid warmth of his shoulder as he started walking back toward the cabin. His steps were careful on the dock, steady despite the way the boards creaked faintly beneath his weight. One arm held you securely beneath your knees, the other firm around your back, his hand splayed wide against your side like he was anchoring you to him. You could feel his heartbeat through his hoodie—strong, even, a rhythm your body recognized before your mind did.
The night air brushed against your damp feet and the exposed skin of your arms, cool and pine-scented, but Nate's warmth surrounded you completely, his chest solid and steady against your side.
Neither of you said much as he carried you up from the dock, across the dew-damp grass, and toward the cabin's porch. The windows glowed ahead, golden and welcoming, but he moved quietly, careful not to draw attention. The last thing either of you needed was Marsha fussing or Cassie watching with those sharp, observant eyes.
Still, even in the silence, something passed between you.
An apology.
A promise.
A truce.
Not perfect. Not finished. But real.
At the porch steps, you lifted your head slightly and looked at him. His face was focused, jaw set, eyes forward, but when he felt you watching, he glanced down.
"You okay?" he asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.
You let your fingers brush the back of his neck, tracing the short hair there.
"No," you said honestly.
His expression tightened with concern, brows pulling together.
Then you added, quieter, "But I'm better with you."
Nate stopped for half a second on the bottom step, the words landing somewhere deep. His throat moved as he swallowed, and his hold on you tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he felt it, that it mattered.
Then he leaned down and kissed your forehead, slow and lingering.
"I got you," he whispered against your skin.
This time, you believed him.
And when he carried you inside, past the soft creak of the screen door and into the warm hush of the cabin—past the faint glow of the living room lamp and the distant clink of a dish in the kitchen—you let yourself lean fully into him. Too tired to pretend. Too hurt to be fine.
𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 shower, the bedroom felt like a world apart from the rest of the cabin.
Steam still clung to the air, carrying the faint scent of the cedarwood body wash Nate had used on you—his hands slow and careful under the hot spray, thumbs pressing into the knots along your spine until the water ran cool. You had let him wash you without protest, too drained to do anything but lean into the tile and close your eyes while he worked the day from your skin. He hadn't pushed for more. Just quiet touches, murmured reassurances against your wet shoulder, and the steady rhythm of his breathing matching yours.
Now the room was dim, lit only by the single bedside lamp on the far side of the bed, its warm amber glow spilling across the rumpled white sheets and the dark wooden headboard. The heavy curtains were drawn tight against the night, sealing the space in soft privacy. The faint sounds of the lake house had faded—Marsha's distant clink of dishes downstairs, the low murmur of the television, Luca's occasional sleepy sigh from the room down the hall. None of it reached in here.
You lay naked on your stomach in the center of the bed, the cool cotton sheets warm beneath your chest and hips. Your arms were folded under the pillow, head turned to the side, cheek pressed into the soft fabric. The shower had left your skin flushed and slightly damp, a few stray droplets still tracing lazy paths down the curve of your spine before disappearing into the dip of your lower back. Your broad shoulders were relaxed for the first time all day, but the tension still lingered deeper—in the tight bands of muscle along your back, the stubborn knots from hours of clenched jaw and braced emotions.
Nate was naked too, kneeling beside you on the mattress, the bed dipping slightly under his weight. The lamplight painted warm highlights across the strong lines of his body—broad shoulders, defined chest, the faint trail of dark hair leading down his stomach. His skin was still flushed from the shower, hair damp and curling at the nape of his neck. He straddled your thighs carefully, knees bracketing your legs without putting his full weight on you, one hand braced beside your ribcage for balance.
His palms—large, warm, slightly callused from years of football—rested on your upper back, slick with the unscented lotion he'd warmed between his hands. He started slow, almost reverent, thumbs pressing into the tight muscles flanking your spine with firm, deliberate strokes. The pressure was perfect: deep enough to work the knots loose, gentle enough not to hurt. He dragged his hands upward in long, smooth glides, spreading the lotion across your shoulders, then down again, thumbs circling the stubborn spot between your shoulder blades where the day's weight had settled hardest.
You let out a low, involuntary sound—half sigh, half groan—as the tension began to melt under his touch. Nate hummed in quiet approval, the sound vibrating through his chest.
"That's it," he murmured, voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. "Just breathe for me."
His hands moved with practiced care, kneading the thick muscle of your shoulders, then sliding lower to the middle of your back. He worked in slow, rhythmic circles, thumbs pressing along the sides of your spine, fingers fanning out to grip the wider planes of muscle near your ribs. Every pass of his palms left a trail of warmth, the lotion making his skin glide smoothly over yours. He leaned forward slightly, the heat of his body radiating against your back, and pressed the heels of his hands into the dip just above the curve of your ass, working the tightness there with steady, deliberate pressure.
You felt the shift in him—the way his breathing deepened, the faint hitch when his fingertips brushed the sensitive skin along your sides. His thighs flexed against the outsides of yours, warm and solid, holding you in place without trapping you. One of his hands slid up to your neck, thumb and fingers gently working the base of your skull, then down again, tracing the long line of your spine until his palms settled over the small of your back, pressing and releasing in slow waves.
The room was quiet except for the soft sounds of skin on skin, the faint creak of the mattress when he shifted his weight, and the occasional low hum he made when he found a particularly tight spot. Nate's touch stayed focused—caring, intimate, never rushing toward anything more unless you asked. But there was heat in it too, simmering beneath the tenderness: the way his fingers lingered at the base of your spine, the subtle press of his hips when he leaned in closer, the quiet exhale that brushed warm across your shoulder blade.
He bent lower, lips brushing the back of your neck in a feather-light kiss.
"You're so tight here," he whispered against your skin, thumbs digging gently into the muscle on either side of your spine. "Been carrying the whole damn day, haven't you?"
You made a soft, wordless sound of agreement, eyes half-closed, body sinking heavier into the mattress with every pass of his hands. The massage wasn't just physical; it was Nate trying to undo what words couldn't fully fix—the argument, the fear, the uncertainty that had cracked open between you. His hands spoke for him now: steady, patient, devoted.
He worked his way back up, palms flattening over your shoulders, fingers spreading wide as he pressed down and dragged them slowly toward your neck. The motion pulled a deeper groan from your throat, and Nate's breath hitched in response.
"Feel good?" he asked, voice low and intimate, lips grazing the shell of your ear.
You nodded into the pillow, the motion small. "Yeah... don't stop."
"I won't," he promised, the words rough with emotion. His hands resumed their slow, thorough rhythm, kneading and smoothing, warming every inch of your back until the tension finally began to loosen, until your body felt heavy and pliant beneath him.
His hands slid lower, warm and sure, gliding over the curve of your lower back until they settled fully on your ass.
He cupped the firm muscle of each cheek. He squeezed gently at first, testing the tension there, then deeper, thumbs pressing into the meaty flesh while his fingers spread wide to knead and lift. The pressure was perfect—firm enough to work out the last stubborn knots from the long day, slow enough to feel intimate, almost reverent. He massaged in slow, possessive circles, thumbs dipping into the cleft and smoothing back out again, spreading the warmth across your skin until your ass felt heavy and pliant under his touch.
You let out a low, involuntary groan into the pillow, hips shifting just slightly against the sheets.
Nate hummed in quiet approval, the sound vibrating through his chest as he leaned down. His breath ghosted hot over the small of your back first, then lower, until his lips brushed the rounded swell of one cheek in a soft, open-mouthed kiss. He lingered there, kissing again, slower this time, then moved to the other cheek, dragging his mouth across the warm skin with deliberate care. His stubble scraped lightly, sending sparks up your spine, and his hands never stopped moving—squeezing, lifting, spreading you just enough to expose the sensitive skin between.
He shifted his weight, knees pressing deeper into the mattress on either side of your thighs, and used both hands to part your cheeks fully now. The cool air of the room kissed your hole for a brief second before Nate leaned in and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss right against it.
The contact was warm and soft, almost chaste at first. Then his lips parted, and his tongue came out—flat and broad at the beginning, dragging a long, slow stripe from the sensitive skin just behind your balls all the way up over your hole. He did it again, slower, savoring, the wet heat of his tongue circling the rim with patient, teasing strokes before the tip pressed inward, seeking entrance.
A low, filthy sound escaped you, muffled into the pillow as your fingers tightened in the sheets.
Nate groaned against you, the vibration traveling straight through your body. He held your cheeks spread wide with strong hands, thumbs digging into the muscle to keep you open for him while his tongue worked deeper—lapping, circling, pressing inside with slow, deliberate thrusts. He ate you out like he had all the time in the world, like nothing mattered except the taste of you and the way your body responded under his mouth. Every flick and swirl was purposeful, every soft suck and gentle bite designed to unravel you completely.
His breath was hot and ragged against your skin, his stubble scraping deliciously along the sensitive flesh as he buried his face deeper between your cheeks. One of his hands slid up to grip your hip, holding you steady while the other stayed right where it was, keeping you spread so he could work you open with his tongue—slow, wet, relentless strokes that left you trembling and leaking against the sheets beneath you.
When your hole was wet and glistening from the slow, thorough work of Nate's tongue, he finally pulled back just enough to let the cool air of the room kiss the slick, flushed skin there.
You felt the shift immediately — the loss of his warm mouth replaced by the faint drag of his breath as he hovered close, watching. A low, appreciative sound rumbled in his chest. His hands stayed on your ass, thumbs still holding you open, and for a moment the only sound was the wet, obscene little noise your hole made when it clenched around nothing.
Then Nate leaned down again — not with his tongue this time, but with his lips, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss right over the center of your back, right between your shoulder blades. His stubble scraped gently against your skin as he dragged his mouth lower, kissing a lazy trail down your spine while one of his hands left your ass.
You felt the blunt, slick tip of his index finger first — warm from his own mouth and the lotion still coating his skin — circling your hole in slow, teasing strokes, spreading the wetness even more.
"Relax for me," he murmured against the small of your back, voice low and rough, lips brushing the dip just above your ass. "That's it... good boy."
He pressed the pad of his finger forward, slow and steady, until the first thick knuckle slipped inside you with almost no resistance. The stretch was gentle, familiar, but after the thorough rimming it still pulled a quiet, broken sound from your throat. Nate groaned softly in response, kissing the curve of your lower back as he eased the rest of his finger in to the hilt, letting you feel the full, solid length of it buried inside.
He didn't move it right away. Just held it there, letting you adjust, while his mouth continued its slow worship — kissing up the line of your spine, sucking lightly at the sensitive skin between your shoulder blades, nipping gently at the back of your neck.
"Feel so good already," he whispered against your skin, voice vibrating through you. "So fucking warm and tight around my finger."
He started moving then — slow, shallow thrusts at first, curling gently on the way out to brush that spot inside you that made your toes curl against the sheets. His free hand stayed on your ass, kneading and spreading you open so he could watch every inch of his finger disappear into you.
When your hips began to push back against him, chasing the feeling, Nate added a second finger.
He worked it in carefully, scissoring gently as he went, stretching you wider while his mouth never left your back. He kissed every inch he could reach — the broad plane of your shoulders, the ridge of your spine, the sensitive skin just below your neck — murmuring quiet praise between each press of his lips.
"Taking me so well... look at you," he breathed, voice thick. "So fucking pretty like this."
The third finger came after several long, patient minutes of the first two — Nate waiting until you were rocking back onto his hand, until your breathing had turned ragged and your dick was leaking steadily onto the sheets beneath you.
He eased the third finger in alongside the others with a low, filthy groan of his own, the stretch burning sweetly now, full and overwhelming in the best way. His hand stilled for a moment, letting you feel all three thick fingers buried deep, stretching you open while he kissed the back of your neck again, open-mouthed and wet.
"Three fingers, baby," he whispered against your skin, voice wrecked. "You're so fucking good for me... taking everything I give you."
He began to move them then — slow, deep, deliberate strokes that dragged against your walls with every thrust, curling perfectly on every pass. His mouth stayed on your back the whole time, kissing, licking, sucking little marks into the skin between your shoulder blades like he couldn't stop tasting you even while he opened you up.
The room filled with the wet, rhythmic sounds of his fingers working inside you, the low creak of the mattress, and the broken, desperate noises you couldn't hold back anymore.
Nate didn't rush. He just kept kissing your back, kept stretching you open, kept murmuring soft, filthy praise against your skin until the only thing left in the world was the steady, overwhelming feeling of him taking care of you exactly the way he promised.
Once he felt you were stretched enough — open, slick, and trembling around the three thick fingers he'd been working you with — Nate eased them out slowly, deliberately, drawing a low, needy sound from your throat as your hole clenched around the sudden emptiness.
He didn't move away. Instead, he stayed right there, kneeling between your spread thighs, his breathing rough and warm against the back of your neck. You felt the shift in the mattress as he leaned forward, the heavy, heated length of his dick sliding against your skin for the first time that night. It was thick, flushed, and already leaking, the head dragging a wet trail as he rubbed it slowly up and down between your cheeks.
Nate groaned low in his chest at the contact, the sound vibrating through both of you. He pressed his hips forward, letting his dick nestle fully into the cleft of your ass, hot and heavy, the silky skin sliding against your still-wet hole with every slow roll of his hips. He wasn't pushing inside yet — just teasing, rubbing the thick shaft along your crack, letting the head catch against your rim on every upward stroke before sliding back down. The friction was maddening: slick from his spit and your own arousal, the blunt head nudging insistently at your entrance without breaching it, spreading the wetness even more.
"Fuck, look at you," he murmured, voice wrecked and low, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "So wet for me already... taking my fingers so good and now you're just begging for my dick, aren't you?"
He rocked his hips again, slower this time, dragging the entire length of his dick between your cheeks in one long, filthy glide. The head caught on your rim once more, pressing forward just enough to make your breath hitch before he pulled back and did it all over again.
You felt every inch of him — the heat, the weight, the way he throbbed against you — while his chest pressed flush to your back, skin on skin, his heart hammering steadily against your spine. One of his hands braced beside your head, the other sliding down to grip your hip, holding you open as he continued the slow, teasing grind.
Then Nate leaned down fully, the shift in his weight pushing you deeper into the mattress. His lips found the curve of your shoulder first — soft at the beginning, then open-mouthed and wet, sucking lightly at the skin there before dragging his teeth across it in a gentle bite. He kissed his way across your shoulder blade, tongue tracing the line of muscle, until he reached the side of your neck. His stubble scraped deliciously against your flushed skin as he nuzzled in, breathing you in.
You turned your head toward him instinctively, and Nate met you halfway.
His mouth found yours in a deep, slow kiss — not rushed, not desperate, but heavy with everything the day had left between you. His tongue slid against yours, tasting like you and like him, while his hips kept rolling in that same lazy rhythm, dick still sliding hot and slick between your cheeks. The kiss deepened, turning wet and messy, his free hand coming up to cup the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone as he licked into your mouth.
He pulled back just enough to speak against your lips, voice hoarse and full of want.
"Tell me what you need," he whispered, nipping at your lower lip. "I'll give it to you... however you want it tonight."
You answered him without words.
Instead, you pushed your hips back slowly, deliberately, grinding your ass against the hot, heavy length of his dick. The slick, teasing drag of his shaft along your hole sent a fresh spark of heat through you, and you did it again — firmer this time — rolling your hips in a slow, needy circle that made the blunt head of his dick catch right against your entrance with every pass. It was the clearest yes you could give: no more talking, no more hesitation, just the raw, physical want of your body telling him exactly what you needed tonight.
Nate let out a low, guttural groan against your mouth, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "Fuck... baby," he breathed, the words barely more than a rasp. He didn't need to ask again.
He shifted his weight forward, one hand sliding down to grip your hip and hold you steady while the other braced beside your head on the mattress. The thick head of his dick pressed against your hole — hot, slick from his spit and the leftover lotion, insistent but patient. He rocked his hips once, twice, letting the blunt tip nudge inside just enough to stretch the rim before pulling back, teasing you open even more.
Then he pushed forward in one long, slow, steady slide.
The stretch was intense — that familiar, burning fullness as your body opened around him, taking every thick inch until he bottomed out completely, hips flush against your ass, his dick buried to the hilt inside you. A deep, broken moan tore from your throat, muffled against his lips, and Nate swallowed the sound with a kiss that turned instantly deeper, hotter, more desperate.
He stayed there for a long moment, fully seated, letting you feel every inch of him throbbing deep inside, the heavy weight of his balls pressed against you, his chest flush to your back. His mouth never left yours — the kiss slow and consuming, tongue sliding against yours in the same unhurried rhythm he planned to fuck you with. One of his hands came up to cup the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheek while he kissed you like he was trying to pour every apology, every promise, every ounce of love into it.
Then he started to move.
Slow, deep thrusts — pulling out almost all the way until just the head remained inside you, then sliding back in to the hilt with a smooth, deliberate roll of his hips. Each stroke dragged against that perfect spot inside you, drawing a fresh, wrecked sound from your mouth that he caught and swallowed with another kiss. The pace was torturously gentle, almost reverent, the wet, filthy sound of his cock moving in and out of your slick hole filling the quiet bedroom alongside the soft creak of the mattress and the ragged rhythm of your breathing.
Nate kept kissing you through every thrust — deep, open-mouthed kisses that grew messier the longer he fucked you, lips sliding, tongues tangling, occasional soft bites to your lower lip. His free hand stayed on your hip, holding you open and steady while he rocked into you, the other sliding into your hair, fingers curling gently at the nape of your neck.
"Feel so good," he whispered against your mouth between kisses, voice wrecked and low. "So fucking perfect around me... taking every inch like you were made for it."
He bottomed out again on the next thrust, grinding deep and slow, hips rolling in a filthy little circle that made your dick leak steadily onto the sheets beneath you. His mouth stayed on yours the whole time — kissing you through every slow, devastating stroke, like he couldn't bear to be separated from you for even a second.
His deep deliberate thrusts continued, his hips rolling forward in a slow, powerful rhythm that buried every thick inch of his dick inside you again and again. Each time he sank all the way to the hilt, the head of his shaft nudged insistently against that perfect, sensitive spot deep within you, sending sparks of white-hot pleasure radiating outward through your core. The stretch was exquisite—your body still slick and open from his fingers and tongue, yielding completely to the steady invasion. The wet, rhythmic sound of skin meeting skin filled the quiet room, a soft, obscene slap each time his pelvis met the curve of your ass, punctuated by the faint creak of the mattress and the slick, gliding noises of his length sliding in and out of your well-prepped hole.
You moaned softly beneath him, the sound low and breathy, escaping your lips in broken little gasps that you couldn't quite hold back. Pleasure rolled through you in thick, lazy waves, your body responding instinctively—inner muscles fluttering and clenching greedily around his cock, toes curling against the sheets, your own cock trapped and leaking steadily between your stomach and the mattress with every forward push. Your hands fisted in the pillows, knuckles white, as you pushed your hips back to meet him, chasing that perfect depth. The heat of him inside you was overwhelming, the friction just right, building that slow, molten coil of need low in your belly.
The two of you were mostly silent in the moment, lost in the raw intimacy of it—no words needed when your bodies spoke so clearly. But the sounds of lovemaking filled the space between you: your soft, helpless moans, Nate's low, rumbling groans each time he bottomed out, the wet, filthy glide of his dick moving inside you, the quiet hitch of his breath against your neck. Sweat-slick skin slid together, your bodies moving in perfect sync, the air thick with the scent of sex and warm skin and the faint trace of the lotion he'd used earlier. His chest pressed flush to your back, heavy and grounding, the rapid beat of his heart thudding against your spine as he kept his mouth on yours—deep, lingering kisses that swallowed every sound you made, tongues sliding slow and messy, tasting each other, breathing each other in.
Nate's hand slid from your hip up along your side, fingers splaying wide over your ribs before drifting higher to cup your jaw, holding you steady for those long, unhurried kisses. His other hand stayed planted beside your head, fingers tangled loosely in your hair, thumb stroking gently at your temple in a tender counterpoint to the deep, relentless way he was fucking you. Every thrust was measured, unhurried, like he wanted to draw this out forever—pulling almost all the way out until just the flared head stretched your rim, then sliding back in with one smooth, devastating roll of his hips that made your breath catch and your moan spill helplessly into his mouth.
You could feel him everywhere—inside you, around you, the weight of his body pinning you deliciously to the bed, the way his thighs bracketed yours, the faint tremble in his arms as he held himself above you. Pleasure built steadily, coiling tighter with every deep stroke, your dick throbbing untouched beneath you, leaking onto the sheets with each forward thrust. Nate kissed you through it all, slow and deep and loving, like he was trying to pour every unsaid apology and every ounce of devotion into the way his lips moved against yours, into the steady, perfect rhythm of his body claiming yours.
Time seemed to stretch and slow, the two of you lost in the quiet, intense rhythm of making love—deep thrusts, soft moans, and endless, breathless kisses that said everything words couldn't.
Nate's lips left yours with a wet, lingering sound, only to trail hot and open-mouthed down the line of your jaw. His stubble scraped deliciously against your flushed skin as he found the sensitive stretch of your neck, right where your pulse hammered wildly beneath the surface. He kissed there first — soft, almost reverent — before his mouth opened wider, sucking hard enough to pull the blood straight to the surface.
A low, broken moan tore from your throat as he worked the spot with deliberate hunger. His teeth grazed, then bit down gently, just enough to sting in the most perfect way, before his tongue soothed the mark he was leaving behind. He sucked again, harder this time, drawing the skin between his lips and creating a deep, blooming hickey that you knew would darken by morning. He didn't stop at one. He moved lower, finding a fresh stretch of skin just above your collarbone, and repeated the process — sucking, biting, licking — until another vivid mark bloomed under his mouth. Then another, lower still, each one a deliberate claim, each one pulling another soft, helpless sound from you.
Your hands slid up his back, nails digging into the sweat-slick muscle of his shoulders as he continued marking you, his hips still rocking in those slow, deep thrusts that kept you full and aching. Every pull of his mouth sent sparks straight down your spine, straight to where his thick cock stretched you open.
Then, without warning, Nate slipped out.
The sudden emptiness made you clench hard around nothing, a needy whine escaping you as the blunt head of his cock dragged free of your hole with a wet, obscene sound. Cool air kissed the slick, stretched rim, and your body immediately missed the heavy, throbbing fullness of him. Nate sat back on his heels between your spread thighs, chest heaving, lips shiny and reddened from everything he'd done to your neck. His cock stood hard and glistening against his stomach, flushed dark and leaking steadily, but he didn't push back inside.
He was giving you a chance to breathe.
His hands stayed on your thighs, thumbs stroking soothing circles over the muscle there while he looked down at you, eyes dark and heavy with want. His own breathing was ragged, hair damp and messy, a light sheen of sweat glistening across his chest and shoulders. The hickies he'd left on your neck throbbed warmly in time with your pulse, already turning a deep, possessive red.
You didn't want to breathe.
Even though your chest was heaving and your legs felt shaky, you sat up anyway — slow but determined, the sheets pooling around your hips. Your hands found his shoulders, then slid up to cup the back of his neck, pulling him closer. Your cock was still hard, flushed and leaking against your stomach, and the way you looked at him made it very clear you weren't done.
Nate's eyes widened slightly, a low, surprised sound rumbling in his chest as you tugged him forward.
"You sure?" he asked, voice rough and wrecked, even as his hands were already sliding back to grip your waist.
You answered by leaning in and kissing him hard, tongue sliding against his, tasting yourself on his lips from earlier. Your legs wrapped back around him, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him in until the head of his cock nudged insistently against your slick, open hole again.
Nate groaned into your mouth, the sound deep and desperate.
"Fuck... yeah, okay," he breathed against your lips, already shifting his hips forward, ready to slide back inside you the second you gave him the word. "I've got you. I've got you, baby."
His hands tightened on your waist, holding you steady as he waited for you to take what you wanted — because even now, even when you were clearly ready to keep going, Nate was still letting you lead.
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 was quiet except for the soft rhythm of your breathing and the distant hush of the lake outside the cabin window.
By the time everything settled, you were spent in the deepest way possible. Not just physically tired, but emotionally wrung out, like every argument, every fear, every swallowed tear had finally loosened from your chest and left you hollowed out in the best possible sense. Your limbs felt heavy, boneless, sunk deep into the mattress as if gravity had doubled.
You lay on your back against the pillows, bare skin warm and slightly damp beneath the rumpled white sheets that had been pushed down around your waist. Your chest rose and fell in slow, exhausted waves. A faint tremor still lingered in your thighs and shoulders — the aftershocks of everything he'd drawn out of you. Your eyes were half-lidded, lashes heavy, your mouth slightly parted as you tried to steady your breathing. Even that small effort felt like too much. Every muscle was loose and used in the most overwhelming, satisfying way, your body humming with the memory of his hands, his mouth, his cock, and the way he had held you through all of it.
Nate hovered over you for a moment, one hand braced beside your head on the pillow, the other smoothing gently along your side — from the curve of your ribs down to your hip and back again. His face had shifted completely from the heated, focused intensity of minutes earlier into something much softer, almost reverent. His dark eyes searched yours carefully, checking you the way he always did afterward — not with arrogance or smug satisfaction, but with quiet, protective concern.
"You with me?" he murmured, voice low and rough from everything he'd given you.
You blinked slowly at him, lashes feeling impossibly heavy. "Barely."
A small, gentle smile touched his mouth, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Too much?"
You shook your head, though even that small movement was lazy and slow. "No," you whispered, the word barely more than breath. "Just... tired. Really tired."
His expression softened even further, something tender and aching flickering across his features.
"Okay," he said simply. "I got you."
And then he proved it.
Nate didn't rush away. He didn't roll off you and recover somewhere else. He stayed right there, close enough that his warmth blanketed you, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead first, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. Each one was unhurried and careful, like he was bringing you back to yourself piece by careful piece — grounding you, reminding you that you weren't alone in the aftermath.
He reached for the water bottle on the nightstand without fully pulling away, keeping one hand on your stomach, thumb stroking idle circles over your skin. He unscrewed the cap with his teeth, then slid his other hand behind your neck, lifting you just enough to make it easier.
"Drink," he said softly, holding the bottle to your lips.
You made a faint sound of protest — too tired to be dramatic about it — but he only gave you that look, the one that said he wasn't asking twice.
"Baby," he warned gently, voice warm.
You sighed and let him tilt the bottle. The water was cool and soothing against your dry throat as you took a few slow, grateful sips. Nate watched carefully, thumb still stroking the back of your neck until you'd had enough. When you were done, he set the bottle aside and brushed a stray drop from the corner of your mouth with his thumb.
"There," he murmured, voice full of quiet pride. "Good."
"You're bossy," you mumbled, the words slurred with exhaustion.
His mouth twitched into a small smile. "You love it."
"Debatable."
"Liar."
You would've rolled your eyes if you'd had the energy left for it.
Nate disappeared from the bed only long enough to grab a warm, damp washcloth from the bathroom. The moment he stepped away, your body missed the solid heat of him — even though you were too spent to say it out loud. When he came back, he moved quietly, mindful of the old floorboards and the sleeping people elsewhere in the cabin. The cloth was pleasantly warm against your skin as he cleaned you up with careful, attentive hands. No teasing now. No smug commentary. Just quiet, thorough gentleness. He wiped the mess from your stomach, your thighs, between your legs — slow and respectful where you were still sensitive, pausing whenever your breath hitched. His fingers brushed your hip, your inner thigh, the crease where your leg met your body, each touch grounding instead of demanding.
"You okay?" he asked again, voice barely above a whisper.
You hummed softly, eyes already drifting shut. "Mhm."
"Words, baby."
You cracked one eye open at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. "Yes, Nate. I'm okay."
His shoulders eased visibly at that, some of the tension finally leaving his frame.
Once he was satisfied you were clean and comfortable, he tossed the cloth into the hamper and came back to bed. He pulled the sheets up around both of you, tucking them gently over your shoulders. The room was dim and intimate now, the only light coming from the small bedside lamp and the faint silver moonlight spilling through the gap in the curtains. The air smelled faintly of soap, warm skin, and the clean cedar scent of the cabin walls.
Nate slid in behind you and gathered you into his arms without hesitation.
Your back fit against his chest like it had been made for this exact moment.
His arm wrapped around your waist, palm spreading wide and warm over your stomach, holding you close in the gentlest, most possessive way. His other arm tucked under your head, giving you a solid place to rest. He pulled you in until there was no space left between you, his legs tangling with yours beneath the sheets, one thigh sliding between yours for good measure.
You melted into him immediately.
There was no pride left in you. No sharp comment waiting behind your teeth. No need to pretend you were less tired, less shaken, or less desperate for comfort than you truly were.
You just let him hold you.
Nate pressed his mouth to the back of your shoulder, lingering there for a long moment, lips warm against your skin.
"I'm sorry about today," he whispered, the words brushing right against your ear.
Your eyes closed.
The apology sank into the quiet between you — not heavy this time, not reopening the wound, just resting there honestly.
"I know," you murmured.
His hand moved slowly over your stomach, then up to your chest, settling over your heartbeat like he needed the steady proof that you were really there with him.
"I hate that you were hurting and I made it worse."
You swallowed, your throat tightening slightly. "You didn't mean to."
"That doesn't make it okay."
"No," you admitted softly. "But it matters."
He went quiet for a moment, his breath warm and steady against the back of your neck. Then he kissed you there, barely a brush of lips.
"I'm proud of you," he said.
Your brow furrowed faintly. "For what?"
"For choosing us and still telling me the truth." His voice was low, rough around the edges with emotion. "For not letting me turn your life into something it isn't. For fighting for yourself, even when you were exhausted."
The words hit somewhere tender and raw.
Your fingers found his hand over your stomach and curled around it, holding on.
"I don't feel very strong right now," you whispered.
Nate held you tighter, his arm a solid band around your middle. "You don't have to."
That almost undid you again, but this time the tears didn't come. You were too tired. Too warm. Too wrapped up in him.
Instead, you turned slightly in his arms, just enough to face him. It took effort, and he helped you, shifting carefully so you could tuck yourself against his chest. Your face pressed into the hollow beneath his jaw, your arm draping over his waist, leg sliding between his.
Nate immediately adjusted around you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers sliding gently into your hair. His other hand rubbed slow, firm circles along your lower back, easing tension you hadn't even realized you were still carrying.
"That feels good," you mumbled against his skin.
"Yeah?"
"Mhm."
He kept doing it — pressure steady and careful, working along your spine, your shoulders, the base of your neck. It wasn't a full massage anymore — not like he'd promised earlier — but something softer. Something meant to soothe rather than fix.
Your body grew heavier against him with every pass of his hand.
"You're gonna fall asleep on me," he murmured, lips brushing your hair.
"You're comfortable."
"I know."
You huffed weakly against his chest. "Still arrogant."
"Still yours."
That made your eyes open slightly.
You lifted your head just enough to look at him. In the soft lamplight, Nate looked younger somehow. Not less grown, but less armored. His hair was messy from your hands earlier, his eyes tired but soft, his mouth relaxed in a way it rarely was during the day. He looked like the man beneath the athlete, beneath the father, beneath all the expectations pressing in from every side.
He looked like yours.
"You really mean it?" you asked quietly.
His brows drew together. "Mean what?"
"Baby or no baby," you said. "Team or no team. All of it."
Nate's gaze softened with immediate understanding. He reached up, thumb brushing gently along your cheek.
"I mean it," he said. "I want a future with you. Not a version of you that gives up everything to make my future easier. You."
Your chest ached, but this time it was not only from hurt.
You nodded slowly and let your head fall back onto his chest.
"Okay," you whispered.
Nate kissed your hair. "Okay."
The silence returned, but now it felt safe.
Outside, the lake shifted under the night wind, a soft, rhythmic hush against the dock. Somewhere in the cabin, an old floorboard creaked once. Down the hall, Luca slept unaware, tucked into his own little world. Cassie, Marsha, everyone else — distant, quiet, separate from this room.
Here, it was just you and Nate.
His heartbeat beneath your ear.
His arms around you.
The warmth of his body holding yours together when your own strength had finally run out.
Your breathing slowed. Your fingers loosened against his side. Sleep began pulling at you from the edges, thick and irresistible.
Nate felt you slipping and lowered his voice to a whisper.
"I got you," he said again, the words brushing warm against your temple.
You barely managed to answer.
"You better."
His chest moved with a silent laugh, and his arms tightened around you one last time.
"I do, baby," he murmured into your hair. "Always."
And this time, when sleep finally found you, it didn't feel like surrender.
➤ 𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙔, As Cassie is forced to confront a painful reality and continues to marinate in her jealousy — beneath the surface of vacation photos and domestic sweetness, cracks begin to show. Nate’s growing desire for a bigger future—one with a house, more permanence, and possibly another child—collides with Y/N’s fear of losing himself.
➤ 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂, ANGST. ADULT LANGUAGE.
➤ 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝘿𝙎, 𝟏𝟑.𝟔𝐤
➤ 𝘼𝙐𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙍’𝙎 𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙀, here we are with a long awaited chapter for this series with some good ole ANGST! I know some people have been waiting sometime for this and I’m here to deliver. Now this was supposed to be 24k words but the 1000 block limit prevented that, so i’ll post part 2 of the rest of the chapter — Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers out there! ❤️💐
𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐘 touched Cassie that night.
She lay in bed long after the lake house had gone silent, her body turned carefully toward Luca so she could pretend she was simply watching over him while he slept. But her mind was nowhere near calm. It kept dragging her back to the balcony, back to the dim living room below, back to the sight of you straddling Nate on that couch like you belonged there, like you had every right to take up space in his lap, his hands, his mouth, his life.
She hated that the image had burned itself so clearly into her head.
The soft glow of the lamp. Nate's hands gripping your waist. Your head tipping back when his lips moved to your neck. The way he had looked at you—not like someone passing time, not like someone playing at desire, but like someone starved for something he already knew was his. There had been no hesitation in him, no awkwardness, no uncertainty. Just ease. Familiarity. Hunger wrapped up in devotion.
Cassie squeezed her eyes shut, but the picture stayed.
Denying she was jealous would have been a lie.
She could dress it up however she wanted. She could tell herself she was protective of Luca, that she only cared because she didn't want her son confused, that she was still adjusting to Nate's new life and all the people in it. But underneath all those excuses was the uglier truth she didn't want to hold too long:
She was jealous.
Not because she had some clear plan to get Nate back. Not because she even fully understood what she wanted from him anymore. But because there was something deeply humiliating about watching someone else receive the version of Nate she had never gotten. The softened version. The devoted version. The version who carried you over his shoulder with a playful smack and disappeared into a shared bedroom because he trusted that you would laugh, scold him, and still want him right back.
Cassie had known possessive Nate.
Controlling Nate.
Broken Nate.
But you had the healed one—or at least the one still healing, the one who had learned how to love without making it feel like a cage.
And that stung worse than she wanted to admit.
Eventually, the sky outside the window softened from black to gray-blue, then to pale gold. Morning crept over the lake house slowly, spilling sunlight through the curtains in thin, warm lines that stretched across the floor and climbed the edge of the bed.
Cassie was finally somewhere between sleep and exhaustion when Luca began to stir beside her.
He blinked awake quietly, his small face scrunching as sunlight touched his eyes. For a few seconds, he lay still, disoriented in the unfamiliar room, his hair flattened on one side and sticking up on the other. Then he remembered where he was.
The lake house.
Vacation.
Dad.
Grandma Marsha.
Y/N.
He turned his head toward his mother. Cassie was asleep—or trying to be—one arm tucked under her pillow, her face turned away from the light. Luca studied her for a moment, then heard something from downstairs.
Movement.
A cabinet closing softly. The low clink of a pan. The faint sizzle of something cooking.
His curiosity woke up faster than the rest of him.
Carefully, he pushed the blanket off, slipping out of bed with the quiet seriousness of a child trying very hard not to wake anyone. His feet touched the floor, and he paused, listening again. Another sound came from below—something being stirred, then the gentle scrape of a spatula against a pan.
Luca padded across the room, opened the door as quietly as he could, and stepped into the hallway.
The lake house was peaceful in the morning. Different from last night. Softer. Sunlight poured in through the tall windows downstairs, washing the wooden floors in gold. The air smelled like coffee, butter, and something sweet—maybe pancakes, maybe French toast, maybe the kind of breakfast that only happened when grown-ups were in a good mood and not rushing anywhere.
Luca followed the smell.
He came down the stairs slowly, one hand sliding along the railing, his pajama shirt slightly twisted and his eyes still heavy with sleep. When he reached the bottom, he peered into the living room first. Empty. The couch looked normal again, pillows fixed, blanket folded over the arm like nothing had happened there hours earlier.
Then he turned toward the kitchen.
You were there.
Barefoot, comfortable, and already fully in your morning rhythm, you stood at the stove with a spatula in one hand, moving between pans like you had claimed the kitchen before anyone else could wake up and argue. A loose shirt hung off your frame, sleeves pushed up, and your hair was still a little messy from sleep. The counter beside you was organized chaos—eggs whisked in a bowl, fruit half-cut on a board, toast stacked on a plate, pancake batter waiting nearby, coffee brewing in the background.
You were humming quietly to yourself, too focused on breakfast to notice the small figure approaching.
Luca crossed the kitchen without saying a word.
Then he leaned against your side and rested his head there.
You jumped.
The spatula lifted like a weapon for half a second before you looked down and realized it was only Luca pressed sleepily against you, his cheek resting against your shirt like this was the most natural place in the world for him to land.
"Jesus—" you breathed, then caught yourself. "Luca."
He looked up at you with sleepy eyes, completely unbothered by the fact that he'd nearly scared the soul out of your body.
"Morning," he mumbled.
Your heart softened before you could stop it.
You lowered the spatula and relaxed, one hand coming down gently to touch the top of his messy hair. "Good morning, little man," you said, your voice warming instantly. "You scared me half to death."
He blinked. "Sorry."
"No, you're not.
A tiny smile pulled at his mouth. "No."
You laughed under your breath and turned back to the stove, careful not to jostle him too much while he stayed tucked against your side. "Breakfast will be ready in about fifteen minutes," you told him. "Maybe twenty if these pancakes decide to act difficult."
Luca lifted his head slightly, looking at the stove with interest. "What are you making?"
"Eggs, pancakes, bacon, fruit, toast," you listed. Then you glanced down at him. "And coffee, but not for you, because I like peace."
He wrinkled his nose. "Coffee is gross."
"Correct," you said. "But adults drink it because life is hard."
Luca considered that with all the seriousness of a six-year-old absorbing adult wisdom. Then his eyes shifted to the bowl on the counter.
"Can I help?"
The question made you pause.
There was something so simple about it. So easy. He wasn't asking permission to be included in a huge life-changing way. He just wanted a task. A place in the morning.
You looked around the kitchen, mentally sorting through what was safe for him to do and what would end with batter on the ceiling. Then you nodded.
"Actually, yes," you said. "I have a very important job for you."
Luca straightened immediately. "What?"
You pointed the spatula toward the stairs like you were giving him a royal mission. "You are in charge of waking everybody up and telling them breakfast is almost ready."
His face lit up. "Everybody?"
"Everybody," you confirmed. "Grandma Marsha, your mom, Nate, everybody. But—" You narrowed your eyes before he could take off. "There's one condition."
He froze. "What?"
You leaned down slightly, your expression serious. "Brush your teeth first."
Luca's face fell. "But—"
"Nope," you said immediately, turning back to the pan. "No morning dragon breath announcements. We are a civilized vacation household."
He groaned dramatically, head tipping back. "But I just woke up."
"And your breath woke up with you," you replied smoothly. "Go brush your teeth, then you can be the official breakfast messenger."
He stared at you for a second, debating whether this was worth arguing. Then, apparently deciding the title sounded important enough, he nodded.
"Okay," he said.
"Good choice."
He started toward the stairs, then paused and turned back. "Can I tell Dad first?"
You smiled softly at that, something warm settling in your chest.
"Yeah," you said. "You can tell your dad first."
Luca grinned, then hurried up the stairs with far more energy than he'd had coming down, his little footsteps thumping against the wood.
You watched him go for a moment, spatula still in hand, breakfast sizzling behind you.
𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐀 𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐊 his mission seriously.
After dragging himself back upstairs, he went straight to the bathroom, climbed onto the little stool Marsha had placed by the sink for him, and brushed his teeth with the dramatic effort of someone who had been given an official job and was determined to qualify for it. He scrubbed fast, cheeks puffed, toothpaste foam gathering at the corner of his mouth while he watched himself in the mirror with sleepy determination.
No morning dragon breath announcements.
Y/N's words echoed in his head, and Luca made a face at his reflection before spitting into the sink and rinsing his mouth. He wiped his face with the hand towel, fixed his pajama shirt where it had twisted around his waist, and then stepped back into the hallway with fresh breath and purpose.
He was the official breakfast messenger now.
And there was only one person he wanted to wake first.
His dad.
The hallway was quiet, the lake house still wrapped in the soft hush of early morning. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows at the end of the hall, painting warm rectangles across the wooden floor. Somewhere downstairs, he could still hear the faint sounds of Y/N cooking—the soft clink of dishes, the sizzle of bacon, the occasional cabinet closing.
Luca tiptoed past the room where his mom was still sleeping, then past Marsha and her husband's room, moving carefully until he reached the bedroom you and Nate were sharing.
The door wasn't fully closed.
It was cracked just enough for a thin line of morning light to slip through.
Luca paused outside of it for a second, one hand on the doorframe, suddenly aware that he was about to enter his dad's room. It was still a new thought, still strange and exciting at the same time. Dad. Not just Nate from pictures. Not just the football player on TV. Not just the man adults talked about in careful voices.
His dad.
He pushed the door open gently.
The room was dimmer than the hallway, the curtains pulled mostly shut, sunlight leaking around the edges in pale strips. The bed was a mess of blankets and pillows, looking like two grown men had gone to war with sleep and sleep had won. One pillow had fallen halfway to the floor. A shirt was tossed over the chair in the corner. Someone's socks were near the suitcase.
And in the middle of it all was Nate.
Completely knocked out.
He was sprawled on his back across the bed, shirtless, one arm thrown above his head, the other resting loosely across his stomach. The blanket had slipped down around his waist, exposing the broad rise and fall of his chest, the heavy muscle of his shoulders, and the faint marks of sleep pressed into his skin. His hair was messy, curls flattened on one side, and his mouth was slightly parted as he breathed deeply, completely unaware of the tiny intruder standing in the doorway.
Luca stared at him.
For a moment, he just took in the sight with quiet fascination.
Nate looked different like this. Not like the man on the football field. Not sharp or loud or larger than life. Just big and asleep and kind of ridiculous.
Luca stepped closer, careful and silent. He stopped beside the bed and looked at Nate's face.
"Dad?" he whispered.
Nothing.
Nate didn't move.
Luca leaned in a little closer. "Dad."
Still nothing.
He glanced over at the empty side of the bed where Y/N clearly had been earlier, then back at Nate. Maybe grown-ups slept harder than kids. Or maybe football players were impossible to wake up because they got tackled too much.
Luca reached out with one small hand and gently patted Nate's shoulder.
"Dad," he said again, a little louder. "Breakfast is almost ready."
Nate's only response was a slow breath and the smallest twitch of his fingers against his stomach.
Luca frowned.
He tried again, this time placing both hands on Nate's shoulder and giving him a careful shake.
"Dad. Wake up."
Nothing.
Not even a groan.
Luca's frown deepened into serious concentration. He stepped back and looked at the sleeping man like he was studying a problem that required strategy. Y/N had given him an important job. He had brushed his teeth. He had come here first. And Nate was not cooperating.
The gentle approach had failed
So Luca decided to improvise.
He climbed onto the bed with the determination of a tiny mountain climber, knees sinking into the mattress as he crawled carefully over the rumpled blankets. Nate still didn't stir. Luca stood on his knees beside him, bracing one hand on the mattress, then looked down at Nate's chest.
It rose and fell steadily.
Perfect target.
Luca lifted himself up, gathered all the courage and morning energy his little body had, and launched himself forward.
He landed directly on Nate's chest.
"Oof—"
Nate woke with a deep, startled groan, his body jolting under the sudden impact. His eyes flew open halfway, confused and bleary, one arm automatically coming around Luca before his brain had even caught up to what was happening.
"What the—" Nate rasped, voice thick with sleep, blinking down at the child sprawled across him. His brows pulled together, then his face shifted from alarm to recognition. "Luca?"
Luca propped his chin on Nate's chest, completely pleased with himself.
"Breakfast," he announced.
Nate stared at him for a long second, still half asleep, hair a mess, chest rising under Luca's weight as he tried to process reality.
Then he let his head fall back into the pillow with another groan.
"You jumped on me," he muttered.
"You wouldn't wake up."
"So your solution was attempted murder?"
Luca grinned. "Y/N said breakfast is ready soon."
Nate cracked one eye open, his arm still wrapped protectively around Luca's back despite the dramatic complaint. "Y/N sent you to jump on me?"
"No," Luca said honestly. "He said brush my teeth first."
That made Nate huff a rough, sleepy laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath Luca's cheek.
"Of course he did," Nate murmured.
Luca shifted slightly, still lying on him like Nate was a couch. "He said I'm the breakfast messenger."
"Official title?"
"Yeah."
Nate's mouth twitched, a smile breaking through the exhaustion. He looked down at Luca—this small, warm weight on his chest, eyes bright with morning pride—and something in him softened so quickly it almost hurt.
Months ago, he hadn't known this boy existed.
Now Luca was in his room at a lake house, waking him up by body-slamming his ribs because breakfast was almost ready.
Life was insane.
Life was terrifying.
Life was weirdly perfect in ways Nate had never earned but somehow kept receiving.
He lifted his free hand and gently ruffled Luca's hair, making the boy scrunch his face in protest.
"All right, breakfast messenger," Nate said, voice still rough. "I'm up."
"You don't look up."
"I'm emotionally up."
Luca narrowed his eyes. "That doesn't count."
Nate groaned again, but this time it was amused. "You sound like Y/N."
"Good," Luca said immediately.
Nate laughed for real at that, low and warm, then tightened his arm just enough to hug Luca against him for half a second before carefully shifting to sit up.
"Okay," he said, rubbing one hand over his face. "Give me five minutes."
Luca slid off him and bounced onto the mattress beside him. "Y/N said fifteen."
"Then I've got ten to spare."
"No, because I have to wake everyone else too."
Nate looked at him, brows raised. "You're taking this very seriously."
"I brushed my teeth," Luca said, like that explained everything.
Nate nodded solemnly, fighting a smile. "Then go do your job."
Luca climbed off the bed and hurried toward the door, then paused in the doorway to look back at him.
"Dad?"
Nate's eyes lifted immediately. "Yeah?"
Luca smiled, small and sleepy and proud. "You're hard to wake up."
Nate leaned back on his hands, still shirtless, still tangled in the wreckage of sleep, and gave him a lazy look.
"Yeah?" he said. "Next time, use a pillow."
Luca grinned wider.
"No."
Then he disappeared into the hallway, little footsteps racing toward the next room.
Nate sat there alone for a moment, staring after him, the faint sounds of breakfast drifting up from downstairs.
And despite the soreness in his chest from being used as a landing pad, he smiled.
𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐄𝐃 down the hallway with renewed confidence. His pajama shirt was still slightly twisted, his hair was still a mess from sleep, but his teeth were brushed, his mission was clear, and in his mind, that made him official.
His next stop had been Grandma Marsha's room.
He had knocked softly at first, then a little louder when no one answered. Marsha's husband had been the one to stir first, groaning something unintelligible from beneath the covers before Marsha blinked herself awake and smiled the second she saw Luca standing in the doorway.
"Breakfast is almost ready," Luca had announced proudly, hands at his sides like he was delivering royal news. "Y/N said fifteen minutes, but now it's probably less."
Marsha had laughed, her voice still thick with sleep, and promised they would be down soon. She had even asked if he was the one in charge of waking everyone, and Luca had straightened with visible pride.
"I'm the breakfast messenger," he told her.
"Well," Marsha had replied warmly, sitting up and reaching for her robe, "then you're doing an excellent job."
That praise fueled him all the way back into the hallway.
Now, with Nate awake, Grandma Marsha awake, and Marsha's husband technically awake—though Luca wasn't entirely convinced he hadn't just rolled over and gone back to sleep—there was only one stop left.
His and his mom's room.
Luca slowed when he reached the door.
Unlike with Nate, he didn't barge in with chaos. He didn't jump. He didn't shout. His whole energy changed the moment he pushed the door open and saw Cassie still asleep on the bed, curled on her side beneath the blanket, blonde hair messy against the pillow.
The room was soft with morning light. Pale gold filtered through the curtains and stretched across the floor, touching the edge of the bed and the bag Cassie had left half-open by the dresser. Her phone sat face down on the nightstand, abandoned after whatever she had been doing the night before. The air smelled faintly like her perfume, lotion, and the clean cotton scent of the sheets.
Luca stepped inside quietly, careful not to stomp.
For all his excitement, this was his mom.
He approached the bed with a gentleness he hadn't offered anyone else that morning. Climbing onto the mattress slowly, he crawled toward her on his knees, then lowered himself beside her until his face was close to hers.
"Mom," he whispered.
Cassie didn't wake right away.
Her lashes fluttered slightly, but she stayed mostly still, breathing slow and deep, one hand tucked under the pillow.
Luca studied her for a second, then reached out with his small hand and touched her cheek. His fingers were careful, warm, and clumsy in the sweetest way. He brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face, just like she had done for him a million times.
"Mommy," he said, a little softer.
That did it.
Cassie stirred, brows knitting faintly before her eyes blinked open. For a moment, she looked disoriented—caught between sleep and waking, between whatever dream she had been in and the reality of the lake house morning.
Then she saw Luca.
Her face softened instantly.
No matter how tired she was, no matter how tangled her emotions had been the night before, that look came naturally. The guardedness fell away. The jealousy, the uncertainty, the complicated ache she had carried to bed—it all moved aside for the little boy kneeling beside her with fresh toothpaste breath and messy hair.
"Hi, baby," she murmured, voice raspy from sleep.
Luca smiled. "Hi."
Cassie reached for him immediately, pulling him down into a sleepy hug. He went willingly, folding into her arms and tucking his face against her shoulder. She kissed the top of his head, lingering there for a second longer than necessary, breathing him in.
"You're up early," she said, her hand rubbing slow circles along his back. "Did you sleep okay?"
"Yeah," Luca answered, muffled against her. "But Y/N is making breakfast."
Cassie's hand paused for the smallest fraction of a second at your name, but Luca didn't notice. He was too busy lifting his head, eyes bright with the importance of his announcement.
"And I'm the breakfast messenger," he added proudly.
Cassie blinked herself more awake, the corner of her mouth lifting despite everything. "The breakfast messenger?"
"Yeah," Luca said seriously. "Y/N gave me a job."
"Did he?" she asked, brushing her thumb over his cheek.
Luca nodded hard. "I had to wake everybody up and tell them breakfast is almost ready. But I had to brush my teeth first because he said no morning dragon breath announcements."
Cassie let out a sleepy laugh before she could stop herself.
It was soft, genuine, and warm—the kind of laugh that belonged only to moments like this, when Luca said something so innocent and earnest that it cracked through every complicated feeling inside her.
"Morning dragon breath?" she repeated.
Luca nodded again. "He said we're a civilized vacation house."
Cassie smiled, even as something in her chest tugged at the ease with which Luca repeated your words. "That sounds like him."
"I woke Dad first," Luca continued, shifting excitedly beside her. "He was really hard to wake up."
Cassie's brows lifted faintly. "Oh?"
"I said 'Dad' and he didn't move," Luca explained, gesturing with both hands now. "Then I shook him and he still didn't move. So I jumped on him."
Cassie's eyes widened, and then she laughed again, more awake now. "Luca."
"He woke up," Luca said defensively, as if the results justified the method.
"I'm sure he did," Cassie said, trying and failing to sound scolding. "You can't just jump on people."
"He said next time use a pillow."
"That sounds like something Nate would say," she muttered, still smiling.
Luca beamed, clearly delighted by the memory. "Then I woke Grandma and Grandpa."
Cassie's expression shifted with quiet surprise. "Grandpa?"
"That's what Grandma said," Luca replied with a shrug, as if titles were being assigned and he was simply reporting them. "He was sleepy too."
Cassie sat with that for a second, her hand still resting lightly on Luca's back.
Grandma. Grandpa. Dad.
The words sounded so easy coming from him. So natural. As if the world had simply expanded around him and he had accepted the new names without hesitation.
It made her heart ache.
But then Luca leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing classified information.
"And according to my internal clock," he said, with the seriousness of someone repeating a phrase he half understood but fully believed sounded impressive, "we have about five minutes left."
Cassie stared at him.
"Your internal clock?" she asked.
Luca nodded solemnly. "Yeah. Because Y/N said fifteen minutes before, and I woke everybody up, and Dad took forever, so now it's probably five."
Cassie bit back another laugh, her chest warming despite herself. "That is very advanced math for breakfast."
"I know," Luca said.
She shook her head, smiling as she pushed herself upright against the pillows. Her hair fell around her shoulders in a tangled wave, and she reached for the robe at the foot of the bed while Luca climbed off the mattress and stood beside her, waiting like a tiny supervisor.
"So," she said, slipping her arms into the robe, "what happens if we're late?"
Luca's face grew serious.
"Then the pancakes might be difficult."
Cassie paused, looking down at him. "The pancakes?"
"That's what Y/N said."
Of course it was.
For a moment, Cassie's smile faltered—not enough for Luca to notice, but enough for the thought to pass through her: even in this small morning moment, you were everywhere. In Luca's words. In the rhythm of the house. In the smell of breakfast downstairs. In the way her son looked excited to run back to the kitchen because you had given him a role and made him feel important.
But Luca's hand slipped into hers before that feeling could harden.
"Come on, Mom," he said, tugging gently. "We have to go eat."
Cassie looked down at their joined hands, and the jealousy softened into something quieter.
Because Luca was happy.
Sleepy, excited, proud of himself, and happy.
So Cassie squeezed his hand and stood.
"All right, breakfast messenger," she said softly. "Lead the way."
Luca grinned and pulled her toward the door, his little feet quick against the floorboards as he guided her back into the hallway. Downstairs, the smell of breakfast had grown stronger—butter, bacon, coffee, something sweet and warm filling the lake house like an invitation.
And for a few brief moments, as Cassie followed her son toward the sound of your voice and the clatter of breakfast being finished, she let herself focus on that instead of everything else.
Not the jealousy.
Not the fear.
Not the complicated shape of the family forming around them.
Just Luca's hand in hers.
And the morning waiting downstairs.
The lake house was fully awake now, sunlight spilling in through the wide windows and stretching across the wooden floors in warm gold. The smell hit them first—butter, bacon, toasted bread, coffee, and something sweet rising from the stack of pancakes already waiting on the counter.
You were in the kitchen, moving with calm focus as you finished setting everything out like a small buffet line. A tall stack of pancakes sat on a wide plate, golden and soft around the edges, with steam still faintly curling from the top. Beside them was a bowl of scrambled eggs, fluffy and bright, a platter of crisp bacon, a dish of cut fruit, and toast stacked neatly in a basket lined with a cloth napkin. Plates, forks, knives, napkins, syrup, butter, jam, and glasses were already arranged on the dining table like you had been up long enough to turn the whole morning into a production.
Luca's eyes widened.
"Whoa," he breathed.
You looked over your shoulder and smiled at him. "Good morning again, breakfast messenger."
"I woke everybody up," he announced proudly.
"I heard," you said, giving him an amused look. "Very professional. Slightly violent in your dad's case, but professional."
From the dining room, Nate groaned. He was already sitting at the table, hair still damp from a quick rinse and a plain T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. "He tackled me awake."
Luca rushed toward his seat, completely unapologetic. "You wouldn't wake up."
"You jumped on my ribs."
"You said use a pillow next time."
"I said that while recovering from an attack."
Luca grinned and climbed into the chair beside him, clearly pleased that his first mission of the day had become part of the family conversation. Cassie followed, taking the seat on Luca's other side, her gaze moving over the spread of food before flicking to you. There was something unreadable in her expression—surprise, maybe, or discomfort at how naturally you seemed to occupy the morning.
Marsha was already seated with a mug of coffee, looking delighted as she watched Luca settle next to Nate. Her husband sat beside her, quietly buttering a piece of toast before anyone had officially started eating, because apparently vacation rules meant nothing to him.
The last thing you carried over was a cold pitcher of orange juice, condensation beading on the glass. You set it in the center of the table and took a breath, finally letting yourself pause.
"Okay," you said, glancing around the table. "Before anybody says anything, no, I do not normally do the full hotel-breakfast experience."
Nate smirked up at you. "You cook dinner more."
"Exactly," you said, pointing at him. "Dinner is my lane. Breakfast is usually cereal, fruit, or whatever doesn't require me to be emotionally available before coffee."
Marsha laughed softly.
You glanced toward Luca, your expression softening. "But it's his first family vacation," you added, nodding toward him. "So I figured we could start the day right."
Luca looked up at you, eyes bright. "This is for me?"
You shrugged, trying to play it casual even though the warmth in your chest gave you away. "Partly. Don't get too special, though. Everybody else is eating too."
Nate watched you from his seat, quiet for a second, his face soft in that way it got whenever he caught you caring more than you admitted. Then he reached for the serving spoon and started putting eggs on Luca's plate.
The table settled into the peaceful rhythm of breakfast. Plates were passed. Syrup was poured. Bacon disappeared faster than expected. Luca tried to stack his pancakes too high, and Nate had to steady them with his fork before the whole thing collapsed. Marsha fussed over whether everyone had enough fruit, while her husband muttered that fruit was "decorative" and reached for another piece of bacon.
For a little while, everyone ate mostly in silence.
Not awkward silence, exactly. More like the kind that comes when people are hungry and the food is good enough to make conversation pause naturally. Forks scraped softly against plates. Glasses clinked. The morning outside was quiet except for the distant call of birds and the faint rush of wind moving over the lake.
Then Luca, mouth half-full before Cassie gave him a look that made him swallow quickly, asked, "What are we doing today?"
Marsha's whole face lit up.
"Oh," she said, setting down her coffee cup with purpose. "Today is the official start of the vacation tradition."
Nate immediately groaned.
It was quiet, but dramatic enough that everyone heard it.
You looked at him. "That sounded traumatized."
"It is," Nate muttered, reaching for his orange juice. "Deeply."
Marsha gave him a look across the table. "Do not start."
"I'm just saying," Nate replied, leaning back in his chair, "some traditions could've stayed in the past."
Luca looked between them, suddenly fascinated. "What tradition?"
Marsha turned toward him, instantly softening. "When Nate and Aaron were little, every time we came here, we had a whole list of things we did. Every year. No skipping."
Nate rubbed a hand over his face. "Against our will."
"You loved it."
"I tolerated it because there were pancakes and you controlled the car keys."
Marsha ignored him completely and began counting on her fingers. "First, a morning walk down to the dock. Then pictures by the lake."
Nate made a sound under his breath.
"Then we go into town," Marsha continued, undeterred. "There's a little shop with souvenirs, and a bakery that makes cinnamon rolls. After that, we come back for lunch, then swimming if the weather is warm enough. Later, board games, dinner, and a bonfire with s'mores."
Luca's eyes widened more and more with every addition. "All that today?"
"Not all of it," Marsha said, smiling. "Some of it today. Some over the trip. But yes, you have to experience it properly."
Nate leaned toward Luca and lowered his voice. "Run while you can."
Luca giggled.
Marsha pointed a fork at Nate. "Don't listen to him. He complained every year and then had the time of his life."
"I complained because you made us take matching lake pictures."
"And they were adorable."
"They were evidence."
You laughed into your orange juice, and Nate shot you a warning look.
Marsha's attention went back to Luca, her expression warm and full of emotion. "My grandbaby needs to experience the same things Nate and Aaron did," she said firmly. "That's how traditions keep going."
Luca smiled, clearly pleased by the title.
Then Marsha added, casually, "And I'll do the same with my next grandchild."
The entire table reacted at once.
Your fork paused halfway to your mouth.
Nate stopped chewing.
Cassie's head turned slightly, her brows lifting before she could hide it.
Even Marsha's husband looked up from his toast like he had sensed trouble.
There was a strange, brief silence—the kind that only lasted a second but managed to contain an entire family meeting inside it.
You blinked first.
"Next grandchild?" you repeated, voice carefully light but edged with disbelief. "Marsha, we just got used to this grandchild."
Nate cleared his throat, setting his glass down a little too deliberately. "Yeah, Mom. Maybe let everyone finish breakfast before you start assigning future kids."
Cassie looked between you and Nate, her expression unreadable but alert. There was something in her eyes—curiosity, maybe a flash of surprise at how quickly both of you reacted as a unit.
Marsha waved a hand like you were all being dramatic. "I'm not assigning anything. I'm just saying. Families grow."
You gave a short laugh, shaking your head. "Luca is enough family expansion for us right now."
The words came out naturally. Honest. Maybe a little too quick, but not cruel. You weren't rejecting the idea of children as some grand statement. You were simply telling the truth as you knew it: you and Nate had not been planning for kids. Luca had arrived like a storm and somehow become sunshine after the damage settled. He was already a lot to adjust to—not in a bad way, but in a real one.
You glanced at Luca and softened the words with a smile. "And he's a pretty good one, so we're not complaining."
Luca grinned around a bite of pancake.
Nate smiled too, but his expression shifted for half a second before he caught it.
You didn't notice. Not fully.
But he did.
Your comment—Luca is enough—landed somewhere deeper in him than he expected. It shouldn't have. Logically, he knew what you meant. You weren't saying you didn't love the life forming around Luca. You weren't saying there was no future. You were answering his mother's sudden, chaotic leap into "next grandchild" territory with the same practical honesty you always used.
Still, something in Nate's chest tightened.
Because he had been thinking lately.
Not clearly. Not as a plan. More like flashes. A bigger house. Luca's room. Backyard noise. A future that kept expanding in ways he used to be terrified of but now found himself imagining anyway. And somewhere beneath all that, tucked away where he hadn't had to examine it yet, was the thought of more.
More family.
More children, maybe.
Not today. Not soon. Not even necessarily biologically or traditionally. Just... more life with you. More rooms filled. More reasons to come home. More proof that he could build something good and not ruin it.
So hearing you say Luca was enough made him pause.
He didn't show it at the table. Nate had gotten good at that over the years—at keeping his first reaction behind his eyes until he understood it better. He simply picked up his fork again, nudged more eggs onto Luca's plate when the boy asked, and let Marsha move the conversation back toward vacation plans.
But under the table, his knee brushed yours once.
Not enough to interrupt.
Just enough for you to glance at him briefly.
He gave you a small look—soft, unreadable, a little too thoughtful.
You narrowed your eyes slightly, silently asking, What?
He shook his head once, barely there, and looked back at Luca.
But Nate already knew.
That comment was going to come back later.
Not as a fight. Not as pressure. Not as some dramatic confrontation in the middle of a family vacation.
But as a conversation.
Because you and Nate had built your life on honesty, even when honesty complicated things. And if the idea of family was changing again—if Luca had opened a door Nate hadn't realized he wanted to walk through—then eventually, he would have to tell you.
For now, though, the morning carried on.
Marsha launched into a detailed explanation of the lake picture tradition. Luca asked if he could wear his jersey. Cassie quietly cut his pancakes into smaller bites while watching the table with thoughtful eyes. You reached for another piece of toast and muttered that matching family photos sounded like emotional blackmail.
Nate laughed at that, finally relaxing a little.
But the thought stayed with him.
A bigger house.
Luca's room.
Maybe more.
And beside him, completely unaware of the chord you had struck, you kept eating breakfast like the future hadn't just quietly shifted again beneath the table.
𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐓, the house eased into a busy kind of morning—the type where everyone scattered into different rooms under the illusion of getting ready, while Marsha stayed behind in the kitchen pretending she wasn't absolutely thrilled to have a sink full of dishes to fuss over.
"You all go get dressed," she insisted, already rolling up her sleeves before anyone could argue. "I've got this."
"Mom, we can help," Nate said, still standing near the table with his plate in hand.
Marsha gave him one look over her shoulder. "Nathaniel, I raised two boys and survived your father's moods. I can handle pancakes and a few forks."
Her husband chuckled into his coffee, Luca giggled around the last bite of toast, and you gave Nate a look that said, You heard the woman.
So, one by one, everyone drifted away from the table. Luca raced upstairs to find whatever outfit he had decided was "lake picture worthy." Cassie followed after him, phone already in hand, probably planning the first perfect shot of the day. Marsha's husband moved slower, muttering something about needing a "real shirt" if family photos were happening. Nate lingered for a second longer near his mother, but eventually, his hand found the small of your back and guided you upstairs.
The shared bedroom was quiet when you entered, softer than the rest of the house, still touched by the faint mess of the morning. The bed remained half-made, the blanket wrinkled from where Nate had been attacked awake by Luca earlier. Your suitcase sat open near the dresser, clothes folded in one half and completely chaotic in the other. Nate's bag was on the floor near the closet, because apparently professional athletes could memorize entire playbooks but not place clothes somewhere sensible.
You moved toward your suitcase, already distracted by the day ahead.
"Shorts or jeans?" you asked, lifting one option in each hand and holding them up against yourself. "Because Marsha said lake pictures, town, walking, possibly emotional blackmail, and I don't know what outfit survives all that."
Nate didn't answer right away.
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped between them. He was supposed to be looking through his own clothes, but instead he was watching you. Not with the heated, teasing look from the hallway yesterday. Not with the familiar hunger that usually made your eyes narrow and your mouth threaten him into behaving.
This was different.
He was quiet.
Too quiet.
You glanced over at him, one brow lifting. "What?"
His eyes stayed on you for a second longer, heavy with something you couldn't quite read. Then he looked down at his hands, thumb dragging over his knuckles.
"Do you want kids with me?"
The question landed so abruptly that the room seemed to still around it.
Your hand froze halfway inside your suitcase.
For a second, all you heard was the faint movement of people elsewhere in the house—Luca's footsteps down the hall, Marsha's distant voice from the kitchen, the soft clatter of dishes. Normal sounds. Vacation sounds. Family sounds.
But inside the room, everything tightened.
You slowly lowered the clothes in your hands.
"What?"
Nate looked up again. His expression wasn't aggressive. It wasn't even angry. It was worse than that—it was open. Vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache before you even knew what to do with it.
"I'm asking," he said, voice low. "Do you want kids with me?"
You blinked at him, caught between shock and the instinct to answer carefully. "Nate..."
"We've never talked about it," he continued, almost like he had to get the words out before he lost his nerve. "Five years together, and we've never actually had that conversation."
Your fingers tightened around the waistband of the shorts you were holding. He was right. You hated that he was right.
You and Nate had talked about everything—or almost everything. Careers, family, marriage in teasing fragments, houses in warm late-night hypotheticals, Luca's room, routines, trips, the future in broad emotional strokes. But children? A baby? A real, deliberate decision to bring another life into the middle of everything?
No.
You had never sat down and had that conversation.
And maybe that was because, for so long, it hadn't felt urgent.
You exhaled quietly and turned back to the suitcase, though you weren't really seeing the clothes anymore. "You're right," you said carefully. "We haven't."
Nate waited.
You swallowed. "And that's okay. We didn't talk about it because... we had other things to focus on. Our careers. Our schedules. We were building our lives."
His brows drew together.
That small shift in his expression was enough to make your stomach twist. You knew that look. Confusion, but underneath it, hurt he hadn't decided whether to show yet.
"Our careers?" he repeated.
"Yes," you said, turning toward him fully. "Our careers."
He stared at you like he couldn't quite process why that was your first instinctive answer.
The silence stretched.
Then he said, "You're saying it like having a baby with me would just be some inconvenience."
Your eyes sharpened. "That is not what I said."
"But that's how it sounds."
"No," you replied, voice still controlled but firmer now. "That's how you're hearing it because you already decided this conversation was supposed to go a certain way."
Nate stood then, not dramatically, but the shift changed the room. He was taller, broader, taking up space without trying. "I asked you a question."
"And I'm answering it like an adult," you shot back. "Not like someone who heard the word baby and immediately started picking nursery colors."
His jaw tightened.
You regretted the edge as soon as it left your mouth, but you didn't take it back. Not yet. Because something in you had gone defensive too—fast, sharp, instinctive.
Nate's voice lowered. "Luca changed things."
"I know Luca changed things," you said. "I'm living in the same life you are."
"Then why is your first reaction to talk about work?"
"Because work matters," you snapped, then caught yourself and forced your voice down. "Because my career matters, Nate."
His expression flickered again, and there it was—the thing you hadn't wanted to see. Not disappointment exactly, but confusion. Like he couldn't understand why, after everything, your mind went to races and contracts and teams instead of a baby with him.
And that hurt.
It hurt because he should know you better.
You set the clothes down on the edge of the suitcase and crossed your arms, not because you wanted to shut him out, but because you suddenly felt like you needed to hold yourself together.
"You have a son," you said.
Nate flinched, and you immediately shook your head.
"Not like that," you said quickly. "That wasn't an insult. That wasn't a dig. I'm not throwing Luca in your face. I love that little boy. You know I do."
His shoulders stayed tense.
You stepped closer, voice softening but not weakening. "I'm saying he exists, Nate. He's here. He's six. He just got you. You just got him. Maybe your focus should be on him before you start thinking about another baby."
Nate looked away, mouth pressing into a hard line.
You could see him struggling with it—the truth of what you said, and the sting of it. Luca had entered his life like a miracle wrapped in a wound, and Nate had been trying so hard to catch up. To make room. To become the father he should have had the chance to be from the start.
But somewhere in that process, fatherhood had opened a door in him.
And now he was staring through it, imagining more.
You understood that.
You did.
But understanding it didn't mean you were ready to step through with him.
"There's something else," you said, and your voice came out quieter.
Nate looked back at you. "What?"
You hesitated.
You hadn't planned to tell him like this. Not in the middle of an argument. Not on vacation. Not while everyone else was downstairs waiting to take family pictures by the lake like nothing in the world had shifted.
But the email had been sitting in your chest since morning, heavy and sour.
You inhaled slowly.
"I got an email from management earlier," you said. "While Luca was waking everyone up."
Nate's face changed immediately. The anger thinned, replaced by concern. "What email?"
You looked down at the clothes scattered in your suitcase, suddenly unable to hold his stare. "There's a chance I might get traded out of my current team."
The words dropped between you.
For a second, Nate said nothing.
Then, quietly, "What?"
You nodded once, lips pressing together. "They're considering restructuring. Moving contracts around. There's a potential transfer. Different city, different training staff, different schedule. Nothing is finalized yet, but it's real enough that they told me to prepare for the possibility."
Nate stared at you, shocked. "Why didn't you say something?"
"Because I just found out."
"You could've told me at breakfast."
"At breakfast?" you repeated, disbelief flashing through you. "With Luca asking about vacation traditions and your mom talking about future grandchildren?"
"That's not what I mean."
"No, but that's what happened." Your voice shook despite your effort to keep it level. "I found out my entire career might be shifting under my feet, and five minutes later your mother was joking about the next grandchild and you were looking at me like I was supposed to have an answer ready."
Nate dragged a hand over his face, turning away for a second. "I didn't know."
"I know you didn't."
"You should've told me."
"I was going to," you said, frustration rising again. "But maybe I wanted five minutes to breathe before I had to turn my life into another family discussion."
That landed.
Nate looked back at you, and for the first time since the conversation started, guilt flickered across his face.
But it didn't last long enough.
Because then he said, "Maybe this is a sign."
You stared at him.
The words were so unexpected, so wildly wrong in the moment, that you almost laughed. But nothing about his face said he was joking.
"A sign?" you repeated slowly.
He stepped closer, trying to sound calm, trying to make it make sense. "If your team might trade you, then maybe this is the right time to think bigger. We've already been talking about a house. More space. Luca's room. Our room. A backyard. We could look somewhere with enough room for all of us."
"All of us," you echoed.
"You, me, Luca," he said, and then, quieter but firm, "and maybe a baby."
The air seemed to leave the room.
You stared at him, heart pounding now, anger and hurt rising together in a way that made your throat tight.
"Nate."
"What?" he asked, brows furrowed. "I'm not saying tomorrow. I'm saying maybe this is the moment where we stop acting like everything has to fit around our schedules. Maybe we build the life first and let the rest adjust."
You let out a sharp, disbelieving breath. "That is very easy for you to say."
His eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means just like you, I care about my career," you said, voice hardening. "I have worked my ass off to get where I am. I didn't stumble into this. I didn't get lucky. I trained until my body felt like it was breaking. I sacrificed time, sleep, comfort, everything. So why would I give that up?"
"No one said give it up."
"You basically did."
"No, I said use the break—"
"It's not a break!" you snapped. "It's uncertainty. It's my career being decided in emails and calls and rooms I'm not sitting in. It is not some cute little window for me to become your house boyfriend with a baby."
Nate went still.
The words echoed sharper than you intended.
Your chest was heaving now, anger burning behind your eyes, but underneath it was something worse. Fear.
"While what?" you continued, unable to stop now. "While your football star boyfriend keeps doing what he loves? While you go to practice and games and interviews and come home to a baby and me waiting in a house you picked because it had enough rooms for everyone else's future?"
His face tightened like you had struck him.
"That's not fair," he said quietly.
"Isn't it?"
"No," he said, voice rising. "Because you know damn well I would never ask you to give up who you are."
"But you didn't even hear me," you said, and that was the part that finally cracked. Your voice dropped, hurt cutting through the anger. "I told you I might be traded. I told you my career is unstable right now. And somehow, you turned that into a reason why we should look at houses and have a baby."
Nate looked at you, his mouth parting, but no words came immediately.
You laughed once, but it was humorless and bitter. "Do you know how that feels?"
His shoulders dropped slightly.
You shook your head, stepping back from him. "It feels like my life became an opening in your plan."
That one hurt him. You saw it.
He swallowed, eyes flicking over your face. "That's not what I meant."
"I know," you said, quieter now. "But that's what it felt like."
The room fell silent again.
Downstairs, someone laughed—Luca, probably. Bright and unaware. The sound floated up through the floorboards like sunlight from another world.
You looked toward the door, blinking hard.
"I love Luca," you said, voice barely above a whisper. "I love the life we're building with him. I love seeing you become his dad. I love that we're talking about houses and rooms and making space for him."
Nate didn't move.
"But I need you to understand something," you continued, looking back at him. "Loving him doesn't mean I'm ready to have another child. Loving you doesn't mean my dreams automatically move to the backseat. And being scared about my career doesn't mean I'm available to be repurposed into something easier for everyone else."
His eyes softened, finally absorbing the shape of what you were saying.
But the damage was already in the air.
Nate took a slow step toward you. "Baby—"
You lifted a hand, stopping him before he could touch you.
Not because you didn't want him.
Because if he touched you right then, you might fold before you had finished standing up for yourself.
His hand stopped midair, then slowly dropped.
That hurt too.
You hated that this was happening here. On vacation. In the bedroom where, hours ago, he had kissed you like you were the only thing grounding him. In a house filled with people waiting for both of you to come downstairs smiling.
"I'm not saying no forever," you said, your voice tired now. "I'm saying I can't answer that question the way you want me to right now."
Nate's jaw worked. His eyes shone faintly, though he blinked it back fast.
"And I'm saying," he replied, quieter than before, "I didn't know I wanted it until Luca."
Your throat tightened.
There it was.
The truth under everything.
Nate looked away, rubbing his thumb along his bottom lip like he was trying to keep himself from saying too much, then failed.
"I spent so long thinking I'd ruin anything that looked like a family," he admitted. "Then Luca showed up, and it hurt like hell, but it also..." He shook his head, struggling. "It made me want things. Things I never let myself want before. A house. Kids. You. All of it. And I know that's not fair to drop on you, but I don't know how to put it back now."
Your anger faltered, pierced clean through by the rawness in his voice.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
You stood on one side of the suitcase. He stood on the other. Clothes between you. A future neither of you had prepared for hanging in the air.
"I need you to want me as I am," you said finally. "Not just as the version who fits into the family picture."
Nate's eyes snapped back to yours. "I do."
"Then hear me," you whispered.
He nodded slowly, the movement heavy. "I hear you."
But he looked wounded.
And you felt wounded.
And neither truth canceled out the other.
Downstairs, Marsha called faintly, "You two almost ready?"
You both froze.
The world didn't care that your future had just cracked open upstairs. There were traditions waiting. Lake pictures. Luca's first family vacation. Smiles everyone expected you to wear.
You wiped a hand over your face and turned back toward the suitcase, grabbing the shorts without looking at him.
"I'm wearing these," you said quietly.
Nate didn't answer right away.
Then, softly, "Okay."
It was such a small word.
It shouldn't have hurt.
But it did.
Because as you changed in the strained quiet of that shared bedroom, you both understood something had shifted—not broken, not ruined, but shifted.
A conversation had begun that neither of you could outrun.
𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 the day, you and Nate moved around each other like two people who knew the shape of love too well to mistake the distance for absence.
It wasn't that you didn't love him.
That was almost the problem.
You loved him enough for his words from that morning to still ache beneath your ribs. Loved him enough that every time he looked at you, your body wanted to soften before your pride could brace itself. Loved him enough that the hurt felt sharper because it had come from him—not a stranger, not Cassie, not the internet, not the chaos of Luca suddenly arriving in your lives, but Nate. Your Nate. The man who knew what your career meant to you, who knew how hard you had fought to build a name that belonged entirely to you.
And Nate loved you enough to know he had hurt you.
That was written all over him.
He stayed close, but not too close. He watched you, but didn't crowd you. He tried to speak, then swallowed the words when your answers came short and flat. He kept reaching for the old rhythm between you—the one built on sarcasm, quick looks, and private touches—but every time he got near it, the memory of the bedroom conversation sat between you like a locked door.
Everyone noticed pieces of it.
Marsha noticed in the way Nate didn't keep his hand on your back as often. Her husband noticed in the quiet but said nothing, because he had the lifelong wisdom of a man who knew some arguments were not meant to be pulled into daylight. Luca, thankfully, was too swept up in the excitement of town to fully understand the tension.
Cassie noticed everything.
She noticed how Nate walked a few steps behind you instead of beside you, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the tightness in his jaw. She noticed how you stayed near Luca, letting him tug you from window to window, but never naturally drifted back into Nate's side the way you usually did. She noticed how Nate kept buying whatever Luca pointed at—small souvenirs, a wooden toy boat, a ridiculous shark keychain, a bag of candy from the old-fashioned sweet shop—as if generosity could steady him when his own relationship felt off-balance.
The little lakeside town was charming in a way that felt almost unfair. Sunlight bounced off shop windows and brick sidewalks. Flower baskets hung from lampposts. Tourists moved lazily between stores with ice cream cones and paper shopping bags. Somewhere nearby, someone was playing acoustic guitar badly but earnestly. The air smelled like sugar, lake water, sunscreen, and cinnamon from the bakery Marsha insisted had "the best rolls in the state."
It should have been easy.
It should have been sweet.
Instead, every pretty detail felt like a backdrop to something bruised.
Luca walked between you and Nate for a while, his excitement bubbling over too fast for silence to survive.
"Can I get this?" he asked, lifting a small stuffed turtle from a shelf inside a souvenir shop.
Nate barely glanced at the price tag before nodding. "Yeah. Put it with the boat."
Luca grinned, then looked at you. "Do you think it needs a name?"
You smiled for him. Somehow, that part came naturally. "Absolutely. All turtles need names. It's the law."
"What kind of name?"
You tilted your head, pretending to consider seriously. "Something powerful. Something respected."
Luca stared at the turtle. "Kevin."
You nodded. "Exactly. Terrifying."
Luca laughed, hugging Kevin the turtle to his chest.
Nate watched the exchange from behind his shades, one hand resting on the counter as he paid. His mouth twitched faintly, like he wanted to join in, like he wanted to say something about the name, or about you being ridiculous, or about how Luca had clearly inherited your dramatic naming instincts despite no biological connection whatsoever.
Instead, he just said, "You want anything?"
You knew he was talking to you without looking.
Your fingers brushed over a rack of postcards. "No."
"Sure?"
"I'm sure."
The words were short. Dry. Not cruel, but closed.
Nate's jaw flexed.
Cassie, standing near the doorway with Marsha, watched the moment land. She shouldn't have felt anything about it. She told herself she didn't. But there was a quiet, ugly part of her that noticed the crack and leaned closer.
Outside, the group moved from shop to shop. Luca insisted on showing Marsha every single thing Nate bought him. Marsha acted surprised and delighted each time, even though she had been right there watching the purchases happen. Nate's mother tried to keep the mood lifted, pointing out old places from when Nate and Aaron were young, telling stories about lake trips and childhood tantrums and the time Nate supposedly refused to take a family picture because his hair "didn't look right."
"You had vanity issues at eight?" you asked before you could stop yourself.
Nate looked over at you.
For a second, the old spark flickered.
"Still do," he said.
Normally, you would've smiled. You would've dragged your eyes over him and said something cutting enough to make him grin. Instead, you just looked away.
"Clearly."
The word was quiet, but it hit.
Nate's mouth closed.
The distance returned.
By the time you all reached the bakery, the ache in your chest had turned into something heavier. Your phone had buzzed twice in your pocket already. You had ignored it the first time, then checked it the second and felt your stomach drop at the name on the screen.
Your manager.
Again.
You stared at the call notification for one long second while everyone else gathered near the bakery window, Luca pressing his hands to the glass to look at cinnamon rolls the size of his face.
Nate noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
He always noticed when your body changed before your face did.
You stepped back from the group, phone vibrating in your palm.
"I need to take this," you said.
Your voice was calm, but Nate's head turned fully toward you.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
You didn't look at him. "It's work."
That was all you gave him before moving away.
You crossed the sidewalk and stepped toward a quieter corner near a narrow alley between the bakery and a little antique shop. It wasn't private exactly, but it was the closest thing the busy town offered. You pressed the phone to your ear and turned your back to the street.
"Hey," you said, already bracing.
The conversation started badly.
Nate could tell from across the sidewalk.
He stood near the bakery entrance, Luca in front of him, Marsha talking about getting a box of pastries for the cabin. Cassie lingered nearby, pretending to inspect a display of local jams while her eyes occasionally flicked toward him and then toward you.
Nate didn't move at first.
He just watched.
Watched the way your shoulders tightened. Watched your free hand come up to rub at your forehead. Watched your posture go still in that controlled way that meant you were trying very hard not to react in public.
Marsha followed his gaze, her expression softening with concern.
"Nate?" she asked quietly.
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he glanced down at Luca, who was still distracted by the bakery case, and made a decision.
"Mom," he said, voice low, "you guys go ahead. We'll catch up."
Marsha looked at him for a beat, then at you. She understood enough not to ask questions.
"All right," she said gently. "We'll be inside."
Her husband guided Luca toward the door with the promise of picking out cinnamon rolls. Cassie hesitated half a second longer than necessary, eyes moving between Nate and your stiff back, but Marsha gave her a look that politely left no room for lingering.
Cassie went inside.
Nate stayed outside.
He didn't approach right away.
He kept his distance like he knew he had lost the right, for now, to walk straight into your space. He stood several yards away, sunglasses still on, hands shoved into his pockets, his whole body tense with restraint.
From where he stood, he couldn't hear every word.
But he heard enough fragments when your voice sharpened.
"No, that's not what we discussed."
A pause.
"I understand that, but I'm not signing anything without seeing the full terms."
Another pause, longer this time.
Your head tipped back slightly, eyes closing.
"No. No, I'm not being difficult. I'm asking for clarity."
Nate's chest tightened.
He watched your hand drop from your forehead to your hip, then curl into a fist. Whatever your manager said next made your shoulders sink—not in defeat exactly, but in the exhaustion of someone who had been fighting the same wall all morning and had just been told the wall was permanent.
Your voice lowered.
"So what are you telling me? That they're already moving forward?"
Nate's stomach clenched.
The breeze shifted through the street, carrying laughter from the bakery and the faint chime of the shop door. It all sounded too bright, too normal.
You turned slightly, enough for Nate to see your profile.
Your expression had cracked.
Not fully. Not publicly. But enough.
Your jaw trembled once before you locked it down. Your eyes shone, and you blinked fast, looking away from the street like you could hide from the entire town by staring at the brick wall.
Nate stepped forward before he could stop himself.
Then stopped.
Because he remembered the bedroom. Remembered your raised hand stopping him from touching you. Remembered you saying, Hear me.
So he waited until the call ended.
You stood there for a moment afterward, phone still in your hand, staring down at the blank screen like it had personally betrayed you. Your breathing was shallow. Your shoulders rose and fell once, twice. Then you lifted a hand quickly to your face and wiped under your eyes with the heel of your palm.
Fast.
Angry.
Like the tears had offended you by existing.
Nate moved then.
Slowly.
"Y/N," he said.
Your back went rigid.
You had heard him coming, or maybe you had felt him. Either way, you didn't turn around immediately. You took one more second—one small, desperate second—to pull yourself together. You shoved your phone into your pocket, wiped at your face again, then finally turned.
Your eyes were dry when you faced him.
Too dry.
The kind of dry that came from forcing tears back where they came from.
Nate's expression changed the second he saw you. His sunglasses were still on, but his mouth softened, worry cutting through everything else.
"Are you okay?" he asked quietly.
You gave a short nod.
A lie.
"I'm fine."
He took half a step closer. "Baby—"
"Don't," you said.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just immediate.
He stopped.
Your throat moved as you swallowed, and for a second, something vulnerable flickered across your face. Hurt. Fear. Humiliation. The sheer exhaustion of having your career tossed around by other people while your personal life demanded emotional flexibility you were running out of.
Nate saw it.
And it destroyed him a little that you wouldn't let him reach for it.
"What happened?" he asked, voice low. "Was it the trade?"
You looked away.
That was answer enough.
His jaw tightened, but not at you. At whoever had been on the other end of the phone. At the fact that he couldn't fix this. At the fact that he had made himself part of the reason you didn't want comfort right now.
"Talk to me," he said, softer.
You almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny, but because the request hurt too much.
This morning, when you had tried to talk to him, he had turned your fear into a window for his dream. He had looked at your instability and seen space for a house, a baby, a bigger future he wanted to build. You knew he hadn't meant to reduce you. You knew that. But knowing didn't erase the sting.
So now, with your manager's words still ringing in your ears, with your career hanging in uncertainty, with your boyfriend standing in front of you looking like he wanted to hold you but didn't know if he was allowed—
You couldn't give him this.
Not right now.
Especially not him.
"We should catch up with everyone," you said.
Nate's face fell just slightly.
"Y/N."
You shook your head, eyes fixed somewhere past his shoulder. "Not here."
"Then later."
You didn't answer.
His worry sharpened. "Later?"
Your silence was worse than a refusal.
Nate took off his sunglasses slowly, like removing them might help you see him more clearly. His eyes were tired, remorseful, scared in a way you rarely saw during the day.
"I'm sorry about this morning," he said.
Your mouth tightened.
Not because you didn't believe him.
Because you did.
And you weren't ready for that either.
"Nate," you said, voice low, careful, brittle, "I cannot do this right now."
He absorbed the words like a blow.
You watched him take them in, watched him fight every instinct he had to argue, to explain, to touch you, to pull you back toward him until you cracked open and let him inside the hurt.
But he didn't.
He just nodded once.
A small, wounded nod.
"Okay," he said.
That hurt worse than if he had pushed.
You turned first, because staying there another second would make your face betray you again. You stepped back toward the bakery, toward the sound of Luca's laughter through the window, toward Marsha holding a tray of pastries, toward Cassie watching from inside with eyes that missed nothing.
Nate walked behind you.
Not beside you.
Behind.
Still close enough to catch you if you fell.
Far enough to honor the distance you had asked for.
And Cassie noticed that too when you both came back inside—the quiet separation, the strain around your eyes, Nate's bare face without his sunglasses now, his expression carefully controlled but unmistakably hurt.
For once, her jealousy didn't spark first.
Curiosity did.
Then something almost like satisfaction.
Then, buried under both, a flicker of discomfort.
Because watching you and Nate disconnected was not as sweet as she thought it would be.
It made the whole room feel colder.
Luca spotted you immediately and lifted a cinnamon roll with both hands.
"Y/N! Look how big this is!"
You smiled for him.
It was convincing enough for a child.
Not for Nate.
Not for Cassie.
And definitely not for you.
𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 time all of you made it back to the cabin, the sun had already slipped low behind the trees, leaving the lake washed in deep orange and bruised purple light. The day had stretched longer than anyone expected—shops, bakery stops, souvenir bags, Marsha's insistence on lake-town traditions, Luca bouncing between excitement and sugar until even his endless energy finally surrendered. The cabin came into view warm and golden against the darkening woods, porch lights glowing like a promise, but the comfort of it didn't reach you the way it had the day before.
You walked in first, quiet, with the kind of exhaustion that had nothing to do with your body.
Behind you, Nate carried Luca against his chest. The little boy was completely knocked out, his cheek pressed to Nate's shoulder, one arm dangling loosely, the other curled into the front of Nate's shirt. His tiny souvenir turtle—Kevin, apparently—was tucked between them, half-squished but still protected. Nate held him carefully, one strong arm under his legs and the other supporting his back, every movement slowed so he wouldn't wake him.
For a second, even with everything twisted between you and Nate, the sight made something ache in your chest.
He looked natural like that now.
Not perfect. Not polished. But real.
A father carrying his sleeping son inside after a long day.
Marsha whispered something about putting the leftovers away. Her husband mumbled that he was going to sit down before his knees filed a complaint. Cassie stepped forward, her eyes on Luca, then on Nate.
"I'll show you where to lay him down," she whispered.
Nate nodded, his gaze flicking toward you first.
You felt it.
You always felt when he looked at you.
But you didn't turn fully toward him. You only shifted your bag higher on your shoulder and headed toward the hallway that led to the bedroom you and Nate were sharing.
"I'm gonna change," you said quietly, not really to anyone in particular.
Nate's expression tightened, but he didn't call after you. Not with Luca asleep in his arms. Not with Cassie standing beside him. Not with the whole house wrapped in that fragile post-day silence.
So you disappeared down the hall.
Cassie noticed.
Of course she did.
She guided Nate toward the room she and Luca were sharing, pushing the door open carefully so the hinges wouldn't creak. The room was dim, lit only by the fading sunlight slipping through the curtains and the small lamp Cassie had left on near the dresser. Luca's little bag was half-unpacked near the bed, pajamas spilling out, his shoes tucked under the chair, proof of his presence scattered in a way that made the room feel warmer.
Nate crossed to the bed and bent slowly, lowering Luca onto the mattress with a gentleness that softened the hard line of his shoulders. Luca stirred slightly, face scrunching, but Nate paused, one hand still against his back, waiting until the boy settled again. Then he eased Kevin the turtle beside him, pulled the blanket over his small body, and tucked it around his shoulders.
Cassie stood near the door, watching.
For a moment, she forgot the jealousy. Or maybe it quieted. Because there was Luca, safe and asleep, and there was Nate trying—really trying—to be careful with him.
Nate brushed a hand lightly over Luca's hair, his thumb smoothing down the sleep-mess curls near his forehead.
"Night, buddy," he whispered.
Luca didn't answer. He only sighed and sank deeper into the pillow.
The room stayed quiet.
Nate straightened, but before he could leave, Cassie spoke.
"Is Y/N okay?"
Her voice was soft. Whispered. Careful enough not to wake Luca, but pointed enough to stop Nate where he stood.
His jaw tightened immediately.
"He's fine," Nate whispered back.
Cassie tilted her head slightly, unconvinced. "Nate."
He looked at her then, his expression guarded. "What?"
She glanced toward the closed bedroom door, then back at him. "You two are not fine."
The words were quiet, but they landed sharply.
Nate's eyes narrowed. "Lower your voice."
"I am lowering my voice," Cassie said, still whispering, though there was an edge now. "I'm also not blind."
Nate's shoulders squared, the defensive version of him rising before he could stop it. "What exactly do you think you saw?"
Cassie gave him a look like the answer should have been obvious. "You barely touched each other all day. He barely looked at you unless he had to. You kept trying to talk to him, and he kept giving you one-word answers." Her gaze flicked over his face. "That's not fine."
Nate's mouth pressed into a thin line.
He hated that she was right.
Hated even more that she had noticed.
"That's between me and him," he said.
Cassie crossed her arms loosely over her chest, careful not to make too much movement in the quiet room. "I didn't say it wasn't."
"Then why are you asking?"
Something in her expression shifted. A flicker of irritation. A flicker of old hurt. A flicker of something that looked almost like jealousy before she smoothed it away.
"Because it's obvious," she whispered. "And because whether you like it or not, your relationship affects the entire mood of this trip."
Nate let out a quiet, humorless breath. "Since when do you care about me and Y/N?"
Cassie's eyes sharpened.
"I care about Luca," she said. "And Luca notices things, even if he doesn't understand them. He notices when people are tense. He notices when you're not talking. He notices when Y/N walks away."
Nate flinched at that, barely, but she caught it.
Then his face hardened again.
"What do you know about me and him?" Nate asked, voice low, controlled. "Seriously, Cassie. What do you actually know?"
She opened her mouth, but he kept going.
"You see pictures. You see little moments. You see us at games, dinners, around Luca, whatever." His whisper roughened. "But you don't know what it took to get here. You don't know what we've survived. You don't know how many times I almost fucked everything up and he still stayed. So don't stand there and act like you can read us because we had one bad day."
Cassie's face tightened.
For a second, she looked stung.
Then she recovered, lifting her chin.
"I'm observant," she said. "Obviously."
Nate stared at her.
"And you two aren't exactly subtle," she added, voice quieter but sharper now. "You show off your chemistry constantly."
There it was.
Even whispered, even softened by the sleeping child in the room, the jealousy slipped through. It clung to the word chemistry like bitterness on the tongue.
Nate caught it immediately.
His eyes narrowed a fraction.
Cassie seemed to realize how it sounded, because she looked away for a second, jaw flexing. Then she continued, more carefully.
"I'm just saying," she whispered, "it's clear you had a fight."
Nate looked toward Luca, making sure he was still asleep. The boy hadn't moved, curled beneath the blanket with Kevin tucked close to his chest.
Then Nate looked back at Cassie. "And?"
"And maybe..." Cassie hesitated, her voice softening into something that could have been genuine if not for everything underneath it. "Maybe I could help."
Nate's expression changed instantly.
Not anger first.
Disbelief.
"Help?" he repeated.
Cassie lifted one shoulder slightly. "I know you. I know how you get when you're upset. And I don't know Y/N well, but I can tell he's hurt." She paused, watching him carefully. "Maybe I could talk to him. Or talk to both of you. I don't know. Maybe I could help you fix it."
Nate almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the idea was impossible.
Cassie Howard—the girl from the wreckage of his old life, the mother of his son, the woman who still looked at you like you were a bruise she couldn't stop pressing—offering to help fix his relationship with the man he loved.
It was absurd.
It was dangerous.
And it was absolutely not happening.
"No," Nate said.
Cassie blinked. "I'm just offering—"
"I know," Nate cut in, still whispering, but there was no softness in it now. "And I'm saying no."
Her lips parted slightly, offense flashing across her face. "You don't have to say it like that."
"I do, actually," he said. "Because you don't get to insert yourself into my relationship."
Cassie's face hardened.
"I'm not trying to insert myself."
Nate held her gaze, his voice low and firm. "Cassie."
The single word carried warning.
She looked away first.
The silence between them stretched thin, broken only by Luca's soft breathing and the faint muffled sounds of Marsha moving around downstairs.
Nate exhaled slowly, forcing himself to soften the edge of his next words—not for Cassie, exactly, but because Luca was asleep a few feet away and because he wasn't the same man who used to turn every uncomfortable moment into a weapon.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For the offer."
Cassie glanced back at him, surprised.
"But no," he continued. "Whatever's going on with me and Y/N, we handle it. Together. Or we don't. But it's ours."
That landed.
Cassie's eyes flickered, and for a moment the mask slipped. There was jealousy there, yes, but also something lonelier. Something that heard the word ours and knew she didn't belong inside it.
Nate didn't wait for her to answer.
He glanced at Luca one more time, making sure he was tucked in, safe, asleep. Then he moved toward the door.
Before he stepped out, Cassie whispered, "Nate."
He paused, hand on the knob.
She looked like she wanted to say something else. Something softer. Something sharper. Maybe something she didn't even understand herself.
But in the end, all she said was, "He looked really upset today."
Nate's face shifted.
The defensiveness cracked just enough for worry to show through.
"I know," he whispered.
Then he left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
The hallway outside was dim and quiet. The cabin had that end-of-day stillness now, the kind that made every floorboard creak sound too loud. Nate stood there for a second, one hand still near the door, Cassie's words echoing in his head despite how badly he wanted to dismiss them.
He looked really upset today.
He knew.
He had known since the bakery. Since the call. Since you wiped your tears before turning around and pretending there was nothing to talk about.
His chest tightened.
Nate walked down the hall toward the room you shared, but when he reached it, the door was slightly open and the room was empty. Your bag was on the bed. A shirt had been tossed across the suitcase. The shorts you had chosen that morning were folded over the chair like you had come in, changed your mind about something, and left again.
He stepped inside slowly, scanning the room.
"Y/N?" he called quietly.
No answer.
His stomach sank.
He turned back into the hallway, listening.
Downstairs, Marsha's voice murmured faintly from the kitchen. Her husband's low response followed. Outside, through one of the cracked windows, the lake made soft, restless sounds against the dock.
Nate moved toward the stairs.
He didn't know where you were yet.
But he knew he had to find you.
Not to force the conversation. Not to win. Not to turn your pain into another argument about babies or houses or futures neither of you were ready to name properly.
He just needed to see you.
To know you hadn't disappeared too far into yourself.
To tell you, somehow, that he understood now—or at least that he was trying to.
Because the distance between you two had stretched across the whole day like a shadow.
And Nate was terrified that if he let it stretch too far tonight, it might become something neither of you knew how to cross.
“Happier, prettier, jealousy, jealousy. All I see is what I should be. I'm losing it, all I get's jealousy, jealousy.”
༘♡ ·˚꒰ nate jacobs 𝐱 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫꒱ ₊˚ˑ
➤ 𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙔, Life quietly reshapes a truth Nate never saw coming: Luca is no longer a shock, but a constant, and the “new normal” begins to settle into the bones of you and Nate’s dynamic. However, there’s something boiling deep inside of Cassie as the new normal becomes apparent.
➤ 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂, 𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅—𝐈𝐒𝐇. SEXUAL THEMES. A BIT OF STALKING AND OBSESSION
➤ 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝘿𝙎, 16.4k
➤ 𝘼𝙐𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙍’𝙎 𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙀, here we are with the fic! it’s been a minute and again, thank you all for being patient. the semester is almost over — i will finally be able to breath and get these fics out!
𝙋𝙍𝙀𝙑𝙄𝙊𝙐𝙎 ➜ YOUR THOUGHTS
𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑵𝑻𝑯𝑺 that followed, Luca stopped feeling like a shock dropped into the middle of your life and started becoming something else entirely—something woven in, something expected, something that changed the rhythm of your days without asking permission and then, somehow, made the rhythm better.
At first, everything had felt delicate.
Every visit, every phone call, every drop-off or dinner had carried the weight of adjustment. There had been schedules to navigate, boundaries to respect, awkwardness to work through, and the constant quiet awareness that everyone was learning each other in real time. Nothing came naturally in the beginning—not because there wasn't care, but because there was so much care that nobody wanted to get it wrong.
But time did what time often does when people keep showing up for each other.
It softened the sharp edges.
Little by little, Luca's presence in your and Nate's life became the new normal.
Not a disruption.
Not a crisis.
Just... part of the week.
There were now extra sneakers by the door sometimes. Small juice boxes in the fridge next to protein shakes and meal-prep containers. Crayons in the coffee table drawer. One of Luca's little hoodies thrown over the back of your couch because he'd gotten warm and kicked it off before running back to whatever he and Nate had been doing. The tablet charger you and Nate swore you didn't need to buy but somehow always had plugged in now. Tiny traces of a child beginning to settle into your space—not overtaking it, just joining it.
And Nate threw himself into fatherhood with the same intensity he brought to everything he loved.
Only this was different from football, different from training, different from the rigid, perfection-driven way he used to approach life. With Luca, he was trying to learn how to be steady instead of spectacular. Present instead of polished. And because he was Nate, he made plans.
So many plans.
He had lists.
Literal lists.
Things he wanted to do with Luca. Places to take him. Small traditions to start. A sports museum downtown. The aquarium. Saturday morning pancakes at that diner with the sticky booths and the cartoon placemats. Throwing a football in the park. Movie nights with "age-appropriate but still cool" selections he researched way too seriously. Trips to the sports store that somehow always ended with Luca leaving with something he definitely didn't need but absolutely loved.
And in Nate's head, almost every one of those plans included you.
At first, that caught you off guard.
You had assumed—quietly, reasonably—that there would be a period where you stepped back. Not emotionally, not in support, but physically. You figured Nate and Luca needed room to build something that belonged to just them. Father and son. Their own language. Their own rhythm. Their own moments that didn't have to pass through you first.
So the first few times Nate naturally folded you into the plan, you pushed back.
Not harshly. Just enough.
"Babe," you'd said one night while the two of you stood in the kitchen packing a little backpack for Luca's Saturday visit, "you know you don't need me there for everything, right?"
Nate had barely looked up from where he was shoving wipes, snacks, and a tiny water bottle into the front zipper pocket. "Didn't say I needed you," he'd muttered.
You raised a brow. "That sounded like a lie."
He'd glanced over then, caught, but not ashamed of it. "Fine," he'd said, zipping the bag shut. "I want you there. Better?"
And that had been the thing.
It wasn't dependence. It wasn't fear. It wasn't Nate trying to offload responsibility or make you do the emotional labor of the situation for him.
He just... wanted you there.
Because you were part of his life, and Luca was now part of his life, and in Nate's mind, the two things weren't supposed to exist in separate lanes unless they absolutely had to.
At first, you worried about interfering.
You worried you'd become a buffer without meaning to—a soft place Nate leaned on too much while he got used to Luca, or a distraction that kept the two of them from figuring each other out naturally. You worried that if you were always in the room, always beside them, then maybe Nate would unconsciously let you carry some of the social ease while he stayed inside his own uncertainty.
And more than that—you worried about Luca.
About whether he'd feel like you were some weird third presence inserted into moments that were supposed to belong to him and his father. Whether he'd start performing for you too, splitting his attention, measuring his reactions against yours. Whether your presence would make it harder for him to simply be a kid around Nate.
So you tried to step lightly.
When Nate invited you to come to the park with them, you did—but you made a point of lingering back sometimes, sitting on the bench while they kicked a soccer ball around until Luca inevitably shouted for you to join.
When Nate planned breakfast outings, you came—but let the two of them order first, settle into their banter, claim their little inside jokes before you slid into the conversation.
When they sat on the living room floor building some ridiculous race track or a half-crooked Lego set, you'd sometimes stay on the couch with your laptop, nearby but not inserted, letting their voices fill the apartment while you pretended not to be listening to every second.
And what surprised you most was this:
Neither of them minded.
Not Nate.
Not Luca.
If anything, Luca started expecting you.
Not in a clingy way. Not like he couldn't be with Nate without you. But in the simple, child-honest way of someone who had already decided you belonged in the picture. He'd show up at the apartment and ask, "Is Y/N here?" before he even took off his shoes. He'd tug on your sleeve to show you a drawing after showing Nate. He'd naturally wedge himself between you both on the couch like it was the most obvious seating arrangement in the world.
And Nate?
Nate looked more at ease when you were around in the beginning, though he probably would've denied it if pressed. Not because you spoke for him or handled anything for him, but because you steadied the atmosphere just by being in it. If conversation stalled, you could nudge it along. If Nate got too intense about teaching Luca something, one look from you usually brought him back down to earth. If the moment got too emotionally loaded, your dry humor or quiet presence kept it from tipping into something too heavy for a six-year-old to carry.
You became, without trying to, part of the architecture of those early months.
Not the center.
Not the bridge.
Just one of the beams holding the space up while Nate and Luca built something real between them.
Still, you kept checking yourself.
You reminded yourself constantly that your job wasn't to stand between them and translate fatherhood into something easier. It was to love Nate, welcome Luca, and know when to step back.
So you got intentional about it.
Sometimes, when Nate started to ask, "You wanna come with us?" before even thinking, you'd smile and say, "Nope. This one's yours."
He'd frown every single time.
"What if he wants you there?"
"Then he can survive missing me for two hours," you'd reply.
And more often than not, Luca did just fine.
Because the more time passed, the less Nate needed training wheels—not that you were training wheels, but that was how your mind framed the transition. He stopped overthinking every conversation. He stopped looking at you after every answer like he needed confirmation that he was doing okay. He got better at meeting Luca where he was instead of trying to fast-forward to some idealized version of father-son closeness.
He learned Luca's rhythms.
How he got quiet when he was tired. How he got stubborn when he was embarrassed. How he loved being taught things but hated feeling talked down to. How he'd ask random, deeply serious questions right in the middle of nonsense—like whether sharks got lonely or whether Nate ever cried when he was little.
And Nate, to his credit, answered.
Not always perfectly. Sometimes awkwardly. Sometimes with a little too much honesty that made you raise your brows from across the room. But he answered.
And that was what mattered.
Over time, the dynamic settled into something that felt healthy. Balanced. Earned.
There were outings where the three of you moved like a little unit—Luca holding one of your hands and one of Nate's while crossing a parking lot, Nate carrying the snacks, you carrying the sunscreen, everyone bickering lightly about where to eat after.
And there were outings where you stayed home on purpose.
Those days, Nate would leave with Luca in the morning, backpack in one hand and his son's chatter buzzing beside him, and the apartment would go quiet in a way that felt strange but right. You'd make coffee, straighten up, maybe train or answer emails, and when they came back a few hours later, the door would burst open with Luca halfway through a story and Nate looking tired but proud in that soft, secretive way he always did after a good day with him.
Those were your favorite returns.
Because you could always tell the difference.
The difference between days when they'd had fun and days when they'd connected.
And more and more often, it was both.
You watched Nate become gentler in these months—not weaker, not softer in the way people used the word like an insult, but more precise with his tenderness. More willing to kneel down and listen. More likely to laugh things off instead of turning rigid. More aware that Luca didn't need perfection from him. Just consistency.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, you realized something too:
This new chapter didn't feel like you losing Nate to fatherhood.
It felt like watching the life you'd built together expand.
Messy, yes. Unexpected, absolutely. Sometimes inconvenient, emotional, and overwhelming.
But real.
There were still moments where you caught yourself standing in the kitchen watching Nate help Luca wash his hands after painting, or hearing the two of them argue in the living room over which superhero would win in a fight, and thought:
This is ours now.
Not in a possessive way.
In a grateful one.
And even though you never stopped being intentional about giving them space—never stopped reminding yourself that they deserved moments that belonged only to them—you also stopped pretending you were outside the story.
You weren't a buffer.
You weren't a distraction.
You weren't just some supportive shadow lingering at the edge of father-son bonding time.
You were part of the life Nate was building with Luca.
And as much as you made room for the two of them to have something separate and sacred, you also accepted a truth that became harder to deny with every passing week.
Luca wasn't just becoming part of Nate's life.
He was becoming part of yours too.
𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑵𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻, the apartment felt quieter than usual.
Not empty—never empty—but quieter in that specific way it always did after Luca left. Like the walls themselves noticed the difference. The living room, which had been full of cartoons, little footsteps, the crinkle of snack wrappers, and Luca's voice asking a hundred questions in a row, had settled back into stillness. One of his small socks had been left near the couch until you picked it up and tossed it into the laundry. His cup was still in the sink. A half-finished drawing sat on the coffee table, forgotten in the rush of Cassie's pickup.
It was always like this after he left.
A little silence.
A little softness.
A little ache.
You and Nate had gotten ready for bed without much talking, both of you moving through the apartment in that worn-in rhythm of shared domesticity. Teeth brushed side by side. Lights turned off one by one. The bedroom lamp left on low until one of you climbed into bed and reached back to switch it off.
Now the room was dim except for the moonlight filtering through the curtains and the faint glow from the city beyond the windows. The faded sheets were cool where they touched your legs, warm where Nate's body heat had already spread through the mattress.
He was behind you, stretched along your back like he was trying to keep you folded into him.
One arm was draped low across your waist, heavy and secure. The other rested higher, his hand splayed against your stomach, fingers flexing every now and then in absent thought. Your back was pressed against his chest, and every slow breath he took brushed warm air over the back of your neck.
It was one of his favorite ways to hold you when his mind was busy.
Protective. Quiet. Possessive in the gentlest way.
You could feel that he wasn't asleep yet. His body was too alert under the stillness, his thumb tracing lazy patterns just beneath the hem of your shirt. There was thought in the way he held you—something turning over and over in his head until he finally decided to say it out loud.
"Nah," you murmured sleepily, not fully opening your eyes. "You're thinking too loud."
You felt his chest move with a soft huff of a laugh.
"That's not a thing," he said, voice low and rough with the hour.
"It is when you live with someone long enough," you replied. "Your silence has different settings."
That got another quiet laugh out of him, softer this time, his mouth brushing lightly against the back of your shoulder.
For a second, he didn't say anything else. He just pulled you a little closer, tightening his arm around your middle until your body settled more completely against his.
Then, finally:
"I think we should move."
That made your eyes open.
Not fully at first—just enough to stare into the dark bedroom in front of you while your brain caught up with the sentence. You shifted slightly in his hold, not enough to leave it, just enough to show him you were awake now.
"Move?" you repeated, voice still thick with sleep. "Like... eventually? Or are you spiraling on Zillow again?"
His hand slid slowly over your stomach, settling there. "Not spiraling," he muttered. "Thinking."
You hummed. "That's usually worse."
He ignored that.
"I'm serious," Nate said, quieter now, but there was purpose in it. "I've been thinking about it for a while, actually. This place..." He trailed off for a beat, his fingers pressing lightly into your side. "It's ours. I love it. But it's getting tight."
You knew what he meant immediately.
The apartment had once been perfect for the two of you. Cozy in a way that felt romantic instead of cramped. Exposed brick, warm light through the big windows, the couch you'd both nearly broken carrying up four flights of stairs, the bed you still swore was too small when Nate got clingy in the middle of the night.
It had been the first place that was truly yours together.
But now there were more moving parts.
A child-sized backpack by the door on some weekends. Toys occasionally tucked under the coffee table. A little body asleep on your couch after too much swimming or too much sugar. Plans being built not just for tomorrow, but for years.
You stayed quiet, letting him keep going.
Nate's mouth found the back of your neck, pressing a soft, absent kiss there before he spoke again.
"I want Luca to have his own room," he said.
That did something immediate to your chest.
You felt yourself soften instinctively in his arms, your head tipping back just slightly against his shoulder so you could hear him better.
"Not just some drawer for his stuff or him sleeping on the couch or in the guest room when he's over," Nate continued. "An actual room. His room. Somewhere he can leave things and come back to them. Somewhere he doesn't have to feel like a visitor."
The way he said it—so matter-of-fact and yet so full of feeling—made your throat tighten.
Because that was exactly the kind of thing Nate thought about now. Not flashy gestures. Not abstract fatherhood ideas. Practical, rooted things. Belonging. Stability. Space.
He shifted behind you, propping himself up slightly on one elbow so he could lean over you a little more.
"I want a house," he said into the quiet. "A real one. With space. A backyard. Maybe a pool." A pause. Then, with a note of consideration that made you smile in spite of yourself: "Or a trampoline."
You laughed softly, the sound muffled by the pillow.
"A trampoline?"
"Why are you acting like that's crazy?" he asked, offended in the most half-hearted way.
"Because you're thirty seconds away from talking about a golden retriever and a swing set."
"Don't start," he muttered. "You know damn well I'd get both."
That made you laugh again, more fully this time. You rolled slightly onto your back so you could look at him, and he let you, one arm still looped around you while the other braced his weight above you.
In the low light, his face looked softer than it ever did in daylight. No game-day sharpness. No public mask. Just Nate—hair messy from bed, lashes low, mouth relaxed, eyes fixed on you with that thoughtful intensity he only ever let you see up close.
He looked serious.
Not impulsive. Not caught up in some passing fantasy. Serious.
"And," he added, voice quieter again, "maybe a room for our stuff too."
You raised a brow. "Our stuff?"
His mouth twitched. "You know what I mean."
You did.
Your trophies. His trophies. Medals. Frames. Jerseys. Photos. The collection of proof that the two of you had built careers and lives worth remembering. The apartment had little traces of all of it—some on shelves, some in closets, some in boxes because there simply wasn't room.
"A trophy room?" you asked, amused.
He shrugged, but there was no embarrassment in it. "Why not?"
"Because that sounds obnoxious."
"It sounds earned," he corrected.
You studied him for a long moment, then let your eyes drift away for a second, into the dark room, into the idea of it.
A house.
Luca's own room.
A backyard. Space. Noise. Light. Somewhere that could hold more than the two of you curled into each other after long days. Somewhere that could hold a child's life too.
And the more you pictured it, the less it felt impossible.
Actually... you didn't hate the idea at all.
Not even a little.
In fact, warmth spread through you so quickly it surprised you.
"You know," you said slowly, the smile creeping into your voice before it fully made it to your face, "Luca having his own room would be really nice."
Nate's expression shifted immediately at the way you said it—like the softness in your tone reached him before the words did.
"Yeah?" he asked, quieter now.
You nodded, already warming to it.
"Yeah," you said. "He'd love that. We could actually let him decorate it too. Not just throw some neutral furniture in there and call it a day." Your eyes lit a little more as you thought it through. "He'd probably want something chaotic. Dinosaurs one week, superheroes the next, race cars after that."
Nate's mouth curved slowly, eyes locked on your face now instead of the ceiling or the dark window or whatever future he'd been imagining before.
You kept going, because now that the idea had settled into you, you could see it.
"No, wait," you said, shifting fully onto your back so your face was open to his. "We'd let him choose. Like actually choose. Bedding, lamp, wall color if it's not ugly enough to cause a fight." You smiled wider, more awake now than you'd been five minutes ago. "And he'd absolutely want some ridiculous glow-in-the-dark something on the ceiling."
Nate just watched you.
You could feel it—that particular kind of silence from him, the one that meant he wasn't zoning out, he was soaking you in.
"We could get one of those little bookshelves," you added, already picturing it. "And a bin for his drawings. Maybe a corkboard or magnetic wall for all the weird little things he's proud of. His soccer stuff. His animals. He'd make a mess of it in like three days, but it'd be his
The idea clearly delighted you more the longer you talked, and Nate's expression changed in response. Something deep and warm moved across his face—something so tender it almost hurt to look at too long.
He loved this.
Not just the idea of the house.
The sound of you talking about Luca like that.
With ease. With affection. With genuine excitement.
Like this life with Nate had expanded and instead of resisting it, you had opened up and made room.
His gaze dropped to your mouth when you smiled, then lifted back to your eyes. He looked a little wrecked by how fond he felt.
"You're cute," he murmured.
You blinked. "For... interior design?"
"For talking about him like that," Nate said.
Your expression softened.
He shifted then, moving over you more fully, one hand planting beside your head while the other slid over your waist beneath your shirt. His body settled between your legs without fully pinning you, his weight familiar and welcome, the mattress dipping around you both.
"You get all excited when you talk about giving him things," he said, voice lower now, threaded with something warm and intimate. "Like you're already planning it in your head."
You smiled, a little sheepish now that he'd caught it so easily. "Maybe I am."
"Yeah," he whispered. "I know."
And then his mouth was on your neck.
Not hurried. Not rough. Just slow, affectionate kisses pressed into the warm skin beneath your jaw, each one lingering like he was thanking you in a language made entirely of touch. His hand spread over your side, thumb stroking once, twice, his breathing deeper now against you.
You tipped your head back automatically, giving him more room, one hand sliding up into his hair.
"Nate," you murmured, half warning, half invitation.
He hummed against your skin, then kissed higher—along the line of your throat, just below your ear, then back down again in a path that made your body loosen under him.
"I like hearing you talk about him," he admitted quietly between kisses. "About our life like that."
Our life.
The words landed somewhere deep.
His mouth found yours next, brushing once, twice—soft, testing, then fuller when you tilted up to meet him. The kiss wasn't desperate. It was warm and deep and full of the kind of intimacy that came from years of knowing exactly how the other one softened.
You kissed him back slowly, your fingers in his hair, your other hand sliding over his shoulder and down his back.
When he pulled away just enough to breathe, his forehead brushed yours.
"You really don't hate the idea?" he asked again, like he needed to hear it one more time.
You smiled up at him, your lips still close enough to graze his when you spoke.
"No," you said softly. "I really don't."
That earned you another kiss—longer this time, his mouth curving faintly against yours.
Then he dipped back to your neck, pressing another trail of kisses there while his hand drifted lower over your side, slow and familiar, the conversation no longer just about square footage and room colors.
Because that was the thing about you and Nate.
Even talks about the future—about mortgages and backyards and where Luca's bed might go—somehow ended with his mouth on your skin and your heart beating faster for reasons that had nothing to do with real estate.
𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑫𝑰𝑼𝑴 was alive in a way only professional football stadiums could be—bright, loud, and pulsing with the kind of energy that settled into your bones whether you wanted it to or not.
From the moment you all stepped out into the sea of jerseys, foam fingers, and rushing fans, the air had felt electric. Music boomed from speakers overhead, bass rattling through the concrete concourse. The scent of stadium food drifted everywhere—hot dogs, popcorn, fried everything, buttery pretzels, spilled beer. Huge screens flashed player stats and hype videos, and every few seconds another roar swelled up from somewhere in the stands as people found their seats, recognized players warming up on the field, or simply got caught in the fever of game day.
You walked beside Luca as the group made its way to the seats, his smaller hand occasionally brushing yours when the crowd got too tight. He wore a miniature version of Nate's jersey—slightly oversized, sleeves bunching at his wrists, the number on the front almost too big for his chest. Marsha had nearly cried when she saw him in it before they left the house.
Now, seated high enough to see the whole field but close enough to feel the impact of the crowd, all of you settled into a strange, evolving version of family.
Cassie sat with Luca on one side and you on the other, while Marsha and her husband occupied the seats nearby, already deep in the kind of game-day rituals that came from years of watching Nate play. Marsha clutched her bag and kept glancing down at the field like she could spot him even among the chaos of helmets and warm-up drills. Her husband sat broader and quieter, offering the occasional dry observation but otherwise keeping his eyes locked on the turf.
And Luca—
Luca was beside himself.
His legs kicked restlessly against the edge of the seat, sneakers thudding lightly as he leaned forward every few seconds to look at the field, then back at one of you, then back at the field again.
"Which one is he?" he asked for what had to be the sixth time, though his voice still held the same eager urgency as the first.
You smiled, patient. "The one warming up near the thirty," you said, pointing. "See? White sleeves under the jersey."
Luca squinted, one hand shielding his eyes from the glare bouncing off the field. "That one?"
"No, babe," Cassie corrected gently. "Two over."
"That's him," you added, your finger tracing the movement until Luca locked onto Nate's familiar frame.
The second he did, his face lit up.
"Oh!" he shouted, sitting up straighter. "I see him! I see him!"
Marsha laughed softly, hand coming to rest over her heart. "There he is," she said, though whether she was talking to Luca or herself was anyone's guess.
When Nate looked up during warm-ups and found your section, the shift in him was subtle but impossible to miss if you knew him. His posture loosened just a fraction. He lifted a hand—not dramatic, just enough—and Luca immediately waved both arms like he was flagging down a plane.
"Dad!" Luca yelled, even though there was no way Nate could hear him over the crowd.
Still, Nate smiled.
It was quick, but it was there.
And just like that, the whole section around you seemed to brighten.
When the game started, everything intensified.
The crowd rose and fell like a living thing. Every hit on the field sent a collective noise rolling through the stadium. The giant screens flashed replays, stats, close-ups of players. The announcer's voice boomed overhead, rattling off names and yardage while the band and music stingers punched through every pause.
You all got pulled into it.
Marsha cheered with the full-body investment of a football mother who'd been doing this since Friday night lights. Her husband leaned forward on the big plays, muttering things under his breath like he was still somehow coaching from the stands. Cassie clapped and shouted Nate's name at key moments, half-focused on the field and half on Luca's reactions.
And Luca?
Luca was all in.
Every time Nate took the field, his whole body angled toward the action, hands gripping the edge of his seat, eyes wide and bright with amazement. He asked questions nonstop—what's a first down, why did the whistle blow, did Dad throw that, why are they running that way—and more often than not, his questions came to you.
"Was that good?"
"Why did they stop him?"
"Is Dad mad?"
"How far is a touchdown?"
You answered each one as best you could, breaking things down simply, leaning in close enough so he could hear you over the crowd. Sometimes Cassie answered too, or Marsha chimed in, but Luca kept turning toward you instinctively—as if somewhere in his mind, you'd been filed under safe to ask.
By the second quarter, the pattern was impossible to ignore.
When Nate completed a big pass and the stadium erupted, Luca grabbed your arm first.
"That was him!" he shouted, bouncing in his seat.
You grinned. "Yeah, that was him."
When the team pushed down the field and the crowd rose to its feet, Luca stood too, nearly climbing over the seat in front of him.
"Do you think he's gonna score?" he asked, tugging your sleeve.
"Maybe," you said, laughing. "If his line holds."
Luca repeated it immediately, like it was sacred strategy. "If his line holds," he echoed seriously.
Then Nate did score.
Or rather, Nate led the drive, called the play, and the team punched it in clean. The stadium absolutely detonated around you—cheers slamming into the air, people jumping to their feet, music blaring, screens flashing 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 in giant letters.
Luca screamed.
So did Marsha.
You were on your feet with them, laughing as the whole section roared and clapped and pointed toward the field.
And in the middle of all that noise, Luca turned to you again.
"He did it!" he yelled, throwing himself against your side in excitement. "Dad did it!"
You laughed, steadying him with a hand at his back. "Yeah, he did."
Cassie clapped along, smiling because how could she not? Her son was lit up in a way she hadn't seen often enough lately—purely, openly happy. And Nate, down there on the field, looked powerful and sure and completely in his element.
But even through her smile, she noticed it.
The way Luca kept reaching for you.
The way he kept checking your face after the big moments, like your reaction helped confirm his own. The way he repeated your words back, not hers. The way, every time Nate did something impressive, Luca's first instinct was to turn toward you like you were part of the explanation.
Even the smallest things started to pile up.
When Luca wanted help opening his snack, he leaned toward you.
When he wanted to know if Nate would come over after the game, he asked you.
When he proudly pointed at the giant screen during a replay, his shoulder bumped yours first.
And each time, you responded without making it a thing. Easy. Warm. Never overstepping. Never acting like his parent. Just... there. Present. Familiar.
That somehow made it worse.
Because Cassie couldn't even be angry about it properly.
It wasn't like you were trying to win him over in some calculated way. If anything, you were careful. Respectful. You never corrected her. Never inserted yourself in ways that made a scene. You answered questions, smiled when he talked, explained the game, handed him snacks, laughed at his comments.
That was all.
And yet.
From where Cassie sat, it was enough to make something unpleasant gather under her ribs.
A hot, quiet jealousy.
Not romantic jealousy—not exactly.
Something more layered than that.
Because Luca wasn't just warming up to Nate.
He was warming up to the life around Nate too.
To Marsha fussing over him. To Aaron's teasing when he tagged along to other things. To you sitting there beside him in the stands, explaining football and smiling at him like this all made sense, like there was already a seat for him in the life you and Nate had built.
Cassie kept her face composed, but every time Luca leaned toward you again, she felt it.
That small pull of something bitter.
During halftime, while everyone around you stood to stretch or make snack runs, Luca stayed in his seat kicking his legs and talking a mile a minute about what he'd seen.
"Did you see that throw?" he asked you, eyes huge. "That was crazy."
"It was a good one," you said.
"He looked cool," Luca added, then corrected himself with six-year-old seriousness. "No—he looked really cool."
You laughed. "Yeah, your dad tends to do that."
Cassie looked at the two of you then, really looked, and had to force her expression not to change.
Because Luca was glowing.
And some part of her—small, ugly, undeniable—resented that you were now part of what made him glow.
She looked back out at the field, jaw tightening faintly as the teams re-emerged from the tunnel.
Marsha, oblivious to the tension in Cassie's chest, leaned over Luca with a smile. "You having fun, sweetheart?"
Luca nodded eagerly. "Yeah! Dad's really good."
"Yes, he is," Marsha said proudly.
Then Luca added, without even thinking, "And Y/N says the line held, so that's why it worked."
Marsha chuckled. "Well, Y/N's right."
You smiled at him, amused.
Cassie rolled her eyes ever so slightly and turned her face toward the field before anyone could catch it.
Just a small movement. Barely there.
But inside, the feeling stayed.
Because this was what she hadn't prepared for—not just Nate stepping into Luca's life, but Luca reaching right past her expectations and taking hold of the people around Nate too.
And whether she liked it or not, whether it pinched or stung or made jealousy bloom where she wanted grace instead—
You were becoming part of Luca's normal too.
Once the game ended, the stadium didn't calm down so much as shift shape.
The roar that had been trapped in the stands spilled outward into the concourses, into the exits, into the long concrete arteries beneath the arena where staff, security, family, and media all moved in separate currents. The field was still alive behind you—players shaking hands, camera crews swarming, the giant screens replaying the biggest moments while fans slowly filed out with hoarse voices and half-finished drinks.
But you all were moving in a different direction.
A team staffer wearing a credential around his neck led the group away from the main crowd, through a side corridor and down toward the underground family access area beneath the stadium. The energy there was different—still busy, still charged, but more controlled. The air smelled faintly of concrete, detergent, and the ghost of turf carried in on cleats. Golf carts rolled by occasionally. Staff members with headsets clipped to their ears spoke in quick, clipped phrases. Somewhere down the hall, a metal equipment cart squeaked over the floor. Another hallway farther off echoed with bursts of laughter from players heading toward the locker room.
Luca stayed close as you walked, his little sneakers making quick, excited sounds against the polished concrete floor. The oversized jersey still hung on him, though now it was slightly wrinkled from all the cheering and twisting around in his seat. His cheeks were still flushed from the game, and his excitement clearly hadn't worn off yet.
Marsha walked on his other side, one hand occasionally hovering near his back in that grandmotherly way—ready to steady him even when he didn't need it. Her husband moved beside her, calmer than the rest, but no less proud, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket while his eyes took in everything. Cassie followed just a half-step behind, bag on one shoulder, expression composed and pretty in the way she always seemed to manage even after a long day.
And you—
You were the one Luca kept drifting toward.
By the time you reached the waiting area underground, it had become impossible not to notice. It was a wide open space sectioned off for family and approved guests, lined with a few benches and industrial-looking walls softened only by framed team posters and directional signs. Security stood at the edges, and every few seconds someone important-looking walked by with a clipboard or a camera rig.
You all settled there to wait for Nate.
Luca practically vibrated with energy.
"Did you see that throw in the second quarter?" he asked you for what had to be the fourth time, not because he'd forgotten your answer, but because he clearly liked hearing it repeated.
You smiled, leaning back against the wall behind you while he stood in front of you, hands moving as he talked.
"The one down the sideline?" you asked.
"Yes!" he said, eyes widening. "The really long one."
"Yeah," you replied, nodding. "That was clean. Perfect timing too."
Luca mimicked the motion of a pass with his arm, nearly smacking himself in the face with how hard he committed to it. "Like that?"
You laughed softly. "A little less wild. But sure."
He grinned, encouraged, then launched into another rapid-fire thought. "And when everyone screamed after the touchdown, I thought my ears were gonna explode."
"That's because you were screaming too," you pointed out.
"I know," he said, absolutely unashamed. "It was awesome."
Cassie stood a few feet away with Marsha, not far enough to be separate, but far enough to observe.
And she did.
She watched the easy little bubble that had formed between you and Luca—the way he angled himself toward you without even thinking about it, the way your voice automatically softened when you answered him, the way you listened like every one of his observations actually mattered.
It wasn't showy. It wasn't performative. You weren't crouching down trying to win him over or stepping into some role that wasn't yours.
You were just... good with him.
Comfortable.
And Luca, in turn, was comfortable right back.
He reached for your sleeve absentmindedly while talking. He pointed things out to you first. He laughed easier when you answered him. At one point he leaned in conspiratorially to tell you that a player on Nate's team was "funny but a lot," which nearly made you laugh out loud.
Cassie caught all of it.
Every small thing.
Marsha was too buoyant in her post-game glow to notice much beyond the fact that her grandson looked happy and her son had played beautifully. Her husband kept making the occasional dry comment about a call the refs had blown. But Cassie's focus kept drifting back to you and Luca.
Because from where she stood, it looked... natural.
More natural than she wanted it to.
Time stretched in the waiting area in that odd, suspended way it always did after a game. Players didn't come out right away. First they had to shower, dress, be checked by trainers, speak to coaches, and then get pulled into waves of interviews and press obligations. Family members waited in little clusters, all of them pretending patience while scanning every hallway for familiar faces.
Luca asked, "How long does it take?"
"A while," Marsha answered gently.
"Does Dad know we're here?" Luca asked next, looking at you.
You nodded. "Yeah. He knows."
That seemed to satisfy him for maybe thirty seconds.
Then he started asking what players did after games, whether Nate got hungry, if he was tired, if football hurt, whether you ever got this tired after running, whether touchdowns counted if the player got tackled after—
You answered every question you could. The ones you couldn't, you made a joke about until he giggled.
Cassie watched you do it all and tried very hard not to let her face show too much.
Then finally, the movement in the corridor shifted.
A group of players emerged from deeper in the tunnel area, most of them freshly showered and changed into branded sweats, clean sneakers, team jackets, or carefully styled post-game outfits for press. They walked in a loose line, some still talking to each other, some already slipping into interview mode with smiles sharpened and posture straightening.
And there he was.
Nate.
Even from a distance, he stood out.
His hair was still damp from the shower, curls darkened and pushed back from his forehead. He wore a fitted team jacket unzipped over a clean T-shirt, joggers that sat low on his hips, and that same post-game gravity he always carried after a strong performance—adrenaline not fully burned off yet, body finally scrubbed clean but still buzzing underneath the surface.
He was walking with a few other players toward the interview area, a PR staffer already guiding them forward.
But the second he saw you all, he broke from the flow.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
His whole face changed first—tight focus loosening into something warmer, more private. His steps angled toward your group without hesitation, and Luca straightened immediately like a little wire had been pulled tight through him.
"Dad!" Luca said, the word bright and automatic now.
Nate's smile came quick.
He didn't stop for long—he clearly couldn't, not with the media line waiting—but he made the moment count anyway.
He reached you first.
His hand came up to cup the side of your face for half a second, thumb brushing your cheek in a gesture so instinctive it didn't look planned at all. Then he leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn't a lingering, bedroom kind of kiss. It was quick, warm, and familiar—something between greeting and gratitude, a tiny pulse of intimacy in the middle of all the noise. But it was enough. Enough that everyone around you could see it. Enough that it carried the easy confidence of people who had done this a thousand times and still meant it every time.
Then he turned to Luca.
His large hand landed on top of the boy's head, fingers ruffling through his hair with affection that was already starting to come naturally.
"You did the long throw," Luca said seriously, gesturing with both hands. "And the touchdown."
Nate glanced at you, amused. "Did he break down the game for you?"
"He's been doing a full post-game analysis for the last twenty minutes," you said.
"That's because I know football now," Luca announced.
Nate huffed out a smile, eyes warm. "Clearly."
He squeezed Luca lightly at the shoulder, then glanced back down the hallway where the PR staffer was waiting with the strained patience of someone who knew better than to rush players in front of family.
"I gotta go do interviews," Nate said, looking between Luca and you. "Then I'll be back."
Luca nodded like he accepted the terms of this contract.
"Okay."
Nate gave him one last little tousle of the hair, then let his hand slide briefly to the back of your neck as he passed you again—a tiny touch, intimate enough to be felt more than seen.
And then he was gone, folding back into the line of players heading toward cameras and microphones and carefully phrased answers.
For a second, nobody said anything.
Because the moment had lingered.
Cassie stood a little apart, one hand looped through the strap of her bag, and watched the space Nate had just left behind. Her eyes moved from the corridor to Luca, then to you.
And there it was again.
That image she hadn't asked to see so clearly.
You.
Nate.
Luca.
The three of you had fit together in that tiny, casual sequence of motions with unsettling ease—Nate stopping on instinct, kissing you first, touching Luca next, looking between both of you like you were the people he expected to see waiting for him after a game.
In Cassie's eyes, the picture was immediate and painfully complete.
A little family.
Not official. Not by title. Not in the traditional shape she would've once imagined.
But a family all the same.
You standing there with your calm, steady presence. Luca glowing under Nate's attention. Nate moving between the two of you with a naturalness that suggested he already saw you as a unit.
Cassie's chest tightened.
It wasn't that she wanted the kiss. It wasn't even exactly that she wanted the image for herself.
It was that she hadn't fully prepared for how whole the three of you would look together.
How lived-in.
How easy.
Marsha, meanwhile, looked delighted—practically floating with pride after seeing her son play, then watching him stop for the people waiting for him underground. Her husband gave a small grunt of approval, like this too fit some internal standard he had for what a man should do after a game.
Luca just looked thrilled.
"He kissed you fast," he said to you matter-of-factly, as if it were an observation worth logging.
You laughed despite yourself. "Yeah. He had somewhere to be."
Luca nodded solemnly, apparently satisfied with that.
Cassie rolled her eyes just a little and looked away toward the corridor, but the feeling stayed lodged under her ribs.
Because whether she liked it or not, whether it stung or annoyed or quietly unsettled her—
From where she stood, under the bright industrial lights of the stadium tunnel, watching Nate peel off from fame and football and the cameras just long enough to come back to you and Luca—
You three looked like home to each other.
𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑭𝑬𝑬𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑮 stayed with Cassie long after the stadium lights were behind them.
It clung to her through the drive to the restaurant, through the hostess leading them to a large booth in the back, through the scrape of chairs and the low murmur of other diners talking over drinks and late dinners. It sat in her chest like something hot and irritating she couldn't cough up or swallow down.
Because even once the game was over, even once everyone had changed settings from stadium-family to restaurant-family, the dynamic hadn't shifted.
If anything, it had become harder to ignore.
The restaurant was warm and softly lit, all amber hanging lights and polished wood, with the scent of grilled meat, butter, wine, and fresh bread weaving through the air. It was the kind of place Marsha liked—nice without being too stiff, familiar enough that the staff greeted her husband by name and didn't blink at the size of the group.
They were seated in a wide semicircle booth, the adults arranged around Luca almost instinctively, like his presence had become the center all of them were quietly orbiting.
Marsha took the seat closest to him first, of course. Her husband slid in beside her, calm and watchful. Cassie sat on Luca's other side at the start, but it didn't stay feeling that simple for long. Nate took the seat across from Luca, close enough to talk to him easily, and you slid in beside Nate—not on the outskirts, not politely detached, but exactly where you always seemed to be now:
At his side.
That alone made something tighten in Cassie.
Not because it was inappropriate. Not because it was shocking.
Because it was natural.
Too natural.
Nate didn't have to think about reaching for your drink when the waitress asked what everyone wanted. He didn't have to pause before leaning in to murmur something low to you while the menus were being passed around. He didn't hesitate when Luca asked a question and the answer came from both of you in easy succession, like you'd already learned how to occupy the same space around him without tripping over each other.
Cassie told herself to get over it.
This was what she wanted, wasn't it?
She had wanted Luca to know his father. She had wanted Nate to show up. To be present. To stop being a name and become a real person in their son's life. She had wanted access, stability, consistency—something more than memories and explanations and old photos.
And she'd gotten it.
But what she hadn't expected—what she hadn't prepared herself for—was that Nate wouldn't be building this relationship with Luca in isolation.
He had made that clear from the beginning.
Clear in the park, clear at Marsha's, clear every time he referred to you as family, as someone whose life this also affected. Cassie had heard him. She had understood the words.
Still, understanding the words and living inside the reality of them were two very different things.
Because this wasn't just you being "involved."
This wasn't you occasionally tagging along or hovering in the background as Nate navigated fatherhood.
This felt bigger.
More embedded.
More permanent.
It felt, to Cassie's increasingly irritated eyes, like you weren't simply part of Nate's life while Nate was a father.
It felt like you were becoming part of Luca's life too.
Something dangerously close to a stepfather.
And every time the thought formed clearly enough to name, she rejected it on instinct.
Not because you were doing anything wrong.
That was the worst part.
You weren't trying to overstep. You weren't inserting yourself with force or claiming territory that wasn't yours. You weren't calling the shots or trying to outshine her or play house in some theatrical way.
You were just... there.
Present. Warm. Solid. Easy for Luca to reach for.
And Luca, annoyingly, had taken to that with very little resistance.
By the time the drinks came and bread was set in the middle of the table, he was already deep into retelling the game, and once again, his body kept angling toward you and Nate both.
"At the part where Dad threw the really long pass," Luca was saying, hands moving wildly to demonstrate, "everybody around us screamed so loud, I thought my ears were gonna break."
Aaron would've laughed at that, Cassie thought absently—then remembered Aaron wasn't there tonight and, for some reason, wished he was. His presence might've diluted some of the feeling. Given her something else to focus on.
Instead, she was left with this.
Nate smiled across the table, the expression softer than the public one he wore for fans and cameras. "Your ears survive?"
"Barely," Luca said, then turned to you. "But Y/N said it was because the line held."
Cassie's eyes flicked to you instantly.
You smiled into your water glass like you weren't even trying to make that cute. "I did say that."
"And he was right," Luca informed Nate proudly, as if presenting you as a reliable source.
Nate looked over at you, amused and warm in a way that made Cassie's stomach twist. "He usually is."
That little exchange—small, harmless, entirely ordinary—lodged under her skin anyway.
Because it was happening over and over now.
Luca didn't just talk to Nate.
He talked through you sometimes. Around you. Toward you. He folded you into the rhythm of his questions and excitement like it had already become second nature.
Cassie picked up her wine and took a careful sip, letting the coolness sit on her tongue while she kept her expression neutral.
Marsha, meanwhile, was in full grandmother mode.
She fussed over Luca's menu options. Asked if he wanted fries or vegetables. Suggested dessert before anyone had even ordered entrees. Her husband chimed in occasionally with dry observations that made Luca blink and then laugh two seconds later when he realized the joke.
The whole table had a kind of warm, lived-in energy to it by the time the food arrived.
Steaks and pasta and salmon and a child-sized burger with fries. More bread. More drinks. The waitress coming back often enough that she had clearly clocked this table as one to keep happy.
And the more comfortable the table got, the more Cassie felt that earlier image from the stadium refuse to leave her.
You.
Nate.
Luca.
A little family.
Not the one she would have imagined years ago. Not one built out of what she once thought her life would be. But real enough now to feel like a threat to whatever fragile emotional order she'd expected.
She watched Nate cut part of his steak while still listening to Luca tell a rambling story about a kid at school who thought dolphins were fish. She watched you reach over and slide the ketchup closer before Luca even had to ask. She watched Luca bounce happily between all of it, never once looking uncomfortable in the web of attention around him.
And she hated—quietly, bitterly, irrationally—how much it worked.
Not enough to stop it.
Never that.
She still wanted Luca to have this.
She still wanted him to know Nate, to feel loved by his father, to have access to that side of himself and that side of the family.
But she hadn't expected the emotional texture of it to feel like this.
Like being slowly edged out of a picture she herself had set in motion.
Then, somewhere between the main course and the first conversation about dessert, Marsha leaned back slightly in her seat with that specific look she got whenever an idea had fully formed in her head and she'd already decided it was excellent.
"Oh," she said, brightening all at once, "I just had the best idea."
Her husband glanced at her over the rim of his glass with the weary patience of a man who had been married long enough to recognize when he was about to be volunteered for something.
"That's always dangerous," he muttered.
Marsha ignored him.
She set her fork down and looked around the table, clearly pleased with herself. "We should take a vacation."
Cassie blinked.
Nate looked up from his plate. "A vacation?"
"Yes," Marsha said, warming to it immediately. "A family vacation."
The way she said family made the table shift subtly. Cassie felt it. So did Nate. You did too, though your face stayed more composed than hers.
Marsha pressed on before anyone could question her momentum.
"The one we used to take every summer when the boys were younger," she said, glancing fondly between Nate and the empty memory of Aaron not being there. "Cabin by the lake. Little town, lots of trees, boats, hiking, bonfires. You remember."
Nate did remember. Cassie could tell by the way his face changed slightly—some mix of nostalgia and surprise pulling at his features.
Marsha smiled at Luca. "It would be your first family vacation with us," she said, and her voice softened around the thought. "A proper one. Swimming, s'mores, staying up too late. No school, no work, no rush. Just time together."
Luca's eyes widened instantly.
"A cabin?" he repeated, captivated.
"Yes," Marsha said. "A real cabin."
"With a lake?" he asked.
"With a lake," she confirmed.
"Can you fish there?"
"If your father remembers how," Marsha replied.
Nate snorted softly. "I remember."
Luca looked thrilled now, practically vibrating again in his seat. "Can we go on a boat?"
"We used to," Nate said, leaning forward a little. "Used to rent one every summer."
Cassie sat very still.
Because of course Marsha's idea wasn't just a casual outing or a Sunday lunch.
It was bigger than that.
Longer. More intimate. More loaded.
A vacation meant days together. Shared meals. Shared mornings. Shared memories being built all at once instead of in carefully rationed little pieces. It meant Luca stepping deeper into Nate's family structure. Into their traditions. Into their story.
And, if she was honest, it meant you being there too.
Because there wasn't a world now where Nate went on a "family vacation" involving Luca and simply left you behind. Cassie knew that before anyone even said it out loud.
She could already see the shape of it.
The cabin. The lake. Nate carrying bags. You probably packing sunscreen and snacks because somebody had to think ahead. Marsha fussing over room assignments. Luca running between all of you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The idea made her smile politely.
It also made jealousy bloom hotter in her chest.
Because this was exactly what she hadn't expected when Nate said you'd be involved.
She had imagined participation.
Support.
Presence.
She had not imagined integration so seamless it began to resemble a role.
Stepfather.
The word scraped at her pride even as she refused to say it aloud.
Marsha kept talking, fully committed now. "It would be good for everyone," she said. "Good for Luca. Good for all of us, honestly. Time away to just enjoy each other instead of constantly feeling like everything has to be a serious conversation."
Her husband nodded once, which in his language practically meant enthusiastic support. "Kid should see the lake," he said simply.
Luca looked around the table, eyes bright with hope now. "Can we really go?"
Nate looked at Cassie first.
That, at least, he got right.
Not because he needed permission like a child, but because he understood what this was really asking. Time. Trust. Space. Shared custody of memory, if not legally then emotionally.
Cassie met his gaze, her smile still in place, thin but functional.
And then, almost against her own will, her eyes flicked to you.
Because you were part of the equation whether she liked it or not.
You weren't speaking. You weren't pushing. You were just sitting there, one hand around your glass, expression thoughtful, already looking like someone considering logistics instead of fantasy—schedules, weather, what Luca might need, how to make it easy instead of overwhelming.
Again.
So steady.
So embedded.
Cassie looked back at Nate and felt that bitter little ache twist once more.
Because yes, she wanted Luca to know his father.
She wanted him loved.
Wanted him included.
Wanted him to experience joy and family and belonging.
But she hadn't expected that in getting all of that... Luca might also end up loving the life Nate had built without her.
And that life, infuriatingly, had you standing right in the middle of it.
𝑳𝑨𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑵𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻, Cassie was back in her apartment with the kind of silence that only settled in after a long, emotionally loaded day. Luca had already been handled—bathed, changed into pajamas, tucked into bed after a sleepy stream of last-minute questions and one extra request for water. His bedroom door was cracked just enough for the hall light to spill in softly, and from down the hallway, the faint sound of a children's sleep soundtrack drifted through the stillness.
The rest of the apartment glowed in warm, curated light. Her vanity bulbs were on. Candles flickered on the dresser. Her phone was propped up on its stand in front of the mirror, already recording as she sat in her silk robe, hair clipped back, skin prepped for the "get ready with me" night routine she knew her followers loved. It should have been easy. Familiar. Muscle memory. Smile at the camera, say something vague and pretty, talk about skincare, maybe hint at an "emotionally crazy day" without giving details, let the comments fill in the rest.
She had already started.
"Okay, so tonight has been..." Cassie began, glancing into the front-facing camera with the perfect mix of softness and exhaustion she knew played well online, "...a lot, and I feel like I really need to reset—"
Her phone buzzed.
The notification banner slid across the top of the screen.
Nate Jacobs made a post.
Cassie froze.
Her eyes dropped instantly to the screen, lashes lowering as the words registered. For a second, she didn't move, like maybe if she ignored it the curiosity would pass. It didn't. If anything, it sharpened, immediate and invasive, cutting straight through whatever polished little online persona she'd been trying to step into.
Without thinking, she reached forward and stopped the recording.
The red timer vanished. The room seemed quieter after that, stripped of performance.
She picked up her phone.
For a moment, all she could see was her own reflection in the black edge of the screen—blonde hair pinned back, gloss still fresh, expression already tightening before she'd even opened the app. Then she tapped the notification.
Nate's post loaded.
It was a carousel.
The first photo was from the game—Nate in uniform on the field under the stadium lights, helmet off, sweat on his skin, expression sharp and focused in that way people always loved. The kind of shot that would instantly do numbers because he looked every inch like the version of him the public had built into something larger than life. Cassie barely paused on it. She swiped.
The next photo hit differently.
Luca.
Her son was in the frame wearing the oversized jersey, smiling so hard his whole face had changed shape. He was standing in the stadium tunnel, cheeks still flushed from excitement, one hand lifted mid-gesture like he'd been talking when the picture was taken. Nate had captioned nothing yet in her mind—because she hadn't even looked at the words. The image alone was enough. Luca on Nate's page. Luca in the polished, public, carefully chosen grid of Nate's life.
She swallowed.
Swipe.
Another game shot. Another candid. Then dinner.
Marsha smiling at Luca across the table. Her husband half-caught in a candid while reaching for his drink. A photo of the table itself with plates, drinks, dessert, all warm golden tones and family-dinner intimacy. Cassie felt her chest tighten a little more with each slide.
And then—
You.
There was a picture of you and Nate together from after the game, clearly taken in that casual, affectionate way that only happened when people around you were used to seeing you like this. Nate had one arm around your shoulders, pulling you close while you were laughing at something off-camera. Your head was tilted slightly toward him, your smile easy and real, and his face—his face looked softer than Cassie remembered it ever being when he was younger. Open. Settled. Intimate in a way that made the photo look less like a moment and more like a life.
She swiped again too fast, then backtracked.
Another one.
You, Nate, and Luca.
Not posed exactly, which somehow made it worse. Luca was in the middle, looking up at Nate while your hand rested lightly at his back. Nate's attention was on Luca. Yours was on both of them. It was subtle, candid, easy—three bodies caught in a moment of natural closeness that didn't need explanation because it explained itself.
Cassie's thumb stilled on the screen.
For a second, the vanity lights around her mirror felt too bright.
She scrolled back up and finally forced herself to read the caption.
It was simple. Too simple. Something about a good win, good people, gratitude, family. Maybe an understated blue heart or a football emoji thrown in because Nate wasn't one for long paragraphs. That only made it worse. He didn't need to spell it out. The pictures did that for him.
Cassie sat back in her chair slowly, phone still in her hand, the unfinished GRWM setup glowing uselessly in front of her. Her stomach felt tight, not with heartbreak exactly, but with something more irritated and humiliating. Because she had already seen the dynamic in person. She had already felt how natural you and Nate moved around Luca, how easily Luca reached for you, how fully Marsha had embraced him. But seeing it like this—publicly, aesthetically, preserved and posted—did something else.
It made it official in a way that dinner hadn't.
It made it look not temporary, not fragile, not under construction.
It made it look real.
Cassie's thumb moved almost on instinct after that, dragging her back to Nate's page. If tonight was in the grid, then what else had been there? How much had she ignored? How much had changed in the last few months while she was busy trying not to think too hard about what Nate's life actually looked like now?
She started scrolling.
And scrolling.
At first, it was what she expected—game photos, campaign shoots, team posts, highlights from his career, the occasional training video, a clean shot of him in some expensive jacket leaning against a car like he'd never once had an awkward phase in his life. But the deeper she went into the more recent months, the clearer the shift became.
There was Luca again.
Not everywhere. Nate wasn't flooding the page with him. But enough. Enough that it was obvious this wasn't some one-time inclusion or performative introduction. A small hand in a photo from the aquarium. The back of Luca's head in a diner booth with pancakes. A picture of little sneakers beside Nate's larger pair at the apartment door. A soccer ball in the grass with the caption suggesting a Sunday afternoon. A child-sized drawing taped to the fridge in the background of one of Nate's mirror selfies.
And then there were the three of you.
Over and over again, not always center frame, but undeniably present as a pattern.
A park photo with Nate on a bench, Luca half-climbing over him, and you standing nearby laughing. A blurry candid of you and Luca in the kitchen with flour on the counter while Nate's caption joked about "coming home to chaos." A picture on the couch—Luca between you both, asleep, while Nate's arm stretched behind all of you. Another in a restaurant booth. Another on a walk. Another from some lazy Sunday where Luca had clearly spent the night because there were tiny socks on the floor and sunlight all over the bed sheets.
Cassie's chest went hotter the longer she looked.
Because Nate hadn't hidden you from any of it.
He hadn't separated the stories. Hadn't carved the page into "my son" and "my partner" like two distinct categories. The images blended. Interlocked. Overlapped. And when she clicked into his highlights, it got worse.
There were new circles there now. Clean, minimal titles. Game Day. Summer. Luca. Home.
She tapped one.
And there you were again.
Quick clips of Luca laughing from the passenger seat while Nate drove. A story of you crouched beside him helping him tie a shoe. Nate's voice behind the camera while he filmed you two arguing over what flavor ice cream to buy. A short video of all three of you in the backyard of some rented place or family house, Luca running through a sprinkler while you and Nate shouted fake warnings from the side. Another of Nate recording Luca painting while your voice in the background said, "No, babe, that is not where the brush goes," followed by Nate laughing.
Cassie clicked out and into another highlight.
Same thing.
Different day, same pattern.
You. Nate. Luca.
A tiny little family.
It was in the way the images were framed. In the way Nate looked at both of you. In the way Luca fit so easily into the visual language of Nate's life now. Not as an obligation. Not as a shock. Not as a problem being managed.
As belonging.
Cassie's jaw tightened.
Then, because apparently the universe was committed to making it worse, she made the mistake of looking at the comments.
The top ones were what you'd expect—fans talking about the win, thirst comments about Nate's post-game face, people calling him the best quarterback in the league. But tucked in between all of that were the ones that made her stomach turn.
username002: He looks so happy lately.
football_highlights: The family vibes are actually adorable.
y/n_theflash: Y/N, Nate, and the little one omg.
the_unofficalewife: Their son is so cute.
username2091: Y'all make the sweetest little family.
04_username: He's glowing differently now. Love looks good on him.
sofiebutter: The domestic era is everything.
Cassie's thumb stopped cold on that one.
Their son.
Not his son.
Their son.
She knew people on the internet were stupid. She knew strangers projected onto photos and filled in stories they didn't understand. She knew comments were comments, not law, not truth, not anything that should've mattered.
But they got under her skin anyway.
Because they were all seeing it too.
The same thing she'd been trying not to name.
The same shape that had been haunting her since the stadium.
It wasn't even just the comments praising Nate. Or the ones romanticizing you and him. It was the way complete strangers looked at those images and instantly read what Cassie had been resisting:
You three looked like a unit.
Looked like continuity. Stability. Home.
And no matter how many times Cassie reminded herself that she was Luca's mother, that she had been the one there from the first heartbeat, the first fever, the first word, the first scraped knee—that knowledge did not erase the sting of seeing the public absorb your place in his life so easily.
She tossed the phone onto the vanity for a second, then snatched it back up almost immediately, as if distance wouldn't help and maybe seeing more would somehow fix the feeling. It didn't. It only sharpened it.
Because every photo, every story, every highlight made one thing humiliatingly clear:
While Cassie had been worrying about whether Nate would step up, Nate had already done more than that.
He had stepped into fatherhood with both feet.
And he had done it with you standing right beside him.
Not behind him.
Not occasionally around.
Beside him.
Like this was the life he intended to keep.
Cassie looked at her reflection in the vanity mirror then, really looked. The ring light glow that usually made her feel polished now just made her feel exposed. Her robe slipped slightly at one shoulder, one hair clip sat crooked, and her mouth had flattened into that thin, bitter line she hated because it always made her look more like her worst self than her best one.
Behind her, the paused GRWM setup waited in silence.
Followers could wait.
Skincare could wait.
𝑩𝒀 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 the trip finally came around, Cassie had already made up her mind about one thing:
She was not going to spend the entire vacation fading into the background while everyone else played happy family around her son.
The moment the cabin, the lake, the bonfires, and the family schedule became real—bags packed, dates locked in, Marsha excitedly group-texting everyone about snacks and weather—something sharpened in Cassie. She told herself it was practical. Harmless, even. If this was Luca's first big vacation with Nate's side of the family, then of course she wanted to document it. Of course she wanted photos, videos, memories. Of course she wanted content.
But underneath that polished reasoning lived something less innocent.
Cassie wanted to even the playing field.
And Cassie, no matter how much she told herself she was above being bothered by the fact you weren’t going anywhere, kept finding fresh proof that she wasn't.
So when the trip arrived, she decided she would make sure she and Luca had their own moments too.
The vacation itself was exactly the kind of place Marsha would romanticize for years: a beautiful lake house tucked between tall trees, the air cleaner and cooler than the city, the scent of pine and water carrying on every breeze. The place had a wide wraparound porch, a wooden dock stretching out over the lake, stone pathways through the yard, and enough room inside to make it feel like everyone could spread out without ever fully drifting apart. The mornings came soft and misty over the water. The afternoons were warm, golden, and full of movement. The evenings felt made for string lights, grilled food, and stories that stretched longer than anyone planned.
It should have felt relaxing.
And in some ways, it did.
But from the minute everyone arrived, Cassie seemed to be moving through the trip with a second agenda running quietly behind every smile.
Her phone was always nearby.
Not just nearby—ready.
She was filming Luca running down the dock, Luca laughing on the porch swing, Luca with a juice box in one hand and his little sunglasses sliding down his nose, Luca pointing at the water, Luca beside a plate of pancakes in the morning light. Some of it was genuinely sweet. Some of it was exactly what any mother would want to capture. But there was something increasingly curated about it too, something polished and intentional in the angles she chose, the way she repositioned him slightly, the way she'd say, "Wait, baby, do that again," before pressing record.
It was full-on influencer mode.
Pretty framing. Clean light. Effortless captions already forming in her head before the memories were even finished happening.
And you noticed.
Not in a judgmental way, at least not out loud. You just noticed it the same way you noticed everything. The way she'd pause Luca before he took a bite so she could get the plate "before it gets messy." The way she'd drift toward the best lighting on the porch. The way half the vacation seemed to exist through the lens of how it would look later online.
It was exactly the kind of thing you made sure to steer clear of.
Not because you hated pictures. Nate took enough of you, of Luca, of quiet moments to prove that. But there was a difference between capturing life and curating it into a performance while it was still happening. You wanted the trip to feel like a trip. You wanted Luca making crooked s'mores and getting dirt on his shoes and laughing too hard to stay still for a photo. You wanted Nate actually relaxing instead of being made aware of a camera every other second.
So you stayed clear of it.
If Cassie wanted a soft-focus little montage of herself and Luca by the lake, fine. You gave her space to have it. You took yourself out of the line of fire without being dramatic about it. When you saw her setting up a shot, you drifted toward the grill with Marsha or followed Nate down to the dock or volunteered to grab drinks from the kitchen. It became almost instinctive—your quiet refusal to become part of content that wasn't meant for you.
And Nate noticed that too.
Of course he did.
He noticed the way you disappeared at exactly the right moment when Cassie started angling her camera. He noticed the little look you'd get—dry, amused, not quite annoyed enough to be called angry—before you found an excuse to move elsewhere. He noticed you choosing reality over optics every single time.
And privately, that made him want you more.
Not just in the emotional sense, though there was that too. There was something about the way you moved through the trip—comfortable, grounded, wholly uninterested in performing for anyone—that made Nate feel pulled toward you with a kind of helpless intensity. The lake house was full of people. Full of noise. Full of family. Full of Luca running around and Marsha narrating memories and Cassie floating through moments in a haze of beauty and calculation.
And through all of it, Nate kept finding his eyes on you.
On the deck in the mornings with a mug in your hand and your hair still sleep-messed. By the grill in the afternoons, one hip leaned into the wooden railing while you talked to his stepfather like you'd known him forever. Laughing with Luca on the dock after he asked you something deeply random and serious. Stretching out on a lounge chair with the sun making your skin glow in a way that nearly made Nate lose his mind in broad daylight.
He wanted you constantly.
Which would have been manageable if you hadn't noticed and made it worse on purpose.
Because you did notice.
The glances that lingered a little too long. The way his hand would settle low on your back and stay there half a second more than necessary when passing behind you. The way his jaw tightened whenever you bent over to unzip a bag or reached above your head for something in the kitchen. The look he'd give you across the dinner table when the conversation drifted elsewhere and the room forgot, briefly, that the two of you were very much not alone.
He couldn't wait to get you by yourself.
That became obvious by the second day.
Not because he said anything reckless in front of everyone—he wasn't stupid—but because Nate had never been as subtle as he thought he was when it came to you. His restraint always looked suspiciously like tension. His patience always looked a little too deliberate.
So when you two finally found yourselves alone for a moment in the hallway upstairs—everybody else outside by the lake, Luca somewhere between Marsha and a bag of marshmallows—you didn't miss the way Nate shut the bedroom door behind him with a little more focus than necessary.
He turned toward you, and the look on his face made you smile immediately.
"What?" you asked, already knowing.
Nate stepped closer, slow and quiet, hands sliding to your waist like he'd been waiting to touch you properly all day. "I need like... ten minutes," he muttered, voice low with frustration and want.
You laughed softly, letting your hands come up to rest against his chest. "Ten minutes?"
"With you," he clarified, as if that made it less obvious. "Alone. Without your future mother-in-law asking me to move a cooler or Cassie recording the sunlight hitting Luca's cereal."
That made you laugh harder, the sound warm and surprised as he leaned down to kiss the corner of your mouth.
"You're ridiculous," you murmured.
"I'm suffering," he said against your lips.
"Because you've had to exist around me in shorts for forty-eight hours?"
"Exactly."
You tilted your head, smiling now in that way that always made him want to kiss the smugness right off your face. "That sounds like a you problem."
He kissed you anyway—slow first, then deeper when you melted into it for a second. One hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, drawing you in closer until there was barely any space left between your bodies.
"You have no idea how bad it's gotten," he said quietly, lips brushing yours between words. "You've been walking around this house looking like that, smiling at me like that, and I can't do anything because there's always someone right there."
You bit back a grin. "Oh, I know exactly what I'm doing."
"Yeah," he muttered, and kissed your jaw. "That's the problem."
He dipped lower, mouth brushing the side of your neck in a way that made your fingers curl lightly into his shirt. Nothing too much. Nothing reckless. Just enough to make your breathing change and his satisfaction deepen at the reaction.
You tipped your head back for one dangerous second, then caught yourself and pressed a hand against his chest.
“Nate."
He hummed against your skin, not stopping.
"Nate," you repeated, firmer now, though the smile in your voice ruined any real authority you might've had.
He lifted his head just enough to look at you, eyes darker now, mouth already softened from kissing you. "What?"
You gave him a look—half amusement, half accusation. "You know," you said slowly, "for somebody who claims he's just trying to enjoy a family vacation, you're acting a little... specific."
His brows lifted faintly. "Specific?"
You nodded, a grin tugging at your mouth. "Mm-hm. Like maybe you have a fetish."
That made him pause.
Then he laughed—a low, startled sound, genuine and warm. "A fetish?"
"Yes," you said, enjoying yourself entirely too much now. "This whole secretly desperate on a family trip thing? Sneaking off upstairs while everyone's downstairs by the lake? It's suspicious."
His hands tightened lightly at your waist. "You are so full of shit."
"Maybe," you replied, leaning in just enough that your mouth ghosted his, "but you're the one pinning me against a wall because you can't handle me in vacation clothes."
He kissed you again before you could keep talking, clearly deciding that shutting you up was easier than arguing.
Still, he was smiling into it.
When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours and his thumb moved in a slow line along your side.
"I don't have a fetish," he said quietly.
You raised a brow. "No?"
"No," he replied. Then, after the slightest pause: "I just really, really want you."
You laughed under your breath. "See? Worse."
He nipped lightly at your lower lip for that, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp and grin.
Downstairs, somebody shouted Luca's name from outside, followed by Marsha's voice and the distant slam of a screen door.
Reality.
Both of you froze for half a second, listening.
Then you looked at each other and started laughing—quietly, helplessly, because of course that was how this trip kept going. A hundred people around, no privacy, stolen moments measured in minutes and footsteps.
You reached up and smoothed his hair back from his forehead, still smiling. "Behave," you whispered.
Nate kissed you one last time, quick and lingering all at once, then sighed like a man being sent back to war. "You are evil."
"And you," you murmured, patting his chest as you slipped past him toward the door, "are proving my theory."
He caught your wrist for half a second before you could open it, tugging you back just enough to press one more kiss to your mouth—softer this time, less desperate, more full.
Then he let you go.
And when you both headed back downstairs into the lake house noise—sunlight, voices, Luca's excitement, Cassie's phone somewhere nearby—that private little tension stayed between you like a secret spark.
𝑪𝑨𝑺𝑺𝑰𝑬 𝑳𝑨𝑰𝑫 in the king-sized bed in the upstairs guest room, the only light coming from the cool blue glow of her phone screen as it cast flickering shadows across the knotty pine walls and the heavy quilt pulled up to her waist.
Luca was curled beside her like a warm little comma, his small body tucked under the same blanket, breathing slow and even in the deep, dreamless sleep of a four-year-old who had spent the entire day racing between dock and bonfire. His thumb had slipped from his mouth hours ago, leaving a faint damp spot on the pillow, and every now and then his fingers twitched against the sheet as if he were still chasing fireflies in his dreams.
She had been scrolling through her gallery for the last twenty minutes, thumb moving with practiced precision—swiping, zooming, cropping, applying the soft golden filter that made everything look like it belonged in a lifestyle ad. There was Luca on the dock at golden hour, hair tousled by the lake breeze, sunglasses slipping down his nose exactly the way she wanted. Luca laughing on the porch swing, head thrown back, the light catching the curve of his cheek just right.
A dozen variations of the same perfect moments she had staged earlier, each one already mentally captioned: "Lake days with my favorite boy 🌊❤️" or "Making memories that last forever."
She told herself she was just organizing content for later, but really she was curating proof—proof that she and Luca still had their own little world, even here, even with you and Nate filling every other corner of the house.
The lake house was quiet now, or at least it should have been. The string lights on the porch had been switched off, the bonfire reduced to glowing embers down by the water, and the only sounds drifting up through the open window were the distant lap of waves against the dock and the occasional low hoot of an owl in the pines.
Cassie's thumb hovered over a photo of Luca holding a toasted marshmallow like a trophy when she heard it—the first noise.
A low, muffled sound from somewhere below. Not quite a voice. More like a breath catching, followed by the soft creak of furniture under weight. Then another noise: the distinct rustle of fabric, skin brushing skin, and a quiet, throaty murmur that didn't belong to Marsha or her husband or any of the polite goodnights everyone had exchanged an hour earlier.
Cassie's head lifted from the pillow. She listened harder, phone screen dimming automatically in her hand. The sounds continued—rhythmic now, intimate, unmistakable.
A soft laugh, quickly hushed. The shift of cushions. A low groan that sent an unwelcome spark straight through her chest.
She glanced at Luca—still dead asleep, mouth slightly open, one arm flung out across the mattress. Slowly, carefully, she eased herself out from under the quilt, bare feet meeting the cool hardwood floor without a sound. She wore only an oversized sleep shirt and soft cotton shorts, the fabric whispering against her thighs as she padded across the room.
The door was already cracked open a few inches; she slipped through it sideways, holding her breath, and left it exactly as she'd found it.
The upstairs hallway opened onto a wide balcony that overlooked the great room below, the railing made of thick, polished logs that smelled faintly of lacquer and pinel. Cassie moved like a shadow, keeping low, pressing her body against the wall where the moonlight didn't reach. She crouched just enough to peer between the vertical slats of the railing, heart beating hard enough that she could feel it in her throat.
The living room was mostly dark, lit only by the dying orange glow of the fireplace embers and the thin silver wash of moonlight spilling through the tall windows that faced the lake. The big sectional couch sat in the middle of it all, oversized and deep, the kind meant for lazy afternoons and family movie nights.
But it wasn't being used for either right now.
You were straddling Nate.
Your knees sank into the cushions on either side of his hips, your broad shoulders blocking some of the firelight as you leaned down over him. Nate's back was pressed into the corner of the sectional, one arm slung along the backrest, the other hand gripping your ass with open, possessive fingers that dug into the fabric of your sleep shorts.
The two of you were tangled in a kiss that looked like it had been building since the moment the last light went out downstairs—deep, hungry, no hesitation left. Nate's mouth moved against yours with deliberate intensity, tongue sliding slow and claiming, while his free hand fisted in the back of your shirt and tugged you closer.
You pulled back just far enough to speak, voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. "This is a bad idea," you muttered against his lips, the words half-protest, half-surrender. Your hands were braced on his chest, fingers spread wide over the thin cotton of his T-shirt, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat. "Everyone's right upstairs—Luca, your mom, Cassie—"
But even as you said it, you didn't move away. Instead you tilted your head, letting Nate chase your mouth again, letting him capture your lower lip between his teeth and tug gently.
A soft sound escaped you—not quite a moan, but close enough that Cassie's stomach tightened at the sound of it. Nate's hand on your ass squeezed harder, pulling your hips down against his in one slow, deliberate roll that made the couch creak again under the combined weight.
You rocked into it instinctively, thighs flexing, the muscles in your back shifting visibly under the thin fabric as you ground down once, twice, chasing the friction even while you whispered the warning again.
Nate didn't answer with words. He answered by tilting his head and dragging his open mouth along the side of your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark—dark, blooming, deliberate.
You tipped your head to the side to give him better access, a shaky exhale leaving your lungs as his teeth grazed the same spot and his tongue soothed it immediately after. His other hand slid up under the hem of your shirt, palm flat against the warm skin of your lower back, fingers splaying wide like he needed to feel every inch of you at once.
Cassie stayed perfectly still behind the railing, hidden in the deep shadow where the hallway met the balcony. One hand gripped the log post so tightly her knuckles went white. Her phone was still clutched in the other, screen long since gone dark, forgotten. She couldn't look away.
The sight of you—strong, unhurried, completely lost in Nate—hit her somewhere raw and unexpected. The way your thighs straddled him so confidently, the low rumble of your voice when you tried (and failed) to protest, the way Nate's hands claimed you like he had every right to, right there in the middle of the family living room where anyone could walk in.
The wet sound of mouths moving, the soft rustle of clothing, the occasional creak of the couch springs—all of it carried up to her with perfect, merciless clarity.
She watched Nate's fingers flex on your ass again, pulling you harder against him, and saw the way your hips answered on their own, rolling in a slow, filthy rhythm that made heat crawl up her own neck.
You muttered something else—"Nate, fuck, we can't"—but the words dissolved into another kiss as he sucked a second hickey just below your ear, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.
Cassie's pulse hammered in her ears. She should have backed away. She should have gone back to bed, woken Luca if she had to, done anything except stand there frozen, hidden, watching the man who had inserted himself so seamlessly into her son's life get devoured by the father of that same son. But she didn't move.
She couldn't. The scene below kept unfolding in the flickering firelight—your bodies pressed together, mouths hungry, hands greedy, the quiet, desperate sounds of two people who had been holding back for days finally cracking open in the dark.
And Cassie stayed right where she was, breathing shallow, unseen, every detail burning itself into her memory like another perfectly framed shot she would never, ever post.
Nate's mouth had left the fresh, darkening hickey blooming just below your ear and traveled higher. He pressed his lips right against the shell of your ear, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly timbre that always seemed to rumble straight through bone and muscle. His breath was hot, slightly ragged from the way your hips had been grinding down against him, and the words came out slow and deliberate, each one laced with that mix of filthy promise and aching tenderness only he could pull off.
"You feel so fucking good like this," he whispered, the vibration of his voice sending a visible shiver down the line of your spine. "Been thinking about you all day... how these strong thighs would look wrapped around me later, how you'd sound trying so hard to stay quiet while I took my time with you."
His hand flexed possessively on your ass again, squeezing the firm muscle through your shorts. "You're mine, you know that? Every damn inch of you. Can't wait to get you behind that bedroom door and bury myself so deep you forget there's anyone else in this entire house."
You let out a quiet, shaky exhale that Cassie could hear even from her hiding spot, your fingers tightening in the front of Nate's T-shirt until the fabric bunched under your knuckles. Your back arched just slightly, hips rolling down against his lap one more deliberate time, the couch cushions continuing to creak softly under the combined weight of two grown men lost in each other.
Nate made a low, decisive sound in the back of his throat—half growl, half laugh.
"Enough teasing," he murmured, more to himself than to you. In one smooth, powerful motion he shifted his grip. His large hands slid under your thighs, palms hot and callused against your skin where your shorts had ridden up.
With obvious strength he lifted you as if you weighed nothing at all, the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexing hard under the thin cotton of his shirt, veins standing out along his forearms.
The fact that you are tall but not as tall as Nate, had thick legs, solid from years of track and field, but Nate handled you like it was effortless.
Before you could do more than grip his shoulders, he flipped you over his shoulder in a classic fireman's carry—your upper body draping down his back, chest pressed to the solid plane of his shoulder blade, your ass now perfectly level with his chest.
A sharp, playful smack landed directly on your left ass cheek, the sound cracking through the quiet living room like a sudden whipcrack. The impact made your whole body jolt forward, a surprised, low grunt escaping your throat as heat bloomed across your skin.
"Quiet," Nate warned, the smirk clear in his voice even though Cassie couldn't see his face. His hand rubbed over the spot he'd just spanked, soothing and claiming at the same time, fingers digging in just enough to make you feel it. "You'll wake the whole damn house if you keep making sounds like that, baby."
You muttered something half-laughing, half-cursing into the back of his shirt—muffled words that sounded like "you're an asshole" mixed with breathless affection—your hands fisting tighter in the fabric for balance as Nate started walking.
His bare feet padded softly across the hardwood, each step deliberate and unhurried, like he was in no rush to hide what he was doing.
Cassie's eyes widened in the darkness, her pulse hammering so hard in her throat she could taste it. She watched, unseen, as Nate carried you straight toward the wide staircase that led up from the living room. The wooden steps creaked under his weight—soft, rhythmic groans that seemed impossibly loud in the sleeping house.
From her perfect vantage point on the balcony she saw every intimate detail: the way your body draped so easily over his broad shoulder, the flex and shift of Nate's back muscles with each step, the possessive way his free hand rested high on the back of your thigh, thumb brushing dangerously close to the curve of your ass. Your sleep shorts had ridden up even further from the carry, exposing the strong lines of your legs and the faint red handprint already forming where he'd smacked you.
They reached the top of the stairs and turned down the short hallway toward the bedroom you two shared—the one at the end with the big window overlooking the lake, the one that had been quietly claimed by the two of you since the first night.
Nate's free hand gave your ass another firm, appreciative squeeze, fingers spreading wide as he pushed the door open with his hip. The low, intimate chuckle that rumbled from deep in his chest carried back to Cassie like a blade, warm and satisfied and completely unaware of her presence.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind them with a soft, final sound.
Cassie stayed crouched exactly where she was, hidden in the deep shadow where the hallway met the balcony railing. Long after the muffled sounds of your voices drifted through the closed door—low laughter turning quickly into something lower, more urgent, the faint creak of the bed frame—she didn't move.
The jealousy that had been simmering inside her since the moment everyone arrived at the lake house finally boiled over into something hot, ugly, and all-consuming. It burned low in her stomach, sharp behind her eyes, tight in her throat until she had to swallow hard just to breathe.
Her hands shook where they gripped the log railing. Her jaw clenched so tightly it ached. She could still picture it in perfect, merciless detail: the way Nate had lifted you so easily, the possessive smack, the way your body had responded to him without hesitation right there in the middle of the family living room. Proof, again, that you weren't just in Nate's life—you were woven into it, claimed, wanted, taken.
She held it in, the jealousy and resentment and the sharp, painful ache of watching her son's father choose someone else so completely, but it was getting harder and harder to contain. The phone in her hand felt suddenly heavy, the gallery of perfectly curated photos of Luca now mocking her in the dark.
Down the hall, another soft sound filtered through the bedroom door—your voice, rough and pleased—and Cassie pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the railing, eyes burning, the night air suddenly too cold against her flushed skin.
“[Those love stories] have traditionally been excluded from things like period dramas—and queer people did exist, have always existed, and will always exist. So they deserve a love story just like everybody else.” -Hannah Dodd
AU where Oscar and Jacob meet on grindr and hang out at Jacob's place until they hear the sound of keys. Oscar gets scared when he sees a woman in the kitchen with grocery bags. Jacob gets scared because his mom came home early!
Oscar: What do you mean you still live with your mom?!
I like to think that Felix was tortured and burdened by all the attention as much as he relished in it
I like to think of him as the "damsel" figure of the story who sets out subtle or not so subtle hints and invitations and passively waits for Oliver to see and correctly interpret the message and come have him so he doesn't have to express his desire out loud and possibly ruin whatever they have.
All shit happens not because Oliver is a mastermind and a perfectly discreet stalker. It's because Felix allows him, not yet aware of the true danger that lies underneath the thrill of being desired so bad it makes your admirer break the norms of decency.
The repressive power of internalized queerphobia coming from patriarchy and gender roles imposed on men results in him expressing his attraction in the most heteronormatively lady-like way when he has no freedom to openly admit what he wants. How ironic is that?
And maybe he wants to play savior so bad because not only he sees himself as a love story character, he is Baz Luhrman's Juliette waiting for Romeo to save her too, out of the golden cage of perfomative life, out of repression, even after said Romeo turns out to be a monomaniac pathologic liar who's not ready to take his share of poison.
And one summer friend of his after another turning to Venetia when he's right there, waiting, inviting, leaving hints for them? Oh, I see why he'd be so mad
