⟡ you can call me: h or any pet names/nicknames!!!! (i love all pet names but please don’t use baby/babygirl <3)
⟡ nineteen
⟡ she/her
⟡ veryyy into girls
⟡ i’m not a writer so i do repost a lot of stuff that i relate to or connect with!
⟡ i absolutely love making friends and having mutuals so please feel free to send as many asks or dms as your heart desires!!!!! 💞
⟡ some of my interests are: taylor swift, marvel, supergirl, glee, photography, music, fnaf, musical theatre, minions, talking about myself, gay people, and smosh!
⟡ DNI if you are a cis man, homophobic, transphobic, misogynistic, anti-abortion, pro ice, or if you support tr*mp!
why is almost nobody posting about the avengers anymore……. bring back the 2020 fics back with everything so ooc you think you’re reading original stories
You really need to learn how to think before you speak, because you've spent all day impulsively replying to Natasha's requests. Eventually, she decides to deal with it | Based on my snapshot: Pussy spanks with Natasha
Natasha Romanofff x Bratty Fem Reader
content: spanking that pussy, slight dumbification, condescension, girl please learn to watch your mouth, "little bunny" use
18+, NSFW oneshot | 3.8k words
ao3
It started at breakfast, and it started small.
The kitchen was full of morning light, bright and gold through the curtains, and Natasha stood at the counter in one of her oversized sleep shirts, her hair loose and wavy down her back, longer than she usually wore it, the natural curl left alone this week instead of straightened, falling past her shoulders in soft waves that caught the light when she moved. She was scrolling through something on her tablet with one hand, the other wrapped around her mug, and she hadn't even looked up yet except for when she had asked if you slept well.
"Baby, eat something for breakfast," she said, glancing up just for a moment. "There's waffles in the freezer, or you can make one of your smoothie bowl things you love so much."
You let out a dramatic whine, putting your head on your folded arms.
"Can't." Your voice was muffled. "Too much work."
Natasha laughed, well-acquainted with your morning moods.
"Yes, well you need to eat, my love." She took a sip of coffee. "Maybe a banana? Some yogurt?"
You whined again, shaking your head.
"No can do. Can't move."
You heard her set her coffee mug down, another one of her warm laughs hitting your ears like your favorite tune.
"Darling, get something. It doesn't have to be anything fancy."
You lifted your head and before your brain could fully connect to your mouth, you grinned.
"Make me."
Natasha looked up.
You recognized the feeling that hit you when her eyes met yours—a specific cold drop of having said something before you'd actually decided to say it, the words arriving faster than your own judgment could intercept them. You smiled anyway, because backing down now felt worse than committing, and watched Natasha's expression do something slow and considering before she simply grabbed her coffee mug again, her eyes staying on your face a beat too long as she took a drink.
"Cute," she said, going back to her tablet. You stared for a half-second after that, waiting for her to do something else. But that never came.
You exhaled, relieved, and immediately regretted being relieved, because some small honest part of you had clocked that cute wasn't actually relief at all. Not in that tone from Natasha's lips.
It happened again before you'd even finished your breakfast—which was a smoothie bowl because Natasha knew you better than you knew yourself sometimes.
"Can you grab my jacket from the closet, baby?" Natasha asked, already halfway to the door, one boot laced.
"You have legs, don't you? They're very attractive."
Natasha looked up at you as she tied her other boot, maintaining that eye contact until she was done and could stand up straight.
"Excuse you?"
"You're excused," you said, waving a hand, the gesture entirely unplanned, surfacing from wherever your mouth kept generating these things without your permission.
Natasha's head tilted slowly. "Want to say that again?"
"I said you're excused." You heard yourself say it, heard the flippant little lilt you'd put on it, and thought distantly—that one was worse than the coffee thing. You went back to your phone anyway, missing the long, flat look Natasha gave the back of your head before retrieving her own jacket without another word.
You told yourself, around midmorning, that you were going to stop. You meant it, mostly. And then Natasha asked you to bring in the mail and you told her it could wait. She asked you to move your shoes out of the hallway before someone broke their neck on them and you told her you'd get to it eventually, your tone giving the impression you thought you were doing her an enormous favor by acknowledging the request had been heard at all.
By early afternoon, you had lost track of how many times it had happened. Five, maybe six. You genuinely weren't certain anymore, because each individual instance felt small and survivable on its own, a little spark of nothing, and it was only in aggregate—looking back at the whole stretch of the day—that you understood you'd been doing something, consistently, that another person might reasonably call a pattern.
Natasha hadn't raised her voice once.
That, looking back, should have worried you more than it did. She'd watched you with the same considering expression each time, quiet and patient, building a case with no particular urgency about closing it. You found yourself almost surprised by her restraint, in the brief windows where you actually thought about it—surprised, and then strangely, recklessly emboldened by it, like her not reacting was proof that nothing was actually building underneath the quiet.
It was not proof of that. If anything, it was the opposite.
The afternoon brought a small reprieve. She went out again for a few hours, some errand involving Clint and a borrowed truck (and you did not ask questions). You spent the time productively doing absolutely nothing related to any of your outstanding small tasks, which felt, in the moment, like a perfectly reasonable use of your time. When she came back, her hair had gone slightly wild from the wind, curls falling messy and gorgeous around her face, and she looked at the unmoved shoes in the hallway and the unbrought-in mail on the porch with an expression that told you, with total clarity, that she had clocked both immediately.
She didn't say anything about either. She simply set her own bag down, stepped neatly around your shoes, and went to start dinner.
You should have taken that as your final warning. You did not.
"Can you set the table?" she asked, stirring something fragrant on the stove, her voice perfectly even.
"In a minute," you said, not looking up from the show you were half-watching.
"I need it now, baby. Not in a minute."
You glanced over, catching her eye. And then—for reasons that would remain, even to you, entirely unclear in retrospect—you grinned and said for the second time today, "Make me."
The words left your mouth and you felt the cold drop again, sharper this time, immediate and total, the horror of watching your own sentence finish itself somewhere out past the point of recall. That, some small clear voice in the back of your head said, was the one.
Natasha set down the spoon.
She didn't say anything right away. She turned off the burner with deliberate care, wiped her hands slowly on the towel hanging from the oven door, and crossed the kitchen into the living room with an unhurried, even gait that you recognized, several steps too late, as profoundly significant.
"Stand up," she said.
You stood up immediately, your earlier bravado gone like it had never existed at all.
"I was joking," you said. "Natasha, I was—"
"I know you were." Natasha studied you for a long moment, arms crossed, the loose waves of her hair falling over one shoulder, her green eyes doing something complicated that wasn't quite anger and wasn't quite amusement either—something closer to a verdict, already reached, simply waiting to be read aloud. "You've been doing that all day. Do you know how many times?"
"I—no," you admitted, honestly, because you had lost count somewhere around lunch.
"Enough times," Natasha said. "You decided my requests were optional suggestions. Things you could wave off because it amused you." She tilted her head slightly, a single curl falling forward. "Did it amuse you?"
"A little," you said, because lying felt somehow more dangerous than the truth, and also because you were genuinely a little surprised this conversation hadn't happened three requests ago.
"Mm." The corner of her mouth moved, not quite a smile. "I think we need to do something about that little brain of yours. The one that's decided counting my requests is optional." She reached out, slow, and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, the gesture gentle and at odds with everything else in her voice. "Since you seem to have trouble respecting simple instructions, we're going to practice something even simpler tonight." Her eyes had gone dark, focused. "Counting."
Your stomach clenched, and you were unable to take your eyes off her.
"I-I know how to cou—"
"If one more word comes out of your pretty little mouth," Natasha said, "you will not cum for a month."
Your mouth closed immediately.
"Oh look, you can behave when you want to," Natasha cooed. "Now get to the bedroom and take your clothes off. That is not optional, by the way. Since you need the clarification."
(-)
You were bare by the time you reached the bed, the cool air of the bedroom raising gooseflesh along your arms, and Natasha followed at her own pace, watching you the whole way, her expression set into something patient and entirely in control.
"On your back," she said. "Knees up."
You obeyed, your heart already going fast, and felt her settle in behind you against the headboard—fully dressed still, which felt deliberate and it made the whole arrangement more pointed somehow, more lopsided. She pulled you back against her chest, her own warmth solid and present behind you, and hooked her legs outside yours, spreading you open, her ankles holding your thighs apart.
Ordinarily, this was one of your favorite positions. Her body at your back, steady, present, warm through her clothes against your bare skin. Tonight the steadiness of it felt like something closer to a trap—your hips free to move, nothing else, no way to close your legs, no way to do anything at all but take whatever she had decided to give you.
"Comfortable?" she asked lowly against your ear, her breath warm.
"No," you said, barely able to hold back your whine.
"Good," she said, bringing her hand down against your bare cunt. She didn't give any warning, just a spank between your legs. "You're going to count each one. Numbers only, or your safe word if it's needed. Do you understand me, or should I dumb it down more for you?"
The sound that left you was high and immediate, the sharp bright sting of the spank blooming fast into something warmer, spreading outward from the point of impact, and your hips jerked hard against the restraint of her legs. You nodded quickly, accepting her terms.
"One," Natasha supplied, when you failed to. "I'll give you that one."
She did it again. And again, a steady rhythm, each spank landing somewhere slightly different—directly on your clit, right beside it, the overheated skin just beneath—and you counted each one, your voice unsteady by the fourth, the pleasure and the sting building together into something that throbbed low and insistent through your entire body.
"Eight," you managed, when the eighth one landed. "That was eight."
"That was eight," Natasha agreed, her mouth close against your ear, voice low and amused, threaded through with something darker underneath. "I know you're enjoying this. I can feel you get more wet with each one." Her free hand slid down to confirm it, two fingertips dragging slow through the slick that had gathered there, and you whined at even that small contact. "But try to use that smart little brain for me, hm? Keep counting."
She tapped your clit with two fingers lightly, a reminder rather than a spank, and your gasp turned into another cry when she spanked you right after again.
"N-nine," you squeaked, eyes pinched shut.
The pleasure-pain had settled into a subtle, insistent throb, your clit puffy and oversensitive, the whole of your cunt and your inner thighs flushed warm. Natasha's lips curved against your ear—you could feel the shape of her smile without seeing it, a slight pressure against your skin—and she brought her hand down again. You braced for the strike to land directly against your clit.
It didn't come.
You peeked one eye open, shifting your head slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of her face in the low evening light, wondering for one hopeful moment if she'd decided she was finished. Then the spank finally landed—this one against your inner thigh—and your back arched hard against her chest in surprise.
She loved that. You felt it in the low laugh against your ear, in the way her teeth caught gently at your earlobe, biting just enough to sting, while her free hand moved soothingly over the warmed skin of your inner thighs, which were slick now, the whole area between your legs damp with how worked up you'd already gotten.
"Count, malen'kiy zaychik," she murmured—little bunny—her voice gone raspy with her own building arousal, thoroughly amused at your expense. You were shaking in her arms, biting your lip in a failed attempt to hold back the sounds climbing steadily out of you. "Is your brain too broken from a few spanks already? You really can't manage something as simple as counting?"
"Pl-please—" You barely got the word out before another spank landed, your hips jumping hard against her hold. If she hadn't been keeping your legs spread you would have snapped them shut on instinct, and you both knew it, and she was already braced for the attempt.
"Ten and eleven," she supplied, when you failed to manage either yourself, "and if you try to close those legs one more time, we'll do fifty." Her voice had gone firm, serious enough underneath the teasing that you believed every word of it completely, and she delivered two spanks to your pussy in quick succession that overwhelmed every other coherent thought left in your head.
Tears broke loose from your eyes, hot and sudden, rolling down your cheeks. Her hand—the same one that had been soothing your thighs a moment before—came up and smeared them gently across your flushed face, almost tender in the middle of everything else, the gesture entirely at odds with the sting still radiating low between your legs.
"That's it," she said, her voice nearly a growl now, clearly as affected by the sight of you as you were by her hands. "Cry for me." She delivered another spank, watching closely the way it made your whole body flinch and arch at once, your thighs straining uselessly against her ankles. "Seven more and I'll fuck you like the pretty slut you are. And you'd better keep counting, or I'll edge you until you're screaming instead."
You clenched hard around nothing at the words, the image of her strap arriving with no mercy lighting up every nerve you had left, and she didn't let you sit with the thought for long—another spank landed almost immediately, her closed fingers catching your clit with precise, devastating accuracy.
"F-fifteen."
She rubbed your clit for what felt like only two seconds, the relief cruelly short-lived, then spanked again.
"Sixteen—"
Spank.
"Seventeen. Pl-please, I can't—"
Spank.
"Eighteen."
This one landed on your inner left thigh, only her pinky finger brushing against the slick heat of your cunt, and the near-miss of it was somehow worse than every direct hit combined.
"Nineteen!"
The final spank landed directly against your clit again, her hand lingering after, feeling the sensitive bud pulse in time with your racing heartbeat, the room gone hazy and warm at the edges of your vision.
"T-twenty," you managed, fully crying now—though not, you realized somewhere distant and grateful, from the pain anymore. Relief, mostly. Relief, because you knew exactly what waited on the other side of taking your punishment well, and some shameless part of you had been counting toward that as much as toward the number itself.
"Oh, look at you," Natasha hummed into your ear, rubbing your clit at a slow, steady pace now, her ankles spreading your legs even wider so the cool air of the room hit directly against your overly sensitive cunt. "Are you ready, my love? You did so well. You deserve your reward now."
You nodded desperately, your hands gripping the sheets hard enough that your knuckles had gone pale and bloodless. Natasha laughed again, cooing soft praise into your ear, clearly enjoying the wrecked, trembling state she'd gotten you into.
"Such a good malen'kiy zaychik for me."
She didn't make you wait long after that.
She shifted you both with easy strength, easing your legs free of hers and turning you properly onto your back against the pillows, and you watched through blurred, grateful eyes as she finally stood and peeled off her own clothes—unhurried even now, her waves falling forward as she bent to step out of her jeans, the long lines of her bared by degrees in the low lamplight. The harness came from the drawer a moment later, and she stepped into it with brisk efficiency, watching your face the entire time with an expression that hadn't actually softened all that much.
"You took that so well," she said, settling between your thighs, her voice still threaded with the same teasing weight from before, not gentled away completely. "Better than I expected, if I'm honest." Her hand smoothed slowly up your inner thigh, avoiding the most sensitive places now, soothing rather than teasing. "Though I suppose we'll see if the lesson actually sticks. Won't we?"
"It'll stick," you said quickly, your voice thin and unconvincing even to your own ears.
"Mm. We'll see." She didn't sound remotely convinced, and the condescension in it sent a fresh wave of heat through your already-wrecked body. "I think you'll be telling me to make you do something again within the week. I know you, little bunny." She leaned down and kissed you, slow and thorough despite everything she'd just said, before drawing back to line herself up. "But that's alright. I don't actually mind punishing you."
The first push of her strap was overwhelming in an entirely different way than the spanking had been—full and deep, dragging against nerve endings already lit up and oversensitive, every ridge of the strap registering distinctly against walls that had spent the last twenty minutes throbbing with anticipation. You cried out at the stretch of it, your hands flying to grip her shoulders. It was not a small thing to take, and in fact it was one of the biggest she owned.
"I know," she murmured, holding still for a moment, letting you adjust, her own breath audibly less even than her voice suggested. "I know, baby. Breathe for me."
You breathed. She started to move—slow at first, testing, watching your face closely for any sign that it was too much—and when you only pressed up against her instead, desperate for more, chasing the fullness rather than retreating from it, she gave you more without further hesitation.
"There you go," she said, low, finding her rhythm, the slick drag of her inside you building into something steady and deep. "You did so well tonight. Even after being a brat all day. Even after making me work for it." A particularly deep stroke made you gasp sharply, your back arching off the mattress. "I think I like you a little bratty, if I'm honest. Gives me an excuse to do exactly this."
"You don't—" Your voice broke around a building moan. "Need an excuse—"
"No," she agreed, amused even now, her own breath beginning to fray properly at the edges as her hips picked up speed. "I really don't." She angled herself and found the spot that made your whole body seize at once, and stayed exactly there, deliberate and unrelenting, watching the way it undid you with open, hungry satisfaction. "But it's more fun this way. Don't you think, little bunny?"
You couldn't manage an answer. You could only hold onto her and take what she gave you, the overstimulation of the spanking layering on top of the building pressure of everything else until you were right back at the edge again, faster than you'd expected, your whole body trembling with the effort of holding even that much together.
"Natasha—"
"I know." Her pace didn't slow at all. "Let go. I want to feel you. Cum for me. Right now."
You came apart with a sound that filled the entire room, your nails dragging hard down her back, and she followed soon after—her own composure finally breaking, a low groan tearing loose from her throat as her hips stuttered and held deep inside you, both of you trembling together in the aftermath.
(-)
Afterward, she cleaned you up with a warm cloth and careful hands, paying close attention to every place still tender—the soft inner curve of your thighs, the overheated skin between your legs—pressing gentle, lingering kisses there before finally drawing the blankets up over both of you and pulling you into her side.
You lay against her chest, listening to her heartbeat slow, her hair falling soft against your cheek where your head rested over her sternum. Her hand moved through it in slow passes down your back, the same patient rhythm she used for almost nothing else.
"Good?" she asked after a while, quietly.
You nodded against her chest, unable to manage much more than that, your whole body still humming faintly with the aftershocks of everything.
She pressed her lips to the top of your head and held them there, her arm tightening slightly around you, and the two of you lay tangled together in the warm dark for a long while, the room settling into something soft and quiet around you both.
"Go to sleep now, baby," Natasha whispered eventually.
You went still against her chest.
She felt it. Of course she felt it—she felt everything—and you could hear the laugh building low in her throat even before you lifted your head to look at her, already braced, already half-laughing yourself despite everything.
"Make me," you said, simply a reflex.
You knew immediately. The words sat right there, registering in your mind—that you had just said that after twenty spanks and a fucking that had left you boneless—and Natasha watched you realize that, her smile widening by the second.
Natasha's hand found your hip in immediate, gentle retaliation, and you yelped, laughing despite the fresh sting, and she pulled you back against her chest.
"Hopeless," she murmured into your hair affectionately, sounding thoroughly delighted about it.
"Shush," you murmured, words slurring slightly as sleep started to pull at you.
"Watch yourself," she replied, squeezing you slightly.
"You watch your—" You trailed off, drifting to sleep as her warmth surrounded you.
Natasha looked down at you, admiring your relaxed face. A smile spread across her face, one only for you.
"I'll let that one slide, malen'kiy zaychik," she whispered to your sleeping form. "Only because you're cute."
She let the quiet wrap around you both. It was calming. Just the sound of your breaths mixing with hers, the rustle of sheets as she shifted her legs.
pronouns: she/her
angela giarratana x fem!haas!reader
summary:
faceclaim: sophie thatcher
smosh
♡ 💬 40K ➤
smosh Coming up on the finale of Smosh Summer Games 2005 we have a new visitor in attendance...
view comments
user can't believe they used that ss of angela 😭
user who is it omggg
user I KNOW THOSE BOOTIES ANYWHERE
user omg omg omggg
user okay WHAT is going on here?
user CANNOT WAIT FOR THIS EPISODE
ynhaas 🤭
user stfu it cant be...
"And finally, would our guest judge say yes to you or not?" A gasp rippled through the auditorium. Eyes shot wide as both Chanse and Angela turned to one another, mouths opened wide. Damien's arm stretched out. "Introducing our guest judge, Y/n Haas!" As a round of applause echoed, Angela's mouth stayed firmly low. She choked on the air. Chanse cackled beside her, beginning to holler out in glee when, true as ever, Y/n timidly waved to her new audience and stepped out of the shadow. "Oh I'm fucked." Angela whispered, mouth quirking up in shock. She turned to Chanse with panic, a nervous laugh tipping off her tongue. "I'm so fucked!"
Y/n tucked her hands behind her back and smiled out. "Hey, guys."
Angela smiled widely at the confessional camera. "The second she walked out I knew I was fucked. I have literally never heard Chanse laugh so hard in his life."
Promposal through promposal, Angela stewed in nerves and discomfort. Practically half of her black nail polish had been gnawed off from her teeth. "Is it too late to drop out of Arahsa? She doesn't really need me." Chanse sent her a look, unimpressed with brows tight together. "Girl you are not making me hold her by myself–" Angela rolled her eyes.
"Oh come on, you guys can find somebody else."
"Nuh-uh, you're doing it." A whine painted her voice and a pout against her lips as Chanse dragged her up by the wrist.
To say she was humiliated was an understatement as she kneeled beside Chanse, Arasha's own digging into her back but a flutter flew up her chest at the sound of your stifled laughter. She took a breath. It was going to be fine. Fuck why hadn't she asked someone to join her? Anyone that could draft an actual promposal with her and not the bit she had been shoving together. For anyone else? Sure it'd be funny but you? Absolutely not. The need to be better coiled in her gut, not unfamiliar.
So the time finally arrived, the distant sound of Ian's monologue slowly dwindling. She summoned a deep breath as her shoes clapped in nerves. "Angela, you're fine." Chanse assured her. "It's not that bad, you don't even have to look at her." Angela looked up at him, brown eyes puppy-like. "But what if she hates it? This is like her first real impression of me since a year ago." A year ago that she completely fumbled her chance with you, only making a fool of herself on BOARDAF from across. Sure you had laughed politely and it was the sweetest sound she'd ever heard but it was nothing compared to the giggling that Courtney had sent you into.
"Come on, it's your turn!" Chanse encouraged, a hand on her shoulder and pushing lightly. He sighed. "Do you really want me to go with you?" Anegla bite her lip, hesitance filling her chest. "No, I...No. I'm gonna do it. It's like what? Five minutes?"
"Exactly! Go get 'em, tiger!" He shoved her out, forcing her to stumble and fake an entrance. She slumped herself back into her persona, slanting lined eyes and dragging her heels to the keyboard. She sucked in a deep breath and screeched at the top of her lungs, drowning out her eardrums as she slammed hard on the keyboard. The room burst into a chorus of laughter and surprise. "Prom! Prom! Prom!" She cried, missing how you doubled over and clutched your stomach. "Prom!" She committed, stretching her face from the force that she screamed. She pulled out her double act of instruments, unable to hold back her own laughter anymore.
She hardly heard the approaching footsteps as they made their way to her. Until she looked up to smell the wave of perfume wafting over you and see the wide smile you reserved for her. She almost choked on the tube. Your nails dragged across the keyboard, mashing them haphazardly. No matter how stupid this bit had become, she couldn't stop the warmth that smouldered her heart as you joined in it. Eventually she drew out one final scream while you pressed hard on the highest note. As silence finally returned, a grouped applause enveloped you both as you bore your teeth at her in a grin. Angela forced her persona back on, faux nonchalance creeping in atop her flaming pink cheeks. She looked down at her feet as she kicked one against the stage. "So, you gonna go to prom with me or what?" She asked, voice gruff and raspy. Finally the giggle she had long awaited for swam through her ears.
"Totally." You agreed, smile dangerous and beautiful.
ynhaas
♡ 63.4K 💬 1.3K ➤
ynhaas thank you for having me again @/smosh! i had a wonderful time time travelling with you. 🖤
view comments
user omg i loved her sm
user smosh needs to BRING HER BACK
co_mill my wife came back to me!
⤷ ynhaas missed you too bbg
⤷ user chat this affected me HARD
user damien stop hiding her i beg
user i would deadass watch her and ange interact for HOURS
user girl can you stay in 2005? that look was ICONIC
⤷ giving gothic angelina jolie LMAO
keithleakjr blaming damien for the yn drought
user i think everyone can tell which team she was on lmao
⤷ user literally accepted EVERY dd promposal aha
user angela could not make eye contact to save her life 🤣
user ok so when's the marriage proposal ep????
damienhaas give me my job back please
⤷ ynhaas no.
It was almost half an hour after filming wrapped that you had finally built up the courage to walk up to her. Angela Giarratana. The girl that you had been crushing on from afar ever since you got to see Nerdy Prudes Must Die live. Every time she appeared in your feed, casually beside your brother or a goofy clip going viral, you couldn't help but feel a blush rush to your face. It tinged your ears, too engrossed in her humour, her smile, her everything. You took a breath of courage as you tapped her on the shoulder. A shy smile twitched your lips. "Hey, Angela!" Her eyes snapped wide, surprised somehow that you even remembered her name. You could see her gulp. "I was just-well, I was just wondering whether you'd like to hang out sometime? Just the two of us?" Your fingers fiddled together, your sudden act of bravery slowing. She stared blankly ahead at you for a moment. "What?" Embarrassment flooded you until she snapped out of it and stood bolt-upright. "Yes! Yes, totally that'd be really cool. Yes, please, I 'd like that, I'd really, really like that."
Relief flooded you, drooping your shoulders. "Thank god." You smiled. She fumbled for her phone suddenly. "Can I get your number? I know this super good place down the road, I mean–if you're not busy of course! We could go for dinner and–"
"I'd like that."
Summary: The roomies want to make it clear it's not all on you to care for everyone.
Word Count: 5k
Warnings: no use of Y/N
Masterlist
The apartment was too small for three people.
That was the truth of it.
There were two bedrooms, one narrow bathroom, and a kitchen that had clearly been designed for a single person who didn’t enjoy cooking. The refrigerator door couldn’t open completely without hitting the counter. Two people could stand beside the stove if neither of them needed to move. The cabinet above the sink had been painted shut by at least four previous landlords, and the radiator in the living room made a violent knocking sound every morning at six.
Dennis slept on the couch.
He’d started doing it after moving in with you and Trinity at the end of his first ER shift at PTMC. At first, his presence had felt temporary. He’d arrived with a duffel bag, a backpack, and a cardboard box filled mostly with medical books. Trinity had tossed him a spare key. You’d found him a clean towel and cleared half a shelf in the bathroom.
Nobody had discussed how long he was staying.
A week became two.
Two weeks became a month.
Eventually, Dennis bought a toothbrush holder and started contributing to the electric bill.
The second bedroom was technically yours, though Trinity spent enough nights sprawled across your bed that the distinction had become mostly decorative. Her own bedroom was filled with clothes, unopened mail, and the exercise bike she’d sworn she was going to use once her schedule became more reasonable.
Her schedule had never become reasonable.
Dennis claimed the couch every night at around eleven. He kept a fitted sheet folded beneath the cushions, a pillow tucked behind the armrest, and a thick blue blanket in a plastic storage bin beneath the coffee table. Before bed, he transformed the living room with practiced efficiency. He moved the coffee table toward the kitchen, spread his sheet over the cushions, and plugged his phone into the extension cord you’d taped along the baseboard.
Every morning, he erased himself.
He folded the blanket into a neat square. He tucked the pillow into the hall closet behind the vacuum cleaner. The sheet disappeared beneath the couch cushions. The coffee table returned to the faded rectangle in the rug that marked its proper place.
By the time you left your bedroom, the living room looked like a living room again.
You hated that part.
It bothered you that Dennis felt as though he had to pack himself away before breakfast. It bothered you that he apologized whenever he left a book on the coffee table. It bothered you that he waited until everyone else was finished using the room before getting ready for bed, even after shifts that left him barely capable of keeping his eyes open.
You’d told him several times that he lived there.
He’d always smiled and said he knew.
Then he’d continued hiding his pillow every morning.
On a random Thursday, you decided to fix it.
It was a decision you made at six thirty in the morning while standing in the kitchen wearing one sock.
Dennis was folding his blanket on the couch. He hadn’t noticed you yet. His shoulders slumped beneath an old gray T-shirt, and his hair stuck up on one side from sleep. He pressed both hands against his lower back before bending to slide the storage bin beneath the coffee table.
His face tightened.
You narrowed your eyes.
“Does your back hurt?”
Dennis startled so badly that he nearly hit his head on the coffee table.
You stood in the kitchen doorway, holding your other sock in one hand.
“No.”
“You just made a face.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I was concentrating.”
“On bending over?”
“It’s early.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
Dennis pushed the bin into place using his foot. “Good morning.”
“Dennis.”
“Would you like coffee?”
“Does your back hurt?”
He looked toward the hallway, as though hoping Trinity might emerge and rescue him.
Trinity didn’t wake willingly before eight unless the apartment was actively burning.
You crossed the living room.
Dennis straightened quickly.
“Your back hurts.”
“It’s a little stiff.”
“You’re sleeping on a couch.”
“I’m aware.”
“The couch is older than all three of us combined.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“It came with the apartment. I think it survived the steel industry.”
Dennis pressed his lips together, trying not to smile.
You pointed at him with the sock.
“You need a better mattress.”
“Where would we put a mattress?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
That made his expression change.
The amusement faded beneath immediate concern.
“No.”
You frowned. “No?”
“You’re doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The one you make before you reorganize the entire apartment.”
“I’ve never reorganized the entire apartment.”
“You moved the kitchen table while Trinity and I were at work.”
“The kitchen table blocked the pantry.”
“The pantry is one cabinet.”
“It still needs to open.”
Dennis took your shoulders gently and turned you toward the kitchen.
“Coffee.”
“You’re redirecting me.”
“Yes.”
“My concern remains.”
“I know.”
“You need proper support.”
“I have a pillow.”
“A pillow isn’t spinal support.”
“It can be if you fold it.”
You looked over your shoulder at him.
“That’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”
Dennis guided you into the kitchen.
“I work in an emergency department. It isn’t even close.”
By nine, both Dennis and Trinity had left for work.
You had the day off.
You used it responsibly for almost forty minutes.
You did a load of laundry. You washed the dishes from the night before. You wiped down the bathroom sink and sent Trinity a picture of the toothpaste she’d somehow managed to get on the mirror.
Her response arrived a minute later.
Modern art.
You sent back a picture of the cleaning spray.
This is the critic’s review.
You put your phone aside and made the mistake of looking at the couch.
The faded brown cushions had begun sinking in the middle years before Dennis moved in. One armrest was lower than the other. Springs creaked whenever anyone shifted too quickly.
You sat down and immediately felt a hard bar pressing against the back of your thigh.
“This is unacceptable,” you murmured.
You spent the next hour searching online.
A new sleeper sofa cost more than you could justify spending without discussing it with the other two. A futon wouldn’t fit. The living room was barely wide enough to hold the existing couch, coffee table, television stand, and the narrow bookshelf Dennis had assembled against the wall.
Then you found the listing.
Compact folding guest mattress. Excellent condition. Free to collect today.
The pictures showed a thick foam mattress that folded into three sections. During the day, it could fit behind the couch. At night, Dennis could spread it across the living room floor. It wasn’t a bedroom, though it would be flat, supportive, and better than the collection of springs currently rearranging his spine.
The seller lived only six blocks away.
You messaged them.
They responded almost immediately.
You could pick it up at noon.
You checked the weather through the window.
Pittsburgh had been gray all morning, with a thin mist hanging between the buildings. The pavement shone with moisture. Traffic hissed along the street below.
Six blocks wasn’t far.
The mattress folded.
You had two able arms.
It was a perfectly sensible plan.
The mattress was larger in person.
The woman selling it had folded it into a thick rectangle and wrapped two straps around the middle. Standing upright, it came to your chest. It wasn’t particularly heavy, though its width made it difficult to hold.
“You came alone?” the woman asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you have a car?”
“No.”
She looked past you toward the street.
You smiled.
“I only live a few blocks away.”
“It’s raining.”
“It’s barely raining.”
A drop of water slid from your hairline to your cheek.
The woman stared at you.
You tightened your grip around the mattress.
“It’ll be fine.”
She didn’t appear convinced.
You thanked her and started walking.
The first block was manageable.
You carried the mattress in front of you, your arms wrapped around both sides. You couldn’t see your feet, though you could see enough of the sidewalk to avoid walking into anyone.
The second block was harder.
The mist strengthened into a steady drizzle. The fabric cover started growing damp beneath your fingers. A gust of wind caught the broad side of the mattress and shoved you half a step toward the street.
You recovered.
“This is fine,” you muttered.
By the fourth block, you were breathing hard.
Your shoulders ached. Your hands had started slipping against the wet fabric. You stopped beneath the awning of a closed bakery and adjusted the straps.
You considered calling Trinity or Dennis.
They were working.
The emergency department was probably busy. They didn’t need to be interrupted because you’d overestimated your ability to carry a folding mattress through Pittsburgh.
You could call a rideshare.
You checked your pockets.
Your phone wasn’t there.
You closed your eyes.
It was on the kitchen counter.
“Of course it is.”
You tightened your arms around the mattress and kept walking.
The apartment building came into view several minutes later.
Relief loosened something in your chest.
Then you remembered the stairs.
The building had no elevator.
You lived on the third floor.
You managed the first flight by dragging the mattress one step at a time.
It bumped against each stair with a dull thud.
You stayed beneath it, pushing upward with your shoulder while holding one of the straps. The narrow stairwell left little space to turn. At the first landing, you had to rotate the entire thing vertically, squeezing yourself between the railing and the wall.
You paused with your cheek pressed against the damp fabric.
“You’re doing great,” you whispered.
A door opened below you.
An elderly man from the first floor stepped into the stairwell carrying a small bag of trash.
He looked up.
You looked down.
The mattress blocked most of your face.
“Need help?” he called.
“No, thank you.”
He studied the situation.
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
The mattress slid backward half an inch.
You shoved it forward with your shoulder.
The man slowly retreated into his apartment.
You made it to the second-floor landing.
That was where things went wrong.
You turned the mattress sideways to fit around the corner. One end wedged against the railing. The other pressed into the wall. You pushed from below, and it shifted just far enough for you to step up.
Then the mattress slipped.
It dropped toward you.
You caught it with both hands, though the force pushed you backward into the wall. Your shoulder struck the plaster. The mattress settled diagonally across the landing, trapping you between its lower edge and the corner.
You tried to lift it.
It didn’t move.
You tried turning sideways.
Your sweater caught on the railing.
You released a long breath.
“This is less fine.”
The building fell quiet around you.
Rain tapped softly against the stairwell window.
You stayed there for several minutes, supporting the mattress with one shoulder and attempting to decide how much dignity you were willing to sacrifice.
You could shout.
One of the neighbors might hear you.
You’d have to explain that you’d trapped yourself beneath a guest mattress because you were worried about your roommate’s back.
You pushed again.
The mattress remained wedged.
Footsteps sounded below.
You straightened as much as you could.
The front door opened.
Trinity’s voice floated upward.
“Why is there water all over the floor?”
Dennis answered, “Maybe someone’s umbrella leaked.”
“Whose umbrella?”
“I don’t know.”
A beat of silence followed.
Then Trinity said, “Why is there a mattress in the stairwell?”
You closed your eyes.
Dennis leaned around the bottom of the staircase.
He looked up.
You could only see the top of his head from your position.
“Hi,” you called.
His face appeared between the railing bars.
He stared at you.
Trinity stepped beside him.
Her mouth fell open.
You attempted a small wave.
One of your arms was pinned beneath the mattress, so it wasn’t particularly effective.
Trinity blinked.
Dennis blinked.
You smiled.
“I can explain.”
Trinity started climbing.
Dennis followed close behind her.
“What happened?” he asked.
“The corner’s narrower than it looks.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Did you fall?”
“No.”
“Did the mattress fall?”
“Only a little.”
Trinity reached the second-floor landing and stopped directly beneath you.
Rainwater darkened the shoulders of her jacket. Her hair was damp around her face. She looked from you to the mattress and then back again.
“Where did that come from?”
“A woman six blocks away.”
“You carried it here?”
“It folds.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“It was free.”
“That also wasn’t my question.”
Dennis moved to the other side of the mattress, examining where it had caught against the railing.
“Can you move your arm?”
“Yes.”
“Your shoulder?”
“It’s fine.”
Trinity pointed a finger at you.
“Don’t.”
You stared at her.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say you’re fine like you haven’t somehow gotten yourself trapped beneath a mattress in our stairwell.”
“I’m not beneath it.”
“You’re using your body to hold it up.”
“That’s different.”
“It isn’t.”
Dennis placed one hand on the upper strap.
“On three, I’m going to lift this end. Trinity, can you pull her out?”
“I don’t need to be pulled out.”
Neither of them acknowledged you.
Dennis counted.
He lifted.
Trinity grabbed you around the waist and pulled you away from the wall.
You stumbled against her. She caught you firmly, one arm locked across your stomach while Dennis lowered the mattress onto the landing.
For a moment, all three of you stood in silence.
You could feel Trinity’s breath against the side of your face.
Dennis looked at the mattress.
Then he looked at you.
“What is this?”
You adjusted your wet sweater.
“It’s for you.”
Dennis frowned.
“For me?”
“You can unfold it in the living room at night. It’s foam, so it’ll be better for your back. During the day, we can stand it behind the couch.”
His expression softened immediately.
That was almost worse than Trinity’s stare.
“You did this because I said my back was stiff?”
“You didn’t say it. I noticed.”
Trinity released your waist only to take hold of both your upper arms.
“You walked six blocks in the rain carrying this?”
“It wasn’t raining when I left.”
“It was misting.”
“Mist isn’t rain.”
“Your hair is dripping.”
“It got heavier.”
“You didn’t call either of us?”
“I left my phone at home.”
Trinity’s eyes widened.
“You went out alone, without your phone, carried a mattress through the rain, and tried to drag it up three flights of stairs by yourself?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds worse.”
Dennis rubbed a hand over his face.
You looked between them.
Both of them appeared exhausted. Their scrubs were wrinkled beneath their jackets. Trinity had dark circles beneath her eyes. Dennis’s hair had begun curling from the damp weather.
You hadn’t wanted them to come home to another problem.
You’d wanted Dennis to see the mattress unfolded and ready.
You’d imagined how surprised he would look. You’d imagined Trinity making fun of the matching sheet you’d found in the closet. You’d imagined the three of you ordering dinner and rearranging the coffee table until everything fit.
Your shoulders dropped.
“I was trying to help.”
Dennis’s face softened further.
“I know.”
“I wanted you to be comfortable.”
“I know that too.”
Trinity’s thumbs rubbed unconsciously against your sleeves.
“You could’ve asked us.”
“You were working.”
“We still have phones.”
“I didn’t want you worrying about it.”
Trinity gave a short laugh.
There was no anger in it. It carried disbelief and affection, with enough exhaustion to make the sound slightly unsteady.
“You didn’t want us worrying, so you did all of this alone?”
“I almost had it.”
“You were stuck.”
“I was taking a break.”
“You were pinned against a wall.”
“Pinned feels dramatic.”
Dennis glanced toward Trinity.
“She’s going to keep arguing.”
“I know.”
“I think it’s a defense mechanism.”
“I’m standing right here.”
Dennis’s mouth twitched.
Trinity tilted her head, studying you.
The concern in her expression made your chest ache.
You offered them a sheepish smile.
“We’re in this together.”
Trinity stared at you for one long second.
Then she threw both hands into the air.
“You can’t go do stupid stuff on your own and then claim we’re in this together!”
Her voice echoed through the stairwell.
A door opened somewhere below.
The elderly neighbor from the first floor leaned into the hall.
“Told her she needed help,” he called.
Trinity looked over the railing.
“Thank you!”
The door closed again.
Dennis pressed his lips together.
You watched his shoulders begin to shake.
“Are you laughing?” you asked.
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
A quiet snort escaped him.
Trinity turned toward him.
“Huckleberry.”
That was enough.
Dennis started laughing openly.
You glared at both of them, which only made it worse.
Trinity tried to maintain her stern expression. Her mouth gave in first, curving at the corners.
“You’re both horrible,” you said.
“You brought a mattress home on foot,” Dennis managed.
“For your spine.”
“My spine appreciates the gesture.”
“It should.”
Trinity leaned her forehead against your shoulder.
You felt her laughing there, warm and breathless through your damp sweater.
“You’re impossible,” she murmured.
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Dennis wiped beneath his eyes.
“Can we get this upstairs before the neighbors start selling tickets?”
The three of you carried the mattress together.
Dennis took the top. Trinity held the middle strap. You were assigned the bottom corner under strict instructions not to lift more than necessary.
It still took ten minutes to navigate the last flight.
The apartment door was barely wide enough. Trinity had to move the shoe rack. Dennis nearly knocked a framed picture from the wall. You became trapped behind the door for several seconds and were forbidden from describing it as another break.
Once the mattress was inside, it occupied most of the living room.
Dennis unfolded it across the floor.
It stretched from the couch to the television stand, leaving a narrow strip of carpet near the kitchen.
Trinity stood with her hands on her hips.
“How are we supposed to walk?”
“It folds up during the day,” you reminded her.
“And what happens if I need water at night?”
“You step over Dennis.”
“She already does that,” Dennis said.
Trinity pointed at him.
“You sleep directly between me and the kitchen.”
“It’s a rectangular room.”
“You could shift left.”
“There’s a bookshelf on the left.”
“You put the bookshelf there.”
“You approved the location.”
“I wasn’t aware it would affect my nighttime hydration.”
You slipped off your wet shoes and lined them up beside the door.
Dennis pressed one hand against the mattress.
“It’s comfortable.”
You looked over quickly.
“Really?”
He lowered himself onto it, first sitting and then lying flat on his back. His arms rested at his sides. His eyes closed.
The tension left his face.
“It’s much better than the couch.”
Satisfaction warmed your chest.
“See?”
Trinity looked at you.
The pleased expression on your face must have ruined whatever lecture she had planned. Her shoulders dropped.
She reached over and tugged lightly on one of your damp sleeves.
“You need to change.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re soaked.”
“I’m damp.”
“You’re going to get cold.”
“I run warm.”
“That’s my excuse.”
“You complain when I use it.”
“Because it’s stupid.”
Dennis opened one eye from the floor.
“She has a point.”
You looked down at him.
“You’re supposed to be on my side. I carried that for you.”
“You’re not allowed to use the mattress as leverage.”
“Why not?”
“Because you nearly sacrificed yourself to acquire it.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
Trinity took your shoulders and steered you toward the hallway.
“Change your clothes.”
“You’re bossy.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Dinner needs to be started.”
“We’ll order something.”
“There are vegetables in the refrigerator.”
“They’ll keep.”
“The spinach is already questionable.”
Trinity stopped outside your bedroom.
“Take off the wet clothes. Dennis and I can handle dinner.”
You glanced past her.
Dennis remained stretched across the mattress with his eyes closed. His shoes were still on. Trinity looked tired enough to fall asleep standing.
“You both worked all day.”
“And you spent your day fighting furniture.”
“I did laundry first.”
“That doesn’t help your case.”
You hesitated.
Trinity’s expression softened.
“Let us do something.”
The words were quiet.
You looked at her properly.
She still had hold of your shoulders. Her fingers were warm through the wet fabric. Behind her, Dennis had opened his eyes and was watching from the living room.
You were used to taking care of them.
You knew how Trinity liked her coffee. You knew Dennis always forgot to replace the cap on the toothpaste. You knew which nights they needed conversation and which nights they needed a plate left in the refrigerator without questions.
Being useful came easily.
Letting them return that care left you feeling exposed in a way you didn’t quite understand.
“It was only a mattress,” you said.
“It wasn’t only a mattress,” Dennis replied from the floor.
You looked toward him.
He pushed himself upright.
“You noticed I was uncomfortable before I admitted it. You found a solution and carried it home because you wanted to make things better for me.”
“That’s what roommates do.”
“Exactly.”
You frowned slightly.
Dennis folded his legs beneath him.
“Roommates help each other. They don’t have to do everything alone.”
Trinity squeezed your shoulders.
“You keep treating us like we’re your responsibility.”
“You’re terrible at looking after yourselves.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“It’s relevant.”
“You pack our lunches,” Trinity continued. “You remind us to sleep. You keep track of when Dennis needs clean scrubs. You leave the hall light on when we’re coming home late.”
“You trip over things when it’s dark.”
“I know.”
Dennis reached for one of the loose straps around the mattress.
“You made room for me here before I knew how to ask for it.”
The apartment suddenly felt very quiet.
Rain tapped against the windows. The radiator released a single metallic knock from the corner.
Dennis looked around the living room.
There wasn’t much space.
His books crowded the shelf. Trinity’s jacket hung over the back of a chair. Your laundry basket sat in the hallway because the bedroom closet was too full.
It looked lived in.
It looked like all three of you.
“I don’t mind taking care of you,” you said.
“We don’t mind taking care of you either,” Trinity answered.
You lowered your eyes.
She pulled you into a hug before you could say anything else.
Your damp clothes pressed against her scrubs.
“You’re getting wet,” you warned.
“I’ll survive.”
“You complain when I hug you after rain.”
“I’m making a point.”
Dennis climbed to his feet and joined you.
His arms wrapped around both of you, slightly hesitant at first. Trinity grabbed his sleeve and pulled until he stood closer.
The hallway was too narrow for three people to hug comfortably.
Your elbow struck the wall. Dennis’s cheek pressed awkwardly against your hair. Trinity’s hand was trapped somewhere between your shoulder blades.
Nobody moved away.
“We’re in this together,” you whispered again.
Trinity tightened her arms around you.
“This time you’re using it correctly.”
Dennis rested his chin lightly against the top of your head.
“It means you tell us about the plan before you end up trapped in a stairwell.”
“It wasn’t really a plan.”
“That part was obvious,” Trinity said.
You pinched her side.
She yelped and nearly knocked all three of you into the wall.
Dennis laughed against your hair.
That evening, the living room became Dennis’s room as it always did.
The routine was different.
You helped him push the coffee table toward the kitchen. Trinity moved the rug so the foam mattress could lie flat. Dennis pulled his pillow from the hall closet.
You found a clean fitted sheet and stretched it over the mattress while Trinity complained that you were doing too much again.
“I’m putting on a sheet.”
“You’re supposed to be sitting down.”
“My shoulder doesn’t hurt.”
“You hit the wall.”
“I barely hit it.”
“You made a noise.”
“I was surprised.”
Dennis handed you a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel.
You stared at it.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Put it on your shoulder.”
“My shoulder is fine.”
Trinity pointed toward the couch.
“Sit.”
“You’re both enjoying this too much.”
“Immensely,” Trinity said.
You sat.
Dennis placed the peas against your shoulder himself before stepping back to examine his new bed.
The folding mattress took up nearly all the available floor space. The coffee table blocked half the kitchen entrance. Trinity would definitely trip over Dennis during her first attempt to get water.
It still fit.
Barely.
Dennis sat on the edge and bounced once.
“This is great.”
Your chest warmed.
“Your back will feel better.”
“Probably.”
“And you won’t sink into the middle.”
“That was becoming an issue.”
Trinity dropped onto the couch beside you.
“He slept folded in half.”
“I adjusted.”
“You looked like a lawn chair.”
Dennis rubbed his eyes.
“I’m choosing to accept the mattress and ignore the commentary.”
You leaned back against the cushions.
The apartment lights were low. Rain blurred the view beyond the windows, turning the buildings across the street into soft shapes. The sounds of passing cars rose from the wet road below.
Dennis unfolded his blanket over his legs.
He usually waited until you and Trinity went to your rooms before setting up the couch. Tonight, neither of you seemed interested in moving.
Trinity stretched out beside you, putting her feet in your lap.
You pushed them away.
She put them back.
“Your feet are cold.”
“Warm them up.”
“I’m not a heating pad.”
“You’re the mom. It’s your job.”
You stared at her.
Dennis looked up from the mattress.
“That seems like dangerous wording.”
“It is,” you agreed.
Trinity smiled, completely unrepentant.
“You make us lunches.”
“Not anymore.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I’m putting a new house rule into effect.”
Dennis reached toward the coffee table for the notepad you kept beside the television remote.
“What’s the rule?”
You thought for a moment.
“No one’s allowed to hide their problems until someone else notices.”
Dennis’s amusement softened.
Trinity’s feet went still in your lap.
“That applies to you too,” she said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
You sighed.
“I’m learning.”
Dennis wrote the rule across the paper.
His handwriting was careful and slightly slanted.
Beneath it, Trinity added another.
NO CARRYING FURNITURE ALONE.
You took the pen from her.
MIST ISN’T RAIN.
She immediately crossed it out.
Dennis added a third line.
THE LIVING ROOM IS ALSO DENNIS’S ROOM. KNOCK FIRST.
You looked at him.
“You want us to knock before coming into the living room?”
“Only after eleven.”
“The bathroom is through the living room,” Trinity said.
“You may pass through respectfully.”
“What does that mean?”
“No turning on the overhead light.”
“What if I need to find something?”
“Use your phone.”
“What if I leave my phone in the kitchen?”
You and Dennis stared at her.
Trinity folded her arms.
“That’s happened before.”
“You shouted from the bathroom for someone to bring it to you,” you said.
“It was an emergency.”
“You were watching a video.”
“It paused at an important part.”
Dennis wrote one more rule.
EVERYONE MUST KEEP TRACK OF THEIR OWN PHONE.
You leaned into Trinity’s shoulder, laughing.
Dennis settled back onto his mattress. He pulled the blanket to his chest and looked around the cramped living room.
His pillow was visible.
His blanket wasn’t tucked into a plastic bin.
His books remained on the coffee table.
For the first time, his space didn’t look temporary.
“You don’t have to put everything away before breakfast tomorrow,” you told him.
Dennis glanced at the couch.
“We’ll need somewhere to sit.”
“We can sit on the mattress.”
“We’ll have to step over it to get to the kitchen.”
“We already step over Trinity’s shoes.”
“That’s different,” Trinity said.
“It’s really not.”
Dennis ran his fingers along the edge of the blanket.
“I might leave the pillow out.”
You smiled.
“That’s a start.”
The radiator began its nightly knocking.
Trinity groaned and pulled a cushion over her head.
Dennis reached for the lamp switch.
You pressed the frozen peas more firmly against your shoulder and listened to them complain about the noise.
The apartment was still too small.
There wasn’t enough closet space. The bathroom schedule required military precision. Dennis’s new mattress nearly touched both the couch and television stand.
There wasn’t much room left for anything.
Somehow, there was enough for the three of you.
There was room for Dennis’s pillow in the corner.
There was room for Trinity’s cold feet in your lap.
There was room for your concern, even when it turned into poorly planned furniture retrieval.
There was room for them to worry about you in return.
Dennis reached over and switched off the lamp beside his mattress.
“Goodnight.”
Trinity removed the cushion from her face.
“We’re still sitting here.”
“I know.”
“You’re going to sleep while we’re talking?”
“I’ve learned to adapt.”
You lowered your voice to a whisper.
“He’s setting boundaries in his bedroom.”
Trinity nodded solemnly.
“We should respect his privacy.”
Dennis’s eyes remained closed.
“You’re both very funny.”
You and Trinity stayed on the couch until his breathing grew slow and even.
Then you carefully moved her feet from your lap and stood.
You picked up the empty glasses from the coffee table.
Trinity caught the back of your sweater.
“Leave them.”
“I’m taking them to the kitchen.”
“Tomorrow.”
“They’ll be in the way.”
“It’s Dennis’s room right now.”
From the mattress, Dennis mumbled, “Thank you.”
Trinity stood and guided you toward the hallway.
You looked back once.
Dennis slept flat on his back, his body properly supported for the first time since he’d moved in. His pillow rested beneath his head. The blue blanket covered him to his shoulders.
The glasses remained on the coffee table.
You let them stay.
In the morning, you would all deal with the clutter together.
i'm so sorry to carol, kamala, monica, wanda, jean, ororo, kate, jennifer/she-hulk, riri, america chavez, rogue, agatha, sylvie, natasha, and the eternals. i'm so sorry my loves you deserve so much better
Summary: as girlfriends, you and wanda share a closet. one thing you forgot to mention is where you get all the cool band tees your witch wears. it’s never been a problem until the day she walks into movie night wearing one of your dad’s most beloved shirts.
Warnings/Tags: post-aou era, avengers tower living, domestic avengers, movie night, r is tony's adopted daughter, pietro's alive and annoying, kissing, flustered emo wanda, hints of top wanda, sex heavily implied, thigh riding mentioned, pietro cockblocking, no use of y/n
Word Count: 3k
A/N: tell me if you want a part two based on what happened in the guyana safe house. sorry to whoever read ts first bc i missed A LOT.
Masterlist
Breaking through Wanda’s walls wasn’t easy for most of the Avengers. The only people she really listened to were Steve, Clint, her brother when she was in a good mood, Natasha, and you.
On account of you saving her twin’s life, she felt as though she owed it to you to be kind. Even if you were Tony Stark’s child.
Right now, you were soaking up her “kindness”. It was difficult to reject her when it meant kissing your lips raw in the center of your bed and feeling you up without allowing you to take off a single piece of clothing. She was such a tease.
You pull away from her lips, eyes pleading with her. “Need you Wands, please?”
Your witch sits upright with her weight settled on your middle. She pushes her hair behind her ears before patting your cheeks. You enjoyed the coolness of her rings against your heated skin.
“Can’t, detka. Weren’t you the one who wanted to beat Sam to the living room?”
“He’s probably been waiting there since lunch or something. You know how serious he is about watching Top Gun. Please, Wanda?” You pouted and her hands go from playfully tapping your cheeks to squishing them now.
She loved how silly you looked beneath her. She leans down and leaves a peck on your forcefully puckered lips, not allowing you to deepen it. You whine, frustrated by the way she fanned the flames of your desire, not truly fueling it.
Wanda's smiles down at you condescendingly. “So needy, are you not?”
“Just for you.” You reach for one of her hands, bringing it just below your chest to fiddle with her rings. You feel her body relax further.
“Mmm. Show me?” Wanda's eyes flash red and you feel a rush of warmth spread throughout your body.
Wanda was intimidating. Her power brought the energy she carried to a different level. And when crimson crept into her stare, all you could do was fall weak before her. It had always been this way.
“You want me to beg, witchy? Or do I need to shove your hand in my pants for you to understand how much you turn me on?” Still, you weren’t ready to fold for her just yet.
“I want you to ride my thigh until you come. Pants stay on. That way, I feel you soak through them, detka. I’ll make sure you beg for me anyway, don’t you worry.” One of her hands began to trace your bra through your shirt as she speaks, leaving goosebumps wherever her fingers fell.
Unfortunately for you, Wanda would never allow you to think you had any power over her in such a moment. You relinquished it the instant her accent grew thicker, her words weighed down by her hunger for you.
She begins to climb off your hips, moving to sit up against your headboard. Her legs spread wide enough for you to encase one of her thighs with your own. She pats her lap and waits patiently, eyeing you as you start to rise from your place beside her.
You settle yourself atop her carefully, and she grins, flexing her thigh as your core rests inches above her knee. You gasp and nearly fall into her. She’s quick to hold you steady, hands clutching your hips firmly, heat in her gaze, and seconds away from gloating about how easy it was to get you here.
But of course, neither of you could have a moment of true peace in this tower.
Rapid knocks rattle your door as a familiar, irritating, voice sounds out. “Sestra!” His call for Wanda is long and drawn out, stupidly jolly and almost melodic as his first hammers against the wood. “I know you’re in there!”
You throw yourself to the side, flopping back onto the space beside her as you roll your eyes.
Wanda exhales sharply and fixes her hair with slightly shaking hands before she gets up, straightens out her skirt, pulls up her knee high socks, and makes her way across the room.
“You never remind me to have F.R.I.D.A.Y. tell everyone we’re asleep.” You complain quietly.
“You really think that would matter to him?” She whispers back harshly.
“Oh, sestra!” You could only imagine the grin spread across his face.
Wanda pulls open the door, her features drawing out her irritation.
“What?” Pietro ignores her short tone and leans against the door frame.
“Everyone is waiting on you two. The bird and the spy lady are arranging a vote between Top Gun and Die Some Other Day.”
"It's Die Another Day, man." You threw your head back and groaned dramatically.
When those two went head-to-head on movie night, it was the worst. After two years of choosing this as a team building activity, you’re sure you’ve watched either movie at least a dozen times each. None of the Avengers took to exploring film outside their comfort zones, and you were about to add a spin the wheel feature to F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s system if you had to endure torture like this again.
“Sam and Natasha, Pietro.” His sister reminds him, sighing as she watches him shrug. To him, it was enough that you knew exactly who he was talking about.
“I’m going to kill both of them. Seriously.” Maybe you could make it board game night instead if you cried.
Pietro looked between the two of you before his stare lingered on your crumpled comforter.
“Why are you in her room?” The question was abrupt, giving neither of you a chance to respond with practiced ease.
The both of you stumbled over your words, searching for a plausible excuse. It’s not like Pietro was stupid, it had to be believable. You see his brows begin to furrow the longer the two of you took to come up with something.
“She wanted to paint my nails before our press conference tomorrow. Told her no.” You chuckle nervously and hold your hands up, making sure he catches the chipping paint and dry cuticles.
“Obviously. I don’t think my sister could fix that. You need professional help.” Pietro speeds to your side and grabs one of your hands for a closer look. You snatch it away and grumble at him. Your fists clench as you bring them down to your sides.
“Says you and your bone-dry bleach job.”
Wanda sees Pietro gear up to argue back and intervenes quickly, her arms stretched out towards you two.
“Alright! Both of you, calm down. You, didn’t you say they were waiting for us?” In a flash, Pietro's standing back in front of her, eager to get going now.
“I wanted to walk with you.” Wanda’s features soften at that. You understood. It was kinda sweet how the two of them rarely went anywhere without the other.
“Give me some time. I have to change, Pietro.” She raises her finger at him as she passes. She gives you a brief look over the shoulder before walking towards the door and down the hall to her own room.
You found yourself lucky her twin had arrived when he did. Otherwise, it’d be a bit difficult to explain why the crotch of your jeans were soaked through, and Wanda’s thigh was glistening.
Out of the three of you, you were the first to change and head downstairs to sit around waiting with the rest of the team. You played with the string of your sweatpants as you watched Sam and Natasha go back and forth about movie night. Bruce read through his lab notes beside you.
Weirdly, your father was nowhere to be seen. Usually, he’d have already staked his claim on the couch and snuck a disk into the player while no one was looking, easily seizing the spot of first film of the night.
“We should just let one of the twins pick our movie tonight. Whatever they pick won’t be something we’ve watched a hundred times over.” You spoke up, tired of their arguing.
“Yeah, guys. I don’t think I wanna watch the two of you fight for an hour and a half over which movie to watch after Sam loses the vote.” Bruce agreed with you, his voice calm and clearly avoiding a fight.
“How do you know I wasn’t going to win?”
Bruce deadpans. “We’ve watched Top Gun eleven times. At least the franchise Natasha chose has twice the number of movies. Yours doesn’t even have a sequel yet.”
“Fine. We defer to Speedrunner then. I refuse to watch some cheesy romcom.”
Before any of you could respond, your father makes his grand entrance. He struts into the living room with purpose and an accusation.
“Romanoff. Just the spider I’m looking for. Where’s my Metallica shirt? Cough it up.”
“Why’d you assume I’m the one who took it? It’s probably with your kid.” Natasha stands up from her place in front of the bookshelf.
Her picks were always on the bottom level.
“Just ransacked her closet. Found twenty-three articles of clothing that belong to me. Metallica shirt? Nowhere to be found. You’re my only suspect, sticky fingers.”
"You ransacked my closet?" You went unaddressed.
“Tony, I borrowed your jacket like one time.” He eyes her. “Okay, I kept it for two months and stole your blow dryer on Wednesday. That’s hardly enough to make you think I crept into your room just to take some dumb band-tee.”
He blinks rapidly at that. “You stole my blow dryer?”
“It has that rotating brush I needed. Pepper never taught you how to share?”
Sam laughed loudly at the reveal. “That’s what was happening? I was wondering why you started looking like Farrah Fawcett was the centerpiece of your mood board.”
“Oh, shut up Wilson.”
“Look, Carmen Sandiego, if I find my shirt—and my hair dryer—back in their rightful place by noon tomorrow then I’ll look the other way. Otherwise, Salem’s getting the boot.”
“You can’t kick my cat out over some stupid shirt.”
As if understanding the threat, you hear a quiet meow from across the room. Liho was hidden somewhere, possibly behind the recliner or under a side table.
You watch the two of them squabble a little longer. Truthfully, you did jack his closet for that shirt. But you now had no idea where it went. Last you’d seen it, it was stranded somewhere on your floor before your date with Wanda. But you wanted to see how far the two of them would take this before you owned up to it.
Then your girlfriend walked into the living room, innocent as ever, and your heart dropped into your ass. You were both so over. You closed your eyes and nodded solemnly, accepting your fate.
“Uh...Tony?” Bruce was the first one to notice. His finger points in Wanda’s direction.
“Don’t interrupt me, sweet pea. Romanoff hasn’t—” Your dad does a double take.
His voice falls short at the sight of Wanda. The witch wore dark grey leggings under an oversized band tee. The very band tee he’d ravaged the tower for. She stopped in the entryway, a puzzled expression taking over as she took in the living room’s silence. Pietro isn't far behind her, zooming into the center of the room with an oblivious smile.
“You were saying, Stark?” Natasha sported a smug smirk, her eyebrows raised towards you as she looked to the brunette and back.
Wanda’s tone held a bit of trepidation as she questioned the room. “What?”
“Guess we know where your shirt went, Tony.” Bruce chuckles falteringly, eyes darting between your father, your girlfriend, and you.
Wanda stood uncomfortably, fingers playing with the rings littering her fingers as she came to understand what the rest of the room now knew. If she’d been aware the t-shirt actually belonged to the most exasperating billionaire she knew, there was no doubt she would’ve set it on fire before pulling it over her head. Wanda would’ve later convinced you it was lost in the wash if need be.
“Clint owes me so much money.” When you hear Nat whisper, amusement coloring her tone as she observed Wanda’s face grow increasingly flushed.
“I thought we agreed on action for movie night, not a telenovela. But hey, I’m not complaining.” Sam shrugs and slumps back into the couch cushions, growing comfortable as he watches the scene unfold.
“Sam, I swear to god I’ll rewire Red Wing to self-destruct every time a corny-ass comment comes out your mouth, if you don’t shut up!” You fuss, glaring in his direction.
“Why am I the only one being threatened?” He asks. His question goes ignored as your dad finally speaks up.
“Kid, since when?” You recognize the look in your father’s eyes and turn away.
“Five months.” While you knew it’d hurt him to be blindsided like this, your connection with Wanda was still sensitive. Given the nature of his relationship with the twins, there would have been no right way to tell him, or Pietro, the truth.
He looked at the Sokovian girl, still frozen at the living room entrance. “The safehouse in Guyana?” Wanda nodded in response.
Her heart was beating out of her chest, she didn’t have to hone in to feel how erratic your energy was. And even if she tried, she’d never be able to hold onto a single one of the thoughts racing through your mind. Your mind was loud, hers too, as you waited for him to say something else.
“Are you sure she hasn’t got you under some evil love spell?” He tried to joke, but you could see how the comment hit Wanda from across the room.
“Dad, she’s my girlfriend. Can we just talk about this later?” You tried to keep your voice even as you spoke, wanting to leave enough of a warning without being malicious.
“Wanda, she is telling the truth?” If possible, you felt even more nervous about Pietro’s reaction than your father’s.
He was everything to Wanda. If he didn’t approve, what would come of your relationship? Sure, you saved his life, but she was his little sister.
“Pietro…I was going to tell you. There was just never the right time.” Pietro nodded thoughtfully, taking it all in.
You watch the twins fall into a daze. A part of your brain monitors their changing expressions as you begin to pick the skin off the side of your left thumb. You knew they were communicating in their own way when Wanda glared his way and Pietro’s lips twitched slightly at the sight.
The living room kept its silence throughout. Natasha and Bruce hadn’t moved an inch since they’d last spoken.
You knew the two of you were extremely lucky half the team was out on missions. It’d be at least three more days before the mood lightened up and everyone in the tower was teasing the two of you. For now, you could both deal with a little mouth and awkward silences from these few. You just knew Bruce would make some one-off comment about it in the lab and leave it at that. Once the rest of them grew comfortable with the idea of you two dating, it would be never ending snark and teasing.
Unbelievably, you almost couldn't wait for that moment.
The tension was broken when Sam, munching on his popcorn, became loud enough to be disturbing. You eyed him seriously and went to say something when Wanda snapped out of her daze and marched your way.
“You.” She grabs your hand. “Are coming with me. Now.” Her face was burning red.
The embarrassment wasn’t a usual sight for you. You tried to bask in it, knowing the fun wouldn’t last for long once you were alone together, but honestly, you were afraid of the conversation that'd come behind closed doors.
You let Wanda drag you to her bedroom. Once inside, she locks the door and commands F.R.I.D.A.Y. to soundproof the space. She leans her head against the door as you sit stiffly on the edge of her bed.
“We’ve been so careful.” She mumbles. You bite your lip at her words, feeling guilty she’d been put on the spot like that.
“Are you mad at me?”
“Oh, draga. Never. This wasn’t your fault.” She pushes herself away from the door and crosses the room to you. You let out a long breath of relief and lick your lips.
When she makes it to you, Wanda’s hands cradle your face gently. Her thumbs smooth over the ends of your brow bones before coming to sit in the hollows of your cheeks. They rub there in small circles as she leans down to kiss your forehead.
“But you do understand what this means for you at the end of the night, don’t you?”
Wanda eyes glowed with barely restrained chaos, irises a deep and spellbinding red that made you gulp. At a loss for words, you could only nod meekly. You knew she'd take the chance to remind you that embarrassment was fleeting, but her control over you was not.
“Good, draga. Now sit back while I choose a show for us.” Satisfied, Wanda lets go of you and grabs the remote on her nightstand.
“You always get to pick!”
“Right, and why do you think that is?” She tries you and you let her have it, knowing the banter would lead to nowhere—well maybe foreplay.
“Whatever.” You pouted, crossing your arms as you sat up against her headboard.
“Charmed is way better than whatever stupid Western Pietro was going to pick out anyways.”
“Hey! That’s my brother-in-law you’re talking about.” Wanda rolls her eyes at you but there's no hiding the blush coloring her cheeks.
“Shut up, Stark.”
“Make me.” You challenge.
Chaos magic begins to wind around her fingers as she turns your way. “You know what being bold gets you, detka. And it’s not a reward.”
Before the DVD player could process the disk, you were spread out beneath Wanda, begging her to have mercy.
Summary: The hunt is on to find you. Will Angela be the first one there?
Word Count: 3.6k
Warnings: no use of Y/N
A/N: This is loosely based on the Hide and Seek video series that they have! Especially after yesterday's video!
Masterlist
You've been working behind the scenes at Smosh for years now, and you've gotten pretty good at staying invisible. It's not that you're camera-shy, exactly. You just prefer the comfort of being behind the lens, adjusting lights, checking sound levels, and making sure everything runs smoothly. It's where you belong, where you're comfortable.
But today, apparently, that's all going out the window.
"So you're cool with this?" Kiana asks, clipboard in hand, her expression somewhere between excited and apologetic. "I know it's last minute, but we thought it'd be a great twist for the video."
You can't help the grin spreading across your face. "Yes. A hundred times yes. This is gonna be amazing."
The concept is deceptively simple: Smosh hide-and-seek with a point system. Two teams competing: Amanda and Angela versus Spencer and Shayne. Various crew members are scattered throughout the building, each worth one point when found. But you? You're the golden egg. Worth ten points. And once you're found, the entire game ends immediately.
"So basically," Kiana explains, walking you through it, "they'll be hunting down crew members, racking up points. But whoever finds you wins the whole thing for their team, no matter what the score is."
"High stakes," you say, already thinking through potential hiding spots.
"Exactly." Kiana grins. "Everyone knows you're hiding. The cast, the crew, the audience will know. They just won't know where."
"Angela's gonna be so determined," you say, and you can already picture her face, that competitive gleam in her eyes.
Kiana laughs. "She and Amanda have already been strategizing. Spencer and Shayne too. This is gonna be intense."
"Good," you say. "Make them work for it."
Kiana squeezes your shoulder. "You've got a fifteen-minute head start before we start filming. Pick your spot wisely. And make it good."
"Oh, I will."
Twenty minutes later, you're wedged in the tightest space you've ever squeezed yourself into. The back storage room, the one filled with old equipment and props, has these massive metal shelving units against the far wall. They're loaded with boxes and gear, standing about seven feet tall and maybe two feet deep. But there's a gap between the back of the shelving units and the wall, maybe eighteen inches wide at most.
That's where you are.
You had to turn sideways to slip into the space, your chest pressed against the cold metal back of the shelving unit, your back against the concrete wall. Your arms are pinned at your sides, and you can barely move without making the whole shelf rattle. You're standing, because there's no room to sit, your feet planted on the narrow strip of floor. The shelves are so tall that even if someone looks into the storage room, they won't see you unless they physically move the units or squeeze around to check behind them.
Your phone is on silent, tucked into your pocket where you can barely reach it. You can hear everything happening in the hallway outside through the storage room door, which you left slightly ajar to avoid suspicion. The intro is being filmed in the main studio, and you can just barely make out voices explaining the rules.
Then you hear it: "Let the games begin!"
Footsteps scatter in multiple directions. The hunt is on.
You control your breathing, staying perfectly still in your narrow hiding spot. Your heart's racing with excitement, but outwardly, you're calm and focused. This is going to be a long game, and you're determined to make them earn every second of it.
"Found one!" That's Amanda's voice, distant but clear. "That's one point for us!"
"Damn it!" Spencer's voice echoes from somewhere else. "Shayne, we gotta move faster!"
The game is progressing fast. You hear footsteps constantly, doors opening and closing, excited shouts when someone's discovered. The two teams are clearly going in different directions, racing against each other.
"Got another one!" Shayne this time. "That's one for our team! We're tied!"
"Not for long!" Angela shouts back, and you can hear the competitive edge in her voice. "Amanda, check the edit bays, I'll take the offices!"
You shift slightly, trying to ease the pressure on your shoulders where they're pressed against the metal shelving. The unit creaks just a tiny bit, and you freeze, but no one seems to notice. The storage room is at the end of a back hallway, away from the main action.
Minutes pass. The score keeps climbing.
"Two to one!" Amanda announces. "We're winning!"
"Not for long!" That's Spencer. "Found another one! Two to two!"
You've been in this spot for maybe twenty minutes now, and your legs are starting to protest. Standing perfectly still in such a confined space is harder than you expected. But you don't move, don't make a sound. You're the golden egg. You're worth ten points. You're ending this game, but only when they earn it.
"Three to two, Spencer and Shayne!" Shayne's voice is triumphant.
"We'll catch up!" Angela fires back. You can hear her determination even from here.
More footsteps. More doors. The competition is fierce, both teams hunting aggressively for crew members and points.
"Three to three!" Amanda yells. "Found another one!"
You've been hidden for about thirty minutes now. Your back is aching from being pressed against the wall, and your arms are going numb at your sides. But you stay still, breathing slowly and quietly.
"Has anyone checked the back storage areas?" That's Spencer's voice, and it's closer than before.
Your pulse picks up slightly.
"I'll check them," Shayne responds. "You keep looking in the main areas."
Footsteps approach. You hear the door to a storage room open, not yours, but close. Boxes being moved. Then the door closes again.
"Nothing here!" Shayne calls out.
"Four to three!" Angela's voice rings out. "We're back in the lead!"
"Not for long!" Spencer shouts back.
The competition is heating up. You can hear both teams moving faster now, more urgently. The regular crew members are running out, and everyone knows it. The golden egg is the real prize.
You've been in your hiding spot for about forty-five minutes now. Your entire body is protesting, your legs shaking slightly from standing so still for so long. But you don't move. You're committed.
"Four to four!" Amanda announces. "We're tied again!"
"There can't be many crew left," Spencer says, his voice carrying down the hallway. "We need to find the golden egg."
"We're gonna find her first," Angela responds, and you can hear that determined edge you know so well. "She's gotta be somewhere we haven't looked yet."
Footsteps again. Multiple sets this time, but going in different directions. The teams are splitting up, covering more ground.
"Where would you hide if you were her?" That's Amanda, talking to Angela somewhere nearby.
"Somewhere no one would think to look," Angela responds. "Somewhere uncomfortable, probably. She's committed."
You almost smile at that. She knows you well; after nearly three years together, she knows how your mind works, knows your habits and your tells. But even knowing you this well, she has no idea where you'd hide or how you're thinking about this particular game. The producers kept your hiding spot secret from everyone, even her. So now she's out there searching for you specifically, knowing it's you but completely in the dark about where to look. That's what makes your heart race a little faster in the darkness of your hiding spot, the fact that she's hunting for you, and you're exactly where she'd never think to look.
"Five to four!" Spencer's voice echoes from somewhere distant. "We're winning again!"
"Not for long!" Amanda shouts back.
More footsteps. They're getting closer to your area now. You hear doors opening and closing, the sounds of a thorough search.
"Five to five!" Angela yells. "Found another one! Amanda, we're tied!"
"There's gotta be only a couple crew left," Shayne says, his voice carrying. "The golden egg is the game now."
You've been hidden for almost fifty minutes. Your body is screaming at you to move, to shift position, to do anything to relieve the pressure. But you stay perfectly still, wedged in your impossible hiding spot.
"I'm checking every single room back here," Angela announces, and her voice is close now. Really close.
"We're doing the same on this side!" Spencer calls back. The competition is fierce, both teams racing to find you first.
Doors open and close. You can track their movements by sound. Angela and Amanda are working their way down your hallway, methodically checking rooms. Spencer and Shayne are somewhere else, doing the same.
"Six to five!" Shayne's voice. "We're ahead!"
"Not for long!" That's Amanda.
Your legs are shaking now, your muscles fatigued from standing so long. You've been in this spot for almost an hour. But you're so close. They're so close.
"There's gotta be something we're missing," Angela mutters, and she sounds like she's right outside the storage room.
Then you hear it. The sound that makes your heart jump.
The storage room door creaks open wider.
"This one's full of old equipment," Angela says, and you can hear her stepping inside. "Amanda, help me check behind these shelves."
"We're checking the back offices!" Spencer calls from somewhere else. The teams are still competing, still racing.
"There's a gap back here," Amanda says, and your pulse is racing now. "Between the shelves and the wall."
"Can you see anything?" Angela asks.
"It's too narrow. Wait, let me—"
You hear the sound of the shelving unit being pulled forward slightly, and then suddenly there's light flooding into your hiding spot, and Amanda's face appears around the edge of the shelf, and her eyes go wide.
"ANGELA!" Amanda shrieks. "SHE'S HERE! SHE'S BEHIND THE SHELVES!"
"WHAT?" Angela practically screams, and then she's there too, both of them staring at you wedged in the impossibly narrow space between the shelving and the wall.
Angela's expression shifts from pure competitive adrenaline to complete shock in half a second. Her eyes go impossibly wide, her mouth drops open, and for a moment she just stares at you like she can't quite process what she's seeing.
"THERE YOU ARE!" Angela gasps, her voice cracking with a mix of relief and triumph. "Oh my god, you're actually back here! I found you!"
There's something in her tone that goes beyond the game, pure competitive victory mixed with genuine amazement. After nearly three years together, she knows you, but she clearly had no idea you'd think to hide in a space this insane. The fact that she actually found you, that she figured it out, makes her practically vibrate with excitement.
"I didn't—" Angela starts, then laughs, that bright, infectious laugh that made you fall for her in the first place. "How did you even FIT back there?"
"Carefully," you say with a small smile from your uncomfortable position, completely composed despite the fact that you've been standing wedged in an eighteen-inch gap for almost an hour.
Angela's expression melts into something between exasperation and pure adoration. "You've been standing this whole time? In that tiny space?" She reaches toward you, her competitive excitement mixing with concern. "Amanda, we FOUND THE GOLDEN EGG!"
"WE WON!" Amanda's shriek echoes through the entire building. "TEN POINTS! GAME OVER!"
"WE WON!" Angela confirms, reaching toward you. "Come on, you gotta get out of there!"
You turn sideways, carefully extracting yourself from the narrow space. It takes a moment, your body stiff and protesting after being in the same position for so long. Angela grabs your hand the moment you're close enough, physically pulling you out from behind the shelving unit.
The moment you're free, your legs almost give out, but you keep your expression neutral and calm. Angela doesn't let go of your hand, practically bouncing with excitement.
"That was AMAZING!" she says, her voice filled with pride and competitive satisfaction. "You were behind the SHELVES! For how long?"
"About an hour," you say calmly, brushing some dust off your shirt.
"AN HOUR?" Amanda stares at you like you've grown a second head. "Standing in that tiny space for an hour?"
You shrug. "It wasn't too bad."
"WASN'T TOO BAD?" Angela repeats, looking at you with fond exasperation and pure adoration. "Babe, that space was like eighteen inches wide!"
"And you found me," you point out, your voice even and warm. "Good job."
"We WON!" Angela says, squeezing your hand. "Ten points! Spencer and Shayne were at six to five, but it doesn't matter because we got the golden egg!"
As if on cue, Spencer and Shayne appear in the doorway, both of them looking disappointed but impressed.
"You found her?" Spencer asks.
"Behind the shelving units!" Amanda announces triumphantly. "Standing there for an hour!"
"An hour?" Shayne's eyes widen. "In that tiny gap?"
"Commitment," you say simply, and everyone laughs at the contrast between your calm assessment and the reality of what you just did.
"That's insane," Spencer says, shaking his head but smiling. "We were so close. Six to five."
"But we got ten points," Amanda says, grinning. "This is a decisive victory."
"Plus the look on your faces when you found her," one of the crew members says, pulling out his phone. "I got it on video. This is gonna be everywhere."
Angela's still holding your hand, and she pulls you toward the hallway. "Come on, we gotta do the reveal for the main cameras. Everyone needs to see this."
You let yourself be pulled along, walking calmly beside her while she's practically skipping with excitement. Your legs are shaky and your body aches from the hiding spot, but you don't show it. Just steady, composed, unfazed.
The main studio comes into view, and the crew is there with cameras ready. Ian and Anthony are waiting, and when they see Angela dragging you in by the hand, both of them start laughing.
"She was behind the SHELVING UNITS!" Angela announces to everyone, her voice filled with pride and excitement. "In like an eighteen-inch gap! Standing for an HOUR!"
"How is that even possible?" Ian asks, looking at you with genuine curiosity.
You shrug. "I fit."
"That's not—" Ian shakes his head, grinning. "That's not what I meant. How did you stay there that long?"
"Commitment," you say simply, and Angela squeezes your hand tighter.
"She's the best," Angela says, looking at you like you hung the moon. "And we WON! Ten points! Golden egg!"
"Final score was six to five, Spencer and Shayne were winning," Amanda adds, appearing beside you both. "But it doesn't matter because we got TEN POINTS!"
"We were so close," Spencer says, but he's smiling. "That hiding spot though. Respect."
"Seriously," Shayne agrees. "I would've given up after like five minutes."
"It wasn't that bad," you repeat, and everyone laughs at the contrast between your calm demeanor and the reality of what you just endured.
Angela turns to you, her eyes shining with affection and competitive satisfaction. "You're amazing. That was perfect. We crushed them."
"You found me," you point out. "You won."
"WE won," she corrects, then kisses your cheek quickly, unselfconsciously, the way she always does.
The energy in the room is chaotic, with everyone talking over each other as they celebrate Angela and Amanda's decisive victory. The cameras are still rolling, capturing every moment of the aftermath. Spencer and Shayne are good-naturedly complaining about being so close. Amanda is taking victory photos. Ian's asking you detailed questions about how you even fit behind the shelves in the first place.
And you're just standing there, hand still in Angela's, calm and steady while she radiates pure joy beside you.
"You okay?" Angela asks, her voice dropping to something softer, meant just for you even with all the noise around you.
You look at her, at the happiness on her face, the way she's looking at you like you're the best part of her day. "I'm good. Congratulations on winning."
She grins, wide and bright. "We make a good team."
"We do," you agree.
The filming wraps up eventually, everyone still buzzing with excitement about the game and your insane hiding spot. You slip back toward your normal spot behind the cameras, but Angela keeps pulling you back into frame for the outro, her arm around your waist, showing off her victory and her girlfriend in equal measure.
"This is gonna be everywhere, you know," you tell her during a break, your tone mild and unbothered.
Angela pulls you close, her eyes shining. "Good. Everyone needs to see how perfect you are. And how we totally dominated that game."
"So competitive," you murmur, shaking your head fondly.
"Yeah, and you love it," she says confidently, and she's right.
Later, after everything is wrapped and the crew is packing up, you check your phone. The behind-the-scenes posts have already gone up on Instagram and Twitter, and the comments are rolling in. Hundreds of them. Thousands.
"the way angela is LOSING IT and her girlfriend is just 😐 i love them"
"angela: SCREAMING, YELLING, PURE CHAOS"
"her gf: wasn't too bad 🙂"
"they're literally golden retriever and cat energy i'm obsessed"
"the contrast between their personalities is sending me"
"SHE STOOD BEHIND SHELVES IN AN 18 INCH GAP FOR AN HOUR AND SAID 'wasn't too bad' I'M CRYING"
"angela physically PULLING her out of the hiding spot with the most excitement i've ever seen while her gf is just vibing"
"'it seemed like a good spot' GIRL YOU STOOD SIDEWAYS FOR AN HOUR"
"new favorite dynamic just dropped"
"wait wait wait. angela's girlfriend?? ANGELA HAS A GIRLFRIEND?? how did i not know this"
"they've been together for almost 3 years apparently and i'm just finding out now i feel betrayed"
"the way angela looks at her though... that's genuine love. they're so comfortable with each other it's actually beautiful"
"this is the most we've ever seen of angela's relationship and honestly? they're exactly what i expected. she's the chaos, her gf is the calm. they complete each other"
You scroll through them, a small smile on your face. People are being so enthusiastic about it.
Angela appears behind you, wrapping her arms around your waist and resting her chin on your shoulder. "Look at us being cute."
"Look at you being chaotic," you correct gently.
"Yeah." She presses a kiss to your cheek. "But you balance me out. That's what everyone's saying."
You turn in her arms, meeting her eyes. They're soft and full of affection, that look she gets when it's just the two of you. "We're good?"
"We're perfect," you confirm, and you mean it.
She kisses you properly then, sweet and unhurried, and you hear someone (definitely Shayne) whistle from across the studio.
"Get used to it!" Angela yells back without breaking away from you. "This is my girlfriend and I'm gonna be annoying about it!"
You laugh softly against her lips. "You're already annoying about it."
"And you love me anyway."
"Yeah," you say, your voice quiet and sure. "I really do."
The video goes up three weeks later. You watch it with Angela curled up next to you on her couch, her head on your shoulder, both of you reading the comments as they flood in. The moment when she finds you has already been clipped and posted everywhere. Your calm expression as you're pulled from behind the shelving units. Her explosive excitement. The way she physically dragged you out like she'd just discovered buried treasure.
"We're a meme now," you observe, watching a TikTok edit that's labeled "golden retriever gf and black cat gf energy."
"The best kind of meme," Angela corrects.
"Is there any other kind?"
"Definitely not when it comes to us."
You roll your eyes fondly, but you're smiling. This wasn't what you expected when you agreed to be the golden egg. You thought it'd be a fun bit, a silly game, maybe a few seconds of screen time before you disappeared back into your comfortable anonymity.
Instead, you got this. After nearly three years of keeping your relationship mostly private, mostly behind the scenes, the world finally gets to see what you've always known about each other. Your dynamic on full display, thousands of people celebrating how well you complement each other, how your calm steadiness balances her chaotic energy. It's overwhelming in the best way.
You've been together long enough to know this is solid, real, built on something that doesn't need validation from anyone else. But there's something different about choosing to let people see it. About stepping into the light together, not because you had to, but because you wanted to. Because after three years of existing quietly in the background, you're ready for this—for her, for what you've built together, to be seen.
"Hey," Angela says, tilting her head to look up at you. "Thank you for doing this. For letting everyone see us like this."
"You're worth it," you tell her simply, your voice steady and sincere.
Her smile could light up the entire studio. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She kisses you again, and somewhere in the background, your phone buzzes with another notification. Another comment, another like, another person discovering what you've known for three years: you and Angela just work. But you ignore it, focusing instead on this moment, this person, this relationship that everyone finally gets to see in action.
You spent years working behind the scenes, comfortable in that space. But this? This was worth stepping into the light for. Not because it was a reveal or a surprise, but because it was a choice—a conscious decision to share what you've built together, to let people see the real thing you and Angela have always known was there.
"So," Angela says eventually, mischief creeping into her voice. "Want to be in more videos?"
"Absolutely not."
She laughs, that bright sound you love so much. "That's my girl."
And yeah. You are. Publicly, obviously, undeniably hers. The game is over, Angela won, and somehow, you both won anyway.
Summary: Sometimes you find that family isn't only built by blood.
Word Count: 9k
Warnings: no use of Y/N
A/N: Hello everyone! Happy Pride! I am hoping to write a fic a day for Pride Month, so if you have any ideas for any of the people I write for, or even someone new, send them my way!
Masterlist
Rosie asks the question with strawberry jam on her cheek and one sock missing.
You should’ve seen it coming. She’s three now, which means the world has become one long string of questions. Why does the moon follow the car? Why does Mommy talk with her hands when she’s excited? Why can’t Spork have pancakes if Spork wants pancakes? Why does Uncle Chanse make his voice like that when he reads books?
You answer most of them. Angela answers the rest with the kind of confidence that makes nonsense sound official.
But this one lands differently.
Rosie is sitting on the kitchen floor in her pajamas, surrounded by wooden blocks. The purple ones are houses. The green ones are trees. The yellow one is a castle. The red one, according to Rosie, is a store that sells fruit, birthday candles, and “little tiny cakes for sad days.”
Angela is at the counter making toast, wearing just one of your sweatshirts with the sleeves pushed up. Her curls are still messy from sleep, and she’s humming under her breath as she spreads jam thickly because Rosie insists toast needs “enough red.”
You’re at the table with coffee you haven’t actually drunk. You keep both hands around the mug anyway. It gives you something to hold.
Rosie stacks a blue block on top of a green one and says, “Mommy has Nonna.”
Angela glances over her shoulder. “I do.”
“And Grandpa.”
“Mhm.”
“And Uncle Joe.”
Angela smiles. “Yep. Uncle Joe, too.”
Rosie frowns at her blocks, organizing the world in her head. “And Uncle Chanse.”
Angela laughs softly. “Uncle Chanse isn’t my brother, babe.”
Rosie looks offended. “He’s Uncle Chanse.”
“He is Uncle Chanse,” Angela says quickly, like she’s correcting a legal record. “Very important distinction.”
Rosie nods, satisfied. Then she picks up the purple block and turns toward you.
“Mama?”
You lift your head. “Yeah, bug?”
“Where’s your family?”
The room goes still.
It isn’t dramatic. The toaster doesn’t pop at the wrong moment. Nothing falls. Angela doesn’t make a sound. Outside, a car rolls by with music humming low through the windows. Spork sighs from his little bed near the sliding door, annoyed by existence as usual.
Still, something inside you folds in on itself.
Your fingers tighten around the mug.
You always knew Rosie would ask. Of course, she would. She’s old enough to know Angela has a big, loud family that calls too often and cooks too much and talks over one another with love spilling out between every interruption. She knows Angela has Joe, who sends silly videos and lets Rosie take over FaceTime with endless updates about stickers and dinosaurs. She knows there are relatives who know her name, people who belong to Angela through blood and memory and childhood stories.
But your side is quieter.
Your side has always been quieter.
Not because no one existed. Because they chose not to stay.
Rosie looks up at you, waiting with all the trust in the world.
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
For a second, you’re not in your kitchen. You’re younger, standing in a doorway with a bag over your shoulder, hearing that you have made your choice. Hearing that if you wanted that life, if you wanted Angela, if you wanted to call love by its real name, then you could live with the consequences.
Angela knows that silence.
She knows the shape it takes in your body. She knows how your shoulders pull in before you even realize you’re bracing. She knows how you sometimes go far away without moving at all.
She sets the knife down.
Then she comes to sit on the floor beside Rosie, close enough that her knee brushes your ankle.
“Well,” Angela says gently, “Mama does have family.”
Rosie looks at her. “She does?”
“She does.”
Your eyes sting.
Angela reaches over and rests one hand on your shin, a quiet touch, a steadying one.
“Some people have families they’re born into,” Angela says. “Like me. I have Nonna and Grandpa and Uncle Joe and a lot of people who talk very loudly at the same time.”
Rosie nods seriously. “So loud.”
“So loud,” Angela agrees. “And some people have families they find. Or families who find them. People who choose to love you. People who show up, and keep showing up, even when things are hard or scary or messy.”
Rosie’s brow furrows. “Like treasure?”
Angela’s face softens. “Exactly like treasure.”
Rosie turns back to you. “Mama has a treasure family?”
You swallow hard.
Angela looks up at you, not answering for you this time. Just giving you the room.
You nod.
Rosie accepts it instantly. “Who?”
You take a breath. It shakes, but it goes in.
“Uncle Chanse,” you say.
Rosie beams. “Uncle Chanse!”
Angela laughs softly. “Uncle Chanse is special because he’s been here for a long, long time.”
Rosie grabs a purple block. “He gets a house.”
“He definitely gets a house,” Angela says. “He knew me before Smosh. He knew Mama before Mama got used to all my people. He was there when Mama and I got married.”
Rosie’s eyes widen. “I was there?”
“No, baby,” you say, and your voice is rough but working. “You weren’t here yet.”
Angela smiles at you. “But we talked about you.”
“We did,” you whisper. “A lot.”
Rosie looks between you. “At the married?”
“At the wedding,” Angela says. “It was very small.”
“Tiny,” you add.
“Tiny,” Angela agrees. “Because Mama gets overwhelmed when too many people look at her with big feelings.”
Rosie looks at you with deep toddler concern. “I look at you.”
“You’re allowed,” you say, smoothing her hair. “You’re my Rosie.”
Angela squeezes your shin.
The memory arrives softly, not like a wound this time.
You and Angela were at the courthouse in clothes that were nice but not fancy. Angela’s hands were trembling as she fastened the clasp on your necklace. Your stomach is in knots because you loved her so much it almost hurt, and because the empty chairs in the back of your mind felt heavier than any guest list could have.
Angela had wanted you to have something gentle.
No huge reception. No room full of relatives you didn’t know how to stand in front of. No pressure to perform happiness for people who were thrilled for Angela, but strangers to your grief.
Her parents knew. Joe knew. They loved her enough to understand when she told them you both wanted quiet first. They celebrated later, warmly, loudly, with too much food and too many pictures, but that day belonged to you and Angela.
And Chanse.
Chanse had stood beside you in a suit jacket that didn’t quite match his pants, holding a bouquet because you’d forgotten where to put your hands. Acting as the only witness to your love.
“You look like you might bolt,” he’d whispered.
You’d stared forward. “I might.”
“Okay,” he’d said. “Then I’ll bolt with you. But I’m keeping the flowers.”
That had been the first time you laughed that morning.
Later, when Angela took your hands and promised that love would never be something she used against you, you cried so hard she cried too. Chanse cried openly from two feet away and then denied it immediately, even though everyone saw.
Angela had leaned her forehead against yours afterward, both of you still shaking from the size of it.
“You sure?” she had whispered, even after the papers were signed.
You had laughed through tears. “Angela.”
“I know, I know, legally it’s a little late.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you married me.”
You had looked at her then, really looked at her, at the person who had never made you feel like your grief was inconvenient. “I’d do it again.”
Angela’s whole face had softened. “Yeah?”
“Every time.”
Chanse had made a wounded noise from beside you. “I’m here too, by the way. Witnessing. Crying. Holding florals.”
Angela had grabbed his arm and dragged him into the hug.
That was how your marriage began. Not with a room full of people staring. Not with speeches from parents who hadn’t come. Not with tradition that didn’t know what to do with you.
It began with Angela’s hand in yours, and Chanse pressed into your side, laughing and crying in a courthouse parking lot like the three of you had gotten away with something sacred.
Afterward, Chanse had hugged you tight and said, “You’ve got me, okay? Not just her. Me too.”
You hadn’t known how to believe him yet.
But he’d kept proving it.
Rosie places the purple block in front of you. “This is Chanse’s house.”
You touch the top of it with one finger. “He’ll love that.”
“It has snacks,” Rosie says.
Angela nods. “Essential.”
You almost bailed on the Smosh lunch.
You don’t say that out loud.
Angela knows anyway.
She finds you in the bedroom while Rosie is trying to put shoes on Spork in the hallway. You’re standing in front of the closet, holding the same sweater you’ve changed in and out of twice.
Angela leans against the doorframe.
“Hi,” she says.
You laugh without humor. “Hi.”
“You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend choosing a sweater is the problem.”
You look down at the sweater. “Maybe the sweater’s very complicated.”
Angela steps into the room. “It’s gray.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not complicated.”
She smiles, but it fades when she gets close enough to see your face. “Talk to me.”
You sit on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know how to do this part.”
“What part?”
You gesture vaguely toward the hallway, toward Rosie, toward the life you built that still sometimes feels too delicate to touch. “The part where she starts noticing what’s missing.”
Angela sits beside you. Not pressed against you, not yet. She gives you space first, the way she learned to do over the years.
“She’s going to notice,” Angela says. “But missing doesn’t have to mean empty.”
Your eyes burn.
“I hate that she has to ask why I don’t have parents who visit. I hate that someday she’s going to have a school thing and there’ll be some family tree project or grandparent day or whatever, and I’ll have to stand there with a smile and act like it doesn’t feel awful.”
Angela’s face twists. “Baby.”
You shake your head. “I carried her. I grew her in my body. I wanted her so badly, Ang. And before she got here, I spent so long thinking she might never get here at all.”
Angela’s eyes close.
The grief is older than Rosie. Older than the nursery. Older than the tiny socks that disappeared in the laundry before she was even born.
Before Rosie, there were calendars.
There were appointments and blood draws and phone calls from clinics with voices too calm for news that could ruin your entire week. There were ovulation tests lined up on the bathroom counter. There were donor profiles that made you and Angela feel both strange and hopeful, and guilty about laughing at the wrong details. There were forms with boxes too small for the kind of family you were trying to become.
There were negative tests.
So many negative tests.
At first, you tried to make them casual.
“Not this time,” you’d say, tossing one into the trash before Angela could see your face.
Angela never believed the casual voice. She would stand in the bathroom doorway in pajama pants and one of your T-shirts, hair wild, eyes too awake for that early in the morning.
“Come here,” she’d say.
You’d shake your head. “I’m fine.”
“Nope.”
“Ang.”
“Come here.”
And you would, because Angela had always been the one place where falling apart didn’t mean failing.
She’d sit on the bathroom floor with you, back against the tub, holding your hand while you stared at the cabinet under the sink and tried not to hate your body.
“It’s not your fault,” she’d say.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s the thing I care about.”
You’d leaned into her then, ashamed of how much you needed the words.
After a while, the doctors started using gentler voices. Not hopeless voices, but careful ones. They talked about timing, options, and next steps. They said it in a tone that made you want to scream, because unexplained didn’t make anything easier. It only meant there was no clear thing to fight.
Angela came to every appointment she could. When she couldn’t, she called from parking lots or dressing rooms or the quiet corner of the Smosh office, whispering, “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” through the phone like a spell.
Still, there were days she couldn’t be physically beside you.
That was when the others started showing up.
Not all at once. Not with grand announcements.
Just quietly, until one day you realized there were more hands holding the weight than there used to be.
Chanse drove you to an appointment after Angela got pulled into a shoot she couldn’t miss. He didn’t pretend it wasn’t awkward. He didn’t make jokes at the wrong time. He sat in the waiting room beside you with his knee bouncing and said, “I brought snacks, tissues, and a deeply unearned confidence in medical parking validation.”
You had laughed because he wanted you to, and because you needed to.
When the appointment ended with more questions than answers, he walked you to the car and let you cry before putting it in drive.
Amanda sent food without asking if you were hungry. Courtney texted reminders that you didn’t have to answer. Shayne fixed the wobbly bathroom shelf after you knocked into it during a hormone shot meltdown and sobbed because even the shelf couldn’t hold itself together. Tommy dropped off groceries and left them by the door with a note that said, ice cream is a food group if you believe hard enough.
And Angela loved you through all of it.
That was the part that still undid you.
She loved you when hope made you sharp. She loved you when grief made you quiet. She loved you when you snapped that she didn’t understand what it felt like to be the body everyone was waiting on, then immediately cried because you knew it wasn’t fair.
Angela had stood in your bedroom doorway after that fight, eyes red, voice steady.
“You’re right,” she’d said. “I don’t know what it’s like to carry all of that in your body.”
You’d sat on the bed, knees to your chest, unable to look at her.
“But I know what it’s like to love you,” she said. “And I know what it’s like to want this with you so badly, I don’t know where to put it.”
You had broken then.
Angela crossed the room and gathered you into her arms, and you said you were sorry over and over until she kissed the words from your mouth.
“Don’t apologize for being hurt,” she whispered. “Just don’t leave me outside of it.”
You didn’t.
Not after that.
You let her hold the hard parts more often. You let her see the hope when it scared you. You let her talk to your stomach before there was anything there, palm flat and voice full of stubborn belief.
“Hi, future tiny chaos,” she’d whisper. “It’s Mommy. Mama thinks I’m being dramatic, but you should know that’s a family trait.”
You’d try not to smile.
You always smiled.
Then, after months of trying and failing and trying again, there was a test you didn’t throw away.
There was one faint line, then another.
You stared at it so long your vision blurred.
Angela found you sitting on the bathroom floor with the test in your hand.
She didn’t speak at first.
She just lowered herself beside you, slow and careful, like sudden movement might scare the miracle away.
“Is that…” she whispered.
You nodded.
Angela covered her mouth.
You started crying before she did. Or maybe she started first. You never remember that part right. You only remember the sound she made when she pulled you into her arms. Half laugh, half sob, all love.
“We’re not telling everyone yet,” you had said into her shoulder, terrified already.
“No,” Angela said quickly. “No, of course not.”
“I can’t. I can’t handle everyone knowing if…”
“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”
So you told Chanse first.
Not because you planned to. Because he came over that night with takeout and noticed both of you were acting like badly written spies.
“You’re being weird,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “And not your normal married weird.”
Angela looked at you.
You looked at Angela.
Chanse set the takeout down slowly. “Oh my God.”
You burst into tears.
He did too.
That became the first happy secret.
Then Amanda found out when she came over with soup you hadn’t asked for and caught Angela whispering to your stomach in the kitchen.
Courtney and Shayne found out after your first scan, when you needed somewhere quiet to go afterward because going home felt too big and too fragile. Courtney cried into a dish towel. Shayne said, “That’s the smallest person I’ve ever been proud of,” and then apologized for being weird.
Tommy found out when he brought groceries and noticed that Angela had written "tiny bean" on the whiteboard calendar.
“I’m choosing not to comment on whatever deeply personal legume situation is happening here,” he said.
Angela burst into laughter.
You started crying.
Tommy set the grocery bags down. “Okay, so we’re commenting.”
The happy times came carefully at first.
You were afraid to touch them too hard.
Angela wasn’t.
Angela celebrated in small, private ways. She bought a tiny pair of socks and hid them in your sock drawer so you’d find them on a hard morning. She made playlists for the baby, some sweet and some ridiculous. She kissed your stomach before leaving for work, even when there was barely anything to kiss.
When you felt sick and exhausted and scared, she sat on the bathroom floor with you and rubbed your back.
When you woke at three in the morning, convinced something was wrong, she held your hand while you called the nurse line.
When the first trimester ended, she cried into your neck and whispered, “Thank you for letting me hope with you.”
You still think about that sentence.
Now, sitting on your bed years later, with Rosie in the hallway trying to negotiate footwear with an elderly dog, you look at Angela and feel all of it again.
“I was so scared,” you whisper.
Angela nods. “I know.”
“And I kept thinking, if my own family could walk away from me, what did I know about keeping one?”
Angela takes your hands. “You knew how it felt to need better.”
Your breath catches.
“You knew what not to repeat,” she says. “You knew how to love with care because you knew what careless love did to you.”
You look at her through tears.
“And when you didn’t know,” Angela says, voice trembling now, “you asked. You learned. You let people help. That’s not nothing.”
You lean into her, and she folds around you.
Angela has always loved you like this. With attention. With a stubbornness that doesn’t ask you to heal faster so she can be more comfortable. She learned the places you went quiet. She learned how you liked your tea. She learned that holidays made you restless and that loud affection could feel like a trap until you trusted the person offering it.
You used to wonder why she didn’t get tired.
One night, years ago, you’d asked her.
“Because loving you isn’t a chore,” she’d said, half asleep, face pressed into your shoulder. “It’s my favorite thing I get to do.”
You’d believed her for about ten seconds that night.
Now, you believe her more often than not.
Rosie appears in the doorway holding Spork, who looks furious and shoeless.
“Spork says no shoes,” Rosie announces.
Angela wipes under her eyes quickly. “Spork is a man who knows his boundaries.”
You stand and reach for Rosie. She comes willingly, fitting herself against you like she belongs there, because she does.
“Mama sad?” she asks.
“A little,” you say.
She pats your cheek. “Treasure family helps.”
Angela smiles at you over Rosie’s head.
You kiss Rosie’s temple. “Yeah. Treasure family helps.”
The Smosh office is bright, loud, and alive.
It used to scare you.
Not because anyone was cruel. That would’ve been easier in some ways. Cruelty had rules you understood. You knew what to do with rejection. You knew how to shrink around it, survive it, leave before someone had to tell you twice.
Kindness was harder.
Kindness asked you to stay.
The first year you and Angela were together, you avoided most group things. Angela never pushed, but she invited you every time. She’d say, “Chanse will be there,” like she was offering you a life raft. Sometimes that worked. Sometimes it didn’t.
When Smosh became a bigger part of Angela’s everyday life, the cast slowly became names in your kitchen before they became people in your life. Amanda did something hilarious. Courtney said something sharp and thoughtful. Tommy noticed a detail no one else did. Shayne made Angela laugh so hard during a shoot that she came home still giggling. Chanse came over after and claimed your couch like he’d paid rent.
You didn’t work in entertainment. You didn’t know how to be casual around people whose job involved being seen. Being seen had never felt safe to you. Angela understood that before you had the language for it.
On the nights when she came home buzzing with stories, she always found you first.
She’d drop her bag by the door and say, “Hi, wife.”
Even before you were married, she said it sometimes, just to watch you roll your eyes.
“Not your wife yet.”
“Emotionally.”
“Angela.”
“Legally pending.”
Then she’d kiss you in the hallway with her hands on your face, like the rest of the day could wait until she remembered the shape of you.
That was your favorite part of loving Angela. The way she came back.
No matter how loud her day was, no matter how many people saw her, no matter how much she loved the chaos of the work and the cast and the bits that followed her home, she came back to you with softness.
You were never the pause between better things.
You were the place she wanted to land.
Chanse was there from the beginning, though.
Before the office. Before everyone else. Before Rosie.
He knew Angela before Smosh brought so much of her world into one building. He knew you when you were still terrified of being loved by association, convinced that if you let Angela’s friends close, they’d eventually realize you were too quiet, too anxious, too difficult to keep.
Chanse never treated you like a project.
He just kept showing up.
He brought pho when you had the flu, and Angela was working late. He helped you pick a birthday gift for Angela because you panicked and ended up buying three things that all felt wrong. He came over the night before your elopement with a garment bag, a pack of tissues, and a playlist titled “Don’t Throw Up, You’re In Love.”
He held your hand through one of the negative tests when Angela couldn’t get home fast enough.
That was the day you understood he wasn’t only Angela’s friend who had kindly made room for you. He was yours too.
You had called Angela from the bathroom, voice shaking so badly she could barely understand you.
“I’m coming,” Angela said immediately.
“You can’t. You’re at work.”
“I’m coming.”
“Ang, you can’t leave in the middle of everything.”
There had been a pause, and then her voice broke. “I don’t want you alone.”
You weren’t.
Chanse was already on his way because Angela had texted him before you could argue. He showed up with a paper bag from a bakery and eyes full of worry, he tried to disguise.
“I brought carbs,” he said. “And I’m prepared to be normal about this for as long as needed.”
You opened the door wider. “Can you?”
“No. But I’ll try.”
You sat on the couch together, the untouched pastry between you, and you finally said the thing you hadn’t wanted to say to anyone but Angela.
“What if I can’t do this?”
Chanse didn’t answer right away. That mattered.
Then he said, “Then you and Angela will figure out what family looks like another way. But you’re not there yet.”
You stared at your hands. “I feel like my body is failing her.”
“She wouldn’t say that.”
“I know.”
“She wouldn’t think it either.”
You cried then, ugly and exhausted. Chanse put one arm around your shoulders, stiff at first, like he was asking permission with every inch. You leaned into him, and he relaxed.
By the time Angela got home, you were asleep against his side, and Chanse was sitting perfectly still because he didn’t want to wake you.
Angela took a picture.
You threatened divorce when you found out.
She called it evidence of family.
Now, as soon as you walk into the office, Rosie starts bouncing on her toes.
“Uncle Chanse!”
Chanse appears from around the corner as if summoned by devotion alone. He has a drink in one hand and his phone in the other, but he pockets the phone the second he sees her.
“There she is,” he says, dropping into a crouch. “My favorite person with unreliable socks.”
Rosie runs into him, and he catches her with both arms.
“I brought houses!”
“For whom?”
“For family.”
His eyes flick to you.
You try to smile. It comes out small.
Chanse stands with Rosie on his hip, his face softening under the joke. “That sounds important.”
“It is,” Rosie says. “Mama has treasure family.”
Chanse looks at Angela.
Angela nods once.
He looks back at you, and for a second, the whole office fades around him. No performance. No bit. Just Chanse, the man who held your bouquet in a courthouse, sat beside you after a negative test and whispered Rosie’s name before anyone else knew it would stick.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “She does.”
Rosie pulls the purple block from her backpack. “This is your house.”
Chanse takes it with both hands. “Oh, wow. Prime location.”
“It has snacks.”
“Then I’ll never leave.”
You let out a breath that almost becomes a laugh.
Chanse’s gaze stays on you. “You okay?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly is respectable.”
Angela slides her hand into yours. “We’re taking today as it comes.”
Chanse nods. “Good. I love vague emotional scheduling.”
Rosie pats his cheek. “You talk big.”
“I talk beautifully.”
“You talk big,” she repeats.
He sighs. “The youth are humbling.”
The lunch is for someone on the crew, but it feels like every Smosh gathering you’ve ever been to. Folding tables. Paper plates. People are laughing from different corners. Someone debating something absurd with real passion. Angela is moving through it with a kind of restless joy, touching your arm each time she passes like she’s tying herself back to you.
Rosie sits at a table with Chanse, explaining the rules of the block houses. Damien stops by and asks if there’s an HOA. Arasha tells Rosie she’d like a sparkle roof. Selena waves at Angela from across the room. Ollie makes a silly face at Rosie that makes her hide in Chanse’s shoulder and then peek back immediately.
They’re all kind.
That matters.
But they’re not all the same to you, and it took you years to learn that was okay.
Chanse is history.
Amanda is warmth.
Courtney is patience.
Shayne is steadiness.
Tommy is quiet understanding.
Angela is home.
You’re standing near the snack table when Amanda arrives, late and apologizing to no one.
“I’m not late,” Amanda announces, dropping a tote bag onto a chair. “Time moved aggressively.”
Chanse points at her with Rosie’s purple block. “That’s just being late.”
“I reject that framing.”
Rosie gasps. “Auntie Amanda!”
Amanda turns, and her whole face lights up. “There’s my girl.”
Rosie runs to her, and Amanda scoops her up with a hug so big Rosie squeals.
Amanda’s hugs used to overwhelm you.
Not because they were bad. Because they were certain.
The first time Amanda hugged you, she asked first. You remember that more clearly than almost anything else about that day. It was after a group dinner at Courtney and Shayne’s place, one of the first you managed to attend from start to finish. You’d spent most of the night beside Angela, laughing softly but speaking rarely.
At the door, Amanda had paused and said, “Can I hug you, or are we waving people tonight?”
You had blinked at her. No one had ever made that sound so normal.
“We can hug,” you’d said.
She had wrapped you up warmly, not too tight, and then let go before you had to wonder how to escape.
During the infertility years, Amanda became the person who knew how to love you without making you feel watched.
She didn’t ask for updates every week. She didn’t demand hope from you as if it were proof you were trying hard enough. She didn’t say things like it’ll happen when it’s meant to, which always made you want to crawl out of your skin.
Instead, she called Angela and asked what groceries you needed.
She sent soup after appointments.
She texted you pictures of absurd little dogs wearing sweaters, and sometimes all she wrote was, No response required, just witnessing this crime against fashion together.
Once, after a failed cycle, she came over while Angela was stuck in a meeting. You opened the door and tried to say you were fine.
Amanda looked at your face and said, “I brought dinner, and I’m not asking you to perform gratitude.”
That was the night you let her sit on the kitchen floor with you.
You didn’t know why you ended up there. You had started unloading the dishwasher, then saw the one tiny baby spoon Angela had bought as a joke during one hopeful week, and suddenly you were on the floor with your back against the cabinets.
Amanda sat beside you in her nice pants without hesitation.
“I hate everyone,” you said.
“Valid.”
“I hate people with easy announcements.”
“Valid.”
“I hate baby shower invitations.”
“Deeply valid.”
“I hate that I hate them.”
Amanda turned her head toward you. “Still valid.”
You had laughed even though your face was wet.
Then Amanda reached over, palm up. You took her hand.
“I want to be happy for people,” you whispered.
“You can be,” she said. “And you can also be devastated for yourself.”
That sentence stayed.
Later, when you finally got pregnant with Rosie, Amanda became fiercely protective of the joy.
She was the one who made sure the first little celebration didn’t feel like too much. Not a baby shower, not yet, not with games and a guest list and everyone watching your face. Just dinner at Courtney and Shayne’s, with Chanse and Tommy and Angela pressed against your side, and Amanda bringing out cupcakes with tiny pink and yellow flowers on top.
“No speeches,” Amanda announced before anyone could cry. “We’re simply eating cake in honor of the very small tenant.”
Angela burst into tears anyway.
You did too.
Amanda pretended not to see while handing you both napkins.
Now Rosie digs in her backpack and hands Amanda the yellow block.
“This is your house,” Rosie says. “It has a porch for hugs.”
Amanda freezes.
You see the moment the words hit her. Her eyes shift to you, and all her theatrical brightness softens into something real.
“Oh, honey,” Amanda says.
You try to shrug, but it doesn’t work.
Amanda sets Rosie gently on her hip and reaches one hand toward you. She doesn’t grab. She waits.
You take her hand.
She squeezes once. “I love my house.”
Rosie beams. “Good.”
Amanda looks at you. “I love the neighborhood too.”
You breathe out carefully. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Took long enough to get you to move in, but I’m patient.”
You laugh, and Amanda smiles like that was the goal.
Courtney and Shayne arrive together, shoulder to shoulder, already mid-conversation.
Courtney is talking with their hands, and Shayne is carrying a tray of something covered in foil because he’s the kind of person who asks what’s needed and then actually brings it.
Their marriage was one of the first things that made you feel safe around them.
Not because every marriage is safe. You knew better than that. But Courtney and Shayne had a rhythm you understood once you were around it enough. They teased each other without cutting. They checked in without making a show of it. Shayne had a way of watching Courtney in a crowded room that reminded you of how Angela watched you, not possessive, not anxious, just aware.
Courtney was the first person at Smosh, besides Chanse, who seemed to understand that trust couldn’t be rushed.
They never cornered you. Never demanded the story. Never asked why your family didn’t come to things or why Angela always looked at you before accepting invitations. Courtney simply made room.
At group dinners, they’d pat the seat beside them and say, “This chair’s low commitment.”
When you got overwhelmed, they’d ask if you wanted to help grab napkins or drinks, giving you a reason to leave the room without having to announce that you needed air.
Shayne was different, but just as careful.
He didn’t push intimacy through seriousness. He offered it through practical things. He assembled the crib when Angela was convinced the instructions were wrong and you were too pregnant to sit on the floor. He fixed the loose shelf in Rosie’s nursery. He learned which jokes made you laugh and which ones made you retreat.
Before Rosie, before the crib, before any of you knew whether there would be a nursery at all, Courtney and Shayne became the place you could go when your own house felt too full of wanting.
It happened by accident the first time.
Angela had been filming late. You had an appointment that morning, and the doctor had been kind in a way that made the bad news feel worse. Not final bad news. Not hopeless. Just another no. Another adjustment. Another month of trying not to count days while counting every single one.
Courtney texted you after Angela told them you’d had a rough morning.
Courtney: No pressure, but we’re making pasta tonight. You can sit on our couch and not talk.
You stared at the message for ten minutes.
Then you went.
You barely spoke when you got there. Courtney opened the door and didn’t ask if you were okay. Shayne said, “I made garlic bread, and I’m emotionally prepared to pretend that’s a full personality.”
You smiled for the first time all day.
After dinner, you sat on their couch with a blanket over your lap while Courtney folded laundry on the floor and Shayne cleaned the kitchen. It felt domestic in a way that hurt and soothed you at the same time.
“I don’t know how to be around families right now,” you admitted.
Courtney looked up from a T-shirt. “Do we feel like a family in a bad way?”
You shook your head. “No. That’s the problem.”
Shayne appeared in the doorway with a dish towel over his shoulder. “Too comforting?”
“Kind of.”
Courtney nodded, like that made perfect sense. “We can be mildly annoying if that helps.”
“It might.”
Shayne immediately pointed at Courtney. “They load the dishwasher wrong.”
Courtney gasped. “You said you respected my system.”
“I respect you. The system is chaos.”
You laughed so hard you cried, and when the laughter turned into actual crying, neither of them panicked. Courtney sat beside you. Shayne stayed nearby, not staring, not leaving.
That became a pattern.
After hard appointments, you sometimes ended up at Courtney and Shayne’s. Angela joined when she could, sliding onto the couch beside you with guilt in her eyes until you pulled her close and made room for her too.
Courtney was the one who helped you make a list of questions for the doctor when your brain felt too foggy to hold information.
Shayne was the one who said, “Do you want me to build the nursery shelf now, or would that feel like tempting fate?”
You had stared at him because no one else had thought to ask.
“Not yet,” you whispered.
He nodded. “Then not yet.”
Months later, after the second trimester scan, you texted him one sentence.
You can build the shelf.
He replied immediately.
On my way.
He showed up with tools, Courtney, and takeout. Angela sat on the nursery floor with you while Shayne assembled the shelf and Courtney peeled tiny fruit stickers off baby clothes because Amanda had gone a little overboard at a store.
Angela leaned her head on your shoulder and whispered, “This is real.”
You touched your stomach. “Yeah.”
Shayne looked up from the half-built shelf. “I’m really trying not to make a joke about structural stability right now.”
Courtney threw a sock at him.
You laughed until Rosie kicked hard enough to make you gasp.
Everyone froze.
Angela’s hand flew to your stomach. “Was that her?”
You nodded, crying and laughing at once. “Yeah.”
Angela felt the next kick and made a sound you still think about sometimes, tiny and broken and full of wonder.
Courtney cried openly.
Shayne looked at the ceiling and blinked very fast.
“Cool,” he said, voice thick. “Very normal. Shelves are hard. Eyes water.”
Now Courtney spots Rosie and crouches before Rosie even says their name.
“Rosie Posie,” Courtney says. “What’s the news?”
Rosie runs over with the blue block. “You get a house.”
Courtney accepts it, eyes soft. “An honor.”
“It’s blue.”
“Excellent choice.”
“It’s by Mama.”
Courtney looks up at you.
Your throat tightens.
Shayne steps beside Courtney, smiling gently. “Is there zoning approval for spouses, or am I applying separately?”
Rosie stares at him.
Courtney looks up at Shayne. “Don’t pressure the architect.”
Shayne raises both hands. “I respect the process.”
Rosie digs in her backpack, then frowns. “I only have one blue.”
“That’s okay,” Shayne says immediately. “I can share with Courtney. We’re married, so we’ve had practice sharing space.”
Courtney snorts. “Selective practice.”
Shayne looks at you. “The block has better boundaries than our closet.”
You laugh.
Rosie considers this, then nods. “You live with Auntie Court.”
Shayne places a hand over his heart. “Thank you. I’ll be a respectful tenant.”
Courtney stands and slips an arm around Shayne’s waist. “He’s also treasure family?”
Rosie looks at you for confirmation.
You meet Shayne’s eyes. He doesn’t make it heavy. He just gives you a small, steady smile.
“Yeah,” you say. “He is.”
Shayne’s smile deepens. “That means a lot.”
Courtney squeezes the blue block. “We’ll take good care of the house.”
“I know,” you say.
And you do.
Tommy arrives quieter than Amanda, which is to say he arrives like a normal person.
He appears beside the food table with a plate, takes one look at the blocks, and says, “I see we’ve established a tiny commune.”
Angela points at him. “Be respectful. This is Rosie’s urban planning era.”
“My mistake,” Tommy says. “I support women in infrastructure.”
Rosie looks at him. “Tommy.”
“Yes?”
“You need a house.”
Tommy looks touched for half a second before he hides it under a thoughtful nod. “That does seem wise. I’ve been renting too long.”
Rosie reaches into the backpack.
Then her face falls.
The backpack is empty.
You see the distress hit her before anyone else does. Her eyes go wide. Her mouth trembles.
“I forgot,” she whispers.
Tommy sets his plate down instantly and crouches. “Hey, that’s okay.”
Tommy’s place in your life took longer to define because he never asked you to.
At first, you thought he didn’t care whether you liked him. Then you realized he cared enough not to make your fear about him.
At parties, he noticed when you drifted too close to panic and somehow created exits without saying that’s what he was doing.
“Can you help me find more napkins?” he’d ask, even though there were napkins three feet away.
“Do you want to see something deeply cursed in the hallway?” he’d say, and then show you a crooked poster or an oddly placed chair while you remembered how to breathe.
During the years of trying, Tommy was the least obvious about showing up, which somehow made it easier to accept.
He never asked for details. He never tilted his head with sympathy in a way that made you feel like a tragic story. He simply started appearing around the edges of hard days.
A heating pad sent home with Angela.
A list of movies that weren’t too stressful.
A snack he said he bought by mistake, even though it was the exact kind you could keep down when medication made you nauseous.
Once, after a procedure that left you sore and furious and embarrassed by how much help you needed, Angela had to go back to work for a short afternoon shoot. You insisted it was fine.
It was not fine.
Tommy showed up an hour later with coffee and a deadpan expression.
“Angela told me not to make this weird,” he said.
You stood in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket. “And?”
“I’m already failing.”
You let him in.
He put dishes away while you sat at the kitchen table. He didn’t ask how you felt. He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t tell you to stay positive.
He just said, “There are bananas now.”
You stared at him.
“And crackers,” he added. “And the tea, Angela said you pretend not to like but absolutely do.”
You laughed because he was right.
When Angela came home, Tommy was sitting across from you at the table, both of you silently watching a video of a raccoon washing cotton candy and regretting its choices.
Angela stopped in the doorway, took in the groceries, the tea, the way you were still pale but no longer alone, and mouthed thank you over your head.
Tommy shrugged like it was nothing.
It wasn’t nothing.
After Rosie was born, he came over again with groceries and didn’t ask to hold the baby.
That was what made you cry.
Everyone loved Rosie. Everyone wanted to see her. You understood. But your body still hurt, your hormones were everywhere, and your nerves felt exposed. Tommy stood in the kitchen, put food away, and said, “I’m not here to be hosted. I’m here to make sure you own food.”
You’d laughed so hard you almost cried, then cried anyway.
Now he sits fully on the floor in front of Rosie, meeting her seriousness with his own.
“Sometimes family doesn’t get a house first,” Tommy says.
Rosie sniffles. “No?”
“No. Sometimes family gets a key.”
Rosie’s tears pause.
Tommy continues, “Or a chair. Or a special cup. Or a spot on the couch. Houses are great, but they’re not the only way to know you belong.”
Rosie looks around.
Then she grabs a napkin and a crayon from the kids’ table. She scribbles carefully, tongue poking out in concentration.
Finally, she hands the napkin to Tommy.
“It’s a key,” she says. “To our house.”
The room goes quiet in the softest way.
Tommy stares at the napkin.
Angela’s hand finds yours.
Amanda presses a hand to her chest. Chanse looks at the ceiling like he’s fighting for his life. Courtney leans into Shayne, and Shayne wraps an arm around them.
Tommy folds the napkin with surprising care and tucks it into his shirt pocket.
“I’ll keep it safe,” he says.
Rosie nods, satisfied.
Then she turns to you. “Is that okay, Mama?”
There are questions underneath the question.
Can he come close?
Can they all?
Can family be this big without becoming dangerous?
Can love stay?
You look at Tommy, then Chanse, Amanda, Courtney, Shayne, Angela, and the wider room full of people who may not all be your closest family but have still learned to hold you with care.
“Yeah,” you say. “That’s okay.”
Angela squeezes your hand.
The happy times come back to you in flashes after that.
Maybe because Rosie is sleepy and warm against your side. Maybe because everyone is standing near enough that the memories have bodies now. Maybe because for once, your past isn’t the only thing filling the room.
There was Rosie’s first birthday, the one you almost canceled because you got overwhelmed by the idea of being perceived as a mother by people who knew you before you were one.
Angela found you in the kitchen at midnight the night before, staring at a half-decorated cake with tears in your eyes.
“I’m going to ruin it,” you whispered.
“The cake?”
“The whole thing.”
Angela looked at the crooked frosting, then at you. “I love you so much, and I need you to know that cake has already been ruined.”
You laughed so hard you had to sit down.
She sat beside you on the kitchen floor, shoulder pressed to yours, both of you staring at the cake.
“I don’t know how to throw a kid’s birthday party,” you admitted.
“Great news,” Angela said. “Rosie is one. She thinks wrapping paper is a luxury experience.”
“She deserves good things.”
“She has you.”
You looked at her.
Angela’s voice softened. “She has us.”
The next day, everyone came.
Chanse arrived first with balloons and immediately let Rosie slap him in the face with one because she found it hilarious. Amanda brought food and took over the kitchen without asking in a way that somehow made you less anxious, not more. Courtney and Shayne showed up with a gift that made noise only after Shayne solemnly promised it had an off switch. Tommy brought a tiny stuffed raccoon and said, “For legal reasons, I have no idea why this felt correct.”
Rosie ate cake with both hands.
Angela stood behind you while everyone sang, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder.
You cried silently.
She felt it and held you tighter.
“Happy?” she whispered.
You nodded.
“Sad too?”
You nodded again.
Angela kissed your shoulder. “Both can stay.”
Then there was Rosie’s first step, which happened at Courtney and Shayne’s house because Rosie had always cared deeply about comedic timing.
She was standing between Angela and the coffee table, chewing on a soft toy, while Chanse argued with Shayne about whether babies could have rivalries.
“Rosie has no enemies,” Shayne said.
“False,” Chanse replied. “She hates that one spoon.”
“She has taste,” Amanda said.
Angela was laughing when Rosie let go of the table.
You saw it first.
“Ang,” you whispered.
Angela turned just as Rosie took one tiny, wobbling step toward you.
The room exploded.
Not loudly enough to scare her, because everyone caught themselves at once, but enough that Rosie sat down in surprise and then started laughing.
Angela covered her mouth, eyes huge.
You were already crying.
“She walked,” Angela whispered.
“She walked,” you said.
Chanse dropped to the floor. “Again. For science.”
Rosie didn’t walk again for two weeks.
Still, everyone treated it like they had witnessed history.
There were smaller happy times too.
Amanda teaching Rosie to say “absolutely not” with far too much confidence.
Courtney letting Rosie put stickers all over their arm during a picnic.
Shayne pretending to lose an argument to a toddler about whether the moon needed a bedtime.
Tommy allowing Rosie to place a plastic crown on his head and then continuing an entire conversation like nothing had happened.
Chanse falling asleep on your couch with Rosie tucked against his side and Spork glaring from the armrest like he disapproved of the seating arrangement.
Angela dancing with Rosie in the kitchen while you made dinner, both of them barefoot, both of them laughing. Angela spinning too dramatically. Rosie shrieking, “Again, Mommy, again,” until Angela was breathless and grinning at you over Rosie’s head.
Sometimes Angela still looked at you like she couldn’t believe you had both survived long enough to have this.
Sometimes you looked back the same way.
Later, Rosie curls against you on a couch near the corner, worn out from frosting and attention.
Angela sits on your other side, her thigh pressed to yours. She’s been close all day, but not in a way that crowds you. Every touch asks and answers at once.
You rest your head on her shoulder.
Rosie blinks sleepily up at you. “Mama?”
“Yeah, bug?”
“Do you miss your old family?”
Angela stills beside you.
You look down at your daughter, at her soft cheeks and serious eyes, at the little person you carried beneath your ribs while wondering whether love could be inherited if the people who raised you had broken it.
“Sometimes,” you say honestly.
Rosie frowns. “Why don’t they come?”
Your chest aches.
Angela’s hand slides over your knee, grounding you, but she doesn’t answer. She lets this one be yours.
You brush Rosie’s hair away from her face. “They didn’t know how to love Mama the right way.”
Rosie’s frown deepens. “That’s not nice.”
“No,” you whisper. “It wasn’t.”
“So you love Mommy?”
You smile faintly through the ache. “Very much.”
“And they got mad?”
You hesitate. “They didn’t understand.”
Rosie thinks about this. “But Mommy is good.”
Angela lets out a tiny broken laugh.
You look at her, and for a second, all the years move through you at once.
Angela at twenty-something, loud and bright and terrified of how much she loved you because she knew you might run if she held too tightly.
Angela in your first apartment, sitting on the floor beside you after a holiday phone call that ended badly, saying, “I’ll be your family for as long as you let me.”
Angela at the courthouse, crying through her vows.
Angela on the bathroom floor, holding a negative test in one hand and your shaking hand in the other.
Angela lying beside you with her palm on your stomach, whispering, “Hi, Rosie, it’s Mommy, I’m sorry I missed you today, I love you so much already.”
Angela after the birth, face pale with awe, kissing your forehead again and again while you shook from exhaustion and relief.
Angela now, watching you explain grief to the child you made together.
“She is good,” you say.
Rosie pats your chest. “You made family.”
You close your eyes.
There it is.
So simple from her mouth. So enormous inside you.
You made family.
You made Rosie with your body, with Angela’s love, with fear sitting beside hope the whole time. You built a nursery while mourning a childhood bedroom you couldn’t return to. You chose names, knowing that some from your past would never be spoken in your home. You packed a hospital bag without a mother to call, then came home to Amanda’s soup, Courtney’s blankets, Shayne’s assembled crib, Tommy’s groceries, Chanse’s trembling hands as he held Rosie for the first time, and Angela’s voice saying, “Look what we did, baby. Look at her.”
You open your eyes and pull Rosie closer.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “We made family.”
Angela kisses your temple. “The best family.”
Rosie points sleepily toward the room. “Treasure family.”
“The best treasure family,” Angela says.
Chanse wanders over with a plate of fruit and crouches in front of Rosie. “Did someone say treasure?”
Rosie lifts her head. “You live by Mama.”
His expression cracks open.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I do.”
Amanda appears behind him. “I also live by Mama. With a porch.”
Courtney joins, blue block in hand. “We’re starting a neighborhood.”
Shayne stands beside them. “I’m on the lease.”
Tommy taps his shirt pocket. “I have a key, which feels legally significant.”
Rosie smiles, heavy-eyed and pleased.
You look at them all and feel the old ache rise again, but this time it doesn’t swallow you.
Because Angela is beside you.
Because your daughter is in your arms.
Because your family is standing in front of you, ridiculous and gentle and chosen.
You’ve spent years afraid that your grief would make the house unstable. That the absence of your biological family would echo too loudly. That Rosie would grow up feeling the empty places and mistake them for something wrong with you.
But maybe Angela is right.
Missing doesn’t have to mean empty.
Sometimes missing is the place where other love learned to enter.
Sometimes family is born in a courthouse with one witness holding flowers.
Sometimes it grows in waiting rooms and kitchens and late-night texts.
Sometimes it survives negative tests and cautious hope and the long, brutal stretch of wanting something you can’t force into being.
Sometimes it becomes a birthday party with frosting on the walls.
Sometimes it becomes first steps on Courtney and Shayne’s rug.
Sometimes it becomes soup containers, crib screws, grocery bags, blue blocks, yellow blocks, purple blocks, and a napkin key folded into a shirt pocket.
Sometimes your daughter names it before you’re brave enough to.
Rosie yawns. “Mama has lots of family.”
You press your lips to her hair.
“I do,” you say.
Angela’s arm wraps around you, firm and warm.
You look at Chanse, Amanda, Courtney, Shayne, and Tommy.
Then you look at Angela, your wife, your home, the person who never asked you to pretend your past didn’t hurt before she helped you build something softer around it.
“I really do.”
Angela smiles through tears. “Told you.”
You laugh, and the room laughs with you, not because the moment is funny, but because joy needs somewhere to go.
Rosie closes her eyes against your chest.
And for once, when you think of family, the first thing you feel isn’t loss.
It’s Angela’s hand in yours.
It’s Rosie’s weight in your lap.
It’s your people, still there.
It’s the door open, the lights warm, and everyone you love knowing exactly where to find you.
but mostly, you’re my love @htaylorsversion - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
