Across the Ocean, Still Yours: Chapter 14: Love in London
Summary: Gabby and Glen spend a quiet evening together in London, savoring the domestic moments they’ve missed during weeks apart. Between shared meals, honest conversations, and whispered hopes for the future, they confront the realities of long distance, public scrutiny, and careers that refuse to slow down.
Word Count: 2,350
Other Chapters: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I 11 I 12 I 13
The ride back to Glen’s flat was quiet, the city passing by in a blur of muted gray and gold. Gabby rested her head against the cool glass of the window, Brisket curled on the seat beside her, occasionally lifting his head to sniff at the London air. Glen’s hand brushed hers once or twice as he drove, casual, easy, grounding.
By the time they reached the building, the smell of damp pavement and autumn leaves clinging to the streets followed them up the elevator. Glen unlocked the door, and the faint aroma of coffee lingered from earlier that morning. Gabby dropped her bag on the floor with a soft thunk, Brisket padding ahead into the living room to stake out his spot on the rug.
“I’m starving,” Gabby admitted, stretching out on the couch as Glen fished his phone from his pocket.
“Same,” he said, scrolling through the takeout options. “Chiltern Firehouse? It’s my favorite place here in London.”
Gabby tilted her head with a smirk. “Yeah, sounds good. Do you have a recommendation of what to order?”
“Forty Eight Hour Chicken for you. And I’ll have the Black Angus NY Striploin. Extra side of their fries to share.”
Brisket’s ears perked up at the mention of food. Glen and Gabby both laughed.
While they waited for the delivery, Glen ducked into the bathroom. Gabby used the moment to stretch across the couch, legs draped lazily over his lap as she scrolled through her phone. When Glen emerged a few minutes later, his hair damp from the shower, a soft grey tee clinging to him, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the steam from the bathroom, her chest warmed on sight.
“Miss me?” He asked, settling into the chair beside her and pulling her closer so her legs rested comfortably across his thighs.
Brisket jumped up, curling against his side, already making himself at home again.
The door buzzed a few moments later, and Glen hopped up to grab the food. He returned with the warm, fragrant boxes, sliding them onto the coffee table with a small flourish.
Gabby laughed, grabbing a fry as he pulled her closer, resting his chin atop her shoulder. “You’re really touchy today,” she teased.
“I’ve been waiting weeks to do this,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “First date I’ve had with you in awhile. Gotta make up for all the ones we’ve missed while I’ve been here.”
Gabby smiled, tilting her head to glance up at him. “You mean, all the ones we never got to have because of jet lag, filming, and me stressing over papers?”
“Exactly,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of her forehead. “All the missed breakfasts, walks, silly movies…this one’s mine to make up for it all.”
Brisket snuffled happily at the fries between them, stretching to swipe a piece with his paw. Gabby groaned, laughing as she gently shooed him aside.
“Okay, fine. You win this round,” she said, nudging Glen with her shoulder.
He chuckled, voice low and warm.
“I’m not done yet,” he teased, sliding his hand down to rest over hers. “This is just the appetizer.”
“Uh huh,” Gabby replied, mock-skeptical, though her heart was already fluttering. “And I suppose you’re planning a whole main course of clinginess?”
“Maybe dessert too,” he said with a sly grin, brushing his nose along her temple.
Gabby laughed again, sinking a little deeper into his embrace, feeling the steady warmth of him behind her. For the first time in weeks, the quiet apartment, the smell of food, the soft press of his lips to her skin, and Brisket at their feet felt like the perfect slice of normalcy.
For a little while, they ate quietly, the occasional chuckle or soft comment passing between bites. The apartment smelled faintly of the takeout and the faint trace of Glen’s aftershower scent. Outside, London hummed along, unaware of the calm, ordinary joy of this small flat filled with laughter, food, and a dog sprawled across the rug.
The quiet hum of the London flat wrapped around them as they sank deeper into the couch, Brisket stretched out lazily at Glen’s feet. The last remnants of dinner had been cleared away, leaving only the faint scent of fried chicken and steak lingering in the air. Gabby leaned against Glen’s side, her head resting just below his shoulder, fingers brushing against his arm in the softest of touches.
“I didn’t expect to miss you this much,” she admitted after a long pause, her voice barely above a whisper. “I mean…I knew I’d miss you. But this…it scared me how much. Some nights I couldn’t even sleep, and I kept thinking, where are you? Are you okay? And then…I’d just lie there and miss you some more.”
Glen exhaled slowly, tilting his head so his lips brushed against the top of her hair. “I know exactly what you mean. I’ve been lying in my trailer, staring at the wall, thinking about how quiet it feels when you’re not around. This shoot…it’s been harder than any I’ve done before. And not because of the work. Not the lines, not the stunts, not even the hours. It’s… you. It’s just not the same without you here.”
She laughed softly, a little breathless, and turned her face toward him. “I knew it’d be hard, but I didn’t realize…how much it would hit me. And the rumors didn’t help.” She winced slightly, almost embarrassed. “Every time I saw a headline, or a comment, it just…”
Glen shook his head, a dark frown knitting his brows. “I hate that part of it. Every little thing I do, even just talking to a woman on set, gets twisted into this story, this narrative that’s…not me. It makes me feel like people think I’m something I’m not. And it drives me crazy because you know the truth. You know me.”
“I do,” she said, tightening her hand around his. “But that doesn’t make it sting any less. It’s just…you’re not just Glen Powell the actor to me. You’re Glen Powell the person I love. And the world doesn’t see that.”
He brushed his thumb across her knuckles. “Exactly. And I’ve never been talking to anyone else. Not even a little. You’re it for me. Have been, always will be. Gabby, I meant what I said in Napa. Marriage, family…I want all of it with you. Only you. Nobody else.”
A small smile tugged at her lips, the warmth spreading in her chest that came from hearing someone truly see you, truly commit to you. She pressed her forehead to his shoulder.
“I still want that too. I do. And…it’s not just because of this week or the rumors. It’s because you’re you. And this…us…it feels like home, even when it’s hard.”
She laughed lightly, though there was a soft catch in it. “Yeah, and probably have a moment where we cry about it too, right?”
He smirked against her hair, thumb tracing lazy patterns along her arm. “Probably. But that’s okay. Tears are fine when we have each other.”
Gabby pressed her cheek into him, letting herself relax completely for the first time in weeks. “I’m really glad I’m here. Even if it’s just a few days. Even if we know we have to separate again soon. I needed this.”
Glen sighed, warm and low. “Me too. More than I can even say. And just so we’re clear…” He turned her gently to face him, hands cradling her cheeks. “I’ve never been happier than I am right now. With you. I don’t care what anyone else says. You’re it. And I’m never letting you go.”
Her smile widened, eyes glinting with tears she refused to let fall. “Good. Because I’m not either.” Gabby shifted a little, curling her legs under her and brushing her thumb along the inside of Glen’s wrist. “At least…” she murmured, “we’ve only got what? A month or two until you’re home again? Christmas is right around the corner. We’ll get through the rest of this.”
The second the words left her mouth, she felt it. The subtle way his shoulders tightened. Not much, but enough.
Her stomach dipped. “Glen?”
He exhaled through his nose, slow, controlled, like he was trying to pull courage from the air around them. “There’s…something I should tell you.”
She sat up a little straighter. “Okay…”
He rubbed the back of his neck the way he did when he was bracing for impact. “Running Man is…behind schedule. Not a little behind. Like months behind. We got hit with weather, a few stunts got delayed, and the director added some additional sequences. There’s also been some stuff with the studio and changes happening left and right.”
Her breath stalled. “How behind?”
He met her eyes, apologetic, soft, hurting. “They’re aiming for March. February if we get stupid lucky.”
March. Her heart sank. That was four, maybe five more months. Twice what they’d planned. Twice the distance. Twice the time apart. Twice the ache.
“Oh,” she whispered, because she didn’t know what else to say. “Wow. That’s…a lot longer.”
“I know.” His voice broke a little, and God, that hurt almost more than the news. “I know it’s not what we planned. And I’m so sorry, baby. I didn’t…I didn’t want to drop that on you the second you got here.”
Gabby forced a breath in, then another. “It’s okay. I get it. It’s just…hard. I miss you so much already and the thought of adding months to that…” She shook her head, blinking fast. “It’s a little overwhelming.”
Glen reached for her immediately, pulling her into his arms, pressing his lips to her temple. “Hey. I get it. I do. And I don’t want you to pretend it’s fine if it’s not. But I need you to know something, this doesn’t mean I won’t see you.”
She leaned into him, letting his warmth settle her. “How?”
“I’ll be home for Christmas,” he said gently. “For at least a week, maybe more. And I want…” He pulled back just enough to see her face. “I want us to take a trip around New Year’s. Just the two of us. Away from everything. Somewhere warm, somewhere quiet. Whatever you want. Just you and me.”
Her chest loosened a little, just enough to breathe again. “That sounds…really nice.”
“And,” he added, brushing his thumb along her jaw, “if you want to come out here during your breaks? I’ll fly you out. Anytime. I don’t care if it’s just for a long weekend. I just want to see you.”
She laughed softly at that, emotional and fond all at once. “You’d really fly me out for a weekend?”
“I’d fly you out for a single night if I could.” His smile was small, crooked, absolutely sincere. “I’m not letting months go by without seeing you. I can’t do that.”
Gabby leaned forward until their foreheads rested together. “Okay,” she whispered. “Then…we’ll figure it out. It’ll be hard, but we can handle hard.”
His hand slid to her cheek, warm and steady. “Yeah,” he murmured. “We can.”
Glen kept her close, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against her back. For a long moment neither of them said anything. The news still hung between them, heavier than either wanted, but not impossible.
Gabby finally exhaled and nodded to herself. “Okay. My turn to drop something on you.”
Glen’s brows lifted. “Oh boy. Should I brace again?”
“Maybe,” she said, laughing softly. “I got an email from my professor yesterday. The one who runs the screenwriting track.”
“Yeah?”
She pulled her phone from the coffee table and opened the email, handing it to him.
Let’s talk next week — I have a proposition for you.
Glen reread the line three times, his expression shifting from curious to impressed to full-on radiant. When he looked back at her, he looked proud. And not in a patronizing way, but in a this is huge and you deserve every bit of it kind of way.
“Gabby.” He cupped her cheek, grinning like it physically hurt him to hold it in. “This is amazing.”
“You don’t even know what it is yet.”
“I don’t have to. If someone as picky as your professor says they have a proposition for you? That’s big. That’s…that’s incredible.”
She felt her face warm, shy and delighted all at once. “It could be anything. Maybe she wants me to help with a grad project or join a workshop or—”
“Or,” he cut in gently, “she thinks you’re really damn talented and wants to help you take the next step.”
Gabby looked down at her hands. “Maybe. I don’t know. It just…it feels sudden? Like my life is sort of starting to tilt. In a good way, I think. But still—”
“It’s allowed to be scary,” Glen whispered, brushing his knuckles along her jaw. “Good things are scary sometimes.”
She let herself fall forward until her head rested against his chest. “You sound like my therapist.”
He snorted. “Then your therapist is smart.”
She swatted his arm, but the affection in her laugh gave her away. “I’m serious, though. If I actually start working in the industry, and you’re already in it…I don’t want people thinking I’m getting special treatment. Or doing things because of you. Or worse that you’re doing things behind the scenes for me.”
“Well like we talked about earlier, I’m not going to interfere with your career. I will lift you up and support you however I can.”
Gabby curled into his side, letting her hand rest over his heart. “So…let’s see we have you between wherever you’re filming and Austin. Me working on school and maybe trying to get my foot in the industry somehow on my own. Both of us doing work we love. Figuring out the long-distance thing until then….”
He kissed her hair. “And then figuring out everything else after.”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling into his chest. “I like that plan.”
He squeezed her gently, voice low and sure. “Me too.”
Across the Ocean, Still Yours: Chapter 9: The First Week Apart (Again)
Summary: Gabby spends her first few days in Glen’s house without him, learning to navigate the quiet, balancing midterm stress, and feeling the sharp edge of being noticed on campus. The loneliness stings but small anchors keep her steadY: Brisket and Willow, the tentative start of a new friendship on campus, and Glen’s text and calls. Meanwhile, Glen faces his own pressures in London as a rumor sparks online, forcing his team into damage control. Through distance, gossip, and long days apart, they find ways to hold onto each other…one message, one call, one promise at a time.
Warnings: Public gossip/rumors about a relationship. Mild anxiety themes (Gabby at times feeling exposed and overwhelmed.
Word Count: 2,710
Other Chapters: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8
GABBY
Gabby woke to silence the next day. For a second, she kept her eyes shut, waiting for the low murmur of Glen’s voice or the weight of his arm wrapped snug around her waist that she had woken up to the past few days.
But none of it came.
Instead she was met with silence that was broken only by Brisket’s heavy sigh at her feet and the faint scrape of Willow’s claws as she adjusted from her spot on the windowsill.
She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. She reached over to the pillow Glen had used the past few nights, pressing her face into it, and breathing in the faint traces of his cologne.
Brisket stretched, paws kicking against her leg as if to remind her she wasn’t entirely alone. She smiled faintly, running her toes along his fur. “Morning, buddy.”
It was enough to get her moving. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, Willow hopping down from her perch to weave a figure-eight around her ankles. The little orange cat mewed once, sharp and insistent. Gabby scooped her up, holding her close for a moment before setting her down.
“Okay, okay. Breakfast.”
The kitchen felt too quiet and too big without Glen leaning against the counter or rifling through cabinets. Gabby moved about the space, scooping fresh food from the fridge into Brisket’s bowl and shaking some kibble into Willow’s dish.
Then she went to make herself a cup of tea. But she paused when she reached into the cupboard for a mug. It was his. Dark blue, chipped on one edge, the one he always used when he was here. She hesitated, running her thumb along the crack in the ceramic. Then she set the tea bag inside and poured the hot water over it.
She sat at the island with her tea, scrolling absently through her phone. She immediately regretted it when she was met with headlines and dozens of posts she was tagged in. A handful of Instagram posts, TikTok edits fans had made of her and Glen…it all felt surreal. Like she was living in someone else’s life.
She then headed to the living room, clicking on the remote to distract herself before she had to start getting ready for class. The TV sprang to life with the morning news. An anchor talking about weather patterns before she started flipping through the channels, skipping past the entertainment ones that might show Glen’s face or mention his name. Eventually she just turned it off altogether.
The house was too full of him for her liking. One of his jackets still hung on the back of one of the bar stool at the kitchen island. His sneakers still sat by the door, like he’d just kicked them off after a run. The little things should have comforted her, proof that this was their space now, not just his. But instead it sharpened the ache in her chest.
She was safer here. She knew that. Luke couldn’t find her here. And even if he somehow found the address, the security and the gate would keep him at a safe distance. The locks were sturdy, more sturdy than the ones at her apartment had been. The neighborhood was quiet. Brisket although not much of a threat size wise, was always on guard and was quick to bark if he saw anyone outside.
She curled her hands tighter around the mug, pressing her lips to the edge Glen had used a hundred times before.
“I’m safer here.” She repeated quietly to herself. Lonelier too, she thought. The quiet stretched, the kind that made her miss him more, not less.
Brisket padded back over, leaning his weight into her shin, and Willow hopped into the chair beside her, a warm little loaf of orange fur. Gabby smiled at both of them, her chest easing slightly. “Okay, I get it. I’m not alone.”
She reached for her notebook, flipping it open to the mess of midterm prep. Pages of scribbled notes, highlighted terms, and sticky tabs stared back at her. It was something to focus on, something that was hers. She picked up a pen, tapping it against the margin before starting to rewrite one of her outlines.
But even as she worked, she caught herself glancing toward the door, toward the jacket, toward the empty spot on the couch where Glen usually sprawled with Brisket at his feet.
Safer here, she reminded herself.
* * * *
The hum of campus life hit Gabby the second she stepped onto the quad. Students streamed in every direction, some clutching coffee cups like lifelines, others already bent over textbooks as they walked. Normally, she liked this kind of energy. The sense of everyone cramming, pushing toward the same midterm deadlines. But today, every glance in her direction felt like a spotlight.
She tugged the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder and kept her gaze forward, telling herself it was just nerves. She was imagining it.
But when she pushed open the door to the lecture hall, the truth hit harder.
Whispers rose like static the second she crossed the threshold.
“That’s her, right? Glen Powell’s girlfriend?”
“No way! Pull it up.”
She slid into her usual seat halfway up the rows, forcing herself not to look. But out of the corner of her eye, she caught the glow of a laptop screen two seats over. A tabloid headline. Her name beneath Glen’s. Photos from the weekend in Napa.
Her throat tightened. She bent over her notebook, flipping it open like the messy pages could shield her from the eyes. More whispers floated her way, hushed but impossible to ignore.
“She’s actually really pretty.”
“Yeah, but like… can you imagine the pressure? Dating him?”
“I bet she only got in this film program because–”
Gabby shut the thought down before it could finish. She forced her pen across the page, scribbling bullet points from the professor’s slides even though she could barely process a word.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
This was what she’d signed up for, wasn’t it? Being with Glen meant the world knew her face now. It meant her Instagram had been dissected, old photos resurfaced, people digging into corners of her life that were supposed to belong only to her.
But knowing it in theory was different than hearing her name whispered across a classroom, her relationship reduced to gossip and speculation.
She pressed her hand flat against the page of her notebook, grounding herself in the scratch of ink against paper. Just focus. Midterms are next week. You can do this.
Still, the laptop glow pulled at her peripheral vision. Another tab was open now. Her Instagram account. Pictures from before Glen. Her and a friend with their arms slung around each other. Another of her holding Willow as a kitten when she brought her home.
Her private little life, dissected like a case study.
She bit the inside of her cheek and forced her eyes on the board.
Then the professor entered the room and began his lecture. The minutes stretched long. Gabby tried to focus on the professor, she really did. But she still heard the whispers.
Gabby’s pen slipped in her hand, the ink smearing across her thumb. By the end of the lecture, her notes were messier than usual. She gathered her things quickly, stuffing her notebook and laptop into her bag. She could feel eyes following her as she moved up the aisle and toward the door.
Gabby lingered outside the lecture hall, pretending to dig through her bag. Really, she just needed a second to breathe before facing the crowd of students spilling out behind her. The whispers from class still clung to her skin like static, and she wanted nothing more than to disappear into the ground.
“Hey! Wait up a second?”
Gabby glanced over her shoulder. A girl with dark curls and an oversized denim jacket hurried to catch up, juggling a notebook and iced coffee. She looked about Gabby’s age, maybe a little younger, with an easy smile that didn’t feel like it was hiding anything.
Gabby braced herself. Another question about Glen. Another person who wants a story to tell their friends.
But the girl only shifted her coffee to her other hand and said, “You’re in Professor Harlow’s seminar too, right? I keep seeing you in the same seats.”
Gabby blinked. “Uh yeah. Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“Thought so.” The girl offered a hand, nearly spilling her drink as she did. “I’m Maya.”
“Gabby,” she said, shaking it automatically.
Maya smiled wider, as if she’d been waiting for that. “Nice to officially meet you. I wanted to say, you handled that really well in class.”
Gabby stiffened. “Handled what?”
“You know,” Maya said, lowering her voice just enough that it didn’t carry. “The whispers. People staring. That whole circus.” She rolled her eyes. “I hate that kind of stuff. My uncle’s a producer, so I grew up around it. Actors, tabloids, the gossip. It’s…relentless.”
Gabby studied her, searching for a catch. But there wasn’t one. Maya wasn’t fishing for details, wasn’t shoving her phone in Gabby’s face, wasn’t smirking like she knew some secret. She was just being normal.
Gabby exhaled. “I didn’t feel like I handled it. I just kept my head down.”
“Exactly,” Maya said, like that was the smartest move anyone could’ve made. “Half those people wouldn’t last a day under that kind of spotlight. Trust me.”
They walked in step together across the quad, weaving through clusters of students sprawled on the grass.
Maya sipped her coffee before adding, “So, um…this might sound forward, but if you ever want a study buddy? I’m decent at Harlow’s exams, and I’m not terrible company.”
Gabby hesitated, then smiled. “I could use the help. Midterms are already eating me alive.”
“Perfect,” Maya said, grinning like she’d won something. “We’ll pick a time, maybe later this week like after class on Thursday? Coffee’s on me next time.”
The words were simple, but they landed deep. Gabby hadn’t realized how much she missed this, just making a friend, not as Glen Powell’s girlfriend, not as a headline, but as herself.
By the time they reached the library steps, Gabby felt lighter. Like maybe the whole world wasn’t against her. Like maybe she could have more here than just the shadows of Glen’s life.
“See you Thursday?” Maya asked, already backing toward the doors.
“Yeah,” Gabby said, surprising herself with how much she meant it. “See you.”
Maya waved before disappearing into the crowd, and Gabby stood there for a moment, clutching her bag, her chest warm in a way it hadn’t been all week.
For the first time since Glen left, she didn’t feel like she was drowning. She felt like maybe, just maybe, she could swim.
* * * *
GLEN
The production office was buzzing with crew shuffling papers, laptops glowing, and the faint clatter of walkie-talkies. Glen sat on the edge of a couch, script pages in his lap, but his focus was shot.
Megan, his PR rep, slipped in with her tablet tucked under one arm. “We’ve got something to deal with,” she said without preamble.
Glen pinched the bridge of his nose. “What now?”
She handed the tablet over. An article headline glared up at him:
“Powell Sparks Dating Rumors With Former Co-Star After Cozy Dinner in London”
Beneath it were photos—grainy shots from last week before he came back to deal with the Luke and Gabby situation. It was nothing. Just a night when he had grabbed dinner with an old co-star. They were laughing in the pictures, leaning across the table. To anyone who wanted a story, it looked like something it wasn’t.
Glen’s jaw set. “Unbelievable.”
“Timing’s bad,” Megan agreed. “With your relationship public now, people are digging deeper. This piece is already circulating—nothing scandalous, but it could muddy the waters.”
His chest tightened. Gabby. He could already imagine her seeing this, the way it would land when she was still raw from the fallout of his Instagram mistake.
“So what’s the move?” he asked, voice clipped.
“We’ll release a neutral statement,” Megan said, already tapping notes on her tablet. “‘A source close to Glen confirms the two are just friends.’ Nothing defensive, nothing overblown. Just clean, quiet, and done.”
He nodded, relief and frustration tangling in his chest. “Good. Do it fast.”
Megan studied him for a beat, then softened. “She’ll see the article, Glen. Even with the statement, it might sting. You should reach out.”
“I will,” he said, already pulling out his phone.
Because this wasn’t just about protecting his image. It was about protecting her.
The hardest part of this shoot wasn’t the hours, the stunts, or the endless flights. It was knowing she was an ocean away, dealing with the noise, and he couldn’t shield her from it.
He typed a quick text, thumbs flying: Ignore anything you see online about me tonight. It’s nothing. Just old dinner pictures. I’ll explain on the call later. Promise.
Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he added: Three weeks. That’s all. Then you’ll be with me.
He hit send, gripping the phone tight like it was the only anchor he had.
* * * *
GABBY
Gabby was curled up on the couch with Brisket pressed against her legs and Willow curled into the crook of her arm when the notification buzzed across her phone. At first, she thought it was Glen. He’d texted her earlier, promising to call when he wrapped, but the banner flashing across her screen wasn’t from him.
It was a headline from TMZ. Powell Sparks Dating Rumors With Former Co-Star After Cozy Dinner in London.
Her stomach flipped. She tapped it before she could talk herself out of it. The article wasn’t long, just enough to stir the pot. Blurry photos of Glen leaning across a restaurant table, laughing with his former co-star. She guessed their heads were tilted toward each other in a way that looked intimate if you wanted it to look that way. But it wasn’t the way he leaned in towards her when they had dinner together, and Gabby knew that.
The text in the article framed it as “an exclusive dinner fueling speculation,” though it noted, almost as an afterthought, that Glen had “recently gone public with a new relationship.”
Gabby’s chest tightened. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. She did. Completely. But the sting was still there. Seeing him framed in someone else’s story, their faces together, the insinuation that their relationship could be brushed off by a headline.
Her phone buzzed again. A text from Glen this time.
Glen: Ignore anything you see online about me tonight. It’s nothing. Just old dinner pictures. I’ll explain on the call later. Promise.
Her throat ached. She pressed the phone to her chest for a moment, Brisket nosing at her hand like he could sense her shift.
Glen’s call came a few hours later, his name lighting up her screen. She answered before the first ring finished.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” his voice came through, warm but edged with fatigue. He had a feeling by her short greeting and the less than enthusiastic tone in her voice that she’d probably already seen the article. “You saw it, didn’t you?”
“I did,” she admitted. Her voice was quiet, careful.
He exhaled. “It’s nothing, Gabby. Just dinner with a friend. We’ve known each other for years. My team’s putting out a statement. It’ll be gone by tomorrow.”
“I know.” And she did. She believed him. But her chest still felt heavy. “It just…sucks. Seeing it like that.”
“I know.” His voice dropped, steady, grounding. “And I hate that you even have to deal with it. If I could shield you from every headline, I would.”
She swallowed hard. “You don’t have to protect me from everything, you know?”
“Yeah, but I want to,” he said simply.
Silence stretched for a beat, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just full.
“Three weeks,” Glen said again, softer now. “Then you’ll be here. With me. And all this noise will feel further away.”
Her eyes stung, but she smiled. “I’m counting down.”
Maybe a daft one where Jake insists on teaching his girl to golf so they can have golfing dates bc we know Glen likes golf? Or one where shes a teacher and he returns home from deployment and shows up during school to surprise her? Or one where shes having a sad/blue day and hes the ultimate boyfriend? Or one where it's mother's day and he and baby!seresin go ALL OUT?
The First of Many.
pairing; jake seresin x fem!reader
word count; 1.7k
warnings; FLUFF FEST
a/n; i hope you don't mind i chose the last one, but it made my heart flutter, thank you so much for requesting so many great ideas!!<3
masterlist
You woke to the scent of peonies and vanilla, the whisper of a breeze carrying in through the open window, and the softest coo from the bassinet beside your bed.
But the bed was empty. Jake’s side was cold.
And then—
The door opened with a quiet creak.
Jake stepped in, grinning from ear to ear, carrying a silver tray piled with fresh breakfast and trailed closely by a parade of flowers — more accurately, by two men from the local florist, struggling to carry in an absurdly massive heart-shaped arrangement of roses, peonies, and white tulips that nearly swallowed the doorframe.
You blinked in disbelief.
“Jake,” you whispered. “What in the world…”
“Happy Mother’s Day, sweetheart,” he said with a smile that made your chest ache. He leaned over to press a slow, reverent kiss to your temple before placing the breakfast tray on your lap. “First one. Had to make it count.”
You stared down at the tray: golden waffles dusted with powdered sugar, a mimosa in a delicate crystal glass, a tiny bowl of fresh strawberries cut into little hearts, and a folded linen napkin with a rose gold fork and knife.
“I—Jake,” you stammered. “This is…”
“I’m just getting started.”
Before you could argue, he reached over and lifted Willow from the bassinet, bringing her into your arms like she was a present too. She was dressed in a soft white romper with tiny embroidered daisies and a matching bow clipped into her downy hair. She looked up at you with sleepy blue-green eyes that looked so much like her daddy’s.
Jake watched the two of you for a beat, something tender and awed flickering across his face, before he knelt beside the bed and reached under it. You heard the soft scrape of a box being pulled free.
He set it on the comforter next to your tray. Matte white. Tied with a satin ribbon.
You raised an eyebrow. “What is this?”
“Part one,” he said, shrugging. “Just open it, baby.”
You peeled the ribbon away and opened the box.
Inside was a scrapbook, wrapped in tissue paper. You lifted it gently, heart already climbing into your throat, and opened the first page.
A picture of you and Willow the day you brought her home. The caption, written in Jake’s neat block letters: The day everything changed. The next page was a photo of you asleep on the couch with Willow curled on your chest — Jake had slipped a sticky note beside it that read, This is what perfection looks like.
You flipped through the rest with shaking fingers. Photos, sonograms, hospital bracelets, ink prints of her hands and feet, Jake’s writing throughout. Sweet, loving messages. Private memories.
You were crying before you realized it.
Jake brushed a thumb under your eye and kissed your cheek. “She won’t remember this first one. But I will. And I wanted you to remember it too.”
You sniffed. “Jake, I…”
“Still not done,” he said, voice low and teasing. “You didn’t think I was gonna not spoil you, did you?”
From beneath the bed, he pulled another box — this one smaller, pale pink with a gold seal.
You opened it slowly. Inside was a quilted Chanel handbag in a perfect shade of warm cream, buttery-soft and gleaming in the morning light.
“Jake,” you breathed.
“Figured you could use something pretty just for you,” he said. “You’re always putting everyone else first.”
When he reached into his back pocket next, you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry again. He handed you a small velvet box, the kind that made your heart flip.
Inside: a dainty gold bracelet with tiny diamonds along the band. Matching earrings nestled beneath. Both engraved on the back with Willow's initials.
You were speechless. Utterly overwhelmed. Willow gurgled contentedly in your arms, completely unbothered by her mother falling apart before 9 a.m.
Jake leaned in close, resting his forehead against yours.
“You’ve given me the greatest gift of my life,” he murmured. “You made me a father. You gave me our little girl. And I swear to you, I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you feel as loved as you are.”
You laughed wetly and wiped your eyes. “You’re insane.”
“Insanely in love with you,” he corrected, pressing a kiss to your lips. “Now eat. Or the waffles get cold, and I’m not letting our daughter see her mother eat soggy waffles on Mother’s Day.”
You sat back against the pillows, Willow still in your lap, your heart brimming as Jake fed you strawberries one by one like some overgrown golden retriever with a romantic streak.
And you didn’t care if the flowers were too much. Or the gifts were extravagant. Or that you were crying before breakfast.
Because you knew, without a doubt, that this wasn’t a one-time gesture. This was just Jake. This was love, loud and unashamed. This was your life now.
And it was perfect.
You didn’t expect the rest of the day to top the morning, but Jake seemed determined to prove you wrong.
After breakfast, he took over with Willow so you could shower in peace, and when you stepped into the bathroom, you found he’d already laid out a fluffy robe, your favorite lotion, and a fresh bouquet of lilies on the counter. There was even a small handwritten card propped against your moisturizer:
You are the heart of this home. I love you more than life. —J
By late morning, you were dressed in a sundress he’d picked out for you weeks ago — soft yellow with delicate embroidery — and a pair of matching sandals. Willow wore a ruffled white onesie and a floppy sunhat that barely stayed on her head for more than a few seconds.
“She's ready to cause trouble,” Jake grinned, tucking the diaper bag over his shoulder. “Just like her mama.”
You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “If she gets that from anyone, it’s you.”
He gave you a look that clearly said I’m not even gonna argue and then took Willow from your arms to buckle her into the stroller. You couldn’t help the flutter in your chest as you watched him, shirt sleeves rolled up, hands strong and sure, murmuring little nonsense words to make her smile.
The three of you headed out for a walk through the neighborhood, slow and easy, the afternoon sun warm on your skin, a soft breeze ruffling Jake’s hair. Willow babbled happily from her stroller, her little fists flailing each time Jake leaned down to make a funny face or tickle her toes.
Jake reached over to take your hand as you strolled beside him. He laced your fingers together, then kissed the back of your hand like it was a reflex.
“I’ve been thinking about this day since the moment we found out you were pregnant,” he said quietly.
You glanced up at him. “Yeah?”
“I had this vision in my head. You, holding our baby. Looking at her like you were made for it.” He squeezed your hand. “It still didn’t come close to the real thing.”
Your heart stuttered.
“I knew you’d be an amazing mom,” he went on, voice low and reverent. “But seeing it—watching you with her every day—baby, you were born for this. You’re gentle and patient and strong. She lights up when she hears your voice.”
You looked down, cheeks warm, trying to hide the emotion swelling in your throat. But Jake tugged your hand gently, pulling you to a stop on the sidewalk. The stroller rolled to a gentle halt beside you.
“Hey,” he said, tucking a finger under your chin so you’d meet his eyes. “Look at me.”
You did, and found his gaze steady and open.
“You’re everything I could ever want in a wife. And even more than I ever imagined for the mother of my child.”
You swallowed hard. “Jake…”
“I wake up every morning grateful to come home to you. And I swear to God, I fall more in love with you every time I watch you rock her to sleep, or sing to her in the kitchen, or hold her against your chest like she’s your whole world.” He brushed his knuckles over your cheek. “You’ve given me a life I didn’t know I was allowed to dream about.”
You were crying again.
Jake chuckled and leaned forward to kiss your forehead, then your cheeks, then your lips. “God, I love you,” he murmured. “You and our girl, you’re my whole damn world.”
You smiled against his mouth, breath catching. “You’re going to make me cry all over again.”
You stood on tiptoe and kissed him slow, the kind of kiss that tasted like love and sunlight and safety. Willow let out a loud babble, reminding you she was very much still present, and Jake pulled back laughing.
“Alright, alright,” he said to her, rubbing a hand over her tummy. “You’re still Daddy’s girl. I get it.”
The rest of the walk was slow and sweet — hand-in-hand, the stroller rolling beside you, Jake pointing out clouds shaped like animals and waving to neighbors who passed by. When Willow started getting fussy, Jake pulled her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way home, humming gently against her ear until she calmed.
Back at the house, he made you both a late lunch. You curled up on the couch with Willow asleep on your chest again, and Jake brought over sandwiches, fruit, and little sugar cookies decorated with #1 Mom in pink frosting.
You laughed, took a bite, and pretended to swoon. “Gourmet.”
Jake beamed. “Only the best for my girls.”
That evening, after Willow’s bath and bedtime bottle, you and Jake stood side by side at her crib. He watched you rock her, your touch so gentle, your face soft with affection. When you finally laid her down and brushed a kiss to her forehead, Jake wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you in close.
“Best day I’ve ever had,” he murmured. “And I’ve had some damn good ones.”
You leaned into him. “Think we’ll top it next year?”
He grinned and kissed your temple. “Every year’s gonna get better. I’ll make sure of it.”
pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: fluff | wc: 0.8k
summary: clark grew up with home videos. you decided to keep the tradition going.
warnings: established relationship, FLUFF, pregnancy themes (bonus), written in headcanon/multiple scenarios style.
- a/n: just a little something while i finish up my other works for the week! thanks for being patient ♡// (gif/photo creds: @olympain)
Clark often shared his childhood memories with you, little moments he held onto with quiet affection. You could tell how much they meant to him, the way his voice softened whenever he mentioned his parents or the farm.
So when he brought up how they used to film home videos—grainy footage, clunky camcorder, someone narrating everything in the background—you got an idea.
You walked into the kitchen with the camera already rolling. Clark stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled way too good, completely unaware.
“It should be done in a few—” he said, then looked up.
His brows lifted the second he saw the camera pointed at him. A soft laugh slipped out, low and surprised. “What are you doing?”
“Continuing tradition,” you said, grinning as you zoomed in just a little.
“Tradition?”
“Mhm,” you nodded. “Picking up where your parents left off. Home videos—grown-up edition. We’re seriously lacking in flannel though, but we’ll work on it.”
That made him laugh, full and wide, his head tilting back slightly as it broke out of him.
And you made sure to catch every second of it.
One morning you pulled out the camera, letting it record as you stepped toward Clark’s side of the bed. The sheets were rumpled, his arm draped over the edge, morning light slipping softly through the curtains. His dark hair was a mess against the pillow, sticking up in a few stubborn directions.
He stirred at the sound, squinting one eye open, voice gravelly. “You filming me?”
“Mhm,” you hummed, smiling behind the lens.
A lazy smile tugged at his lips. He let out a low laugh, then shifted toward you, one hand sliding around your waist, hauling you back toward the bed.
“Wait!” you yelped, the camera slipping from your grip as he pulled you on top of him.
You laughed as you landed, tangled in the sheets and in him.
"Morning," he mumbled, pressing you closer to his chest.
“Good morning,” you whispered back. Then you leaned in, pressing a kiss to his lips—the kind that lingered. Somewhere on the bed, the camera kept rolling, quietly forgotten.
You hit record, camera aimed at the front door just as it opened with a soft creak. You were grinning already, half expecting to catch Clark mid-yawn, tie loosened, maybe muttering something about the coffee machine being slow again.
But the second he stepped inside, your eyes went wide.
“Clark!”
A streak of red and blue flashed across the screen as you gasped and fumbled with the camera, jerking it away just in time. The lens caught nothing but the trailing edge of his cape before it ended on a blur of drywall and your hand, Clark's low chuckle just barely audible in the background.
Of course you filmed the quiet days, the holidays, the special occasions. But Clark caught on quick—noticed how the camera was always pointed at him.
So naturally, he had to fix that.
You were standing in the doorway one night, camera in hand, watching him brush his teeth—shirtless, hair still damp from his shower.
He glanced at you in the mirror, foam at the corners of his mouth, and smiled around the toothbrush.
Without a word, he reached out, tugging you gently toward him. You laughed, stumbling a little as his arm wrapped around you. He took the camera from your hand with ease, flipping it toward the mirror until both of you were in frame.
“You’re supposed to be in these too, you know,” he mumbled around the toothbrush, voice muffled but amused.
You leaned into him, cheeks flushed with laughter, as he gave the camera a crooked little grin.
The camera caught everything—your laugh, the way he rested his chin against your head, the moment he kissed your temple, toothpaste and all.
And when you watch them all back—those quiet, flickering glimpses of a life stitched together with laughter and kisses half caught on film—he never fails to remind you.
Of all his memories, you’re his favorite.
⟢ bonus!
The camera shakes a little as Clark adjusts it. You’re in the kitchen, one hand resting on your belly, the other reaching for a bowl on the shelf. Still wearing his oversized T-shirt.
He zooms in—softly, slowly.
And then his voice, warm and steady from behind the lens:
“And this one’s for you.”
A pause.
“That’s your mom. She doesn’t know I’m filming right now—she’d probably throw something at me if she did.”
He chuckles under his breath.
“But she sings to you in the mornings. Craves the weirdest food combinations I’ve ever seen. And she already loves you more than anything.”
You glance over your shoulder, catching him—and roll your eyes.
“Clark.”
“Just say hi,” he grins. “It’s for the baby.”
You shake your head, laughing—but your expression softens.
And then your voice drops, quiet and sure.
“Hi, baby,” you murmur to the bump, hand resting gently on your belly.
Then a whisper from behind the camera:
“You and her—my whole world right there.”
please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.
• tag list: @sophiethelesbian @floufli @yeonalie
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summary: even when the most super man saves you, you can’t help but run to find your boyfriend who you love so much
warnings: none that i can think of…guilty thoughts maybe?
a/n: first fic posted….kinda nervous. i hope you guys like it! i did not proof read so deeply so if things are every where im sorry.
It was a day like any other…except it really was not in all honesty. You do not really know how to put it but for some reason the entire day has felt kind of off.
From the moment you woke up to writing your usual article for the Daily Planet to even lunch with Clark, you could not shake the feeling that today was different.
Oh Clark.
Maybe it was a 6th sense of his or something, but he always seems to know exactly what it takes to make you feel better.
Up too late last night for no good reason? He puts a cup of coffee on your desk the first minute you even walk through the Daily Planet doors. Always perfectly made.
While he also brings coffee for other people in the bullpen, yours is specially made. You have chalked it up to be that he’s really observant to you specifically. You do not even have to tell him how you felt like drinking your coffee each day, his 6th sense already knows.
Hot and from the pot. Iced with enough creamer and sugar to get just the right mix of sweet and bitter. Caramel. Vanilla. A dash of cinnamon.
He even once brought a frappuccino on those weird days where you craved something out of the ordinary. Oddly enough the nearest coffee shop that sells frappes is 5 blocks down.
Nonetheless, you still savored the drink and told yourself to give Clark a big hug the next time you got a chance.
Today is another one of those ‘out of the ordinary’ days. For some reason you craved tea. Iced tea. Raspberry iced tea if you were going to go into the specifics.
Which brings us to now.
You currently waiting on Clark to bring lunch. Staring at your computer as if the paragraphs for your article would magically appear, instead of having to use your brain to actually put words and sentences together.
Over time, you cannot remember exactly how it started, you both officially unofficially deemed Fridays to be deli days. One of you, or both if you guys had the time, would get sandwiches and chips from the deli down the block to eat together for lunch.
Soon enough Clark comes through the door and walks over to your desk, careful not to trip or bump into people as he quickens his pace.
You are happy to his usual charming smile and messy hair. Your stomach is happy to see the paper bag in his arms full of food. You catch a small glimpse of something in his hand but it couldn’t be what you think it is. Could it?
Oh but it is. His 6th sense is at it again!
“I felt like you could use a small pick me up, so I got this for you. I remember you said that you liked raspberry iced teas, hopefully I remembered correctly,” Clark says hopeful as he sets the drink down carefully on the coaster of your desk.
He is just mindful like that.
“Oh you definitely did. Thank you so much, Clark,” you beam back at him before quickly taking a sip of the tea, letting it refresh your body and mind.
He slides a chair over and sets out the food. We eat together for a moment before curiosity rears its head. You can’t help but ask.
“How do you always know what I want to drink?”
“I just know you,” he says as if the answer made all the sense in the world.
“Know me? It’s like you read my mind somehow. I know you and sometimes I still forget little things.”
Clark lets out a small grin at the corners of his mouth while taking a sip of his water.
“Don’t sweat it, love. You can’t help it if you have the memory of an elderly person. But I still want to be with you just the same.”
“Was that an insult or a compliment?” you ask furrowing my eyebrows.
“Both. But you know how I have a soft spot for sweet old ladies so it’s more of a compliment anyways.”
“You confuse me sometimes,” you say chuckling while shaking your head.
Clark, seemingly at the sight of your laughter, breaks out into a smile of his own.
A moment passes and you both go back to eating in comfortable silence.
Another reason why you love Clark so much, he understands that you do not have to fill every quiet moment with words or noise.
You are happy that you can just exist side by side without feeling the need to fill the time with activities or mundane talk about the weather.
You are especially happy he understands that whenever you’re sick or feeling down, that sometimes you just need quiet to feel better.
You were cut off from you thoughts when you hear Clark clearing his throat next to me.
“So, love…do you maybe wanna come over after work to watch movies and eat a butt load of popcorn together?”
He asks hesitantly, it was as if he was asking you on a first date, but his hesitancy just makes you admire him more.
You’ve been on countless dates with and have even been officially together for 5 months now. There really was no reason for him to be nervous, but you still love that he does.
“Definitely. But I get to choose the movie this time okay? The last one you chose left me with a small existential crisis once it ended.”
“Yeah yeah. Of course, love. I will even made the popcorn exactly the way you like it,” Clark says with a certain nod.
“You do that anyways, Clark. Don’t try to fool me.”
He presses a quick, warm kiss to your cheek and pulls back smiling. You can’t help the bashful blush filling your cheeks, but you can help the condiment residue on your cheek he left from his sandwich by wiping it off.
“Eww, sloppy kisses do not mean they have to actually be sloppy.”
Time passes and the sun has just set below the horizon. There is still light in the sky but it’s dwindling by the minute.
Clark has made it clear that he does not like it when you go out in the city alone at night, fretting something bad would happen and he won’t be able to protect you.
Clark: I’m out of popcorn so I’m at the store to get some more. I should be back by the time you get here. Be careful, okay?
You were in the middle of texting him ‘I’ll be just fine’ before a big explosion erupts from behind. Debris sprinkle down around like snow as you turn around to see a giant, robust alien lying in a crater shaped hole in the road.
At first you couldn’t believe your eyes. It looked almost like a pufferfish and a frog made a giant baby. For some reason, whether it be reflexes or just not thinking clearly, you stay in place observing the alien creature 50 feet away.
With only the street lights and window light to help see, you couldn’t get a good enough look to grasp what the alien might want or what its intentions are.
It’s as if other people around are going through the same effect as they are stopped in their place to watch the creature writhe in its spot.
Maybe the alien has some sort of hypnosis powers to draw other life forms closer. Closer for what? You don’t know. But you don’t care at this point because you cannot even think clearly. Your mind is only telling yourself to get closer.
Suddenly out of nowhere, the alien begins inhaling. It is not the kind of soft, natural inhale that most creatures on earth do. It’s powerful. It’s as if it was a giant vacuum sucking everything in the aliens vicinity.
It starts with small debris, as if a big gust of wind supposedly carried the scraps of trash or fallen leaves into the aliens mouth. But then bigger things begin to get inhaled.
People cry out as they get pulled closer and closer to the mouth of the alien. Mere human strength cannot win against the sheer force of the air.
It’s as if a snap happened and you were knocked out of your hypnosis like everybody else. You were instantly put in fight or flight reflex mode.
You chose flight….obviously.
But when you chose that option, you didn’t mean to literally fly. Your legs are running but when you glance down at the ground the pavement is moving the wrong way.
This is why you’ve felt off the entire day. The universe was sending you a premonition that something big and different would happen. Except when you thought of big and different, you thought maybe one of your articles would finally be approved by Perry to go on the front page.
You did not think of a literally big alien that is different from anything you have ever seen before. Then it hits you.
You are getting swept away into the mouth of a stupid alien! Fear courses through you as you scream for help. You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be 10 feet away from your imminent death. You were supposed to be at an apartment blocks away from here in the comforting arms of your boyfriend, watching a movie that makes you both laugh.
You close your eyes and brace yourself until
*Thud*
You were back on the ground. Fallen face first onto the pavement. Albeit the fall was 3 feet from the ground at most, so you maybe got a small bruise or scratch. Most likely got a little dirty so no pain was caused, only confusion.
You sit up to see a giant boulder in the aliens mouth preventing any more vacuum forced wind and a flying Superman above the alien.
Superman seems focused, mentally going through the right thing to do with the alien. This is until his eyes flicker to you just for a moment and you could almost swear they softened just for a second.
You don’t allow yourself to brew on that moment for too long before you watch Hawkgirl, Green Lantern, and Metamorpho carry away the alien to observe it and what not.
“Do you need help miss?”
The powerful voice booms above you as you look up and see an outstretched hand offered to you. The hand it belongs to is none other than Superman.
He flashes a warm smile and you almost just almost get lost in it until you check back into reality.
“Oh no. I’m fine,” you say as you take his hand.
Superman helps you up in one swift motion throwing you off guard for just a moment before you steady yourself back on your legs. Accessing the state of your injuries, or the lack thereof anything significant, Superman keeps a firm grip on your waist as his eyes scan over every little detail of you.
He is close. Awfully close. Close enough to feel the deep exhales from his lungs on your face. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him like you’ve just came inside from playing in the snow and he’s a warm fireplace. Close enough to want him to wrap his big strong arms around you and protect you from the dark world.
As if a 6th sense, Superman softly rubs his thumb in circles to soothe you. Beginning to think of how it was a nice coincidence he knew exactly what would make you feel better, you remember someone else who has that perfect 6th sense too.
Clark!
You quickly snap yourself out of the comforting trance of Superman’s presence. Guilt silently eats at you from the inside How could you even think of being in the arms of someone else when you felt you already had the most perfect boyfriend?
Eagerly you pull his hands off of your body and put quite a few feet of space between you two. You had to get to Clark.
Superman’s face twists into something unreadable with the added distance. His hands hold out for just a moment as if he was so close to pulling you back within his reach. His expression seems to falter for just a second. Was it sadness? Longing? Rejection even?
You do not let yourself ponder over it for too long before you squeak out.
“Thanks for the help but I should get going!”
You internally cringe of the way you said it. Too quickly and too much as if you are trying to avoid something or rather someone.
Which you are. But Superman does not know to know that you are actively trying to get away from him. That would be just rude.
“You have a scratch. On your cheek,” Superman says almost under his breath.
“Oh! It’s okay! You should go attend to other people. I am sure they need your help more than I do.”
You turn on your feet and briskly walk away. Unfortunately, you did not get farther than possibly 10 feet before a warm hand interlocks with yours.
“Everybody else is already taken care of. Please let me take care of you.”
Your heart beats faster at the thought of Superman doting on you. The Superman wanting to tend to your injuries? That is practically everybody’s dream come true.
But you quickly push those thoughts away. Clark is who you should be thinking about right now. He is probably worried sick, wondering what is taking me so long to get to his apartment.
The picture of his anxious face is enough to push you to get to his apartment as fast as you can. To kiss away the frown in his face and tell him you are alright. That is what you want most out of everything else in the world.
“I have a boyfriend!”
Your sudden blurt of declaration has Superman’s grip waver for just a moment. And a moment is all you need really to tear your hand free.
Then you book it. Running as fast as you can away from him and to Clark.
It takes you one whole second to remember you, a regular human, is running away from a meta human. A meta human who can fly and move faster than anything you have ever seen before.
You wait for the inevitable stop again, to be held up by a blue flash infront of your eyes. But it never happens. With a quick turn of your head you see him in the exact same spot where you left him.
He does not look like he has any intention of going after me. He does not even look too upset or rejected that you began running. Maybe even a small look of pride.
Superman is respectful towards taken women. Good to know. Not surprising really based on everything else he stands for, but it is still nice to be reassured about it.
Even with the knowledge that nobody is running after you, you do not slow your steps in the slightest. The urge and anticipation to see your boyfriend is too high to tire you out.
You almost even run into the door from the momentum you were running down his apartment hallway. Stopping yourself just in time to knock on his door and speak between big breaths of air.
“Clark!..Are you in there?..It’s me….You will never guess what just happened to me!”
With an ear to the door you try to hear for any movement inside. Nothing. Maybe he did not hear you at first. So you knocked again.
“Clark!”
Right before you could yell out something along the lines of ‘you better not be asleep,’ the door swings open and your beautiful boyfriend is there in all his nerdy glory.
The biggest smile over takes you as you instinctively jump into his arms. Lips pressing everywhere you can reach. He catches you as if you weigh no heavier than a balloon but holds you as if he just came back from war and this is the first time seeing each other in years.
Forget Superman. Why would you want a guy who focuses on the entire world when you have someone right here just for you?
“I missed you sooo much, Clark”
“What brought this? Not that I did not miss you too because I did. But you usually aren’t this affectionate. Not that I am complaining either,” Clark chuckles out between your kisses as he carries you over to the couch.
He leaves for a moment before sitting down and softly placing a bandaid on your cheek. A soft kiss laid on the bandage before he pulls you in his lap, keeping you comfortable on top of him. He makes no effort to pull you away, his arms tighten around you as if he just can’t get close enough.
You look around and notice the TV on and a bowl of popcorn perfectly popped ready just for us. Beside the bowl are two steaming cups of hot chocolate with just the perfect amount of marshmallows on top.
Hot chocolate never even grazed your mind, but seeing the cups there in all their glory makes your mouth water. He just knows how to make a night perfect. Your heart warms because it is truly times like these where you appreciate your boyfriend the most.
Clark’s 6th sense strikes once as he lays a blanket over you, perfectly cocooning you two together in warmth and love. Oh how you love his 6th sense that makes you feel so special and seen. Oh how you love Clark so much.
Turning around, your back is pressed against his front and he tucks his chin on your shoulder.
“What do you want to watch tonight, love?”
You put on a comfort movie of yours. Every now and then throughout the movie you glance up to see Clark paying deep attention to the movie as if he is really wanting to enjoy something you enjoy too.
It is what he always does anyways. He takes everything that makes you, you and memorizes it to heart. You cannot imagine someone who knows you better than him. You don’t even know yourself better than him sometimes.
And you would not change it or replace him for anything else in the world. No, the universe. There is truly nothing better than a close encounter with death and Superman to help you cherish what you have right infront of you.
Clark. Your Clark.
“I love you,” you utter, gazing into his eyes.
“I love you too. So so much.”
Lips connect. Soft and sweet and reverent. Like every thing else about Clark. In the way he holds you like you are the most valuable thing in the world. In the way he looks at you as if you are the literal sun. In the way he loves you like nothing you have ever seen or read about before.
And in that moment you know deep in your heart that this is where you belong. Whether tragedy strikes or the greatest wonder happens.
summary; How each member of the Dagger Squad found out Jake's been married for over a decade.
word count; 3.6k
warnings: nothing. established relationship, secret/private marriage, found family, fluff, all good stuff.
a/n; i am a SUCKER for a secret relationship trope. this concept is so cute i want to write a hundred different pieces about it. also, if you're reading my jake series, next part should be up tomorrow :))
masterlist
A year after the Uranium mission, the aviators once known as the Dagger Squad were summoned back to Miramar. Expecting another top-secret assignment, they were instead offered something unexpected: a chance to stay on at Top Gun indefinitely. Their answer was almost immediate—a resounding yes, with an enthusiastic "hell yes" from Fanboy.
But when they arrived, one thing was clear: Jake hadn't accepted the offer yet.
"Can't believe Hangman's playing hard to get with Admiral Simpson," Phoenix muttered, eyeing the empty spot where he should’ve been.
"Bet that promotion to Lieutenant Commander already went to his head," Rooster quipped.
"If you’re talking about Jake, he’s coming," Maverick said. "He just asked to report in on Monday."
He left the room without another word. The Daggers exchanged looks, then shrugged. It was Jake, after all—he probably just wanted to make an entrance, with nothing but his damn ego walking through the door first.
When Monday rolled around, he strolled in with that trademark smirk and a swagger only he could pull off. Annoying? Absolutely. Eye-roll inducing? Without question. Missed? More than anyone was willing to admit.
“Be honest—did you tear up a little when you thought I wasn’t coming back?”
Bob and Phoenix.
Bob had a thing for those absurdly healthy smoothies from a place called Erewhon. Overpriced, organic, and influencer-approved—it was his guilty pleasure. Naturally, it wasn’t long before he dragged his favorite front-seater into it.
“What the hell is a Hailey Bieber Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothie, and why does it cost twenty bucks?”
The line was a nightmare—packed with people who all looked like they drove Teslas, had just come from Pilates, or were on their way to pitch a startup to their fiancée’s hedge fund bros.
Phoenix couldn’t quite figure out what Bob saw in these overpriced green sludge drinks, but she was usually down to try something new, even if her wallet cried a little every time.
“I don’t really get the hype either, but my husband’s obsessed,” You said with a shrug. “If it’s your first time, I’d go with something simple—maybe the pitaya, or the post-workout one is solid too. You look like you work out.”
They startled slightly when you turned around, smiling and introducing yourself after your unsolicited smoothie rant.
“I’ll take your advice—I’m Natasha,” Phoenix said, shaking your hand. It was only then that you noticed the massive emerald-cut ring on her finger, catching the light like it knew it was expensive. Bob followed with a shy introduction, a soft blush creeping into his cheeks.
Sticking to your word, you went ahead and ordered the absurdly named Hailey Bieber Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothie, along with a few other things. Once you paid, you turned back to them with a grin.
“If you’re free, my husband’s just parking the car—want to sit and chat for a bit?”
“Oh, we’d love to,” Phoenix said, “but we’re running late for a few apartment showings—this line took forever. But we should exchange numbers, maybe grab lunch sometime?”
“I’d love that! We actually just moved here, so it’d be nice to make some friends.” Your smile didn’t waver; wide, bright, and straight out of a movie scene.
After saying your goodbyes, you grabbed your order and stepped out of the line, letting them move forward. With one last wave—bright, effortless—you pushed through the door and disappeared into the sunlight.
Phoenix turned back to the cashier, halfway through her order, when her gaze drifted to the large front window—and froze.
"Holy shit."
Bob instinctively looked where she was staring, and his brows shot up so high they nearly vanished into his hairline.
Jake Seresin was outside, casually leaning against a matte black Jeep Wrangler like he belonged in a magazine ad. Arms crossed, aviators in place, his flight jacket unzipped just enough to hint at the crisp white tee underneath. That usual cocky smirk was on his face—or at least, they thought it was.
But it wasn’t a smirk.
It was a smile—wide, open, and so bright it looked like it had cracked straight through his usual armor. Jake Seresin was glowing. Radiant. Practically lit from within.
And then they saw why.
You stepped out into the sunlight, heading straight for him, holding that ridiculous Hailey Bieber smoothie like it was a gold medal. Jake’s face lit up even more. He threw his head back and laughed, his whole body moving with it—unrestrained, joyful, real.
Then he reached for you, pulling you into his arms with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. One hand at your waist, the other settling on the small of your back, fitting you against him like you belonged there.
Phoenix’s jaw dropped slightly. Bob just stared.
Jake lifted his sunglasses, pushing them up onto his head, and looked down at you like you hung the stars. The softest expression they had ever seen on his face—like the man didn’t know how to look away. You said something that made him laugh again, and you handed him the smoothie like it was some inside joke.
They must have been staring too long. Jake’s head turned slightly—just enough to catch them in the reflection.
His eyes found theirs through the glass. For a split second, something flickered across his face.
Surprise. Panic. Maybe even guilt. Just enough to register—before he shoved it back down and straightened up, as if nothing had happened.
He opened your door and helped you in, careful not to jostle the armful of overpriced smoothies and whatever else you’d picked up. Then he turned back toward the window, his eyes meeting theirs once more.
A subtle nod. Barely there. But it carried weight—an unspoken request.
Not for secrecy exactly, but something quieter. A plea to let it be. To pretend they hadn’t just seen past Hangman… and caught a glimpse of Jake.
Phoenix and Bob exchanged a long look, sipping their drinks in stunned silence as they tried to process what they’d just witnessed. It was easy to box Jake in as the poster boy for cockiness—the walking embodiment of swagger and ego—but deep down, they’d always suspected there was more.
More to him than the sharp one-liners and smug grins. More than the call sign.
And now, they’d seen it.
Guess this was it.
The next day, Jake showed up with his usual swagger, every step as self-assured as ever. But his eyes—sharp, watchful—carried a flicker of guardedness. It was subtle, the kind of thing only Phoenix and Bob would pick up on.
“Hey, Strawberry Glaze,” Phoenix said casually.
She could’ve let it slide—pretended like nothing had happened—but she couldn’t resist poking at him just a little. Jake shot her a look sharp enough to make most people flinch.
She just laughed.
The words had been soft, low enough that no one else could hear. And the smile she gave him—amused, knowing, a little smug—said it all:
Your secret’s safe with me.
2. Bradley.
Bradley hated shopping. He wasn’t good at it—never had been. He took forever to decide what he liked, forgot to write down what he actually needed, and always left the store with random things and none of the essentials.
This time, though, he had a mission: crockery. At the moment, he owned exactly two plates and three mismatched forks. And if he was serious about settling down here, it was probably time to get his shit together.
Normally, he’d drag Nat along—not because she was a woman and supposedly knew about this stuff, but because she was mean enough to keep him on task. She had no patience for his two-hour deep dives in the mug aisle, where he’d examine every single one before deciding he didn’t like any of them.
But Nat had bailed on him, leaving him to fend for himself. Now he was aimlessly wandering the store, eyeing every dinnerware set like it might reveal the meaning of life, tossing random items into the trolley with no real plan—just vibes and mild confusion.
Ever the gossip, Bradley’s ears perked up at the sound of a laugh he knew far too well.
Hangman.
“Darlin’, if you put one more candle in the cart, I’m gonna start thinking you’re trying to burn the house down.”
“But Jake, smell this one—it’s amazing. And it says limited edition, so they won’t have it next time,” you replied, dropping not one, but two candles into the cart.
Bradley watched, stunned, as Jake didn’t even argue. He just shook his head with a helpless smile and kept pushing the cart like a man who knew resistance was pointless.
“I also saw this gorgeous botanical garden plate set online—we have to get it.”
“Whatever you want, doll,” Jake said, voice low and warm as he pressed a kiss to your temple and gave your hip a casual, affectionate tap.
Bradley was pretty sure his jaw hit the floor. He wasn’t stupid—and he definitely wasn’t blind. He saw the massive rock on your finger and the way Jake looked at you like you hung the stars.
Hangman, married?
The motherfucker was married.
He could hardly believe what he was seeing.
Bradley had always assumed Jake Seresin was the type who’d never settle down—too cocky, too stubborn, too Hangman. Honestly, he’d half-expected the guy to grow old alone, flirting with waitresses and arguing with air traffic control until the bitter end. Harsh? Maybe. But Jake had never given them any reason to believe otherwise.
Yet here he was—married, domesticated, and currently letting his wife toss candles and dinner plates into the cart like she owned the place. And judging by the look on his face, she did.
The man Bradley was low-key stalking from behind a shelf of overpriced wine glasses wasn’t the Hangman he knew from the skies. This wasn’t the ruthless, lone-wolf aviator who treated teamwork like a contagious disease and would rather eat glass than back down in a briefing.
No—this Jake looked… soft. Happy. In love.
And it was messing with everything Bradley thought he knew.
He ducked behind the endcap as you turned down the next aisle, nearly knocking over a pyramid of mason jars in the process. This wasn’t eavesdropping, he told himself—it was reconnaissance. For team cohesion. For morale. For… reasons.
Jake Seresin, hopeless romantic and candle mule, was not something Bradley had mentally prepared for.
He peeked around the corner again just in time to see Jake reach for a throw blanket you were eyeing. Without hesitation, he tossed it into the cart. “Matches the couch, right?” he said.
“Exactly,” you beamed, and Bradley swore the corners of Jake’s mouth lifted in something dangerously close to a fond sigh.
Who was this man?
Bradley had spent years knowing Jake as a walking testosterone complex with aviators and a call sign, someone who’d charm the hell out of a bartender and then ghost her before the first date. The idea that this man—this patient, domesticated, grocery-hauling version of Jake—existed at all was blowing his mind.
And worse? He looked good at it. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to play husband in a West Elm ad.
Bradley finally backed away from the aisle, muttering to himself, “I need to go look at forks before I lose my grip on reality.”
Still, as he wandered toward the kitchen section, a weird feeling settled in his chest—part disbelief, part amusement… and maybe a little bit of envy. Not the kind that stings, exactly, but the kind that pokes at something you didn’t realize was hollow.
Because despite all his jokes, all his gripes about shopping and settling down, maybe there was a tiny part of him that wouldn’t mind someone tossing limited-edition candles in his cart, either.
But first, he really needed more than three forks.
3. Payback and Fanboy.
It was just past 7 a.m. when Fanboy and Payback jogged down the beach trail, sneakers thudding lightly against the packed sand. The sun had barely risen, casting a warm, golden glow over the shoreline, and the waves rolled in slow and steady, their rhythm soft and soothing beneath the buzz of gulls overhead.
It was the kind of morning that made you forget how exhausting the week had been.
“If Mav makes us watch one more hour of grainy debrief footage, I’m walking into the ocean,” Fanboy grumbled between breaths, arms swinging loose at his sides.
“You say that, but last time he caught you checking your phone, he added another hour to the session,” Payback replied, grinning.
“I’m just saying—death by drowning would be less painful than another slideshow.”
They rounded a gentle bend in the trail, where the dunes opened up to a more secluded stretch of beach. The tide had pulled back, leaving wide, smooth patches of sand dotted with seashells and a few early footprints.
Payback slowed, frowning. “Wait. Who’s already out here?”
A large cream-colored blanket had been spread beneath a sun-bleached lifeguard stand. A wicker picnic basket sat off to one side, its lid open and lined with fabric. There were iced coffees, a brown paper bag, a small vase of wildflowers—wildflowers, at the beach—and two people.
One of them crouched near the cooler, pulling out what looked like a container of fruit. The other approached barefoot, holding two drinks, sleeves of a linen shirt rolled up to his elbows, light catching in his sandy hair.
Fanboy’s eyes narrowed. “Hold on a second…”
The barefoot man looked up—and grinned.
Jake Seresin.
Hangman.
Golden-boy aviator, squadroom shit-talker, human ego parade.
Except… something was different.
He stepped forward, took one of the iced coffees from your hand with a quiet thank-you, then leaned in and kissed your temple with the kind of easy, familiar affection that made both Fanboy and Payback freeze mid-stride.
Jake said something with a lazy smile and you laughed, the kind of laugh that came from your belly—bright, genuine, totally unfiltered. Then you plopped down on the blanket, legs curled underneath you, pulling a croissant from the paper bag as if you’d done this a hundred times.
And maybe you had.
Because Jake didn’t hesitate. He shrugged out of his jacket and laid it behind you, just in case the blanket wasn’t enough cushion. Then he sank down beside you, stretching his legs long across the sand and casually slipping one arm around your waist.
Payback immediately ducked behind a nearby dune like he’d just witnessed a war crime. “Tell me I’m not seeing this.”
Fanboy crouched next to him, equally stunned. “What the hell is happening right now?”
Jake leaned back slightly, watching you unwrap something else—probably another baked good—and tilted his head, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. You fed him a bite without even looking, and he accepted it like it was second nature. Then he reached up and tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.
“I’m in shock,” Fanboy whispered. “He just tucked her hair behind her ear. That’s a boyfriend move.”
“That’s not a boyfriend move,” Payback muttered. “That’s a married guy move.”
Fanboy squinted. “Wait—zoom in. Look at her hand.”
A glint of metal caught the sunlight as you reached for your coffee. Simple but elegant. An emerald-cut diamond, gold band. The kind of ring that said permanence. The kind of ring that didn’t come off easily.
“Oh my God,” Payback breathed. “He’s married.”
Jake leaned back again, one hand lazily tracing circles along your knee while you showed him something on your phone. Whatever it was made him chuckle low in his chest, and he leaned in to kiss your cheek before setting the coffee down in the sand.
Fanboy was frozen, processing. “So Hangman—Hangman—sneaks off on weekends for romantic beach picnics… with his wife.”
“And we never knew.”
“I thought he lived off protein bars and sheer arrogance.”
“Same.”
You pulled something else from the basket—what looked like a floral plate set, one of those whimsical ones you’d find in a lifestyle magazine. Jake took it from you with care, set it between you, then reached for the wildflowers, adjusting the little vase so it wouldn’t tip over.
Fanboy stared. “He brought flowers.”
Payback shook his head. “He packed a goddamn centerpiece.”
They both crouched lower behind the dune, as if Jake might sense them. The only thing louder than the waves at that moment was the sound of their worldviews shattering.
Fanboy finally whispered, “Okay, but like… how dare he be this soft and not tell us?”
“We’re his squadmates. This is betrayal.”
“We were supposed to know before the blanket picnics started. There’s an order to these things.”
“I mean—what’s next? He gets a dog and starts doing couples yoga?”
Fanboy paused. “He would be good at couples yoga.”
Jake leaned back, hands behind his head, face turned up to the morning sun as you laid your head on his chest, sipping your drink and humming along to some song playing quietly from a speaker. You looked perfectly at ease, like this was your favorite part of the week.
Like he was.
“Okay,” Payback muttered. “We can’t tell anyone.”
“Agreed.”
“But also,” Fanboy added, eyes still wide, “we are absolutely never letting him live this down.”
“Obviously.”
They finally stood, dusting off their legs, still stunned but grinning. One last glance over their shoulders showed Jake pressing a kiss to the top of your head, like you were the only person on earth that mattered.
Hangman hadn’t just settled down.
He’d crash-landed into love, and apparently? He was thriving.
4. Javy (ten years ago)
The bar was thick with smoke and the smell of spilled beer, its low-ceilinged walls pulsating with neon light and the steady beat of a bass-heavy pop song. The air was warm and sticky, full of laughter, shouting, and the occasional off-key karaoke warble daring to take the stage. Jake leaned casually against the back wall, arms crossed, eyes never leaving the corner where you and your friends were holding court.
You were the heart of the group—laughing without restraint, glass in hand, your voice rising clear and confident above the din. Your friends egged each other on to the microphone, but you owned the room like it was yours, moving effortlessly through the crowd, radiating that kind of joy that was impossible not to notice. Jake’s gaze softened as he watched you—like you were a secret he had stumbled upon, the kind of thing you didn’t want to shout about but couldn’t stop looking at.
Javy, never one to let an opportunity for teasing pass, nudged Jake sharply. “You been staring at her all night, man. You planning to say something or just get a reputation as the creepy aviator?”
Jake barely glanced at him. “I’m just… watching.”
Javy smirked, shifting on his feet. “Right. Watching. She’s having fun—seems like she owns this place. You gonna sing or what? Or just keep mooning over her?”
Jake’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “I don’t sing.”
“Everyone sings at karaoke night. Even you.”
Before Jake could respond, you stood with your friend, grabbing the microphone like it was a lifeline. The opening notes of a popular pop song spilled through the speakers, and suddenly, the bar seemed to hush just enough to let your voice soar.
You sang with an easy confidence, playful yet sincere, the kind of performance that made people stop talking and just listen. Jake felt his breath hitch—the way you smiled at the crowd, the way you closed your eyes briefly on the high notes—it was like watching sunlight break through storm clouds.
Javy elbowed him hard. “Dude, you look like you’re about to pop the question right here, right now.”
Jake shot him a sharp look. “I just met my wife.”
The words slipped out quieter than intended, but Javy caught them all the same and grinned wider, clearly not buying it.
After your song ended, the room erupted into applause. You laughed, cheeks flushed, and caught Jake’s eyes from across the room. It was a brief glance, but electric—like a door quietly opening.
Jake made his way over, weaving through the small crowd until he was standing right beside you. “Hey,” he said, voice low and just above the music.
You smiled, a little breathless. “Hey.”
Jake nodded toward the microphone stand. “That was… impressive.”
You shrugged, flicking your hair back. “Well, I had a good duet partner.” You glanced at your friend and winked. “But it’s nice to have an audience.”
Jake laughed softly, eyes never leaving yours. “So, what’s your name?” You offered it to him, along with your hand to shake. “Jake,” he replied, taking it. His grip was firm but gentle, like he was trying to make sure you felt it. “And I’m supposed to be focused on training missions, but I can’t stop watching you.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Is that so? What’s more distracting—the music or me?”
He smiled, just a little crooked. “Definitely you.”
You laughed, and the sound was like a spark in the dim bar light. For a moment, it was just the two of you—no crowd, no noise, just the hum of a song fading out and the start of something new.
Javy sidled up, grinning. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to it. But remember, Jake, if you break her heart, I’m coming for you.”
Jake’s grin turned serious. “I don’t plan on breaking anything.”
You looked up at him, feeling a flutter you hadn’t expected. “Good.”
Summary: In this first chapter, Glen's accidental Instagram post sends shockwaves through both his and Gabby's lives, launching their private relationship into the very public spotlight. With Glen heading to London for a major film, and Gabby returning to Los Angeles to pursue her film school ambitions, they must decide if their connection is strong enough to survive the pressure, scrutiny, and the miles that separate them.
Warnings: Mentions of public exposure and mild emotional anxiety related to social media attention.
Word Count: 1,769
Author's Note: Wow. Here we are. Book 2 of this couple. Thank you all so much for the likes, comments, and reblogs that you have left on this story. I promise I see and read all of them and appreciate them!
GLEN’S P.O.V.
The low hum of the engines blended with the music filtering through Glen’s headphones. He leaned back in the leather seat of the private jet, eyes closed, body finally relaxing for the first time in days. The weekend with Gabby had been perfect. Quiet mornings, late night talks, kisses that lingered.
And now she was on a plane headed to Los Angeles, and he was en route to Austin to gather his things before the six month shoot in London.
He exhaled slowly, stretching his legs out. Then with a familiar flick of his thumb, he unlocked his phone and opened Instagram.
Just a quick scroll. Maybe check how the post from the Longhorns game was doing. A soft smile tugged at his lips as he opened the app.
And then he froze.
His feed was flooded with likes. Not hundreds. Thousands. Notifications were pouring in faster than he could process. Mentions. Shares. Over 100,000 likes. Over 10,000 comments. In under twenty minutes.
His smile vanished. This had to be some kind of nightmare.
He clicked on the post. Four photos. The picture of Gabby standing on the villa’s terrace. He swiped over and was met with a candid shot of him and Gabby during their lunch at the Moretti vineyard. He swiped one more time, and glanced at the picture of Gabby in the plane from just that morning. And then the last one. Gabby smiling and purely happy as she looked back at him.
He felt the blood drain from his face as he stared at the screen, suddenly hyper aware of the silence around him. The air in the cabin felt too thin. Too still. His fingers tightened around the phone as he scrolled through the comments.
“Wait who is she???”
“IS THAT GLEN POWELL’S GIRLFRIEND??”
“Omg. The way he’s looking at her?? I’m sobbing.”
“They look so in love.”
“This man’s in his soft era and I am HERE for it.”
He blinked, trying to steady his breathing.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.
He’d wanted to keep her out of the spotlight for as long as he could. Not because he was ashamed. God, no. But because she didn’t ask for this. She didn’t sign up for the noise, the speculation, the attention. And now? Now it was out there.
A new text popped up on his screen.
Katie - PR: Glen. What the hell is going on? Please tell me this was planned.
Another came in right behind it from one of his managers.
Sam - Mgmt: We need to talk. Press already picked it up.
Glen dragged a hand over his face, his jaw tightening. He hadn’t even taken off his boots yet. He stared at the phone again, thumb hovering over the post.
What should he do? Delete it? No. That would only make things worse.
He cursed under his breath, locked his phone, and leaned back in his seat. He stared at the cabin ceiling like it held the answers to this problem he had created for himself.
Gabby was still in the air. She had no idea yet.
Glen didn’t move for a full minute.
His phone sat on the table beside him, screen dark, the reflection of the clouds outside flickering faintly across it. But he didn’t need to look again to know what he’d see. The numbers would’ve climbed higher. More likes. More comments. More eyes on moments that had been meant just for them.
He dragged a hand down his face and let out a slow breath, trying to force calm into his chest. But it didn’t work. His heart was still beating too fast, and the familiar pull of anxiety crept in low behind his ribs.
Not because of the press. Not because of the fans.
Because of her.
Gabby.
She trusted him. She’d given him her heart, her time, her privacy—without hesitation. And now the whole world knew.
He hadn’t even asked.
There’d been no conversation. No moment to prepare her for this kind of attention. No strategy. No buffer. Just a tired mistake. A muscle memory swipe and a post made on autopilot…and now her face was on every gossip account’s feed before her flight even landed.
What if she’s upset?
The thought came quiet and sharp, like a whisper he couldn’t ignore.
Gabby could handle herself. Glen knew that. She was smart, grounded, and resilient. But this wasn’t a simple hurdle for her to overcome. This was big. This was global. This was flashing cameras and threads dissecting her appearance and strangers assuming things they had no right to assume.
He exhaled again, this time with a quiet, “Damn it,” under his breath.
He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees, and stared out the window at the clouds rolling past.
He didn’t regret the post. Not really. He just hated the timing. The way it took the choice away from her. He wanted her to choose to step into the spotlight with him. Not to be thrown there by a tap of his thumb.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.
“Please don’t hate me for this,” he murmured to the empty cabin.
* * * * *
GABBY’S P.O.V.
The wheels of the plane touched down with a soft thud, the gentle lurch of deceleration pulling Gabby forward in her seat. She reached for her phone as the cabin lights flickered back on.
The screen came to life in her palm. 64 notifications. Then her phone buzzed again. And again. Instagram. Twitter. Texts. Group chats. Mentions.
Gabby tapped the Instagram notifications first. She immediately saw the four photos…on Glen’s public account? With over two million followers.
Her chest tightened. She glanced at the caption. “Didn’t expect you. Don’t plan on letting you go. ❤️”
The post already had over 200,000 likes. It had been up for less than two hours.
Her hand began to tremble as she scrolled through the comments. There were so many of them. Thousands in such a short time.
The top comment was from Glen’s sister, Leslie. @lesliepowellmusic: Look at you two 😍
She continued scrolling and saw a few more familiar names:
@chordoverstreet: Thought we agreed on a hard launch at Christmas 🤔
@tannernovlan_: You soft bro. But love you both. Happy for you guys.
Gabby scrolled through more comments. These ones from fans and strangers.
This is the most Glen Powell thing ever.
Okay, but she’s stunning.
She looks like she writes poetry and smells like vanilla—WHERE did you find her?
Not gonna lie, this broke me a little. But happy for him, I guess 😭
Is this why he’s been off the radar??
Does she have a private account? Someone found her LinkedIn.
Imagine dating someone like Glen Powell and keeping it secret. I’d explode.
I thought he was dating that blonde from that event last year. Damn, I can’t keep up.
Hope she knows what she signed up for…
Gabby stared at her screen for a moment longer, her chest tightening inside of it. There was no way to ever fully prepare for this part. And she had always known that. Ever since she first decided that she wanted to be in a long term relationship with Glen.
She saw her name listed in tags. A link to a full Reddit thread. Multiple fan pages already reposting. And in her DMs. Messages from complete strangers.
The pit in her stomach grew.
Her phone buzzed again.
Glen: Call me when you land. Please.
Gabby sighed and slipped her phone into her pocket. She was going to call Glen. She was, really. But she needed to get her bags and find an Uber before she dealt with this anymore.
Once she had her bags and herself loaded into the Uber she finally let herself breath. The city blurred past the window, sunlight casting hazy streaks across the highway. Horns were persistent as they made their evening commute on the 405.
Gabby sat with her bag at her feet, phone cradled in her hands. Her thumb hovered over Glen’s name for several long seconds before she finally tapped Call.
It rang once. Twice.
“Gabby?” His voice was immediate, sharp with concern. “Hey. Are you okay? I—shit, I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” she whispered, cutting in before he spiraled.
Silence. Then a breath of relief from the other end.
“I saw your text,” she added softly, her voice strained. “I just needed a second.”
“I’m so sorry, Gabby,” Glen said quickly. “I didn’t even realize what account I was on until after it was posted. I was exhausted and half-asleep and just trying to share something for PR—”
“I know,” she repeated, closing her eyes. “It’s okay.”
Another pause.
“I just…” He let out a shaky breath. “You didn’t respond right away. And I get it if you’re mad. You have every right—”
“I’m not mad,” Gabby said, a little too quickly. Then, softer: “I swear I’m not mad.”
“Can you talk to me,” Glen pleaded. “Please. I want to know what you’re thinking.”
She bit her lip, her fingers tightening around her phone. “I’m scared.”
His breath caught.
“This was supposed to be ours,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “We never even talked about going public. Not really. Not like this.”
“I know,” he murmured. “I know, and I hate that I took that from you.”
Her eyes burned. She blinked hard, keeping the tears at bay as her Uber turned onto her street.
“It’s just so loud already,” she said, forcing the words out. “And I haven’t even made it home.”
“I’ll fix it,” Glen said. “If it gets too loud, I’ll handle it. I’ll pull it back. I’ll say it was a mistake—whatever you need.”
Gabby shook her head, even though he couldn’t see it.
“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to hide. I just… I don’t know how to be in this.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he softly said, “We’ll figure it out together.”
She didn’t realize how much she needed to hear that until the knot in her chest loosened just slightly.
“I just miss you already,” she whispered, her throat tightening again.
“I miss you too,” Glen said. “So damn much.”
The car pulled to a stop.
“I’m home,” she murmured.
“Call me later? After you get settled?”
Gabby nodded. “Yeah. I will.”
“I love you, Gabby.”
“I love you too.”
She ended the call and sat still for a moment before getting out. And for the first time since the post, she felt just a little steadier.
Summary: Y/N needs a fake boyfriend for her sister’s wedding. Jake Seresin, her childhood best friend, is all too happy to play the part—until pretending starts to feel dangerously real. One bed. Old feelings. A week of dancing around the truth.
She thinks he’s out of reach. He’s just been waiting for her to see him.
The next morning, you wake up a little dazed. Confused where you were until you realized you were back in your own room. The smell of bacon summoning you to get up and face a new challenging day.
You shuffle out of the guest bedroom in your old childhood home, hair a mess and eyes barely open. What welcomes you is Jake Seresin annoyingly cheerful whistling in the kitchen with your mom—wearing a goddamn apron—like he’s been there every morning of his life. You almost turned around.
“This is psychological warfare,” you mumble under your breath.
Jake turns to the sound of your voice, sees you, and immediately grins. “There she is! Morning, darling.” He holds up a spatula like it was a goddamn award.
You glare at him. You’re kind of used to the pet names as friends but you haven’t always been fond of it. And in this situation, you loathed it.
He ignores the disapproving looks, walks towards to cradle your neck softly, “Sleep well, sweetheart?”
He was really laying it thick, playing his part way well way too early in the morning.
“Stop calling me that,” you mutter discreetly for your family not to hear
He simply chuckles, plants a kiss to the side of your forehead and whispers, “Can’t. You’re my fake girlfriend. Comes with the territory.”
You despise the fact that you can’t fault him for that.
You take a seat at the kitchen island before Jake plops a plate in front of you. You notice a detail that he quickly answers. “Your mom said you used to hate the ends of bacon strips, so I cut them off. You’re welcome.”
Your mom beams from across the room like he just cured cancer. “He remembers everything. Isn’t that sweet?”
Celine, sitting beside her, rolls her eyes, “It’s bacon strips, mom.” THANK YOU CELINE. You truly love her.
Meanwhile, you stare at Jake accusingly. “What are you doing?”
“Winning hearts and minds, your mom’s at least” he says with a wink.
You groan and reach for the coffee instead. The mug has your name on it in glittery stickers from the third grade. Jake’s smirk deepens when he sees it.
He takes a seat beside you and lowers his voice. “You know she already think I’m proposing this weekend, right?”
You choke on your coffee, looking at Jake wildly.
“I’m kidding,” he adds quickly with an irritating smile, patting your back. “Probably.”
You swat his hand away, heart pounding. This is dangerous. This whole situation is spiraling fast. You imagine that your mother is already printing out engagement bingo cards in her head. Celine is scrutinizing Jake as if he’s a murder suspect. And Jake… Jake is so good at pretending it’s almost impossible to tell where the act ends.
Almost.
You feel a migraine coming on, rubbing your temples gently. Jake could feel the stress radiating off you.
“Hey,” he nudges your knee under the table, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Want to get out of here? Go for a drive?”
You nod, needing the space like you need oxygen.
You drive the rented truck out past the edge of town, down the familiar roads of your childhood. Golden sunlight floods the fields, and wildflowers sway lazily on the roadside. The nostalgic calm floods you, making you realize how much you missed to be back.
Jake pulls over near the old county fairgrounds. The place deserted and forgotten. All the rides look smaller now, the paint more faded, but the memories come rushing back all the same. It still made you smile.
You climb over the gate and wander toward the Ferris wheel that hasn’t moved in years. You stare at it before chuckling.
“I had my first kiss here,” you say amused.
Jake’s eyebrows shoot up. “Here?”
“Yup. Ninth grade. Tyler Jenkins.”
He grimaces. “Tyler Jenkins looked like a haunted garden gnome.”
You snort. “Sorry not everyone was a golden boy.”
Jake scoffs again, “You could have done better.”
You ignore him, “He was sweet and gave me a ring pop. Then asked if I wanted to be his girlfriend for the night.”
Jake shakes his head in disbelief. “Class act.”
You both sit on the low railing of the bleachers that overlook the dirt arena. Silence settles between you. Comfortable. For once, you were thankful for it.
You feel uncertain about sharing the next memory but sigh while looking down at your sneakers. “Did you know I cried when you told me you were applying to the Navy?”
Jake turns to you, startled. “No.”
You nod, a small smile forming. “Not in front of you, obviously. I waited until I got home. I cried under the sink.”
He winces. “Under the sink?”
“It was the only place Ma couldn’t find me.”
Jake imagines you hugging your knees, comforting yourself and it makes him vulnerable.
His smile falters. “I didn’t know it hurt you.”
You shrug. “You didn’t. I just… I think nothing would have made me ready even though I knew we were always going to go separate ways.”
“I’ve never thought that.” Jake counters.
You look at him thoughtfully, “You were made for planes and speed and girls who wear leather jackets and drink bourbon. I was meant for overpriced education, bad takeout, and writing essays about political theory in a city that chews you up if you look weak.”
Jake is quiet for a long moment. “That’s not how I saw it.”
“No?”
He looks at you. Really looks. “I thought we’d find our way back. Like we always did.”
And he really did. He always made sure that despite the distance, you were somewhere he could reach. Despite the prolonged lack of communication, he has a mental vision of you. Because the idea of you completely gone was something Jake never considered. You were always part of his future in some way or another.
You blink when you understand the seriousness of his words. Your throat tightens.
You want to believe him. God, you do. But memories crowd your mind like storm clouds.
--------------
FLASHBACK — HIGH SCHOOL, SENIOR YEAR
You sat on the bleachers at 5 PM, waiting for your ride. Jake’s practice was still going. You could see him on the field, helmet tucked under his arm, laughing with the other guys. He was in his natural habitat alongside the other stars.
A cheerleader hung on his shoulder–Madison Kent. Legs for days and that permanent lip gloss sheen. She kissed his cheek before walking away, and he smiled like it was no big deal.
He jogged towards you after a while, sweaty and loud and beaming. “Did you see that catch?!”
“Sure did,” you replied, forcing a grin. “You were great.”
He plopped beside you, his leg brushing yours, hair a mess and face glowing from the sun. “You’re coming to the party Friday, right?”
You would almost be insulted if only you didn’t know Jake was truly unaware of the social divide between you. After all, who would ever tell Jake Seresin, football captain and prom king, that his childhood friend was unworthy to hang out with him. He would knock them out before they could even finish that sentence.
You hesitated. “I wasn’t invited.”
Jake eyebrows creased. He probably thinks it’s a mistake–You think.
He bumped his shoulder against yours. “You’re invited. Come with me.”
You almost laugh out loud at what people would say if you came in with him, “As your friend?”
He blinked. “Well, yeah. What else?”
You’d smiled to pacify him, knowing that was your place. Jake’s friend. His safe space. His shadow at the edge of the spotlight.
You faked being sick and skipped the party that night.
You spent Friday night watching 10 Things I Hate About You on VHS while painting your nails with your sister.
--------------
Jake glances again at the old Ferris Wheel and scoffs, “Tyler Jenkins, sheesh.”
“Look who’s talking” You hit back
He raises an eyebrow. “You can’t say I didn’t have good taste.”
You nod and say, “You sure did. I never told you this but I hated most of your girlfriends.”
Jake laughs. “Wow. Brutal. But it’s not like I didn’t notice.”
You pause when you realize he knew but you continue to explain, “Not because they were terrible. Some were actually nice. But they all had the same thing in common.”
“What’s that?”
“They were all girls you could show off. Polished, pretty, popular. The kind you could bring to practice or prom or the bar and not have to explain.”
Jake is quiet.
You lean back on your hands and look through him. “Going anywhere with you felt my presence had to be explained, Jake. I think at some point it became unfathomable to many why you still ever hung out with me.”
Jake frowns. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” You meet his eyes. “I’m not mad. It wasn’t your fault. But at times, it was easier to fade into the background so you could shine. I just… I knew where I stood. That’s all.”
Jake gets up and paces a little, running a hand through his hair. He seems distraught by this revelation. “God, Y/N. I didn’t know you felt that way.”
You stand calmly as well, brushing the dust off your jeans. “You didn’t need to know. You had the world looking at you.”
He looks like he wants to argue. Like there’s something stuck in his throat that he doesn’t know how to say. So you change the subject before he can find it.
“Anyway” you force a smile, “for the record, this whole pretend thing, you’re doing great.”
Jake looks at you like you’ve just kicked him in the chest.
You pretend not to see it.
Later that night, you lie in bed at your childhood home, staring at the ceiling. You think about Jake’s made-up story.
How he said he fell for you on a couch in New York. How he made it sound like the most natural thing in the world.
How stupid it is that a fake romance feels more magical than anything real you’ve ever had.
You turn over and bury your face in your pillow.
Because deep down, a part of you wishes it were true.
But even deeper down... you know it never will be.
She’d meant to run a quick errand—just in and out for some last-minute ingredients for Daisy’s dinner. Instead, she stood in the middle of a small London grocery, mentally replaying every second of the red carpet from the night before. The noise of cameras. The heat of the lights. The flash of Brisket’s tail as he ran toward her.
And then—him.
Glen. His smile had been sharper than any lens, his voice warmer than any spotlight. She still couldn’t believe how the world had quieted the moment he said, “I think you’ve stolen my dog.” That was Monday night. Now, it was Tuesday. Her last day in London before flying out to Hungary for the next Grand Prix. Her suitcase was half-packed, her mind even less so.
She picked out fresh cilantro, chiles, and mezcal—her signature addition for a special dessert. Daisy had invited friends over for a laid-back dinner, a goodbye before she left. And since Daisy’s idea of “cooking” included vegan microwave meals and wine that came in a box, she had offered to handle the food.
As she loaded her basket, her phone buzzed.
🔥 — Glen Powell
She blinked. Her heart skipped.
He had reacted to her Instagram story—her dancing in Daisy’s kitchen, flour on her cheek, mouthing along to End Game while baking. She had posted it an hour ago, thinking nothing of it. A moment of silliness before the evening rush.
But he’d seen it. And responded. Not with words—but with fire.
She tucked her phone away before she could spiral. It was probably nothing. Just a friendly little emoji.
Still, she smiled the entire walk home.
Back at Daisy’s flat, she got to work. Music blasted through the speakers as she cooked—enchiladas verdes, arroz con elote, and her mezcal chocolate chip cookies cooling on the counter. Daisy leaned in from the hallway, still applying mascara.
“You look suspiciously domestic,” she teased.
“Don’t worry. It’s all for Brisket.”
“Sure,” Daisy smirked. “You’re telling me Glen Powell’s dog just happened to find you on the carpet, and now you’re baking?”
“He’s not coming,” she said quickly. “He probably doesn’t even remember.”
But she kind of hoped he would. She didn’t have to wait long to find out. The knock on the door came just as she was plating the last of the enchiladas. Daisy opened it, and there he was—holding Brisket’s leash in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
“I brought the most important guest,” he said, stepping inside. “And also this wine, which I’m told doesn’t go with enchiladas. But I’m here for dessert.”
She stared, heart hammering. “You came.”
“Well, Brisket demanded it,” he said, unhooking the leash. The dog sprinted toward her like she was his favorite person in the world. She crouched down, laughing, letting him jump up.
“You again,” she said, scratching behind his ears.
Glen was watching her with a half-smile, like he was still a little surprised she was real. He looked different now—casual in a navy sweater and jeans, no cameras, no crowd. Just a guy. And yet somehow, even more disarming. As the rest of the guests trickled in—Daisy’s musician friends, a couple of actors, Anthony Ramos—Glen stayed near her, helping plate food, refilling water, handing out napkins. The dinner was chaotic and warm, everyone squeezed on cushions and mismatched chairs around a low table. Between bites of spicy rice and second helpings of cookies, the room buzzed with stories, laughter, the occasional off-key harmony.
At one point, Anthony leaned in, eyes glinting. “Entonces, cuando es la boda? Ya firmaste los papeles de adopción?” (So, when's the wedding? Have you signed the adoption papers?)
She coughed, mid-sip. “Que? No. esta loco, apenas y nos conocemos.” (What? No. Are you crazy we barley know each other)
“Sure,” Daisy added, winking. “But I’m pretty sure there was eye contact that could cause a blackout.”
She shook her head, cheeks burning. “We were just...talking.”
Across the room, Glen caught her glance and raised his glass. She raised hers back.
Just talking.
After dinner, most guests lounged around with drinks, trading playlists and half-tipsy confessions. Glen helped her stack plates in the kitchen. They moved in sync—passing dishes, wiping counters, brushing elbows.
“You sure this isn’t too much before your travel day?” he asked.
“I needed a distraction,” she said honestly. “Racing is constant motion. This...” She looked around the dim kitchen, candle flickering near the sink. “This feels like breathing.”
He nodded. “So where are you off to first?”
“Straight to Germany for a sim session. Then back to the US for college, before the real chaos starts. I won’t really be back in London until they need me or something comes up.”
He looked impressed. “That’s intense.”
“It’s everything,” she admitted, leaning against the counter. “Fast. Loud. Adrenaline on tap. But also—it’s the only time my brain shuts off. When I’m driving, I don’t think. I just feel.”
Glen rested his hands on the counter beside her, close enough to touch. “That’s how I feel when I write.”
“You write?” she asked, surprised.
He nodded. “Not scripts. Not yet. But stories. Scenes I never show anyone.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe I’m scared they won’t live up to the version in my head.”
She studied him. The quiet vulnerability beneath the charm. “You’d be surprised how much of yourself shows up anyway. Whether you mean to or not.”
He looked at her, then. Really looked. “Is that what happened yesterday?”
She froze, caught off guard.
“Because I can’t stop thinking about it,” he said softly.
The kitchen fell silent. Neither of them moved.
“I can’t either,” she admitted.
His smile deepened. “That makes me feel slightly less insane.”
She laughed, quietly. “Only slightly?”
“I mean, I barely know you,” he said. “But it doesn’t feel that way.”
“No,” she agreed. “It doesn’t.”
He glanced at her lips, then back to her eyes. His hand inched closer on the counter. She didn’t move away.
But the door creaked open as Daisy popped in, wine glass in hand. “Cookies are disappearing. If you want one, this is your last shot.”
They stepped apart, flustered.
“On my way,” she said quickly.
The night wore down in soft tones. Friends hugged their goodbyes, laughter trailed out into the hallway, and finally, it was just her, Daisy, and Glen. She stood by the window with a glass of water, watching lights blur in the distance. Her packed suitcase leaned by the door. Media calls. Branding. Sim time. College classes. It all began again tomorrow.
But tonight—tonight had been still.
Glen approached quietly, standing beside her at the window. Brisket curled up by the couch.
“Thanks for letting me crash,” he said. “Brisket thinks you’re his soulmate.”
She laughed softly. “I might be.”
Glen looked at her again, serious now.
“I know you’re leaving,” he said, voice low. “And I’m not asking for anything. But I just—”
She turned to face him.
“I just want you to know,” he said, “this wasn’t, nothing. Not to me.”
She swallowed. “Not to me either.”
There was a long pause. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pen.
“Here,” he said, gently taking her hand. He scribbled something on the inside of her wrist. A phone number.
“If I text you,” he said, “will you answer?”
She looked down at the number. Memorized it instantly. “Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you’ll send me Brisket pics.”
He grinned. “Deal.”
They stood there a moment longer, hands still lightly brushing. Not quite holding on. But not letting go, either. And later, long after he left, she curled into the couch, cookies wrapped for the plane, and the number still inked faintly on her wrist.
Her heart still racing. Not from driving this time. But from something just as dangerous.
A/N: So what do you guys think? are they going too fast? Or is everything just part of my masterplan?
Summary: Gabby and Glen’s time in Napa comes to an emotional close as they pack their bags and prepare to say goodbye—for now. Their airport goodbye is as heartbreaking as it is heartfelt. But while Glen boards his flight to Austin with every intention of keeping their relationship private a little longer, one small mistake might just change everything.
Warnings: Not much. Outside of the obvious bittersweet tone of the goodbye. I guess maybe a warning for a cliffhanger at the end.
Word Count: 1,535
Author's Note: This is officially the end of Book One in Glen and Gabby's story. Writing this story has meant the world to me, and I'm so grateful for everyone who's followed along the past few months. Glen and Gabby's story if far from over, and I'll be continuing their journey in the next installment (more on that soon!). For now, I want to thank you for reading, reblogging, commenting, and falling in love with these two right along with me. Your support keeps this story alive. - Kait 🥂
The villa was quiet. Still. As if it, too, was holding its breath.
Sunlight streamed through the open windows, warming the tile floors and casting long golden shadows across the bed where their half-packed suitcases sat. Glen folded one of his button-downs and laid it neatly on top of his clothes, but his eyes kept drifting, drawn to the woman sitting silently across the room.
Gabby sat at the edge of the chaise, her carry-on open beside her but untouched. Her fingers were tangled in the hem of the sweatshirt she wore. His sweatshirt, one he’d let her steal from his pile of clothes laid out on the bed.
She wasn’t saying anything. She was just sitting there, too quiet. Too still for Glen’s liking.
Glen closed his duffel and crossed to her. “You okay?” he asked softly.
Gabby glanced up, eyes hazy but dry. She gave a small nod, but he could see right through it.
He lowered himself to sit beside her, their knees brushing. “Talk to me.”
She hesitated, then finally murmured, “I’m not worried about us. I know we’ll be okay.” Her voice was quiet. Honest. “It’s just…I’ve never had to say goodbye to you without knowing when I’d get to say hello again.”
Glen's chest tightened. He reached over, threading his fingers through hers.
“Every other time,” she continued, “we had a plan. A weekend, a flight, something on the calendar. But this time…” Her voice broke a little. “This time it’s just… wait and see.”
He gave her hand a squeeze. “I know,” he said gently. “And I hate that part too.”
She finally looked at him, really looked at him. “It’s stupid, I know. We’ll figure it out. I just…I already miss you, and you haven’t even left yet.”
“It’s not stupid,” he said, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “And for what it’s worth… I already miss you too.”
Gabby let out a soft laugh, blinking quickly like she was trying not to cry. “This part sucks.”
“It does.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. “But you’re not gonna be waiting forever, okay? I’ll find a way to get back to you soon. As soon as I can.”
She smiled against his shoulder. “Okay.”
“I mean it.” He tilted her chin up so she’d meet his eyes. “No countdown this time, but I’m still yours on every single day.”
Gabby breathed in deep, then let it out slowly. “Yeah…and I’m yours.”
* * * * *
The road stretched ahead, winding through the hills of Napa like a thread pulling them farther from the place that had briefly felt like their own little world.
Neither of them spoke.
Gabby sat angled toward the window, her cheek resting against her hand, watching the vineyards blur by. Rows of grapevines, golden grass, the occasional farmhouse — all of it slipping past like scenes from a dream she wasn’t ready to wake up from.
Glen glanced over, the curve of her jaw catching the sunlight. She was quiet again. Somewhere in her own head.
He reached over, his hand resting gently on her thigh. His thumb moved in slow circles, a silent reminder that he was still there. That even if the road was pulling them toward goodbye, they hadn’t let go yet.
Gabby’s hand found his after a beat. She laced their fingers together and gave the softest squeeze. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.
* * * * *
The airport was colder than it should have been. Not in temperature. It was actually quite warm. The space was filled with overhead announcements and the low murmur of travelers going to their next destination.
Gabby stayed close to Glen’s side as they moved through the terminal, her rolling suitcase trailing behind her like it was reluctant to leave too.
Then they reached the security checkpoint. The further Glen could go with her.
This was it. There was only one thing left to do. Say the goodbye.
Overhead, the soft chime of an announcement echoed through the terminal.
“Final boarding call for Flight 287 to Los Angeles…”
Her flight.
She swallowed. Glen’s eyes were already on her.
The air between them buzzed with everything they wanted to say, and everything they didn’t know how to say without unraveling.
Then Glen moved. He stepped in and pulled her into him, arms winding around her like he could anchor her there with the sheer will of his hold. Gabby folded into his chest without hesitation, wrapping her arms around his waist, holding on like the seconds might stretch longer if she didn’t let go.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Then her temple. Then, slowly, her lips. One last lingering kiss that tasted like memory and promise and every aching thing in between.
When they finally pulled apart, Gabby looked up at him. Her voice was small but steady. “I’ll see you soon, right?”
Glen nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “Soon,” he said softly. “Not soon enough. But yeah. I’ll be there.”
Gabby gave a small nod, biting the inside of her cheek to keep it together. Then she stepped back. She turned and walked toward security.
Gabby didn’t look back right away. She didn’t want to. It was too hard. But just before the final checkpoint, just before she had to take off her shoes and let go of her carry-on, she paused. She turned, and Glen was still there. Still watching her with sad eyes that probably matched her own.
She forced a small smile to her lips. So did he.
And then she disappeared into the line.
* * * * *
Glen didn’t say a word as he climbed the steps to the private plane.
The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the tarmac. The world felt quieter somehow, like even the wind understood something had shifted.
He ducked inside the jet, nodding briefly to the pilot before settling into one of the leather seats. The door sealed shut behind him with a soft click.
He let out a slow breath and leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closed for a moment, holding onto the echo of her goodbye.
Then life crept back in. His career crept back in. He pulled out his phone, thumb instinctively unlocking it. Messages buzzed in. Group texts. Missed calls. Notifications stacking like bricks.
He’d made a point to keep his phone at bay this weekend, choosing instead to be present, to memorize the little things: the sound of Gabby’s laugh, the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.
But now that time had run out.
Back to work.
He opened a thread from his PR team.
PR: Engagement’s dipped. Let’s get a post up today. Anything from the past week—BBQ? Football game? Something fun.
He sighed, scrolling through his camera roll.
There were photos from the BBQ at his place, and then of course the game on Saturday with his family.
He decided to pick one of the ones from the game. A simple one. Him on the sidelines doing the Hook ‘Em hand motion.
"Texas forever 🧡🏈 #HookEm"
Posted.
Done.
He leaned back, thumb hovering as he scrolled through the most recent memories—the kind that still felt warm and alive in his chest.
He decided he wanted to post them to his private Instagram account. The one only his family and close circle had access to.
The first: a golden hour snapshot of Gabby standing barefoot on the villa’s back patio. He had taken it their first night in Napa. Just as he was coming back in from grabbing their bags from the car. Her hair was down, the breeze catching it just enough to look effortless. The sunlight had caught in her eyes.
The second was a candid that the Moretti’s had taken during their lunch at the vineyard. Glen had his arm slung around Gabby’s shoulders, and she was leaning into him mid laugh, mouth open and carefree. He remembered how it felt, her head resting against his chest.
The third was a soft, quiet moment from the plane ride earlier that morning. Her headphones slightly askew, her face turned as she looked out the window of the small two seater plane. He’d taken it quickly and without thinking. He wanted to remember the way it felt to have her up in the air with him for the first time. Sharing one of his true loves with her.
The last one was a picture of Gabby walking towards their car after the flight this morning. Glen had snapped it without her knowing. Her back to the camera. He had said her name to get her attention. She turned slightly to look at him over her shoulder. And that’s when he snapped the pick. Her smile was small but sure. She looked happy. Beautiful. His.
He opened Instagram and captioned the post simply:
"Didn’t expect you. Don’t plan on letting you go. ❤️"
He tapped Post.
Set the phone down.
And leaned his head back, eyes closed as the jet engines roared to life around him.
He never realized he hadn’t switched accounts.
And just like that…his relationship was out in the world.
Summary: After a long day at work, you come home emotionally drained and physically exhausted. Glen sees it the second you walk through the door. He steps in to help you unwind one small gesture at a time.
Warnings: Emotional fatigue, Intimate massages, explicit sexual content, mild language.
Word Count: 3,201
Author's Note: I wrote this for a friend who was having a rough day today. If you’re reading this while feeling overwhelmed, I hope it brings you a little peace and warmth too.💛
You walked through the front door nearly an hour later than usual, your keys hitting the entry table with a clatter. Your shoulders ached from how tightly you’d kept them drawn all day. Your eyes felt heavy. Today there were too many emails, and too many fake smiles. You hadn’t cried. Not yet. But you felt close to it several times. Like one more thing going wrong my break you wide open.
Glen was on the couch, legs stretched out in front of him, half watching something on TV. The glow of the screen casted a soft light over the room. His head turned at the sound of the door, and the moment he caught sight of you his whole expression shifted.
He didn’t say anything at first. He just reached for the remoted, paused the show, and was on his feet before you could even toe off your shoes.
You dropped your bag with a thud in the kitchen just as his arms slipped around you from behind.
“Rough day?” He murmured against your hair, his voice low and warm.
You inhale shakily and shake your head. “It’s just…work was a lot today,” you mumbled, not quite willing to let it all out quite yet.
Glen pulled back enough to look at you, one hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His thumb brushed your cheek, gentle.
“Talk to me,” he said.
You leaned into him. You turn in his arms, and your forehead found his shoulder. His arms wrapped tighter around you, his presence solid and grounding.
“I’m just tired,” you said, voice muffled against his shirt.
“If you want to talk about it, I’m here,” Glen murmured again, the words pressed into your hair like a promise.
He held you there for a minute, maybe longer, just letting you sag into him. No pressure. No expectations. Just warmth and safety and the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek.
Eventually he pulled back, hands still resting on your arms. His eyes scanned your face.
“You want a bath?” he asked gently. “I can run it hot, put that vanilla stuff you like in. And while you’re in there, I’ll order dinner. That Thai place you love?”
Your eyes stung again, but this time it wasn’t from exhaustion. It was just...feeling seen. Not the version of yourself you’d tried to carry through the day, and not the one who smiled through forced conversation. Just you.
You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. That...that sounds really good.”
He gave you a small smile. Then he leaned in and kissed your forehead again before turning toward the hallway.
“Go get out of your work stuff,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll have the water ready in five.”
You moved slowly. You kicked off your shoes. Then hung up your jacket. You stepped into the bedroom, changing into a soft robe and tying it tight at the waist as the sound of running water drifted in from the bathroom.
By the time you padded into the bathroom, Glen had dimmed the lights, lit a single candle on the counter, and filled the tub with steaming, fragrant water. The scent of vanilla and citrus filled the air, gentle and calming.
“Perfect timing,” he said, stepping aside. “I didn’t overdo the bubbles this time, promise.”
You gave him a tired smile. “You’re getting better at this.”
He winked. “Practice makes perfect.”
As you sank into the bath, the heat curled around you like a second skin, melting into your muscles, untying the knots that had taken root in your shoulders and spine. You let out a soft sigh, eyes fluttering shut.
From the doorway, Glen asked, “You okay in here for a few? I’m gonna get dinner going.”
“Mmhmm,” you hummed. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said softly. “Just relax. I’ll be back in a bit.”
And then he left you to the warmth, to the quiet. To breathe.
* * * * *
The water had gone lukewarm by the time you heard the soft knock at the bathroom door.
“Hey,” Glen called through it, voice low so he wouldn’t startle you. “Food just got here.”
The door creaked open, and Glen stepped inside holding a thick, plush towel.
“Brought you one from the warmer,” he said. “Figured you’d like it.”
Your heart tugged at that. A little detail he always remembered when he was home. He’d surprised you with the towel warmer on your birthday last year.
You stood slowly, water dripping from your skin, and he wrapped the towel around you gently. His hands moved over your back, smoothing the fabric, making sure you were cocooned in softness.
For a moment, you just stood there, the towel around you and Glen in front of you, looking at you like he’d gladly stand there all night if it meant you felt even a little bit better.
You lifted your hand and rubbed at the base of your neck, trying to ease the dull ache that had crept in from hunching over your desk all day. Glen’s gaze dropped to the motion, brows drawing together.
“Still tense?” he asked.
You gave a small nod. “Yeah. My whole neck and shoulders are tight. Been that way all day.”
He stepped forward, hands brushing your upper arms.
“Let me help,” he said, quiet but certain. “Turn around, baby.”
You hesitated for half a second, but then you turned.
His hands found your shoulders with practiced care, thumbs pressing in gently at first, testing your tension. You let out a soft exhale you hadn’t meant to, and he paused.
“Too much?” he asked.
“No,” you whispered. “It’s good. Just...keep going.”
He worked slowly, thumbs tracing the tight cords of your muscles, easing knots one by one. You tilted your head forward, the towel slipping just slightly as heat bloomed low in your belly. Not just from the massage, but from the way he touched you. Like you were precious. Like he wanted nothing more than to undo the damage today had caused with his bare hands.
“I hate that you had such a rough day,” he murmured, his voice close now, breath warm against your ear. “Wish I could help.”
“You kind of are,” you said quietly, eyes fluttering shut. “This is... everything I needed.”
You felt him smile against your skin, just before he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to your bare shoulder.
“C’mon,” Glen murmured against your skin, lips brushing your shoulder. “Let’s go get you comfortable.”
You followed him wordlessly into the bedroom, still wrapped in the warm towel, your body loose and a little drowsy from the bath and his touch. The room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of a few candles he must’ve lit while you were soaking. Their glow danced across the walls, soft and golden, casting everything in warmth.
From the small speaker on his nightstand, mellow acoustic music played low—just enough to fill the silence without overwhelming it. It was the playlist he always used when he was winding down after a long shoot.
He turned down the comforter, gesturing toward the bed. “Lay on your stomach,” he said gently, his voice low and smooth. “I’ll be right back.”
You did as he asked, settling into the cool sheets, head turned to the side. Your eyes fluttered shut, the weight of the day finally slipping further away.
You heard the quiet pump of a bottle, the soft rub of hands working lotion together, warming it. Then the bed dipped under his weight, and a moment later, Glen’s hands returned—smoother now, gliding over your shoulders with slow, practiced strokes.
He started at your neck, thumbs circling at the base of your skull before sliding down to your upper back. His touch was firm but careful, like he knew exactly where you hurt and exactly how to coax the tension from your muscles.
“Just breathe, baby,” he murmured, his lips close to your ear. “Let me take care of you.”
You exhaled slowly, melting into the mattress.
His hands moved with quiet focus, down your spine, over the curve of your lower back, then back up again. He paused to knead the muscles beneath your shoulder blades, thumbs pressing in deep where he felt the tightest knots.
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. “You’ve been carrying the weight of the world back here.”
Your voice was muffled by the pillow. “Kind of feels like it.”
He bent lower, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades. “Not anymore. I’ve got you now.”
His hands swept down again, slower this time, more like a caress than a massage. And with every pass, his touch grew more intentional, more tender...more intimate.
His hands moved lower, gliding over the curve of your back, dipping just under the towel that had begun to loosen. The lotion made his touch feel like silk. It was warm and deliberate as he smoothed it across your skin. He paused just above your hips, his thumbs pressing in gently, kneading the tension that had settled deep from sitting all day.
You let out another soft sound. It was meant to be a sigh, but it came out more like a whimper.
Glen stilled for a beat. Then you heard it, that low chuckle in his chest, the one that always made your stomach flip.
“That wasn’t a stress noise,” he said quietly, voice teasing, but thick with something else now.
You could feel your skin heat beneath his hands, but you didn’t respond. Not when the slow drag of his hands down your lower back had turned your breath shallow.
Glen leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as he spoke again, softer this time. “You want me to help you relax a little more, baby?”
You nodded against the pillow, breath shaky. “Please.”
He kissed your shoulder, then gently tugged the towel from your body, letting it fall to the floor in a quiet hush. The air hit your skin, but his hands were quick to return, smoothing down your sides, pausing to trace the dip of your waist with reverence.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.
Then his hands moved lower over the swell of your hips, then up again, fingers brushing the side of your breast as he leaned over you, his chest just barely touching your back. The moment felt suspended, slow and sweet and burning.
Every touch from Glen was careful, coaxing—not demanding, but inviting. And when his fingers finally dipped between your thighs, slow and exploratory, the soft sound that escaped you left no room for misinterpretation.
He smiled against your skin, lips brushing your neck as he whispered, “That’s my girl.”
Glen’s fingers moved slowly, deliberately, exploring the curve of your hips before dipping between your thighs again. He was gentle at first, just enough to test how ready you were for his touch. You gasped softly into the pillow, your body instinctively arching into him. The stress that had coiled in your muscles all day was dissolving now, replaced by a different kind of ache—one that had nothing to do with exhaustion.
“Still with me?” he murmured, lips pressed to your shoulder.
You nodded, voice low and warm. “Yeah…I’m here.”
“Good,” he whispered, kissing a trail down your spine. Then, his voice came low beside your ear, warm and coaxing. “Turn over for me, baby.”
You shifted onto your back, and Glen was was right there. You were completely bare beneath his gaze. And he looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
His hand moved in smooth, rhythmic strokes, slow enough to keep you grounded but firm enough to draw out those little sounds he loved—the ones you couldn’t hold back if you tried. Every time your breath hitched or you whimpered softly, he pressed a kiss somewhere new: your shoulder, your neck, the skin between your breasts.
He leaned down and kissed you then, slow and deep, as he settled between your legs. The heat of his skin pressed against your inner thighs, grounding you. There was nothing rushed—just the two of you in the quiet glow of candlelight, the soft rhythm of music pulsing low from the speaker, and Glen’s body aligning with yours like he’d always been meant to fit there.
His hand slid up your side, pausing to cradle your breast before moving to brush your hair back from your face. He kissed your temple, then looked into your eyes.
“Tell me if something doesn’t feel right, okay? Tonight’s all about you, baby.”
“I don’t want to stop,” you said softly. “I just… want you.”
"You still on birth control, baby?"
You nod your head. "Please Glen. Just want to feel you."
He held your gaze as he slowly slid inside, the stretch making your breath catch. Your body welcomed him, warm and ready, already tuned to you. Glen stilled once he was fully seated, letting you adjust, his thumbs sweeping softly over your hips.
“God…” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel incredible.”
You could only nod, your hands gripping his arms, grounding yourself in the way his muscles flexed beneath your palms. He kissed you then—deep and slow—his mouth moving against yours with the same rhythm he began to set with his hips.
Every thrust was measured, intentional. He didn’t rush. He didn’t chase. He gave
“Talk to me,” he murmured against your neck as he moved inside you, his voice rough and warm. “Tell me how it feels.”
You swallowed hard, eyes fluttering shut. “So good. You…You make it so easy to let go.”
A soft smile curved at the edge of his mouth as he kissed your collarbone, hips rolling deeper this time. “That’s the point, baby. You don’t have to hold it all in. Not with me.”
Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, drawing him closer, and Glen groaned quietly against your skin, the sound low and reverent. He rocked into you with a rhythm that built slowly—letting the heat curl tighter and tighter inside you with each stroke. His hand found yours and laced your fingers together, pressing them into the sheets beside your head.
Your other hand slid up his back, nails dragging just enough to pull a rough moan from his throat. He dropped his head to your shoulder, thrusting a little harder now, just enough to make your breath catch again.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “So open… so good for me.”
Your hips tilted instinctively to meet his, chasing that growing pressure. Glen shifted slightly, changing his angle, and suddenly he was hitting just right. Your fingers tightened around his. You gasped, legs trembling as the wave started to build fast and sharp.
“Right there?” he asked, catching the change in your breathing.
“Y-Yes,” you managed. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He kept you right there on the edge, watching your face, whispering encouragements as you climbed toward release.
And when you came, it was like everything cracked open—your body arching into him, his name on your lips in a breathless cry as pleasure rolled through you in warm, slow waves.
Glen held you through it—never letting up, never pulling away. He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your temple, moving just enough to draw out every last ripple of sensation before finally letting himself go, groaning against your skin as he followed you over the edge.
Then he stilled, wrapped around you, his breath soft and warm where it fanned across your throat.
Neither of you said anything for a moment. The room was quiet but full—with candlelight flickering against the walls, your bodies tangled together in a mess of heat and tenderness, and Glen still wrapped around you like he never wanted to be anywhere else.
Glen hadn’t let go of you, not really. His arms still held you close, your cheek resting against the steady rise and fall of his chest, your leg draped lazily over his.
His fingertips traced slow, unhurried patterns along your spine, grounding you. He kissed the top of your head once, then again.
“You okay?” he murmured, his voice low and warm against your hair.
You nodded without lifting your head. “Yeah… I just…” You exhaled a small laugh, tired but content. “I feel like I’m finally breathing again.”
Glen smiled into your hair and wrapped the blanket tighter around your bare bodies. “Good. That’s all I wanted tonight. To take care of you.”
“You did.” Your voice was soft, muffled by his chest. “You always do.”
For a long moment, you just lay there—bodies tangled under the blanket, the dim candlelight painting warm shadows across the walls, the soft hum of music still drifting from the speaker. His fingers never stopped moving, stroking up and down your back in quiet circles.
Eventually, you stirred slightly, shifting against him.
“I should probably go use the restroom…” you murmured sleepily, not moving just yet.
But Glen’s arms tightened around you gently, his lips brushing your temple.
“Just stay for a few minutes,” he whispered. “Let me hold you a little longer.”
So you stayed. You let yourself sink into him, let yourself be still. And Glen held you like he had nowhere else to be, no one else to think about. Just you.
Only you.
After a few more minutes tucked against his chest, you shifted slightly. You kissed Glen’s shoulder before slowly sitting up, the blanket falling to your waist.
“I should go clean up,” you said softly, your voice a little hoarse but warm.
Glen opened his eyes, a lazy smile curving his lips. “Okay,” he said, his thumb brushing along your hip as he sat up too. “I’ll go warm up the food. It’s probably gone cold by now.”
You laughed under your breath, stretching a little. “Totally worth it.”
He leaned over and kissed your bare shoulder before standing and tugging on a pair of sweatpants. “I’ll queue up something for us to watch too,” he added, already heading for the door. “You pick if it’s action or rom-com.”
“Rom-com,” you called after him with a sleepy grin.
“Bold choice,” he teased, turning back just long enough to wink at you. “Food and fluff coming right up.”
As the door clicked softly behind him, you rose from the bed and padded into the bathroom, body still tingling in the best way. You moved slowly, tenderly, like everything inside you had been softened, unraveled, and stitched back together just a little better than before.
By the time you returned to the bedroom, dressed in one of Glen’s soft t-shirts and your coziest shorts, the lights were dimmed again, and the scent of warm food drifted in from the hallway. You heard the quiet flicker of the TV starting up and Glen calling out from the kitchen:
“Get your butt out here. Your pad thai is waiting and Sandra Bullock is already onscreen.”
You smiled, heart full, and walked toward him—toward the rest of a night wrapped in love, laughter, and the kind of comfort that only comes from knowing someone sees you at your worst... and chooses to love you even more for it.
Summary: It’s the day you’ve both been waiting for - the day Glen and you say “I do”. From tender flashbacks, to emotional first looks, laughter-filled photos, and a night of unforgettable dancing, this wedding day is filled with love, joy, and all the little moments that make forever feel like home.
Warnings: Alcohol Use (Casual references to drinking (champagne toasts, open bar, etc.), Some Mild Sexual Tension (nothing explicit, but a few suggestive moments).
Word Count: 10,575
Author's Note: This one kind of took on a life of it's own. This is three weeks of me pouring myself into this fic. I really hope you guys enjoy this one. Also sorry it's so long...
**Italics identify flashbacks**
**Bold Italics identify texts and letters**
MORNING OF THE WEDDING (Reader’s P.O.V.))
Late spring sunlight spills across the worn hardwood floors of the master suite that has been transformed into a bridal haven.
The scent of fresh flowers lingers in the air. Bouquets of peonies and roses are tucked into vases around the room. The windows are open to let in the morning breeze. Birds can be heard chirping outside like nature knew today was something special.
You sit in an upholstered chair near the vanity. A silk robe is loosely tied at your waist, bare feet tucked beneath you as the makeup artist works her magic. There’s a glass of mimosa in your hand, still barely touched. It’s more for nerves than anything. Laughter bubbles around you like background music for the moment.
Your mom is curled up on the couch near the window, dabbing at her eyes even though you haven’t even put the dress on yet.
“I’m not crying,” she says, her voice cracking slightly. “I’m just…misting. There’s a difference.”
Your best friend laughs from across the room. “I think she’s been misting since we woke up this morning.”
“He texted her ‘Good morning, future wife’! How could I not?” Your mom interjects.
“Okay I’ll admit, that was sweet,” Leslie says as she tugs a curling wand through a strand of her hair. “Also, it’s kind of unfair that he’s already winning the sappy award. I didn’t get sappy until we put my dress on at my wedding.”
You glance at your phone where Glen’s text from earlier still glows softly at the top of your lock screen.
Good morning future wife. Today’s the day. Can’t wait to see you. I love you more than all the tacos in Austin. - G.
“I don’t know,” you say, raising your brows as you sip your champagne, “he really does love tacos.”
Cyndy, Glen’s mom, laughs from where she’s getting her hair curled near the mirror. “He used to rank his relationships based on food. If you were above queso, you were doing really well.”
“He told me he knew you were the one when he gave you the last bite of brisket,” Lauren adds. “That’s Powell level commitment.”
The room fills with warm laughter, but beneath it, there’s a quiet thrum of anticipation. It settles in your chest. It’s not nerves. Not really. Just excitement for the big day to finally be here.
A gentle knock sounds on the doorframe, and everyone turns as Lauren’s husband, Will steps into the room, a warm grin on his face and a small velvet box in hand.
“Special delivery from the groom,” he says, holding up an envelope with your name written across the front in Glen’s unmistakably messy handwriting.
You blink in surprise as a hush falls over the room.
“Oh no,” your mom says, clutching her tissue tighter, preparing for the next round of tears.
Will laughs. “Don’t worry, he didn’t write a novel. Just a note...and this.”
He crosses the room, careful not to knock over any curling irons or mimosa glasses, and hands you the envelope first. The paper is thick, the ink a little smudged in the corner.
Then he passes you the box — small and navy with a subtle gold ribbon tied around it.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Will says, backing toward the door.
You take a breath, then open the envelope.
I know we said no big gestures this morning, but you had to know I wouldn’t make it to the altar without finding some way to say I love you again first.
I’ve been trying to picture you all morning — what you look like up there in our room, robe on, hair half-done, probably giving someone a look for stealing your lipstick. I can’t see you, but I feel you.
I keep thinking about the first night you stayed here. You stood barefoot in the kitchen and said, “Wow, this place already feels like home.”
That’s what you’ve done, babe — you turned a house into a home, turned my quiet into laughter, turned my life into something I never even knew I was missing.
Today’s just the formality. I’ve been yours for a long time.
But I can't wait to see you walk toward me and know — finally, officially —you get to be mine too.
Love you,
G
You don’t even realize your fingers are curled tight around the edges of the letter until Lauren gently touches your arm. “You good?”
You nod slowly, blinking fast. “Yeah. I just...I love him so much.”
“Yeah,” she says, her voice catching a little. “We all kind of do.”
The girls lean in as you untie the ribbon on the box, revealing a delicate rose gold hairpin nestled in soft satin. Tiny pearls and crystal sprigs shimmer in the shape of wildflowers — elegant, subtle, and completely perfect.
You run your fingers over the pin, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You swallow hard, smile shaky.
“Okay,” you whisper. “Now I’m misting.”
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MORNING OF THE WEDDING (Glen’s P.O.V.)
The man cave isn’t exactly quiet — not with one of the groomsmen messing with the Bluetooth speaker and two of Glen’s childhood friends arguing about whether or not bolo ties are considered formalwear — but Glen barely hears any of it.
He’s standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of his white shirt for the third time even though it’s already perfect. He’s not fidgeting because he’s nervous. He’s just…ready.
Will walks back in, sliding his sunglasses onto his head.
“She got it,” he says, just loud enough for Glen to hear.
Glen meets his brother-in-law’s eyes in the mirror. “Yeah?”
Will nods. “Didn’t cry, but she looked pretty damn close.”
That gets a smile out of Glen. A quiet one, a knowing one.
He turns from the mirror, pressing his palm against the back of the chair in front of him for a second, grounding himself. He’s been calm all morning. Heart steady, hands sure. Not because he’s indifferent. The opposite. Because every part of him knows this is right.
When people asked him if he was nervous, he’d just shrug and say no. Because how could he be? He gets to marry you.
You. Who made the ranch feel like a home. Who laughs like she means it and fights fair and kisses him like she already knows every lifetime before this one. You. Who let yourself fall for him slow and steady, but all the way.
Glen’s not nervous. He’s already halfway down that aisle in his head, waiting for you to take that first step toward him.
“You good?” Someone asks, passing him a bottle of water.
Glen cracks it open and takes a sip. “Better than good.”
“Don’t get cocky, Romeo. You’ve still got to get through the vows without choking up.”
“Oh, I’ll choke up,” Glen says easily, setting the bottle down. “But it won’t be nerves.”
Glen closed his eyes as he thought of you. And just like that he thinks about the moment he knew.
It wasn’t some grand, cinematic moment. There were no fireworks. No romantic music playing in the background.
Just you.
Curled up in his hoodie, legs tucked underneath you on the couch, a bowl of popcorn balanced on your lap as you animatedly explained the plot of a book you were obsessed with. Your hands moved wildly as you spoke—eyes bright, voice full of passion. You barely paused for breath.
Glen had read maybe two pages of that book before giving up. But he could listen to you talk about it for hours.
He was sitting sideways, arm resting across the back of the couch, completely captivated. Not by the story. But by you. The way your whole face lit up when you talked about something you loved. The way your nose crinkled when you laughed at your own joke. The way you kept tossing popcorn in the air trying to catch it with your mouth and missing every single time.
You caught him staring.
“What?” you asked, grinning as a rogue piece of popcorn bounced off your forehead and landed somewhere between the cushions.
Glen chuckled, reaching over to pluck it out of your hair.
“Nothing,” he murmured, eyes still on yours. “I just…really love you, you know that?”
You rolled your eyes, playfully shoving his shoulder.
He didn’t say it out loud. Not then. But that was the moment. That ordinary, beautiful night in his living room, with you in messy hair and mismatched socks, laughing so hard you snorted at your own joke. That was the moment he looked at you and thought “This is it. This is the girl I’m going to marry.”
You didn’t have to be dressed up. You didn’t have to be pretending to be someone you weren’t. You were just you—real, open, unfiltered.
And even though he didn’t ask the question that night, he tucked it deep into his heart—knowing without a doubt that he’d ask someday.
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GETTING READY (Reader’s P.O.V)
Back in the master suite, the room has quieted. The laughter, the music, the hum of conversation from earlier has faded into something softer.
You step carefully into the dress, the satin lining cool against your skin, the delicate lace grazing your shoulders as your mom lifts the train and helps ease the fabric into place. Cyndy is there too, steady hands fastening the tiny row of buttons down your back.
“Okay,” your mom whispers, her voice thick. “Turn around.”
You do. And for a second—just a second—you forget to breathe. There you are in the mirror. You, in the dress. Hair curled just right, veil clipped gently into place. The bracelet Glen gave you on your birthday twinkling on your wrist. Everything you dreamed of, somehow looks even more like you than you imagined.
Cyndy presses her hand to her heart. “Oh, sweetheart…”
Your mom sniffles then laughs, waving a hand in front of her face like it’ll stop the tears. “He’s going to lose it when he sees you.”
You don’t say anything for a moment. You just watch the reflection. The quiet, poised woman in white staring back at you. She doesn’t look nervous either. Just…ready.
The two women you love most step forward again. Your mom tucks a loose curl behind your ear. Cyndy smooths your veil, making sure it falls just right over your shoulders.
“I still remember the first time Glen mentioned you,” Cyndy says, her voice soft with memory. “He said, ‘Mom, I think I just met someone who sees the world like I do.’”
That nearly undoes you. You reach for their hands, squeezing both at once. “Thank you both for everything. Glen and I wouldn’t be here today without all you’ve done for us.”
They smile, misty-eyed but glowing, and then they both step back.
“We’ll give you a minute,” your mom says, brushing her hand along your arm as they quietly slip out.
The door clicks shut, and for the first time all morning, you’re alone. The silence is warm and gentle. You walk toward the window, the train of your dress whispering across the wood floors. Outside, in the clearing just beyond the trees, you can see the archway covered in flowers. The white chairs. The soft flicker of candles being lit.
Your heart beats steady. You don’t need to calm yourself. This is what certainty feels like.
You close your eyes for a second, let your hands rest on your stomach, breathe in the soft scent of eucalyptus and roses and Texas air.
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GLEN’S FIRST LOOK WITH HIS MOM AND SISTERS (Glen’s P.O.V)
Glen stands in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting the lapels of his tuxedo for the last time. It’s tailored just right—sharp, classic, a little nod to Old Hollywood—but nothing about the moment feels performative.
It’s not about the suit. It’s about the reason he’s wearing it.
Will stands behind him, straightening Glen’s tie with a smirk that doesn’t quite hide how proud he is. “You’re too calm. It’s weirding me out.”
Glen chuckles, brushing invisible lint from his jacket. “You want me to panic a little? Break into a sweat?”
“Wouldn’t hurt. Just for tradition’s sake.”
Before Glen can reply, there’s a soft knock at the door.
Cyndy steps in first, followed by Lauren and Leslie, and the moment they see him, all three stop in their tracks.
“Oh my God,” Lauren says, covering her mouth.
“Glen!” Leslie beams, tears forming in her eyes.
Cyndy doesn’t say anything right away. She just steps closer, taking in the sight of her son on his wedding day.
“You clean up alright,” Lauren teases.
Cyndy finally reaches him, placing both hands on his face like she did when he was a kid before the first day of school. Her thumbs gently brush his jaw.
“You look so handsome,” she whispers. “You ready?”
“I am,” Glen says quietly. “She’s it, Mom.”
Tears well in her eyes, but she smiles through them. “I know.”
Leslie and Lauren move in, linking arms with him on either side.
“We never thought this day would come,” Leslie says, pretending to wipe a tear. “Our little flirt is finally off the market.”
“Miracles do happen,” Lauren grins.
Glen rolls his eyes, but the smile he gives them is pure love. “Y’all done roasting me, or is there more?”
Lauren laughs, pulling him into a hug. “Just had to get it out of our system.”
Leslie wraps an arm around them both. Cyndy steps in, and suddenly he’s surrounded—the three women who helped shape him into the person he is, holding him tight.
They don’t say much after that. They don’t need to. They just hold on a moment longer, as if sealing this part of life with one final hug before letting it change.
Cyndy kisses his cheek. “Go see your girl. She’s waiting for you.”
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GLEN’S FIRST LOOK WITH YOU (Reader's P.O.V.)
The house is quiet as you stand at the top of the staircase, your fingertips grazing the smooth wooden banister. For a beat, everything stills—like even time is holding its breath. You can hear soft murmurs from somewhere downstairs, maybe the photographer coordinating with Glen, maybe the click of a camera adjusting its focus. But it all feels far away, muffled beneath the thundering of your own heart.
Your hands smooth down the front of your dress, the fabric cool and crisp beneath your fingers. Every step you’ve taken to get to this day—the long talks, the laughter, the quiet mornings, and the harder moments too—they all gather in your chest as you begin to descend the stairs, your gown whispering softly with each step.
You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror at the bottom of the stairs, and for a fleeting second, you hardly recognize the woman looking back. She’s radiant. Steady. Ready. But beneath all the satin and lace, she’s still the girl who once watched Glen chase fireflies barefoot behind the house, who saw him cook shirtless at midnight, who learned the way he carries both the world and everyone he loves with the same quiet strength.
And somehow—somehow—he chose her back.
The photographer gives you a quiet nod, signaling that Glen’s in place. You can see the soft light spilling through the glass of the patio doors now, painting golden stripes across the floor. One more step, and you’re almost there.
You reach for the handle.
Your gaze drops to the weather-worn patio stones just beyond the glass. The same ones you’d danced on. The same ones you’d knelt on. The same ones where everything changed without needing to.
You blinked, and suddenly, you were back there when he proposed.
It had been an ordinary day. The kind you’d lived a dozen times before, the kind where it was just the two of you, which was probably why Glen had chosen it.
You’d spent the morning wandering through a weekend farmer’s market together. Glen had stopped to buy you a bundle of fresh wildflowers someone had picked from their garden because you’d once mentioned that wildflowers reminded you of summers at your grandmother’s. You grabbed a coffee from a local truck, his hand never once letting go of yours as you walked. Then you'd gone back to his place, where the afternoon turned slow and lazy. Music playing softly in the background, sun filtering in through the windows.
He'd made dinner. But nothing had tipped you off.
Not when he lit the candles on the patio.
Not when he insisted on sitting outside, the two of you bundled in soft sweatshirts, the air crisp with early spring.
Not even when he pulled out a worn blanket and the old portable record player you’d used a handful of times before placing it gently on the table and setting a familiar vinyl on top.
It was your favorite song. One that had played once in the car, and you’d softly sung every word while Glen drove, glancing at you like you were the only thing in the world that made sense.
Now it floated through the night air. Familiar. Intimate.
He stood and held out a hand. “Dance with me?”
You laughed a little but took it. “Out here? In front of the squirrels?”
Glen grinned. “We’ll keep it PG for the squirrels.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart was already racing as he pulled you into him. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other cradling your hand against his chest. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath your fingers.
You danced like that for a few minutes. Bare feet brushing against the patio stones. The world was quiet, wrapped in the hum of crickets and the faint scratch of vinyl.
And then Glen pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at you. You caught the shift in his gaze before you saw anything else.
And then he let go of your hand. He knelt. And your breath caught.
“I didn’t plan some big speech,” he said, his voice low, steady but soft around the edges. “Because I knew if I tried, it’d come out all wrong.”
You smiled through the tears already pricking at your eyes.
“But I’ve known for a while now,” he continued, eyes locked on yours. “Being with you feels like breathing.”
He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a small box.
“I don’t need a perfect life. I just want this one. With you in it. So… what do you say?” He opened the box, eyes never leaving yours. “Will you marry me?”
You didn’t even need time to think. You were already sinking to your knees, and nodding as your fingers found his cheeks.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, of course.”
He kissed you before even sliding the ring on, both of you laughing through it, shaking a little with the adrenaline of what you’d just promised.
And when he finally slipped the ring onto your finger, your hands were trembling.
You danced again after that. No music this time.
Just the sound of two people who knew they’d found forever.
The door eases shut behind you with a soft click, but Glen doesn’t turn. His hands are tucked into his pockets, shoulders rising and falling slowly like he’s steadying himself.
You catch the little tells. The subtle way his foot taps against the ground like he’s keeping time with some rhythm only he can hear. The way his shoulders tense every few seconds. You can feel his nerves from here — the way his heart must be beating just a little too fast. Yours is right there with his.
You move toward him, and his spine straightens just slightly at the sound of your footsteps. When you reach him, you hesitate only for a second before reaching out and tapping two fingers gently on his shoulder.
“Hey,” you say softly.
Glen exhales, then slowly turns to face you. His breath catches, lips parting as his eyes sweep over you like he’s trying to memorize every inch. His throat bobs with a hard swallow, and a shimmer of tears gathers in the corners of his eyes.
“Wow,” he breathes, voice cracking just a little. “You’re…you’re unreal.”
Somehow, despite all the emotion bubbling beneath the surface, you haven’t cried yet. A few watery smiles, a few deep breaths to collect yourself — but no tears.
Until now.
The dam breaks. Quiet tears slip down your cheeks as you take in the man you’re about to marry, standing there coming completely undone in the best way at the sight of you.
He reaches up and gently brushes the tears from your cheeks, careful not to smudge your makeup, his touch warm and reverent.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he says, giving you a watery smile as he pulls you close.
“You didn’t,” you say, your voice cracking. “You just…got me.”
His hands frame your face, thumbs still brushing over your skin like he can’t quite believe you’re real. “You’ve been holding it in all day, haven’t you?”
You nod, biting your lip as another tear slips free.
“Well,” he whispers, “now we match.”
That makes you laugh — soft, broken, happy — as you press your forehead to his.
He lets out a shaky breath, pulling you so close the world fades away. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful,” he murmurs. “You’re—God, you’re perfect.”
You lean into him, fingers slipping into the lapels of his suit jacket, grounding yourself in the familiar warmth of him. “You’re not supposed to out-romance me,” you tease, blinking back another wave.
“I can’t help it,” he says softly. “You’re the one. Always have been.”
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WEDDING PHOTOS (Reader’s P.O.V)
The moment lingers—soft and quiet and sacred—until Glen leans in, his hand still cradling your cheek. His lips brush against yours in the gentlest kiss, like a promise spoken without words. It’s not rushed. Not performative. Just full of everything you’ve both been holding onto all morning.
It’s your first kiss as almost husband and wife. And it steals the air right out of your lungs.
You barely notice the quiet click of the shutter at first. But then it comes again—subtle, quick. The photographer captures the moment that feels like it belongs to just the two of you.
You pull back slowly, a soft, breathless smile forming as you rest your forehead against Glen’s. “Guess we forgot we’re not alone.”
Glen chuckles, warm and low, brushing a stray hair from your face. “Let ’em get the good stuff.”
Your photographer gives a gentle cue, motioning toward the first photo location, and Glen steps back just enough to take your hand. When you glance down at your train, he beats you to it—reaching carefully to gather it in one hand so it doesn’t drag across the patio stones.
“Let me,” he says, lifting it with care.
The way he says it—it’s simple, but it hits you square in the chest.
You squeeze his hand, a quiet thank-you in the gesture, and walk beside him. The train of your dress is in one of his hands, and his other hand holds yours as the two of you move.
Glen steals a glance at you and grins. “You know I thought you couldn’t get more beautiful, but then you went and did this.”
You laugh, slapping his arm playfully. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Mr. Powell.”
The photographer calls for the first pose. It’s a classic one. She instructs you where to stand and then she fluffs the train of your dress so that it’s in position. Then she instructs Glen to close the space between you. He gently touches his forehead to yours, his hands settling on your waist. You tilt your face up, your eyes fluttering shut as your hands rest lightly on his chest.
For a moment the world fades, and it’s just him and you.
The photographer calls for a dip pose next. Glen grins, already sliding one arm behind your back, the other at your waist as he lowers you into the pose. Your dress flows out around you, and you giggle as you cling to his shoulders.
“You practicing for the kiss at the altar?” You tease.
Glen lifts you upright again. “Nope. That one’s gonna be way better.”
The next shots are playful. Glen spins you in a slow circle, your laughter echoing off the barn nearby. You stumble slightly in your heels, and he catches you, steady and smiling.
“I’ve got you,” he says, effortlessly.
“Always?” you ask, without thinking.
“Always.”
Just as the last of your solo shots with Glen wrap up, you hear footsteps and laughter drifting from the path behind you. A moment later, the bridal party appears—Glen’s sisters, Lauren and Leslie, walk out first and immediately start fussing over Glen like he’s ten years old again.
“You clean up nice, little brother,” Lauren teases, giving Glen a once-over and raising an eyebrow.
Leslie steps in for a hug anyway, fixing a crooked corner of his boutonnière before whispering something that makes him laugh under his breath.
Meanwhile, your friends swarm you, careful not to wrinkle your dress as they squeal and twirl in their matching gowns. Your best friend loops an arm through yours, pulling you into a side hug.
“You ready?” she asks softly, eyes shining.
You smile, heart already full. “I think I’ve been ready longer than I realized.”
The photographer gently calls everyone into place. The energy shifts as you all begin lining up for group shots. Glen stands with his sisters first, flanked on either side. Lauren rests her head on his shoulder while Leslie makes a dramatic face like she’s holding back tears. Cyndy stands just behind the camera, hands over her mouth, her eyes misty.
Next, you step in with your friends—arms linked, flowers clutched, all of you laughing at something someone mutters under her breath. Someone suggests a “Charlie’s Angels” pose and, despite the high heels and formalwear, you all strike your best version of it, laughter erupting again.
Then the full group comes together—Glen slides in beside you, his hand naturally finding yours as the photographer adjusts everyone’s positioning.
“One serious one,” the photographer says. “Then a fun one.”
The serious one holds for a beat—smiles soft, everyone standing tall and glowing with the weight of the moment.
Then the fun one.
Lauren throws an arm around Glen’s shoulders and messes up his hair. Leslie grabs your bouquet and pretends to toss it early. One of your friends leans dramatically on another’s shoulder as if overwhelmed. Glen leans in and kisses your temple in the middle of all the chaos.
The shutter clicks over and over again, freezing this little moment in time.
As the photographer steps back to check the shots, someone glances at their watch.
“It’s almost time,” someone says.
The laughter quiets into a gentle hush. A few of your bridesmaids squeeze your hands before drifting off to touch up their lipstick or grab bouquets. Glen’s sisters exchange a knowing look and disappear toward the ceremony site, leaving just you and Glen in that fading, golden bubble of light.
Glen’s eyes find yours again—steady, warm, shining with everything he hasn’t said out loud yet. His thumb brushes against the back of your hand, slow and grounding.
“Next time I see you…” he murmurs, voice low.
You smile, your heart catching at the base of your throat. You take a small step closer, letting your hand settle against the lapel of his tux. “I’ll be your wife.”
His breath hitches just for a moment. Then he leans in and presses the softest kiss to your forehead, lingering there like he wants to memorize the feel of this second. When he pulls back, his eyes are a little shinier than before.
“I love you,” he says quietly.
“I love you too.”
He steals one last kiss. A real one this time, gentle but deep, his hand cradling your cheek like he doesn’t want to let go.
Then he exhales and takes a small step back, his fingers slipping from yours as your friends and bridal party begin to gather again.
“See you out there,” he says, a small smile curving his lips.
And with that, Glen heads down the path, shoulders square, heart full, ready.
You watch him go for a beat longer, then turn toward your girls, bouquet now in hand.
The next time you see him, you’ll be walking down the aisle.
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THE WEDDING CEREMONY (Reader’s P.O.V.)
Everyone is in position.
Guests have taken their seats. The soft murmur of conversation fades into a hush. Somewhere up ahead, the wedding party begins making their way down the aisle, one by one, until it’s just you — standing at the edge of everything.
The moment you’ve dreamed of. The one you weren’t sure would feel real until now.
You take a deep breath.
And then you see him.
Glen stands at the end of the aisle, tall and still. His eyes find yours instantly, and everything else disappears. His lips parted, just slightly, like he forgot how to breathe for a second. He doesn’t blink.
You smile, and his whole expression softens. He lets out a quiet, unsteady breath that you can almost feel from here.
You don’t look at the flowers. You don’t glance around at the guests. Not when Glen is looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.
And in this moment—you are.
As you reach the end of the aisle, your maid of honor steps forward, her hands gentle as she takes your bouquet. You barely register the exchange — your eyes are locked on Glen, and his on you, like you’re tethered by something invisible but unshakable.
He reaches for you instantly. His fingers slide into yours, warm and steady. He gives your hand the softest squeeze, his thumb brushing the back of it like he’s grounding himself in the feel of your skin.
Then he leans in, voice just barely above a whisper.
“You look beautiful,” he says, eyes shining.
“Thank you,” you whisper back.
He lifts your joined hands slightly, pressing the lightest kiss to your knuckles before lowering them again. You can tell he’s trying not to lose it — you both are — but in this moment, all that matters is that you made it. Together.
The officiant offers a warm smile as the guests settle into their seats, a quiet excitement humming in the background.
“Family and friends,” he begins, “we’re gathered here today to celebrate something rare and beautiful. Two people who have found in each other not just love, but a home. These two have chose to share their hearts and their lives, and today we witness the beginning of that next chapter.”
The officiant glances between the two of you, his voice softening.
“Marriage is built on promises. Quiet, steady ones. Ones that are spoken not just today, but lived out every day after. The couple have chosen to write their own vows. We will start with the lovely bride.”
Everyone and everything else fades away just a little as you look at the man standing across from you.
You take a deep breath, and Glen’s fingers give yours a gentle and reassuring squeeze.
Your voice is soft at first, but clear. Honest. But steady with the kind of love that’s been tested and deepened over time.
“When I met you, I didn’t expect any of this. I didn’t expect you.”
You see the smallest curve of a smile tug at his mouth.
“You are kind in ways that most people never see. You are steady and thoughtful, and better than you’ll ever admit. You make me feel safe. Not because you fix everything — but because you never let me face anything alone.”
Glen’s eyes are glistening now, just a little, and your own start to sting, but you breathe through it.
“You see the best parts of me — even when I can’t. And somehow, you make me want to be that version of myself. The one you believe in. The one who laughs more, loves harder, and doesn’t run when things get messy.”
You pause for a breath, voice tightening with the weight of it all.
“I promise to stand beside you, even when it’s hard. To support you in every dream, and every ridiculous project you take on. To keep showing up, even when it’s easier not to. I promise to celebrate you on your best days and hold you tighter on your worst. I’ll be your partner, your teammate, your safe place.”
You smile through the shimmer of tears.
“And I promise to love you for exactly who you are — because who you are is already everything I need.”
Glen’s thumb brushes over your knuckles, like he’s grounding himself. He takes a deep breath.
“Damn,” he murmurs under his breath, a crooked smile pulling at the edge of his mouth as his voice catches just a little.
A quiet laugh slips from you, barely audible, as your thumb mirrors his and strokes over his hand.
He takes a breath — a deep, steadying one — and blinks up at the sky for half a second like he’s trying to get it together. Then he meets your eyes again, more sure now, voice low and warm and full of feeling.
“I’ve done a lot of things in my life—some of them cool, some of them insane, and at least one that involved jumping off a moving boat in cowboy boots.”
Laughter breaks through the emotion, and Glen smiles wide before growing a little more serious.
“But nothing, nothing, compares to loving you.”
His voice drops a little, rougher now. A little choked.
“You ground me. When the world gets loud, you’re the quiet. The calm. You see me when I don’t even know what I’m showing.”
He pauses to take a deep breath. Then another, like he’s trying not to lose it.
“I promise to always love you in the way you deserve — not just with words, but with actions. With the little things. The coffee in the morning. The hand on your back when you’ve had a long day. The reminders — every single day — of just how amazing you are.”
He lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, lingering there for a second before lowering them again.
“I’m yours,” he says, voice quiet and rough. “Always have been. Always will be.”
The officiant smiles, giving both you and Glen a moment to breathe and collect yourselves.
“May we have the rings?” The officiant asks.
Your maid of honor steps forward first, placing Glen’s ring into your hand. Glen’s best man does the same to him with your ring.
“These rings are more than metal. They are a promise — a circle with no end, a symbol of the vows you’ve spoken here today.”
You turn to Glen, sliding the ring slowly onto his finger as you say softly, just for him, “With this ring, I promise to love you, stand beside you, and walk with you through every chapter of this life.”
Glen’s hand trembles just slightly as he takes your ring in his own. He looks at you like you’re his entire world. He slips the ring onto your finger, and then says “With this ring, I promise to love you, stand beside you, and walk with you through every chapter of this life.”
The officiant beams, eyes flicking between you both. “By the power vested in me, and with the greatest joy, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
They pause, grinning at Glen. “You may kiss your bride.”
Glen steps forward slowly, eyes never leaving yours. With careful tenderness, he reaches up, brushing a stray curl away from your face. His hand lingers against your cheek, warm and reassuring as if to say that every whispered promise has led to this very heartbeat.
Then, with a soft exhale and a playful twinkle in his eyes that belies the profound emotion within, he leans in. His lips meet yours in a kiss that is everything—a melding of joy, relief, and the quiet certainty of forever. For a beat, the kiss deepens, filled with all the promises made in those sacred vows. You feel the weight of his love and the lightness of hope all at once.
And as if choreographed by the universe itself, he dips you ever so gently—a romantic flourish that sends a ripple of delighted gasps from the guests. The kiss lingers, full of the raw, beautiful truth of two souls uniting in that singular, perfect moment.
When you finally part, your foreheads remain pressed together, eyes shimmering with shared wonder. The crowd erupts in applause and cheers, but you and Glen remain in your own world for a few precious seconds longer—a silent celebration of love, of promises kept, and of a future unfolding with every heartbeat.
The music swells with joy as you and Glen turn to face your guests—now husband and wife.
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A QUIET MOMENT ALONE (Reader’s P.O.V.)
You barely hear the cheers as you and Glen turn toward the aisle, hands linked tight, hearts full.
The music swells and your friends and family rise to their feet, clapping, whooping, a few people even dabbing their eyes. But the only thing you’re really aware of is Glen’s hand in yours and the way he keeps looking over at you like he still can’t believe this is real.
Your smile hurts in the best way. Glen leans in as you start to walk, his voice warm against your ear. “You’re stuck with me now, sweetheart.”
You laugh, blinking back fresh tears. “Good. Wouldn’t want it any other way.”
You move together down the aisle, hearts in sync, surrounded by love. It’s the kind of moment that feels wrapped in sunlight, in warmth, in everything you ever hoped your wedding day would hold.
You and Glen make your way up to the house while the guests are ushered towards the barn for the reception. The wedding coordinator gives a soft smile and pulls the doors closed behind you, giving you and Glen a few moments alone.
Glen exhales, then gently tugs you toward him, his arms slipping around your waist. “Hey,” he says softly, resting his forehead against yours. “We did it.”
“I know,” you whisper, your voice full of disbelief and love all tangled together. “We’re married.”
He grins and rushes up, brushing a knuckle along your cheek. “Mrs. Powell.”
You laugh. “That’s gonna take some getting used to.”
“Nah,” Glen says, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your lips. “Sounds pretty perfect to me.”
You don’t rush.
The world outside the door can wait — the music, the champagne, the clinking glasses, and laughter. For now, it’s just you and Glen. Husband and wife. And somehow that still doesn’t feel real.
You lean into him, arms wrapping around his waist, cheek resting against his chest.
“I can’t believe we’re actually married,” you whisper, smiling into the fabric of his jacket.
Glen’s arms tighten around you, his chin resting lightly on top of your head. “I can. I’ve been ready since the second I met you.”
You laugh — quiet and breathy — as you look up at him. “That’s a lie. You didn’t even like me when we met.”
He grins, eyes crinkling. “I didn’t know what to do with you. You were all... quick comebacks and sharp edges. You scared the hell out of me.”
Your hands slide over his chest, fingers playing with the button on his jacket. “This feels like a dream.”
“It’s not,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “It’s real. You and me. Married. Finally.”
There’s a pause — not heavy, just still — and then he presses a kiss to your forehead. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.
You close your eyes, tilting your face just enough to meet him halfway as his lips find yours.
It’s not a kiss for the camera, or the crowd, or the moment. It’s for you. Soft. Slow. Familiar in all the best ways.
When you pull back, your forehead stays pressed to his. You’re both smiling now, hands still linked, hearts steadying together.
“Think we can sneak away for five more minutes?” you ask, only half kidding.
Glen leans in again, voice low and warm. “For you? Always.”
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RECEPTION: THE GRAND ENTRANCE(Reader’s P.O.V.)
The two of you wait just behind the barn doors, tucked out of sight, hands laced together. You can hear the music thumping softly through the wood, the sound of laughter, and clinking glasses as your friends and family find their seats.
Glen gives your hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as he leans in close.
“You ready, Mrs. Powell?” he asks with a grin that still manages to make your stomach flutter.
You roll your eyes playfully, but you’re smiling too big to pretend you’re not smitten. “More than ready, Mr. Powell.”
From inside, the DJ’s voice rises over the speakers, full of energy and warmth. “Alright, y’all. Now for the moment we’ve all been waiting for. Let’s make some noise for the brand-new Mr. and Mrs. Powell!”
The barn doors swing open.
The crowd erupts in cheers, whoops, and applause as you and Glen step through, hand in hand. The soft glow of string lights overhead, the music, the joy…it all hits you at once like a warm wave.
Right in the center of the dance floor, Glen tugs you gently toward him.
You laugh as he spins you in a full, twirling circle that flares the skirt of your dress and sends your heart soaring, and then he catches you, dips you low, and kisses you.
When he pulls you upright again, you both can’t stop smiling.
Arm around your waist, Glen guides you toward the sweetheart table at the front of the room. You take your seats together, a candlelit oasis surrounded by flowers and the people who love you most.
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RECEPTION: DINNER & TOASTS (Reader's P.O.V.)
Guests are seated, plates are full, and the sound of laughter hums through the air, mixing with the soft strumming of an acoustic guitar in the background.
Glen reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek. “You’ve got that just-married glow,” he murmurs, eyes dancing as he leans in closer.
You grin. “That’s just the champagne.”
He laughs but doesn’t argue. He cuts off a bite of steak and holds it up to your lips. “Try this. I swear it’s better than what we had at the tasting.”
You take the bite, eyes never leaving his. “Mmm. You were right to go with that over the pork. Again.”
He smiles like he’s keeping a secret and then gestures toward your plate. “Now give me a bite of that chicken. Don’t be stingy.”
You feed him a forkful, and when he ends up with a tiny smudge of sauce near his mouth, you lean forward and gently wipe it away with your thumb.
The DJ’s voice cuts in a few minutes later, signaling the start of the toast.
First up is Lauren, Glen’s older sister, holding her glass as she walks up to the mic.
“I have to say,” she begins, smiling over at you both, “I’ve known Glen his whole life. I’ve seen him go through every phase—from ‘wannabe cowboy’ to ‘Hollywood heartthrob’—but I have to say this version of Glen? The one that lights up when she walks into the room? That’s my favorite.”
Laughter ripples through the crowd, and Glen chuckles softly beside you, brushing your knee under the table with his.
“And to you,” Lauren continues, looking at you now with warmth in her eyes, “thank you for loving my brother the way you do. For grounding him. For seeing all the good in him even when he leaves his boots in the hallway and forgets to run a new project by you.”
More laughter fills the room.
“But seriously,” she adds, voice catching slightly, “you make him better. And he’s already pretty great. So welcome to the family. We’re so lucky to have you.”
You blink fast, suddenly aware of the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
After Lauren’s toast brings both laughter and tears, the DJ announces the next toast giver. The crowd cheers as Chord Overstreet steps up to the mic, grinning in that charming, slightly mischievous way that promises a good story is coming.
He lifts his champagne glass, eyes scanning the room before settling on you and Glen.
“So,” he starts, “I’ve known Glen since we were both broke, twenty-something dreamers with bad haircuts and worse taste in furniture. We shared a shoebox of an apartment in Hollywood, lived off protein bars and gas station coffee, and thought ‘meal prep’ meant splitting a rotisserie chicken from Ralph’s.”
The crowd laughs, and Glen just shakes his head with a smirk, clearly bracing for whatever’s coming.
“But even back then,” Chord continues, “Glen was the guy you could count on. Loyal to the core. Thoughtful. The kind of guy who’d drive you to an audition at 5 a.m. even if he wasn’t auditioning himself. And the kind of guy who always checked in—really checked in—when you were going through it.”
Chord pauses, his smile softening.
“So when he called me a couple years back, out of the blue, and said, ‘Man, I think I’ve met someone…’ I knew. That was it. And then I met her. And listen, it all made sense. You’re sharp, you’re grounded, you’re kind, and Glen lights up when you’re around. It’s not subtle. Like, at all.”
The crowd laughs again, and Glen squeezes your hand under the table, eyes crinkling with amusement.
“But here’s my favorite story,” Chord adds, his grin returning. “Back in the day, Glen once said—dead serious—‘I don’t think I’ll ever settle down. I mean, I might get a dog someday…’”
Everyone erupts in laughter as Glen covers his face for a beat, and Chord raises his glass higher.
“Well, buddy…you got the dog, the house, and the girl. And I’ve never seen you happier.”
Chord nods toward where you and Glen are sitting, voice softening again.
“So here’s to the person who changed the whole game for him. To love, to laughter, and to finding the person who makes all the old rules irrelevant. I love you both. Congratulations.”
Applause swells as Chord steps down, and Glen pulls you close.
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RECEPTION: CAKE CUTTING (Reader’s P.O.V.))
The lights dim just slightly as the DJ announces the next moment: “Ladies and gentlemen if you’ll turn your attention to the cake table…”
A soft instrumental version of your favorite song plays as you and Glen make your way over, hand in hand. The cake is a stunner—three tiers of soft ivory buttercream, fresh blooms, and delicate detailing that matches the lace of your dress.
A silver knife is placed carefully on the table. Glen picks it up first, glancing at you with a teasing raise of his brows. “You ready for this?” he murmurs under his breath.
“You mean to cut the cake or to trust you not to smash it in my face?” you shoot back, grinning.
He laughs, his hand resting lightly on your lower back as you both guide the knife through the bottom tier. Cameras flash, guests cheer, and once a slice is served, Glen picks up a fork, scooping up a bite with exaggerated care.
“For you,” he says, holding it out.
You lean forward and take the bite, humming in approval. “Mmm. Not bad.”
He raises a brow again, now suspiciously quiet as he scoops a bit more frosting—and before you can react, he dabs just a little onto the tip of your nose.
You gasp, “Glen!”
He grins like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “You looked too perfect. I had to humble you.”
You grab a napkin and swipe at your nose, and Glen leans in to gently kiss the frosting off anyway, murmuring, “Still perfect.”
You loop your arm through his and press your cheek to his shoulder as the photographer snaps a candid of the two of you—frosting, laughter, and all.
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RECEPTION: FIRST DANCE (Reader's P.O.V.)
The reception lights dim again, and a hush falls over the room. Soft string lights overhead glow like starlight, casting everything in a warm, golden hue.
The DJ’s voice cuts gently through the hum of conversation, “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll please turn your attention to the dance floor…it’s time for the newlyweds’ first dance.”
You feel Glen’s hand find yours, steady and sure. He leans in close, his lips brushing your temple. “Ready?”
You smile up at him, heart full. “More than ready.”
Glen leads you out, hand on your waist, fingers laced with yours. You hear the first notes of a song. It’s soft, slow, and unfamiliar…but beautiful.
Then a voice begins to sing. Not a recording—live. Familiar. Warm.
Leslie.
Your eyes flick toward the small stage, and there she stands, mic in hand, eyes shining. The song she’s singing isn’t one you’ve heard before, but every word lands like it was written just for the two of you.
Open your eyes, take in the view
Sometimes I wish it would slow down…
Glen’s eyes never leave yours. His thumb brushes softly against your back as you sway together, slow and gentle. He pulls you a little closer, resting his forehead to yours for a beat, his voice barely a whisper.
“This song…she wrote it for us. I asked her to. Months ago.”
Your chest tightens in the best way. You shake your head, smiling through sudden tears. “Of course you did.”
The melody begins to wash over you. You reach up and loop your arms around his neck. It’s just the two of you swaying in time.
Glen doesn’t take his eyes off you, and you don’t either.
There’s something quiet in the way he looks at you now — a softness that lives beneath the smile, beneath the glint in his eyes. Like he’s still a little in awe of you. Of this. Of the fact that you’re his.
There will be laughter, there will be pain
There will be sunshine, there will be rain
You feel Glen’s hands pull you just a little closer. He presses a kiss to your temple.
“I love you,” he says against your skin, his voice low and sure.
You tilt your head back to meet his eyes. “I love you too.”
As the chorus swells, he spins you slowly — just once — and when you step back into his arms, he holds you like he never wants to let go.
When you need a friend, I will carry you through
No matter the moment, I’ll be there with you…
By the time the final chorus swells and begins to fade, Glen’s fingers tighten around yours just slightly.
He gives you a look — playful, full of love — and then he spins you.
You laugh, breath catching as the skirt of your dress flares out around you, the room blurring for a second as you twirl under his hand. And when you come back to him, he catches you effortlessly, drawing you in close.
And then, without missing a beat, he dips you — one arm strong and steady at your back, the other holding your hand as he leans down and kisses you.
Your guests cheer and clap as the final note fades, but all you can focus on is Glen — his grin, the sparkle in his eyes, the warmth of him wrapped around you.
When he brings you upright again, his forehead brushes yours, breath warm as he whispers, “God, I love you.”
You smile, cheeks flushed, heart full. “I love you more.”
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RECEPTION: MOTHER / SON DANCE (Glen’s P.O.V.)
“Now we’d like to invite Glen and his mom, Cyndy, to the floor for their mother-son dance.”
Glen glances towards the edge of the dance floor where his mom stands, already blinking back tears. He walks over, offering his hand with a smile.
“May I have this dance, Mama?”
Cyndy smiles and nods as she places her hand in his. Glen leads her to the center of the dance floor. His palm rests gently against her back, her hand curled into his like it has been since he was little.
For a minute neither of them say anything. Then Cyndy whispers, “I still remember the first time you ever slow danced. You were standing on my feet in the kitchen. I think you were six or seven.”
He chuckles, “You taught me everything I know.”
“You always had such a big heart,” she says, eyes brimming. “You just needed someone to be soft with it.”
Glen glances across the room, and there you are, laughing at something your maid of honor just said, radiant and glowing and entirely his.
“I think I may have found her.” He says.
Cyndy follows his gaze, smile trembling. “She’s perfect for you. I see the way you look at her, honey.”
They sway for a few more beats in silence. No need to fill it. Some things just speak for themselves.
As the song begins to fade, Cyndy squeezes his hand and leans up to kiss his cheek. “You make me proud, Glen. Every day. But especially today.”
He smiles at her. “Thank you for everything. I love you, Mama.”
“Love you too, baby.”
Glen and Cyndy slowly make their way off the dance floor, still holding onto each other. Cyndy’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, but there’s a steady smile on her face—one only a proud mother can wear.
Glen guides her toward you, and you stand to meet them instinctively, your hand already reaching for his.
But it’s Cyndy who steps in first.
She reaches out and gently takes your hands in hers, her fingers warm and slightly trembling. Her gaze settles on your face, full of emotion, but also peace.
“I’ve always been Glen’s number one girl,” she says softly, a little teasing smile on her lips. “Since the day he was born.”
Glen chuckles, wrapping an arm around your waist.
Cyndy squeezes your hands a little tighter. “But today, that changes. Today, I give that spot to you.”
Your breath catches. You didn’t expect to cry again tonight, but the way she says it—with quiet grace and so much love—hits something deep.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she adds gently. “But I see the way he looks at you. And I know he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.”
You blink quickly, trying to keep your mascara intact and nod with a tearful smile. “Thank you… for trusting me with him.”
Cyndy pulls you into a soft hug that’s warm and maternal and full of acceptance. “Just promise to keep his head on straight,” she says, half-joking. “He’s always been a little stubborn.”
“I promise,” you whisper into her shoulder.
When she steps back, she takes Glen’s hand in hers for one more beat, then places it firmly in yours.
“You’ve got him now,” she says with a wink. “Don’t let go.”
And then she heads back toward her seat, dabbing her eyes with a napkin, while Glen leans in close and kisses your temple, his hand already twining with yours again.
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DRESS CHANGE & SUNSET PHOTOS (Reader’s P.O.V.)
As the reception continues you slip away with Glen, fingers intertwined as you make your way up to the house. Your dress rustles softly as you make your way upstairs to the master bedroom.
You step into the center of the room and glance back over your shoulder at him.
“Think you can help me out of this?” You ask, voice light and slightly flirty.
Glen’s already loosening the tie from his neck, tossing it to a nearby chair as he steps closer. “Thought you’d never ask.”
You turn, facing away from him, and feel his hands settle just below your shoulders. His fingers find the tiny buttons lining the back of your gown, working one by one.
“You looked beautiful in this,” he murmurs, his breath warm on the nape of your neck. “But I’m not gonna lie…I’ve been thinking about taking it off you since the second I saw you in it.”
You huff a soft laugh, but it dissolves as his mouth brushes the top of your spine, his hands skimming bare skin as the dress loosens and slips down your body. You let it fall, stepping out carefully as he loses his suit jacket and untucks his shirt, top buttons undone.
And then his hands are on your waist, tugging you back into him, your bodies flush. He kisses you — slow, deep, and wanting — like the moment has caught fire and he’s content to let it burn.
“You sure we gotta go back out there?” he mumbles against your lips, hands already trailing lower.
You smile against his mouth, catching his wrists before things get too carried away. “We’ve got a dance floor and people waiting. But...later?”
“Hell yes, later.”
You reach for the second dress — a soft satin number with delicate straps and a low, open back — and Glen helps you step into it, carefully zipping it up.
When you turn around, smoothing the straps into place, Glen goes quiet. His eyes drag over you slowly, the corners of his mouth lifting as he takes you in.
He takes a step toward you. One arm circles your waist, and the other slides over your bare back as he pulls you in and kisses you.
“We better get downstairs to get those last few pictures you wanted,” Glen says as he pulls away.
You nod and take his hand as the two of you make your way downstairs and to the backyard to meet the photographer for the last of the photos.
This time around the photos are effortless. There’s no posing. The photographer gives you and Glen a few gentle directions but for the most part, she tells you to just be yourself while she gets some candid shots. Glen twirls you again, this time watching the new dress catch the breeze. There are forehead kisses, laughter as you dip toward him dramatically, and one particularly steamy shot where his hands are low on your back, your lips just brushing.
The sun slips lower and lower, the sky painted in soft pink and lavender hues, and you steal one more quiet moment together before heading back inside to dance the night away.
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RECEPTION: OPEN DANCING (Reader’s P.O.V.)
The DJ shifts gears from slow romance to pure celebration. With a beat drop that sends a ripple of excitement through the room, the dance floor opens and it doesn't take long before it's full.
You and Glen are at the center of it all, hands intertwined, smiles wide. He spins you under his arm, and your laughter echoes above the music as your dress flares and floats with the motion. Someone lets out a cheer, and Glen dips you playfully—nearly to the floor—before pulling you back up into his arms.
The two of you dance like no one's watching, like you're the only two people in the world, even as guests surround you. Your friends are nearby, singing at the top of their lungs, drinks in hand. Glen’s sisters pull him away for a quick spin, and you find yourself dancing with your mom, both of you laughing when you mess up the rhythm. Leslie jumps back in with a live set of upbeat covers, keeping the energy high and the floor packed.
At one point, Glen slides up behind you, resting his hands on your hips as you sway together to the beat. He leans in to murmur in your ear, “You’re still the prettiest girl in the room.”
You glance over your shoulder, grinning. “Still?”
He kisses your cheek. “Always.”
There’s a moment where you're both dancing with your friends—Glen and Chord dramatically lip-syncing to an ‘80s anthem while your bridal party hypes them up. Then you and Glen link hands again and make your way through the crowd, greeting family members, sharing hugs, stealing cupcakes off dessert plates, and taking impromptu selfies with cousins.
Later, someone starts a conga line that Glen refuses to join—until you grab his hand and tug him in, laughing so hard you can barely breathe. He finally gives in, shaking his head but unable to stop smiling.
Everywhere you look, there are people you love—smiling, dancing, celebrating right along with you.
But somehow, every time your eyes meet Glen’s across the room, everything else softens.
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RECEPTION: PRIVATE LAST DANCE (Reader's P.O.V.)
The reception has wound down to a slow hum, laughter lingering in the air like the last notes of a favorite song. Guests are grabbing sparklers, being gently ushered outside by the planner and DJ. The night air is cool, crackling with excitement and anticipation.
But inside, the world quiets. The dance floor is empty now—just soft candlelight flickering across the tables, a few petals scattered across the floor. And in the center, it’s just you and Glen.
The music changes. A soft, slow instrumental version of your first dance song plays through the speakers just for the two of you. No photographer, no guests. Just husband and wife, savoring the very last moment of the night before stepping into what comes next.
Glen extends his hand. “One more?” he asks, voice quiet but certain.
You nod, slipping your fingers into his. He pulls you close, arms around your waist, forehead resting against yours. The world falls away again. No chaos, no countdowns, just this.
You sway together, slowly, like it’s the first time and the last all at once.
“I don’t want to leave this night,” you whisper, your voice catching.
Glen smiles, brushing his thumb gently over your cheek. “Then we’ll carry it with us. Every day.”
You lean into him. Neither of you speak again. You don’t need to. Everything is already being said in the way he holds you, the way your heart beats steady against his.
The song fades into silence.
You pull back just enough to look up at him. “Ready?”
He grins, just a little crooked. “To spend the rest of my life with you? Always.”
You share one last kiss—slow, lingering, and full of promise—before the doors swing open.
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RECEPTION: GRAND EXIT (Reader’s P.O.V.)
Outside, your guests cheer as sparklers light the night. It’s like a pathway of stars guiding you forward. You and Glen run through them, hand in hand, laughter echoing through the night. Someone yells, “Don’t trip!” and someone else shouts, “Kiss again!”
At the end of the sparkler tunnel, Glen opens the car door for you like a true gentleman. You pause, turning back to wave at everyone gathered there—your people, your hearts, your family.
Then you climb in beside him.
He starts the car, reaches over to take your hand, and with a final honk and a flurry of cheers behind you, you both disappear into the night.
Not as guests, not as fiancés—but as Mr. and Mrs. Powell.
Summary: After a restless night, Glen is jolted awake by a vivid dream of losing Gabby, his deepest fear surfacing in the early hours of the morning. Gabby gently brings him back to reality, comforting him with quiet reassurance as they fall back asleep wrapped in each other. Later, Glen wakes early and heads out for a run through the peaceful Napa vineyards, hoping to clear his mind. When he returns, he surprises Gabby with a simple homemade breakfast. As they sit together, feet tangled and hearts steady, there’s a quiet intimacy between them—a small reminder of the strength they’ve built together, even in the face of what’s ahead.
Word Count: 2,356
**Italics are used to indicate a dream in this chapter**
It didn’t start with shouting. Or chaos. It started with quiet.
Gabby stood in front of him, her arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to hold herself together. Her eyes—God her eyes—were glassy but calm, her voice low and careful like she didn’t want to hurt him more than necessary.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore, Glen.”
His whole body went cold. He tried to move toward her, but his feet wouldn’t budge. Like he was rooted to the floor, helpless.
“What?” he breathed, confusion hitting harder than panic.
She shook her head, eyes shimmering. “It’s not you. It’s… this life. Your schedule. The distance. The press. Always wondering when you’ll leave again or what rumors I’ll wake up to next.”
Glen’s chest constricted. He opened his mouth to argue, to beg, but no sound came out.
“You deserve someone who’s stronger than I am,” she whispered, a single tear slipping down her cheek. “Someone who can handle all of it.”
“Gabby—” He finally found his voice, but it cracked as her figure began to blur, to fade.
“I love you,” she said.
And then—Gone.
Gabby stirred, the warmth of the sheets clinging to her as she shifted in her sleep. Her brow furrowed faintly, her dreams disrupted by the tension radiating from the man lying beside her.
Glen’s breathing was ragged, uneven. His body twitched beneath the covers, muscles taut with some invisible weight. A low sound escaped him—not a word, not quite—but enough to have her stirring further from sleep.
“Glen?” she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep, eyes barely open.
She reached out instinctively, her hand brushing his chest. It was damp and slick with sweat. His chest was rising too fast with each breath.
Her sleepiness vanished instantly. Her eyes flew open, heart now pounding with concern. She leaned up on one elbow, brushing his hair back gently as her other hand cupped his cheek.
Then came the muttered words, unintelligible at first, his limbs shifting restlessly under the covers. His brow was furrowed, jaw tight, and his entire body moved like it was bracing for something.
“Glen?” Gabby whispered, her voice still thick with sleep.
He didn’t respond—just let out a harsh breath, his head turning away from her.
She sat up slightly, blinking against the dark, and reached out to touch his shoulder.
“Glen,” she said again, a little firmer this time, her fingers tightening slightly. “Hey—baby, wake up.”
Still nothing. Just a quiet groan, and then a whispered, broken, “Please don’t.”
Gabby’s heart cracked at the sound of it.
“Glen,” she said again, urgent now, both hands on his shoulders. “It’s me. It’s Gabby. Wake up.”
His eyes flew open.
He gasped like he’d surfaced from underwater, his chest heaving, sweat clinging to his skin. His gaze darted wildly around the room, unfocused, unseeing—until it landed on her.
“Gabby?” His voice was hoarse. Disoriented.
“I’m right here,” she said softly, cupping his face in both hands, guiding his gaze to hers. “You’re okay. It was just a dream.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just stared at her—like he didn’t fully believe it yet.
Gabby barely had time to breathe before he buried his face in the crook of her neck, holding her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered, her hand slipping into his hair, her fingers combing through the damp strands. “I’m here.”
He didn’t say anything at first. Just held on, his chest still rising and falling too fast, his grip almost too tight.
But she didn’t pull away. She let him hold her until his breathing steadied, until the tremble in his hands stilled.
Eventually, his lips brushed her shoulder. Gabby rested her cheek against his shoulder, one hand slowly tracing up and down his back as his heartbeat gradually returned to something steady.
But she could still feel it. The tension beneath the surface. The way his muscles stayed coiled, like he hadn’t quite shaken it yet.
“Glen,” she said softly, her voice brushing against his ear.
He didn’t lift his head. Just hummed low in his chest like he was listening, but hoping she wouldn’t push.
“What was it about?” she asked.
His hold on her tightened just a fraction. “It’s nothing,” he muttered. “Just a dream.”
Gabby pulled back just enough to look at him, her fingers brushing his jaw. His eyes were cast downward, jaw tense, but she waited until he met her gaze.
“It’s not nothing,” she said, gently but firmly. “Not with the way you woke up.”
He let out a slow breath, looking away again for a beat.
Gabby didn’t press. She just waited—her touch still soft, her presence grounding.
Finally, Glen exhaled through his nose. “It was you.”
Her stomach dipped.
“I dreamt you were leaving,” he said, voice low and rough. “Not because you stopped loving me. But because… everything that comes with me—the distance, the career, the spotlight—it was just too much.”
Gabby’s chest ached.
“And I—I couldn’t stop you,” Glen went on. “You kept telling me it wasn’t fair to ask you to put your life on hold for mine. That I wasn’t giving enough. That you needed more.”
“Glen…” Gabby’s voice cracked.
He looked at her then, and there was something raw in his eyes. “And the worst part? In the dream, I couldn’t even argue. Because a part of me thought maybe you were right.”
Gabby’s throat tightened. She reached for his hand and laced their fingers together, grounding them both.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered. “We’ve already been through a lot. And we’ve made it work.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “And I believe in us—I do. But that dream just… hit something I didn’t realize I was carrying around.”
Gabby shifted closer again, brushing her lips to his shoulder. “Then let me carry it with you. You don’t have to pretend everything’s fine all the time.”
He wrapped his arms around her again, slower this time. Softer.
“I just don’t want to lose you,” he said quietly. “Especially not because of who I am or what I do.”
“You won’t,” Gabby whispered. “But you have to let me in when it feels hard. Promise me that.”
Glen nodded, his chin brushing her hair. “I promise.”
She held him tighter, her own eyes falling closed now, the emotional weight of the moment settling between them like something sacred.
* * * * *
A few hours later, the soft golden light of morning streamed through the open terrace doors, casting a warm glow across the bed. The hush of early daybreak hung gently in the air, broken only by the distant hum of birds and the soft rustle of vineyard leaves in the breeze.
Gabby was still asleep, curled beneath the covers, one arm tucked under her pillow, the other resting against the spot where Glen had been. Her face was peaceful, lips slightly parted, her breath steady and slow.
Glen stirred first, this time not jolted awake by fear but drawn into consciousness by the warmth of the sun and the comforting weight of her beside him.
He didn’t move at first—just lay there and watched her. Let himself take in the sight of her like it was the first time all over again. The way the light kissed her cheekbones, how her hair was spread over the pillow in soft, sleepy waves. She looked so at ease. So his.
He reached out and gently brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, his fingers grazing lightly over her skin. Then, leaning in, he pressed a kiss to her shoulder—bare and warm beneath the covers.
She stirred slightly but didn’t wake. A small, contented sigh escaped her lips, and Glen smiled softly.
Carefully, he eased himself out of bed, making sure not to jostle the mattress. He stood and stretched for a moment, casting one last glance at her before slipping into the adjoining room. He grabbed a clean pair of running shorts and a T-shirt from his suitcase, pulling them on quickly along with his running shoes.
Then, with a water bottle in hand, he stepped quietly through the villa, the floors cool beneath his feet, and out the front door into the crisp morning air.
The road that curved gently away from the villa was flanked by vineyards on either side, rows upon rows of vines catching the first rays of sunlight like a painting come to life. The air was clean, fresh with the scent of dew-covered grass and earth.
Glen took off at a steady pace, his footsteps rhythmic against the gravel road, arms pumping in time with his breathing. The motion helped clear his head, loosen the heaviness that still lingered from the dream. Each inhale brought with it something lighter, steadier.
He ran past old oak trees and wooden fence posts, past wildflowers blooming in the ditches, the quiet of early morning settling around him like a balm.
And though his body moved forward, his thoughts circled back—to Gabby in bed. To the way she whispered his name in the middle of the night. To the way she held him when the fear tried to take over.
He’d never known love like this. Never known a peace that came from another person’s presence the way he did with her.
By the time Glen returned to the villa, a light sheen of sweat clung to his skin.
He stepped into the kitchen, peeling off his shirt and tossing it onto the back of a chair. The tile floor was cool beneath his bare feet, grounding him. He filled a glass with water, draining it in a few long gulps before setting it down with a quiet clink on the counter.
Then, quietly, like muscle memory, he moved into a familiar rhythm—pulling eggs from the fridge, popping bread into the toaster, slicing strawberries and cantaloupe into a bowl. He opened the cabinet, grabbing the loose chai blend she liked, setting a kettle on to boil.
The villa was silent except for the gentle sizzle of eggs in the pan and the bubbling of water on the stove. Sunlight streamed in through the wide kitchen windows, dusting the counters with a soft, amber glow.
He was plating the eggs—two for each of them, just the way she liked—when he heard the soft creak of a door, followed by slow, bare footsteps padding across the wooden floor.
When he turned, there she was.
Gabby stood in the doorway, eyes still soft with sleep, one hand rubbing gently at her cheek. She was wearing his shirt from the night before, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs, her hair a mess of waves and curls. And yet, she looked so beautiful, it made his breath catch.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” he teased gently, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he slid the last piece of toast onto a plate.
She gave him a small, sleepy smile—one that melted right into his bones—and padded over to him without a word. Wrapping her arms around his middle from behind, she pressed her face against his back and held on for a beat longer than usual.
“Something smells good,” she mumbled, voice muffled against his shoulder blade.
Glen chuckled, setting the spatula aside and resting one hand over hers. “Just eggs and toast. Figured I’d make it up to you for waking you up with my nightmare.”
Gabby kissed the spot between his shoulder blades, her arms tightening. “You never have to make up for needing me, Glen.”
He stilled for half a second, her words soaking in, and then turned in her arms to face her. “I know. But I still wanted to make you breakfast.”
She looked up at him through her lashes, her lips curling into a slow smile. “Then I guess I’ll let you.”
“Chai’s on,” he added, tipping his head toward the kettle with a little flourish.
Gabby laughed, soft and easy, and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”
They decided on the terrace—couldn’t waste the view, not on their last morning here.
Glen carried their plates outside, setting them down on the small table nestled beneath the shade of a wide umbrella. Gabby followed with the mugs, careful not to spill a drop of her chai.
The air was soft, touched with the lingering coolness of early morning and the promise of another sun-drenched day.
They settled into their chairs, and began to eat.
Gabby leaned forward, stealing a bite of his eggs off his plate with a grin. Glen narrowed his eyes in mock offense but said nothing, just pushed his plate a little closer toward her in surrender.
Between bites, they shared little things. Glen told her about the run. Gabby laughed about her dream where they had somehow adopted a pet goat and tried to keep it hidden from his publicist.
Every now and then, one of them would reach across the table to brush a crumb away or top off a drink. Glen passed her a strawberry from his bowl, and she pressed her bare foot against his under the table in thanks.
It was easy. It was soft.
Midway through the meal, Gabby caught Glen watching her, his fork resting against his plate, untouched.
“What?” she asked, smiling softly.
He just shook his head once, eyes warm, like he still couldn’t quite believe she was real. “You have no idea how much I love mornings like this with you.”
Gabby’s heart fluttered, and she reached across the table, sliding her hand into his. His fingers closed around hers immediately, firm and sure.
“I do,” she said softly. “Because I love them too.”
They sat like that for a moment longer—hands clasped, food forgotten—soaking in the last of the morning sun, the quiet, the calm.
And maybe, just for that moment, they both let themselves pretend time didn’t exist. That there wasn’t a goodbye waiting on the other side of the afternoon.
Summary: There's not really much of one. This is sort of a long drabble or short one shot about what it would be like to be the one walking down the aisle to Glen.
Warnings: None. This is just fluff.
Word Count: 1,106
A/N: Here's a little something I wrote after all the Glen wedding content we got last weekend. I know it's not a full wedding fic. But there will be at least one wedding (if not two 😉) coming up in some of my other writing soon so I don't want to burn myself out on weddings too much. Hope you guys enjoy this! xx
The lace of your gown feels like air against your skin, delicate and intricate, a masterpiece from a designer you never thought you’d wear outside of dreams. But dreams have a funny way of coming true when Glen Powell is involved.
A breeze drifts through the open window of the bridal suite, carrying the scent of wildflowers and fresh cut grass. Laughter and soft music come from just outside where your closest friends and family have gathered for this day. Your day.
Your fingers tighten around your bouquet as nerves and excitement war in your chest. Your best friend squeezes your arm. “You okay?”
You exhale and nod, but your voice is a whisper as you say, “I just…I can’t believe this is real.”
She grins. “Believe it, sweetheart. The man is completely and ridiculously in love with you.”
A knock at the door pulls you from the moment. The door opens and the wedding planner smiles at you before giving you the signal that it’s time.
As you step outside the Texas sun is warm against your skin, filtering through the canopy of oak trees that line the path leading to the altar. A gentle breeze carries the scent of wildflowers and fresh grass, the soft rustle of leaves the only thing keeping you grounded as your heart pounds in your chest.
This is it.
The music plays softly in the background. The moment you’ve been dreaming of your entire life is here.
The bridesmaids and groomsmen are already in place, taking their place at the front of the ceremony.
And then it’s just you.
You inhale deeply, clutching your bouquet tighter as you step forward.
And then you see him. Standing at the end of the aisle. Waiting for you.
His navy suit is perfectly tailored, but it’s not the sharp lines of his jacket or the crisp white of his shirt that makes your breath catch. It’s him. The way his chest rises sharply when his eyes land on you, the way his lips part slightly, like he’s forgotten how to breathe.
As he looks down the aisle at you, sunlight filtering through the trees casting a golden glow around you like something straight out of a storybook. Your gown, all lace and ethereal softness, is the kind of dress little girls dream of. But it’s not the dress that steals his breath. It’s you.
Just before you reach him, you see it. His eyes, slightly glassy. A flicker of emotion so raw, so deep, it shakes you to your core.
You barely hear the soft murmurs of the guests, the rustling of fabric as they turn to watch you as you make your way down the rest of the aisle.
But all you see is him. You exhale as you finally reach him. He reaches for you, and you take his hand. Glen’s fingers are warm as they tighten around yours.
“Hi,” he breathes, voice thick with emotion.
You smile at him, eyes glistening, and say, “Hi.”
The officiant begins to speak, but all you can focus on is Glen. The way he watches you, his gaze unwavering. The way his thumb brushes over your knuckles in an attempt to soothe any nerves you’re feeling.
Then, it’s time for the vows.
Glen takes a depth breath, his voice steady but full of emotion. “I used to think I knew what love was. What it would look like. What it would feel like. Then I met you.” He begins before pausing to take another deep breath. “And suddenly love wasn’t just a word, it was a person. It was you. It was late night talks from opposite sides of the world. It was laughter in the middle of a sentence, and silence that never felt empty. You are my greatest adventure. You are home, no matter where we are. And today, I promise to spend forever proving to you that loving you is the easiest and best thing I’ve ever done.”
Tears roll down your cheek, and Glen who notices everything about you, reaches up to wipe them away with his thumb.
You take a breath, and find your voice. “Glen. I don’t know if I believe in fate. I don’t know if I believe that everything happens for a reason. But I do know one thing with absolute certainty. I was meant to love you. I don’t know how I got lucky enough to stand here with you today. You are my heart, my safe place, and my home. You make the world brighter just by being in it. And I promise to love you in all the ways you deserve, for all the days we have.”
Glen exhales, and lets out a soft almost choked out laugh. “God, I love you.”
The small audience consisting of your friends and family laugh as the officiant continues.
“Well I think that’s all there is to say. Glen, I think it’s time. You may kiss your bride.”
Glen takes a step closer, closing the space between the two of you. His hands reach up and frame your face gently, one hand sliding into your hair as he leans in, the other still holding yours like he can’t bear to let it go.
The kiss starts soft and slow like he’s savoring every second. But then it deepens, and you feel it all. The weight of the moment. The joy. The relief. The promise of forever.
You can feel him smile against your lips, just a little, before pulling back barely an inch. Just enough to whisper against your mouth, “My wife.”
You smile, let out a little laugh, and then pull him in for another kiss. This one’s a much shorter one.
You barely register the officiant announcing you as Mr. and Mrs. Powell. The cheers and applause begin to fade as Glen’s lips leave yours, his forehead resting gently against yours as you both catch your breath. His thumb brushes along your cheekbone once more, like he can’t help but touch you.
The music begins to play as the guests rise to their feet, and Glne pulls back. There’s an almost boyish smile on his face, like he’s still trying to believe that this isn’t some wild dream.
“You ready, Mrs. Powell?” He asks softly.
You nod, fingers tightening around his as you take his hand. “After you.”
And with that the two of you turn toward the aisle. You’ve got Glen’s hand in one hand and your bouquet in the other. The guests continue to applause as you begin the walk back together. This time as husband and wife.
summary: the squad are sick of you and hangman pining after each other, so they set you up with the cowboy hat rule - 'you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy' (i know it's never specified but because glen grew up in texas, i'm applying that to jake)
notes: i am literally posting this while at work because i am so excited! i'm actually pretty proud of this one right now, so i'm trying not to second guess it and keep rereading it... i really hope y'all enjoy! please let me know all your thoughts! (in case you can't tell, i'm currently reading elsie silver's books)
warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption / drunkenness, mention of a student/teacher relationship, and general horniness but no actual smut (i'm sorry, it's already so long)
word count: 10667
You roll your lips as your eyes wander across the faces of your friends, each of them expressing varying degrees of excitement as they discuss the upcoming celebration for Javy’s birthday this weekend. It’s been a good week for the dagger squad, and even Maverick has managed not to piss off the admiral in almost five whole days. Everyone is holding their breath, praying he can hold off for the second half of the day so the team doesn’t get punished with weekend rotation... again.
You’re sitting in the middle of the long table with Natasha to your left and Bradley to your right, and across from you is the most gorgeous man on the planet. You can’t help settling your gaze on him, tracing the bridge of his nose as he faces Javy beside him, lips moving as words spill from them, but you can't possibly know what he’s saying because you’re too busy picturing what else those lips would be good at. His Adam’s apple bobs between statements and his tongue occasionally darts across those lips, making your innocent Friday lunch feel a lot filthier as your thoughts wander in the most inappropriate way.
An elbow nudging into your ribs knocks you off your bullet train of thought, derailing it at high speed as reality comes crashing down and you turn accusingly toward Bradley. “What?” you snap.
He chuckles, “You’re drooling.”
Your hand flies up to your mouth, fingers padding at each corner only to find the skin dry. You scowl at him, “Asshole.”
He has to hide his increased laughter in the mouth of his water bottle, taking a long sip so to not draw the attention of the rest of the group. “Sorry,” he says as he places the bottle back on the table, “but you were about to. I was saving you from yourself.”
You roll your eyes, “Whatever.”
Bradley shakes his head, his amused grin fading as he drops his gaze back to the tray of food in front of him, and a tiny pebble of guilt drops in the pit of your stomach. You suddenly feel bad for snapping at your best friend, so you bump your shoulder against his and reach over to steal a fry from his tray.
He shoots you a glare from the corner of his eye, but the smirk on his lips tells you that he isn’t really mad. You pop the fry into your mouth and chew it with a smile before turning your attention back to the group, startling when you find a pair of green eyes already trained on you. Heat flushes up your neck, colouring your cheeks as you stare back at the man you had just previously been ogling. Time seems to slow down, or speed up, you’re not sure, but what you do know is how pretty Jake’s eyes are, swirling shades of green with flecks of gold that glow in the afternoon sunlight flooding through the high cafeteria windows.
“Hangman?” Javy clicks his fingers in front of Jake’s face, simultaneously snapping you both out of whatever trance you’d been stuck in.
When you look around the table, you notice that most of the group are standing now, holding their empty trays and getting ready to return to work.
Jake blinks a few times, a slight frown creasing between his brows. “What?” he snaps.
Javy chuckles, holding one hand up in surrender. “Calm down, I was just asking what time we should get to your place tomorrow night.”
“Oh,” Jake’s shoulders visibly relax, “1800.”
You roll your eyes playfully as you push up from your chair. “Okay soldier, you can just say 6PM.”
His face breaks into a breathtaking grin as he stands and picks his tray up from the table. “Sorry civilian, I’ll see you at 6PM tomorrow night.”
Low laughter rumbles through the group as you take an extra moment to appreciate the gorgeous man smiling at you, but then Javy tugs on Jake’s arm and interrupts you both for the second time less than a minutes. “Come on man, Mav will be pissed if we’re late.”
“Wait for me?” Bradley asks.
You turn to your best friend and find him looking at you – asking you – rather than his squadmates. “Huh?”
He raises one judgemental brow, a teasing smirk on his lips. “After work, wait for me so I can give you a lift home.”
“Oh,” you nod, “duh, I’m not walking.”
His eyes flash toward Jake’s retreating form before he looks back at you with a grin. “Would you at least try to control yourself? Jesus, it’s so obvious.”
“Oh, shut up,” you frown at him. “Hurry up or Mav will have your ass.”
He stacks his tray on top of yours in your hands and leans forward, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “You’re so sweet to me,” he jokes, before turning on his heel and jogging after the others.
You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you watch him leave, meeting Jake at the exit door leading to the main hangars. Just as they both disappear, you can swear Jake throws an angry glance over his shoulder at you, but the door swings shut before you can be sure.
That glare haunts you on your journey back to the control tower. Had you really seen what you think you saw? Jake had just been grinning at you, joking with you, but then somewhere on his way across the cafeteria he had found a reason to glare at you. It doesn’t make sense.
You try to push the image of his angry face out of your mind as you sit back at your desk, one of eight situated on the fourth floor of the main control tower. Three screens stare back at you, displaying various windows of information about the sky’s conditions and other operational statuses from around the base. You slide your headset on and adjust the dials until you can hear a soft crackle indicating successful connection to the correct frequency. One by one, you watch the faces and callsigns of your friends pop up on the right-most screen as they turn their comms on and ready their jets.
“Maverick to control,” Mav’s voice comes through your headset.
“Good afternoon, Maverick,” you reply, as if you hadn’t already been on the comms with him for half the day.
“Radio check before take-off please, aviators,” he says, “alphabetical order if you geniuses can figure it out.”
You roll your lips to keep from laughing, reminding yourself that despite your personal connection to these people, this is still your job.
“Bob to control, can you hear me?”
“Lound and clear,” you respond, quickly trying to figure out the alphabetical order for yourself.
“Coyote to control.”
“Copy.”
“Fanboy to control.”
“Copy,” you repeat.
“Hangman to control,” Jake says, his voice in your ear sending the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy.
“Copy,” you reply.
The line then goes quiet, a faint crackling the only indication that the radio hasn’t completely dropped out. You wait a beat before speaking again, “Radio check please Payback.”
“Shit, sorry. Copy,” Reuben’s voice responds. “I thought Phoenix was before me.”
“A comes before H, idiot,” Natasha says, followed by a chorus of snickers. “Phoenix to control, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, Phoenix,” you reply through your laughter.
“Rooster to control,” Bradley’s voice fills your ears, “your favourite pilot here, bringing up the rear.”
You roll your eyes, “Copy that, Shakespeare.”
Another rumble of laughter comes through your headset as you quickly type into the afternoon’s log that the radio check was successful.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Mav says as the laughter dies down. “Control, are we good for take-off?”
“Skies are clear, Mav,” you reply, “take off at will.”
You tune out the soft chatter as the squad ready themselves for taking off, and one by one watch their altitudes rise on your middle screen. They all pop up as red dots on the radar window, blinking slowly as they cruise through what you know is a cloudy afternoon sky.
“We’ve got a stormfront coming in from the south,” you say, eyes darting to your left-most screen. “We might need to call it a little early this afternoon, Mav.”
Maverick chuckles, “An early mark on a Friday? I don’t know if this lot deserve it.”
A series of protests then fill your ears, almost every pilot falling for Maverick’s taunt and arguing that they do deserve an early mark, even going as far as to say that they’ve had a hard week. You’ve been here all week too, and you probably couldn’t agree with that since this week has been one of the cruisiest in a while.
“Alright, alright,” Mav says to quell the bickering, “if you can perfectly execute the cloak and dagger drill, I’ll let you all land by 1500.”
The complaining turns into cheering, and Bradley threatens the team to perform because he’s not staying back in a storm on a Friday afternoon. Not that Mav could keep them in the skies if the weather gets that bad.
“Listen up,” Maverick says, “Coyote, I’ll be your wingman, and I want Phoenix and Bob behind us. Hangman, Rooster will be your wingman-”
“I’ve been trying, Mav,” Bradley interrupts, his voice dripping with cheek, “but the man is oblivious.”
Your heart leaps into your throat, blocking your airways as you suffocate on the audacity of your best friend. The laughter from your headset sounds distant as you try to remember how to breathe, willing yourself to calm down. Afterall, no one could really know what he’s talking about, right?
“Yes, Rooster,” Maverick chuckles, “we’re all aware of how oblivious Hangman is.”
Your eyes grow wide.
“What are you talking about?” Jake pipes up, and you can almost see the adorable and confused look on his face. His brows pinched together, a little crease between them, and his bottom lip pushed forward in a small pout.
“Point and case,” Bradley says, at which the rest of the squad dissolve into giggles.
Does everyone know about your crush? Is Jake really the only confused pilot right now?
“I don’t get the joke,” Mickey says over the laughter.
You can’t help the smile that cracks across your face, a breathy laugh leaving your lips as you try to focus on documenting the weather warning in your afternoon log. The team continue to giggle, turning their teasing on Mickey before Maverick orders them to focus. They run the drill perfectly, finishing up just before an orange alert pops up on your screen, a notification from the weather analysis team telling you to get the squad on the ground.
“Maverick,” you say, “the storm is coming in fast; you’ve been ordered to land.”
“Copy that,” he responds, before rattling off instructions to the squad.
One by one, you watch their blinking dots on the radar screen approach the runway and land. They manoeuvre toward the hangar, following instructions from the ground team to store the jets for the weekend. You exchange a couple of last words with Mav before they all remove their helmets and start the end of day procedures. You take time to check your emails and send the day’s log to the data analysis team before doing all your usual sign offs. By the time you’re exiting the control tower, it’s almost 4PM.
You pull your phone out of your back pocket, about to text Bradley asking which lot he parked in today when his Ford Bronco skids to a halt three feet in front of you. He leans across the passenger seat and pops the door open with a grin. “Need a ride?”
You roll your eyes, taking two long strides forward and throwing your bag into the back seat before flopping into the passenger seat beside him. “That was quick,” you state. “Doesn’t the debrief usually take longer on Fridays?”
Bradley shrugs, “The admiral left early today so we didn’t have to do a formal debrief, and maintenance are doing a fuel flush on all the jets this weekend so they took them off our hands pretty quick.”
“Oh, nice,” you reply simply before turning your attention back to your phone, checking the notifications you missed during work.
Bradley navigates the base easily, slowing to a stop at the exit gates and having a short chat with the security guard in the booth before the boomgate rises and he hits the gas again. When the car merges onto the main highway, you tuck your phone under your thigh, not wanting to risk motion sickness with Bradley’s driving. Let’s just say, he’s a much better pilot than he is a chauffeur.
“So,” he says, glancing at you with a cheeky grin, “do you want to hear something interesting.”
You sigh, recognising that look. “Who were you eavesdropping on today?”
“I heard Hangman talking to Coyote before I left,” he explains, eyes sparkling with mischief, “and I heard Coyote say to ‘stop making excuses and just ask her out’.”
You frown, trying to tamp down the green-eyed monster rumbling to life in your stomach. “Ask who out?”
“I didn’t hear a name, but I’m assuming-”
“Don’t say me.”
He chuckles, “Not me, you.”
You scowl at him, “Don’t argue with me about semantics.”
He rolls his eyes, “I just don’t understand why you won’t believe me. You heard the whole squad before, everyone knows except Hangman, even Mav!”
“Mickey doesn’t know,” you argue.
“Fanboy is almost as oblivious as your boyfriend.”
Your eyes narrow, “Do not use that word.”
He laughs again, “Which one?”
“You know which one.”
He sighs heavily, as if the weight of your unrequited crush was pressing down on his shoulders too. “Look, if you’re going to be stubborn, I’m going to have to take things into my own hands.”
“Please don’t,” you beg, your eyes growing wide.
He shrugs and adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, but you’re giving me no choice.”
“Bradley, please,” you plead, turning in your seat to face him, “just leave it alone. I don’t want to ruin the friendship and make it uncomfortable for the whole group.”
“The whole group already is uncomfortable with you two constantly eye-fucking each other!”
Heat creeps up your neck, turning your cheeks pink and making your ears burn. You want to protest and continue arguing with him, because you’re adamant that Jake does not return your feelings, but your brain can’t seem to string a coherent sentence together. Instead, you sink down in your seat and scowl at the road, wondering what you could possibly be in store for if Bradley really is taking matters into his own hands.
The rest of the drive home isn’t long, and soon enough, Bradley is pulling the Bronco into his parking spot in the garage of the apartment block you both live in. You don’t live together, but you do live in neighbouring studio apartments, so it often feels like you live together. You drive to and from work together, you usually have dinner together and watch movies together in the evenings. Basically, if you’re both not busy, you’re with each other, and it’s been that way as long as you’ve both been based on North Island.
The squad had initially teased that the two of you might be more than friends, they even had you questioning it, but one wine-drunk kiss while watching The Bachelor confirmed that neither of you felt anything romantic toward the other. It was that same night that you also confessed to Bradley that you might be falling for Jake, to which he looked at you like you were stupid because duh. Apparently, your crush has been obvious from day one.
Now, here you are, hopelessly in love with a man you not only work with, but you’d also consider one of your closest friends. Rock, meet Hard Place, and you? You’re in the middle.
-
After spending the night on the couch with Bradley and a box of pizza, you took yourself off to bed and dreamed one of the many reoccurring dreams you have about a certain fighter pilot. You managed to sleep in before taking yourself for a long walk and making a mental list of all the things you needed to do before Javy’s birthday party.
Jake had been generous enough to offer having the party at his place, since the squad wanted to do something other than go to The Hard Deck for once. You'd offered to help shop for supplies and set up for the night, but Jake and Javy assured the group that they had it all under control. All you have to do is waste your Saturday and quell your nerves before the party.
At exactly 5:45PM, there’s a knock at your door. You quickly finish applying your lip balm before tucking it into the purse hanging from your shoulder and grabbing the jacket you’d thrown over the back of the lounge. You yank your front door open to find your best friend grinning from ear to ear, his moustache looking particularly fresh.
“You shaved,” you state, stepping forward and forcing him to step back.
He nods before asking, “Did you?”
You finish locking the door, slipping the key into your purse with one hand while the other slaps Bradley’s bicep. “Don’t be creepy!”
He chuckles and rubs his arm. “I’m not being creepy, I’m just making sure you’re prepared for any outcome.”
You narrow your eyes at him, “What are you planning?”
"Nothing in particular,” he replies innocently, though the small smirk on his lips betrays him.
You decide to leave it, since you're already nervous enough, and focus on relaxing the butterflies flapping wildly in your stomach. Bradley decided earlier that he would drive to Jake’s, since it’s hardly ten minutes from where you live, and leave his car in favour of getting an Uber home. Jake had said that anyone who wanted to crash was more than welcome to, but the thought of sleeping at his place only invigorates those nervous butterflies.
“Stop,” Bradley says, one hand leaving the steering wheel to grab your bouncing knee. “Why are you so nervous?”
You shrug, opting instead to wring your hands in your lap. “I don’t know, I just am.”
“You see these people every single day,” he points out, “what’s so nerve-wracking about tonight?”
You sigh, refusing to look at him as you reply, “I’m just feeling a little weird about going to Jake’s apartment.”
His brows shoot up toward his hairline, and you can tell by the way he rolls his lips that he’s holding back laughter. Your cheeks burn, and you have to hide your face in your hands.
“I’m not going to make fun of you,” he says quickly, “I actually think it’s a bit cute.”
You drop your hands, turning to him with a frown. “What? Why?”
He shrugs one shoulder, “I don’t know. It’s cute that you’re nervous to see where you’ll be living once the two of you finally fuck and get marr- ow!”
You cut him off my smacking his arm, the same one as before, harder. “Would you stop being such a pain?!” you exclaim as the car comes to a halt. “You’re supposed to be my best friend; you’re supposed to comfort me, not make my face all red and blotchy right before we go inside.”
He finally lets his laughter win, his shoulders shaking as he chuckles into his closed fist. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m not trying to be a dick, it just comes so naturally.”
You roll your eyes and pop open the passenger door, throwing him a glare over your shoulder. “I know.”
He manages to keep his thoughts to himself while the two of you cross the lobby and ride the elevator up to the fourth floor. This apartment block is shorter than yours, but wider. It’s one of the most coveted locations for naval personnel based on North Island, being the closest two- and three-bedroom apartments to the base. Jake had lucked out when he snagged one of these apartments with another lieutenant, and he’d lucked out even harder when that lieutenant got relocated and he ended up having the apartment to himself.
The sound of Bradley’s knuckles against the hardwood door knocks you back to reality, and you find yourself standing in front of apartment 4B.
“Who is it?” Natasha’s voice calls from the other side of the door.
“Stripper,” Bradley calls back.
“Finally,” the door wooshes open and you watch the liquid in Natasha’s red cup slosh dangerously. “We’ve been waiting all night.”
Bradley winks at her as he strides into the apartment, but before you can follow, Natasha blocks your path. “You need to pay the entry fee,” she says, offering you the red cup.
You frown, “Why me and not him?”
“Because it’ll calm your nerves.”
You catch Bradley smirking over his shoulder, and you scowl at him, wishing you could telepathically punch him for texting Natasha in advance, warning her of your anxiousness.
“Fine,” you sigh, taking the cup and tipping it to your lips.
You drain the cup, ignoring the burn that slides all the way down to your stomach. When you tip your head back to look at Natasha, she’s grinning. “Now you may enter,” she says, stepping aside.
There are a few more people than just the dagger squad in the apartment. You recognised most of them, but you decide that it’s not important enough for you to go around the room introducing yourself to the ones you don’t know the way Bradley is. Outgoing motherfucker. Instead, you beeline for the kitchen where Bob is on the phone reading out an extensive list of pizza orders. He offers you a quick smile before returning his attention to the list.
There’s a makeshift cocktail station set up beside the sink, with an array of alcohol bottles sat on the passthrough window bench. Your gaze drifts past the bottles and into the lounge room where everyone is gathered, landing easily on Jake who is animatedly retelling something to two men you recognise as Fritz and Yale. You’ve never been so charmed by someone in your life, it’s almost laughable the way this man captivates you. You can’t look away from the bright grin on his face, the tiny crease between his brows, and the excitement in his pretty green eyes.
“Hey,” Bob says, startling you out of your trance.
You can feel heat blooming in your cheeks as you turn to face him, leaning your left hip against the countertop. “Hey.”
“Drink?” he asks, a small but knowing smile tipping the corner of his mouth up.
You nod quickly, “Please.”
You chat idly while Bob fixes you both a cocktail that you don’t recognise, not that you’re much of a connoisseur when it comes to bartending, and you’re pretty sure he sneaks an extra shot into yours. Either way, the drink he hands you tastes delicious and fruity, and you’re feeling a little less nervous as you both join the group in the living room. A couple of Javy’s friends who you don’t know have already parted from the dagger squad, starting a foosball competition while the rest of you find somewhere to sit around the coffee table.
“Okay,” Bradley says to the group, “let’s play a little warm up game.”
“Yes!” Mickey exclaims as he settles into a beanbag. “I’m so down.”
Javy chuckles, “Alright, what are we playing?”
“Never Have I Ever,” Bradley replies, his lips curled into an evil smirk.
Your heart stutters, forgetting its usual rhythm before jumping into an erratic beat. You tip your drink to your lips, almost draining the whole thing, and when you finally look back at your best friend across the coffee table, he winks. This is his plan.
“But instead of just putting a finger down,” Natasha says, making you realise that she is in on it too, “you have to take a sip of your drink.”
“Does everyone have a drink?” Bradley asks.
You watch as a few of your friends drain the dregs of their current drinks before getting up to retrieve fresh ones, and you sigh, tipping the last of your cocktail into your mouth. You might as well get drunk with them.
When Bob returns to his seat beside you, he hands you a bottle of blue liquid. “Thought you might need this.”
You smile gratefully, “You’re the best.”
Once everyone is settled again, Bradley and Natasha take turns going over the rules of the high school game, even though it’s not that complicated.
“Oh, one last thing,” Bradley says, eyes trained on you, “nothing is off limits, and if you lie, you finish your drink.”
“How will we know if someone’s lying?” Reuben asks.
“I think there’s enough of us here that know each other well enough to spot a lie,” Natasha replies with a smirk.
Well, fuck.
“I’ll start,” Bradley announces. “Never have I ever slept with someone else in the navy.”
Jake, Javy, Mickey, Reuben, Natasha, and Harvard – who you only know by his callsign – all groan and take a sip of their drinks. Your eyes widen and you turn to Natasha on your right. “Excuse me, why did I not know about this?”
She rolls her eyes, “It was ages ago.”
“Damn, Phoenix,” Reuben says with a smirk, “didn’t think you were a rule breaker.”
“Technically,” Natasha bites back, “it’s not a rule, just frowned upon.”
Laughter rolls through the group before Bradley turns to Jake on his left. “You’re up, Hangman.”
Jake clears his throat as he sits up straighter and surveys the group, lingering on you for a moment longer than the rest. “Okay,” he says, “never have I ever had a secret relationship.”
There’s a beat of silence, a few people’s brows creasing in confusion as everyone stares at Jake.
“That’s a weird one,” Natasha states, though you can see in her eyes that she’s trying to figure out the hidden meaning to Jake’s declaration.
“Well, anyway,” Javy says, chuckling as he tips his beer to his lips.
The rest of the group takes a moment to think before both Bradley and Mickey also take a sip of their drinks. You watch Jake’s eyes widen slightly as he watches Bradley drink, then his gaze darts toward you, as if waiting for you to take a sip too. When you don’t, his shoulders seem to relax.
“Oh, my God,” Natasha whispers so softly that only you can hear, and when you turn to look at her, you find her eyes focused on Jake.
You feel yourself splitting in two, torn between asking Natasha what her revelation is or demanding to know what this secret relationship of Bradley’s was. You decide to go with the less nerve-inducing option.
“Excuse me, Bradley,” you speak across the group, “what was this secret relationship?”
He chuckles, “It was in high school.”
“Oh,” Reuben wriggles his eyebrows and nudges Bradley’s side, “were you a junior and she was a senior?”
Bradley snorts, “Actually, I was a senior and she was a teacher.”
Javy chokes on his second mouthful of beer, and the group suddenly erupts into laughter and questions while Bradley sits there like a king. You join in the laughter and use the commotion to slide your gaze toward Jake, heat rising in your cheeks when you find his eyes already fixed on you. He smirks, and you’re pretty sure your stomach does a triple somersault.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Bradley says. “I know I’m a legend. Now, let’s get on with it.”
Beside Jake, the man you only know as Harvard announces that he has never skinny dipped, at which everyone but Bob takes a sip of their drink. Next is Fritz, who declares that he has never had sex in the shower, and everyone in the group drinks. Your heart starts to race again as Natasha wriggles beside you, clearly excited about it being her turn next.
“Let me think,” she says, rolling her lips as she pauses to think for a moment.
You feel her brief gaze from the corner of her eye, and heat prickles the back of your neck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Never have I ever,” she begins, her brown eyes glowing with mischief, “had sexual fantasies about someone else in this group.”
Your breath catches on its way out, lodging in your throat as you once again forget how to breathe. You can feel your pulse across every inch of your skin, your heart thudding so hard against your ribs you worry it might break free. You can’t lie. You know you can’t lie, because Bradley is giving you a very pointed glare from across the group and Natasha has turned her whole body to face you.
“Fine,” you mutter into the bottle as you bring it to your lips, tipping it up.
You hear Javy's laughter above everyone else’s hoots and hollers, and when you look back at the group, you catch the tail end of Jake taking a sip from his drink. Natasha giggles beside you, subtly nudging your side with her elbow.
Bradley’s eyes are trained on you, and he opens his mouth to no doubt say something taunting when Reuben lifts his drink to his lips, and Bradley turns to him in shock. “You too?!” he exclaims.
Mickey has dissolved into fits of laughter, curling over and holding his stomach.
“It was an accident,” Reuben justifies, the colour of his cheeks growing deeper, “I had one dream.”
“About who?” Jake demands, his frown more accusatory than curious.
Reuben shakes his head, “That is nobody’s business but mine.”
The laughter slowly dies down, and you silently thank any god that might be listening for the distraction before Bradley or Natasha could embarrass you further.
“Okay, my turn,” you say, quickly moving the game along. “Never have I ever piloted a jet.”
The smirk on your lips is incredibly proud, and half the group groans while the other half chuckles as every single one of them tip their drinks to their lips. It was a cheap shot, but you had to distract from all the sex stuff before you spontaneously combusted.
“Alright, Bob,” Bradley says, looking at the man to your left, “what have you got for us?”
Bob clears his throat, a small smile curling his lips. “Never have I ever worn a bra.”
Both you and Natasha roll your eyes and take a swig of your drinks, and across the group so does Bradley. You stare at him wide eyed as a stupid grin stretches across your face.
“Oh, I have got to hear this story,” Natasha says, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees.
Bradley tries to shrug nonchalantly, but you can see blood seeping into his cheeks, turning them red. “Alright, as if none of you have tried a bra on before,” he says, eyeing the men around the circle.
Everyone bursts into fits of laughter, holding their stomachs or their chests as they fold over and start mocking your best friend. You almost feel bad for him, watching him try to defend himself, but then you remember that he started this game to out your crush and any trace of empathy you had is quickly wiped clean.
“Okay, everyone shut up,” Javy says over the giggling and teasing, “it’s the birthday boy’s turn.”
The noise dies down, and only then do you realise that the group of Javy’s friends by the foosball table are now watching the game of Never Have I Ever as if it’s some enthralling reality TV show.
“Never have I ever,” Javy says slowly, his eyes locked on Jake directly across the circle, “been too chickenshit to ask someone out even though I’m clearly obsessed with them.”
Your heart stutters again, unable to discern the difference between being held at gunpoint and playing a stupid game mostly likely created by high school students. You tip your drink to your lips, not missing the fact that Jake does too, and certainly not missing the way Bradley’s eyes widen and snap toward you. Mickey and Fritz also drink, but to your immense relief, the rest of the group hold off on the teasing for this round.
“Okay, um,” Mickey taps a finger on his chin as he stares into space, “never have I ever ridden a horse.”
Beside him, Reuben frowns, “What?”
Mickey shrugs, “I was looking at the horse.” He gestures toward the narrow bookshelf beside the television cabinet, adorned with a few books, photo frames, and knickknacks. On the very middle shelf is a golden trophy with a little figurine of a cowboy riding a horse, his rope poised in the air mid-lasso.
Reuben turns his quizzical frown toward Jake. “Why do you have a horse trophy?”
Jake’s cheeks are pink, either from embarrassment or alcohol, you can’t tell, but Javy speaks before he can reply. “Didn’t you know baby Hangman was a part of Austin’s champion junior penning team?”
Mickey tilts his head like a confused dog. “What’s penning?”
“It’s a ranching thing,” Jake replies, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “You’re in a team of three on horseback, and you have to separate cattle. There’re all these other rules too, but that’s the basis of it.”
Your chest aches at the sight of Jake Seresin actually looking shy. You’ve never seen this man with less confidence than a stag in mating season, and that mixed with the imagery of a young Jake working on his family’s ranch; well, your heart is just about ready to burst.
Bradley chuckles, “I always forget that you’re a cowboy.”
“Can take the boy out of Texas,” Javy says with a southern twang, “but can’t take Texas out of the boy.”
Jake rolls his eyes playfully and rumples up his empty red cup before tossing it across the circle at his best friend. From what you can gather, Jake and Javy have known each other far longer than just the past few years, and you’re always pleasantly surprised when either of them comes out with historic pieces of information about the other.
“Alright, one more and we’re playing a new game,” Bradley announces, turning his attention to Reuben who is the last to go before it’s back to the beginning.
“Never have I ever,” Reuben says with a cheeky smile, “owned a cowboy hat.”
The group dissolves into another fit of laughter, and you see Natasha and Fritz sip their drinks from the corner of your eye, but everyone’s attention has turned to Jake.
He rolls his eyes again and pushes to his feet. “You people are relentless!” he exclaims, his tone laced with amusement. “I finished my drink anyway, so suck on that.”
Renewed laughter rumbles through the room as Jake storms off down the short hallway, disappearing into a room you can’t see from your position on the lounge. Half the group make their way toward the kitchen to refresh their drinks, while the other half continue joking about Jake’s cowboy ancestry.
You turn your attention back to the bookshelf where the trophy is, letting your eyes wander over all the pieces of Jake that are displayed on the shelves. You hadn’t noticed before, but a lot of the decor in the apartment gives subtle nod to his upbringing. Everything is washed in warm browns and oranges with rich wood furniture, photos of horses and farmland, and trinkets reminiscent of a life on the ranch. He has more than one trophy, you note, and there are a quite a few photos of a young, smiley boy standing proudly beside the same chestnut horse. Your chest squeezes again, reminding you just how enamoured you are with this man.
“Drink?” Bob asks for the second time tonight, offering a different coloured cocktail than earlier.
You nod, “Thank you.”
“Pizza is almost here,” he says, looking at both you and Natasha. “Would you help me go down to the lobby and pick it up?”
You both agree and let the rest of the group know where you’re going before heading out of the apartment door. The pizza guy meets you in the lobby barely a minute after you step out of the lift. Bob pays with cash, and you all stack your arms with boxes of delicious smelling pizza before stepping back into the lift and riding it up to level four.
You can hear commotion the second the elevator doors part, and it gets louder the closer you get to Jake’s apartment. The three of you exchange dubious looks before Bob shifts the boxes in his arms to free one hand and knock on the door. It swings open almost immediately, and you can now very clearly hear some unrecognisable country song blaring while everyone hoots and cheers.
Fritz, who opened the door, takes some of the boxes and calls for more help. As soon as your arms are free, you turn to see what all the fuss is about, your jaw dropping open the second your eyes land on the two men in the middle of the living space.
Jake and Javy are arm in arm, jumping in circles and doing what you assume is supposed to be some country jig. It’s uncoordinated and they’re both laughing so hard they can barely breathe, but it’s not the dancing that has the butterflies in your stomach whirring to life. Atop Jake’s head is a brown cowboy hat. It’s simple and a little worn, the exact same colour as the horse in the photos with young Jake.
Holy fucking shit, does that man look good in a cowboy hat.
You’ve never really considered yourself as having a ‘type’, but right now you couldn’t be more sure that this man is your type. The only person on planet earth that is your type. You can’t help the way your lips are pulled into a grin so wide it hurts, and the fast, uneven thud of your heart against your ribcage, threatening to crack bone.
“Are you okay?” Bradley asks, startling you as he wraps an arm around your shoulders.
You sigh, feeling the pull in your gut that tugs toward the man in the cowboy hat. “No,” you reply, leaning into him, “I’m not okay.”
His chest vibrates with laughter as you hide your face in it, keeping your arms slack by your side as you pretend to sob into your best friend’s shirt. His other arm wraps around you and his laughter doubles, one arm squeezing you tight while the other hand rubs circles on your back. Despite how much of an asshole he can be, you know that Bradley is always there for you when you need him.
You pull out of his embrace when the music dies down and Bob announces that its dinner time. Your eyes easily find the cowboy, watching him walk toward the dining table where all the boxes of pizza are laid open.
“Look at him,” you whisper-shout to Bradley. “Fucking look at him! Don’t you just want to lick-”
“Nope,” Bradley interrupts before you can even finish. “I definitely do not want to lick any part of that man.”
You roll your eyes playfully as he guides you toward the table of pizza. He hands you a plate and you start stacking a few slices on it despite your nervous stomach’s protests. When you glance across at Jake, his piercing eyes are already on you – like they so often seem to be of late – but he doesn’t look nearly as joyous as he had moments earlier. There’s a crease between his brows and tension in his jaw as he chews.
Natasha pops up beside you and starts babbling about what game you should all play next. She’s always a chatty drunk, not at all annoying, but definitely more vocal than usual after a few drinks. You listen to her and Bradley squabble about games before Javy pipes in, declaring that it is his birthday so he should get to decide.
After everyone has eaten their fill, Jake and Reuben pack away the leftover pizza while Bob and Mickey start making a round of cocktails. Meanwhile, Javy announces that he would like everyone to do a shot, which is when three of his mates who you have guessed are not navy make their exit.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Javy mutters, lining up all the mismatched shot glasses on the kitchen counter. “How many do we need?”
You look at Jake, who is standing beside you and craning his neck to count the heads in the room. “Why do you have so many shot glasses?” you ask him.
He pauses for a beat before chuckling and shaking his head. “You made me lose count.”
When he looks down at you, it feels like your lungs constrict, forgetting once again how to do their one job. Your chest aches in the most deliciously painful way, because that ache radiates all the way down to the apex of your thighs. You don't just want this man, you need him.
“I used to like to collect shot glasses,” he finally replies. “I’d try to get one in every city I visited but after about ten, I kept forgetting.”
“We need eleven,” Javy announces, obviously having counted the room while Jake answered your question.
“We’re one short then,” Jake states.
You shrug, your inebriated brain quickly diving into devious thoughts. “Someone could do a body shot off me.”
Every head in a two-foot radius snaps toward you. Jake’s eyes are blown wide, and a huge grin is pulling Javy’s mouth across his face. Bob looks shocked and Mickey looks amused, but Bradley is almost glowing with pride.
You roll your eyes for the umpteenth time, “I’m joking, guys. Calm down.”
Jake’s shoulders sag as if he’s disappointed, but he huffs a short laugh out before picking up one of the bottles to start pouring liquid into the line of shot glasses. “I’ll go last,” he says, looking at Javy. “I’ll just use your glass.”
At Javy’s request, everyone gathers around and picks a shot, clinking them together and spilling drops of amber liquid on the floor before tipping them up to their lips. It burns all the way down and sizzles angrily in your stomach. Sweat prickles the back of your neck as heat breaks out across every inch of your skin. You’re well on your way to being drunk, so you take advantage of the cheering to slip back into the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of water. If anything, it might save your head tomorrow.
Twenty minutes later, everyone has a full drink and a seat somewhere around the coffee table. Javy decided that it’s time for another game, and despite protests, he said that he has picked one and there will be no negotiations. You find yourself comfortably between Bradley and Natasha, trying not to ogle at the gorgeous man across the circle. He is no longer wearing his cowboy hat, having taken it off just before doing his shot, hanging it on the back of one of the dining chairs.
“Alright, what are we in for?” Bradley asks Javy.
Javy grins, “Truth or Dare.”
There’s a mixture of cheers and groans, but everyone ends up giggling with each other since the whole group is very happily tipsy by now.
“Okay, okay,” Natasha calls over the laughter, “what rules are we playing?”
Javy and Natasha negotiate the rules of the game, deciding not to move the game in a circle but from player to player; whoever gets asked ‘truth or dare’ then gets to choose the next victim. You glance quickly toward Fritz, Harvard, and Yale, the three you don’t hang out with all that much, and wonder if they’ll ever get a turn.
“And if you don’t want to answer the truth or do the dare,” Natasha says, “then you have to drink.”
Everyone nods in agreeance before Jake announces from beside Javy, “Birthday boy goes first.”
Javy’s eyes scan the circle before settling on Bradley. “Rooster,” he says, “truth or dare?”
“We’ll start of lightly,” Bradley states. “Truth.”
“Is it true that you and Y/N are just friends?”
Your eyes widen and you immediately inch away from your friend, leaning into a giggling Natasha.
“Yes!” Bradley exclaims. “It couldn’t be truer! Are you kidding me?”
Laughter rumbles through the group, everyone but Jake finding Bradley’s disgust rather amusing.
Javy chuckles, “Just checking! You two are pretty cosy.”
You scoff, “He’s like my brother.”
“Alright,” Javy raises both hands in surrender, “I won’t ever question it again.”
“Good,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him.
Bradley clears his throat and the snickering dies down. He looks straight at Jake, “Hangman, truth or dare?”
“Truth,” Jake replies.
“Is it true that you’re totally hung up on someone right now?”
Jakes cheeks turn bright pink and he immediately covers his face with his hand, hiding his sheepish smile. He sighs, “Yes, that is true.”
Your stomach twists itself into a knot, threatening to eject everything you’ve consumed in the past few hours. The rest of the group start giggling again, teasing Jake and making stupid oohing noises as the poor man places his beer on the coffee table to bury his face in both hands.
“Okay,” he chuckles, swatting at Javy as he makes kissy noises, “that’s enough.”
Once everyone manages to mostly compose themselves, Jake asks Bob truth or dare. Bob chooses dare, which lands him in Bradley’s lap for the next ten minutes. Bob then asks Natasha truth or dare, and she picks truth, deciding to drink instead of admitting who she finds the most attractive in the room. You have a feeling Bob might already know the answer to that, which is why she flips him the bird before asking Mickey truth or dare. He picks dare, of course, and has to do a shot of straight vodka.
After he’s finished coughing and hacking, he returns to his spot between Bradley and Yale, turning his attention to you. “Y/N,” he says with an evil grin, “truth or dare?”
“Truth,” you respond.
“Earlier tonight, you told Bradley that you wanted to lick someone; who were you talking about?”
Your heart leaps into your throat, beating erratically as it tries to crawl up and jump right out of your mouth. Bradley bursts into a fit of laughter beside you, and Natasha coughs on the sip of drink she had just taken. You clear your throat before lifting your own drink to your lips, taking a purposeful sip and rolling your lips together.
Mickey whines, “You’re no fun!”
You scowl at him, “You were eavesdropping!”
His grin turns sheepish. “Technically, I overheard.”
You roll your eyes and let the laughter subside before scanning the circle, wondering who you could pick that might keep you safe in return. Your eyes land on Jake and you have to roll your lips again to keep from smiling. Sure, you could dare him to make out with you, but you’d rather not force yourself on him, so you settle your gaze on the man beside him, Reuben.
“Payback, truth or dare?”
His face lights up, “Dare.”
“I dare you to give your WSO a big kiss on the lips,” you say with a grin.
Mickey snorts, “You think we haven’t kissed before?”
“Dude!” Reuben exclaims across the group as everyone loses it to laughter once again.
Mickey giggles as he crawls into the middle of the circle and meets Reuben, who rolls his eyes before grabbing either side of Mickey’s head and mashing their lips together. It’s very brief, but it has the group hooting and hollering like high schoolers as the two blushing boys return to their respective spots.
Reuben shoots you a scowl, “I’ll get you back for that.”
You give him a wink before tipping your drink to your lips, realising that it’s empty. You push yourself to stand, “Drinks?”
You and Bradley work on taking the empties from the group and retrieving fresh drinks for everyone while they start asking questions about Reuben and Mickey’s first kiss. When you settle back into your seat, you see Reuben crouched beside Javy as they whisper into each other's ears, their eyes watching you carefully and their lips curling into evil little smirks.
Well shit.
Once everyone is settled again, Reuben looks toward Javy. “Coyote, truth or dare?”
“Hm,” Javy pretends to think, “dare.”
“I dare you to prank call Maverick.”
Everyone oohs as Javy pulls his phone out, a shit-eating grin stretched across his face. He switches off his caller ID before finding Maverick’s contact, and the group falls silent at the first dial tone. It rings and rings, but Mav doesn’t answer, so when his voicemail requests a message, Javy puts on his gruffest voice. “Maverick, it’s Admiral Simpson. I’ve had a few drinks, and I know this isn’t appropriate, but I just wanted to tell you that I love you.”
He hangs up and wheezes with laughter. Everyone is folded over, some wiping tears from their eyes, because right now, Maverick’s inevitable scolding doesn’t seem to be a worry.
It takes a little longer for everyone to calm down, but once they do, Javy’s eyes narrow on you. “Y/N,” he says, “truth or dare?”
“Me again?” you ask. “I just had a turn.”
He simply shrugs, awaiting your answer.
You sigh, “Fine, dare.”
You played right into his hand, and you know it by the way his lips have split into a Cheshire Cat grin.
“I dare you,” he says slowly, eyes moving past you and across the room, “to put Seresin’s cowboy hat on.”
You frown, letting go of a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. It’s too simple. “What?”
Javy nods toward the hat in the dining room. “Put the cowboy hat on.”
“Coyote,” Jake warns, his voice low.
“It’s just a hat,” you say, pushing off the couch and waving a hand dismissively.
You walk quickly across the living space toward the dining table, taking the hat off the back of the chair and plonking it on your head. When you turn back around, Jake’s mouth pops open, Javy and Reuben giggle, and Mickey and Natasha look like they’ve just realised what the stupid joke is.
“Oh, I get it!” Mickey announces proudly.
You frown at him, “Get what?”
He glances at Reuben, who makes the action of zipping his lips. Mickey turns back to you, “Sorry, I can’t say.”
You roll your eyes. “Alright, Fanboy, truth or dare?”
“Truth,” he says.
“What’s the big joke about the hat?”
“The hat rule,” he replies simply, as if it’s obvious.
“What hat rule?”
“The cowboy hat rule, you know-”
“Nope!” Javy exclaims. “Technically, he answered the question, you can’t get another answer.”
You huff, “Okay, whatever. Play your little games.”
You lean back and cross your arms, the hat still propped on your head. Across the circle, Jake’s eyes are trained on you, and there’s a hint of a smirk on his lips. He looks mildly amused by whatever the joke is that you don’t get, but he also looks a little like he might be enjoying the way the hat is sitting on your head. The alcohol rushing through your veins gives you the courage to hold his stare as you draw your bottom lip between your teeth before pulling it back out slowly. His eyes drop to your mouth, lingering there before he swallows thickly and looks away.
When you tune back into the game, you realise that Fritz is now asking Bradley truth or dare. You’re not sure what you missed, but you’re guessing it was one or two uneventful turns.
“Dare,” Bradley says.
“I dare you to walk out onto the balcony and make some weird, loud sex noises.”
Bradley springs up, excitedly jogging toward the balcony doors, throwing them open and starting to honk and moan the second he steps outside.
Jake chuckles into his hands. “You guys do realise that I still have to live here after tonight?”
“OOH, FUCK YEAH!” Bradley shouts, at which everyone’s laughter doubles.
Natasha nudges you, “Is this what you have to hear whenever he has a girl over?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” you say with a dramatic sigh.
Another few seconds pass of Bradley’s terrible sex noises before Jake calls him back inside. He sits back down beside you with a satisfied grin, his cheeks bright pink and eyes sparkling. He turns his attention to Jake. “Hangman, truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
Bradley clears his throat and casts you a quick glance before looking back at Jake. “What is the cowboy hat rule?”’
Javy and Reuben start to giggle again, and Jake sighs, looking incredibly sheepish as he runs a hand through his hair. “It’s uh- well,” he sighs, “you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.”
Your jaw goes slack and your mouth pops open, heart thundering in your chest. Bradley cackles beside you and Natasha snickers on your other side. The thought crosses your mind that if these people keep laughing so hard, they might explode.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” Javy says to you before turning to look at Jake. “Now the two of you can fuck and relieve us all of this stifling sexual tension.”
Neither you nor Jake can muster a laugh. You simply stare at each other, thoughts racing as you wonder why Javy would do this. Is what he said true? Does Jake actually like you the way Bradley has always said? Is the tension between the two of you that obvious?
Eventually, the game rolls on, and neither you nor Jake get asked again. Truth or Dare somehow morphs into Would You Rather, and soon Bradley is standing beside you offering another round of drinks to the group. You stand up beside him and rush into the kitchen, dying for a moment away from Jake’s piercing gaze. It’s not that you don’t like him looking at you, you just wish you knew what it meant.
“You good?” Bradley asks as he steps into the kitchen after you.
You nod. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Still got the hat on,” he notes, pointing at your head.
You quickly take it off and plonk it on the kitchen counter before reaching up to the passthrough shutters and swinging them closed. No one seems to notice, and the small amount of privacy seems to help settle the butterfly disco currently happening in your stomach.
Bradley rummages through the fridge while you pour yourself a glass of water, sipping it slowly and watching him juggle as many bottles as he can between his two hands. He raises his brows at you before he leaves, a silent question, and you nod, assuring him that you’re fine. He disappears around the corner right before Jake steps into the kitchen, making your heart leap dramatically.
“Hey,” he says, seeming much more relaxed than you’re currently feeling.
“Hi.”
“Are you okay?”
You nod again, “Of course.”
“Coyote can be a little insensitive sometimes,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.
You shrug. “I’m tough. It was just a joke.”
He frowns. “Which part do you think was a joke?”
“The hat rule,” you reply, “right?”
“Oh,” he chuckles, “yeah, I mean, that is a known rule but I’m not going to-” he hesitates, “I mean, I would never- oh, my God, this isn’t coming out right.”
“It’s fine,” you say, dropping your gaze to your feet. “I know they were just having a laugh.”
“No, I don’t mean it like that either,” he adds frantically. He steps forward, leaving very little space between your bodies. “What I’m trying to say,” he says slowly, “is that I definitely would do that with you, but not if you didn’t want to.”
You look up, startled. “Would what?”
He chuckles awkwardly, the pink in his cheeks turning red. “Let you ride me, if you wanted.”
Looking up at his pretty green eyes is making your head spin, but you feel surprisingly stable. Something about his gaze is holding you steady, reassuring you the way a hug from your best friend does, and you quickly realise that this is the closest you’ve ever been able to stare into his eyes. They’re even more amazing up close.
“You’re very pretty,” you blurt out, internally cursing all that liquid courage.
He chuckles again, but its deep and breathy. “Thank you, but I’m nothing compared to you.”
You frown now. “You don’t think your pretty?”
“Well,” he shrugs, “I know I’m a little pretty.”
You roll your eyes playfully.
“But you are possibly the prettiest thing on this planet,” he adds, cupping your jaw in his hands.
The contact lights your skin on fire, and your heart is practically vibrating in your chest.
“Who’s the girl that you’re in love with?” you ask, once again unable to control that brain to mouth communication.
He chuckles again, his eyes darting away from your face and finding the hat on the bench. He reaches past you, his breath fanning across your neck as he picks the hat up off the counter and plonks it on your head.
“I’m in love with the girl wearing my old cowboy hat,” he says, hands holding either side of the brim as he adjusts the hat to sit perfectly.
You don’t even wait for him to finish fixing the hat before you surge up onto your toes, pressing your lips to his. He responds immediately, hands abandoning the hat to find your hips and hold your body tightly against his. You’re almost positive you can feel his heart beating where your chests are pressed together, and it’s almost as erratic as yours.
His lips move against yours gently, but there’s urgency in the way he holds your body, like you might disappear if he doesn’t hang on tight. Your own hands are gripping the hem of his shirt, fisting the material until you can feel your nails digging little half-moons into your palms. Maybe you feel the same, like if you don’t hold on, he’ll disappear, because you’re almost positive you’ve had this dream before.
He pulls back for air, keeping his forehead pressed against yours as his hands drop to the crease beneath your bum. In one swift movement, he lifts you onto the counter and stands between your open legs, the buckle of his belt pressing deliciously against the crotch of your jeans. You squeeze your knees around his hips and tilt your head back, letting his tongue slide past your lips. You sigh against his mouth, every ounce of tension from the past few hours leaching out of your body as his hands explore and squeeze your thighs.
“You have no idea”- he speaks breathily against your lips -“how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
You pull back, staring up at his puffy lips and lust-blown eyes. “Why did you wait, then?”
He chuckles and relaxes, the buckle of his belt no longer pressed against you. “Have you seen the way you and Rooster act?” he asks. “You’re practically inseparable, always having your little inside jokes, and you basically live together. How was I supposed to know you wanted me when all you do is look at him?”
You gnaw at your bottom lip, willing your foggy brain to sober up and try to picture things the way Jake would be seeing them. “I guess,” you say, resting your hands on his chest, “but I only look at him to avoid staring at you all the time.”
He tilts his head, a quizzical frown set between his brows. “Really?”
You nod. “And most of our inside jokes are about the fact that I’m hopelessly in love with you.”
His frown melts into a grin. “Hopelessly?”
“More or less.”
“More, I hope,” he murmurs as he leans forward again.
Your lips have barely touched when a bang startles you both. Jake holds you against his chest as you look over your shoulder to see the passthrough shutters blown wide open. Your friends are all gathered in the opening with stupid grins on their faces and laughter bubbling from their lips.
“I knew it!” Javy exclaims.
“That’s all it fucking took?” Bradley asks, his brows almost raised to his hairline.
“If I knew that, I would have put a cowboy hat on you ages ago,” Natasha says with an eye roll.
“Yeah, okay,” Jake says, his smile wide and cheeks bright red, “that’s enough from you lot.”
He reaches around you to grab the passthrough shutters and swing them closed, despite the shouts and protests of your friends. When his eyes find yours again, you feel like the only two people in the world. The noise from the living room fades away and the only thing you can feel is his warmth, his body.
“Where were we?” he murmurs, holding your face in his hands as he dips toward you again.
A sudden spike of panic slices through you, and you pull back with wide eyes. “Wait.”
His smile fades, worry creasing his brow. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re not just saying and doing all this because you’re drunk, right?”
The concern on his face dissolves just as quickly as it had appeared, replaced again by that dopey grin. “Baby, I’m not drunk. You are a bit drunk.”
You frown indignantly. “I am not drunk, I’m tipsy.”
“Okay, tipsy,” he chuckles. “Are you only kissing me because you’ve had a few drinks?”
You shake your head fervidly. “No. I’m kissing you now because sober me didn't have the balls to.”
He laughs again, a little harder. “Are you saying that you’re not going to kiss me again tomorrow?”
“Oh, I’m definitely not saying that,” you reply. The corner of your lips lift into a smirk as your eyes fall to his puffy pink lips. “You’ve opened the flood gates now. I’m going to have to put my lips on every inch of your body.”
When your eyes find his again, the pretty green of his irises is almost completely consumed by black, lust-blown pupils. “I’ll be right back,” he says, untangling his limbs from yours.
You hold on to the waistband of his jeans, not letting him move too far from you. “What are you doing?”
“Kicking everyone out so we can get to all the kissing and the licking,” he replies, as if it was obvious.
A soft giggle slips from your lips and you tug on his jeans, pulling him back into your arms. “As much as I love that idea, we should probably get back to celebrating Coyote’s birthday. We’ve got all day tomorrow to kiss and lick and suck and fuck.”
His jaw slackens and a soft groan rumbles from the back of his throat. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Not at all,” you reply with a cheeky grin. “Come on, let’s get back out there before they decide to come back in here.”
He sighs heavily as you slide off the counter, but before you can exit the kitchen, his hand wraps around your wrist. “We’re going to have to wait a minute,” he says, looking down at his pants.
You glance down to see a bulge in the dark blue denim at his crotch, the zipper almost straining against the pressure from the inside of his pants. You roll your lips to keep your giggles at bay, and to stop yourself from begging him to fuck you right here in the kitchen regardless of who can hear.
As if on cue, Bradley’s voice resonates from the living room, “You two better not be fucking in there! My beer is getting low and I will be getting another one no matter how traumatising it might be!”
