soooooooo much going on. auston's tipsy lil hii coachhhh. jack thwacking his brand new gold medal on the presser table. quinn handing out MASSIVE shoulder pats. jack thwacking his medal again, this time on purpose bc sound?? sound funny?? quinn screwing around with the american flag like its a cape. jack waterfalling his own beer bc teeth. teeth hurt. hughes brothers private ear nibbling in the middle of a public conference. immediate auston jealousy of said nibbling. jack INSANE lisp update for auston. golden goalscorer fistbump with the captain. another significant beer waterfall. everybody fuckin tonight
Hiii can I pretty please request a Jarvy fic, it can be anything! We need more of him!! Thank you ❤️
New Home
Details: One shot, hockey, first night in the new house, smut, established relationship
Style: Seth Jarvis x you, first person
Summary: First night in the new house…
The first night in our new house doesn’t feel real.
It smells like cardboard and fresh paint and takeout containers balanced on a coffee table that hasn’t even been assembled yet. The living room is a mess of labeled boxes—KITCHEN, LINENS, OFFICE, RANDOM—like we’re still deciding what kind of life we’re building here.
Seth is sprawled on the couch in sweats, barefoot, eating lo mein straight from the carton.
“This is insane,” he says around a bite. “Like… this is ours.”
I look around at the high ceilings, the oversized windows, the way the light hits the hardwood floors.
“It’s too big,” I whisper.
He grins at me. “You said that about the last place.”
“That one didn’t have a foyer.”
“You love saying foyer.” His smile is infectious, like always.
He reaches across the couch and tugs me closer until my legs are draped over his.
“I’m serious,” he says, softer now. “We did this.”
He’s been gone for ten days. Road stretch from hell. Different cities every night. I watched games alone in our half-packed apartment, pretending the distance didn’t itch under my skin. Counting the days until we’re finally in the new house.
“You’ve barely been here,” I murmur.
He tilts his head back against the couch cushion and groans. “Don’t remind me.”
“I’m just saying.” I felt like an asshole for the knee jerk reaction.
“I know.”
He drops his takeout container onto the coffee table and pulls me into his chest. His chin rests on top of my head. He smells like plane air and cologne and something distinctly him.
My Jarvy.
“I hate being gone,” he says into my hair.
“You love playing.”
“I love playing,” he corrects. “I hate not coming home to you.”
My throat tightens.
He always says things like that casually, like they don’t rearrange my entire ribcage.
“You’re home now,” I whisper.
He hums in agreement and presses a slow kiss to my temple.
We eat until we’re full and sleepy and slightly overwhelmed by the fact that this giant house is ours. Our couch. Our kitchen. Our life.
When I stand up to shower, he smacks my ass lightly.
“Don’t get lost in the upstairs maze.”
“Shut up.”
“Yell if you find ghosts.”
I couldn't help but laugh upstairs and everything seems to echo. Everything feels too open, too new. I shower quickly, warm water easing the road-stretch tension that’s been sitting in my shoulders.
Then I realize I have no idea where my clothes are.
The boxes in the bedroom are stacked to my chest. I rummage through three different ones before giving up.
“Of course,” I mutter. I dry off, pad into the closet still wrapped in a towel, and find one thing hanging on the rack.
His shirt.
One of his soft practice tees. Worn thin. Smells faintly like him even after laundry.
I pull it on. It swallows me whole, enought to not need panties or shorts. I don’t bother digging for anything else.
When I trot back downstairs, Seth is still on the couch, scrolling his phone.
He looks up.
And freezes.
It’s subtle at first. Just a pause. Then his eyes drop.
Then they come back up slowly.
“You didn’t find clothes,” he says carefully.
I lean against the doorway. “Define clothes.”
His jaw flexes, his words coming out foriegn like he's never said naughty things about my panties. “More clothes. Like shorts or... panties.”
His gaze drags down my legs again and I can feel my insides vibrate at the thought of him even looking at me with those eyes.
"Everything is still in boxes. Nothing you haven't seen before." I shimmy past him and land carefully on the couch, making sure I didn't flash him by accident.
“You’re evil. I've been gone ten days." His voice deepens and his head falls to the right, staring.
"I'm not trying to torture you." Lie. I delivered the words with ease but I bit my lip after and felt the hard buds against the shirt only make things worse.
His voice shifts. Lower. Not joking anymore. “That is not helping the situation.”
“What situation?” I cross my ankles on the coffee table.
And I clock it immediately—the tension in his shoulders, the way his sweats hang differently now, the obvious buldge as he pushed his hips forward.
“Baby,” he mutters.His eyes boring into me, leaning back and his head still fallen to the side.
I swallo, hard, trying to keep my cool. He just got off a plane. He looked exhuasted enough without me jumping him. “What?” I barely whisper.
“You cannot just walk around in my shirt like that. Fuckkk.”
“It’s our house...”
Twisting enough to easily make his way over to me on the couch I nearly hold my breath. Not touching me yet. Just looking, hovering over me.
"Jarvy." It almost comes out as a moan already.
He runs a hand through his hair and his knees driving into the back of my thighs as he gets comfortable pushing between my legs. “I’ve been in hotel beds for ten days,” he continues. “Alone.”
My stomach flips. “That’s not my fault...”
“No,” he says. “But it is your problem, beautiful.”
I laugh nervously. His hands hover at my waist but not not touchingme still. I swear I can feel him when my back arches, begging him to.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says softly. "It's been too long..."
“You won’t.” My legs smooth against his hips and my own hands touch my own breasts under my shirt.
“Fuck. Baby. I'm trying to hold it together.” His restraint is visible. It’s in the way his fingers skim without grabbing at me. In the way he swallows before leaning in.
“You've never been worried before,” I whisper.
He drags his eyes up my body again, slower this time. His hands finally plant on either side of me, fists pressing into the couch cushions like he’s bracing himself.
“Don’t touch yourself unless you’re ready for me to lose it,” he murmurs.
The words land low in my stomach. “I thought you liked when I—”
“I do.” His jaw tightens. “That’s the problem.” His knees press harder into the backs of my thighs, spreading me wider to see exactly how wet I am. It’s subtle. Controlled. But deliberate. I can feel every inch of him, throbbing against my inner thigh, begging to be freed from his shorts. “You have no idea what you look like right now,” he continues, voice rough. “In my shirt. I our new house. Touching yourself for me.”
"Seth," I whimper, begging him to give in already.
“Jesus,” he mutters, hand snaking down into his underwear and giving himself a squeeze. “You feel that? That’s me trying to be good.”
Arching my back more, I lift my shirt more. “Since when are you trying to be good?”
He smirks at that. The cocky one. The one that always gets me. “Tell me what you want. Can I ruin you?” he asks.
The tone shifts. Less teasing. More command when his hands finally smooth up to my breasts, fingers pinching my hard nipples between the pads of his fingers. “You.”
His control slips—not into chaos, but into something more dominant. More decisive. His hand grips my thigh fully now. Not painful. Just claiming. “You’re so small compared to me,” he murmurs. “You don’t even think about that, do you? How easily I could hurt you? I need you right now, that's dangerous.”
“I trust you.”
That quiets him for half a second.
His forehead drops to mine. “Yeah? You're gonna let me fuck your little pussy raw? No holding back?”
I nodded. I was so wet it felt impossible to ignore when my hips practically humped the space between us.
His mouth crashes into mine again. Not frantic. Not rushed. Just deeper. Hungrier when I felt his tongue immediatly against mine.
His hands move more confidently now—down my thighs, up my waist, gripping the hem of the shirt and dragging it up until it was off.
“Jarvy—”
I reached out, leaning up as much as I could with him on top of me, pushing down his shorts until I watched him spring out. Every hard, angry, inch. He was beautiful.
Lifting my hips I chased his cock as he fisted himself, lining himself up against me until he sank into me. "Fuck me, baby. So fucking tight."
I was already rolling my hips, chasing every inch as he pulled out just to dive between my legs again. I could feel myself stretching for him even with how wet I already was.
“Jarvy. Oh my god. It's too big.” Driving his hips into mine, his hands boxing me in, and his lips brushing mine.
His mouth brushes mine, but he doesn’t kiss me yet.
“You okay?” he asks, voice wrecked but steady.
I nod, breath shaky. “Yeah.”
His jaw tightens at the sound I just made.
“Don’t say it like that unless you mean it,” he mutters.
“I mean it. Don't hold back.” My hands slid from his hips to his ass, carefully squeezing.
That’s the last piece of control he had.
His hips drive forward again — deeper this time, not gentle, not tentative. Not hurting me. But not careful in the way he usually is.
“Jesus,” he breathes. “You feel that?”
“Yes—”
“You’re taking me so good. Such a good girl.”
His hands pin my wrists above my head before I even process what he’s doing. He’s never done that. Not like this. Not without asking first.
“Look at me,” he demands.
I do. My features all soaked in need.
His pupils are blown. Hair falling into his eyes. Mouth parted. He looks feral. “You said you trust me,” he says low. “You sure?”
I nod my head, letting my mouth press against his until I feel his tongue sneak into mine. His thrusts get harder, lined with pain, but I don't care because I need him more.
Wrapping my legs around his waiste I arch my back as another sting shakes my pelvis.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Already falling apart. Am I making you come, baby?”
My hands clutch onto any part of him I can, my hips pushing against him for more and my moans pure whimpers now. He shifts, lifting me slightly, sitting back into the couch. Straddling his lap I sit on every inch, falling apart even more.
I cry out, nails digging into his shoulders.
“That’s it,” he groans. “That sound.. My favorite, baby.”
He buries his face in my neck, biting gently, sucking, leaving marks all over my chest while I come all over him, shaking.
“You’re gonna feel me tomorrow,” he says.
I couldn't speak, I just laid back into the couch pillows and tried to force myself to breath while my body finally came back down. Seth had ruined me the way he promised and I wouldn't have it any other way.
All the Auston Matthews. Dealers choice. Pretty please! 🩵🫶🏻
Auston Matthews x fem!reader
Authors Note: Ahhh my first ever request! I hope you like this! It kind of got away from me haha! Please keep requesting more!
Summary: Auston wakes you up the best way possible
CW: 18+ MDNI, explicit smut, low-key hand kink, morning/sleepy sex, thigh fucking, no use of y/n, not beta read.
Word Count: 0.8k
Song: Chantaje - Shakira & Maluma
Thinking about how hot and bothered Auston gets during his days off during the regular season. How incredibly horny he gets because he hasn't been inside you for days while he’s been on the road playing. Waking you up with gentle kisses to the back of your neck.
Arm slung over your waist, playing with the hem of your sleep shirt. Fingertips tracing soft circles on your waist. Before you're even fully awake you feel him, hard and aching in his boxers. His hips involuntarily rutting into your ass to get any sort of friction.
Turning your head you look back at him as best as possible without moving from your position laying on your side.
“Hmm good morning to you mister” you say in a sleepily tone, “missed me?” you question.
“Fuck, you have no idea” he whispers before sloppily attacking your neck with hot kisses. Hands raking up your shirt and gripping your boob. Slowly massaging it, fingers flickering over your nipple, which leaves you gasping for more. He's so desperate like this, something you aren't used to. Usually Auston is so dominating when it comes to sex, always taking the lead, making sure you come first. It's times like these when you know he needs to be taken care of, the idea of letting him use your body for his own pleasure and release sends a zap down to your core.
“Fuck you're so hard, do you want to fuck my thighs baby?” you question.
You feel him nodding in between the column of your neck and shoulder, before he takes his hand off your tit and shimmies his boxers down just enough that his leaking cock springs out.
Spitting in his hand, he slowly strokes himself, just to get him wet enough to slide in between your thighs. It must feel amazing from how he reacts, with the whisper of a shaky fuck and his hand imeditly gripping your hip like his life depends on it. You secretly hope he leaves a bruise that lasts for days with how hard he’s holding onto you. Auston’s hands have always been one of your biggest obsessions about him, they are just so big and capable. Thinking about the way they wrap around your throat or the way his thick fingers fill you up so so good.
You moan looking down at his hand, taking your’s and placing it onto his. He slides himself gently at first, gaining a rhythm that feels good for him. Hearing him moan softly in your ear, sends tingles down your spine and you know he can probably feel your wetness leaking out of you.
“God you’re so wet for me, haven't even touched you and you're already leaking for me” he groans out. You can't even find it in yourself to be embarrassed, he just has that effect on you. Slowly you feel him rub his cock in between the folds of your pussy, brushing up against your clit ever so slightly.
You shiver at the feeling, the tip of his cock blunt and all you want is for him to keep rubbing against you.
“Do that again Aus” you choke out. Hoping he’ll get the message to rub in between your folds again.
He does, thank god. He slowly gets a rhythm to a pace where he's repeatedly rubbing against your clit and you swear you might come just from this. Just from his cock rubbing against you. The coil in your belly starts to tighten with every thrust.
“Fuck I want you to come on my cock, just like this” he grunts out, thrusting his hips faster.
You nod, thrusting your hips back into him just to get the tiniest more friction. It feels like pure ecstasy, the blunt head of his cock kissing your clit with every harsh thrust.
“Oh my god Auston, i’m gonna come, please don't stop, please keep going” you practically beg out. “Me too baby, fuck” he replies and continues at the same delicious pace. Next thing you know is white hot pleasure seeps through you and you practically see stars you think. Your pussy clenching around nothing. Auston continues to thrust against you through your orgasm and you're on the brink of oversensitivity when he comes. The feeling of warm liquid leaking down your thighs makes you moan and look at the panting man behind you.
“Fuck, maybe we should start our mornings like this everyday” auston says with a cheeky smile. And you know what, you wouldn't be opposed to that.
Grace’s dining room looks like a Pinterest board came to life and decided to judge everyone.
Long farmhouse table. Linen runner. Little gold place cards with names written in looping script that pretends it’s casual. Bowls of lemon pasta, a salad nobody’s going to finish, chilled rosé sweating onto coasters.
I stand in the entryway adjusting the sleeve of my sweater for the third time, tugging fabric down over my stomach like it might suddenly betray me. We only told his family, Mitch and Grace.
Auston’s hand presses warm and steady against my lower back. He knew this was the lion's den of the hockey world. “You good?” he murmurs, low enough that only I hear.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
He knows it. His jaw tightens anyway.
Grace appears from the kitchen like a general surveying her troops. Clipboard in hand. Hair pulled up. Lip gloss too glossy for noon. “Oh my God, finally,” she says, already smiling too wide. “You’re late.”
“We’re not,” Auston says mildly. “You said noon.”
“It’s 12:07,” she replies. “Which is late in wedding time.”
He leans down and kisses my temple before I can stop him. He knew the whole room was watching us to see how we moved, if the rumors were true, if we were back together after all. That’s when Grace swats his arm. “Okay, goodbye,” she says briskly. “Out. You’re not invited to estrogen decisions.”
“I’m literally just dropping her off.”
“You’re lingering,” she says. “Shoo.”
I try not to smile as he squeezes my hand once more. “Text me if you need anything. I'll be with Mitch. I'm captain, don't forget that babe,” he says.
He said it like the girlfriend of the captain was somehow exempt from hate or all the eyes serving me nasty looks.
Auston’s eyes flick over the room once. Every woman. Every glance. Every unknown variable. His voice drops. “Seriously. I'm not afraid to say something.”
“No,” Grace snaps. “You won’t. Go take your alpha energy somewhere else.”
He hesitates—just long enough that I know he’s clocking every single face. Then he steps back, points at me. “I’ll pick you up in two hours.”
Grace shoves him out the door and closes it behind him. “God,” she mutters. “He’s like a bodyguard with feelings.”
I exhale slowly.
The room turns toward me.
Not hostile.
Curious. That’s worse.
I take a seat between Grace at the head of the table and Hannah—brunette, polished, huge diamond hugging her finger, and eyes that sharpen the second she recognizes me. She was the wife of one of the veterns on the team and acted like she owned the WAGS because of it.
“Oh,” she says. “You’re back.”
Grace shoots her a look.
“What?” Hannah shrugs. “I’ve seen pictures. They're everywhere online.”
My stomach flips. I reach for my water, take a careful sip. “Yep, I'm back,” I say evenly.
“Well, you know him,” she says. “He likes to keep things casual and private. He wouldn't let that little girlfriend around us while you were gone.”
There it is. The insault to add to injury.
Grace claps her hands. “Okay! Food first. Trauma later.”
A few laughs ripple around the table, but the tension sticks. Another woman—tall, blonde, too-perfect curls—leans in. One I don't remember from dating Auston before.
“I just didn’t realize you two were… serious again,” she says. “I mean, after everything. It wasn't the prettiest breakup.”
Grace freezes mid-pour.
I set my fork down. “Everything?”
The blonde winces. “I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” Hannah says flatly. “It’s fine. Might as well tell her if she wants back in so badly.”
Silence settles like dust.
“I’m just saying,” Hannah continues, eyes flicking to me, “he wasn’t exactly… stable.”
My jaw tightens. “Define stable,” I ask.
She laughs, like it’s obvious. Almost like I should be embarassed. “Girls. Parties. Drugs. Disappearing acts. You remember.”
“I wasn’t here when that happened.”
That earns me a look. Sharp. Measuring. “Oh,” she says softly. “Right. You left.”
The table goes still.
Grace slams her clipboard down. “Okay,” she says, smiling with her teeth. “Who wants to talk flowers.”
No one moves.
The blonde across from me tilts her head. “I just don’t want any… drama around the wedding. This should be about Grace.”
Grace’s smile drops. “The only drama here is you thinking this is your business."
My pulse hammers. I feel it then—the faint, unmistakable flutter low in my belly. Not movement. Just pressure. A reminder. I subtly pull my sweater lower.
"I have whiplash trying to figure out what girlfriend of the week we should care about, it's a valid concern." Hannah’s eyes don't flick down when she spews out the hate.
I cross my arms. Grace notices immediately. Her gaze narrows. Then widens. I forced my mouth shut.
Then—carefully—she doesn’t say a word. Instead, she turns back to the table. “Let’s be clear,” Grace says calmly. “This lunch is about planning my wedding. Not auditing anyone’s past. Auston is the captain, whoever he dates should be treated with respect.”
Hannah swallows. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“You were just reminiscing about how messy Auston was when I was gone." I spat out.
The silence hit hard.
The blonde shifts. “I just think it’s fast. We just saw his hookup a few weeks ago at a game. He was supposed to set up a jacket for her... you know exactly how serious that is.”
WAG jackets in hockey were gold and not handed out for free. The price was a serious relationship with an NHL player and preferably a ring on your finger.
I never cared enough to impress them to get one. I earned my dirty looks even when I was living with Auston, building our life together.
I finally look at her fully. “It's no one's bussiness. Auston and I are together again. It's not my responsiblity to dish on the details.”
My chest tightens.
Grace reaches under the table and squeezes my knee. Then the door pushes open and every head snaps toward the sound.
Auston stands there holding a bakery box. “I forgot—” Grace snatches the box before he can finish. He looks past her at me. “You okay?”
I nod. “I’m fine. Normal initiation bullshit.”
He doesn’t move. His jaw tightens. Then he lifts a hands in surrender. “Text me,” he says to me anyway.
Grace shuts the door, turns back to the room.
“See?” she says. “Protective. Borderline feral. We love that.”
A few nervous laughs. I sit back down, heart still racing. The blonde studies me again—but this time there’s something else there.
Understanding. Or caution.
Grace resumes pouring wine.
“So,” she says breezily. “Fast wedding. Tight guest list. No exes. And if anyone has a problem with my maid of honor—” She pauses. Looks at me. Smiles, small but sure. “—they can take it up with me.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
The room seemed to shift and I felt like I could breath again when the girls started taking photos for their feeds. Every single one of them creating a social presence solely based on being a hockey wife. None of that interested me.
That was what worked about us—neither of us wanted that kind of attention.
Grace caught my arm while I was making a small plate, pulling me in close, whispering. "The venue I want is only available in two months. I can't plan a wedding in two months."
I pushed an egg roll into her face, forcing her to eat something because the stress was going to consume her. "We'll plan it. I have time. I'll be with Auston in Toronto."
That was my job before everything felt like a hurricane, event planner. Mostly weddings but the occasional renewal, birthday, corporate party. I had no current clients and worked via a phone most of the time so traveling with Auston around the holidays didn’t feel like an inconvenience.
“Tell me this is gonna be okay,” she asked wide eyed.
I reassured her, making sure to make eye contact before I felt his hands on my shoulders.
The rest of the lunch unfolds like a performance.
Not openly cruel. Just… curated.
Questions disguised as curiosity. Stories framed as nostalgia. Comments lobbed casually and left to land wherever they land.
He was wild back then.
You remember how hard it was to keep track of him.
We just don’t want anyone getting hurt.
I smile when I’m supposed to. Sip water. Keep my hands folded over my stomach like it’s instinct instead of defense.
They talk about him like I wasn’t there for years of his life. Like I didn’t know his routines, his tells, the way his jaw locked when he was lying to himself.
Except—some of what they say doesn’t match the man I knew.
Not entirely.
Back home, it felt weird to say that, but his house in Arizona was the only place that felt like home and like there was no gaps in our timeline.
Auston POV
She doesn’t take her coat off right away when we get home.
That’s how I know this isn’t a soft conversation.
The door shuts. The lock clicks. The sound carries—sharp, final. She stays standing near the island, arms folded tight across her chest, sweater pulled low like armor. Her weight shifts from one foot to the other, restless. Guarded.
I don’t move. I know better than to crowd her like this. I also know better than to look at her mouth, but I do anyway. It’s a habit I never broke. Never wanted to.
“They talked about you,” she says.
Not angry. Worse. Controlled. My spine tightens. “Okay,” I say.
Her eyes flick to my face, then away. Like she’s deciding how deep she wants to cut. “They talked about what happened after I left.”
I lean back against the counter, palms flat, grounding myself. Don’t pace. Don’t reach for her. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “They would.”
She lets out a short laugh—brittle. “I didn’t know you like that. I didn’t know that version existed...”
There it is.
The sentence that slides under the ribs and twists.
“Like what,” I ask, even though I already know.
Her jaw tightens. “Unstable. High? Disappearing? Girls I didn’t recognize? Drugs? You’re the poster child for responsibility. You don’t do anything that can risk your career… I just… didn’t know an Auston like that.”
She looks at me then. Fully. Searching my face like she’s trying to catch a lie in motion. Like she’s bracing to see someone else wearing my skin.
I don’t soften it. Don’t clean it up.
“There were nights I didn’t come home,” I say. “There were times I didn’t want to feel anything at all. There were times I missed practices and games.”
Her breath stutters. I catch it. I always do.
“I didn’t see that side of you,” she says.
“No,” I agree. “You wouldn’t have.”
“Why?” Her voice sharpens. “Because you hid it better back then?”
That one lands hard. My jaw locks.
“Because you were the thing keeping me upright,” I snap. “And when you left, there was nothing holding me together.”
The words echo. Too loud. Too honest.
She flinches—not away from me, but inward. Like I hit something already bruised.
“So you imploded,” she says quietly. “And I’m just finding out now. How is that possible? Your mom would have called me. Someone would have told me.”
“I hide it from everyone,” I fire back. “No one knew until it was too late to do anything about it.”
Her arms drop to her sides. The sweater rides up just a fraction before she tugs it down again. The motion is automatic. Protective. My eyes track it before I can stop myself.
“How bad?” she asks. “I can't be caught off guard next time. I don't wanna hear details for the first time from some bitchy wife who doesn't like me."
I don’t lie. Standing up straighter.
“Bad enough that people noticed,” I say. “Bad enough that I scared myself once or twice. Bad enough that I didn’t trust my own head. Bad enough to piss off the coaches and almost lost Captain.”
Her hand drifts—unconsciously—to her stomach. The sight of it wrecks something in me.
“I didn’t do lines off bathroom counters,” I add, harsher now. “I didn’t vanish for weeks. But I drank too much. I got messy. I blew off my job. I let people touch me because it meant I didn’t have to think about you... I didn't realize it got that bad."
That one lands where I intend it to. Her eyes flash. Pain. Anger. Something darker.
“So this is who you are when I’m not around. And this Viv didn't care tht you were doing this badly?
“No,” I snap, stepping closer before I mean to. “This is who I was when I didn’t know how to live without you. Viv was nothing more than a hookup. I led her on... I pretended if she cooked and took care of my dogs maybe I could forget you all together.”
She doesn’t step back. That’s the problem because we’re too close now. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo. Close enough that my body remembers exactly how she fits against me. My hands itch—muscle memory screaming for contact I don’t earn right now.
“And what happens when it gets hard again?” she asks.
The question isn’t just emotional. It’s loaded with everything we’ve ever done to each other in the dark.
“I don’t get to fall apart anymore,” I say. “I know that. This,” my hand on her stomach before I continue, "is too important."
Her eyes filled like it was too painful to hear how much I wasn't myself without her.
“I don’t cope like that now,” I say. “I don’t disappear—” My voice roughens despite myself. “—I just need you.”
Her gaze drops. Not to my face.
Lower.
Then back up, like she hates herself for looking.
“I won’t clean up after you,” she says. “I won’t make excuses. I can't fight and doubt you and hate myself again, Auston.”
“You won’t,” I say immediately.
She inhales sharply. That one hurts her. I see it. Silence stretches. Heavy. Charged.
“They talked about you like you were dangerous,” she says finally.
“I was, babe.” I admit.
Her eyes snap up.
“To anyone who wasn’t you,” I finish.
She steps into me then—finally—forehead pressing into my chest like she’s exhausted from holding her ground. My hands hover for half a second before they settle on her back. Firm. Controlled. Not claiming. Not gentle either.
“You don’t get to do that again,” she murmurs.
“I won’t,” I say, voice low, wrecked. “I won’t survive losing you twice.”
Her breath cathes.
This isn’t forgiveness.
It’s a line drawn in heat and memory and restraint.
And the hardest part—is knowing how easily we could cross it, and choosing not to.
Picking her face up in my hands, I forced her to look up at me before I dropped my head enough to meet her lips. We had talked enough. All I wanted to do was touch her.
My mouth brushes hers first—barely there. A test. A memory. She exhales against me, soft and shaky, and that sound alone almost undoes me. When I press in again, it’s slower, deeper, a kiss that knows exactly where it’s been before. She tastes the same. That wrecks me more than anything.
Her hands curl into my shirt like she’s bracing herself. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just… holding on.
I kiss her until the tension in her shoulders breaks. Until she melts that half inch closer and my restraint starts to crack around the edges. My thumbs trace her jaw, the line of her throat, stopping just short of where I know she likes it. I don’t take. I don’t rush. I make myself remember every reason I shouldn’t.
She presses her mouth to mine harder this time—hungrier—and I feel it everywhere. In my chest. In my spine. Low. Dangerous.
“Auston,” she breathes, like a warning.
“I know,” I murmur against her lips. “I know.”
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my sweats over and over, not letting up when I pull away to see who it is. My agent. That’s a 50/50 toss on good news or bad news but either way I had to answer.
“Hold on baby,” I answer but our mouths hadn’t fully stopped kissing.
His voice was serious and low which meant this was a conversation I need to walk away for. My hand carefully pushed her hip back and I whispered I’d meet her up stairs.
“Auston, we gotta talk about this photo. We need to get ahead of this.”
I knew eventually he would call about the photo. About the pregnancy. About how my personal life was no longer as private as I wanted it.
