Hey!! Could you do a fic of Macklin comforting us after spending time with the readers mum who doesn’t have a good relationship with reader and picks apart everything she does eg. how much she eats and talking to quiet or loud??
Pairing: Macklin Celebrini x Reader
24 days of Christmas | Hockey Masterlist | Hockey Masterlist II
Valentine's Day Masterlist
You know something is wrong the second Macklin sees your face.
It is not dramatic. Not obvious. Just a tiny pause in the way he’s tying the laces of his shoes, a soft lift of his eyes, the slightest crease between his brows.
You had tried to fix yourself in the car on the way over. Straighten your clothes. Smooth your hair. Rub the tension out of your face. But apparently none of it worked.
He stands from the bench in the hallway and takes one look at you in the doorway.
Then his whole expression changes.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “What happened?”
You force a small smile. “Hi to you too.”
“Mmhmm.” He crosses the room in a few steps, stopping in front of you with that careful, steady attention he always gives when he knows not to rush you. “What happened?”
You shrug, but it feels brittle. “Nothing.”
His eyes narrow in the gentlest way. “That was a fake nothing.”
You almost laugh. Almost.
Instead you look down at your hands.
You had spent the afternoon with your mum, and you are still hearing her voice in your head like a bruise that keeps getting pressed. How much you ate. How little you said. How loud you sounded when you answered one question. How quiet you were when she decided that meant something else.
It always starts like that with her. Not a fight. Not exactly. Just a thousand little criticisms dressed up as concern until you leave feeling like you have done every basic human thing wrong.
Mack says your name softly. “Y/N.”
You swallow. “Can we just go home?”
The worry in his face deepens. “Yeah. Of course. Come here first.”
You step into him before you can second-guess yourself, and the moment his arms come around you, something inside your chest pulls tight and then slowly unknots. He holds you with one hand at the back of your head and the other between your shoulders, warm and steady and impossible to fake.
You breathe in once. Twice.
He rubs your back slowly. “Did she say something?”
You close your eyes. “It was the usual.”
That makes him go still for half a second. “The usual bad?”
You nod against his chest.
He exhales through his nose, patient but clearly angry on your behalf. “Do you want to tell me?”
You almost keep it tucked away where it has already hurt you all afternoon.
But Mack’s shirt is right there under your cheek, and his hand is moving in slow circles between your shoulders, and somehow that makes the truth easier.
“She asked why I was eating so much,” you admit quietly. “Then said I was eating too little. Then asked why I was talking so quietly. Then said I was being rude because I was too loud when I answered her.”
You continue before you can lose the nerve. “And when I just stayed quiet, she said I always do that, like I was proving her point by existing.”
His arms tighten around you once, protective and furious in the same breath. “Y/N.”
You laugh once, but it comes out shaky. “I know. It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.”
“It does not sound ridiculous.”
Your throat burns. “It kind of does.”
“No.” He pulls back just enough to look at your face. “No, it doesn’t. It sounds exhausting.”
That gets a small, helpless laugh out of you.
He brushes his thumb under your eye when he sees you blinking too fast. “Did she make you cry?”
You shake your head immediately, too fast. “No.”
You look away. “A little.”
His expression softens so suddenly it nearly hurts. “I’m sorry.”
You shake your head. “It’s not your fault.”
That simple answer makes your chest ache more than the criticism did.
Because he means it. No dramatics. No making it about himself. Just the quiet certainty that if you hurt, he wants that to matter.
You wrap your fingers around the front of his shirt. “I hate that she can do this and still make me feel like maybe I’m the problem.”
Mack’s voice drops. “You are not the problem.”
You do not answer right away.
So he tries again, a little firmer this time. “Y/N, look at me.”
His eyes are steady, warm, serious. “You are not too much. You are not too quiet. You are not too loud. You are not eating wrong. You are not speaking wrong. You are not doing everything wrong just because she says so.”
He notices. Of course he notices.
“And,” he adds, softer now, “you do not need her approval to be okay.”
You blink hard, trying to keep yourself together. “That’s easy for you to say.”
“No,” he says immediately. “It’s not.”
He lets out a slow breath. “I know what it feels like when someone acts like they know every version of you and none of them are good enough. I know what it does to your head.”
You stare at him, caught off guard by the honesty in his voice.
Then he nudges his forehead against yours. “But I also know the version of you I get.”
“You’re kind,” he says quietly. “And funny. And thoughtful. And you notice everything, even when you pretend you don’t. You make room for people. You care so much it almost hurts sometimes. And none of that changes because your mum thinks she gets to grade you like homework.”
Your eyes sting hard now.
“I’m serious.” He kisses your temple. “She gets a lot of power in your head because she’s your mum. That doesn’t mean she’s right.”
You let out a shaky breath and press your face into his shoulder again. He takes the hint immediately, hugging you tighter like he can shield you from the whole day by sheer force of will.
A minute passes. Then another.
Eventually he says, “Did you eat?”
That almost makes you smile. “Yes.”
You pull back and squint at him. “You are not allowed to sound like her.”
You sniffle. “I had enough.”
He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Good. I’m making dinner anyway.”
He smiles faintly. “I want to.”
He guides you to the couch and makes you sit with a blanket while he disappears into the kitchen. You hear cupboards opening, the soft tap of a knife, water running, then his voice calling, “Do you want garlic bread?”
You raise your voice back, “Always!”
“Great. That one I can do.”
Later, when you are both sitting on the couch with pasta and garlic bread and the lights turned low, the apartment feels softer than it did an hour ago. Safer. The tension in your shoulders has not vanished completely, but it has loosened enough that you can breathe again.
Mack sits close enough that your knees touch.
He looks over at you while you pick at your food. “Still with me?”
You glance at him. “You’re very good at this.”
“Making things feel less awful.”
He shrugs, suddenly shy. “I just don’t like seeing you hurt.”
That sends something warm and painful through your chest.
You lean into his side. “I don’t know what I would’ve done tonight if you weren’t here.”
He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “You would’ve come home anyway.”
“And then I would’ve made pasta.”
You laugh softly. “That was weirdly reassuring.”
He reaches for your hand and threads your fingers together. “Next time, call me sooner.”
You look up at him. “I didn’t want to ruin your day.”
He gives you a look so serious it stops you cold. “You never ruin my day.”
He continues, quieter now. “You matter. Your feelings matter. If someone leaves you feeling small, I want to know. Okay?”
The question is gentle, but the promise underneath it is stronger.
He squeezes your hand once. “Good.”
And when you finally rest your head on his shoulder, full of pasta and warmth and the kind of comfort that settles deep in your bones, Macklin kisses your hair and keeps his arm around you like he has no intention of letting the world get at you again tonight.
