𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄
“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.
It felt like being held.
















