do you like the grump sunshine trope for the giggles and laughs or do you like the idea of pestering someone being your most annoying self to someone and having them still stick around instead of thinking you're too much and do you also like the idea of being special enough to someone to be one of the few people someone who doesn't normally smile, chooses to smile at. do you wish the rays of your affection weren't received with shunned squinted eyes, and instead actually warmed someone and made their life better, added something to it. do you wish you were needed and unable to be replaced because someone needed your 'too much' because it was just enough for them, for once you're enough.
if i showed up on your doorstep at 2 am, would you slam the door in my face or invite me in - jeff skinner
Despite a decades long friendship, the revelation that your best friend Jeff loved you resulted in you moving home and cutting him off completely. Two years later you show up on his doorstep.
pairing: jeff skinner x reader
warnings: angst, mentions of alcohol
word count: 9k
a/n: y'all made me do it. special thanks to everyone who read this on google docs and gave their opinion on the perfume they wear
It’s a two hour drive from Markham to Buffalo.
Jeff knows this because he’s made the drive plenty of times - for family dinners and his mom’s birthday and celebratory drinks when Jill got her first job out of college.
He also knows this because that’s how far away you are physically, but mentally and emotionally you’re oceans away.
Best friends from an early age, you were an honorary Skinner before you could even read. They loved you like you were family, and you loved them that fiercely in return. Well, almost all of them. You and Jeff had always had a special bond, far beyond that of any of his other siblings or your own. A bond so special you had no problem following him to Carolina when he was drafted.
Things had broken down spectacularly in Carolina, a string of miscommunications and hurt feelings snowballing until not a single scrap of your friendship remained. Words were exchanged, shouted and screamed and sobbed, and then silence. The only sound after was the click of the door that you shut behind you.
Last he heard you were well on your way to becoming someone else’s wife.
It’s not the same guy you had been dating when things fell apart in your friendship. No, you’d cut that one loose when you fled for the familiarity of home. Nick was someone you’d both grown up with, part of your friend group but never able to breach the inner circle that was you and Jeff. Until you’d shown up broken-hearted in your hometown and ran into him down Main Street.
Jeff’s got a lot of regrets - missed shots and unnecessary penalty minutes, the doubt that creeps in when he’s in the middle of a scoring drought - but his biggest regret is letting you slip through his fingers. Because for as long as Jeff can remember, it’s always been you. Even when he didn’t know it, even when girls had cooties, even when he was still denying it himself, it’s always been you.
It’s too bad that for you, it wasn’t Jeff.
That’s about where things broke down in the kitchen of the home you shared in Raleigh. It was the same old story - the guy you had been seeing had been treating you wrong. Ignoring your messages for days, breaking plans and just overall acting shady. Out of concern for you, and with the unofficial support of a few friends you’d made out there, he’d cornered you in that kitchen to tell you that you deserved more.
He’d been right, of course, but the confrontation had sparked your fight or flight. As someone who’d never ran from a fight or adversity before, you’d dug your heels into the ground and raised your fists.
It was then, in the midst of a terrible fight that you’d realized the truth. Your friendship with Jeff was built on a lie. Because as much as you had always thought he respected you as a friend and as a person, Jeff had spent the entirety of your friendship halfway in love with you.
Fear gripping your heart and entirely on edge, you’d laughed. You’d laughed and absolutely destroyed him. More words were exchanged between the two of you and then nothing. Words you’d never take back, words he desperately wished he could.
A lifetime of friendship gone in the blink of an eye and he still didn’t know how it happened. He’d gone over it a hundred different times in a hundred different ways and he still didn’t understand it. How he’d wanted all of you, but settled for most of you. How he didn’t even have some of you anymore, how he really had none of you now.
How he had to hear thirdhand from his sister who heard from your brother that you were now sporting an expensive ring on your left hand from a guy who used to put gum in your hair.
He supposes it’s a cute story, a real lifetime original movie of a romance.
He realizes he probably won’t even get to see a wedding picture.
Buffalo was an easy choice when his contract ended and your perfume no longer lingered in his home.
He’s happy here - a lot closer to his family, and the guys on the team are a good bunch. They’re struggling, and he’s not putting up the numbers he all but promised when he signed his name on the dotted line, but they’re working hard and he’s optimistic.
There’s only one real other downside here.
You’re a two hour drive away, but you’ve never been so mentally and emotionally far away.
-
Two hours away, your life isn’t the picture perfect made for TV movie romance it appears to be. Sure, you’ve got the ring and the guy and the condo with the great view. You’ve got an okay job and your parents are proud of you, except... Except. Except. Except.
Except the metal of the ring is a gaudy yellow gold, when silver has been your preferred style since junior high. Except the condo with the great view doesn’t even have your name on the lease. Except your okay job is slowly killing you, your boss is a dick and your coworkers talk shit about you behind your back and you feel like you’re wasting your degree with menial tasks.
Except the guy isn’t who you thought he was, hell he’s not even who he was only a few short months ago before he put the lurid ring on your finger after a proposal that was far too public for your liking. Nick had been so attentive and sweet, reeling you in with honeyed compliments and promises, dates where time felt like it hadn’t passed at all yet like you’d lived a hundred lives together. Now, Nick paid more attention to the television or his secretary or his phone than you.
Once, Nick had been a cold beer on the patio kind of guy. Now, you couldn’t remember the last time you had spent more than five minutes with him sober.
He didn’t hit you, he didn’t cheat on you, he didn’t belittle you. It also felt like he didn’t love you.
The pressure is stifling, the weight of your burdens suffocating. The ring on your hand and the promise on your tongue are leaden and heavy. Every day you wake up and wonder if you’re making a mistake. Every day you wake up and think about how all you’ve ever done in your life is make mistakes.
Except Jeff.
Until you’d made a mistake there, too.
When you let your fears and anxieties dictate your behavior. When you’d ran at the first sign of trouble. When you’d used his feelings as a scapegoat, pushing and pulling and gnawing at that hurt in your chest rather than acknowledge your own hidden feelings beside it.
Nick shifts in bed beside you, limbs half hanging off the edge of the bed in an attempt to keep as much distance between you as possible. At least, that’s what it feels like. Once, you’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms. Once, you sought out each other’s familiar warmth at night. Once, you’d woken up limbs as entangled as your hearts and souls.
The clock on your nightstand reads midnight, but it could be any time and no time at all as far as you’re concerned. You slip from bed and pull on a hoodie. It’s old and faded and Jeff’s. Looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror you search for even a fraction of who you used to be, a hint of the girl you used to see reflected back at you. She’s not there.
But you can try and find her again.
Quietly, you pack a bag and write a note in your sloped handwriting with a blue pen on the back of a takeout menu. Gently, you place the yellow gold ring beside it and slip out into the night.
-
Carolina is warm. Like your mother’s embrace, like your niece’s laughter, like Jeff’s smile. Many people told you that you would regret following him out here, but you didn’t think you ever would. Because alongside seeing your best friend on a near daily basis, you’d also accumulated a solid group of friends with your best interests at heart, and you’d even found yourself someone to love the way you always wanted.
If that desire to love and be loved in return blinded you to the reality of your relationship, that was between you and him as far as you were concerned. Even as your friends grew worried, you brushed off their concerns and made excuses. He’s just working late, he’s just busy, he lost track of time. They let it go, let you sit in your own delusions of grandeur as you live in Jeff’s apartment and date someone who doesn’t deserve you and on and on.
Until Jeff can’t anymore.
Until you’re sitting on your shared couch with your makeup done just right, the pretty little black dress you’d been planning on wearing safely tucked back in your closet, and the most melancholy expression on your face.
It breaks Jeff’s heart, really it does. And not only because he’s been in love with you since before he knew there was a name for what he was feeling in his chest, but because you’re his best friend and you deserve a lot more than some broken promises and empty words. He bites his tongue through the entirety of a Leafs game you’d insisted the two of you watch together, even as your voice was barren of all emotion.
But then the game is over, and you’re moving robotically through the kitchen, movement broken and hindered just as your spirit is and suddenly Jeff can’t hold it in anymore.
“You can’t keep letting him do it to you.” It’s blurted and messy, but it does it’s job, the words shaking you from your emotional zombie like state.
“What are you talking about?” You try to deflect, try to answer him with a question, try to ignore the pit growing in your stomach.
Unfortunately for you, Jeff knows you better than probably any other person on the planet, and certainly better than anyone in Carolina. “He treats you like shit and you just let him.”
“What am I supposed to do? Break up with him?” You scoff, “I love him Jeff! So what if he misses date night now and then or doesn’t always answer when I call? I love him!”
He turns on you quickly, desperation swimming in his eyes. He wants to tell you everything. Wants to wrap you up in his arms and love you right. But that’s not who you are and that’s not what you do, so instead he tries to get you to see reason. “Do you? Or are you just so blinded by your desire to be loved that you can’t see that he’s not good enough for you?”
It stings because you know he’s right. Deep down, you know you deserve more than half baked apologies and a derelict of a boyfriend. But you also fear that this might be it, your only shot at that happiness. So what if your boyfriend isn’t perfect. Show you a guy who is? For a moment you stare at Jeff, but that just brings on another wave of fear and anxiety and so you shout. “Oh and who is good enough for me huh? Please tell me I am so curious to know.”
It’s silent then as your words sink in all around you both. They twist and turn and curl around you, cutting you off from Jeff as it hits you.
Oh.
Oh.
He feels it too, your sudden realization and it’s terrifying. It’s terrifying and scary and every other adjective out there to have his heart ripped from his chest and beating on the kitchen island for you to finally, really and truly, see.
And then you laugh. It’s not the laughter that he loves to hear, not the sweet giggle turned into gasping howls when you find amusement in something beautiful the world has to offer. It’s maniacal and hysterical and just fucking cruel as you gaze on his vulnerability and laugh.
He feels his heart break, feels it absolutely shatter as you pack your shit and go. Feels it as you sweep up the fractured pieces and deposit them directly in the trash.
It’s silent when you finally leave, no trace of your laughter remaining.
You don’t look back.
-
His phone reads 2 am when Jeff rolls over in bed to check it. For a moment he’s confused, disoriented and dazed as he tries to figure out what has woken him. And then he hears the frantic knocking at his front door. He gets up quickly, pulling on a pair of sweatpants in case it’s sweet Mrs. Higgins at the door. It wouldn’t be the first time she knocked on his door, but never this early in the morning. The thought of it potentially being some emergency has his movements quickening, hastened by the thought of something terrible wrong.
Except, instead of the sweet elderly lady who lives across the hall, it’s you in a pair of athletic shorts and a sweater of his he hadn’t seen since you left.
Maybe it’s stupid, but he thought you would look different. You don’t, though. Your hair is the same tone it’s always been, framing your face the way it always has. Even the sight of you in his hoodie is familiar, even as it warms him from the inside out. If he didn’t know better, didn’t have months and months of angst and pining and regret, he could almost pretend he was back in Carolina and you were still oblivious to the way you held his heart in your hands.
Almost.
Because alongside the warmth and the desire to pull you into his arms is the quiet devastation of your laughter and the thought of the large ring you should be wearing on your left hand. Jeff’s never been the kind of guy who could school his emotions, his grin too bright and uncontrollable like the sun rising in the east. Contrarily, every negative emotion rolls across his face more akin to large storm clouds rolling over the horizon. Now, confusion is written clear as day in the lines of his face as his eyes focus on the tan line in lieu of an engagement ring.
The silence is almost as stifling as the thought of the future you had been building. You don’t know what to say though, no words seeming big enough to fully encapsulate all you’re feeling. Truth be told, you don’t have a good reason for showing up here at two in the morning on his doorstep. There really isn’t a good reason. You don’t have a script carefully created, or a detailed pro con list, or a venn diagram showing the intersectionality of past and future and present.
He looks good, even if the expression on his face is more akin to shock than joy, even if he kinda looks like he could cry, even if you feel like you’re about to. You miss him. He’s right fucking there and you miss him. It’s been a dull ache in your chest in the past two years, but now the pain is sharp and shooting, radiating from the top of your head to your toes. Even just being here, in his presence, it’s like finally coming up for air after being stuck at the bottom of a swimming pool. Oxygen floods your lungs for the first time in months, a fog lifts from your mind, but the dark cloud remains shrouding you both. Because it’s still silent, and you’re itching to run.
To him, from him, into his arms, back into the night. You’re not entirely sure, but the urge is there all the same. Something deep within you calls to him, but something a lot closer to the surface is screaming at you to go. You shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have left Nick, certainly shouldn’t have driven two hours in the middle of the night.
But then he’s opening his arms and you fall right into them, like you were meant to do it all along. You fit like two puzzle pieces, even if the picture they’re part of is faded and worn, even if the edges are bent and torn, even if it takes a little wiggling to get them to fit together just right.
“How did we get here?” you blurt stupidly, the filter between your brain and your mouth nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t immediately react, not verbally at least, but you feel him stiffen all around you. Very carefully, he pulls back from you, a near unreadable expression on his face. The way his eyebrows have come together in the middle of his face tells you he’s upset. The lack of a smile only further validates the thought. “I mean- That’s not what I wanted to say-”
You see the internal struggle play out on his face through the scrunching of his nose, the twitching of his jaw. Finally, he settles on something simple. “Why are you here?”
“I don’t know Jeff,” you sigh in return. It’s not the right thing, not even close. You know that before he reacts, but you still wince at the look he gives you. It’s broken, desperate, practically begging for you to lay your cards out on the table.
“That’s bullshit,” he replies, uttering your name. “Tell me the truth, what are you doing here at an apartment you’ve never been to in the middle of the night without your engagement ring? Huh?”
“Jeff-”
“Tell me the truth, please.” He’s not so much angry as he is hurt, and confused. Scared too, that you’re about to run off on him again but he can’t just sit here and let you pretend like you have no idea what possessed you to drive two hours to him in the middle of the night. “Not a word out of you in two years, and then you just show up here. Tell me the truth.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing here, Jeff, okay? I don’t know! I don’t know if I’m still engaged, I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to reach out-” It’s not exactly true, but you’re not lying either. You’re not being purposefully deceitful, but the two hour drive hadn’t given you the clarity you’d hoped you’d find before ending up here.
“Are we just not going to talk about it?” He doesn’t have to elaborate further, despite your clear desire to ignore the fight that wrecked you both, it weighs as heavily on you as it does him. It kills you to think he doesn’t see that. As if he couldn’t see how destroyed you were by the thought of your life moving on without him in any capacity.
“I don’t- I don’t think there’s anything to talk about that other than what has already been said,” you say quietly, trying to keep your voice neutral. You cringe as you watch the anger light within him, the struck match finding the kerosene soaked rag you’d left behind.
“Jesus, you’re acting like I did something wrong. Like- Like I’d destroyed some precious family heirloom or kissed your sister something. Stop deflecting, my only crime was in loving you.” And there it is again, although this time spelled out a lot more clearly.
Love.
Jeff loved you.
Like, romantic, two and a half kids and a dog and a big house in the suburbs love. And you didn’t love Jeff like that, don’t love Jeff like that. Right?
He continues, taking your silence as an invitation to further the conversation, but it feels a lot more like a talking to than anything. “I never asked for anything from you. Ever. In the twenty some years of our friendship, I never asked you to want me or love me back. I never even told you that I loved you. You figured it out and you laughed at me and you ran. And then I didn’t hear from you for two years. I had to find out from my sister who found out from your brother that you were engaged to that dick who used to tease you in elementary school. So cut the shit, why are you here?”
It’s not unfair, the words and accusations he levels at you. It’s not unfair and it’s not untruthful and it’s certainly not uncalled for. It still makes tears spring to your eyes, makes your hand and bottom lip shake. “This was a mistake,” you spit out quickly and hastily make your retreat, wiping at your cheekbones with the heels of your hands. Jeff is quick to swear and utter your name, but you don’t stop.
He curses as he slams the door shut behind you. Although a very large part of him wants to rip the door open and chase after you, he doesn’t think “NHL forward chases girl in apartment building” is the kind of headline he wants his name attached to. He also knows you’re not in the proper state of mind for any confrontation or conversation for that matter. You’re so frustratingly deep inside your own head, you can’t see the forest for the trees.
It’s true, he’s never asked you for a damn thing in the entirety of your friendship, always willing to give and give and give. It’s you who had been so happy to take and take and take. His limited time, his attention, his energy, his smiles reserved specially for you, his hairbrained advice and his outstretched hand. Even in the deepest throes of his love for you, he never expected you to reciprocate or even acknowledge it. He was content to be your best friend for the rest of your lives, quietly resigned to sit at your right hand through thick and thin. For your happiness, he was ready to watch as you found love elsewhere, as you built a future with someone who wasn’t him. Because a future with you, even if he could never have you exactly the way he wanted you was more than worth it.
Until you’d taken his feelings and thrown them right back at him.
It’s near 3 am now, and he knows his best course of action is to get back into bed, try and get some sleep. After all, in the morning he’s got a two hour drive.
-
You cry the entire way home, barely managing to pull yourself together enough to cross at the border without causing some sort of international incident. It’s late when you pull into the driveway of your childhood home. Despite your best efforts to quietly slip into the house after finding the spare key tucked in its usual hiding spot, your mom is flicking on the light to the kitchen and calling your name with confusion laced alongside the exhaustion in her tone.
Collapsing into her arms you tell her everything. From the fight two years ago to the one only two hours ago. There’s not a single detail you don’t include, well except for one. Being the remarkable woman you know her to be, she manages to pull it out of you anyway with a simple question. “Are you in love with him too?”
“It’s not that simple,” you reply carefully, but the look she gives you is so knowing it makes your stomach twist.
“It could be,” she says knowingly and it’s only slightly more annoying at twenty something years old than it was when you were in high school. The look is the same and her tone is the same, and if you’re really being honest, even the boy is the same. It’s been Jeff at the forefront of your mind and on the front step of this house and in the frame of every picture on the mantel. Always Jeff holding your hand in one of his while the other held so delicately onto your heart. Always something more just barely out of reach, on the peripheral of your vision if only you would smarten up and grasp it.
“It can’t,” finally leaves your lips, voice broken in a way that only the weight of your own actions can. Your mother knows you better than almost any other person on the planet, a consequence of knowing you for every single second of your existence, and so she knows when it’s time to surrender the battle in order to win the war. She pulls you in for a tight hug, her embrace more calming and soothing than any natural ailment cure in the world before she goes back to bed, shutting the light off as she goes.
The couch isn’t the most comfortable, nothing like the faded leather sectional that Jeff had in your apartment in Raleigh. Your bedroom became an office two weeks after you left for college, and the spare room more likely than not was covered in random items that your parents hadn’t had the time to put away. The blanket you wrap yourself in is familiar, a patchwork quilt gifted to your family by your grandmother. You know if you were to look through the photos on display this very quilt would feature in multiple of the ones of you and Jeff.
It’s a comforting thought as you drift to sleep, so close to the sweet rest of unconsciousness when your phone buzzes once, then twice. Suddenly the vibration pattern indicates there’s a phone call coming through. You ignore it, turning onto your side so that your face is smushed into the back of the couch, willing whoever it is to give up. Your phone buzzes signifying the caller left a voicemail before the familiar pattern begins again. Who in the world would be calling you at 5 in the morning?
You shoot up, quilt falling to the floor as you consider it might be Jeff. There’s a large part of you that feels terrible for the way your stomach sinks as Nick’s photo lights up your screen. So he woke up and found you gone. You flick up the screen, simultaneously unlocking the phone and silencing the vibration to see several unread messages. They’re in varying degrees of panic, wondering where you are, wondering why you’d left behind your ring.
It’s late and you’re tired, so tired of being sad and lonely and unhappy that you turn your phone to do not disturb and get some sleep.
-
In hindsight Jeff should have known better than to jinx himself the way he had as your door swings open to reveal your mom. He doesn’t want to do the small talk thing, not when your car is in the driveway and he can see your coat hanging on the hook just behind the open door. “Hey, mom,” he speaks softly, mouth upturned in some sort of smile-grimace hybrid gesture. “Is she here?”
“It’s good to see you Jeff,” she says by way of greeting instead, “Why don’t you come inside?”
Your head perks up at the mention of his name, every sad curve of your body screaming with your regret. There’s barely a moment’s pause before you’re launching off the couch and into his arms. He’s not prepared for it, having spent the entirety of the drive rehearsing his apology, practicing the words he would say to convince you to let him back into your life. There aren’t words to describe how right it feels to have his arms wrapped tightly around you, to be so completely surrounded and encapsulated by all that is his large presence. If you had to try though, there’s only one word that comes close to portraying it all: home.
Jeff’s arm’s are the greatest home you’ve ever known, far beyond that of the four walls surrounding you, or the neighborhood or even the city itself. He was always your safe space, your soft spot to land, the one place you could always turn no matter the circumstances. Until he wasn’t. Until you couldn’t.
It could have been two seconds, two minutes, two hours or two years - simultaneously the longest moment and the shortest breath as you stood with him on the precipice of your childhood home. You’re not entirely sure when your mom snuck away, but she’s not lingering as you finally pull from him. “I’m sorry,” you both blurt out at the same time.
“I’m sorry I keep running.” It’s a tough admission to make, to admit that at least that much is definitively your fault. Other parts of the friendship breakdown are your burdens to carry, too - your reactions, your inappropriate laughter and hasty retreat, the two years of cut off communication at your continued behest.
But you’re not alone in your ownership here, either. Jeff all but confirms it with a quiet “I’m sorry I never told you. But look at your reaction and tell me I didn’t have a good reason to keep it to myself.”
And again and again the blame shifts back to you, because you were callous and cold in your recoil, because you were the unreasonable one, because his crime had been only what he said - in loving you behind your back.
“I don’t want to play the blame game,” he sighs finally, the quiet, lingering hurt written across the planes of your face so clear to see, cutting him just as much as it pains you. “I just want my best friend.”
There’s more he wants, of course. If he’s really and truly honest with himself he wants your love, too. He’s got some of it, certainly, obvious in the way you look at him and the way your body so perfectly curves around his own. It’s in nights past, sleepovers and secrets and swimming pools. It’s some of you, but not all of you.
It’s not the way you look first thing in the morning, sleep heavy on your eyelids and a desire for coffee running through your veins. It’s not the little black dress picked out just for him, or your heels in his hand as he gives you a piggyback ride home, or locked limbs on the sofa while you watch a romantic comedy on netflix.
It’s not all of you, and there’s never been so clearly poignant a reminder as your fiance - boyfriend? ex? acquaintance? - Nick bursting through your front door and setting fire to any goodwill that you’d managed to build together. It’s so startling a reminder, Jeff feels it like a punch to the gut, the despair of never knowing what it’s like to have all your love swirling and turning.
“I’m gonna go.” You want to reach for him, but something about his body language screams that he would only dodge your advance and so you keep your hands to yourself, eyes darting wildly between the two men.
“Jeff-”
He says your name so sweetly, if it weren’t for the look on his face you might not even know something was wrong, and then repeats himself. “I’m gonna go. I think there’s a conversation you need to be having and it’s more important than the one we’re having.”
Jeff leaves without another word and it’s like he took a piece of you with him, as you stand in your living room without a single thing to say to the man in front of you.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Nick breaks the silence first, and your shoulders deflate at the thought of it all. How do you explain to him that you just truly don’t know what you want anymore? You’re so confused by everything, betrayed by your own past and your own feelings, you’re not sure of anything. Well, anything except the fact that you can’t marry him. He pulls the ring out of his pocket, idly twisting and turning and spinning the metal object in his grasp as the quiet surrounds you both.
He doesn’t get angry and for that you’re grateful, you’re not sure you have it in you to fight like that, not so soon after last night with Jeff. “It’s not like that-”
“Then what’s it like, because from where I’m sitting I woke up alone, with your ring and a shitty apology scribbled on a pizza delivery menu, and now you’re here with someone you said you hadn’t spoken to in years.”
And yeah, it looks bad because it is bad, but it’s not bad in the way he’s thinking. “I hadn’t! It’s not- I just-” You have to stop, pausing to catch your breath and let your brain catch up to your mouth. “Do you love me?” you ask, finally.
The three second pause tells you more than he ever could.
You’re not sure what Nick thought he would be walking into, or what he had hoped to accomplish by showing up here. You don’t think reciprocal apologies, a tight hug with a lingering kiss pressed to a cheek and that god awful ring back in his pocket comes even close, but that’s what you leave each other with.
-
You don’t tell Jeff about what transpired in your living room after he left, and he never asks. He has plenty of opportunity to ask, though, between your daily texts and calls that come in every so often. It’s impossible to fall back into the friendship you’d so carefully curated all those years ago, too much baggage and dead weight in the way of it all, but it’s a start.
For Jeff, it’s just nice to hear about what’s going on in your life first hand, rather than to hear it from one of his sisters. He likes that he can call you after a bad game, hear your voice tell him things will be okay, that all hope isn’t lost just because he’s in a scoring rut. When they play in Toronto, he leaves you a couple tickets and pretends his heart doesn’t constrict at the sight of you in a jersey bearing his last name.
It’s nice, to have your best friend back in your life, to be able to turn to Jeff with your petty work drama or rant to him about the latest book you read after being recommended it on tik tok. You realize just how much you took for granted sharing an apartment with him, where he had been just down the hall when you needed him - whether it be a bad day, giant spider, wobbly bookcase, or any other number of things. The distance is only two hours, but fuck it feels like he’s on another continent.
It’s why you jump at the chance to head down to Buffalo for a long weekend, bags packed and mind open to all the possibilities that lay before you. You’ve had a few more conversations - with your mom, with your brother, with your best friend, with one of Jeff’s sisters - and you think you have a clearer picture of what you want. At the end of it all, what you want is Jeff, in whatever capacity you can have him in. The years without him were dark and cold, reminiscent of a harsh Canadian winter, but having him back in your life is like the first inkling of spring - green buds on trees and the sparkling gleam of melting snow. Jeff is the first breath of warming air, the bright sun rising and shining light on the world.
You don’t know if you’ll ever get enough to fill in that absence.
The reunion in Jeff’s apartment parking garage is sweet, a picturesque romantic comedy moment wherein you abandon your bags in favor of jumping into his outstretched arms. His grin is contagious, the way it splits his face wide open bringing a sense of pure elation to your system. There’s no excuse for the way you squeeze yourself around him, but you whisper “I missed you,” in his ear all the same.
He’s every bit the gentleman his mama raised, carting your heavy duffle bag with the practiced ease of a man who is constantly travelling without you having to ask. His hand briefly brushes your own as you walk side by side into his building, and as someone who has a lot of practice reading his emotions, you spot conflict and hesitance out of the corner of your eye. Taking matters into your own hands - literally - you link your hands together and don’t bother hiding your own growing smile.
You’re tired the first night you’re there, a cocktail of a disastrous week at work and the long two hour drive, and so dinner is Vietnamese, eaten on the same couch he’s had since his first year in the NHL, the very couch you had sat on the night things went to hell, the same couch you had napped on more times than you could count. For a moment it’s like you never left, like you’re sitting back in that apartment in Carolina. There’s a game on that neither of you pay attention to, and you’re definitely not sitting as close as you maybe once would have, but you could almost close your eyes and pretend.
You fall asleep with your feet in Jeff’s lap watching a movie that you couldn’t name a single actor or plot point in even if there was a gun to your head, and wake up tucked into the guest room without any recollection of even waking up. It’s the sun filtering in through the gap in the curtains, something you would have surely fixed had you not been beyond exhausted last night, and once you get up to fix it, you decide there’s no use in trying to sleep in further.
Jeff’s drinking a cup of coffee on the couch, the highlights playing with the volume down low, but his focus is more on his phone. He barely notices you sneak up on him until you’re practically on top of him, but he breaks out into a grin when he does. You swipe the mug from his hands, taking a sip and cringing at the ultra sweet taste. It’s comforting in a way even through the shock to your system, the knowledge that as much as things had changed in the past few years, he still had no restraint when it came to adding sugar and cream to his morning cup.
“So, you wanna see all the great things Buffalo has to offer?” Jeff asks with a grin while loading the dishwasher, waving off your attempts to help since he was the one who cooked, too.
You shrug nonchalantly, but you can’t stop the intrusive thought that pops in your head, the one that states you’d probably go anywhere he asked you to.
It turns out that seeing Buffalo is really just code for a trip to the zoo in the morning and early afternoon, bleeding into a quick trip to the falls. You’re a little distracted by the presence that is Jeff, coupled with the developing feelings you’ve been tripping over lately, and so you’re not as present as you’d like to be - taking a second too long to laugh at his jokes, flinching when your arms brush. You’re as quick witted as ever, though, managing to slip in a quip or two about how Niagara is better from the Canadian side alongside reminiscing about the time you’d both skipped school to take the bus to the zoo.
Jeff is nothing but kind and careful and sweet, so respectful and so cognizant of the invisible lines you’ve both drawn around you. He doesn’t take a single thing about you or your friendship for granted, and while it’s endearing, it’s also frustrating as hell that he doesn’t feel like he can just step into your space without a warning.
Dinner is a bit more of an intentional feat, meeting a few of his teammates and their girls downtown at a restaurant that has you critically picking at the rip in your jeans, but Jeff’s arm around you is grounding enough that you forget all about it before you’ve even received the drinks you ordered. His teammates are funnier than you’d previously given them credit for, and it’s another stark reminder of the way things used to be. Back in Carolina, it was more than given that you would accompany Jeff to nights out with the boys - regardless if their respective wives and girlfriends were included in the invite themselves or not.
It’s not an unfair sentiment to state that you probably had a drink or two more than you should have in polite company, but Jeff doesn’t mind. The just north of tipsy version of you is one of Jeff’s favorites - the weight of the world not so heavily on your shoulders, a near perma-grin on your face, your filter all but non existent.
Your voice is a touch too loud as you shout out goodbye to the boys and their better halves and let Jeff tuck you into the passenger seat of his car. Before he’s even moved around to his side, you’ve got your phone hooked up and are scrolling through spotify. It doesn’t even bother him that you don’t let a single song play in its entirety, skipping some four seconds in, some two minutes. All the while you’re chatting away about everything and nothing.
It’s not until you’re back in his apartment, face freshly washed and teeth brushed in your pajamas, that you let something a little more serious slip out of your mouth. Sliding over to him, it’s like you can’t pull yourself away from his energy, moving across the hardwood floor almost as if you were floating. “I missed you,” is what you speak into his chest, arms tightly wound around him.
He pulls back slightly to look you in your eyes, and for a moment you wonder if this is it. If this is the moment that your friendship has been building up to your entire lives. If this is where every hurt and every doubt and every anxiety is revealed to have been worth it, just a momentary pause on an important journey. But he just smiles in a way that makes you feel kind of sad and you don’t know why, before he’s kissing your forehead and bidding you goodnight.
-
Jeff’s gone for morning skate when you wake up, but there’s a still warm cinnamon bun from a local bakery alongside a note on the kitchen island. You relax all morning, making use of Jeff’s couch and hulu account. Few words are exchanged when he finally makes his way home, besides a murmured thank you as the two of you enjoy the lunch you cooked. His game day routine is pretty much exactly as you remember as he goes to take a quick nap after you’ve eaten.
You almost choke on your own spit when Jeff exits his bedroom again later, all dressed up in his game day best. The suit's new, you think, not one you remember from Carolina, and it fits him in all the right places. It’s the gentle way he startles, eyebrows rising as he offers you his water bottle that has your stomach flipping even harder. Shaking him off with a dismissive wave of your hand, you walk into the kitchen to give yourself some space, but Jeff’s never been very good at picking up on those non-verbal cues and so he follows you, crowding your space even further.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks. When you nod, he smiles again, the corners of his eyes crinkling the way you’ve always admired. “I’ll leave you some cash for the cab, and then we can drive home together, okay?”
And it’s nothing special, no grand declaration of love, not like the ones before now. It’s no earth shattering revelation, no larger than life spectacle, no fireworks, no alternative indie soundtrack playing in the background. It’s just you. And it’s just Jeff. And it’s just everything he is.
Your best friend, your confidant, your shelter and your safe space to land.
Always so respectful of your boundaries, even as you threw every negative, hurtful word you could think of at him, even as you turned into nothing more than former friends turned strangers. And he’s just never asked for more, never demanded a thing from you, never expected more than you were willing to give. All you see is how much he cares for you, all that he used to do for you and all that he’s more than willing to do now.
You see just how good he is. To you, for you.
And God, how could you ever have been so fucking stupid? So completely, fucking blind?
It all flows through you, every individual atom of your body lighting up and coming alive with your revelation. You love him. More than someone loves their childhood best friend, more than you’ve ever loved a man before. It’s Jeff for you, and it always has been. You were foolish to ever think otherwise.
Jeff’s got no idea what’s going on in that brain of yours, though he often wishes he could read your mind. You look like you’re going through the seven stages of grief all on your own over there, and he wants to reach out and smooth the crease between your brows, but he keeps his hands to himself. If he’s honest, it’s getting harder and harder to do that. To have you so close but not in the way he wants you would be torture to anyone else.
Not to Jeff, though. Jeff just loves you and is appreciative of every piece of you that you’re willing to give him, offering his heart up in return.
His heart stumbles as you turn to face him and cross the space between you in three quick and easy strides. Jeff watches you lose your nerve the closer you get, until you’ve stopped in front of him to throw your arms around him, speaking only the most superficial of your thoughts for now. “Good luck tonight, Jeff.”
The view from the box is a good one, and the girls and families are more than welcoming, even the ones you didn’t meet last night. The large #53 jersey you wear feels a little stiff, and so you find yourself pulling at the collar intermittently all night. It feels like there are eyes on you the whole time, even though you know that’s all but impossible in the privacy of the box.
The game itself is a good one too, which is a blessing in and of itself in the midst of trying times for the team, as Jeff manages to pick up a couple points, including a short handed goal in the second. The entire time you’re flipping between worrying about your feelings and imagining every way things could go wrong, so deep in thought you almost miss the goal.
You’re not sure if you really belong here now, having followed the others down to the locker room hallway. It’s got you picking at the jersey again, wondering if you should take it off or leave it on, if you should stay put or start running. You’re torn almost directly down the middle, with half of you wanting to kiss the life out of your best friend, and the other half wanting to keep this secret buried even harder and longer than it already had.
In the end, your body chooses for you, as you find yourself running into Jeff’s arms the second he’s cleared the locker room. You don’t even take the time to admire his suit for the second time. He’s a giggly albeit confused mess as he catches you, but you don’t even give him time to think as you grab his face in your hands and press your lips to his. It’s a bit of a mess then, as he stumbles forward while whistling and catcalls are thrown around the hallway.
“It’s you, Jeff,” you state after you’ve pulled away to catch your breath, sounding every bit the cheesy romantic love story your life has become, “It’s always been you.”
The grin on his face is worth every bit of pain of the past two years, and his kiss is, too.
+1
It’s a two hour drive from Markham to Buffalo.
But that doesn’t stop your parents and brother from joining Jeff’s family in their trip down to the house you now share with Jeff for American Thanksgiving. It hadn’t worked out for everyone to come down prior to now, and Jeff hadn’t been able to come up for Canadian Thanksgiving last month, and so it’s the first real holiday you’re hosting both families for after agreeing to move in this past summer.
You’re a verifiable mess about the whole thing, starting with a mishap thawing the turkey wherein it wasn’t ready to be tossed in the oven this morning, leaving you to try and make up for lost time at a higher temperature. Earlier, you’d sent Jeff out to grab a pumpkin pie, only for him to return with apple because there ‘wasn’t a single pumpkin pie in all of Buffalo’, which resulted in you frantically trying to bake one with your very limited time.
Jeff, bless him, tries his best to help you in your chaos, but only succeeds in getting himself kicked out of the kitchen - literally as you push his larger body out of the room, while reassuring that you love him, really, but he needs to get the hell out of your way.
It doesn’t really get better, especially as you hear the distinct sound of your mom’s laughter while you’re midway through washing your hair in the shower after finally being persuaded by Jeff to do so. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “I can handle things for a few minutes,” he said. In your panic to finish showering quickly, you nearly blind yourself rinsing your hair, and slip a little as you rush out of the shower.
Everything’s fine, though, when you exit your shared bedroom, fully dressed with hair so wet you’re dripping on the hardwood. Your mom is still laughing, and your dad is smiling, and Jeff’s in the center of it all, regaling your brother with a story from the road. You only slink back to the bedroom to continue getting ready when your mom gives you a pointed look.
Jeff’s family arrives soon after, your home overrun with the energy of his five siblings, but you really and truly wouldn’t have it any other way, especially as Jeff’s hand never leaves your waist. You’re all piled in the living room, laughing and smiling and catching up with one another. It’s a great time, really, even through the chirping and the teasing about you and Jeff ‘finally getting your shit together.’
That is, until the smoke detector goes off and you gasp, “the turkey!”
As it turns out, bumping up the temperature of the oven wasn’t your best and brightest moment. Both of your moms follow you to the kitchen, your mom quickly rushing to the oven to see if anything is salvageable while Jeff’s mom comfortingly wraps an arm around your shoulders, her hand running up and down your shoulder.
It’s stupid, really, the way tears begin to burn at your waterline, but all you had wanted was a nice, perfect Thanksgiving. Maybe that was an unrealistic goal, an unattainable feat, but it’s what you wanted all the same. And it’s definitely silly, but you can’t help but feel the failed meal is somehow a reflection of your relationship, or worse yet, a prediction of your future with Jeff.
After all, if you couldn’t cook a simple turkey dinner, what hope was there for you for the rest of it?
Jeff’s more patient than you, kinder and sweeter too, and yet above all else he’s also more resourceful. A few quick phone calls reveal there’s not a lot of options for delivery on Thanksgiving, and so he settles on pizza before finding you standing in the same spot in the kitchen. Both your moms have settled into a routine of cleaning up your mess, but you’re just kind of standing there looking like someone kicked your puppy.
“Hey,” he says quietly, pulling you into his arms. You go complacently, beyond your desire to be wrapped up in him, you don’t have any energy to do anything but follow his lead. “I ordered food.”
It’s probably meant to be reassuring, but it makes you feel worse, more like a failure than you already do. And so you slump further into his arms, with a muffled ‘I’m sorry’ pressed to his chest. His hand runs through your hair for a moment before cupping your face to make your face tilt up towards his own.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for, love,” he tells you earnestly, and truthfully you believe he means every word he’s speaking, but you can’t shake the feeling of failure that has gripped your insides.
“I just wanted things to be perfect,” you whisper, avoiding eye contact.
He just smiles. “They are perfect, the important part is we’re all together. So what the turkey didn’t work out, I know you all had more than your fair share last month. And your pumpkin pies look really good.” His words make you smile in return, and his grin turns triumphant. “There’s that smile I love so much.”
And so maybe Thanksgiving isn’t the grand dinner you’d envisioned. There’s no turkey, and the stuffing and mashed potatoes look out of place next to the several large pizza boxes on the counter. But Jeff’s in your life, and even better yet you’ve let him into your heart, something he has not and will never take for granted. Both of your families are all here together, and neither of your moms are subtle about the way they grin at you and let their eyes flicker to your empty left hand.
It may be a two hour drive from Markham to Buffalo, but there’s not even two inches of space between Jeff and where you’ve fallen asleep against his shoulder while the last of the Thanksgiving football games play on TV.
are you actually reading for fun or is it to distract your mind from the current state your life is in and to keep you in a blissful fantasy where all the monsters could be slayed and problems could be solved with simply the turn of a page?
okay call me a dumb WHORE but sid being heavily attracted to you while you’re pregnant,,,,, like he it drives him crazy seeing you carrying his child
feeling spicy today so why the hell not? altered it a tad... same general idea
WARNINGS: 18+ content, swearing, age gap lol (i’m picturing a silver fox!sid but you imagine whatever your heart desires), emo sid, mention of children + pregnancy, time/aging related anxiety, exhibitionistm, fingering, thigh riding, unprotected sex, sid referring to himself a daddy, a creampie obviously lol
WORD COUNT: 2.3k
DNI IF ANY OF THIS OFFENDS YOU! YOUR MEDIA CONSUMPTION IS YOUR RESPONSIBILITY :)
heavy.
sidney felt...heavy.
it was all too much.
the dwindling sun was scalding against his bare shoulders and chest. it’s rays licked vexingly at the exposed skin and pierced through the sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. the too happy laughter erupting from all corners of the backyard thudded against his ears in a way that made him want to bash his head against geno’s new fence. the air was thick, shoving him, and his flimsy lawn chair, further and further into the neatly kept grass. he was sinking, and sinking fast.
today should have been fun. but it just wasn’t.
it was too damn much.
too much of a reminder of what he didn’t have.
too much of a reminder of how quickly time was passing him by.
everyone around him was either married or engaged and had at least a few kids, if not a dog. part of a pair - part of a family. but he was just sidney.
and ‘just sidney’ was getting old.
he wanted the white picket fence, the wife, the dog...the kids. but at his age and with retirement on the horizon, his prospects looked bleak.
sidney was in an almost constant state of misery but if he had to pin point the final nail in his coffin of despair, it was you.
all short sundresses and sweet smiles, you were the younger sister of one of his teammates’ wives visiting for the summer after graduating from college.
he watches you from across the crowded backyard, a glass of wine in one hand and geno’s youngest on your hip, and wishes his swim trunks didn’t tighten at the sight.
when sidney first met you a few seasons ago it had been so easy to see you as just someone’s kid-sister, too young for him and subsequently off-limits, but something was different now. it was like that crisp piece of paper framed in your bedroom had flipped a switch in his brain and he was unable to see you as anything but the woman you were.
most of his days were now spent finding creative ways to hide the throbbing bulge between his legs whenever you were around.
your laugh cuts through the chatter and his heartbeat quickens. sidney’s throat constricts. head thrown back, your hair falls away to reveal the skin of your neck. it glistens with a soft sheen, and sidney is suddenly very grateful for the blistering heat. a bead of sweat wanders down from the nape of your neck and down the valley between your breasts, and it’s hard not to imagine himself lapping it up with his tongue.
as if sensing his heated stare, you catch his eye and smile. you raise your glass in friendly acknowledgment and he reciprocates the motion, praying you couldn’t see the arousal stirring beneath his trunks, damp with chlorine from a game of chicken with a few of the older kids.
without breaking eye contact you lean over to murmur something to anna before passing the child back to his mother. he knows you’re coming to talk to him. his grip on the beer bottle in his hand tightens.
sidney’s breath hitches as your perfume wafts into his nose when you sink into the empty lawn chair on his left.
“hi,” you say, a slight tremor in your voice.
you were always so shy with him. careful and soft-spoken. he made you nervous and he couldnt help but revel in it.
“hi,” sidney replies almost dismissively, feigning disinterest.
he can’t let you stay. he can’t have you close. it’s...hard enough to keep his desire at bay when he’s sober and he’s afraid what a little liquid courage will inspire.
awkward silence settles around the two of you.
“i’ve always wanted kids,” you muse wistfully, eyes trained on the mixed group of sticky toddlers and school-aged children chasing one another next to the pool. “i can’t help but feel like time is running out though.” your tone is light, the sadness behind your words thinly veiled with an airy chuckle.
“you?” sidney snorts before he can help himself, tipping the amber bottle against his lips before continuing at your confused expression, “you think you’re running out of time?”
“i’m nearly twenty-three,” you sigh, picking at your nail polish in your lap, “i always thought i’d have at least one by now but...” you trail off, the corners of your eyes dampening.
humiliation jabs at your heart when laughter sounds next to you. deep and hearty, it continues for far too long. slowly, you turn to look at sidney. his head is thrown back, eyes shut. unease creeps over your body and you suddenly feel extremely self-conscious.
“it’s not funny,” you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest childishly.
he comes down from his high to say, “it’s not... it’s hilarious.”
it takes all of a second for you to jolt out of the chair and for your feet to carry you away. you can hear the heavy footsteps trailing after you but you don’t stop. your cheeks burn with embarrassment and you’d rather not let sidney see how his words hurt you, tears threatening to spill out of your glassy eyes.
the school-girl crush you harbored for your brother-in-law’s friend was obvious to everyone except sidney, who apparently thought your existence to be laughable. you felt silly and small, and you needed to escape. he calls out your name, but you only pick up the pace.
a gasp falls from your lips when a strong hand grabs ahold of your wrist and you are pressed firmly against warm wood of the house.
the sounds of the party drifting into the side yard are fainter now, your heavy breathing filling in the gaps. with every heave of your chest you brush against his. neither of you speak. his eyes are deep and stormy with flickers of apprehension as he stares down to assess you.
“i think i have a solution to your...predicament,” sidney says after several minutes, his voice thick and low, breath fanning over your cheeks.
you roll your eyes,“very funny.”
“i’m not laughing,” he leans closer.
sidney angles himself in a way that presses his hips against yours, his bulge digging into your stomach. your heart thuds in your ears.
“please,” you whimper, refusing to meet his gaze.
“please what?” his nose brushes against the damp skin of your cheek.
you shudder at the contact, “please...please don’t joke about that.”
“you’re gonna need to be more specific, sugar,” sidney hums teasingly as he firmly pins you against the side of the house.
“having k-kids with me,” the words are quiet and laced with shame.
“who said i was joking?” he pulls away, one brow quirked. when your facial expression doesn’t change, he continues, “i would never joke about that.”
“and now you’re just being cruel,” you persist.
attempting to twist out of his grip, you push your back against the surface behind you but it only brings you closer to him.
“let me prove it to you.”
you blanch, “what?”
sidney doesn’t answer. instead, he inhales deeply and shifts away from yours just slightly, only far enough to press his hands between your bodies before moving them to lock your wrists by your sides.
slowly, as if sensing that any sudden movement could scare you away, he slides a muscular knee between your parted thighs. you hiss as skin connects with skin. sidney’s eyes, which had been glued to your lap, snap up to meet yours. his tongue darts out to wet his lips.
gaze unwavering, he keeps one of his hands circled around your wrist as the other lightly trails from your knee to the hem of your sundress. the fabric was riding dangerously high and his fingers easily graze the bend of your hip. they dance over your skin, stopping just shy of the lace covering your core, pausing for permission to continue.
you nod eagerly. the corner of his mouth twitches upward. suddenly, he rips the fabric from you. your hearts sinks to your stomach as white lace lands on the stone pathway. the two of your freeze, panting as you wait for any sign that someone heard the suspicious sound. a moment passes, and then another. his deep brown eyes bore into yours as he finally moves.
“fuck,” you whine when his fingertips finally brush against your folds. “s-sidney, please. more.”
“gotta be quiet, sugar. wouldn’t want your sister to catch us, would we?” he nips at your earlobe lightly, his hot breath fanning over you. shivering, you shake your head in agreement. “good girl.”
the praise pools in your stomach and your hips involuntarily jut against his palm. sidney chuckles softly, pulling away to pin you with his lusty gaze, “needy girl...if i’d known how desperate you were for my touch, i would have done this sooner.”
your walls flutter in response. knowing he’s wanted you just as long as you’ve wanted him fans the fire fire in your loins. sidney brushes your clit with his thumb and a jolt of pleasure courses through your veins. the movement draws your closer to him, folds dragging delightfully across his thigh to rut against his pulsing cock. you shudder at the unexpected sensation and he takes notice.
“fuck yourself on my thigh, sugar. get yourself all nice and ready for my cock,” sidney instructs lowly against the crook of your shoulder as he withdraws his fingers from your hot center, “y’need to be dripping before i fuck you.”
nervously you obey, hips rocking gently against his bare skin. his swim trunks have bunched up, leaving no barrier between your leaking cunt and his thick thigh. your breathing is heavy as you pick up your pace. sidney’s hands lock on your waist, firmly guiding your motions with bruising force.
“that’s it,” he groans into your ear, tongue sneaking past his lips to trace the shell of it, “doing so well...getting your perfect cunt all sloppy...i can feel it begging to be filled,” a moan rips through you at his words, “you’d like that, sugar? wanna be filled with my cock...filled with my cum...filled with my baby?”
your head slams back against the side of the house and he’s quick to clamp a hand over your mouth as your orgasm rips through your body.
he doesn’t give you a second to compose yourself, quickly freeing his needy cock from the confines of his bottoms. sidney capitalizes on your delirious state, brushing the sensitive region with his member and eliciting wonton moans from deep in your chest.
“...want everyone to know you’re mine, want them to watch as you swell with my child,” he rambles as he continues to drag his cock against your dripping folds, collecting the remnants of your climax and coating his skin, “gonna look so pretty when you’re so full of me.”
you whine and push your hips toward him, trying to glean some kind of reprieve, “please don’t tease. i need you too much. just please fuck me already...waited years for this.”
“years?” he questions between groans and whines. his tone has an edge of gleeful arrogance.
“shut up and fuck me,” you growl, hand wrapping around his base to guide him to your entrance.
and he does. hard and fast. his hips snap against yours with a force that will surely see bruises blooming on your skin by the morning. blood pricks from where your teeth have sunk in deeply to keep whines and whimpers at bay. sidney’s head dips low into the crook of your shoulder, forehead resting against you as he chases release.
“jesus christ,” you hiss as your walls flutter against his cock when his thumb brushes over your swollen clit, hips lifting away from the wall.
he pulls away from your neck to stare into your eyes. after a few blissful thrusts, his attention shifts to your exposed chest. the sleeves of your sundress now resting below your shoulders, having fallen in the chaos. the fading afternoon sun rains down like a spotlight, illuminating the sight.
his left hand slides away from your stomach to knead at your chest. “i can’t wait to watch these get heavy,” he growls, leaning down to tug your pert nipple between his teeth.
“sidney...” you grit under your breath, acutely aware of the party carrying on just around the corner.
“daddy,” he corrects as he snaps his hips hard against you, his thick head brushing against your most sensitive spot. your cunt clenches at the moniker and the coil twisting in your abdomen tightens, “c’mon, mommy...cum for daddy.”
something explodes within you and it takes every shred of self-control you have left not to scream. instead, you sink your teeth in sidney’s bare shoulder. he hisses but the pain only encourages his movements. his cock throbs feverishly inside you as he drives himself over the edge not long after you.
sidney holds you against the wall, transfixed by the sight in front of him. while he made sure to empty himself deep inside of you, a few drops now seep out from between your swollen folds. his eyes briefly flick to yours before he collects the escaping liquid onto his fingers before pushing them inside of you.
“can’t let any of it go to waste, now can we?” he whispers.
authors note: forgive me father for i have sinned....if you liked this, please please please give my words of affirmation ass some praise :) also i don’t have plans to make a part two for this so let’s just leave it here...let your imagination run wild
synopsis: nothing turns sid on quite like a little domestic bliss
word count: 2.3k
warnings: sid being happy without hockey, mention of children and marriage, swearing, unprotected sexual intercourse, sex in risky places at risky times, impregnation kink
alright this is actually a lil bonus blurb because someone got to #3 first and I was able to reach out to emma to get something else going. and. well. uh. it got away from me.
“i’ll kiss you right now to prove i don’t feel anything for you” but the kiss does the exact opposite
length: 1702 words
Tyson Jost was, in his own words, in a dating funk.
He’d decided that he had been single for too long and had turned to dating apps. And when those dating apps inevitably failed him, he whined to you, the best friend sitting on his couch and nursing a glass of wine, trying really hard to pretend that you weren’t in love with him.
It was hard to find “real ones,” as Tyson said once, more than a little tipsy. A lot of people were just looking for hookups—especially ones who wanted to say they fucked Tyson Jost— or didn’t hit it off with Tyson, for whatever reason. (Some of Tyson’s reasons for not going on a second date with someone seemed ridiculous to you, but you refrained from rolling your eyes. Mostly.) You’d actually thought this one stood a chance. Maybe not for going the distance, but she and Tyson had been on a few dates, scattered across almost two months. And then Tyson texted you, asking you to bring over junk food, and you knew he’d called it off.
You went anyway, hauling a bottle of wine and takeout with you.
Tyson was hanging upside down on his couch when you let yourself in. He grinned at you, but made no move to get up as you kicked off your shoes. You wandered to the kitchen in search of dishes and wine glasses.
“Get your ass in here if you want food, Jost,” you called over your shoulder. Tyson scrambled off the couch.
He hooked his chin over your shoulder to watch you dump your food onto a plate, and you rolled your eyes at his exaggerated groan when you elbowed him in the ribs. Tyson moved over to get his own food quietly, and you pursed your lips at him. He was usually done wallowing by the time you made it over to his apartment after a “break-up” (though they could hardly be called that most of the time) already ready to start flipping through his Tinder matches to find his next date. He was far more subdued than usual, this one must’ve been hitting harder than you thought.
You could tell Tyson didn’t want to talk about it, so you didn’t push—yet. You both settled on opposite ends of his couch, but you stretched your feet out enough that you could just poke Tyson in the thigh with your toes. He ignored you, flipping quickly through Netflix to find something mindless to watch. You didn’t even pay attention to what he settled on. Tyson picked at his food, and your patience wore thin after your second glass of wine.
“Alright, what was wrong with this one?” you asked.
Tyson flinched a little, but he stuck his tongue out at you. He shrugged, not meeting your eyes. You poked him with your toes again, digging in as hard as you could, until Tyson pushed your foot off.
“It’s stupid,” he said. You wound up to poke him again, but Tyson caught your foot before you could. He dug his thumb into your arch before continuing. “She said my ukulele was stupid,” he mumbled.
You blinked at him. While the uke was, objectively, a little stupid, Tyson was proud of it, and it was something that meant a lot to him.
“Nah, fuck her,” you said, with enough conviction that it startled a laugh out of Tyson. “Shame too, I actually liked her,” you added.
Tyson gave you a surprised look. “Really?” You shrugged. You’d only met her a handful of times and never for very long, but she’d been nice enough. “Huh.”
You didn’t know what that meant, and you didn’t really know if you wanted to ask.
And so it goes, off and on throughout the season. Strings of failed dates, and Tyson turning to you after each one for consolation. You weren’t sure how much longer you could take it, honestly.
For as oblivious as Tyson was about your not-so-little crush on him, his teammates weren’t quite so dumb. You were currently in the kitchen at Gabe’s, hiding from Tyson under the guise of getting another drink. He’d had a successful third date the night before, and he’d launched into the tale of it, beaming like an idiot who’d just gotten laid, just before you’d fled.
EJ followed you.
“Oh, fuck off,” you said before EJ had even opened his mouth to say anything.
Undeterred, he grinned at you, poking his tongue through the gap in his teeth the way he did when he was up to no good. “Green isn’t a good color on you, you know,” he said.
You scoffed. “I’m not jealous,” you said, but you trailed off. You knew you didn’t have a good argument for that one, not really.
“No? Then come back outside with the rest of us,” EJ said, not giving you a chance to protest before he was hooking an arm around your shoulders and dragging you back outside. He kept his arm tight around your shoulders, tucked against his side, even as you squirmed. He was more immune to your thrown elbows than Tyson was. There were only a few guys clustered around Tyson still, and you spared half a thought to be thankful that the entire team wasn’t actively watching what was sure to be your humiliation.
Tyson furrowed his brows at you, worried. “What’s up?” he asked.
“Y’know, I’ve noticed something,” EJ announced. You elbowed him harder. Tyson’s eyes were darting back and forth between you two, trying to figure out what was going on. You wish you knew where EJ was heading with this. “You’ve spent all season trying to find a girlfriend, but I think you’ve overlooked a pretty obvious option.” EJ shook you a little, for good measure.
“Erik Robert Johnson,” you hissed. JT snickered into his beer.
Tyson made a face at you. “What? No, c’mon that would be weird.”
“Weird?” You turned on Tyson now.
He scrambled to make it better. “You’re my best friend, it’d be like kissing my sister or something, I have never thought of you that way, I swear.” He was talking fast, the way he did when he was nervous. The guys broke out yelling, all talking over each other. Tyson glared around at them for a moment before he reached out and grabbed your wrist, tugging you away from EJ. You stumbled towards him. He didn’t let go. “You know what? Fine,” he said. “You guys don’t believe me? I’ll kiss her right now, I’m not gonna feel anything.”
You felt a little like throwing up.
Tyson turned to you, an apology in his eyes. You leaned in first, your noses bumping together before your mouths slotted together. Tyson’s lips were warm against yours. He made a noise into your mouth, and you made to pull away, but Tyson grabbed you by the hips and pulled you closer. Finally, you planted your hands on his chest and pushed until Tyson broke away, both of you panting.
“Oh, fuck,” Tyson whispered.
Distantly, you were aware that the garden around you had gone silent. Tyson bolted.
You stood, frozen, everyone’s eyes on you, for an agonizing minute before you turned and ran into the house. You blindly made your way upstairs and into one of the spare bedrooms, eyes blurred by tears. Only problem was that the room wasn’t empty. Tyson was sprawled spread-eagle on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, turning to find a room where you could cry in peace. You bumped into the doorframe, swearing under your breath.
Tyson shot upright. His curls were wild, sticking up in all directions like he’d been running his hands through his hair. “Wait!” he said, way too loud, and you both flinched. “Wait,” he said again, quieter, bounding off the bed and over to you. He took you by the wrist again, brown eyes pleading. You tore your hand away, and Tyson let you. His face, hesitant and earnest all at once, fell. “I can explain,” he whispered.
“Tys, let’s just forget about it, yeah?” you said. You weren’t sure you could do this.
“No!” Tyson blurted. You crossed your arms, raising your eyebrows at him. You were both still standing in the doorway. “I mean, I don’t wanna just ‘forget about it,’” he said, air quotes for good measure. “I- I think I’m in love with you,” he admitted.
“Tyson Jost, I think you’re the stupidest person I have ever met,” you said.
Tyson squawked at you in outrage. You could see the beginnings of a smile on his face. “Wait,” he said, taking a step closer, pinning you against the doorframe. You pushed at his chest, half-hearted. Tyson’s grin only grew. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
“I’ve been in love with you forever,” you told him, cheeks burning. This is not how you saw this day going.
Tyson cheered, and, God, you loved his stupid ass so much. He pulled you in again with a hand on your hip, kissing you breathless before you really knew what was happening. He pulled away almost as fast as he’d gone in, already talking.
“Hey, remember when I told you I broke up with that girl because she didn’t like my ukulele?” he asked.
That was, like, the last thing on your mind right now. You hooked a hand around the back of Tyson’s neck, running your fingers through the hair there, trying to remember. That was so long ago. “Yeah, I think?”
Tyson was blushing. “She actually broke up with me because she thought I was in love with someone else.” You smacked Tyson, gently. “Hey!” he protested.
“So dumb,” you told him. Tyson went in for another kiss, laughing so hard that his missed your mouth. "We should get back downstairs," you said. "They're gonna come check on us soon."
"Or," Tyson said, dragging the word out. He started backing into the bedroom, pulling you with him. "We could not do that." His knees hit the bed, and he flopped backwards, letting you land on top of him. Well. You could spare a few more minutes.
pairing: sidney crosby x singer-songwriter!reader, harry styles x singer-songwriter!reader (platonic), side harry styles x louis tomlinson (because i couldn't resist)
synopsis: is your fame is much too much for sidney crosby to stomach, even in the name of love? (based on this request)
warnings: swearing, angst, hollywood being awful
word count: 10k lol
author's note: just prepare for pain. thats all. for a more immersive experience, listen to this playlist
main masterlist
“Welcome back everybody! My next guest, and I don’t have any issue admitting this on-air, is one of my all-time favorite musical artists and one of my all-time favorite people. Her latest single, “Message in a Bottle,” has dominated the pop charts for six consecutive weeks, and she recently received two Grammy nominations, including one for Best New Artist. Please give a warm welcome to (your name)!”
Stephen Colbert’s voice fades into the jubilant roar of the live studio audience as one of the Late Show production assistants guides you to the velvet curtain. Your manager gives you a reassuring smile before nudging you through the parted fabric and onto the glossy black stage. The hot lights are bright and blinding, and you’re grateful Stephen meets you halfway to the platform.
The band plays a jazzier, instrumental version of your latest single and instinctively you smile and wave to the adjacent darkened space, knowing there’s at least sixty of your adoring fans eagerly perched in the seats. You give a final wave before lowering yourself onto the cobalt blue couch, carefully smoothing your dress over your thighs. Once you’re settled, you take a sip of water from the mug left for you on the corner of Colbert’s desk, running your thumb over the white printed logo as you drink.
“I have to say,” Stephen segues once the audience quiets alongside the band, elbows resting on the desk as he leans towards you. “There are very few guests who generate a buzz around this studio quite like you do. All day - all week actually, all everyone could talk about around here was your return to our show.”
Your face blooms with gratitude. “That makes my heart so, so happy. Stephen, it’s really good to be back. What has it been? A year?”
“Wow. Has it really been that long?” Stephen asks, brows knitted in contemplation.
“I think so,” you nod. “I’m pretty sure the last time I was here it was the night my debut album was released. I went straight from your show to my release party down the street - which you were invited to, by the way.”
The audience hoots at your cheeky expression. They always loved the banter between Stephen and yourself.
“Okay, I had a feeling you were going to bring that up and I am going to blame it on my wife and her strict bedtime. We’re old. We can’t be partying with the kids past nine o’clock,” he explains, tapping his cue card against the desk with finality. “But, look how far we’ve come! From your debut album to your first Grammy.”
“I haven’t won anything. I’m just nominated,” you say, smiling bashfully into your lap. “And I’m honestly just honored to even be nominated alongside such talented people.”
“Yet,” Stephen winks. “You haven’t won, yet.”
“Stephen! Don’t jinx me,” you burst.
“Fine, fine. Grammy nominee. Congratulations, by the way. Your first time attending and you’ve been recognized twice - once for best Best New Artist and once for Best Pop Solo Performance. That’s got to feel amazing, right?”
You sigh, “Wow, I don’t think it even fully set in until right now when you said it aloud. But, yes. It feels surreal.”
“How did you react when you found out?”
“I know there’s an atrocious video of me somewhere, courtesy of my best friend. And if this is a set up…” you trail off, finger pointed as your eyes dart between the monitors across from the raised platform as a subtle drumroll builds in speed and stamina.
Stephen grins mischievously, “Actually…I’m just messing with you. No embarrassing videos - tonight.”
The audience lets out a collective groan of disappointment as the music wanes.
“That was just cruel,” you shake your head, hand pressed against your beating heart in relief as the host and his audience delight in your near misery.
“I’m sorry! You’re just so fun to tease, I couldn't resist,” he smiles. You playfully roll your eyes. “Now, I have to ask. There’s been a lot of back and forth over who this song is about...I don’t know, maybe a certain web-slinging superhero, or perhaps a certain British pop sensation?”
The audience descends into a fit of hoots and hollers, heating the back of your neck. You take a long sip from the mug to buy yourself some time, a moment to settle the butterflies fluttering inside your stomach, before answering the very targeted question in a way that was both on brand for the flirty image created by your team and felt authentic to you as a person.
“Part of being a good songwriter is being a convincing storyteller. It’s my job to sell a feeling or an idea. Or a romance,” you turn to the audience and wink before turning back to Stephen to finish your answer. “Every time there’s speculation over my inspiration for a song or even an entire album, it’s incredibly validating because it means I have done my job.”
Stephen’s face folds in mock-disappointment. “If you were less eloquent, I would be more mad about that non-answer answer.”
You chuckle, smiling and shrugging as a mixture of soundboard and live audience laughter envelopes the studio.
“If you won’t tell us who “Message in a Bottle” is about, maybe you can tell us something else?” You nod with a compliant shrug, and he continues. “You’re a big fan of Twitter, always putting out lyrics and talking to your fans, so I’m sure you’ve already seen this theory bouncing around. But can you confirm or deny the following: “Message in a Bottle” is a continuation of “Enchanted,” the single you released a few months before.”
“All of my projects are connected in some way or another, Stephen, but I can confirm that there is indeed a direct correlation between “Enchanted” and “Message in a Bottle,”’ you smile through the small bit of truth your team approved.
“You heard it here first, folks. The same lucky person who inspired our favorite musical meet-cute also inspired our new anthem for pining!” Stephen announces and the crowd erupts in celebration.
The remainder of your time on stage is spent bickering over your mutual favorite movie series, reiterating a pre-approved personal anecdote Stephen pretended was brand new, and discussing your recent cameo on HBO’s Euphoria, which had been foreshadowed during premiere of the first episode when Labrinth sampled your vocals on the soundtrack, but only came to fruition after you visited your close friend Zendaya on set and hit it off with the creator. Stephen congratulates you once more on your nominations before reminding the audience, both in-studio and watching from home, to look out for your upcoming album.
“What happened to mentioning Harry like we planned?” your publicist, Janet, asks the moment you’re tucked safely behind the curtain again.
She barely glances up from her cellphone, and you’re thankful for her screen addiction because you wouldn’t have been able to share a conspiratorial eye roll with your manager had she been staring directly at you.
You smile at the production assistant, the same one from before, who hands you a bottle of water. Cracking it open, you allow your team to lead you back down the hallway and into to the dressing room you’d been assigned to for the night, taking a sip and shutting the door before answering. “Didn’t feel organic.”
“Jesus,” Janet scoffs as she tosses herself onto the black velvet couch. “Honey, don’t be ridiculous. Is anything in this industry organic? Whatever, no going back now. At least you didn’t put your foot in your mouth. We’ll just have to front load the press with candids in the next few weeks before we drop “Run.” Speaking of, Lorelei confirmed Harry will be in town for your birthday and his team secured tickets for the LA Knights game you just had to go to. I still don’t understand why you insisted on doing that, by the way. My assistant had a perfectly good table at Dan Tana’s.”
“Kings.”
“What?” Her voice is as pointed as her thin brow as she glares over the screen of her phone.
“You said LA Knights. Los Angeles’s hockey team is the Kings, not the Knights. That’s Las Vegas,” you explain, leaning your back against the wall and fiddling with the white plastic cap of the half-empty water bottle.
The heels your stylist put you in were uncomfortable, to put it nicely. So much so that you were fairly certain just the short distances you walked in them tonight were enough for permanent blisters.
Sam, your makeup artist lets out a heavy sigh from across the room, and you instantly regret provoking Janet.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Janet’s gaze returns to her phone and her red nails click and clack obnoxiously over the screen. “Now, I know you are supposed to have the night off to do God knows what in the city by yourself, but Gigi Hadid’s people just sent over an invitation for cocktail party she’s hosting on behalf of Tommy Hilfiger at Bemelmans. It’s super exclusive and the perfect opportunity to ask her to connect you with Taylor -”
“No,” you interrupt.
“No?”
“No,” you confirm, arms crossed defensively across your chest. “You said I could have the night to myself. You agreed weeks ago and you can’t just go back on that because some brand wants me there. I’m not going to a networking event to kiss people’s asses and beg for favors. I’ve earned this. I do everything you ask every other night of my life.”
Her face twists with contempt. “Fine. But you’ll be on the tarmac at 5:45 sharp tomorrow morning, and not a second later. You have that radio interview in Las Vegas and the opening of the new hotel on the strip. Do you understand me?”
You nod. “I understand.”
“God, sometimes I feel like I’m the only one in this room who actually cares about the longevity of the brand,” Janet bites under her breath, but still loud enough for you all to hear.
“She’s an adult, Janet. She doesn’t need a babysitter and can make her own decisions,” your agent, Josh, says from across the room.
Janet’s eyes narrow on him, “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one in charge of managing her image when she insist on galavanting around like a child.”
“And that’s rich coming from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Janet snaps, tossing her phone against the couch.
The emotionally-charged voices of your publicist and live agent ricocheting off the walls swiftly becomes white noise. They can hardly go ten minutes without jumping down one another’s throats. Except for when they find other ways to occupy their mouths.
Sam finishes tucking her brushes and products into her travel bag and gives you a light squeeze as she steps out into the crowded hallway. Your hairstylist and stylist follow suit not long after, both letting you know they’d meet you at the airport the following morning to head back to the west coast. Soon, your manager is the only buffer between you and the enemies to lovers plot unfolding at your expense.
Thankfully, your phone buzzes as Josh stands from his chair and starts migrating towards the couch.
S: 5 out. Alleyway.
You smile and type out a response. It sends and you tuck your phone back into your pocket. When you look up, your manager is already studying you and frowning.
“I’ll be back in less than six hours. You won’t even notice I’m gone,” you smile at her as your grab your coat off the back of the makeup chair and tug it on. She still looks worried, but you still loop your thick, knit scarf around your neck. “I promise.”
She doesn’t say a word as you open the door and walk into the hallway. You make it all the way to side door before you hear the click of her heels against the unforgiving floor. You keep walking, the excitement buzzing under your skin dulling your guilt and anxiety.
Delia, your manager, gently grabs your elbow before you can push open the exit door and lowers her voice to a barely-there whisper, “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“No promises,” you cheekily reply, quickly pecking her cheek before shoving out into the cold New York City air.
A black sedan is waiting with its hazards on. The bright orangey-yellow beams cut through the alleyway, like a beacon lighting your way through a darkened tunnel. Delicious relief thrums through your veins as the passenger door is thrown open and the smell of woodsy cologne wafts into your nose.
“There’s my girl,” A throaty voice says through a smile when the door closes behind you.
His warm nose brushes against yours, making you shiver. He chuckles and cups your cheek in his palm, stroking over your cheek with his thumb as his deep brown eyes stare down into yours for what feels like seconds and years all at the same time.
“Hi,” you whisper against his lips.
“Hi,” he whispers back.
It’s funny how just spending one minute with the right person can erase all the bullshit that preceded it.
“You look beautiful, darling.”
“Thanks, Sid,” you smile but it quickly fades as commotion builds on the street and a few phantom flashes blink in your peripheral. “I hate to ruin a sweet moment, but if we don’t leave now…”
“I know, I know. The vultures and their cameras.”
There’s a tired agitation to his voice as he turns to take the car out of park, keeping you from reading his expression. You don’t have to see it to know what it looks like, though. His jaw is set and tight, nostrils flared from sharp exhales, and brows so downturned they impede on his eyes.
He’s frustrated, but so are you. But it’s not fair for him to be upset with you. He’s the reason he’s picking you up in an alley, instead of walking out the front doors of the Ed Sullivan theater with you hand in hand. If he’d let you, you would have reasoned with your team. Sidney never even gave you the opportunity.
The drive is silent, but even if he’s annoyed with you, he still takes W 59th St because he knows you like to see Central Park when you’re in the city, even if it’s just through a car window.
One of the men from your security team is waiting with a hotel concierge when Sidney pulls the car to a stop on the loading dock of the The Plaza.
“Good evening, Miss,” Jamie greets you as he opens the passenger side door for you to step out.
You sigh but a smile still tickles at your lips. “How many times to have to tell you to call my by my first name, Jamie?”
“My apologies,” he returns the grin before playfully tacking on a “Miss.”
The first time you met Sidney, you told him your dream was to stay at the Eloise suite at The Plaza Hotel. You’d only just met a few hours prior, between when you sang the National Anthem and participated in the ceremonial pick drop, so you didn’t know why you were telling a perfect stranger something so silly yet intimate. But you’d come to learn that Sidney just had a way about him that made you want to blurt out all your secrets.
After a 4-3 victory over the Rangers, Madison Square unceremoniously emptied. Before you could be whisked away by your security team, a member of the Penguins staff tracked you down in your suite to hand-deliver a note from their captain. Inside was the address of The Plaza (as though you didn’t already have it memorized) and a bright pink room key.
Over room service and champagne and surrounded by pink goodness, you told him how much Eloise at Christmastime meant to you, and he listened like it was the most interesting story he’d ever heard and would ever hear. After you finished, slightly embarrassed and thoroughly delirious off alcohol and sugar, you buried your head into one of the obnoxiously floral pillows propped against the pink, sparkly headboard. You’d felt his weight shifting on the bed and feared the worst, anxiously peering up, only to find him setting up the record player across the room.
Etta James’ sultry voice crackled through the room and all he needed to do was hold out his hand. You danced together, soft and slow, until the sun rose. Until you both had to go. You to LA for a press junket, and him back to Pittsburgh for a double header the following weekend.
But from that night forward, Sidney booked the Eloise suite whenever reality permitted. Just to eat sweets and slow dance on the zebra print carpet under the safety of the night.
The Plaza learned to respect your privacy and was willing to do just about anything to protect it. They sent their senior-most concierge to meet with your head of security, who then jointly escort you two to the suite in a private elevator and through hallways temporarily blocked off from the public, a procedure they’d repeat when you left. Separately.
Everything in the suite is pink and white. Absolutely everything, and it’s absolutely magical. Sidney will never admit how much he likes it. Frills and all.
“I’ll be back to escort you to Teterboro at 5,” Jamie says to you before excusing himself into the hallway.
He promises his team keeps a respectful distance, but you prefer to not think about them four men stationed outside the door. At The Plaza, it’s just you and Sidney. Normal and alone.
When the door clicks shut, Sidney fastens the deadbolt and wanders over to the Edwardian tea table overflowing with fresh flowers and complimentary treats.
The reservation includes themed tea at The Palm Court, but you’ve never been. Judging by extra box of chocolate truffles and second bottle of Veuve, someone at The Plaza knows you never will.
“Etta or Nat tonight?”
Your voice is small and hesitant, still unsure of how to move past the awkwardness your fame inevitably caused even after all this time.
He doesn’t answer. Not at first, and not with words. His dark eyes hold yours as he places a few chocolate covered strawberries and two truffles onto a delicate cream plate with gold-dusted edges and pours a glass of champagne. He crosses the room with easy strides and when he places them into your hands, your fingers brush with a softness that tells you all is forgiven.
He sheds his coat and you watch the muscles lining his back ripple beneath the fitted t-shirt. He thumbs through the records stored next to the player, pausing to study a sleeve you’re too far away to discern. Content, he settles it into place and drops the needle.
When Kitty Kallen’s sweet voice joins the dynamic orchestra a minute or so into the track, Sidney moves everything to the side and draws you against his chest in the center of the room.
“I wish I could handle this better,” he murmurs into your neck as “It’s Been A Long, Long Time” turns into “A Sinner Kissed An Angel.”
A single tear drops from your outer corner, disappearing into the dark fabric of his shirt. Though you know deep down agree with him, you would never say it aloud. “I don’t want you do anything but be yourself.”
“One day things will be different. I promise.”
You’d seen and experienced enough to stop yourself from clinging to the pretty words of empty promises, but fuck, did you want to. Especially when they were coming from a handsome mouth that you loved so dearly.
“Just keep dancing.” It comes out a whimper, though you don’t mean for it to. “Please.”
Jamie almost breaks down the bright pink door a few hours later. Sometime between the silent tears and the dancing and the sips of champagne, you fell asleep against Sidney’s chest on top of the pink floral duvet. He’s already awake beneath you and tracing light circles on your back and your arms.
“Stay,” he whispers when you open your eyes.
Still groggy, you almost agree. Your phone rings and the banging persists, and you think better of it.
“If I don’t leave now, Janet will have my head,” you say quietly as shift away from him.
He catches your arm and draws you back into his. “One day, we won’t have to do this. One day, we’ll wake up together and not have to rush off, not knowing when we’ll see each other next. Do you know what keeps me going?”
“What?” you ask, your voice catching in your throat halfway through.
“Knowing I end up with you.”
It’s sweet. You know it’s meant to be sweet, and you know it is. But how sweet can inaction be?
“When?”
“What?” Sidney asks, propping himself up onto his elbow.
“When will we end up together?”
He lets out a long sigh. The banging continues. He doesn’t have an answer because he doesn’t know. Or he does, and he knows he’s full of shit.
Rolling your eyes, you quickly collect your belongings off the floor and the chair, not bothering to put any of it on. You slip on your shoes, take one last sip from your discarded flute and undo the deadbolt.
“You’re not even going to give me a chance to answer?” Sidney huffs, still lazily lounging atop the bed.
You pause, facing the fuchsia door. “Your silence said enough.”
Jamie doesn’t pry and that’s probably the best thing about him. He just lets you sulk in taut silence on the thirty minute drive to New Jersey.
You board the plane without speaking to anyone, sunglasses shielding your puffy eyes from a nosy audience. The thick fur hood of your coat pulled over your head does a wonderful job of discouraging conversation for the first hour of the flight, at which time you allowed yourself to be coaxed into a quiet game of chess with Sam. She threw the first match, no doubt sensing you could use the win, but she slowly worked into her usual prowess as you emerged from your sullen shell.
“What the fuck is this?” Janet abruptly slams her iPad down onto the table, sending free-standing black and white chess pieces scattering across the floor of the jet.
When you don’t reach for it, instead moving your knight to E4, she shoves the device into the board. Annoyed, your eyes snap from her red, pinched face down to the bright screen slanted halfway into your lap. Anything to make her go away.
“No, no, no, no,” you chant, eyes glazing over with tears. The blurry paparazzi photo taken outside the Ed Sullivan theatre plastered on the cover of the trashy, but undoubtedly popular, gossip magazine becomes unrecognizable as they cascade down your cheeks.
“MAYBE SHE’S IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE ELSE…
When the Brit’s away, the American will play! More exclusive photos and a breakdown of everything you need to know about the “Enchanted” singer’s mystery man on page 7!”
Over your shoulder, Josh and Delia gasp before fuzzy spots cloud your vision as the world goes dark.
TWO MONTHS LATER.
You’re grateful Harry insisted on playing the guitar tonight. With his hands occupied, Janet and Lorelei couldn’t make him touch you during the performance. Instead, he’s standing a foot away, safely off to your right.
The stage is nearly empty, devoid of background dancers and supporting vocalists. You’d forgone a full band, and what musicians you asked to accompany you during your debut Grammy performance were obscured by a light fog and prop trees, big and dark and green. It was simple - lonely. But to onlookers, it was the kind of stripped down intimacy celebrities aspired for. A way of signaling to their audience that this kind of high-profile love was in some way attainable.
Even in the thin fabric of the gown your stylist pulled, you feel as though you’re melting under the heavy lighting and insurmountable pressure.
You wanted to remember this moment for the rest of your life, but you doubted you could. Disappointment clouded the night, spurning a melancholic burn in the pit of your stomach. The one person you wanted there, more than anyone else in the entire world, wasn’t. It was too much of a risk. Too many people and too many cameras. Someone would talk if they saw you with him instead of Harry.
It was too soon after the faux reconciliation to take any chances - especially “unnecessary” ones, according to your publicist. After all, she was responsible for the now-infamous public groveling in London followed by an outwardly spontaneous and romantic getaway to Paris for the weekend. Your fans dubbed it the "London Rekindling," claiming it was proof love wasn't dead. It was neither spontaneous nor romantic, and besides a few scheduled pap walks and tourist excursions, you hardly saw Harry. You weren’t the only one hiding a lover in the shadows.
Janet allowed you to attend the Kings game, in which they played the visiting Penguins, a few weeks later but she barred you from “meeting” either team after. She wouldn’t give reporters the opportunity to even speculate about you flaunting one boyfriend in front of the other.
Sidney was less than pleased you were there, and he made sure you knew. He missed most shots and racked up more penalty minutes in a single game than he’d ever before. Each time they showed his pinched expression on the Jumbotron, it felt like he was glaring directly at you, and he was. He was punishing you for intruding on his domain with your drama on someone else’s the arm.
After the final buzzer sounded, you managed to sneak away from your friends and your handlers to track Sidney down, not caring if the staff saw you.
“You’re being incredibly reckless right now,” He’d said to you after you pinned him against a wall, tucked away from prying eyes, and kissed him like your life depended on it.
“Don’t care,” you hummed, lips ghosting over the thin line of skin left exposed above his white dress shirt. “I needed to see you and make you forgive me.”
He sighed heavily. “I’m never mad at you, darling. Only the situation.”
The situation that was entirely self-inflicted. You could be together if you wanted it badly enough, but you both were to selfish to sacrifice what mattered most to you. Sidney wanted peace, and your career could never allow him that. You wanted to love him in public, but he could never subject himself to the media. So you settled for clandestine meetings and longing stares. But for how long could that be enough?
On arguable the most significant night of your career, he wasn’t there. You were in Las Vegas, pretending to be in love with someone you weren’t in front of millions, and he was spending his off day holed up in some hotel suite waiting for you to come back. Guilt twists in your gut with every pleading verse and chorus.
“There’s been this whole in my heart,” Harry leads the bridge, eyes deliberately catching yours over the microphone as his fingers work over the strings of his acoustic guitar.
“This thing was a shot in the dark,” you answer, winking at him just like you choreographed, feeling more like an amusement park animatronic than a woman in love.
“Say you’ll never let them tear us apart.”
They already had but you were too stubborn to see it.
“And I’ll hold on to you while we run,” you sing, eyes fluttering closed as green eyes before you fade to brown in the privacy of your own mind.
The tears raining down your cheeks when Stevie Nicks presents you with the Grammy award for Best New Artist later that evening are mostly joyful, but you can’t help yourself from letting a few drops of disappointment slip through. He should be here with you.
The front woman for one of the best musical groups of all time is just as warm and genuine as you hoped she would be and your speech is beautiful. When you thank an unnamed special individual in your life, you don’t look for green eyes in the front row like Janet told you to. You stare directly into the main camera and hope brown ones are looking back.
Winning a second time feels like a cruel joke. A handheld camera is fixed on your face when Billie Eilish and Finneas announce your performance on the lead single of your debut album and Harry plants a congratulatory kiss on your cheek, strategically only partially in frame. He walks with you over to the stage, carefully helping you navigate the stairs, before stepping back down to let you have a moment that the media can’t make about him.
“Wow, um, I never thought I would win one of these,” you hold the gilded gramophone up in shaking hands. “And now I’m walking away from tonight with two. This is absolutely inane. It is an incredible honor to just be in the same room as you all, and I have looked up you as creators, and more importantly as human beings, for as long as I can remember. I cannot thank you enough for welcoming me into this world with open arms and hearts, and for loving and trusting me enough to do what makes me the happiest, which is to create music that resonates with people. I want to thank my fans for meeting me wherever I’m at with empathy and enthusiasm. You are my absolute favorite part of this all and I could not do it without you. Lastly, I want to thank the Recording Academy for giving me a night I will never, ever forget.”
An instrumental version of your track floats from the seated orchestra as you’re ushered away from the cameras and backstage. As soon as the light leaves your face, a thundering of emotions bubble to the surface and you collapse against Delia, who was waiting in the wings to receive you.
“Let it out, honey. It’s okay,” she rubs your back as she hurries you through the halls and into a private back room.
Familiar faces pop up along the way and you hope they assume your tears are just those of an industry newcomer overwhelmed with gratitude.
“I can’t do this anymore,” you croak when the door slams shut. It’s just the two of you and your hunk of metal. The words fall out of you like they never belonged there in the first place. “It’s too much and I thought I could pretend, but I can’t and I need to be done. Delia, I need to be done. You have to tell Janet that I’m done.”
“Shhh, calm down. I know you’re hurting inside, but we need to get you calm before you’re makeup is ruined. They won’t let Sam back here during the show and we still need to get you out of here.”
Lightly she swipes the pads of her thumbs over your damp cheeks, collecting the tears. You feel like you’re cracking, bursting at the seams with longing for someone who can’t play the role you want them to.
“I want to see him,” you say, voice raspy with despair, as she blots your face with a thin tissue.
“I know you do,” she says woefully.
You whimper, “Please, Delia. I won’t ask for anything ever again. I will never complain. I’ll smile for the cameras and hold Harry’s hand, and I’ll convince the world we’re in love. Just please. One night. Tonight. Please, just let me be with him tonight.”
“I wish that I could. I want that more than anything, but I can’t. You’re contractually obligated to attend the after party, I’m sorry. After, we’ll get him into your hotel. I promise, honey.”
Her words only make you sob harder. “It’ll be too late. He’ll be gone by then.”
Sidney only had twenty four hours to spare in his tight schedule, and you’d wasted what time he hadn’t spent on an airplane getting your glam done, taking a million photos for the designer who leant you your gown, creating sound bites on the red carpet, and faking love with another man. By the time you’re released from the party tonight, he’ll be in the air headed back to join his team in Detroit. Your schedules didn’t align again for another month. The relationship is slipping through your fingers and you’re losing it.
“We’ll find a way to make your schedule more flexible, okay? Less contracted time and more independence. You have a few recording sessions lined up in LA for the album, but I think we can talk to Janet about limiting the amount of time you’re in public. You can write from anywhere. Maybe a change in scenery will be inspiring. Tonally, I think being with him could really help solidify the album. And I know it’s hard to believe, but Janet’s not completely unreasonable,” Delia gives you a soft smile and you scoff. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
You laugh a little and she brightens.
“Let’s get you cleaned up and ready to leave, okay? I’ll let the team know you’re keeping the conference short. One of Janet’s minions can feed them a tip about you wanting time to celebrate privately with friends and family.” You knew how the press would interpret that and it makes you nauseous. “Spend a few hours at the party. Make the rounds, maybe have a drink or two, and then politely bow out. Something tells me Harry won’t mind calling it early.”
You nod in agreement and allow her to help soak of the remanence of your tears. Delia does her best with the concealer and strawberry chapstick in her clutch before leading you back to your seat in the crowd. Lucky for you, another unfortunate installment of the Selena/Justin/Hailey saga unfolded moments before - something about him changing the lyrics during a performance dedicating to his wife, so the cameras are locked on their seats a few sections over for the remainder of the production.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Harry asks on the way to Encore for the Recording Academy’s after party at XS.
“I guess I just keeping thinking about how I climbed this huge mountain and now I’m looking back at how far I’ve come, and I know I should be over the moon delighted but I can’t help but feel empty inside. Is the price we pay worth it? What’s success if you have no one to share it with?” you murmur solemnly, knowing he’ll understand better than anyone in the world. He nods and you’re eager to shift attention away from yourself. “How’s Louis?“
“Pissed,” he chuckles, emerald green eyes flicking to the floor of the car. “But what’s new?”
You exhale loudly into the room. “I know our situations are in no way comparable - not even in the slightest, but do you ever wonder what would happen if we just loved who we loved openly? Would that really be so terrible, if the world knew?”
“I ask myself that every fucking day, love. Every fucking day.”
EIGHT MONTHS LATER.
Scraping an album halfway through production is monumentally stupid. But sometimes shit happens and you don’t want to put out a record about being desperately in love after the person who inspired every tragically beautiful song shattered your fragile heart on a random Tuesday morning in October.
“Our first guest tonight is a two-time Grammy award-winning musician and one of the most beloved creatives in the world. Her album, AFTERMATH, is out tonight at midnight. She will be making her debut appearance as SNL’s musical guest this weekend, along with host Tom Holland. Please welcome back to the show, the one and only, (your name)!”
Seth Meyers, host of the popular Late Night talk show, steps out from behind his desk as the in-studio band plays a punchy interlude. As you walk out onto the stage, he pulls you into a friendly embrace before helping you up the two stairs leading up to the slate gray couches.
“It is so good to have you back in New York and back on this stage. You're one of our favorites and we're honored to have you on the eve of such a special night," Seth says.
You smile, "Thank you for having me, Seth. It's wonderful to be here. I couldn't imagine celebrating this milestone anywhere else."
"Speaking of said milestone, your second studio album, AFTERMATH," Seth props up the vinyl cover on the desk, proudly displaying it to the in-studio audience and the one who would be watching at home, "...will be released tonight after the show. Could you tell us a little about the record - What was your inspiration? How did we get here?"
"Lots of soul-searching," you reply, a heavy sigh causing your shoulders to sag just a little too far.
Janet would no doubt bitch about how you "ruined the visuals" with your slouching, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. You were talking about music. Your music. You didn't need (or want) to be policed.
"Oh?" Seth says, clearly intrigued. You can't tell how much is genuine and how much is amped up for the sake of the nosy viewership. "And what revelations did said-soul searching yield?"
You'd thought about that a lot in the past few months as you finalized the record. The lessons you'd learned and the person you thought you'd spend the rest of your life with. You couldn't be completely honest and it fucking sucked, but you could do your best with the vague niceties you were allowed.
“Sometimes people come into your life for a reason, even if it’s just for a season,” you start slowly, hands clasped in your lap. “Their time with you may have been short-lived, but they’ll always be woven into the fabric of your story. The good and the bad, the happiness and the hurt. It all leads you down the path that’s meant for you. Yes, it hurts when someone leaves and it’s cathartic to let yourself hate them sometimes, and to even write a vindictive song or two, but I’ve done my best healing when I approach the world from a place of forgiveness. Not for anyone’s benefit but my own. If there’s anything I've learned from losing love it’s that no one can give you closure you need besides yourself.”
“And you can feel that throughout the record,” Seth says earnestly, smiling as he continues to hold the vinyl cover. “You were actually nice enough to send me a copy early and I remember sitting with it blasting - through headphones of course, and feeling all the nostalgia and the pain and the grief, and even hope towards the end there.”
“Thank you, that really means a lot to hear. I am very vulnerable with my work, and I think that’s what allows so many people see themselves and their experiences reflected in my songs, but AFTERMATH feels different. Like I’m baring my soul in a way I never have before. Which is terrifying, by the way,” you laugh a little and the audience quickly joins.
“I do want to talk about a couple of the tracks, if that’s okay with you?” Seth pushes the interview along, tucking the album back under the desk.
“Go for it,” you smile.
“First, I feel like we need to talk about “Enchanted” and “Message in a Bottle,” because when people pick up the album tomorrow they, like myself, are going to be a little confused why two of your most popular songs aren’t on it. Is there a reason behind the decision to cut them, or were they never intended to be on the album from the beginning?”
You knew he'd ask about this. It was the million dollar question. Your team wanted you to say they weren't meant for an album - "silly passion projects," Janet had called them, but that was too much of a lie for you to stomach. They were meant for an album. Just not the one you ended up releasing.
“I wrote those songs during a period of time that is very different from my life now. Authenticity is something I prioritize when it comes to the creative process, so it felt disingenuous to include them on an album that is so drastically different in tone and content. I still love those songs dearly, and I always will, but I personally believe they fit better in my past than in my present.”
“Fair enough. Now, let’s see…what to start with?" he mutters as he scans the track-list taped to the back of a cue card. “How about “favorite crime”? There was an incredible amount of speculation about this one after you teased the track list on Instagram a few weeks ago and I feel like the people deserve some answers.”
"And I am happy to provide them!" you wink towards the crowd before explaining the sanitized story. "'favorite crime" is what happens when you love someone who makes you feel like your love is wrong, or something to hide. It depicts a journey of co-dependency and desperation, and the inability to see the toxicity clearly while you're wrapped up in the stolen moments. You’re settling for less because you’d rather hurt together than be apart. In hindsight, you recognize the fundamental issues with the relationship but you have no idea where you stand in the aftermath. You're hurt, but you survived and you now know it wasn't healthy."
Seth hums, mulling over your words. "Sometimes that's enough, though. Just knowing that you weren't treated fairly in a past relationship is incredibly valuable."
"I agree."
“Next, “breadwinner.” What’s the story there? I absolutely love this song, and dare I say, it might be my favorite on the album,” Seth says.
“Really?” your voice betrays your shock.
He laughs. “Really! It’s catchy and clever, but still has the heart and brutal honesty that you’re known for.”
“Well, thank you! Um, but to answer your question, I feel like we don’t fully understand just how vital it is to have the people closest to you support you unequivocally and openly, without a shred of fear of the repercussions, until you finally find them. You can love someone so deeply and know that they return those feelings, but love is not enough when they - intentionally or not, put you in a position where you’re forced to pause your goals to suit their agenda,” you explain and Seth nods along beside you. “‘breadwinner” is my middle finger to anyone who thinks it’s okay to make someone they claim to love dim their shimmer to make them feel better about themselves."
“And here I was thinking I couldn't possibly love it anymore. Now, we have to talk about “don’t you.” We just have to,” Seth says giddily. “This is your very first collaboration with Jack Antonoff, who also works with your friends Lorde and Taylor Swift, and you just about broke the Internet when you shared a clip with him in the studio on Instagram last week. Can you tell us about that process?"
“Jack is one of the most spectacularly talented people I have ever met in my entire life, and actually he was the one who reached out to me. Through Taylor, funny enough. I sent her a clip of “liability” when it was just a chorus and a short melody, and she accidentally played it for him when they were in a session.”
“How do you "accidentally" do that?” Seth prompts, eagerly leaning forward onto the desk between you.
"You don't," you chuckle. "It was very much on purpose. She knew we would work well together and that was her way of getting us into the same room. Jack loved "liability" but I already had Dan Nigro, who you know works heavily with Olivia Rodrigo, producing it. So, Taylor suggested we collaborate on something else, and that something else turned into what's now "don't you." We ended up sneaking a few of her harmonies into the background. As for the premise of the track, its is fairly simple: begging the subject not to re-open the wounds inflicted in the wake of the separation and relentlessly questioning why they don't seem to hurt the way you do."
"An all-star collaboration and an all-star song." Seth smiles, “And finally, track number one. We kind of worked our way backwards but if you could, can you explain “supercut” - why you chose it as you opener and what it means for the project as a whole?”
“So, for those of you who don’t know, a supercut is a montage of short clips with the same theme, such as a word or a phrase or, in this case, an emotion. At its core, this song is about being confused over the failure of a relationship. Over the past year as I was writing and reflecting, I would find myself only looking back on the good times, trying to ignore the bad ones, and wondering what would have happened had certain moments gone differently. I chose to start AFTERMATH with this track because it felt like the perfect introduction for listeners. A way to put them into the headspace I was in when I was working on it. In relation to the project holistically, it lays the foundation for the emotional purging that eventually occurs throughout the following hour.”
The rest of the interview pertains to inconsequential bullshit. If you had it your way, you'd skip it altogether. You didn't understand how a largely factitious story about your first apartment in Los Angeles added anything to the larger conversation, but your team insists its a good way to build a brand thats personable.
On Saturday night, Tom blows the audience away and sends the internet into a frenzy. His "reboot" of his girlfriend's hit Disney channel show, Shake It Up, had you and the rest of the cast howling with laughter backstage. You knew you'd be seeing gifs and memes of your friend in sequins and a wig for months. During the Weekend Update, he played a crazed version of a fan who cared just a little too much about your recent "split" from Harry. He genuinely brought himself to tears whilst singing an off-key version of "Enchanted" while clutching a framed, very staged paparazzi photo from the London Rekindling.
As your band gets situated on stage during the last act of the show, Michael Che and Colin Jost ask you to sign it - you do, barely able to hold the sharpie because you're laughing so much. It's the first time your stomach has tightened in a pleasant way, and it feels damn good. You walk out onto the darkened platform with a small, but genuine smile curled on your lips.
“Ladies and gentleman, (your name)!” Pete Davidson motions for the camera to move towards the stage behind him.
You run your thumb over your mic, wiggling your fingers as you inhale deeply. You hold the breath for a second, counting like your therapist taught you during your second session a few weeks ago, and then send the air back into the world.
Preforming never made you nervous, but thinking about him always did. One of the downsides of using personal experiences to create your art was having to relive those memories in front of an audience. Janet liked the way it looked - what it added to your stage presence, but you preferred to do your grieving in private. But, sometimes it was therapeutic to take control of the narrative in such a public way, even if all they knew were half-truths.
Behind you, the band starts and the simple set illuminates. Just you and your band, and a year's worth of affection and heartbreak.
Do you really want this?
Be honest, be honest
Do you just wanna call it?
Be honest
Keep lookin' for a sign that
We got this, we're solid
But maybe we're just getting in the way
Most of your relationship happened through a screen. Most of your fighting happened through that same screen.
"Do you think this is a good idea?"
You asked him some variation of this often. In person, over the phone, in emails and in texts. You'd asked him this on almost every continent, while flying over every ocean. Sitting in the sun and curled up under the moon.
"What, darling?" Sidney asked as though he didn't know what you meant, like he didn't already have an answer.
"Do you think we're a good idea? That this - that we're worth all the fuss? Surely you could be with someone more...low maintenance?"
You always hated how it sounded. All insecure and small. Like you weren't sure about you or him, or the relationship. He never asked questions like you did. Didn't need to beg for reassurance, regardless of how many bumps you hit.
"Sweetheart, if I wanted to be with someone else I would be."
It was meant to be comforting but it wasn't. His succinct attempt at reassurance that night fell short. It was becoming a pattern but not so long ago, Sidney used to say all the right things. They were like magic, unraveling you with a confident ease, coaxing you into comfort. It was his enchanting words you fell for first, then his heart and his smile. But, as the months dragged on and things became more serious, you only drifted further apart.
"But -"
"But nothing," his voice was sharp through the phone. "If I tell you that we're okay, you need to trust that. We're good. We're good, until you let the world and your insecurities get in the way."
It stung, cut you so close to the bone you felt you would collapse, but you could see the truth in his words. In the brutal honesty that had replaced sweet nothings. Maybe there was a reason you were the only one that voiced concerns or dug up problems and prodded until they grew too large to ignore. Maybe everything would be okay if you left things alone and stopped creating obstacles to overcome.
"I hear you, but I need you to be honest. Do you just want to call it? Before something happens and we end up hating each other?" you asked, hearing his breathing change on the other end of the line - on the other side of the world. "I really don't want to hate you."
He started to answer but was interrupted by loud banging, probably on his hotel room door. Sidney cursed under his breath. "Look, I have to go. You don't have to hate me. Not now. Not ever. If you still feel like the world is crumbling tomorrow - our relationship alongside it, we'll talk about it then. We're good, okay? Tell me you believe me. I can't hung up the phone and play tonight knowing you'll be upset."
Sidney played better when you were happy, so you told him you believed him. He ended the call and for the rest of the night, you repeated what he said over and over. You hoped that if you said it enough, it would come true.
It didn't.
If we wait for the perfect time
What if it's just
Just a little too late?
Just a little too little?
What if I'm just
A little much, too much for ya?
What if we just
Take a little more space
And little by little
It does what it does
'Til there's nothin' left of us?
The last of the chorus floats of your tongue and you're thrust into one of the last conversations you had with him.
"This is too fucking much. I can't take this anymore. I feel like I'm going insane arguing with you. We go in fucking circles, over and over again, because you just don't care about how your lifestyle effects me."
Sidney's head was between his knees, his hands tugging at the short strands. His neck was damp with perspiration, physical evidence of the anger and frustration he'd let consume him.
You flew nearly twenty hours through multiple timezones to see him between roadies, but all he'd done since you surprised him was go on and on about how terrible it was to love you.
"Are you even listening to me?" Sidney asked when you didn't immediately have a rebuttal.
The desperation in his voice gave you pause. He wanted this to work, was trying to make things work despite how impossible it all felt. He loved you. Had loved you like no one had before. And for months, you'd felt like Sidney was your epic love. The one you were meant to be with. But he was asking too much. You loved him, but did you love him enough to give up the only dream you'd ever had?
"I'm listening. I just don't know what you want from me anymore," you'd said as you sunk into the couch beside him but he didn't look up. "I do everything that I can to make sure we spend as much time as we can together as possible. I follow all the rules, and I keep everything offline and as vague as possible. I fight tirelessly with my team over scheduling and appearances and brand direction. No one knows about us. Isn't that what you wanted?"
Then he paused for a long, long time and the silence was suffocating. When he finally looked at you, his eyes were cold and distant. He'd acted out an entire breakup in his mind, made the decision all on his own, and now he was going to make the aftermath your problem.
"I need space. We both need space," he rushed to add, attempting to make it seem amicable. "I think it would be good for us to put this on pause and really think about what we want. From each other. From a relationship. For our futures."
He was breaking your heart in the most diplomatic way possible.
"I want someone who is all in. Someone that doesn't need me to forfeit my dreams to save our relationship. Someone who's sure about me. Someone who isn't ashamed to be with me."
"Do not put words in my mouth. I have never once said I was ashamed to be with you."
Sidney was always more concerned with how he was being perceived than how he was wrecking others.
"You didn't need to. I could fucking feel it," you seethed.
"This," he jumped to his feet, frantically gesturing with his hands, "is exactly why we need space. I need a break from the..the dramatics."
You didn't stop the sardonic laugh from leaving your mouth, far beyond caring about what he felt or thought or wanted. "Take all the space you need. Indefinitely."
We're searchin' for a reason
Too often, too often
To cut these ties and go our separate ways
If five years down the line
We're talking, just talking
Will I still be the one that got away?
If he ever loved you, how could he move on so quickly? Like none of it even mattered. Like you never mattered.
Thinking about, even so many months later, made your stomach twist and your heart drop in a way you thought you'd never recover from. Peering in on his new relationship through mutual friends and sporadic social media posts made your incompatibility agonizingly obvious.
She could give him the quiet life he always wanted. With her, there were no complicated schedules or late-night rendezvous. They could go to dinner or take a walk without being chased by paps or overzealous fans. She could support his career without unintentionally making a spectacle of it. Her existence wouldn't detract from his accomplishments. Loving her was easy. Loving you was hard.
It'd been too much for Sidney to handle, and that was okay. You would be okay. He wasn't the person for you. He couldn't be. He didn't want to be, and that was okay.
As the music fades away, the studio lights dim and the live audience erupts, you finally find a lull in the relentless ache. It's just long enough to realize you can never be too much for someone who thinks you’re enough.
Listen to AFTERMATH and other songs that inspired this project here.
4 times he took care of you + 1 time you did; m. barzal
WARNINGS: explicit language, explicit sexual content in part four.
WORD COUNT: 19.3k
one.
You break up with Connor a day before your one-year anniversary, and nothing could’ve prepared you for it. Anyone who told you the two of you were one of those rare perfect couples wouldn’t have been wrong about it.
Connor was attentive, patient and understanding but lately you struggled to admit, especially to yourself, that he grew significantly more distant, more difficult to reach. Not physically. The two of you shared an apartment, shared a bedroom, shared closet space. Rather, he was more distant in an emotional sense that at first, you attributed to his promotion which demanded even more of his time. But you understood that. You’d given him the space he needed, the time he needed and never really bugged him about the numerous nights he’d arrive home so late that your sleep would be disturbed. It didn’t bother you at first because in turn, you were busy with your own career and being a young professional in New York City was exhausting in every sense of the word. But there were lines you drew and Connor was overstepping every single one.
There was a difference between being busy and obviously not bothering to make any time. Connor, as of late, was leaning more towards the latter.
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