can i request tasm!peter meeting reader after having to do long distance?
if not thats okay! love your writing:)
have a great day<3
Thanks lovely, hope you have a great day as well!
Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 683 words
You don’t just give out copies of the key to your apartment, so when the front door opens you think you’re about to be shot.
Breath caught in your throat, you freeze in the hallway and say the first deterrent that comes to mind. “I’ve got a gun!”
The laughter that responds is as familiar as it is cheeky. “No, you don’t,” Peter says.
“Jesus.” Your heart starts again, and in that split second your feet are already moving.
Peter opens his arms as you throw yourself at him, taking your weight happily. “Nope, just me,” he quips, his harsh grip at odds with the levity of his voice.
“Still a bad joke.” Your own voice is thick with fondness. You press your face into his neck, getting your boyfriend as close as you can. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.” He gives your upper back an excited squeeze. “You miss me?”
“Not even,” you mumble into his shoulder. You go ahead and wrap your legs around his waist, and Peter chuckles, starting to walk the both of you towards your couch. “You scared the shit out of me, you know.”
“Yeah, maybe not my best plan.” He collapses downward, and you fold yourself around him more completely, getting comfortable in his lap. You think you’ll just never leave, honestly. “I thought the surprise would be more fun than scary.”
“I could’ve met you at the airport.”
“May would’ve killed me.” He palms the back of your neck, lips finding your hairline. “She wanted to pick me up herself, but she’s letting you have me for dinner. I have to be back by ten.”
You let out a petulant whine. “Why does she get to decide?”
You adore Peter’s aunt and he knows it, but when you’re having to battle her for custody of your boyfriend all that love goes right out the window.
“I know,” Peter commiserates. “You’d think after a semester of taking care of myself in another country, I’d be allowed to stay out until at least eleven.”
You hum, vacating your spot in the juncture of his neck in favor of seeing his face. You pet down the cowlick at the crown of his head, and Peter catches your hand, kissing your palm. A warm thrumming starts up in your chest. It’s similar to the sensation you’d gotten during your evening calls while Peter was abroad (well, your evening, his late night), but more. Better. You’ve missed feeling it like this.
“How was Hertfordshire?” you ask.
Peter gives you a look like you’re being silly. “I told you already.”
“It’s different in person.”
He smiles, thinking. “Small. Grassy. Cute, but not much to swing off of.” There’d been no vigilante work while Peter did his research abroad. He talked like it was a welcome break, but you could tell he missed it. Something changes in his look, eyes going soft and flirty. “No pretty girls.”
You bite back a smile. “Let’s not do the women of Hertfordshire a disservice,” you chide.
“Fine.” Peter rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “None of my pretty girl.”
He lifts his chin and you oblige him, touching your lips to his. It’s a kiss months in the making, and it heats quicker than either of you are expecting. Your heart thunders and throbs to the point of aching. You shuffle closer in Peter’s lap and his hand presses into the small of your back, both of your breathing turning harsh and desperate.
“Missed you,” he says into your mouth.
“I missed you more.”
“Wanna bet?” Peter lifts you off the couch, and his casual strength shouldn’t surprise you anymore but it does. You laugh, again wrapping your legs around his waist.
“Shouldn’t we start to think about dinner?” you ask as he carries you towards your bedroom.
He hums, reluctant. “What time is it?”
You look to the side to check the clock on your microwave, and he kisses your cheekbone while you do. “Almost seven.”
Peter hums against your skin, pressing another kiss to the side of your nose. “We’ve got time.”
can i request tasm!peter meeting reader after having to do long distance?
if not thats okay! love your writing:)
have a great day<3
Thanks lovely, hope you have a great day as well!
Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 683 words
You don’t just give out copies of the key to your apartment, so when the front door opens you think you’re about to be shot.
Breath caught in your throat, you freeze in the hallway and say the first deterrent that comes to mind. “I’ve got a gun!”
The laughter that responds is as familiar as it is cheeky. “No, you don’t,” Peter says.
“Jesus.” Your heart starts again, and in that split second your feet are already moving.
Peter opens his arms as you throw yourself at him, taking your weight happily. “Nope, just me,” he quips, his harsh grip at odds with the levity of his voice.
“Still a bad joke.” Your own voice is thick with fondness. You press your face into his neck, getting your boyfriend as close as you can. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.” He gives your upper back an excited squeeze. “You miss me?”
“Not even,” you mumble into his shoulder. You go ahead and wrap your legs around his waist, and Peter chuckles, starting to walk the both of you towards your couch. “You scared the shit out of me, you know.”
“Yeah, maybe not my best plan.” He collapses downward, and you fold yourself around him more completely, getting comfortable in his lap. You think you’ll just never leave, honestly. “I thought the surprise would be more fun than scary.”
“I could’ve met you at the airport.”
“May would’ve killed me.” He palms the back of your neck, lips finding your hairline. “She wanted to pick me up herself, but she’s letting you have me for dinner. I have to be back by ten.”
You let out a petulant whine. “Why does she get to decide?”
You adore Peter’s aunt and he knows it, but when you’re having to battle her for custody of your boyfriend all that love goes right out the window.
“I know,” Peter commiserates. “You’d think after a semester of taking care of myself in another country, I’d be allowed to stay out until at least eleven.”
You hum, vacating your spot in the juncture of his neck in favor of seeing his face. You pet down the cowlick at the crown of his head, and Peter catches your hand, kissing your palm. A warm thrumming starts up in your chest. It’s similar to the sensation you’d gotten during your evening calls while Peter was abroad (well, your evening, his late night), but more. Better. You’ve missed feeling it like this.
“How was Hertfordshire?” you ask.
Peter gives you a look like you’re being silly. “I told you already.”
“It’s different in person.”
He smiles, thinking. “Small. Grassy. Cute, but not much to swing off of.” There’d been no vigilante work while Peter did his research abroad. He talked like it was a welcome break, but you could tell he missed it. Something changes in his look, eyes going soft and flirty. “No pretty girls.”
You bite back a smile. “Let’s not do the women of Hertfordshire a disservice,” you chide.
“Fine.” Peter rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “None of my pretty girl.”
He lifts his chin and you oblige him, touching your lips to his. It’s a kiss months in the making, and it heats quicker than either of you are expecting. Your heart thunders and throbs to the point of aching. You shuffle closer in Peter’s lap and his hand presses into the small of your back, both of your breathing turning harsh and desperate.
“Missed you,” he says into your mouth.
“I missed you more.”
“Wanna bet?” Peter lifts you off the couch, and his casual strength shouldn’t surprise you anymore but it does. You laugh, again wrapping your legs around his waist.
“Shouldn’t we start to think about dinner?” you ask as he carries you towards your bedroom.
He hums, reluctant. “What time is it?”
You look to the side to check the clock on your microwave, and he kisses your cheekbone while you do. “Almost seven.”
Peter hums against your skin, pressing another kiss to the side of your nose. “We’ve got time.”
hi mae!! can i request tasm!peter ’teaching’ reader how to touch herself maybe? i love how u write him <3
Thanks for requesting! And I got your other ask about them being in an established relationship, so I incorporated that too :)
cw: smut mdni
tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words
“Peter.” Despite your best efforts, your voice is teetering on the brink of a whine. “You’re being mean.”
“I am not,” he laughs. You think that definitely seems a little mean, him laughing while you’re wet and squirming in front of him. “We’re doing this for you, remember?”
“You’re not doing much of anything for me,” you mutter. It makes an appalled bark of laughter come out of your boyfriend, his fingertips digging into your thigh as he gives it a teasing squeeze.
Peter’s lying on the bed in front of you. He looks like a pre-teen at a sleepover, chin propped on his hand, legs kicking behind him, the only difference your glistening cunt a foot from his face.
“The point is for you to learn to do it yourself,” he reminds you jovially. “What if I’m not always here to get you off, sweetheart? What if I die a tragic death?”
You frown, fingers stilling on your clit. “Don’t say that, please.”
“Sorry.” He kisses below your kneecap. “What I’m trying to say is, I feel like I should make sure you’re taken care of when I’m not around. Or that you can take care of yourself, so to speak.”
That gets a short laugh out of you. Peter smiles like he’s won the lottery.
“Make sure it’s good and wet, baby. You’re not getting a lot of friction there.”
“It’s not working,” you complain. You bring more slick upwards to your clit, but it hardly helps. Your own fingers seem feeble when you can remember the feel of Peter’s so vividly. “I don’t have to think so hard when you’re doing it for me.”
Peter gives you a knowing look, his lips tipped up on one side. “You don’t have to think now, either. You’ve gotta relax.”
“I’m trying,” you huff. You worry your efforts are building up more frustration in you than anything else.
He sits in front of you for a while longer while you plead with him with your eyes and heavy, despondent sighs. His pupils are dilated as he watches you try to work yourself, your hole so close he could put his lips to it with just the slightest movement forward. You swear your clit is going to go numb when Peter finally lets loose a sigh of his own.
“So stubborn,” he murmurs, almost to himself. He starts to sit up. “Okay. You want help?”
“Yes, please.” It’s an effort to keep your smile at bay. Peter’s expression makes you suspect he can tell, one part exasperation and two parts smugness.
“Lay back for me.”
You do so eagerly, but when your hand moves away from your cunt Peter catches your wrist.
“Hey, what’re you doing?” he asks. You stare back at him bemusedly, and he looks like he could laugh again. He puts your hand back where it was. “We’re not done with this, sweetheart.”
You frown. “I thought you were gonna help?”
“I am gonna help.” He smiles, bestowing a kiss on your lips. “We’ll get you there, don’t worry.”
He positions himself above you, kisses a slow, meandering path down your neck. His lean arm snakes between your bodies, his hand guiding yours between your legs. Thumb moving your own over your clit.
“Slower, baby, like that.” Peter’s voice is a satisfied hum. “You weren’t really trying before, were you?”
“I was,” you argue, but your voice is already growing weak from the suggestion of his touch and the realer, more tangible thing of his mouth on your throat.
“You can do better than that, I know you can. You’re just not patient with yourself. You’re too in your own head.”
His thumb pushes harder into yours, increasing the pressure on your clit. You choke out a moan.
“See? That’s tons better already. You can do it, sweet girl. You’ve just gotta be nice about it.”
“You’re nice to me.”
“Yeah? Thanks.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “I try to be. I want you to be that nice when you’re touching yourself, okay? Or even nicer.”
Peter alternates between chaste, soft kisses and delicate nips to your skin. Your own teeth are digging into your bottom lip, arousal pooling between your legs. Peter’s wearing his pajamas, plaid pants and a t-shirt, but when you try to slip your free hand underneath the hem he moves it to your own thigh. You frown.
“Don’t touch me, touch yourself,” he says. He picks his face up to deliver a kiss to your lips, laughing when he sees your expression. “I mean, thanks, baby, I love it when you touch me, but this is about you, remember? Touch yourself wherever you wanna be touched.”
You follow his instructions, bringing your hand up to your breast. When you squeeze, it makes your cunt throb.
Peter’s eyes darken. “Attagirl.”
You make a soft, stymied sound.
“You ready for more? You can do it, sweetheart, just do what feels good. Wanna put your fingers inside?”
You’d already been contemplating it, but the instruction helps. Your two fingers slip into you with little resistance. It’s not as much as you want, and your hips move seemingly of their own volition, searching for more.
“Be nice,” Peter coaxes. His lips press gently to the soft underside of your jaw. “You’re okay, keep going.”
His thumb nudges yours, and you pick your rhythm back up. The next roll of your hips finds more sensation. You let out a pent-up breath.
You can feel Peter’s smile bloom against your throat. His hand closes over your wrist, urging you deeper until your pointer and pinkie come into contact with sticky skin.
You get to a point where he’s doing most the work, your fingers moving on instinct inside of you while he works your thumb like a joystick over your clit until you’re sopping and no longer have the wherewithal to swallow down the needy sounds that want out of you. Peter likes those, always has, in a way that’s at once gratifying and embarrassing for you. His kisses grow heavier as his lips move close to your ear.
“You gonna cum, sweetheart? You’re doing such a good job, so good for me, my pretty girl. Feel how nice and worked up you can get yourself? Hear how pretty you sound? I know you’re close, baby, you deserve this. Cum on your fingers for me.”
You gasp almost wetly as you do, teary and overwrought. Peter kisses you all over your face and holds you through it. You breathe hard, and you must be off the hook, because when you find his hand with yours he coos and intertwines your fingers, squeezing lightly.
“That’s my girl,” he says. “You did it. Didn’t I tell you?”
“I feel like I might’ve hurt my wrist,” you mutter.
Peter laughs, the sound clear and bright. “You’ll get used to it, baby.”
would love to see some aftercare w tasm!peter where reader is just soo sleepy and he is so tender <3 i adore the way you write him
Thank you for requesting!
cw: mature themes (mdni please), afab reader
tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 551 words
Peter might be a pervert for thinking you’re most beautiful like this, but he’s not that worried about it.
Maybe he is a pervert. It’s only for you, specifically, so whatever. He has a feeling you’ll forgive him.
You’re lying on the bed, your limbs lax now, like the last hour or so has taken it out of you so completely that you can’t move a muscle. Peter loves that he gets you like this. Completely unselfconscious. Your lips are kissed swollen, and there are little love marks on your chest to match the ones on Peter’s neck and shoulders, and your eyelids are as droopy as if they have weights sewn into them. He loves to get you like this too; completely tuckered out.
You rouse enough to hiss when Peter brings a wet washcloth between your thighs.
“Hey,” you say, almost scolding. It makes a laugh bubble up in Peter’s chest, which he generously swallows.
“Sorry.” He tucks his grin inside your knee, kissing softly. “I’ll be quick.”
He sweeps the cloth through your folds, and you hiss again, one leg coming up protectively as though you can’t help it. Now, Peter frowns.
“Is it really that sensitive?” he asks you.
He guesses he couldn’t blame you. You and Peter spent more time teasing each other tonight than you have in a while, and you weren’t exactly begging him to go easy on you. Your labia are as kiss-swollen as your mouth, maybe more.
The look you give him says you know he knows. “Yeah.” You heave a sigh, like speech is exhausting, your eyes drifting shut again. “I’m sore all over. Aren't you?”
Peter is, but he also spends his free time doing acrobatics and heaving himself around by his arms. If he twinged a bit walking to the bathroom and back, he bets you’re feeling worse.
He rubs over your hip consolingly. “Wanna take a bath?”
You think on it for a while. You’re tempted, Peter can tell. “I don’t feel like getting up.”
“I’ll carry you.”
You hum somnolently. “Thanks, but you…” You fumble for Peter’s hand. When you find it, you squeeze his fingers, his sweetheart. Peter squeezes back. “You have to get up early for work.”
“Yeah, but I don’t mind.” He catches his voice softening, as if he’s trying not to disturb your sleep when really he’s trying to keep you awake. He doesn’t do anything to correct it. “I’ll have coffee either way. Let me give you a bath, pretty girl.”
It’s a visible effort to open your eyes. You look at Peter like he hung the moon. “Sure?”
He grins. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“You’d do that?”
Peter groans, his head dropping to your leg. He lets his voice buzz against your skin. “Are you serious? God, I know you’re tired, but let’s use our brains for a second.”
He picks his head up to take yours between his hands. You look slightly more awake than you were a moment ago.
“I would do anything for you,” he says. “Got it?”
Peter watches your surprise meld into a more startled kind of pleasure. He kisses it right off your lips.
“Dramatic,” you accuse, settling back into your pillow as Peter stands to start your bath.
Hi Mae!!! Im SOO HAPPY that i've finally built up the courage to ask you for a post!! I love ur writing soo much. Could I get like a tasm!Peter Parker x reader where she somehow convinces peter to let her try on his suit and when it properly fits her she kinda looks super hot in it and Peter is all over her?? Feel free to ignore this if u want! I LOVE UR WRITING BTW. Byyyeee
Love you!! Thanks for requesting <3
tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 456 words
Your laughter echoes ominously from inside the bathroom.
"What?" Peter asks.
"Nothing," you say back. "I just don't know if I could fight crime in this thing. The cameltoe is insane."
He snorts. "Yeah, I don't really have that problem with it."
"I guess," you admit, as you open the bathroom door and step out, "we're not really the same size…"
Peter has no witty comebacks to that. He has no words, period.
When you asked to try on his suit, he didn't expect it to fit you. And it doesn't really, some excess fabric puddling around your ankles and hanging off your shoulders, but the places where it is fitted are distracting enough to leave Peter tongue-tied like a twerpy pre-teen.
"Wow," he manages to get out. One syllable, two distinct sounds. A feat.
You're not wearing the mask (a lucky thing, otherwise this might have proven a pretty sexually confusing experiment) so Peter sees every ounce of mischief in your eyes when you tilt your head and smile. "Can I try the web shooters, too?"
"Totally." Peter flicks his wrists, latching onto your hips on either side. When he pulls tight, you have no choice but to stumble towards him, laughing as you fall into his lap. "Another time."
"Why not now?"
"Too much power."
You grin at him, positively impish as your legs shift to straddle him more fully. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. Sorry, you've got to go through orientation first."
You set yourself down in his lap. Peter's hands travel from your hips down your legs, meandering, but your bravado slips when you hear a ripping sound.
"Oh, no." You twist your neck to see your backside. You arch toward him a bit in the process, which Peter is not mad about. "I'm sorry—"
"It's fine," he says. "I'll fix it."
You still look guilty. "I didn't think it would tear."
"I tear it all the time. Trust me, this is not the worst tear this thing has seen." Peter touches your jaw, angling you for a kiss. "Anyway, it looks good on you. Worth it."
You soften. "You think?"
You let Peter kiss you a while longer. Your fingers cup his face and curl in the hair at the back of his head. He knew the material of his suit was slippery, obviously, but he never really considered how that might feel for you until he experiences the sensation of you moving smoothly over the material of his jeans. He can feel your body heat through the spandex.
"Are you super sure I can't try the web shooters?" you murmur near his ear after a while.
Hiiii I dont know if you still take requests for Park the Shark but I would like to give one!!
I’d love your headcanons or blurb about Park being possessive and jealous over very kind and warm younger!nurse :)
He was enamored by her when she first started at PTMC and everyone was like “wow Park has feelings?” She’s always super kind and warm to him because she didn’t realize he was an intimidating person to everyone else. He’s always concerned about where she is and if she’s okay like when she’s out with her friends because duh she’s drop dead gorgeous and he knows guys will throw themselves at her. And ofc concerned about her while she’s at work :)))
lmao my brain took this and ran with it so this is what i have lmao :) i hope you enjoy!
dr. brendon park x nurse!reader who can't stop talking about him ✿ 1.5k words
summary: you're out getting drunk with your friends and you can't stop talking about brendon. one of them decides to play matchmaker
cw: fem!nurse!reader, alcohol/drinking, reader has two friends named sarah and chelsea who do not work in the ED, reader is a silly drunk and is very obviously in love with brendon
the pitt masterlist
°˖✧✿✧˖°
You don’t understand what grudge everyone seems to have against Dr. Park.
Sorry, Brendon. He gets antsy when you call him by anything other than his first name.
And that’s weird, at least according to everyone you work with. You’d been scared to meet him at first, given all of the warnings and low whispers you’d heard about him on your first few shifts.
‘He’s horrible.’ One of the other nurses had told you with a shiver, her elbows knocking against yours where you lean on the nurse’s station counter. ‘He’s got these eyes and it’s like he can see directly into your soul.’
‘He wants to eat all of us alive.’ Dr. Whitaker had whispered once when Dr. Park had come up as a topic of conversation during surgery. It was enough to make your heart race at any mention of him.
But then… you’d met him. And sure, you can’t argue that he’s not intimidating. His eyes constantly narrowed in suspicion, his jaw sharp and clenched, the tendons in his neck pulsing with every movement of his body. But you understand him, or maybe it’s that no one else looks past the “shark” exterior to see what’s underneath.
The overwhelming desire to be successful, focused, calm even in the worst of storms. The fear of failure, the anxiety that he or someone else might majorly fuck up and he can’t fix it. The vicious growl in his voice that really means he’s scared to let anyone get too close.
You looked at him, and you saw bits and pieces of yourself.
And you think maybe he saw the same in you, because you became his right hand any time he had to consult in the ED. Maybe part of that was against your will, everyone knows that he doesn’t speak down to you the way he does everyone else. You stand beside him like you’ve always been there, predicting his moves before he can even make them. You hand him the right tools at the right time. You move in flow with him, and he always leaves the perfect amount of space right at his side for you.
So, no, you don’t understand what grudge everyone else seems to have against him.
“Wow.” One of your friends, Sarah, finishes off her drink, eyes scanning you up and down from her place across the table as you finish speaking. “Seems to me like you really like this Dr. Park guy.”
You feel heat bloom in your cheeks, your fingers twisting your straw back and forth in your already empty cocktail glass. “It’s not like that, okay? Brendon and I just work well together.”
Chelsea, your other friend, meets Sarah’s eyes and they both grin brightly. “Brendon…” They both repeat his name, a teasing lilt in their voices. You swat your hand at them.
“Stop it!” You shake your head, rolling your eyes as you try to ignore the butterflies erupting in your stomach. You sit up a bit when you realize the waiter is approaching your table, and you send your friends a look. “The waiter is coming.”
“Oh! Let’s do shots!” Sarah suggests despite the slight slur already present in her speech. Chelsea nods excitedly, already leaning over Sarah to tell the waiter, who nods and takes the empty glasses from in front of you. You roll your eyes at them, but you don’t fight when the shots come to the table.
It’s not long before you decide to go to the bathroom, already a little dizzy when you stand up, steadying yourself on the table.
“I’m going to the bathroom.” You announce, pointing toward it. Sarah and Chelsea nod, waving you off as you go. The two of them sit there, debating ordering another round of shots, when they hear a phone ringing.
It’s your phone, left face up on the table. And the name on screen reads Brendon Park.
Sarah gasps, whacking Chelsea on the arm to get her attention, gesturing to your phone. “It’s that doctor! He’s calling her!”
Chelsea’s smile turns mischievous, and her nimble fingers pluck the phone from the table top.
“Wait, Chelsea don’t-" Sarah tries to protest but Chelsea holds up a finger to silence her, raising your phone to her ear.
“Helloooo Brendon!” She greets brightly, her voice only slightly less slurred than Sarah’s.
“Who is this?” A masculine voice answers from the other line. Chelsea covers the microphone with her hand, looking at Sarah.
“He sounds hot!” She whispers, before clearing her throat and continuing, “I’m Chelsea, I’m just answering the phone because she’s not at the table…” All of her words are long and wobbly.
“Where is she?” His voice is almost snappy now, something that makes Chelsea’s face morph into an even more mischievous look. Sarah tries to shake her head, but Chelsea waves her off again.
“Hmm… I don’t know… She hasn’t been at the table for a while…” She watches as you exit the bathroom, leaning away from Sarah as she tries to grab the phone from her hand. “She was pretty drunk though, you should probably come get her!”
Chelsea can already hear Brendan moving a bit frantically around on the other end, presumably getting his things together to come find you. Her thoughts are confirmed when he bites out a clipped, “Where are you?”
Chelsea quickly gives him the name of the bar as you approach the table again, then an “okay, bye!” and tosses your phone back on the table. You sit down, an eyebrow raised as you look between the two of them.
“What? Did someone call me?”
“Oh, just spam, I think!” Chelsea gives Sarah a pointed look, full of meaning you don’t understand. “Right, Sarah?”
Sarah hesitates, looking between you and Chelsea for a moment before agreeing with a slow, “Right…”
You roll your eyes but move on, distracted by chit-chat and the arrival of the waiter again.
Two shots later, you find yourself wondering if you can even stand, head bobbing side to side as you giggle. You jump when you feel a hand land on your shoulder, almost falling out of your chair to squint at the culprit through your blurry vision. Luckily, he catches you before you end up on the floor.
“Brendon?” You blink hazily at him, and his grip on your shoulder tightens just a bit. “What are you doing here?” You’re drunk enough that you don’t notice the giggling of your friends, but Brendon obviously notices, his eyes narrowing a bit at them.
“I heard you might need some help.” He says, eyes returning to yours. Your stomach twists in the most pleasant way, and you can’t stop a drunk grin from taking over your face.
“You came here for me?” Your voice, as slurred as it is, drips sickly sweet like honey.
Brendon eyes you, then your friends, who giggle and whisper between each other, not nearly as sly as they think they are.
“It seems I did.” He steps closer to your chair, and you find yourself leaning toward him, your forehead bumping his hip. He gets a look on his face, one you’d definitely question if you were sober, and says, “I wanted to make sure you were safe.”
You melt, and so do your friends. Brendon has to stop himself from sneering at them, reaching for your hand and encouraging you to stand.
“Let’s get you home.” He tells you, and your body follows him like it’s as easy as breathing. Sarah and Chelsea giggle and wink at you, giving you a silly wave goodbye.
“You should probably take her to your house!” Chelsea calls out behind you as you walk away. Brendon puts his hand on your back to guide you and it makes your knees feel even weaker than they already do. “And probably in your bed too! Just to make sure she’s okay!”
Brendon lets out a huff and rolls his eyes. “C’mon, let’s go to my car.”
He guides you to it, surprisingly close to the bar given how busy everything is. You find yourself wishing you were sober so you could try to find more details of him in the car. You always want to learn more about him.
Your drunk mouth decides to voice these thoughts out loud, and the corner of Brendon’s lips raise.
“Are you really going to take me to your place?” You ask him then, practically giddy to be sitting next to him as he pulls off and starts heading down the road.
He gives you a side eye. “Not while you’re drunk like this.” You pout, and he scoffs.
“We can talk about it more on Monday when you’re sober and not at risk of throwing up. Now, give me your address.”
btw megumi is driving and ur in the passenger seat and yuuji is sitting in the middle backseat with his hands on the back of your headrest leaning forward seatbelt stretching far
megumi’s always been very good at keeping his composure, with a girlfriend that whines and a boyfriend that whines louder someone out of the trio has to be the responsible one. his blue eyes blink at the road, his foot steady on the gas and his hand skimming over your thighs — the warmth of his palm smoothing away any goosebumps that race across your skin. megumi dares to tread further, pushing his fingers past the hem of your skirt because he knows what lies for him beneath the glitter.
“c’mon dude, that’s not fair,” yuuji huffs between the two seats, brown eyes drunk with greed. “you know i can’t touch from back here.”
“shouldn’t have had so many drinks,” megumi snaps back, and just to be spiteful, he presses the tips of his fingers against your naked clit — he casts his name over the swollen bud in invisible ink and the car jerks ever so slightly at the syrupy, sticky sounds that reverberate through its interior.
“if you get to fuck her now, i get to have her first once we get in.”
“who says?”
“i do, fushiguro,” yuuji snaps, frustration building watching your juices pool in the seat of your other boyfriend’s palm. your musk hits nose like an aphrodisiac, urging him into a filthy drawl. “you want it, don’t you mama? wanna sit on it and while i make you cream, huh? you don’t gotta do any work. just let megs stretch you out so you can take me later. yeah?”
“yes! i want it… want your dick so bad.” crying out, you slam back into the seat with the city whirring by. your sparkly dress shimmers as the arousal stains it, hips rolling in soft waves to meet megumi’s rapid thrusts — rushing like a river against your spongy g-spot.
“traitor,” he quips and scissors inside of you. no malice, only quiet affection. “it’s my fingers you’re cummin’ on right now and since when were we on a last name basis itadori.”
“maybe you should have had more to drink. then you wouldn’t be driving right now. maybe then, i’d fuck with you more too. we are not cool right now.”
“that doesn’t even make any sense. don’t be an idiot.”
“megumi don’t stop. i wanna cum. make me cum.” you sniffle and you scold, hips bucking upwards and wet thighs closing around his wrist. “‘m so … close!”
“you heard her,” yuuji smirks, fingers curling around the head of your seat — black swallowing the caramel hue to his eyes whilst he takes in the view, your cunt greedily sucking your boyfriend in further with the threat of orgasm rippling through your walls. “she wants to cum, megumi.”
“shut up,” the car rolls to a stop in front of a red light — it’s carmine colour pooling in the interior and shrouding the thick atmosphere with lust. megumi turns to you impatient and scowling, flexing his wrist in a way that has your bum lifting from leather and slick running through your slit. “she wants to cum, then cum. whatever you want baby, cause you’re greedy like that, huh? get whatever you want… all the fuckin’ time.”
despite your arch, your seatbelt holds you in place as you writhe and whimper — the pressure mounting impossibly fast in your lower belly before you invention burst, clear streams erupting from your soaked sex. “oooh! fuck, ‘m cummin’ … c-cumming!”
“atta girl, look at that. all over his leather seats.” yuuji grins slow, leaning forward as megumi pulls his fingers out carefully — pushing honeyed slick into the latter’s mouth. “taste so good, mama.”
a scoff echoes in the driver’s seat. “wanna see you squirt on his dick next time. make it up to me for ruining my car.”
“yes, gumi,” you giggle obediently, sitting up to press an open mouthed kiss to his jaw, tongue running over his earlobe, just as the light flickers through amber to green. “i love you. both of you.”
📌 Synopsis: Five years ago, Jake Sim walked away to chase his soccer dreams, never knowing he left more than just a broken heart behind. Now, he's back—unwittingly running a soccer clinic where his five-year-old daughter is signed up. The daughter he doesn’t know exists.
You tell yourself he won’t notice. You tell yourself he won’t put the pieces together.
Then she grins up at him, dimples flashing, and says: "We have the same last name! Maybe we're related!"
And just like that, your past collides with your present.
wc: 23.5K
cw (18+ MDNI) : Secret child trope (yes, we’re here for the drama), Second-chance romance (aka two emotionally constipated people trying to figure it out), Athlete romance (if you like your men sweaty & angsty, this is for you), Unresolved tension & emotional pining, Co-parenting struggles & parental guilt (aka "I should have been there" in HD), A man getting absolutely wrecked by the realization he has a kid, "Why didn't you tell me?" followed by "I should have been there.", Father-daughter bonding that will ruin you (he missed five years and he's making up for every single second), A child who is so excited to meet her new favorite person (aka the man whose entire worldview is shattering in real-time), Unresolved feelings, lingering touches, and the "we were supposed to be forever" tension, Fighting in kitchens, whispering in hallways, standing too close but not touching, "I never stopped loving you" but neither of them can say it yet, Sparks still burning, even after five years apart, "I’m still angry, but I don’t know how to stop wanting you." Explicit sexual content.
-
"I'm making a list."
"Oh God, not this again," Tia's voice crackled through the speaker. "What is it this time? 'Top Ten Pizza Toppings Ranked by Emotional Stability'? 'Compelling Evidence That My Neighbor's Cat Is Plotting World Domination'?"
You snorted, balancing your phone between ear and shoulder as you scribbled on a notepad at the kitchen counter. The house was quiet for once—a rare moment of peace while Jade actually slept in after exhausting herself at soccer practice the night before.
"It's called 'Reasons Why Taking Jade to the Soccer Clinic is a Terrible Idea.' I'm already at number twelve."
"Only twelve? You're slipping. I remember the Great Ice Cream Debate of 2019 hit twenty-seven reasons why chocolate chip cookie dough is superior to mint chocolate chip."
"That's because you were wrong and I needed to be thorough."
"I stand by my controversial mint opinions," Tia said. Then her voice shifted. "Wait. Are you talking about the Jake Sim clinic? The Jake Sim? Your Jake?"
"He's not my Jake," you said automatically, though the words still stung five years later. You stared down at the list, tapping your pen against reason number four: His last name is literally on her registration form.
"Does he know?" Tia asked quietly. "About Jade?"
"Tia, Of course not," you sighed, glancing toward Jade's bedroom door, still safely closed. "We haven't spoken since he left. You know that."
"And you're actually considering taking her to this thing? Have you finally cracked? Do I need to stage an intervention? Because I've been practicing my concerned face in the mirror."
You circled reason number seven: Because YES, I am completely insane.
"Her teacher already told her about it. She's been talking about nothing else for days. You know how she gets about soccer." You drew a little soccer ball in the margin of your notepad. "If I suddenly say no, she'll be devastated."
"So make something up! Tell her you're sick. Tell her she's sick. Hell, tell her I'm sick and you need to come take care of Auntie Tia. I can be very convincing. Remember when I faked food poisoning to get us out of your ex-boss's wedding?"
"That's actually reason number nine," you admitted. "'Fake family emergency.'"
"See? This is why we're best friends. Same brain cell, just passing it back and forth since third grade."
You laughed despite yourself, getting up to refill your coffee. "But then what, Tia? Hide the fact that Jake is doing appearances all over the city this week? Keep her home from school so she doesn't hear about it from her friends? What about next time he comes back? She's obsessed with soccer. Our paths were bound to cross eventually."
There was a rustling sound on the other end, like Tia was sitting up in bed. "Okay, let's think worst-case scenario. You take her to this clinic. He sees her. Then what? You think he's just going to know she's his? Men are oblivious. My brother didn't notice when I dyed my hair purple for three weeks."
You let out a humorless laugh. "Have you seen my child lately? She's his clone. Same dimples. Same smile. Same way of running. She even does this thing with her hands when she's excited—" Your voice caught. "You've said it yourself a hundred times."
"Fine, so there's a resemblance. She could be a really dedicated fan who studied his goal celebrations on YouTube—"
"And her last name is Sim. It's on the registration form. There's going to be two hundred kids there, but how many five-year-old girls named Sim with his exact dimples and soccer style do you think he runs into?"
The silence on the other end confirmed your fears.
"I never should have given her his last name," you said quietly, adding it as reason number thirteen on your list.
"Hey, you were engaged. You were already using Sim yourself half the time. You thought he was coming back." Tia's voice softened. "You couldn't have known."
You closed your eyes, remembering those first few confusing months. The positive pregnancy test two weeks after Jake left. Your decision not to tell him while he was establishing himself with his new team—not wanting to be the reason he gave up his dream. Then the complication with your pregnancy that meant strict bed rest. By the time Jade was born, Jake was already becoming a household name in Europe, and the gulf between your worlds seemed impossible to bridge.
"Maybe I should just tell her we can't go," you said, staring at your list.
"After she's been talking about it for days? Good luck with that. You'll break her heart. And then I'll have to help you hide from a crying five-year-old, and honestly, my witness protection contact is on vacation this week."
You had already added that as reason number three: It would crush her if we don't go.
"I could come with you," Tia offered. "Moral support. Plus, I can create a diversion if necessary. I've always wanted to fake a medical emergency at a public event. I've been practicing my 'woman experiencing convenient fainting spell' face right after my 'concerned intervention' face."
Despite yourself, you smiled. "Thanks, but I think an ambulance might just draw more attention our way."
"You never let me have any fun," Tia pouted. "Fine, we'll go with Plan B. I have a blonde wig and three fake mustaches in my emergency kit."
"Absolutely not."
"Party pooper. So what are you going to do?"
Before you could answer, a bedroom door creaked open down the hall. A moment later, a small figure in soccer ball pajamas padded into the kitchen, dark hair sticking up in all directions, dimples already appearing despite being half-asleep.
"Mom? Who're you talking to?" Jade yawned, rubbing her eyes.
"It's Auntie Tia," you said, quickly flipping your notepad closed. "Want to say hi?"
Instantly, Jade was fully awake. She snatched the phone with surprising speed for someone who had been unconscious thirty seconds earlier.
"Auntie Tia! Guess what day it is! It's soccer clinic day! With a real pro player!" Jade jumped up and down, volume increasing with each word. "He plays in Europe! And he's going to teach us special moves!"
You watched your daughter's face light up, identical to the way Jake's used to when he talked about soccer. Same passion. Same uninhibited joy. Same ability to go from zero to one hundred in seconds flat.
"Uh-huh... uh-huh..." Jade nodded seriously into the phone. "Mom got me new cleats for today! They're blue! And they have special grippy things on the bottom!"
You could faintly hear Tia's animated responses. Your friend might be questioning your judgment, but she'd never let Jade down.
"I know! It's gonna be the best day ever!" Jade spun in an excited circle, nearly dropping the phone. "Auntie Tia wants to talk to you again," she said, thrusting the device back at you before racing off toward her room. "I gotta get ready!"
"She sounds thrilled," Tia said dryly when you put the phone back to your ear. "Ten bucks says she's wearing mismatched socks and her shirt inside out when she comes back."
"Yeah." You watched your daughter disappear around the corner, a tornado of energy and joy. "How am I supposed to take that away from her?"
"You're not," Tia sighed. "Which means you're going to the clinic, and I'm canceling my spa appointment to be on standby for emotional support ice cream and/or bail money."
You looked down at your list one more time before crumpling it into a ball.
"I guess I am."
"For what it's worth," Tia said, her voice serious now, "I think maybe it's time. Five years is a long time to keep a secret this big. And Jake deserves to know he has a daughter."
"I know," you admitted, the words barely audible. "That's the part that terrifies me."
From down the hall came the sounds of drawers being flung open and Jade's voice singing a made-up song about soccer balls.
"What if he hates me, Tia? For keeping her from him?"
"Then he's an idiot," Tia said firmly. "And I'll personally come over there and kick Europe's favorite striker right in his professionally-insured shins. You did what you thought was best at the time. That's all any of us can do."
You took a deep breath. "I better go help Hurricane Jade get ready before she tears her room apart."
"Call me the second anything happens," Tia ordered. "And I mean anything. If he so much as looks at you funny, I want details. And remember, the mustache offer stands."
"I will. The calling part, not the mustache part."
"And hey," Tia added before hanging up. "For what it's worth, I think Jade's lucky to have you as her mom. No matter what happens today."
You ended the call and stared at the crumpled list on your counter. With trembling fingers, you smoothed it out one more time and added a final line at the bottom:
Reason #14: Because it's time.
-
The community soccer field had been transformed into what could only be described as organized chaos. Hundreds of children in various neon-colored jerseys darted between exasperated parents, volunteer coaches with clipboards, and portable equipment stations. Massive banners featuring the logo of Jake's European team fluttered in the breeze, and a professional photography setup had been assembled near midfield.
You gripped Jade's tiny hand a little too tightly as you approached the registration table, your stomach performing Olympic-level gymnastics. Despite your best efforts to dress inconspicuously—baseball cap pulled low, oversized sunglasses, plain t-shirt—you felt like you were wearing a neon sign that flashed "HIDING A SECRET CHILD."
"Mom! Mom! You're squishing my hand!" Jade protested, trying to wriggle free. "I need that hand for high fives!"
"Sorry, sweetheart." You loosened your grip slightly, though every instinct screamed to hold on tighter. Just ahead, two women in matching polo shirts were checking in participants.
You'd spent the entire drive rehearsing what you'd say. Hi, yes, Jade Sim. No relation to Jake Sim. Just a bizarre coincidence. Like how there are probably lots of Smiths who aren't related to Will Smith. Or how all those Kardashians probably have no connection to each other...
"Next please!" called one of the registration volunteers, a perky blonde with a tournament-level cheerful smile.
You stepped forward, opening your mouth to speak, but Jade lunged ahead of you.
"I'm Jade Sim and I'm here to play soccer!" she announced at a volume that made several nearby parents turn. Your daughter had never mastered the concept of an "indoor voice," even when outdoors.
The volunteer's smile didn't falter as she scanned her list. "Sim... Sim... ah, here you are. Jade Sim, age five." She checked something off and reached for a smaller clipboard. "And we have your waiver form... perfect. Here's your name tag, and you'll be in Group C with Coach Marcus."
Jade accepted the sticker name tag with reverence usually reserved for Olympic medals, then immediately slapped it onto her jersey slightly crooked.
"Will the famous player see my group?" Jade asked, bouncing on her toes.
The volunteer's smile somehow brightened even further. "Jake will be rotating through all the groups today. Everyone gets a chance to meet him." She looked up at you. "You can drop her with Group C over by the yellow cones, and parents can watch from the sidelines. We'll have a photo and autograph session at the end."
You nodded, unable to find your voice. This was really happening.
"Come on, Mom!" Jade tugged you toward the field, her excitement generating enough energy to power a small city. "I wanna be first in line!"
As you made your way across the field, you scanned the area for any sign of Jake. There was a small crowd gathered near a tent at the far end—probably where he was waiting. You let out a shaky breath. Maybe you could just drop Jade off, blend in with the other parents, and somehow avoid—
"Look Mom! I see him! I see him!" Jade shrieked, jumping up and down while pointing wildly.
And there he was.
Five years hadn't changed him as much as you'd expected. Same athletic build, same confident stride as he emerged from the tent surrounded by handlers and field staff. He wore his team's training kit, the number 10 emblazoned on his back—the same number that had been on the jersey he'd given you years ago, the one now hidden in the back of your closet.
Even from a distance, you could see his smile—that devastating combination of boyish charm and movie-star charisma that had magazines calling him "soccer's newest heartthrob." The same smile Jade had flashed at you this morning over breakfast.
"He's so cool!" Jade whispered in what she clearly thought was a whisper but was actually at normal human speaking volume. "I bet he can do a bazillion tricks!"
You swallowed hard. "I'm sure he can. Come on, let's find your group."
As you guided Jade toward the yellow cones, you pulled your cap lower and angled your body away from Jake's direction. Group C was already forming, about twenty children ranging from four to six years old, all vibrating with similar levels of excitement to Jade.
"Hi there!" A young man with curly hair and a whistle approached. "I'm Coach Marcus. Who do we have here?"
"Jade Sim!" your daughter announced before you could speak, thrusting out her hand for an aggressive handshake like you'd taught her. "I can kick with both feet!"
Coach Marcus's eyebrows lifted a fraction as he heard the last name, his eyes darting quickly to you, then back to Jade. "That's... impressive. Both feet, huh? Well, we'll definitely put that to the test today." He crouched down to Jade's level. "Any relation to our special guest?"
Your heart stopped.
"Who's the special guest?" Jade asked, genuinely confused.
Relief washed over you. Of course—you'd been so careful never to mention Jake's name around her, never to let her see his games on TV. She had no idea that she shared a last name with the soccer star she was so excited to meet.
"Jake Sim," Coach Marcus said, looking between you and Jade with obvious curiosity. "The professional player who's running the clinic today?"
Jade's eyes went comically wide. "We have the same last name? That is so cool! Mom! Did you hear that? I have the same name as a famous soccer player! Maybe we're related!"
Several nearby parents turned to look. A few were now staring with undisguised interest.
"It's a common name," you said quickly, your voice higher than normal. "Very common. In certain... regions."
Coach Marcus didn't look convinced but thankfully didn't pursue it. "Right! Well, parents can wait over by those bleachers. We'll get started with some basic drills, and Jake will make his way to our group in about twenty minutes."
"Can I stay with her?" you asked, desperate not to leave Jade. "She's never done one of these before, and she might get nervous—"
"I don't get nervous!" Jade proclaimed, already backing away from you toward the other kids. "I'm going to show him my special kick!"
Coach Marcus smiled sympathetically. "Don't worry, we've got plenty of volunteers helping out. She'll be fine. Parents actually tend to be a bit distracting for the kids."
You had no choice. With a final reluctant wave to Jade, who was already introducing herself to every child in a five-foot radius, you retreated to the parent area.
The next fifteen minutes were torture. You sat rigid on the edge of the bleachers, alternating between watching Jade (who was currently demonstrating what appeared to be a dance move involving pretending to juggle invisible soccer balls) and nervously tracking Jake's progress through the groups.
He was currently with Group A, showing a technique for dribbling around cones. Even from a distance, you could see how natural he was with the kids—patient, encouraging, that infectious energy drawing them in. He high-fived a small boy who completed the drill, and the child looked like he might never wash that hand again.
Your phone buzzed with a text from Tia:
Has The Dimple Recognition Incident happened yet? Do I need to deploy the mustache?
Despite your anxiety, you smiled, typing back:
Not yet. He's working his way over. Jade just found out they have the same last name and announced it to everyone within earshot.
Three dots appeared immediately, then:
Of course she did. She's a mini nuclear reactor of chaos energy. Just like her dad.
The reminder made your stomach twist again.
You looked up just in time to see Jake finishing with Group B. Which meant he was heading to Group C next. To Jade.
Ten steps. He was ten steps away from discovering he had a daughter.
You couldn't breathe.
Jake jogged over to Group C, high-fiving Coach Marcus. Even from the distance, you could hear his laugh—that same warm sound that used to be the soundtrack to your happiest memories. The children immediately swarmed around him like excited puppies, and he knelt down to get on their level.
Jade, never one to wait her turn, pushed her way to the front of the group.
"Hi! I'm Jade Sim! We have the same last name! That's so cool! Can you show me how to do a bicycle kick? I've been practicing but I always fall on my butt!"
Time seemed to stop.
You watched as Jake's expression shifted from his standard friendly smile to puzzlement. He looked at Jade more closely, taking in her features. The dimples. The eyes. The way she couldn't stand still, shifting from foot to foot with excess energy.
"Sim?" he repeated, his voice carrying in the sudden quiet. "Your last name is Sim?"
"Yep!" Jade nodded vigorously. "Just like you! Mom says it's a common name, but I've never met another Sim before, so I think it's special!"
Jake seemed to forget the other children momentarily, his focus entirely on Jade now. "How old are you, Jade?"
"I'm five! Almost five and a half! My birthday is January 22nd!" She held up one hand, fingers splayed wide. "I've been playing soccer since I was three!"
January 22nd. Exactly five years and nine months after you and Jake had said goodbye at the airport.
You could see the math happening behind his eyes, the calendar flipping in his mind. The color drained from his face so quickly several nearby parents glanced at him in concern.
"And... what's your mom's name?" he asked, his voice cracking.
Before Jade could answer, Coach Marcus stepped in, clearly sensing something was off. "Hey, why don't we get started with some passing drills? Everyone line up behind the blue cone!"
The children scrambled to follow directions, but Jake remained frozen in place, his eyes now scanning the parent area. Searching.
You should have run. You should have hidden. You should have done anything except sit there like a deer in headlights.
His eyes found yours.
Recognition dawned instantly, followed by shock, confusion, and something else—something that made your heart squeeze painfully in your chest.
Five years evaporated in a second.
Without breaking eye contact with you, Jake stood slowly. All around him, children were lining up, coaches were arranging drills, parents were chatting—but between you and Jake, the world had gone silent.
Then Jade's voice cut through everything:
"That's my mom over there! Mom! Come meet Jake Sim! We have the same last name!"
Jake's gaze shifted from you to Jade, then back to you. And in that moment, you saw it happen—the connection being made, the pieces falling into place. His expression transformed into one of absolute shock.
He swayed slightly on his feet.
"Jake? You okay, man?" Coach Marcus asked, noticing how pale he'd become.
Jake's mouth opened and closed without sound. He looked at Jade again—really looked at her—taking in her dimples, her eyes, the way she bounced on her toes exactly like he did before a big match.
"She's..." he whispered, but couldn't finish the sentence.
Jade tugged on his jersey. "Are you going to teach us the special kick now? I've been practicing!"
Jake's knees buckled.
He tried to grab onto Coach Marcus for support, missed, and went down hard on the turf. Several children gasped. A whistle blew somewhere.
"We need a medic!" someone shouted.
You were on your feet in an instant, rushing across the field as a small crowd gathered around Jake's collapsed form. Jade stood over him, looking concerned but also a little excited by the drama.
"Mom!" she called when she saw you. "The famous soccer player fainted! Is he okay? Did I say something wrong?"
You pushed through the circle of onlookers to find Jake flat on his back, eyes closed. A staff member was fanning him while another called into a walkie-talkie for the on-site medical team.
"Give him some space!" Coach Marcus was saying, trying to herd the children back.
Jake's eyelids fluttered, then opened. His gaze immediately locked onto yours, standing above him.
"You..." he managed weakly. "She's... is she...?"
Before you could answer, medical staff arrived with a stretcher. Jake struggled to sit up, still staring at you and Jade.
"Sir, please stay down," a paramedic instructed. "You may have hit your head."
"I'm fine," Jake insisted, his voice stronger now as adrenaline kicked in. He couldn't take his eyes off Jade, who was watching the whole scene with fascination. "I just... I need to..."
He tried to stand again but swayed dangerously. Two staff members caught him by the arms.
"Let's get you to the medical tent," one said firmly.
As they began leading him away, Jake looked back over his shoulder at you, his expression a storm of emotions.
"Wait!" he called out. "I need to talk to—"
"You can talk after we make sure you're okay," the paramedic interrupted.
You stood frozen, Jade's hand in yours, as they escorted Jake toward the medical tent. All around you, parents and children were whispering, phones were out recording, and you knew this incident would be all over social media within minutes.
"Mom," Jade tugged at your hand. "Why did he faint? Is he sick?"
Your phone buzzed with an incoming call from Tia. You could almost hear her saying "I told you so" already.
"I think," you said quietly to Jade, "he was just very surprised about something."
"About what?" Jade asked, her face scrunched in confusion.
You looked toward the medical tent where Jake had disappeared, then down at your daughter—his daughter—with his dimples and his smile and his boundless energy.
"About you, sweetheart. About you."
-
The staff area behind the main tent was hardly private—just a cordoned-off section of the parking lot with a few folding tables and chairs—but at least there weren't two hundred people watching. The clinic had ended fifteen minutes ago, most families already dispersed to their cars, children clutching signed photographs and participation certificates.
You stood with Jade's hand firmly in yours, your heart hammering against your ribs. After Jake's collapse on the field, you'd nearly fled, grabbing Jade and making a run for your car. But a polite yet insistent man in an expensive suit had intercepted you, introducing himself as Jay Park, Jake's manager.
"Mr. Sim would like a moment of your time after the event," he'd said with practiced smoothness. "He was particularly impressed with your daughter's enthusiasm."
The look in his eyes told you he knew exactly who Jade was.
Now you waited, Jade bouncing on her toes beside you, completely oblivious to the life-altering moment that was about to unfold.
"Mom, did you see me score two goals?" she asked for the third time. "And the famous player said my kick was really good!"
"I saw, sweetheart," you managed, scanning the area nervously.
"But then he got sick and had to leave," Jade continued, her face scrunching with concern. "Is he feeling better now? Coach Marcus said sometimes grown-ups get too hot and need to rest."
Before you could answer, movement caught your eye. Jake was approaching, still in his training kit but with a team jacket thrown over it. Beside him walked Jay, whose expression wavered between professional detachment and barely contained curiosity as he glanced between Jake and Jade.
Five years evaporated in an instant. Jake looked both exactly the same and completely different—still the man you'd known, but with something harder in his eyes, something that spoke of stadiums and spotlights and a life lived very far from yours.
Jade noticed them at the same moment you did. "Look! It's him! He's better!" She tugged at your hand. "Can I go say hi? Please, please, please?"
You couldn't find your voice. Jake was close enough now that you could see the storm of emotions on his face as he looked at Jade—wonder, confusion, hurt, and something that might have been joy fighting through the shock.
As they reached you, Jay leaned in toward Jake, his voice low but not quite low enough to miss.
"Jade and Jake. Her name's literally yours with one letter different. How original."
Jake shot him a warning look before turning his attention fully to you and Jade.
"I'll be right over there if you need anything," Jay said, not specifying which of you he was addressing, before walking toward the main tent with a final curious glance at Jade.
And then it was just the three of you.
"Hi again!" Jade broke the silence, her natural exuberance undimmed by the tension crackling between the adults. "I'm really glad you're not sick anymore! Mom says sometimes people faint when they get a big surprise. Did you get a surprise?"
Jake's eyes darted to you, then back to Jade. He crouched down to her level, a movement so natural it made your chest ache.
"I did get a surprise," he said softly. His voice—that voice you'd tried so hard to forget—sounded thick with emotion. "A really big one."
"Was it a good surprise or a bad surprise?" Jade asked, head tilted with curiosity.
Jake's smile was immediate, genuine despite the circumstances. "It was a good surprise. The best surprise I've ever had, actually."
Jade beamed at him, dimples appearing in the exact same places as his. "I like surprises too! Especially birthday surprises. My birthday is in January and I'm going to be six!"
"January 22nd," Jake said automatically, then glanced up at you. "You mentioned that earlier."
You nodded silently, feeling like you might be sick.
"How did you know that?" Jade asked, eyes wide. "Are you psychic? My friend Emma says she's psychic but she can never guess what card I'm holding."
Jake looked at a loss for how to answer, his confident demeanor faltering. He glanced at you again, a silent question in his eyes.
"Jade, baby," you finally found your voice. "Why don't you go check out the snack table over there? I think they have cookies left."
"Cookies?" Jade's priorities immediately shifted. "Can I have two?"
"Just one for now," you said. "And stay where I can see you, okay?"
"Okay!" She started to race off, then stopped and turned back to Jake. "Thank you for teaching us cool soccer moves today! I'm going to practice every day until I can bend the ball just like you showed us!"
Jake looked like he might break apart right there. "You're welcome, Jade. And... you were really good out there. You're a natural."
She glowed at the praise before darting toward the snack table, already calling out to one of the volunteers about the promised cookies.
"Five years," Jake said quietly, once she was out of earshot. He stood to his full height, facing you directly for the first time. "Five years."
"Jake—"
"She's mine." It wasn't a question. "She's my daughter."
You nodded, your throat tight. "Yes."
"And you didn't think that was something I deserved to know?"
The hurt in his voice was worse than if he'd shouted. You'd rehearsed this conversation a thousand times in your head, prepared dozens of explanations, justifications. But now, faced with the reality of Jake standing before you, devastated by the secret you'd kept, all your carefully planned words abandoned you.
"I was going to tell you," you finally managed. "In the beginning. But you had just signed with the team in Europe. It was everything you'd ever wanted—"
"Not everything," he cut in. "Not by a long shot."
You pressed on. "I found out I was pregnant two weeks after you left. The long-distance thing was already so hard. We were already fighting about whether I would eventually join you or you would come back. I didn't want to add this pressure."
"So you decided not to tell me I was going to be a father? That was your solution?" The quiet control in his voice was slipping. "Did you think I wouldn't want to know?"
"I was going to tell you after you got settled," you continued, the words coming faster now. "But then there were complications with the pregnancy. The doctor put me on bed rest. I was scared, Jake. And you were so far away, already becoming this huge star, and I just... I didn't want to be the reason you gave everything up."
"That wasn't your decision to make." The muscle in his jaw ticked. "It should have been our decision. Together."
"I know that now," you admitted. "But by the time Jade was born, months had passed. You were all over the sports news, dating celebrities, living this life that seemed a universe away from midnight feedings and diaper changes. I convinced myself it was too late."
Jake ran both hands through his hair, a gesture so achingly familiar it made your heart twist. "So what was your plan? Never tell me? Let her grow up not knowing who her father is? What happens when she's older and sees me on TV? Or finds articles about me online?"
"I don't know," you confessed. "I've been figuring it out as I go. I never expected... this." You gestured vaguely at the soccer field. "When her school announced this clinic, I almost kept her home. But she was so excited, and I thought... what are the chances you'd even notice her among hundreds of kids?"
"Pretty good, apparently, when she has my face and my last name," Jake said with a mirthless laugh. "Why does she have my last name if you were never going to tell me about her?"
You looked away. "We were engaged, Jake. I was already using Sim half the time. And I guess... I wanted her to have that connection to you, even if she didn't know it."
Jake fell silent, his gaze drifting to where Jade was happily munching on a cookie, chatting with animated hand gestures to the volunteer. His expression softened instantly, the anger temporarily giving way to wonder.
"She's incredible," he said quietly.
"She is," you agreed. "She's smart and funny and kind. And she's obsessed with soccer, which I swear has nothing to do with me. That's all you. It's in her DNA or something."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "The way she moves on the field... even untrained, she has instincts."
"She practices every day in our backyard. Drives the neighbors crazy."
The moment of connection flickered between you, then faded as reality reasserted itself.
"What happens now?" Jake asked, his voice lower. "Because I need you to understand something. I'm not walking away. Not again. Not from her."
The certainty in his voice sent a chill down your spine. "What does that mean, exactly?"
"It means I'm her father, and I want to be part of her life."
"You live in Europe, Jake. Your life is press conferences and training sessions and traveling for matches. How exactly do you see this working?"
"I don't know yet," he admitted. "But we'll figure it out. Together. Like we should have five years ago."
Before you could respond, a small blur of energy crashed into Jake's legs.
"The cookies are so good!" Jade announced, beaming up at him. "Do you want one? I saved half for you because Mom says sharing is caring."
Jake looked momentarily stunned by the casual physical contact, by this child—his child—offering him a slightly mangled cookie with the same open-hearted generosity he remembered from you.
"I'd love one," he said, crouching down again to accept the offering. "Thank you, Jade."
"You're welcome!" She watched intently as he took a bite. "Good, right?"
"The best cookie I've ever had," he said seriously.
Jade nodded, satisfied with his assessment. "Mom, can we show Jake my trophy? The one I got at mini-league last month? I scored three goals in one game!"
Jake's eyes shot to you, another piece of his daughter's life he'd missed falling into place.
"Jade, honey," you began carefully. "Mr. Sim probably has to get going. He's very busy and—"
"Actually," Jake interrupted, "I'd really like to see that trophy sometime."
Jade's entire face lit up. "You could come over to our house! We have a soccer goal in the backyard and everything! Mom could make her special pasta! She only makes it for very important occasions."
The hopeful look on Jake's face was almost as hard to resist as Jade's. You felt cornered, events spiraling beyond your control.
"Maybe someday," you said vaguely.
"How about tomorrow?" Jake suggested, his eyes never leaving yours, challenge evident in them.
"Yes!" Jade bounced with excitement. "Tomorrow! Please, Mom? Please?"
You looked between them—the identical hopeful expressions, the same dimples, the same way of leaning forward slightly when anticipating something.
This was it. The moment your carefully constructed world collapsed. The moment your daughter's life changed forever. The moment you had to face the consequences of a decision made five years ago.
"Okay," you finally said. "Tomorrow."
Jake's expression was unreadable—a complex mix of triumph, hurt, anticipation, and lingering anger. "I'll bring dessert," he said simply.
Jade cheered, already firing questions at Jake about his favorite foods, favorite colors, whether he liked movies about talking animals. He answered each one with a patience and focus that belied the emotional tsunami he must be experiencing.
Over Jade's head, his eyes met yours—intense, determined, and filled with a silent promise that tomorrow would only be the beginning.
The fairy tale you'd told yourself—that you could keep Jade's paternity secret forever, that your paths would never cross with Jake's again—had crumbled in the space of a single afternoon.
Tomorrow, Jake Sim would walk back into your life.
And nothing would ever be the same again.
-
By the time the doorbell rang at 6:02 PM, you'd changed your outfit four times, cleaned the entire house twice, and nearly canceled the whole thing approximately seventeen times. Only the memory of Jade's excitement—she'd spent the morning making a welcome sign decorated with wobbly soccer balls—had stopped you from texting Jake with some hastily constructed emergency.
"He's HERE!" Jade shouted from the living room, where she'd been perched by the window for the last forty-five minutes. She raced to the door, skidding across the hardwood in her socks, her special occasion dress (chosen after trying on her entire wardrobe) fluttering behind her.
"Wait, Jade—" But she was already yanking the door open, your warnings about stranger danger apparently forgotten in her excitement.
"Hi Jake!" she beamed, bouncing on her toes. "You're right on time! Mom said you'd be here at six and it's six! I've been waiting forever!"
You rounded the corner from the kitchen to find Jake standing in your doorway, looking simultaneously at ease and completely out of place. He'd traded his athletic gear for dark jeans and a simple button-down shirt, but even dressed casually, there was something about him that screamed 'professional athlete.' Maybe it was the way he carried himself, or the watch that probably cost more than your car.
"I brought dessert," he said, holding up a bakery box. His eyes found yours over Jade's head, and the careful neutrality in his expression told you he was still processing everything. Still upset.
"And flowers!" Jade pointed out, noticing the bouquet in his other hand. "Are those for Mom? They're so pretty!"
"They are." Jake handed the bouquet to you with a formality that made your chest ache. Gone was the man who used to bring you wildflowers picked from the side of the road, who once filled your apartment with paper flowers he'd made himself when he was broke and couldn't afford real ones. "Thank you for having me over."
The subtext was clear: Thank you for finally allowing me into my daughter's life.
"Come in," you managed, stepping aside. "Dinner's almost ready."
"Jake, do you want to see my room?" Jade grabbed his hand without hesitation. "I have a whole wall of soccer stuff! And my trophy! And my cleats collection! And—"
"Jade," you interrupted gently. "Let's give Jake a minute to get settled first."
"It's okay," Jake said, his eyes softening as he looked at Jade. "I'd love to see your room."
"Yes!" Jade pumped her fist in victory, then tugged Jake down the hallway. "It's this way! The one with the stars on the door! Mom painted them for me because stars are my second favorite thing after soccer!"
You watched them go, Jake's tall frame following your daughter's bouncing form, and felt a wave of emotion so complex you couldn't even name it. Setting the flowers aside—you'd find a vase later—you retreated to the kitchen to finish dinner preparations and gather your thoughts.
Through the walls, you could hear Jade's excited chatter and Jake's deeper responses, though you couldn't make out the words. Five minutes stretched to ten, then fifteen. Just as you were about to call them for dinner, they reappeared in the kitchen doorway.
Jake's expression had changed. There was still a tightness around his eyes, but something else had softened. He was holding a small framed photo—the one from Jade's nightstand of her third birthday, blowing out candles on a soccer ball cake, her face lit with delight.
"Jade was just showing me her... everything," he said, his voice carefully controlled. "She's got quite the medal collection already."
"Mini league championships," you explained, busying yourself with the pasta. "Her team won last season."
"I showed him my scrapbook too!" Jade announced, climbing onto her usual chair at the kitchen table. "The one with all my important memories!"
Your stomach dropped. The scrapbook had photos from every stage of Jade's life—the hospital, her first steps, first day of preschool—all the moments Jake had missed.
"It was very impressive," Jake said, setting the photo down on the counter. His eyes never left yours. "Very thorough."
The tension between you was thick enough to cut with a knife, but Jade remained blissfully oblivious, swinging her legs and arranging her silverware just so.
"Dinner's ready," you announced, grateful for the distraction. "Jade, can you get the water pitcher from the fridge?"
The meal itself was painfully awkward, saved only by Jade's non-stop commentary. She told Jake about her teacher, her best friend Emma, how she wanted to be a professional soccer player and a veterinarian and maybe an astronaut. Jake listened attentively, asking questions, smiling at her jokes, even as you felt his attention split between Jade's stories and the questions he clearly wanted to ask you.
"—and that's why I'm not allowed to bring frogs in the house anymore," Jade concluded one particularly animated story that you'd only half-heard. "Right, Mom?"
"Right, honey," you confirmed automatically, though you'd missed most of the context.
"Speaking of rules," Jake said, seizing the opening, "I'd love to know more about Jade's routine. What time does she usually go to bed? What's her favorite subject in school? Is she allergic to anything? Does she have any medical conditions I should know about?"
The rapid-fire questions had an edge to them, reminding you that this pleasant dinner was just the surface. Underneath lay five years of absence he was determined to make up for in a single evening.
"I go to bed at eight on school nights and eight-thirty on weekends!" Jade answered before you could speak. "And my favorite subject is P.E., obviously. But I also like art because we get to use glitter sometimes."
"Any allergies?" Jake pressed, looking at you now.
"No allergies," you said quietly. "She had some respiratory issues as a baby—croup that turned into pneumonia when she was about eighteen months. She was hospitalized for three days. But she's been healthy since then."
Something flashed across Jake's face—pain, anger, maybe both. Another crisis he hadn't been there for.
"I was really sick," Jade confirmed solemnly. "Mom slept in the hospital with me and everything. But I don't remember it because I was too little."
"I see." Jake took a careful sip of water.
"I'll put together a file for you," you offered, trying to defuse the tension. "Medical records, school reports, everything."
"That would be... helpful," he acknowledged, though his tone suggested it was the bare minimum.
The conversation shifted to safer topics through the rest of dinner, though you caught Jake studying Jade's mannerisms with an intensity that suggested he was cataloguing every detail, making up for lost time. The way she talked with her hands when excited—just like him. The way she tilted her head when considering a question—also like him. The dimple that appeared on only one cheek when she gave a half-smile—unmistakably his.
After dinner, Jade insisted on showing Jake her soccer skills in the backyard. You watched from the kitchen window as she demonstrated her "special move," a surprisingly coordinated series of dribbles ending with a shot on the small goal set up against the fence. Jake crouched beside her, making subtle adjustments to her form, and you could see Jade soaking up every word like a sponge.
They were so alike it was almost painful to watch.
When they came back inside, you had dessert set out—the chocolate cake Jake had brought, sliced and plated.
"Jade, after dessert it's bath time," you reminded her.
"But Jake just got here!" she protested. "Can't I stay up extra late? It's a special occasion!"
"Actually," Jake interjected, "I was hoping I could talk to your mom alone for a bit after you go to bed."
The way he said it made your pulse quicken. The temporary truce established during dinner was about to end.
"Will you come back tomorrow?" Jade asked, looking up at Jake with chocolate-smeared cheeks and hopeful eyes. "You could teach me more soccer moves! And meet my stuffed animals! You only met half of them!"
Jake glanced at you, a challenge in his eyes. "That depends on what your mom and I discuss tonight."
"Please, Mom?" Jade turned those same hopeful eyes on you. "Can Jake come back tomorrow? And the next day? And the next day?"
"We'll see, sweetheart," you said, avoiding both their gazes. "Let's finish dessert first."
An hour later, after Jade's bath, two bedtime stories (one read by Jake at Jade's insistence), and finally getting her to sleep (complicated by the excitement of having a visitor), you returned to the living room to find Jake standing by your bookshelf, examining the framed photos.
"She's finally asleep," you said, hovering uncertainly in the doorway. "Can I get you anything? Coffee?"
"Answers," Jake replied without turning around. "I want answers."
You sank onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. "Ask whatever you want to know."
Now he did turn, fixing you with a stare that pinned you in place. "Why didn't you tell me? The real reason. Not what you think I want to hear, not what you've told yourself. The truth."
You took a deep breath. "I was scared."
"Of what?"
"Of everything. Of telling you and having you resent us for complicating your new life. Of telling you and having you give up your dream to come back. Of raising a child with someone living on another continent. Of what would happen to Jade if we tried and failed at making it work."
Jake crossed his arms. "So you decided the best solution was to just cut me out entirely? Not even give me the chance?"
"I told myself I was waiting for the right time," you admitted. "But the longer I waited, the harder it became to imagine how that conversation would go. Weeks turned into months, months into years. And then..."
"And then what? Five years passed and you thought, 'Well, too late now'?"
"It wasn't like that," you protested, though part of you knew he wasn't entirely wrong. "Every birthday, every milestone, I thought about telling you. I almost did, countless times."
"But you didn't." His voice was flat. "Instead, you named her after me, gave her my last name, and kept her a secret. Do you have any idea what that feels like? To discover you have a five-year-old daughter who knows every Disney movie by heart but doesn't know who her father is?"
"I'm sorry," you whispered, tears threatening. "I know that doesn't fix anything, but I am."
Jake ran a hand through his hair, a gesture so achingly familiar it made your heart twist. "She has a whole life I know nothing about. First words, first steps, first day of school—all of it, gone. I can never get that back."
"I know," you said, your voice small. "And that's on me."
He paced across the living room, energy radiating off him in waves. "What have you told her about me? About her father?"
"Not much," you admitted. "That her dad is a soccer player who lives far away. That he's not part of our lives. She started asking more questions recently, but I've... deflected."
"So when were you planning to tell her the truth? When she's ten? Fifteen? When she googles me one day and puts it together herself?"
The question hit you like a physical blow because you had never had a good answer for it, even in your own mind. "I don't know," you confessed. "I should have had a plan, but I didn't. I just kept pushing it off."
Jake stopped pacing and fixed you with a stare. "Well, time's up. Because I want to be in her life—fully, completely in her life. I want joint custody."
Your heart dropped. "Jake, you live in Europe. Your schedule is insane. How would that even work?"
"I'll figure it out," he said, with the same determination that had taken him from local soccer star to international phenomenon. "My contract has a clause about family emergencies. I can get time now, and when the season's over in three months, I'll have more flexibility."
"And then what? She shuttles back and forth between continents? That's not stability, Jake."
"And growing up without her father is?" he countered. "I missed five years. I won't miss any more."
"I'm not saying you can't be in her life," you clarified. "I'm saying we need to be realistic about what that looks like."
"Realistic," he repeated, the word sharp with disdain. "Was it 'realistic' when you decided not to tell me I had a daughter?"
You had no good answer for that.
"I want everything," Jake continued, his voice calmer but no less intense. "School records, medical history, photos, videos—everything from the last five years. I want to know her favorite foods, her fears, what makes her laugh, what comforts her when she's upset. I want to know what she was like as a baby, as a toddler, every stage I missed."
"Okay," you agreed quietly. "You can have all of that."
"And I want to tell her I'm her father. Soon. Not some vague 'someday' that never comes."
This made your chest tighten with anxiety. "Jake, we need to be careful about that. She's five. This is a lot for her to process."
"And whose fault is that?" The words hung in the air between you, sharp with accusation.
"Mine," you acknowledged. "But that doesn't change the fact that we need to handle this carefully for her sake."
Jake was silent for a long moment, conflict playing across his features. Finally, he let out a long breath. "Fine. We'll talk to a child psychologist, get professional advice on how to tell her. But it happens within the next month. I won't be a stranger to my own daughter any longer than necessary."
You nodded, relieved at this small concession. "That's fair."
"And in the meantime, I want to see her regularly. Every day while I'm in town, and we'll figure out video calls when I go back. I want to be at her games, her school events, everything I can possibly make."
"Of course," you said. "She'd love that."
Jake's expression softened marginally. "She's amazing," he said, almost to himself. "When she was showing me her room, the way she explained everything with such... enthusiasm. She's got this incredible energy."
"Gets that from you," you said without thinking. "She's been like that since she could crawl. Always moving, always excited about something."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "The soccer obsession too?"
"One hundred percent you. I swear I never pushed it. She picked up a ball when she was two and that was it. Love at first kick."
For a moment, the tension between you eased, replaced by the shared wonder of the person you'd created together. Then reality reasserted itself.
"I'm still angry," Jake said quietly. "I don't know if or when that will change."
"I understand," you said, meaning it. "You have every right to be."
He checked his watch. "It's getting late. I should go. But I'll be back tomorrow afternoon, like I promised Jade."
"Okay."
Jake moved toward the door, then paused. "One more thing. I haven't told my parents yet. About Jade."
Your stomach dropped. Jake's parents had loved you once. You'd been planning a life together, marriage, family. How would they react to knowing you'd kept their grandchild from them for five years?
"When are you going to tell them?" you asked.
"Soon. They're flying in next week. I wanted to meet Jade first, to..." he trailed off, then finished, "to see for myself."
The implication stung, though you couldn't blame him. Of course he'd needed to confirm for himself that Jade was his.
"They'll want to meet her," he continued. "They have a right to know their granddaughter."
"Of course," you agreed, though the prospect filled you with dread.
Jake opened the door, then looked back at you one last time. "For what it's worth, you've done an amazing job with her. She's... perfect."
Before you could respond, he was gone, the door closing quietly behind him.
You sank back onto the couch, emotional exhaustion washing over you in waves. Through the half-open door of Jade's bedroom, you could see her sleeping peacefully, unaware that her world had just fundamentally changed.
Tomorrow, Jake would be back. He would continue piecing together the life of his daughter. And sooner than you'd ever planned, Jade would learn the truth: that the professional soccer player she'd been so excited to meet was her father.
The carefully constructed life you'd built was falling apart.
Or perhaps, a small voice in your mind suggested, it was finally coming together the way it should have been all along.
-
"Higher! You have to kick it higher!" Jade called from the backyard, hands on her hips in a pose of exaggerated exasperation that made her look startlingly like a miniature coach.
Jake laughed, adjusting his technique to send the soccer ball sailing high into the air. "Like this?"
"Perfect!" Jade's face lit up as she positioned herself beneath the descending ball, calculating its trajectory with surprising precision for a five-year-old.
You watched from the kitchen window, coffee mug clutched between your hands, as Jade attempted to trap the ball with her chest like she'd seen professional players do. Instead, it bounced off her head and rolled away, sending her into peals of laughter.
The day had started early—too early, with Jade bouncing into your room at 6:15 AM asking if it was "Jake time yet." When he'd arrived promptly at ten, she'd practically dragged him through the house to show him her new soccer cleats, her collection of medals ("Some of them are just for participating but these three are for winning"), and the scrapbook of soccer cards she'd been collecting.
Jake had brought a gift—a professional-grade junior soccer ball with the logo of his European team—which had immediately cemented his status as Jade's new favorite person.
"Mom!" Jade's voice pulled you from your thoughts as she raced toward the back door, Jake following at a more measured pace. "Jake says I have natural talent! That's a real thing that real coaches say!"
"Is that so?" you asked, unable to hold back a smile at her enthusiasm.
"It is," Jake confirmed, ducking slightly to enter through the back door. There was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his hair was charmingly disheveled from chasing after Jade for the past hour. "She has great instincts. Her spatial awareness is excellent for her age."
"I have special awareness," Jade repeated proudly, though clearly not understanding what it meant.
"Spatial," Jake corrected gently.
"That's what I said! Special!" Jade zipped past you to the refrigerator. "I need a juice box because athletes need to stay hydrated. Jake told me that's very important. Do you want one too, Jake? We have apple and grape and the gross one with vegetables that Mom thinks I don't know about."
Jake caught your eye over Jade's head, amusement dancing in his expression. "I'll take apple, thanks."
You'd expected today to be awkward, tense—a continuation of last night's emotional confrontation. Instead, Jade's presence had created a buffer, her boundless energy requiring both adults to focus on her rather than the complicated emotions between them.
"I was thinking we could all go to the park after lunch," you suggested, pulling sandwich ingredients from the refrigerator. "They have a bigger field there."
"Can we get ice cream after?" Jade asked immediately, strategic as always.
"We'll see," you answered automatically.
"That means yes," Jade stage-whispered to Jake. "It always means yes."
Jake's laugh was genuine, unguarded in a way it hadn't been since he'd discovered Jade was his daughter. "Good to know your negotiation tactics."
"What's nego... that word you said?"
"Negotiation. It means figuring out how to get what you want."
Jade nodded solemnly. "I'm very good at that. Mom says I should be a lawyer because I never stop arguing."
"I can see that," Jake said, accepting the juice box Jade thrust into his hands. "You make a strong case for ice cream."
"What's your favorite flavor?" Jade asked, climbing onto her chair at the kitchen table. "Mine's chocolate with the rainbow sprinkles. Sometimes I get it in a cone but that's messier."
Jake shook his head with a small smile. "I don't really eat ice cream much anymore. Sweet things aren't really my thing these days."
Jade looked absolutely horrified, as if he'd just admitted to not believing in gravity. "You don't like ice cream? But everybody likes ice cream!"
"My nutritionist has me on a pretty strict diet," Jake explained, clearly amused by her reaction. "Professional athletes have to be careful about what they eat."
"That sounds terrible," Jade declared with the dramatic conviction only a five-year-old could muster. "When I'm a professional athlete, I'm still going to eat ice cream. And cake. And cookies."
"That's exactly what your mom used to say about diets," Jake said before he could catch himself, glancing at you with sudden uncertainty.
But Jade just nodded enthusiastically. "Mom's really smart about desserts. We have the same taste buds."
You busied yourself making sandwiches, aware of Jake's eyes on you but not ready to meet his gaze. The ease with which he and Jade interacted was both heartwarming and painful—a glimpse of what should have been all along.
"Peanut butter and banana for Jade," you announced, setting a plate in front of her. "Turkey and cheese for the adults."
"Did you cut it in triangles?" Jade asked suspiciously, examining her sandwich.
"Would I dare serve it any other way?" You mock-gasped, hand over your heart.
Jade giggled. "You forgot once."
"And I'll never live it down, apparently," you said to Jake with an eye roll.
"Triangles taste better," Jade explained to Jake with the conviction of someone stating an irrefutable scientific fact. "Rectangles are just wrong."
"I'll keep that in mind," Jake said solemnly, though his eyes sparkled with amusement.
Lunch passed with Jade dominating the conversation, jumping from topic to topic with the frenetic energy that characterized everything she did. She told Jake about her best friend Emma, her teacher Ms. Rivera, the class pet frog she wasn't allowed to bring home ("Mom has a no amphibians rule, which is so unfair"), and her upcoming soccer tournament.
"Will you come to my game?" she asked Jake suddenly, mid-bite. "It's next Saturday. I'm number ten, just like your jersey! Mom got me that number special."
Your eyes met Jake's across the table, a silent exchange passing between you. That number hadn't been a coincidence, and you both knew it.
"I'd love to come to your game," Jake said, his voice warm but with an undertone only you would recognize—the weight of a father being invited to his daughter's game for the first time.
"Yes!" Jade pumped her fist victoriously. "You can meet my coach and my team and show them some of your special moves!"
"We'll see about that," you interjected gently. "Jake might want to just watch."
Jade looked scandalized. "But he's famous! Everyone will think it's so cool if he shows us stuff!"
"Let's talk about that later," you suggested, seeing Jake's expression grow more complex. Neither of you had discussed how to handle his public presence in relation to Jade—not to mention the questions that would inevitably arise if Europe's star striker started showing up at a five-year-old's soccer games.
After lunch, you all headed to the park as planned. Jade insisted on bringing her new soccer ball, clutching it to her chest the entire car ride while peppering Jake with questions from the back seat.
"Do you know how to do a rainbow kick? Can you teach me? How many goals have you scored? Have you ever broken a bone? My friend Tyler broke his arm falling out of a tree but I would never fall out of a tree because I'm a good climber, right Mom?"
You caught Jake's eye as he turned slightly in the passenger seat, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. She never stops, you mouthed silently.
Just like me, he mouthed back, and something warm unfurled in your chest at the easy acknowledgment of the traits Jade had inherited from him.
At the park, Jade immediately dragged Jake to the open field, demanding he show her "professional tricks." A few other children gravitated toward them, drawn by Jade's enthusiasm and Jake's obvious skill as he demonstrated simple footwork patterns.
You settled on a nearby bench, allowing yourself a moment to simply observe. Jake was patient, breaking down movements into steps Jade could follow, praising her efforts even when she stumbled. When she finally managed a basic step-over move, his genuine pride matched her excitement.
"Mom! Did you see that? I did it just like Jake!"
"I saw, sweetheart! That was amazing!"
As the afternoon progressed, more children joined their impromptu clinic. Jake seemed in his element, guiding each child with the same attention he gave Jade. You noticed a few parents doing double-takes as they recognized him, whispering to each other and discreetly taking photos with their phones.
Eventually, Jade ran over to you, cheeks flushed with exertion and happiness. "This is the best day ever! Jake knows everything about soccer! And he likes all the same things I like! He even does the victory dance the same way I do! Watch!"
She demonstrated an elaborate celebratory move involving a spin and fist pump that was, indeed, eerily similar to Jake's signature goal celebration.
"That's amazing, honey."
"I didn't even show it to him, Mom! He just does it the same! Isn't that cool?"
"Very cool," you agreed, smoothing back her sweaty hair. "Are you ready for that ice cream now?"
"Yes! Jake, we're getting ice cream!" she called over her shoulder.
Jake joined you, slightly out of breath but looking more relaxed than you'd seen him since his return. "Ice cream sounds perfect."
"Can I go on the swings first?" Jade asked, already edging toward the playground. "Just for five minutes?"
"Okay, but only five," you agreed, knowing full well it would be at least fifteen minutes before you'd successfully extract her.
As Jade raced off, you and Jake were left alone for the first time that day.
"She's incredible," he said, eyes following her across the playground. "I know I keep saying that, but..."
"She is," you agreed. "And she's completely taken with you."
Jake sat beside you on the bench, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him but with a careful space between you.
"Thank you for today," he said quietly. "For letting me spend time with her."
"Of course. She's your—" You stopped, glancing around to make sure no little ears could overhear. "She's your daughter. You have every right to know her."
Jake's expression softened. "I was prepared to be angry today. To keep fighting about the past." He watched Jade swinging higher and higher, fearless as always. "But it's hard to stay angry when she's so... full of life."
"She has that effect on people," you said with a small smile. "It's impossible to be in a bad mood around Hurricane Jade."
"Wonder where she gets that from," Jake said, a hint of his old teasing tone returning.
"Oh, that's all you. The energy, the charm, the inability to sit still for more than thirty seconds—pure Sim genetics."
He laughed, and for a moment it was almost like before—before Europe, before the breakup, before five years of silence and secrets.
"I meant what I said earlier, about her having natural talent," Jake said, shifting the conversation back to safer territory. "With the right coaching, she could go far."
"I've tried to encourage it," you admitted. "Signed her up for every age-appropriate program I could find. But there's only so much I know about proper technique."
"I could help with that," Jake offered cautiously. "If you're okay with it."
"I'd like that," you said softly. "She would too, obviously."
A comfortable silence settled between you, both watching Jade as she abandoned the swings for the climbing structure.
"About last night," Jake began.
"I have all the photos and videos organized," you said quickly. "After Jade goes to bed, I can show you everything. Her first steps, first words, birthdays—all of it."
Jake studied your face for a moment before nodding. "I'd like that."
"MOM! JAKE! WATCH THIS!" Jade shouted from the top of the playground, preparing to slide down a pole firefighter-style.
You both instinctively tensed, ready to rush forward if needed, but she executed the move with practiced ease, landing triumphantly at the bottom.
"Your heart stops a dozen times a day with her," you murmured.
"I can see that," Jake said with a mixture of pride and newfound parental concern.
"Ice cream time," you confirmed, standing from the bench.
"Can I get sprinkles and chocolate sauce?" Jade asked, slipping her small hand into Jake's automatically, as if she'd been doing it her whole life.
You saw Jake freeze for just a moment, staring down at their joined hands with an expression of wonder, before he gently squeezed her fingers in response.
"I think this counts as a special occasion," he said, looking to you for confirmation.
"A very special occasion," you agreed, your voice catching slightly as you watched your daughter walking hand-in-hand with her father for the first time.
Jade looked up at Jake with pure adoration. "I've had so much fun with you today! You're really good at everything I like to do. Mom says I'm picky about people, but I think you're the best."
"Well, that's quite a compliment," Jake said, his voice thick with emotion. "I think you're pretty great too."
"Can you come over again tomorrow? And the next day? And maybe forever?"
"Jade," you cautioned gently, seeing Jake's expression.
"I'll definitely come back tomorrow," Jake promised. "We still have a lot of soccer moves to practice."
"And then Mom can show you my baby pictures!" Jade said brightly. "I was super cute."
"Still are," Jake said, swinging their joined hands playfully.
As you walked behind them toward the ice cream stand, you watched Jake bend down to listen intently to whatever world-changing observation Jade was now sharing. Their matching profiles, the same animated way of speaking, the identical dimples when they smiled—it was like seeing double across a generation.
These were the moments you'd imagined in your quietest thoughts over the years, the ones you'd convinced yourself would never happen. Now that they were unfolding before your eyes, you found yourself fighting back unexpected tears.
Whatever happened between you and Jake, however complicated your own relationship might be, today had made one thing clear: Jade had found her father. And despite everything, he was already proving to be exactly what she needed.
The rest would have to be figured out one day at a time.
-
"Higher! Throw it higher!"
Jade's delighted squeals had faded an hour ago, replaced by the peaceful quiet of evening as you sat on your living room floor surrounded by photo albums, memory boxes, and a laptop open to years of digital archives. After a full day of Jake and Jade's energetic bonding, she'd finally crashed, falling asleep mid-sentence during her second bedtime story.
Now, in the hushed stillness, Jake sat across from you, cross-legged on the carpet, holding Jade's first pair of soccer cleats—tiny pink things she'd insisted on wearing everywhere, even to bed.
"She was two and a half when she got these," you explained, sorting through a box of keepsakes. "Saw them at the store and had an absolute meltdown until I bought them. They were two sizes too big."
Jake turned the miniature cleats over in his hands, his expression softening in a way it hadn't when discussing the more difficult aspects of your past. "She was walking by then. Running?"
"Running, jumping, climbing everything in sight. She was an early walker—ten months. Never crawled much." You hesitated before adding, "Just like you."
His eyes met yours, a flash of something—surprise, connection, hurt that he hadn't known this parallel—before returning to the cleats.
"I found it," you said, pulling out an external hard drive. "All the videos. I had everything digitized last year."
You connected it to your laptop, acutely aware of Jake moving closer, his shoulder nearly touching yours as he positioned himself to see the screen. The faint scent of his cologne—different from what he'd worn five years ago, but with the same underlying notes—stirred memories you'd tried hard to suppress.
"I organized it chronologically," you said, opening the earliest folder. "These are from the hospital."
Jake leaned forward, his breath catching as the first image filled the screen: a newborn Jade, red-faced and wrinkled, wrapped in a pink blanket.
"She was so small," he whispered.
"Six pounds, four ounces. Smaller than the doctors expected." You clicked to the next image. "Twenty hours of labor, and then she just... arrived. Changed everything in an instant."
Jake was silent, eyes fixed on the screen as you cycled through those first photos—Jade sleeping, Jade crying, Jade with eyes barely open. You in a hospital bed, looking exhausted but radiant. Every image seemed to hit him like a physical blow.
"I wasn't there," he said quietly.
The accusation from before was gone, replaced by simple grief. You didn't know what to say, so you kept clicking through photos.
"Did you... was anyone with you? During the birth?"
"Tia," you answered. "She held my hand through the whole thing. Called me every name in the book when I refused the epidural at first."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Sounds like Tia."
You opened the video folder, hesitating over the first one. "This is her first day home. I was a mess, hadn't slept in days. It's not exactly America's Funniest Home Videos material."
"I want to see it," Jake said. "All of it."
You pressed play. The video showed your apartment—your old place, before you'd moved to the house—with baby items scattered everywhere. The camera shakily focused on a bassinet where Jade slept, then panned to you curled up on the couch, half-asleep yourself.
Tia's voice came from behind the camera: "And here we have the natural habitat of the New Mom, surrounded by burp cloths and takeout containers. Note the attractive milk stains on her shirt and the distinctive dark circles under her eyes."
In the video, you flipped off the camera without opening your eyes. "I will murder you in your sleep if you don't let me nap while she's napping."
"Just documenting the miracle of motherhood for posterity," Tia's voice singsonged. The camera moved back to Jade, who was beginning to squirm. "Uh oh, the tiny dictator awakens. Your public demands an audience, Your Majesty."
Present-day you cringed, reaching to skip ahead, but Jake gently caught your wrist. "Don't. I want to see."
On screen, you dragged yourself off the couch, hair a mess, wearing what were clearly Jake's old sweatpants and a stained t-shirt. You scooped up Jade, who immediately quieted against your chest.
"She knows her mama," Tia's voice said softly.
Video-you looked directly at the camera, eyes tired but determined. "We're figuring it out, aren't we, little one? Just you and me."
Jake's hand was still on your wrist, his touch burning against your skin. You felt him inhale sharply at your words in the video, felt the subtle tension through his shoulders.
"I should have been there," he said again, but the anger from before had transformed into something more complex—regret, loss, a quiet ache.
"You didn't know," you said softly, no longer defending yourself but simply stating a fact.
He let go of your wrist, his fingers lingering just a moment too long, sending an unexpected flutter through your stomach. You clicked through more videos: Jade's first real smile, her first laugh, her determined attempts to roll over. Jake watched them all with fierce concentration, as if trying to absorb every moment he'd missed. He asked questions about each milestone—when, where, how—creating a mental timeline of his daughter's life.
"Wait—go back," he said suddenly when you clicked past a video thumbnail. "Was that...?"
You returned to the previous screen. "Ah. Her first birthday."
Jake pointed to the image. "Is that my jersey?"
Your cheeks warmed. The thumbnail clearly showed Jade sitting in a high chair, cake smeared across her face, wearing a tiny replica of Jake's national team jersey.
"She was going through a phase where she'd only wear red," you explained weakly. "It was the only red thing I could find in her size."
Jake gave you a look that said he didn't believe you for a second. "You kept track of my career."
It wasn't a question. You sighed, knowing there was no point in denying it.
"Yes. I followed your games when I could. Jade was too young to understand, but... I thought someday she should know what her father accomplished." You hesitated. "After you made the national team, I bought the jersey. She loved it—wouldn't take it off for days."
Something shifted in Jake's expression—a softening around the eyes, the faintest hint of the smile that used to make your heart race. Before he could respond, you quickly pressed play on the video.
Your living room filled with the sounds of "Happy Birthday" being sung off-key, followed by Jade smashing both hands into her birthday cake with wild abandon. The camera panned to show a small gathering—Tia, your parents, a couple of friends—but focused primarily on Jade, who was now wearing more cake than she'd eaten.
Jake leaned forward, transfixed by the sight of his daughter's joy. When the video ended, he didn't immediately speak, just stared at the frozen final frame of Jade grinning with chocolate-covered dimples.
"She looks exactly like you," you said without thinking.
"She has your eyes," he countered quietly. "Your laugh, too."
The observation surprised you. "You think so? Everyone always says she's your mini-me."
"There's a lot of you in her." Jake turned slightly, studying your face with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. "The way she tilts her head when she's considering something seriously. The little crease between her eyebrows when she concentrates. That's all you."
You hadn't expected him to notice such details about you, let alone remember them after five years. The fact that he had been paying such close attention—not just to Jade, but to you—stirred something you'd long tried to suppress.
"I have more videos," you said, breaking the moment before it became too charged. "Her first steps are somewhere in here."
As you scrolled through folders, Jake reached for one of the photo albums on the floor. "What's this one?"
"Preschool years," you said, recognizing the cover. "Ages two to four."
He opened it carefully, turning pages with a gentleness that contrasted with his athletic build. Each new image seemed to fascinate him—Jade at the beach, Jade finger-painting, Jade dressed as a lion for Halloween.
"She's fearless," he observed, pausing on a photo of three-year-old Jade at the top of a playground structure clearly designed for older children.
"Terrifyingly so," you agreed. "I've gotten more gray hairs from her daredevil stunts than from anything else in my life."
Jake's finger traced the outline of Jade's face in the photo. "I used to drive my mom crazy climbing trees. The higher, the better."
"She does the same thing! Last summer, I found her three branches up in the neighbor's oak tree. Nearly had a heart attack."
He laughed, a genuine sound that caught you both by surprise. For a moment, the weight of the past five years seemed to lift slightly. Your eyes met, and for a heartbeat, you were back in your old apartment, planning weekend hikes and arguing over movie choices—before contracts and continents and complications.
"Here it is," you said, finding the video you'd been searching for. "First steps, thirteen months old."
Jake shifted closer as the video began playing. On screen, a wobbly Jade stood holding onto the edge of the coffee table, determination written across her tiny face.
Your voice came from behind the camera: "Come on, sweetheart. Come to Mama."
Jade looked directly at the camera, grinned her already mischievous grin, and took one tentative step away from the table. Then another. Three shaky steps before plopping down on her diaper-padded bottom.
"You did it!" your voice exclaimed as the camera shook with excitement. "Oh my god, you did it!"
The video captured you setting down the camera (showing a sideways view of the living room) and rushing to scoop up Jade, spinning her around as she giggled uncontrollably.
"We have to call Auntie Tia," your voice said. "She's not going to believe—" You stopped abruptly, and even in the awkwardly angled footage, your expression was clear: for a brief moment, you'd forgotten you couldn't share this milestone with Jake.
Present-day Jake noticed it too. His eyes shifted from the screen to your face, questioning.
"I almost called you," you admitted quietly. "So many times. Especially for the big moments."
"Why didn't you?" There was no accusation in his voice now, just a genuine need to understand.
You stared at the laptop screen, where the video had ended on a frame of you holding Jade close. "At first, it was all the reasons I told you before. Then... time passed, and it got harder to imagine how that conversation would go. 'Hi, remember me? Surprise, you have a one-year-old.'" You shook your head. "And then you became this massive star, and the gap between our worlds just seemed... unbridgeable."
Jake was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was different—less the angry man demanding answers, more the person you'd once known better than anyone.
"I would have come back. If I'd known."
"That's exactly why I didn't tell you," you said softly. "You would have given up everything you'd worked for. I couldn't do that to you."
"It wasn't your choice to make," he said, but the harsh edge from before was gone.
"No, it wasn't," you acknowledged. "And I can't change that now, no matter how much I wish I could."
Jake closed the photo album, his fingers lingering on the cover. "I've missed so much."
"You're here now," you offered. "And Jade already adores you."
"She doesn't even know who I really am to her."
"She will. Soon." You hesitated, then added, "For what it's worth, I think she's sensed something was missing. The last few months, she's been asking more questions about her father. It's like she knew something was about to change."
Jake's expression shifted as he processed this. "Kids are more perceptive than we give them credit for."
You nodded, thinking of how Jade had instantly connected with Jake, how natural they seemed together despite having just met.
A comfortable silence fell between you as Jake reached for another photo album, this one more recent. As he opened it, something slipped from between the pages—a small ultrasound image, creased from being handled many times.
Jake picked it up, staring at the grainy black and white image of Jade before she was Jade—just a tiny bean-shaped blob with the promise of a future.
"This was the first picture of her," you said, voice barely above a whisper. "Twelve weeks."
Jake ran his thumb over the image. "I should have been there."
"I know."
"No, I mean—" He looked up, meeting your eyes directly. "I should have been there regardless. I shouldn't have left in the first place, pregnancy or not."
The admission hung in the air between you, heavy with implications.
"Jake—"
"I made a choice five years ago," he continued, his voice steady but vulnerable in a way you hadn't heard since the night before he left. "And even before I knew about Jade, I've questioned that choice more times than I can count."
Your heart stuttered in your chest. "You never said anything."
"What was I supposed to say? 'Hey, I know we broke up and haven't spoken in years, but I think I made a mistake'?" He shook his head. "You'd moved on. At least, I thought you had."
"I had a child to raise," you said carefully. "That doesn't mean I moved on."
The air between you felt charged, years of unspoken words and feelings suddenly pressing close. Jake's eyes held yours, searching for something that made your breath catch.
"I used to check your social media," he admitted, looking away. "Not in a stalker way, just... I wanted to make sure you were okay. When I didn't see any posts about dating or... anyone new, I assumed you were just private about it."
"There wasn't anyone to be private about," you said quietly. "Between work and Jade, there wasn't time. At least, that's what I told myself."
Jake's eyes returned to yours, a question in them. "And the real reason?"
The honesty of the moment demanded truth in return. "No one compared. To what we had."
The space between you seemed to shrink, the ultrasound photo still held in Jake's hand—tangible evidence of everything that had been lost and found.
He reached out slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek. A gesture so achingly familiar it made your chest hurt.
"I've missed you," he said simply. "Not just as Jade's mother. As you."
The words unlocked something you'd kept carefully guarded. You leaned forward slightly, drawn by a gravity that had never fully released its hold on you.
Jake's gaze dropped to your lips, and for a moment, you thought he might close the remaining distance between you. Instead, he drew back, though his eyes betrayed how much it cost him to do so.
"We should take this slow," he said, voice rough. "There's a lot we need to figure out first."
"I know," you said, both disappointed and relieved. "Jade comes first."
Jake nodded, though his eyes still held yours with an intensity that made your skin warm. "We need to get the father thing right before we complicate it with... anything else."
"Anything else," you repeated, the phrase heavy with possibility.
He smiled then, a real smile that reached his eyes and made him look more like the Jake you'd fallen in love with years ago.
"I should go," he said, setting the ultrasound photo carefully back in the album. "It's getting late, and I promised Jade I'd come watch her practice tomorrow."
"Of course," you said, standing up as he did.
At the door, he paused, his hand on the knob. "Thank you for tonight. For sharing all of that with me."
"It's only the beginning," you said. "There's a lot more to show you."
"I'm counting on it," he replied, his voice low with a promise that wasn't just about baby photos.
After he left, you stood in the hallway, heart racing with the realization that whatever had been between you and Jake might not be as buried in the past as you'd thought.
It would be complicated. There were a thousand reasons to be cautious.
But for the first time in five years, there was also hope.Chapter Seven: Soccer Practice
"And that's why the inside of your foot is better for passing," Jake explained patiently, kneeling beside Jade on the sidelines of the community soccer field. "It gives you more control."
"But power shots are with your laces, right?" Jade asked, examining her cleats as if they might hold the secrets of professional soccer.
"Right," Jake confirmed with a smile. "Laces for power, inside for accuracy."
You watched from the bleachers, pretending to focus on your phone while actually stealing glances at father and daughter. Jake had arrived at your house exactly as promised—fifteen minutes before Jade's practice—dressed casually in jeans and a plain t-shirt that somehow still managed to hint at the athletic build beneath.
The way your heart had jumped when you opened the door was concerning. Last night's almost-moment had shifted something between you, created an awareness that buzzed like electricity whenever you made eye contact.
"Jake!" Coach Russell called from the center of the field. "Would you mind demonstrating that passing drill we talked about?"
You tensed slightly. Jake had been recognized immediately upon arrival—of course he had, he was almost a household name in soccer circles—but so far he'd been treated with surprising normalcy by the coaching staff. You suspected they were professionals enough to contain their excitement for the sake of the children.
"Sure thing," Jake called back, giving Jade's shoulder a quick squeeze before jogging onto the field.
Several parents around you whispered excitedly, phones emerging from pockets and purses.
"That's really Jake Sim, right?" asked a mom to your left, leaning closer with conspiratorial eagerness. "I didn't want to make a big deal about it, but my husband is going to freak when I tell him."
"Um, yes," you confirmed, unsure how much to say. You and Jake hadn't discussed how to handle public interactions yet.
"Is he..." the woman hesitated, clearly fishing, "...scouting the team or something?"
Before you could form a response, another parent jumped in. "He's here with the Sim girl." He nodded toward Jade, who was watching Jake with undisguised adoration as he demonstrated proper passing technique to the team. "Same last name. Must be related."
Your stomach tightened. Of course people would make the connection. You should have prepared for this.
"I heard he's her uncle," a third parent contributed helpfully.
You nearly choked on your coffee.
"He's a... family friend," you managed, the half-truth feeling strange on your tongue. You'd been careful never to lie to Jade about Jake being her father, just... selective with details. But these were strangers, and you weren't ready for the inevitable questions that would follow the truth.
Thankfully, the parents seemed satisfied with this explanation and returned their attention to the field, where Jake was now lining up the children for passing practice. Jade bounced on her toes at the front of the line, practically vibrating with excitement.
"My daughter says Jade talks about him non-stop," the first mom said, eyes still on the field. "Since the clinic on Saturday, it's all been 'Jake showed me this' and 'Jake can do that.'"
You smiled despite your nerves. "She's pretty taken with him."
"I can see why," the woman said with a laugh. "If I were twenty years younger and single..." She trailed off, fanning herself dramatically.
You felt a strange flash of something that felt suspiciously like possessiveness.
On the field, Jake was crouching next to Jade, adjusting her stance with gentle hands as she prepared to demonstrate the drill. He said something that made her giggle, then stepped back as she perfectly executed the pass, earning cheers from her teammates.
The pure joy on both their faces made your chest ache.
For so long, you'd carried the weight of your decision alone, convinced you were protecting both Jake and Jade. Now, seeing them together, you wondered how much your fear had cost them both.
"He's great with kids," the mom beside you observed. "Does he have any of his own?"
The question hit like a physical blow. "I... I'm not sure," you stammered, the lie bitter on your tongue.
You were saved from further conversation by the coach blowing his whistle, signaling a water break. Jade immediately raced over, Jake following at a more measured pace.
"Mom! Did you see? I did the pass perfectly! Jake showed me how to position my foot and everything!"
"I saw, honey," you said, handing her a water bottle. "You looked like a pro out there."
Jade beamed, gulping down water with the same intensity she applied to everything.
"She's a quick learner," Jake said, approaching the bleachers. He kept a careful distance, but his eyes held the same intimate awareness that had charged the air between you last night. "Coach Russell says she's one of his most promising players."
"Is that why he asked her to demonstrate?" you asked. "I thought he was just being nice because..."
You trailed off, conscious of curious parents within earshot.
"Because I'm here?" Jake finished, lowering his voice. "No, he told me he'd already pegged her as a natural. Said she has better instincts than most kids twice her age."
Pride washed over you, along with the bittersweet realization that Jake was finally getting to experience these parental moments—the simple joy of hearing someone else praise your child.
"Jake! Are you going to stay for the whole practice?" Jade asked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Coach says we're doing shooting drills next!"
"I wouldn't miss it," Jake promised.
"And then can we get ice cream again? You didn't get any yesterday because you said sweet things aren't your thing, but maybe today you could try just a little bit?"
Jake laughed, that full, unguarded sound that had been so rare in recent days. "We'll see what your mom says."
"Mom always says yes to ice cream," Jade stated confidently.
"That's not true," you protested, though all evidence was certainly against you.
Jade gave you a skeptical look that was pure Jake, down to the slightly raised eyebrow.
"Two minutes, everyone!" Coach Russell called. "Back to positions!"
"Gotta go!" Jade handed back her water bottle and raced off, nearly colliding with two teammates in her enthusiasm.
Jake took a step toward the bleachers, then hesitated, as if unsure whether he should join you or return to the sidelines. The moment stretched, charged with all the things left unspoken between you.
"You can sit," you said finally, patting the space beside you. "If you want."
He climbed up and settled next to you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him but with a careful inch of space between you. Neither of you spoke for a moment, watching as the children lined up for shooting practice, Jade bouncing impatiently in the middle of the queue.
"About last night—" you both started simultaneously, then stopped.
Jake gestured for you to continue.
You took a deep breath. "I just... wanted to say that I appreciate how you are with her. How quickly you've adjusted to all of this."
It wasn't what you'd been planning to say at all. You'd meant to address the almost-kiss, the charged moment that had fundamentally shifted something between you. But the words wouldn't come.
"She makes it easy," Jake said, his eyes following Jade as she moved up in line. "She's so open. So accepting."
"She gets that from you," you said softly. "I was always the cautious one, remember?"
Jake's lips curved into a half-smile. "Is that how you remember it? Because I recall someone climbing onto the roof of my apartment building at midnight because they wanted to see the meteor shower from the 'perfect angle.'"
You felt warmth rush to your cheeks. "That was different. Astronomy requires commitment."
"Uh-huh." His smile widened, eyes still on the field but clearly seeing a different time, a different you. "What about the time you decided we should go cliff diving even though neither of us had ever done it before?"
"You didn't have to follow me," you pointed out, falling easily into the familiar rhythm of your old banter.
"Yes, I did." His voice turned serious, though the smile remained. "Always."
The simple word hung between you, heavy with meaning.
Before you could respond, a cheer went up from the field. Jade had just sent the ball sailing past the junior goalkeeper, then immediately launched into a celebration that was eerily similar to Jake's signature move.
"She watches your games," you admitted, the confession slipping out before you could stop it. "I saved them—the important ones. She doesn't know... who you are to her, but she's seen you play. I thought she should know what her father can do."
Jake turned to you, surprise and something softer in his expression. "Thank you," he said simply. "For that."
The moment stretched between you, fragile and significant.
"Mom! Jake! Did you see that?" Jade shouted from the field, breaking the spell. "I scored!"
"We saw!" you both called back in unison, then exchanged a quick smile at the synchronicity.
As practice continued, you found yourself relaxing into Jake's presence beside you. The conversation shifted to safer topics—Jade's school, her friends, her other activities—but beneath it ran a current of shared history and newly acknowledged feelings that neither of you seemed ready to fully address.
When practice ended, Jade ran to you both, sweaty and triumphant.
"Coach says I did really good today!" she announced, dropping her water bottle in her excitement. "Can we go for ice cream now? Please?"
Jake bent to retrieve the bottle, his shoulder brushing yours as he straightened. "I think you've earned it," he said, looking to you for confirmation. "If it's okay with your mom."
"Ice cream sounds perfect," you agreed, hyperaware of how close he stood, how domestic this moment felt—the three of you, a family for anyone watching.
And people were watching. Several parents were openly staring now, clearly trying to puzzle out the exact nature of your relationship to the famous soccer player who had spent the last hour focused exclusively on your daughter.
"Can Jake come back to our house after?" Jade asked, grabbing both your hand and Jake's without hesitation. "I want to show him my new library books. They're about space!"
The easy way she connected you physically, standing between you like a bridge, made your heart stumble.
"I'd like that," Jake said, his eyes meeting yours over Jade's head. "If your mom doesn't mind."
There was a question in his gaze, one that went beyond library books and ice cream.
"I don't mind," you said quietly, answering both the spoken and unspoken.
As the three of you walked toward the parking lot, Jade swinging your joined hands and chattering about which ice cream flavor best represented each planet in the solar system, you couldn't help but notice how right it felt.
How, despite five years of separation and secrets, you, Jake, and Jade had somehow fallen into the family rhythm that might have been yours all along.
It terrified you.
It exhilarated you.
And you weren't sure which feeling scared you more.
-
"Is she finally asleep?" Jake asked as you returned to the living room, wineglass in hand.
After ice cream and an enthusiastic tour of Jade's library books, your daughter had lobbied hard for Jake to stay for dinner. One homemade pasta later, he'd somehow been roped into bedtime story duty—a task he'd approached with the same focused determination he brought to professional matches.
"Three stories, two glasses of water, and one lengthy debate about why the moon doesn't fall out of the sky later—yes, she's out," you confirmed, sinking onto the couch beside him. "I'm pretty sure she was just trying to keep you here as long as possible."
"I don't mind," Jake said, accepting the glass of wine you offered. The soft lamplight caught the angles of his face, softening the features that had graced so many magazine covers. "Today was... good."
"It was."
A comfortable silence fell between you, punctuated only by the distant sound of crickets through the open window. The evening was unseasonably warm, and you'd kept the windows open to catch the spring breeze. Jake had discarded his jacket hours ago, his sleeves now rolled up to reveal forearms that spoke of years of athletic conditioning.
You took a careful sip of wine, hyperaware of his presence just inches away on the couch. Something had been building between you all day—a tension that simmered beneath every glance, every accidental touch.
"I should probably head out soon," Jake said, though he made no move to leave. "I've got a team call early tomorrow."
"Right," you nodded. "The charity match. How long until you have to..."
"Go back?" He finished your thought. "Ten days. Then the European tour picks up again."
The knowledge settled like a weight between you. Ten days before he returned to his other life—the stadiums, the fans, the world that had taken him away five years ago.
"Jade's going to miss you," you said, staring into your wine.
"Just Jade?"
You looked up to find him watching you, his expression open in a way it hadn't been since he'd discovered Jade's existence. The guarded anger had faded, replaced by something warm and familiar that made your heart skip.
"I think I might miss you too," you admitted quietly. "Which is probably a terrible idea."
Jake set his glass down, turning to face you more fully. "Why is that?"
"Because you're leaving in ten days. Because we have a five-year-old who's already getting attached to you. Because we haven't figured out what any of this means yet." You gestured vaguely between you. "Take your pick."
"What if I said I've been thinking about this—about us—since last night? Actually, if I'm being honest, longer than that."
Your pulse quickened. "Jake..."
"I know it's complicated," he continued, his voice low and earnest. "I know we have a lot to figure out. But I can't stop thinking about what you said—that no one compared. Because it's been the same for me."
The confession hung in the air between you, impossible to take back.
"You dated," you pointed out weakly. "I saw the tabloids."
A rueful smile crossed his lips. "Dating isn't the same as connecting. Trust me, Jay tried his best to set me up with everyone from models to athletes. Nothing stuck."
"Why not?"
His eyes met yours, dark and intent. "Because none of them were you."
The simplicity of the statement stole your breath.
"That's not fair," you whispered. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?" Jake shifted closer, the distance between you shrinking to mere inches. "It's the truth."
"Because we're supposed to be focusing on Jade. On being co-parents. On not complicating things further."
"And how's that working out for you?" he asked, his voice gentle but knowing.
You couldn't answer, caught in the gravity of his gaze. The truth was, from the moment he'd walked back into your life, all your careful boundaries had begun crumbling. Every smile, every shared look over Jade's head, every brush of fingers had been dismantling the walls you'd built around your heart.
"I haven't stopped thinking about last night," Jake said, his voice dropping lower. "About what almost happened."
Your eyes dropped involuntarily to his lips. "We agreed to take it slow."
"We did," he acknowledged. "And we should. But slow doesn't mean not at all."
He reached out, fingers trailing lightly along your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The simple touch ignited something that had been dormant for five years.
"Tell me to stop," Jake murmured, leaning closer. "Tell me this isn't what you want, and I'll back off. We'll focus solely on Jade. Nothing more."
You should say it. You should establish clear boundaries, keep things simple, protect yourself from the inevitable pain when he returned to his life across the ocean.
Instead, you found yourself leaning toward him, drawn by a pull that had never truly released its hold.
"I can't," you whispered. "I've tried, but I can't."
His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip in a gesture so achingly familiar it made your chest tight. "Then don't try."
The first brush of his lips against yours was tentative, questioning. A heartbeat passed where you both hesitated on the precipice of something that couldn't be undone. Then, with a soft sound that might have been surrender, you leaned in, closing the final distance.
Five years evaporated in an instant.
His lips were as you remembered—firm, confident—but there was an edge of desperation that hadn't been there before. Your hands found their way to his shoulders, then his neck, fingers threading through the short hair at his nape. He groaned softly, deepening the kiss as his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer.
You'd forgotten how perfectly you fit together, how easily your body remembered his. The kiss intensified, years of separation and longing transforming into a physical need that threatened to consume you both. His hand slid up your back, tangling in your hair as he angled your head to deepen the connection.
"I've missed you," he breathed against your lips. "So much."
The words broke something open inside you—a dam of emotion you'd held back for Jade's sake, for your own protection. You responded by pressing closer, trying to convey through touch what you couldn't yet put into words.
Jake's hands were everywhere, relearning the curves and planes of your body with reverent attention. When his fingers skimmed the bare skin at your waist where your shirt had ridden up, you shivered, heat pooling low in your abdomen.
"Is this okay?" he murmured, pausing despite the obvious desire in his eyes.
You nodded, beyond words, and pulled him back to you. The kiss turned hungrier, more urgent. His body shifted, guiding you backward until you were half-lying on the couch, his weight a delicious pressure above you. The feeling of being surrounded by him—his scent, his warmth, his strength—was intoxicating.
His lips left yours to trace a path along your jaw, down the column of your throat. You arched into him, a soft gasp escaping when he found that sensitive spot just below your ear that he'd always known. He still remembered. After all this time, he still knew exactly how to unravel you.
Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, palms flat against the warm skin of his back. You could feel the new topography of his body—harder, more defined than before, testament to years of professional training. Yet underneath the changes was the same Jake, the man whose heartbeat you'd once fallen asleep to countless nights.
"You're even more beautiful," he whispered against your skin. "How is that possible?"
Before you could respond, a distant thump from down the hall froze you both. You listened, hearts racing for a different reason now, until the house settled back into silence. No patter of small feet, no curious voice calling out.
Jake pressed his forehead to yours, both of you breathing heavily. "That was..."
"Close," you finished, reality crashing back in. "Too close."
Reluctantly, he shifted his weight, helping you sit up though his hand remained intertwined with yours. The loss of contact left you feeling oddly bereft, your body still humming with unfulfilled desire.
"I should probably go," Jake said, though his eyes told a different story.
"Probably," you agreed, equally unconvincing.
Neither of you moved, caught in the aftermath of what had just happened and what had almost followed.
"This complicates things," you finally said, stating the obvious.
Jake's thumb traced circles on the inside of your wrist, sending renewed shivers up your arm. "I think things were already complicated. We're just admitting it now."
You couldn't argue with that. From the moment he'd locked eyes with you across that soccer field, something inevitable had been set in motion.
"What happens now?" you asked, the question encompassing far more than just the remainder of the evening.
"Now," Jake said, raising your joined hands to press a kiss to your knuckles, "I'm going to leave before I lose the willpower to do so. But not because I want to."
The restraint in his eyes, the obvious tension in his body, sent another wave of heat through you. The knowledge that he wanted you as badly as you wanted him was both thrilling and terrifying.
"And tomorrow?" you pressed.
"Tomorrow I pick up Jade for the park like we planned. We keep building this—whatever this is—one day at a time." His eyes held yours, serious now. "I meant what I said about taking it slow, about doing this right. Jade comes first."
You nodded, grateful for his understanding despite the frustration still thrumming through your veins. "Jade comes first."
He stood, reluctantly releasing your hand. You followed him to the door, hyperaware of every movement, every glance. At the threshold, he turned back to you, his expression a mix of desire and something deeper, more profound.
"For the record," he said quietly, "I've never regretted anything more than walking away from you five years ago. And I don't intend to make the same mistake twice."
He forced himself to step back, putting a responsible distance between you.
"Goodnight," he said, the word carrying far more weight than its two syllables should allow.
"Goodnight," you echoed, leaning against the doorframe as he turned to leave.
He made it halfway down the front walk before stopping abruptly. You watched, confused, as he spun around and marched back to you with sudden determination. Before you could ask what he was doing, he leaned in quickly and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, his lips lingering just a second longer than necessary.
When he pulled back, his expression was different—lighter, almost boyish, a glimpse of the Jake who existed before world tours and professional pressures. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, looking strangely pleased with himself.
"I forgot something," he said, his voice carrying a playful quality you hadn't heard in years.
"What was that?" you asked, unable to keep the smile from your own voice.
He shrugged, walking backward toward his car while maintaining eye contact. "Just making sure you don't forget about me before tomorrow."
The gesture was so unexpectedly sweet, so contrary to his usual composed demeanor, that you found yourself laughing—a genuine, surprised sound that seemed to delight him. In that moment, he wasn't international soccer star Jake Sim, but just Jake, the boy who used to leave silly notes in your textbooks and race you to the corner store for ice cream.
"As if that were possible," you called after him, feeling a rush of something light and warm in your chest.
He flashed you one more smile before getting into his car, and you remained in the doorway until his taillights disappeared down the street. Only then did you close the door, pressing your back against it, fingers touching your cheek where the innocent kiss still seemed to tingle.
The gesture had shifted something—added a dimension to the complicated tangle of desire, regret, and hope between you. Somehow, that simple kiss on the cheek felt more intimate than the passionate ones you'd shared earlier, a reminder of the many facets of the man you'd once known so well.
Ten days until he returned to Europe.
Ten days to figure out if what you'd just rekindled was strong enough to withstand the distance that had broken you before.
Ten days to decide if you were brave enough to risk your heart a second time.
-
"Dr. Winters thinks we should be straightforward but gentle," you explained, pacing the length of your kitchen. "No elaborate metaphors or complicated explanations."
Jake nodded, his fingers drumming nervously against the countertop. "Simple truth. I can do that."
A week had passed since that night on your couch—a week of soccer practices, ice cream trips, bedtime stories, and carefully controlled moments between you and Jake after Jade fell asleep. The tension between you had only grown, tempered by the mutual understanding that Jade's well-being came first.
Yesterday, you'd both met with Dr. Winters, a child psychologist who specialized in family transitions. She'd been reassuring, explaining that five was actually a good age for this revelation—young enough that Jade would adapt quickly, old enough to understand the basics of what it meant.
"She already adores you," you said, stopping your pacing to look at Jake. "That's half the battle."
"But what if knowing changes things?" Jake's concern was evident, the confidence he showed on the soccer field nowhere to be found. "What if she's angry we didn't tell her sooner?"
You crossed the kitchen to stand before him, surprised to find yourself in the position of reassuring Jake rather than the other way around. "She's five, not fifteen. And Dr. Winters said children this age are remarkably adaptable."
Jake took a deep breath, reaching for your hand. "I just don't want to mess this up."
"You won't," you said softly, squeezing his fingers. "We won't."
The sound of cartoons from the living room suddenly ceased. Jade had been given special permission for morning TV while the adults "talked about boring grown-up stuff" in the kitchen.
"Mom? Jake? Are you done with your meeting yet?" Jade called. "The show ended and I'm starving!"
You exchanged one final look with Jake—equal parts determination and terror—before calling back, "We're done, honey. Come on in. We want to talk to you about something."
Jade appeared in the doorway, still in her pajamas despite it being nearly noon. You'd deliberately kept the morning relaxed, following Dr. Winters' advice to have the conversation during a calm, unhurried time.
"Are we having pancakes?" she asked hopefully, climbing onto one of the kitchen chairs. "Because it's Sunday, and Sunday is sometimes pancake day."
"We can have pancakes," you agreed, taking the seat across from her while Jake settled beside you. "But first, we wanted to talk to you about something important."
Jade's expression immediately turned serious, her eyes darting between you and Jake with unexpected perception. "Is it about why Jake comes over all the time now?"
You blinked, surprised by her intuition. "Actually, yes. It is."
"I knew it," Jade said, nodding sagely. "Emma says when grown-ups have special friends, they spend lots of time together. Is Jake your special friend, Mom?"
Jake coughed, clearly trying not to laugh despite the gravity of the moment. You felt your cheeks flush.
"Jake is special to both of us," you said carefully, "but not exactly in the way Emma means."
"Jade," Jake began, his voice gentler than you'd ever heard it. "Do you remember asking your mom about your dad? About where he was?"
Jade's eyes widened slightly, her full attention shifting to Jake. "Yeah. Mom said he's a soccer player who lives really far away. That's why he can't visit."
Jake glanced at you, a silent confirmation passing between you before he continued. "I've been living far away, in Europe. Playing soccer professionally."
Jade stared at him, her brow furrowed in concentration as her quick mind worked through the implications. The moment stretched, unbearably tense, until—
"Are you my dad?" she asked directly, her voice small but steady.
Jake's breath caught audibly. "Yes, Jade. I am."
For a heartbeat, Jade was perfectly still—an unusual state for her perpetually moving body. Then her eyes began to shine with tears. "Really? For real and true?"
"Really," Jake confirmed, his own eyes glistening. "For real and true."
"But... but why didn't you visit me before?" The question held curiosity rather than accusation, and it broke your heart nonetheless.
"Because I didn't know about you," Jake explained simply, just as you'd rehearsed. "When your mom found out she was going to have you, I had already moved to Europe to play soccer. She didn't tell me about you until we met at the soccer clinic."
Jade turned to you, her expression confused. "Why didn't you tell him about me, Mom?"
You'd prepared for this question, knew it was coming, but it still felt like a knife to the heart. "I thought I was doing the right thing," you said carefully. "Your dad had just started his big career, and I didn't want to make things harder for him. But I was wrong not to tell him, and I'm very sorry for that. To both of you."
Jade considered this with the serious contemplation of a judge weighing evidence. "So when you saw me at the soccer clinic," she said, turning back to Jake, "that's why you fainted? Because you were surprised that I was your daughter?"
"That's exactly why," Jake admitted with a self-deprecating smile. "Finding out I had such an amazing daughter was the biggest surprise of my life."
Jade's face suddenly lit up with realization. "That's why we have the same last name! And the same dimples! And do the same victory dance! Emma says she looks like her dad too. She has his nose."
The mood in the room shifted, the tension giving way to something lighter as Jade began connecting dots with infectious enthusiasm.
"And that's why I'm so good at soccer!" she continued, practically vibrating in her seat. "Because you're good at soccer too! It's in my DNA! Mrs. Rivera taught us about DNA—it's the stuff inside you that makes you who you are!"
"That's right," Jake said, relief evident in his voice. "You got your soccer skills from me. But you got your brains from your mom."
Jade beamed at this, then suddenly her expression turned serious again. "Are you going to live with us now? Because Emma's dad lives in a different house. He comes on weekends and Wednesdays."
You and Jake exchanged glances. This part you'd deliberately left flexible, knowing that Jade's reaction would guide your next steps.
"I have to go back to Europe in a few days for work," Jake explained gently. "But I'll be coming back to visit as often as I can. And we can video call every day if you want."
"And when my soccer season ends in a few months," he continued, his eyes meeting yours briefly, "we'll figure out a more permanent arrangement. But no matter where I live, I'll always be your dad."
Jade seemed to process this, her legs swinging rhythmically under the chair. "But you'll come to my soccer games when you're here? And my school play? I'm going to be a star in the sky. I only have three lines but they're very important lines."
"I wouldn't miss it for anything," Jake promised, and you could see the emotion he was struggling to contain.
Jade slid off her chair suddenly, coming around the table to stand in front of Jake. With the directness of a child who hadn't yet learned social hesitation, she asked, "Can I hug you now? Since you're my dad?"
Jake's composure finally broke. "Yes," he said, voice thick. "I would really like that."
Jade threw her arms around his neck with the same wholehearted enthusiasm she brought to everything. Jake's arms wrapped carefully around her small frame, and over Jade's shoulder, his eyes met yours, filled with wonder and gratitude.
You felt tears streaming down your own cheeks as you watched your daughter and her father embrace for the first time—at least, the first time with both of them knowing what they were to each other.
After a long moment, Jade pulled back, studying Jake's face with new interest. "I think I'll call you Dad now, not Jake. Is that okay?"
"That's more than okay," Jake managed, gently tucking a strand of hair behind Jade's ear—the same gesture he'd used with you so many times.
"And can we still have pancakes?" Jade asked, switching gears with the fluid adaptability of childhood. "Because I'm stillstarving. Maybe Dad can help make them? I bet he makes good pancakes."
"I make excellent pancakes," Jake confirmed, the new title bringing a fresh sheen of tears to his eyes. "It's another thing you inherited from me."
"Along with your inability to sit still for more than thirty seconds," you added, wiping away your own tears.
Jade grinned, looking between you with a satisfaction that suggested, in her five-year-old mind, things were exactly as they should be. "This is the best day. I got a dad and I'm getting pancakes!"
As the three of you moved around the kitchen, falling into a surprisingly natural rhythm of pancake preparation, you caught Jake's eye over Jade's head. The gratitude in his expression mirrored your own feeling of relief—relief that amidst all the complications of your adult relationship, this most important revelation had gone better than either of you had dared to hope.
There were still countless details to figure out—custody arrangements, Jake's travel schedule, what would happen after his season ended, and not least, the undefined something that had been rekindling between you. But for now, watching Jake teach Jade the "perfect pancake flip" while she giggled uncontrollably, it was enough to know that your daughter finally had her father.
And maybe, just maybe, you had found your way back to each other too.
-
The last golden light of evening stretched across your backyard, casting long shadows as Jade chased fireflies in her pajamas, giggling each time one of the glowing insects landed briefly in her cupped hands.
"Five more minutes, then bedtime!" you called, though you were reluctant to end this perfect moment. Jake's departure for Europe loomed tomorrow morning, casting a bittersweet shadow over what had been an extraordinary week.
Since telling Jade the truth, everything had shifted. She'd taken to calling Jake "Dad" with the natural ease of a child who'd simply been waiting for permission to use the title. Her friends at school had been informed with five-year-old directness ("My dad is back from Europe and he's REALLY good at soccer!"), and Coach Russell had gently handled the sudden flurry of interest from other parents when Jake attended her final practice before leaving.
Now you sat beside Jake on the back porch steps, your shoulders touching as you watched your daughter—your shared creation—dart across the lawn with boundless energy despite the late hour.
"She's never going to sleep tonight," you murmured, sipping from a glass of wine.
"It's a special occasion," Jake replied, his voice carrying a hint of melancholy. "Last night before..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. Tomorrow morning, he'd board a plane back to his team, his contract, his other life.
The past three days had been a whirlwind of lawyers and paperwork—establishing formal acknowledgment of paternity, setting up emergency travel provisions, discussing international custody considerations. All of it driven by Jake's determination to have everything properly in place before he left.
In private moments after Jade was asleep, you'd found yourselves drawn together with increasing intensity, as if trying to store up enough connection to last through the coming separation. But you'd been careful to keep things from progressing too far, both acutely aware of Jade just down the hall, both hesitant to define exactly what was happening between you.
"Have you told her what time your flight leaves?" you asked, watching Jade attempt to do a cartwheel she'd been practicing all week.
"I told her I'd be gone when she wakes up," Jake said. "I thought that might be easier. No drawn-out goodbyes at the airport."
You nodded, remembering how hard airport goodbyes could be. Five years ago, you'd stood at a similar departure gate, forcing a smile as Jake headed toward his new life, neither of you knowing you carried the beginning of another life inside you.
"She made you something," you said, reaching for a folded paper on the step beside you. "She wanted me to give it to you after she went to bed. For the plane."
Jake accepted the slightly crumpled drawing, unfolding it carefully. In Jade's distinctive artistic style—which meant lots of color and minimal adherence to proportion—she'd drawn three figures holding hands: a small one in the middle with pigtails, and two larger ones on either side. "ME," "DAD," and "MOM" were labeled with painstaking capital letters, and across the top, "MY FAMILY" had been written with evident pride.
"She worked on it all afternoon," you said softly. "I think she wanted you to have something to take with you."
Jake stared at the drawing, his throat working as he swallowed hard. "I'm going to miss so much being there instead of here."
The weight of that statement hung between you. Three months until his season ended. Three months of video calls, of Jade asking when Dad was coming back, of navigating a relationship across continents.
"We'll make it work," you said, though the exact shape of that "work" remained undefined.
"Mom! Dad! Look how many I caught!" Jade called, running toward you with cupped hands. She opened them carefully to reveal a single firefly crawling across her palm.
"That's a good one," Jake said, his voice impressively steady despite the emotion you'd seen in his eyes moments before. "But it's probably time to let him go home to his family now."
Jade nodded solemnly, walking a few steps away to release the insect. "Bye, Mr. Firefly!" she called as it flew away, then turned back to you both. "Is it bedtime?"
"I think so, sweetheart," you confirmed.
Usually, this would trigger negotiations for more time, more stories, more anything to delay the inevitable. But tonight, Jade simply nodded again. "Okay. But Dad has to read the bedtime story."
"Deal," Jake agreed, standing and offering his hands to both you and Jade, pulling you up from the steps.
Bedtime routine passed in a blur of toothbrushing, pajama straightening, and the promised story—which became three stories, each with different voices that Jake performed with theatrical commitment, drawing delighted giggles from Jade.
When the final story ended, Jade looked up at Jake from her pillow, suddenly serious. "You won't forget about me when you're in Europe, right?"
"That would be impossible," Jake said firmly, smoothing her hair back from her forehead. "I've spent five years not knowing about you, and I'm not missing another minute that I can help. I'll call every day I can, and before you know it, I'll be back."
"Promise?" Jade asked, holding up her pinky finger.
"Promise," Jake confirmed, linking his pinky with hers. "Dad promises."
Satisfied, Jade reached for the stuffed soccer ball that had become her favorite bedtime companion. "G'night, Mom. G'night, Dad."
"Goodnight, sweetheart," you both answered in near-perfect unison, a synchronicity that was becoming increasingly common.
Jake lingered a moment longer by her bedside, seeming to memorize every detail of her face before reluctantly following you out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar as Jade preferred.
In the hallway, the weight of his impending departure descended fully. Tomorrow he would be gone, and the precarious balance you'd found over the past week would need to be recalibrated across time zones and international borders.
"Drink?" you offered, hoping to postpone the inevitable goodnight that would follow.
"Please," Jake nodded, following you to the kitchen.
You poured two glasses of wine in silence, hyperaware of the ticking clock, of moments slipping away. When you handed him his glass, your fingers brushed, and the simple contact sent a now-familiar current up your arm.
"I've been thinking," Jake said abruptly, staring into his wine rather than meeting your eyes.
"That sounds dangerous," you attempted to joke, earning a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"These past ten days..." he began, then paused, seeming to reconsider his words. "When I came back, I was angry. Hurt. I couldn't understand how you'd kept Jade from me all these years."
You nodded, accepting the pain you'd caused. "I know."
"But now," he continued, finally looking up at you, "I understand better. Not completely—I still wish you'd told me—but I understand you were trying to protect something you thought was important. My career. My dream."
"I was wrong," you said softly. "I should have let you decide."
"Yes," Jake agreed. "But I also made choices that brought us here. I left. I chose a contract overseas over what we had. I put distance between us that made it harder for you to reach out when you found out about Jade."
The honesty of his words caught you off guard. In all your guilt about keeping Jade secret, you'd rarely considered how Jake's initial departure had shaped everything that followed.
"So where does that leave us?" you asked, the question encompassing far more than just this conversation.
Jake set down his glass, closing the distance between you with deliberate steps. "That's what I've been thinking about. What happens after tonight."
Your heart quickened. "And?"
"I don't want to leave you again," he said simply. "Either of you."
"You have to," you reminded him gently. "Your contract—"
"I know I have to go back tomorrow," he clarified. "But I don't want it to be like last time. A goodbye that turns into five years of silence and separate lives."
He took your hands in his, his touch warm and steady. "I want you both to come to Europe. Not tomorrow—I know that's impossible. But soon. When the school year ends. For the summer, at least."
Your breath caught. This wasn't what you'd expected. "Jake—"
"Just hear me out," he pressed. "Jade could see where I live, where I play. You both could experience that part of my world. And I'd look for opportunities closer to home for next season. There are teams that have been interested."
"You'd consider leaving your European team?" The magnitude of what he was suggesting stunned you. "But you've worked so hard to get there."
Jake's expression softened. "Five years ago, playing in Europe was all I ever wanted. Now..." he glanced toward Jade's bedroom, "now my priorities have changed."
The implications of his words hung between you, heavy with possibility.
"And us?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "What are we in this scenario?"
Jake's hands tightened slightly around yours. "I think you know how I feel about you. How I've always felt, even when I tried to convince myself otherwise."
"Say it anyway," you urged, needing to hear the words.
"I love you," he said without hesitation. "I never stopped. Not when I left for Europe, not during five years apart, and certainly not now, seeing you as Jade's mother—seeing how amazing you are with her, how you've built this life."
Tears filled your eyes, the simple truth of his words unlocking everything you'd held back. "I love you too. I tried not to, tried to move on, but..."
"But no one compared," Jake finished, echoing your words from days earlier, his smile reaching his eyes this time.
"No one compared," you confirmed.
He released your hands only to frame your face gently between his palms. "So, what do you say? Will you and Jade come to Europe this summer? Give us a chance to figure out what our family looks like going forward?"
The question was enormous, encompassing practical concerns about Jade's schooling, your work, living arrangements—a thousand logistical details you'd need to consider. But underneath all that was a simpler choice: forward together, or back to separate lives?
"Yes," you heard yourself say, the certainty of it surprising even you. "We'll come."
The joy that transformed Jake's face was worth any uncertainty the future might hold. He pulled you close, his kiss conveying everything words couldn't—relief, gratitude, love, promise.
When you finally separated, both slightly breathless, Jake pressed his forehead to yours. "I'll call every day until you get there. And I've already told Jay to start looking at teams back here for next season."
"You were that confident I'd say yes?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
Jake laughed softly. "Not confident. Hopeful."
A small noise from the hallway made you both turn. Jade stood in her doorway, stuffed soccer ball clutched to her chest, looking sheepish at being caught out of bed.
"I had a question," she said, though her sly expression suggested eavesdropping had been at least partly intentional.
"What's your question, sweetheart?" you asked, stepping back from Jake slightly, though his arm remained around your waist.
"Are we really going to where Dad lives? In Europe?" Her eyes were wide with excitement that told you she'd heard more than just that part of the conversation.
Jake looked to you, clearly unsure whether to confirm what she'd overheard. You nodded slightly, and he crouched down to Jade's level.
"Would you like that?" he asked carefully. "To come visit me in Europe this summer? To see where I play soccer?"
"Will I get to see a REAL game? With a REAL stadium?" Jade was practically vibrating with excitement now.
"Several games," Jake promised. "And maybe you could even help me practice sometimes."
"YES!" Jade pumped her fist in victory. "Can we go tomorrow?"
You laughed, moving to join them. "Not tomorrow, honey. Dad has to go back first, and we have some things to figure out here. But soon, after school ends."
"How many days is that?" Jade demanded.
"Forty-three," Jake answered promptly, earning surprised looks from both you and Jade. "I counted."
The simple admission—that he'd been counting the days until he could potentially see you both again—made your heart swell.
"That's a LOT of days," Jade observed with a dramatic sigh.
"We'll count them together," you promised. "And Dad will call us every day."
"And then we'll be a real family? All together?" Jade asked, her perceptiveness once again catching you off guard.
You and Jake exchanged a look over her head—a look full of promise, determination, and shared understanding of all that had been lost and found.
"We're already a real family," Jake said softly. "We're just figuring out the details."
Jade considered this, then nodded with the solemn acceptance only a child could manage. "Okay. But can I sleep in your room tonight?" she asked, turning to you. "Since Dad's leaving tomorrow?"
You recognized the request for what it was—not just a child's desire to delay bedtime, but a need for closeness on this night of transition. "Just for tonight," you agreed.
Later, as Jade slept peacefully between you in your bed, Jake's hand found yours in the darkness, fingers intertwining above your daughter's sleeping form.
"Forty-three days," he whispered.
"Forty-three days," you confirmed.
Tomorrow would bring separation, challenges, logistics to navigate. But for the first time in five years, you weren't facing the future alone. The family that had begun by accident, been divided by circumstance, and reunited by chance now had a direction—forward, together.
Whatever form that took, it would be enough.
It would be everything.
-
Epilogue: Three Years Later
"But WHY can't I have a baby brother RIGHT NOW?"
Jade's question echoed through the kitchen with the dramatic flair of an eight-year-old who had recently discovered the power of logical debate. She stood with hands on her hips, soccer uniform still grass-stained from her Saturday morning game, her expression a perfect mirror of Jake's determination.
"Because that's not how it works, sweetheart," you explained, exchanging an amused glance with Jake across the kitchen island. "Even if we decided to have another baby, it takes time."
"Emma's mom had a baby and she said it took NINE WHOLE MONTHS. That's FOREVER!" Jade flopped dramatically onto a chair. "I'll be practically a TEENAGER by then."
Jake choked back a laugh, disguising it as a cough when Jade shot him a suspicious look. Three years of fatherhood had taught him that showing amusement during one of her serious discussions was a tactical error.
"Nine months isn't quite that long," he said, maintaining an impressively straight face. "But your mom's right. These things take time and planning."
Jade narrowed her eyes, a look that had become increasingly effective as she grew older. "Are you guys planning it? Because I heard you talking in your room last night."
Now it was your turn to choke slightly. You and Jake had indeed been discussing the possibility, late at night, after assuming Jade was sound asleep. Apparently, her soccer-enhanced hearing had other ideas.
"It's something we've been thinking about," you admitted carefully. "But it's a big decision."
"I think you should decide YES," Jade stated with the absolute confidence only children possess. "I'd be an AMAZING big sister. I already know how to change diapers from when we babysit Emma's brother."
"You held the wipes once," Jake pointed out.
"That's an IMPORTANT job!" Jade protested. "And I could teach a baby all about soccer and stars and dinosaurs."
"All essential life skills," you agreed, unable to keep from smiling.
The conversation was interrupted by the doorbell, followed by the sound of the front door opening.
"Where's my favorite soccer superstar?" Tia's voice called from the entryway.
"AUNTIE TIA!" Jade abandoned the sibling discussion instantly, racing toward the sound. "I scored TWO GOALS today!"
"Is that all? I thought we were working on a hat trick," Tia teased as she appeared in the kitchen doorway, Jade already attached to her side like a barnacle.
"Coach said my second goal was good enough to count as TWO," Jade explained seriously.
"Ah, well, if Coach said so." Tia winked at you and Jake. "Speaking of coaches, I believe I was promised brunch with famous people in exchange for helping with yesterday's team pizza party. Twenty second-graders hopped up on cheese and soda is not something I do for free, you know."
"Reservations at Westfield in twenty minutes," Jake confirmed. "Though I dispute the 'famous' part."
Tia snorted. "Your face is literally on a billboard downtown right now."
"It's for a charity event," Jake protested, the same way he'd been downplaying his celebrity status for three years now. The transfer to the stateside team had somehow only increased his profile, especially after leading them to the championship in his second season.
"Dad, can I wear my medal to brunch?" Jade asked, already halfway to her room.
"Of course," Jake called after her. "But grab a clean shirt first!"
When Jade disappeared down the hall, Tia raised an eyebrow at both of you. "So... baby brother discussions? Is there something you two want to share?"
You shook your head. "Just Jade lobbying for a sibling. Though I think she'd be equally happy with a puppy at this point."
"Don't let her hear you make that comparison," Jake warned. "We'll end up with both."
"Considering how she has you wrapped around her finger? I'd say that's inevitable," Tia said, helping herself to coffee. "Remember when she convinced you a trampoline was an essential training tool for soccer footwork?"
"It improved her agility," Jake defended, though his smile acknowledged the weakness of his position.
"Face it, Sim. You're a pushover where that child is concerned."
"Like you're any better," you pointed out. "Who bought her professional-grade astronomical telescope for Christmas?"
"That was educational!" Tia protested.
The comfortable banter flowed naturally, a rhythm established through years of Sunday brunches and family dinners. Tia had remained Jade's favorite aunt and your closest confidante, seamlessly incorporating Jake into her circle of merciless teasing and unwavering support.
Jade reappeared wearing a clean shirt, her medal from the recent junior tournament proudly displayed on her chest, and a soccer ball tucked under her arm just in case an impromptu game broke out during brunch.
"Ready!" she announced. "Can we take the CONVERTIBLE?"
Jake glanced out the window at the perfect blue sky. "I think that can be arranged." The sports car—his one concession to professional athlete stereotypes—was reserved for special occasions and particularly good weather.
As you collected your things, Jade sidled up to Tia with the exaggerated casualness of a child with an agenda. "Auntie Tia, did you know that babies take NINE MONTHS to come? That's almost a YEAR. I could have a baby brother or sister for next Christmas if Mom and Dad would HURRY UP."
Tia's eyebrows shot up toward her hairline as she looked between you and Jake. "Is that so? Well, maybe your parents are waiting for the right time."
"NOW is the right time," Jade insisted. "I'm already EIGHT. Soon I'll be too old to teach them important things."
"What important things are those?" Jake asked, unable to resist.
Jade rolled her eyes with the supreme exasperation only a pre-tween could muster. "How to do a RAINBOW KICK, obviously. And how to win at Monopoly, and which dinosaurs could beat other dinosaurs in a fight."
"All crucial life skills," you agreed solemnly, catching Jake's eye over her head.
The silent communication between you had only grown stronger over the years—the ability to have entire conversations with just a look, a small nod, a smile. This particular exchange carried the weight of late-night discussions, of quiet hopes, of "maybe it's time" whispered in the darkness.
At the restaurant, seated at your regular table on the patio, Jade regaled Tia with a play-by-play of her morning's soccer triumph while simultaneously stealing Jake's french fries. The spring sunshine caught the wedding rings on your and Jake's left hands—simple, matching bands that you'd exchanged in a small ceremony two years ago, with Jade proudly serving as both flower girl and "best daughter."
The path to this moment hadn't always been smooth. Jake's travel schedule, though less demanding than his European days, still required adjustments. Your careers had needed careful balancing, boundaries had been drawn and redrawn, and you'd both had to learn to parent together after years of you doing it alone. There had been arguments about discipline (Jake was indeed the softer touch), disagreements about schools, and the occasional clash about handling Jake's public profile.
But through it all, the foundation remained solid. The family that had formed in those first chaotic weeks had only grown stronger, more certain of its shape.
"Dad," Jade said suddenly, turning her focus from Tia to Jake, "do you want another kid? Mom said you guys have to BOTH want it."
Jake nearly choked on his water at the direct question. He caught your eye, seeking permission or guidance, but you simply raised an eyebrow, curious yourself about his unfiltered response.
"I do," he said finally, his voice softer than usual. "I think about it a lot, actually."
"See, Mom?" Jade turned to you triumphantly. "Dad wants one TOO."
"It's not quite that simple, Jade," you began, but Jake's hand reached for yours across the table.
"Maybe it is," he said quietly. "Maybe we're overthinking it."
A current passed between you—three years of building a life together, of watching Jade grow, of creating something stable and beautiful from what had once been broken.
"Maybe we are," you admitted, a slow smile spreading across your face.
"So it's DECIDED!" Jade declared, pumping her fist in a celebration move inherited directly from Jake. "I'm getting a sibling!"
"Hold on there, soccer star," Tia laughed. "These things take time, remember?"
"Well, they should start RIGHT AWAY then!" Jade insisted with impeccable eight-year-old logic. "Can we go home after brunch so they can get started?"
Tia burst out laughing as both you and Jake turned interesting shades of red.
"I think," Jake said carefully, finding his composure first, "that your mom and I will need to have some grown-up conversations about this."
"More conversations?" Jade sighed dramatically. "Grown-ups talk WAY too much."
"Sometimes talking is important," you explained, squeezing Jake's hand. "But I promise we won't talk forever."
Jake's eyes met yours, warm with promise and possibility. So much had changed since that day at the soccer clinic—since the moment he'd looked at Jade and seen himself reflected back. The anger and hurt of those first days had long since transformed into something you couldn't have imagined then: a partnership deeper than before, tempered by separation and stronger for having been tested.
"So if you have a baby," Jade said, her mind already racing ahead as usual, "can I name it? Because I have some REALLY good dinosaur names picked out."
"Absolutely not," you and Jake responded in perfect unison, then broke into laughter at your synchronicity.
Some things never changed. Some things never would.
Later that night, after Jade had finally surrendered to sleep (following three bedtime stories and one "very important" discussion about what makes a good big sister), you found Jake on the back porch, gazing up at the stars that had become a shared fascination between him and Jade.
"She's persistent," you said, settling beside him on the porch swing. "Wonder where she gets that from."
Jake smiled, drawing you closer. "No idea. Must be from your side."
You sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the gentle rhythm of the swing matching your synchronized breaths.
"Did you mean what you said at brunch?" you finally asked. "About wanting another child?"
"I did," Jake said, his arm tightening around you. "I missed everything with Jade—the pregnancy, the birth, those first years. The idea of experiencing all that with you this time..." He trailed off, emotion making his voice rough. "But only if you want it too."
You leaned your head against his shoulder, thinking of the past three years—the challenges, the joy, the family you'd built together. "I do want it," you said softly. "I've been thinking about it more lately. Seeing you with Jade, how natural you are as a father... I keep imagining you with a baby."
Jake pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "So we're really considering this?"
"I think we're past considering," you admitted with a smile. "I think we're deciding."
Jake shifted to face you, his expression a mix of hope and certainty that reminded you of the night he'd asked you and Jade to come to Europe, the moment everything had changed. "Then let's decide," he said simply. "Let's expand our team."
You laughed at the soccer metaphor, so perfectly Jake. "Does this mean I should stop taking my birth control?"
His answer was a kiss that held the promise of the future you were choosing together—a family that had begun with a secret and a soccer clinic, with mistakes and courage, with finding each other again across years and continents.
"I love you," Jake murmured against your lips. "More than I did three years ago, more than I did yesterday."
"I love you too," you whispered back. "Always have. Always will."
Inside the house, your daughter slept peacefully, dreaming perhaps of soccer glory or dinosaur battles or the sibling she'd soon begin waiting impatiently for. And on the porch, wrapped in starlight and each other, you and Jake made the decision to grow the family that had fought so hard to find its way together.
Nine months might be forever in eight-year-old time.
But in the grand scheme of your lives together, it was just the beginning of a new chapter.
Bkg who never drinks but gets drunk one night n all the guys are talking about sex and giving advice and denki asks bkg for his opinion and they all start dogging on him thinking he doesn’t know shit…
bakugou is only drinking because you’re on holiday right now with your girls. without you around, his whole routine has gone out of whack. no visiting you after work or picking you up from your writing class. no lounging on your sofa as he cooks you fancy pasta in your tiny kitchen with your roommate next door. he saves some for her also.
bakugou feels like a train run off the tracks, a zombie in his body, all the colours in his world have fallen flat.
so he’s taken to one of the most popular vices, alcohol with his buddies. his buddies aren’t helping. kaminari doesn’t know how to please this new girl he’s seeing and kirishima thinks he’s suitable to give advice. the third beer bakugou has downed makes them less annoying. just a smidge.
bakugou leans his head on the back of kirishima’s sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling. his beer fisted on his knee. you’re probably leaving the beach now, in that pretty striped bikini you snapped a photo of a few hours ago. you said you were going to sunbathe, eat snacks, listen to music and read your book. group solo time you said. he wishes he was with you now.
“and i know she’s going to leave me for it,” kaminari whines into his palms, “b-but i tell her that i can keep going but she says no she’s fine. i think she finds it awkward because i just came and she hasn’t.”
kirishima knocks his empty can on his coffee table. it’s surprising he’s even got one in his only basic necessities needed bachelor pad.
“you don’t finger her at the beginning? eat her out? girls love that.”
bakugou looks at his phone. no notifications from you. he huffs.
“why are you huffing and not helping me! i’m crying for help here!” kaminari moans, then burps right after. bakugou winces. “i do all the foreplay! she doesn’t come during that either!”
bakugou entertains him. he swings his head on the sofa to look at one of his longest friends. “the fuck are you doin’ if she’s not comin’ when you’re eatin’ her?”
even though kaminari asked him, he and kirishima turn to look at bakugou with these slow drunken blinks.
“hah? what?”
“what do you know about….” kaminari starts.
kirishima leans forward to his best friend, truly interested in his answer, “sexually pleasing women?”
“what are you two idiots on? obviously i know.” though bakugou flushes red at the topic.
sure he’s not the most experienced in womenkind but he is in one. he knows what you like.
“wait how—,” kirishima starts but kaminari cuts in with desperation neither men have seen before.
“kacchan how!” he cries, hands clasped together and shaking in bakugou’s face. “how do i make my lady orgasm?”
bakugou’s quick to push kaminari away, having him fly to the other side of the sofa but still, he looks to him for answers with eager eyes.
“get the hell off me!” bakugou says then remembers to check his phone. still no text from you. not even an update on the sunset on the beach? a selfie? damn. he shuts his device and looks to his friends. “the problem is you idiots callin’ it foreplay. touchin’ her is sex.”
“kacchan!” he urges.
“fuck! i usually eat her out and when she’s close, i add in my fingers. shit has her comin’ down my wrist on command.” bakugou blurts like the words were dragged out of his throat. then his blush deepens. he takes a swig of his beer.
kaminari’s mouth gapes open, “what the fuck? tell me HOW. in DETAIL!”
“who?” kirishima asks, tilting his chair to look at bakugou properly. “why didn’t you tell your brothers you had a girlfriend?”
“none of your fuckin’ business.”
“i bet you told deku!”
“fuck off about deku…,” then bakugou sighs. no notifications, “i met her through round face. she told him.”
“guys we’re going off topic. tell me how kacchan.” kaminari asks, about to crawl into bakugou’s lap.
bakugou shrugs. large motions all huffy and dramatic.
“it’s f-fuckin’ instinctual,” bakugou rubs his eyes. alcohol and thinking about your pussy around his friends. this wasn’t how he was expecting his evening to go. “i just suck and lick at her clit. i’m loud and messy with it… she likes that. stick my tongue in her, kiss her thighs. i dunno i just do everythin’. then when she’s about to come, she gets all grabby at my hair, pushin’ my head into her so i finger her. she explodes with these cute ass squeals.”
“shit, man,” from kirishima.
“damn kacchan… feel like i needa be making notes.” kaminari inches towards bakugou and bakugou grunts, spreading his legs to get comfortable. “but wait, before that, what happens? and what’s the technique when you give head? a—and your fingers—,”
it’s the alcohol that makes bakugou really consider his questions. thinking about you softens him, gets him warm and fuzzy inside.
“my woman told me that foreplay starts in the mornin’. she likes when i kiss her awake and sweet talk her. cute texts during the day. cookin’ for her and havin’ a plan for the evenin’ even if it’s watchin’ a movie. means when we start makin’ out on the sofa she’s climbin’ all over me, grindin and feelin’ for my dick.”
bakugou looks his friends up and down. “i don’t do all that to get my dick wet though. i do it ‘cause i like seein’ her happy.” then after frowning, “i do like eatin’ her pussy. i miss her.”
kirishima feels the urge to open hinge and messaging his matches. he wants whatever his best friend has.
“where is she?”
“on holiday with her friends.”
“why didn’t you go?”
“i said with her fuckin’ friends. i’m not her friend. why would i be there?” he snaps.
kirishima shrugs. “can we see a photo? what’s she look like?”
bakugou can do that. he goes into his photo gallery. he’s got so many photos of you to choose from.
“do you alternate between small licks and big licks? and your fingers, what’s the motion?”
bakugou rolls his lips in pondering, “big one at the start just to taste everythin’. then small licks on her clit. whatever gets her moanin’ loud.” he lazily flicks through selfies of you, “i curl my fingers inside her. brush against her insides.”
“and—,”
“this her.” bakugou thrusts his phone in his friends faces.
it’s a selfie you took yesterday on a boat in your striped bikini. the sun beams down on you beautifully, making you glow while the sea is bright blue behind you. you’re smiling, squinting slightly from the sun.
“don’t look too goddamn hard!” he barks once two heads duck closer to his phone.
“what’s her name? she’s gorgeous?”
“oh wow!”
bakugou doesn’t have a chance to answer when his phone is overcome from a phone call, showing your first name and last name.
“fuck, fuck, fuck,” bakugou whips up from his seat, “she hasn’t called all day. i’m goin’ into your bedroom. don’t wait up for me.”
bakugou storms into kaminari’s bedroom, answering the phone in haste, “baby, finally. i’ve been waitin’ for you to call… no, i’m not drunk…. just a lil.”
once the bedroom door clicks shut, kirishima sighs, “i’m gonna get back on hinge… actually maybe ochako has some friends for me?”
“shit! i didn’t ask what he cooks yn! or what does he mean by curl?”
request: Hey! I love your tasm!peter Parker x reader “attention”! I was wondering if I could request something of the same bases just a bit more angsty with like a big fight where Peter says something he doesn’t mean? If you can’t that’s ok! Thank you
ship: tasm!peter parker x reader
warnings: swearing, fighting, mentions of cheating, mention of uncle ben’s death
word count: 3.3k
a/n: i had absolutely no idea how to end this so sorry if the ending seems iffy lovelies :) requests are open!!
PART TWO
“Peter, hurry up and pick up,” You murmured to yourself, eyes casting over the crowd of people scurrying around and laughing with their friends.
The bright lights from the carnival shined down on you as you stood there awkwardly, trying to get a hold of Peter on the phone. You guys had been planning this date for a while, and it wasn’t like him to just blow you off. He was always so excited to be with you, no matter where you guys were or what you were doing.
People laughed around you, and you were becoming very conscious that they were judging you for being alone. What if they thought you didn’t have any friends? What if they thought no one wanted to hang out with you?
Peter’s voicemail rung through your ears one more time, causing you to suck in a breath again, taking the phone away from your ear.
“Come on Peter,” You whispered to yourself as you started to search up to see if there had been any witnessed Spiderman fights. Peter wouldn’t just stand you up on purpose, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d just have to intervene if he saw some bad business going down.
SUMMARY Trying to avoid your hopeless crush has worked surprisingly well… until you accidentally send him a consult request.
IN WHICH Brendon Park proves that the hospital's most intimidating attending has every right to his god complex.
WARNINGS 18+, MDNI, explicit sexual content, workplace romance, attending/resident, awkward crush, reader is down bad, power imbalance, praise kink, size kink (even though reader is mentioned to be curvy a couple of times, park is huge and so is his dick 😮💨), pussy pronouns, oral (f rec), unprotected pnv, body worship, breast play, nipple stimulation, mild choking, slight dumbification, discussion of fractures for like two seconds, mentions of Robby and Whitaker, no use of y/n. partially proof read.
NOTES gif credits : @bodeckerhedron thank you for making it just for me 🙂↕️ (you’re supposed to say “yes, i did make it for you!”)
Colles is a distal radius fracture, usually treated conservatively with a cast. The x-ray above is NOT Colles. It was the only ones that remotely matched my colour scheme. And as usual, the image above does not depict reader, just for vibes.
⟡ READ ON AO3 ⚚ PITT MASTERLIST
There's exactly one upside to being friends with someone in Ortho, even if all of them were just morons with a god complex.
Faster consults.
Peterson was the same as you. Same year, same matching cycle, equally sleep-deprived and increasingly philosophical about whether any of this was worth it — the answer was yes, obviously, but only at certain hours and in certain lighting.
He was Ortho and you were EM. The hospital's hierarchy made you equals, but if anyone asked you, you'd say he was doing a little better than you.
Officially he couldn't sign anything. Unofficially, he could tell you that you were right, and give you the right to say "seen by Ortho." Basically, an excuse wearing scrubs.
You keep Peterson on decent terms, he comes down earlier for consults. Everyone goes home.
Good networking, if you ever had to explain it out loud. Which you wouldn't, because there was one other reason, something that no one except you knew.
Peterson was the single most efficient way to get around a consult without having to see Park.
The problem wasn't that you didn't want to see Park. You wanted to see him, badly. It's just that, something happens when you do see him.
The brain that had passed med school, performed codes at asscrack hours, goes offline. You'd be a functioning person, and then Brendon Park would appear in your peripheral vision, and you'd be a nobody, standing with your mouth slightly open, aware that something was supposed to be happening somewhere and nothing beyond that.
You'd proven this spectacularly multiple times. The latest incident was a week ago. Park had come down for a consult, a MVC, called down to the ER by Robby himself.
You'd been so committed to not watching him, and guess what had happened?
You walked directly into his chest.
When asked about it, you'd learned to say "accidentally bumped into him."
But 'bumped' was underselling it honestly.
What happened was a whole body collision. Face-to-sternum. Your suture tray went in one direction. Everything on it — needle driver, forceps, the forever-in-shortage 3-0 ethilon — went everywhere else.
He'd caught your elbow for half a second, which to you, felt like years, everything playing out in slow motion. It was the kind of reflex one would use to steady a child. "Watch your step." His eyes did a quick pass over you, checking for any damage. "You good?"
You'd said something, that part you remember. For the life of you, you still couldn't figure out what exactly you'd said.
He didn't seem to mind anyway as he'd kept walking, not even throwing a glance over his shoulder. You on the other hand, were rooted to the ground, staring at his interscapular distance, a longing wife sending her husband out to war, a wistful look on your face.
Robby found you exactly like that. He brought you to your senses by snapping a glove at your shoulder, startling you. Without a single molecule of sympathy, he said, "stop drooling in my ER. And please pick those up."
You picked up the tray and it's discarded contents. What you couldn't pick up was your dignity, it had taken residence at the cold hard linoleum floor of the ER.
So yeah. Peterson. Earlier consults and a decent enough heart rate at all times.
That was why he got sent the text. 63 year old woman, fell on an outstretched hand in her driveway, arrived with pain and swelling at the distal radius, classical dinner fork deformity.
You got the X-ray. Classic Colles' — dorsal displacement, clean break. Needed Ortho eyes and a note in the chart and that was it.
You : Colles. You free?
You attached the X-rays, hit send and went back to your patient.
You didn't look at the screen.
You should have looked at the screen.
Forty-odd minutes later, Whitaker appeared at your elbow, looking pale. Well, paler than usual. "Why is Park down here?"
You looked up from your chart. "Sorry?"
"Shark." He lowered his voice, like the man could hear his own name from two rooms over. "I've checked the board twice. We only have one Ortho case and it's a Colles'." He frowned at his tablet like it had personally disappointed him. "He doesn't come down for a Colles'. He'd call every sleeping resident in the building before he personally came down here for a Colles'. Even if the systems didn't work, he'd make someone carry the films upstairs."
You followed his line of sight to see Park. Big mistake, your brain started bidding you goodbye. But you feigned indifference and continued your chart. "Maybe they're short upstairs."
Whitaker looked at you like you'd suggested maybe the defibrillator was decorative. "He's the attending. If they're short, he makes their lives miserable, he doesn't physically transport himself four floors down for a Colles' fracture."
"I don't know, Dennis. Probably came down for something else." You brushed him off, trying to block out the fact that Park was standing at a five metres distance and the traitorous organ inside your chest had already picked up on it.
Whitaker wandered off, probably to some hole where no one — no, Park — couldn't find him.
You continued for about one more minute. But then you remembered that Peterson hadn't texted you back.
He always texted back within ten minutes. That was the entire arrangement. The one rule. Immediate response. You knew he wasn't in the OR. There were no emergency cases in the morning, and as far as you knew, Monday wasn't elective OR day.
Peterson picked up sounding mildly surprised that you'd called instead of texted. No one called anyone anymore. "Hey. What's—"
"Did you get my text?"
"What — what text?"
The floor dropped out from under you.
"I'll call you back," you hung up before he'd finished his next word, your messages already open, thumb scrolling backward —
Dr. Park Ortho.
No, no, no. You'd texted him. You'd made him come down. God, if you still believed in her, was a cruel entity.
Park's name should not exist in your phone, a number you absolutely shouldn't have. You are not his resident, you are not even tangentially his responsibility, the only reason you have it at all is because you asked Peterson for it three months ago under the thin pretense of Robby asking for it. God knows why Peterson bought it, why the Chief of Emergency Medicine would need a measly resident to ask for the Ortho God's number, but he'd given it to you nonetheless. You just kept it there like a lottery ticket you knew wouldn't win.
Three images, sent at 2:23 PM.
Three? Shouldn't it be just two? X-ray wrist — AP and lateral.
Your thumb flied to the thread, and the first two photos were AP and lateral views.
The third though.
You almost dropped the phone. Almost being the keyword. Because you couldn't afford to drop it down the floor, what with the photo on display.
It's you.
The photo was taken three days ago. Having bought yourself an actual matching set for once, lace, dark red, you'd taken one picture. Just the one, for yourself. Like you take a picture of a meal you were proud of cooking. Same logic. You'd honestly forgotten all about it.
Until now.
Now Brendon Park had a photo of yourself in red lace intended for absolutely no one on this earth, with the caption 'Colles. You free?' underneath it like the universe's cruelest punchline.
Your options were limited. Transfer request, clearly. A sudden and urgent family emergency in another state, and you could continue your residency in some second rated hospital there. But, you liked working here.
You could disappear right now, walk out of this building and never come back, let your absence become the cautionary tale they told at department holiday parties for years. There was something almost freeing about that last one. But once again, you liked working here.
Also Robby would actually end you if you left mid-shift.
A throat being cleared brought you to the present. You looked up to see Park towering over you, shoulders so broad and perfect, you almost wanted to bury yourself in his chest and beg for forgiveness.
"Present the case, doctor."
"M-me?" You pointed at yourself with your free hand, like that one little duck from The Ugly Duckling, as though he'd asked you to march into battle, a bewildered look on your face. Like the medical degree you had held no value at all.
"You were the one who texted me, right?" He turned around and walked towards South 16, where the cause to all your problems peacefully existed, drinking orange juice.
Without any other choice, you followed him.
When you opened your mouth, you discovered that every word you'd ever known had evacuated your skull at once.
Park, for his part, did not rush you, looking at you with a sort of expression reserved for kids who threw tantrums, a somewhat 'go on, I'd like to see you try' look evident on his face.
"I, she's, it's a—" You looked down at the chart in your hands like it might volunteer to speak for you. It declined. "I-It's a wrist."
Transferring was the only option left for you now.
"Glad we covered that." Park deadpanned. "Walk me through it."
Okay, this was pushing it. There's no reason to walk him through a Colles'.
That only meant one thing. He was mad and wanted to kill you.
You were going to die in your own ER, of this, right here, in front of six witnesses. Whitaker was hovering at a respectful distance looking intensely curious.
Your pulse was audible. Well, at least to you.
Park stepped forward, barely an inch, and his voice dropped, his cologne invading your senses almost immediately. "I'd love nothing more right now than to have you dumb on my cock." It was conversational, almost bored, like he was commenting on traffic. "But you've got a patient in front of you, so how about you focus?"
Like he didn't do anything ridiculous like suggest you die a painful death at his dick, he slowly retreated, a smirk playing on his lips, composure perfectly normal.
You presented the case without making a fool of yourself any further than you already had. Mechanism of injury, dorsal angulation, neurovascular intact distally. Possibly because it was a play you knew well, watched and performed a thousand times, at a thousand other places, what with it being one of the most common fractures in the elderly.
Your mouth ran the whole program without having to consult the rest of you, while you sat somewhere a few feet outside your own body and watched him nod along and glance at the films on the tablet like the last ninety seconds had never happened.
"Closed reduction. I'll send a resident down." He spoke to the room, not you.
"Okay," you still responded, nodding your head for good measure.
He looked at you for one more beat, a look with nothing professional left in it whatsoever. "Wait for me. After your shift."
Before you caught up with what had happened, he was walking away, pausing once to nod at Robby — who was glancing between the two of you — and then he was gone up the elevator.
Once again, you stood at the middle of the ER, with your dignity at your feet.
Luckily, Robby did not materialise behind you, only Whitaker did. "What was that about?" His brow was furrowed like he was already constructing six different worst-case scenarios in his head.
"Nothing." You were already walking the other way, shaky legs and all.
"Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?"
If only he knew.
The rest of your shift was something you survived rather than participated in. You sutured, discharged, charted, and your brain ran on a loop the entire time: dumb on my cock — wait for me — dumb on my cock, with occasional breaks to consider which state had affordable housing before promptly circling back to the cock thing.
By the time you clocked out you'd made and unmade about nine decisions. You spent an embarrassing amount of time in the locker room that you'd defend as getting yourself together and anyone else who'd watched would describe it as you reapplying your lip balm.
Park was leaning against his car in the parking lot when you got outside, scrolling on his phone. He looked up before you'd made it halfway across the lot.
Your legs begged for you to turn back, it's not too late to maybe live out your days in the hospital, like Whitaker did that one time.
Thanks or no thanks to your prefrontal cortex, you did not retreat back to the confines of your job, put one foot forward and reached Park. "You didn't have to wait outside." And, that that was the sentence your mouth had chosen, out of every sentence currently available in the English language.
"Wasn't standing in that lobby with Robby asking me forty questions about why I'm still in the building." He tilted his head toward the passenger side. "Get in."
With a nod reserved only for superiors, you got in.
Your bag sat in your lap and you kept fiddling with the zipper, which you were aware of but couldn't stop doing.
"You gonna be okay over there?" His eyes were still on the road, but head slightly tilted over to your side. "Or should I be worried?"
"I sent an attending a photo of myself in my underwear. Attached to a wrist X-ray. Asking him to come look at it." You stared straight ahead, unable to look at him. "Doing great."
That pulled something out of him, not quite a laugh, more of an exhale through the nose, amused despite his best efforts not to be. "Wasn't my least favorite outcome of the day. And wasn't that lingerie?"
"That's an extremely unprofessional thing to say to a resident, Dr Park."
"Wasn't talking to a resident." The statement ended with your name, with the same monotone you used to deliver his. He didn't elaborate any further, and you decided, wisely, not to push.
Against better judgment, you looked at the side of his face though. You didn't know someone could look this good clean shaven. He did not mind you looking at him. Or if he did, he didn't show.
"How'd you even know it was me?" you asked, mostly to fill the air. "You didn't have my number."
"Caller ID's a hell of a thing." He said it like that should have been obvious, which, you supposed, it was. "Been trying to find a reason to come down and see your face all shift. You handed me one."
Park the shark? Coming down to see you?
You did not have a comeback, nor did you need one.
You spent the rest of the drive looking very intently out the window, aware of him glancing over more than once, the anticipation of what's coming twisting your stomach in knots you'd rather not feel right then.
His place was not what you'd expected. A man cave you could've predicted, preferred even. But this was more … homely, telling you this perpetually grumpy guy that you've been pining after has a soft side.
There was a blanket actually balled up on the couch, when you hadn't expected a blanket at all.
A framed photo on the stairwell wall hung slightly crooked. You had the genuinely deranged thought that you wanted to fix it, like you lived here, like that was a thing you got to have an opinion about. You did not get to have an opinion about it. You'd known the man's address for nine minutes.
He dropped his keys in a bowl by the door, the single most domestic gesture you'd ever watched him make. You stood in the entryway feeling abruptly, stupidly out of place.
"Shower," he said, moving toward the hallway, not framing it as a suggestion. "You smell like the hospital."
You almost laughed at the bluntness of it. The fact that he wasn't bothering to pretend this was smooth or romantic, loosened a knot in your chest.
The last person you'd done anything like this with — a general surgery resident — hadn't cared what either of you smelled like. He'd had you on his bed in your hospital socks within four minutes of his front door closing. You remembered lying there afterward, painfully aware of the day's grime still on his sheets, wondering if that was simply what dating other doctors was always going to be like. Safe to say, you never called him back.
But, this was shaping up to be a different experience entirely.
Park pointed you toward the bathroom and went to shower himself.
You showered fast, mostly out of nerves, with a bodywash that smelled unreasonably good for something so utilitarian. When you came out wrapped in a towel, you could hear water running behind a different door somewhere down the hall. A folded gray t-shirt sat on the counter that hadn't been there before, soft form what looked like a hundred washes, a faded logo on the chest you didn't recognize and didn't try to.
You put it on. Nothing else. It seemed like an instruction that didn't need spelling out. Some reckless part of you was already curious to find out if you'd read it right.
Park came out of his own shower in grey sweatpants and nothing else. His chest was, well… there.
When he found you sitting on the edge of his bed, he stopped in his doorway just to look. Your knees were pressed together like that was somehow going to undo the last several hours.
"That's a good look on you." Which was interesting phrasing, from a man who looked like that.
"It's the only thing you gave me to wear." You crossed your arms in front of your chest, the t-shirt riding up with the movement, soft thighs delectable for him to look at.
"Take the compliment." He crossed the room slowly and stopped right in front of where you sat, close enough you had to tip your head back to keep looking at him.
He leaned down and kissed you before you could come up with anything of value, one hand braced on the mattress beside your hip, the other curving along your jaw.
You'd been kissed before. If anyone had asked you, you would describ them as fine. Only now, you were learning that 'fine' is not a word one should use to describe a kiss, this one rewriting every touch of lips you've ever had.
A sigh escaped into it without you meaning to, a soft, helpless little exhale that you heard yourself make and immediately regretted because it meant he heard it too.
He pulled back maybe an inch, mouth still close enough that you felt the warmth of the words. "That good, huh?"
Smug fucking bastard.
"Shut up."
He kissed you again, shorter this time, mouth crooked as it pressed against yours. "You sighed."
"People sigh."
"Not like that they don't." Calloused hands spanned your hips, warmth of it raising goosebumps across your skin even through the fabric, as he softly tugged at it. "Take this off."
"You gave it to me thirty seconds ago."
"And now I'm asking for it back." A faint and wicked smile crept into the corner of his mouth. "Take it off."
Your hands weren't entirely steady when you reached for the hem, more nerves than cold as you pulled the shirt up and over your head in one fast motion. Mainly because you didn't trust yourself to do it any slower, letting it drop somewhere on the floor between you.
The air hit your skin half a second later, followed quickly by the realization that you were now sitting on his bed with nothing on at all while he stood there covered from the waist down.
Reflex more than decision, your knees pressed together, automatic modesty your body apparently decided it needed. His eyes dropped immediately, mouth curving into a half smile.
Big, rough hands made contact with the softness in your thighs, rubbing up and down like he was calming your nerves, followed by a soft tap to your outer thigh. "Open up."
When you stared at him blankly, upstairs evacuating again, he crouched in front of you, hands settling on your knees, thumbs pressing slow circles into the inside of them. "Open up, baby. I want to see her."
You blinked at him. "H-her? Her who?"
Brendon laughed like you'd genuinely caught him off guard. "Your pussy, sweetheart. What'd you think I meant?"
Heat went straight through you, a different kind than the embarrassment, though the embarrassment hadn't entirely left the building either. The two emotions tangled tight together until you couldn't separate one from the other.
You let your knees fall open slowly, watching his face the whole time, needing to see what it did to him.
The sound that left him when he finally got a proper look at your core went straight back to it, slick gathering. "Fuck." His thumbs kept moving, working higher up your thighs. "Look at you."
Only a whimper slipped past your lips, unable to look at his eyes anymore, even if they weren't focused on yours, but an entirely different part of you.
He dragged one finger up the inside of your thigh, slow enough to border on cruel, stopping just shy of where you actually wanted him. "You're soaked, baby. All this from a wrist consult?"
"From you —" Your mouth caught up half a second too late, and you paused, pressing your lips together.
He looked up. "What was that?"
"N-nothing."
"Mm." His thumb made one more lazy circle over your skin and you realised he probably already knew. He sat back slightly as he studied you, fingers not yet reaching for the delicacy on display, content with only working you with his eyes now. "You know what I was thinking when I came down?"
You were not going to ask. You were absolutely not — "What?"
"I wanted to see how you looked. You always get this look." He tilted his head to look at you, hands still stationed at your thighs. "When you see me. You know that?"
"What?"
"That one." He nodded at your face, like it was helpfully demonstrating itself for him right now. Knowing you, it probably was. "Like your brain just took a long lunch and forgot to clock back in."
"I do not."
"You do. The lights go out." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee. "I've been curious what it looks like when I've actually got my hands on you."
"W-what?"
A parrot. You were more parrot than human, what with all the 'what's you were repeating.
"You're so clueless it's adorable." Clueless from his mouth wasn't any different, having heard it strug with a hundred other insults aimed at his residents. Adorable, on the other hand…
"Don't say adorable."
"Why not?"
"It — it means something different when you say it." You pointed at him, which from your current position — naked, with his hands on your thighs — was a spectacular show of nothing. You held it anyway. "I'm not adorable. I'm a competent —"
"Mhmm."
"— medical professional."
"Okay." You knew every version of his okay. Months of listening to him from across rooms while pretending very hard you hadn't been doing that, and the 'okay' he'd just used meant he'd already won and had no further interest in pursuing the argument.
The Peterson arrangement was there specifically to avoid this and here you were anyway, sitting on his bed, having been kissed and told you were adorable, like you were a squirrel.
"You're not actually agreeing with me, are you?"
Brendon's eyes fluttered close with a soft smile on his lips. Domesticated almost, looking every bit different from the hospital version of him, damp hair falling onto his face without the usual gel to hold it back.
Piercing eyes bore into yours, an intensity that was miles ahead of what you'd experienced before. The tough guy act he usually dons at work seemed to have revealed itself for what it truly was — an act. "Do you want me to agree with you, or eat you out?"
It was so casual, interrupting your flow of thoughts about how soft Park the Shark looked. A minute to organise your head and you were stuck on the "eat you out." Who even asked things liked that?
Brendon was waiting for you and looked like someone who would be comfortable with the wait. He was good at that actually, the waiting it out. Once had even Robby cave, you still weren't sure how that happened.
"W-what?"
"Focus, babygirl." Babygirl. That was new, that was nice. "Use your words. What do you want?"
You'd think ER doctors would be good with words. You talked dying people down from panic, talked families through the worst sentence of their lives, knew exactly how to phrase things to a scared kid in triage. Words were the whole job, basically.
Apparently that didn't transfer, and once again, this was proving to be an uncharted territory. A shark swimming around you in the ER, you can handle. That was shallow waters, and you had an upper hand, known turf. Whatever this was, you absolutely couldn't.
Trying to repeat that sentence was hard, you opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water, one the shark would very gladly devour, as you finally settled on, "yes."
"That's not what I asked, was it?"
"E-eat me out." Finally out of your mouth, heat crawling up your neck as his lips curved into an all knowing smirk, quickly vanished by your utterance of "Bren."
You had never called him that before. Even under your own sheets, with your hands between your thighs, you've fantasised and moaned 'Brendon', but this one had simply arrived. A new development, one that softened the shark's cutting bite.
"Good girl." Brendon praised, and it went straight to your cunt. "Such a good girl."
Shouldn't show all your cards the very first time you're together, you'd once decided long back, and had a stellar record of following it up until this point. With the way this night was going, you were pretty sure you'd be cardless by the end of it.
Before you could say anything, Brendon's mouth found your carotid, pressing soft kisses, and briefly — very briefly, for your disappointment — returned to your lips, a chaste kiss, a soft denial as you chased him.
As he continued marking you with featherlight kisses and gentle suction, you were becoming increasingly aware of the bulge in his pants.
There was this grey sweatpants theory your friend had told you about. Never had a reason to think about it before. You were thinking about it now.
Brendon's palms settled on the sides of your ribs. You must've been sleeping with pocket sized humans, because both of his hands seemed to span the whole of your torso, clearly big enough, having absolutely no problem showing it.
It wasn't like you hadn't noticed them before. You had, on numerous occasions, standing on the nurses' station while he picked up a severed limb to examine. But none of that actually showed you how large his hands were, and how it could make you look small in comparison.
His mouth was now warm at your clavicle, your sternum, until it reached one of your breasts. A sudden gasp from you, and you felt him smirk over your skin.
One of his hands left your hip to hold your other breast, palming it as he ravished this one with a particularly strong suction that made your toes curl.
Calloused fingers deftly played with your hardened nipple, and you yet again tried to stifle a moan.
Brendon pulled apart reluctantly, only to chastise you. "I wanna hear you. Don't hold back."
The next one came out loud as you nodded, the second his mouth closed back around your other nipple, tongue flicking against it while his hand kept working the first one between two fingers.
Your hips lifted off the bed on their own, looking for anything to grind against, and found nothing but air.
"Patience." He said it against your skin, not even looking up.
His trail of kisses lowered past your ribs, your stomach, the softest part of it you'd spent a considerable amount of time thinking about.
Brendon didn't seem to mind though, only pressing more open mouthed kisses, saliva streaking over bare skin, even sinking his teeth a few times, evidence of it you were sure to find the next day.
When his hands met your thighs, they spread them so wide, completely exposing you, even though his eyes made contact with yours once before looking back at your wet core, basically inviting him to taste.
Brendon's mouth descended to your cunt as his big hands kept your thighs open however he'd wanted. You squealed at the first touch of his tongue over your wetness, lips closing over your clit, while two of his fingers parted your slick folds with utmost care, the one contrasting his pull on the soft bud.
"You taste so good," his voice was muffled against your folds, the raspy tone almost had you coming right then, just from that.
One finger teased your entrance, circling it just right, his tongue taking the opportunity to delve into it, a high pitched moan — one that you didn't know you were capable of making — ripped past your lips.
The hands that were bunched at the sheets went straight to his hair, a tug that he seemed to enjoy as a groan vibrated through him.
His tongue worked slow circles around your clit while his fingers found a rhythm inside you, curling on every withdrawal, and your thighs started shaking against the sides of his head before you'd even seen it coming.
"Brendon —"
He hummed against you instead of answering, the vibration of it nearly enough on its own, and one of your hands left his hair to grab blindly at the sheet, twisting it into your fist like you needed somewhere else to put all of it.
He pulled back just enough to drag his eyes up your body. Chin wet and mouth shiny, as he reached for your hand — the one that had abandoned his hair — and manoeuvred it right back to where it was, encouraging you. "You can pull at me however you want."
Apparently he wasn't as attached to his hair as you'd thought.
With that, his mouth met your cunt again, a smirk right against your clit before gently sucking it between his lips.
The sound that tore through as you came wasn't one you were familiar with. Glad you weren't — it probably would've gotten you into trouble if this was your apartment.
When your thighs shook at the aftershocks and your fingers tugged at his hair with all their might, Brendon gentled his attack over your pussy, but kept nuzzling into you like he didn't want to stop.
He kissed his way back up. Your stomach, your sternum, your throat, and when he finally got to your mouth you tasted yourself on his tongue and didn't hate it the way you probably should have. "Gotta taste how sweet you are." It was said right against your lips.
A whimper left you in mock protest as you pushed at his chest with the heels of your hands.
"What? I'm not wrong." He kissed you one more time like he was trying to prove it. "You're sweet everywhere, you know that?"
"Stop it."
"Mouth." A soft peck to your lips, lingering there. He pulled back just far enough to watch your face catch up. "Neck." Shark teeth grazed the side of your throat gently, then again with more weight behind it, enough to make your breath catch. He stayed there a moment, mouthing slowly along your pulse.
"Clavicle." Of course the Orthopedician uses the anatomical term, instead of the romantic 'collarbone' you'd have gone for, but you weren't complaining, as his mouth pressed into the hollow of it.
His mouth found the space between your breasts next, a little towards the left, one kiss pressed right over your hammering heart, his breath warm and slow against your skin.
"Breasts." He took his time at your chest this time, mouth closing over one nipple while his thumb worked slow circles on the other, and you squirmed under him, fingers curling into the sheets, the whole idea of him making a point dissolving into the fact that he just wanted to.
His mouth dragged down over your ribs one at a time, like he was counting, his exhale warm the whole way down.
"Stomach." He said it against the soft give of you and pressed an open mouthed kiss into the part of yourself you were probably the most insecure about. But, insecurity didn't stand a chance against Brendon. He stayed there long enough that you squirmed again, and felt him smile against your skin like the squirming was exactly the reaction he'd been after.
The last one he skipped saying out loud. He looked up at you once, a darkness already sitting in his eyes. Every kiss before this was focused on this lips, but this one, his tongue came into action, flat and slow against you, and you understood, with sudden total clarity, that he'd meant every word.
This part wasn't about making you cum, as he immediately started making his way up, no, kissing his way up, at the same pace.
By the time he reached your mouth you'd pushed yourself up to meet him, sitting on shaking legs, hands sliding over his chest, his ribs, the muscle flanking his spine you'd spent months pretending not to notice.
When you dragged a thumb over his nipple out of pure curiosity, he jerked under your hand, a startled laugh breaking loose that didn't match the rest of the night at all.
"Did you just —" You did it again, intentional this time, grinning up at him.
"Don't." He caught your wrist before a third attempt, a boyishness flickering across his face. Evidence for later, blackmail for the next time he tried to act untouchable in front of everyone, dealt in private of course.
"You're ticklish."
"I'm not ticklish."
"Brendon Park." You said his full name like you were reading it off the board. "Attending Orthopedic surgeon. Ticklish."
"You're done." He caught both your wrists in one hand easily and pinned them gently to the side, just above your thigh. His other hand found your chest instead, thumb circling slowly over one nipple, watching your face the whole time. "That what you were trying to do?"
Your hands stayed pinned, no way to touch him back, and the lack of an outlet had your hips lifting off the bed before you'd decided to let them.
He let your wrists go, sitting back to look at you, a thought visibly surfacing behind his eyes. "You know people look at you, right?"
That came from absolutely nowhere, as you gawked at him, wondering who looked at you and where. "What?"
"At the hospital. People look at you."
"They do not."
"Night shift nurse. New surg intern." His eyes flicked toward the door like someone was about to walk through it. "Robby."
Robby couldn't possibly — "Robby looks at me to yell at me, those are very different things."
You crossed your arms on instinct, and the motion pushed your chest up, drawing attention to the soft flesh, drawing his attention.
He pressed you back into the mattress, mouth finding your nipple, tongue working slow circles while his hand kept the other one busy. "You'd know," he said between pulls, "if you weren't so busy ogling me."
"I don't ogle you." Your hands found his hair on their own, fingers soft against his scalp, betraying the indignation in your voice completely.
"Sure you don't."
"I don't." It came out breathier, not exactly your intended outcome.
"Yeah." Agreement, except you both knew it wasn't. He hooked an arm under you and shifted you higher up the bed. Easy, like you weighed nothing. Something about being moved effortlessly, like being tossed like a blanket, settled warm inside your chest.
Brendon kissed down your stomach again, on his way to sit up. When he finally shoved his sweatpants, you watched him do it without meaning to stare, except you were absolutely staring, probably with your mouth wide open.
He kicked them off the end of the bed and you got the full, unobstructed view of exactly what the grey sweatpants had been hiding.
"You're huge." The words left you without you having a say in it, hands immediately flying to clasp your mouth as if you can claw them back by sheer willpower.
"Yeah?" He wrapped his hand around himself and pumped slowly, watching you watch him do it. His hands pried yours from your mouth and wrapped your fingers around him in place of his own.
You barely managed to circle him, the size of him making your own hand look almost comical wrapped around it.
Brendon hissed through his teeth when you gave an experimental stroke, hips twitching forward into your grip like he hadn't expected it either.
He let you work him a few more times, watching your face more than what your hand was doing, before he pulled you off gently and laid himself down flat against your stomach instead, the full hot weight and length of him resting there like he was giving you a preview of what was coming. "See how huge, baby?"
A nod was all you could manage as you stared down at where he sat against your skin, leaking, a thin shine already smeared where he'd dragged himself there. The sight of him measured against your own body, against the soft of your stomach, made your mouth go dry all over again.
He tapped himself once against your stomach, a light thud right at your navel. "Say it again."
"No." Shaking your head, you wanted to disappear inside your own skin, the amount of attention lavished upon you almost overwhelming. The intensity of his stare alone made your knees feel like jelly.
Thank god he had you spread out on his bed. If not for that, you'd definitely have made a fool of yourself in front of him. Again.
"C'mon." He rocked his hips, dragging himself an inch across your stomach, sure of himself. It would've been obnoxious on anyone else, but he looked incredibly gorgeous and that only made your thighs press together. "I like hearing it."
"That's not — I wasn't complimenting you."
"Sure sounded like one." He braced a hand beside your head and pushed in slowly, the stretch of him pulling a gasp out of you before he'd even finished the thought. "Wanna see?"
It took you a second to get what he was offering, and you nodded. Brendon reached up, cupping the back of your skull, guiding your head up so you could watch where he was already halfway inside you, your walls stretched thin and shining around the sheer width of him, more than you'd thought your body had room for.
The sight was too much to take in directly, and your head dropped fully into his palm before he'd pushed in another inch, a laugh breaking out of him.
Watching your face now instead of where your bodies met, Brendon kept pushing in. Your walls clenched around him at every fraction of an inch, a stretch that bordered on too much before settling into something pleasuring.
"You good?" He asked breathless, jaw tight, hips frozen in place as he filled you to the brim.
"Uh-huh." Barely legible syllables were all you could muster.
"Words, baby."
"Move, Brendon."
The air left your lungs in one go as he pulled back almost all the way and slammed back in, your spine coming off the mattress on its own.
Somewhere at the start of this, or the weeks leading up to this, you'd thought he'd be controlled and calm, not one word wasted. He somehow turned out to be the exact opposite but also the exact same.
It felt like you were being taken apart, one piece at a time, while he was also losing himself a little. You could tell by the way his jaw kept clenching, his breath stuttering against your ear like he hadn't planned on that part happening to him too.
His hand slid up from your hip to circle around your throat, more a question than a grip.
"That picture." It barely registered as language. You were somewhere past language by then, his cock and his hand at your throat only things you could process. "Who was that for?"
"What picture?" It wasn't that you were being difficult on purpose. When put in a position you've been mostly dreaming about for the past however many months, the only thing grabbing your attention was right in front of — no, inside — you.
The question floated somewhere above you like it belonged to a conversation happening in another room.
He laughed against your throat, and bit down right over your pulse, sharp enough to sting and soft enough to soothe a second later with his tongue.
On top of that, one of his hands found your nipple, twisting the peaked bud between two fingers, hips coming to a halt.
A half formed protest rushed out of you. "Wha — why'd you — why'd you stop?" Breathy and whiny, your hips tried to chase friction, trying to take whatever he'd stopped giving.
"Tell me, baby." Soft and merciless words in the same breath.
"I don't — don't know, Bren." Your hands found his shoulders, nails biting in without much intention behind it, just somewhere to put the desperation since he'd taken away everything else.
"Did I fuck you dumb, sweetheart?
You shook your head against the pillow, which wasn't even an answer to anything, more just a reflex, the kind of thing your body did now in place of words.
His hips a dead weight notched right where you needed them moving, he waited, patient, that felt almost cruel given the state he'd left the rest of you in.
Like a browser with a hundred tabs open, your mind buffered, going through each of them until it landed on … The Picture. Right. The wrist X-ray, the caption, the —
Oh.
Oh.
The realization was so slow and stupid, the way answers always showed up two minutes after you needed them in a viva. "No one," you somehow got the words out. "I — I took it. For me. Wanted to see how it looked."
Brendon went still processing that — stiller than he already was. "Yeah?" His mouth dragged along your jaw, and his cock dragged out of you, then he pushed in all the way deep into you, like the confession had unlocked something in him he'd been keeping on a leash. "You looked real good, babydoll."
Heat crawled up your neck that had nothing to do with the stretch of him or the slow drag he'd settled into, just the stupid, helpless pleasure of being told that.
Babydoll settled alongside sweetheart and babygirl, right in between them like it had always lived there, and it hit the same place good girl had, and you knew it was all over your face. Every card, every single one, face-up. He looked at you and saw all of them.
You knew and couldn't stop it. You preened. There wasn't a better word for it. Your whole chest just sat up and asked for more.
If he'd noticed, he didn't make a show of it. "Next time," he said, "you're wearing that. And I'm taking it off you myself."
Your cunt clenched around him at the word 'next', an involuntary thing. Of course, he'd felt it, a laugh coming out low and a little wicked against your collarbone. "Oh." His hips stuttered once, to test you or if he was that affected, you weren't sure. "She liked that."
You wanted to die. You wanted to die and also you wanted him to say it again, both feelings sitting side by side without bothering to fight each other for space.
He hooked his arm under your knee and dragged it higher over his thigh, opening you up wider underneath him.
The new angle had you gasping before you'd even processed the shift, his cock pressing somewhere new and unbearably deep.
"Fuck, you feel —" His jaw went tight, breath catching against your ear, and the sentence just died there, unfinished.
You felt a little fierceness in you sit up too, a little smug. He wasn't unaffected. Whatever this was doing to you, it was doing it to him too. That single broken half-sentence felt like a win.
Somewhere underneath the noise, you understood it now. The thing the nurses whispered about — the god complex of it all. You'd rolled your eyes at every Ortho guy who’s acted like they personally invented bone.
Now, you couldn't speak for the rest of them. You hadn't slept with all of them, for one, and didn't plan to start now.
So, the sample size you were working with was n=1, which was not statistically significant in the traditional sense, but you were convinced.
This one. This infuriating, occasionally tender man currently splitting you open — he'd earned whatever god complex he wanted to keep.
"Where do you want it?" His voice dropped, hips losing the rhythm he'd clinged to, like he was holding the last of his control together with both hands. "Tell me, baby."
"Inside." It came out before you could second-guess it. "Please, Bren. Inside."
"Fuck. Good girl." The praise went straight through you, the same way it had the first time. Except now it had nowhere left to land except your shaking core, your whole body drawing tight around the words and around him at the same time.
Brendon reached between you, two fingers finding your clit, and the combination of that and the angle and the low filthy murmur of 'want you' and 'need you' against your throat sent you over before you'd even braced for it, your whole body locking up around him, vision actually whiting out at the corners for a second.
He followed almost immediately after, a groan tearing out of him that didn't sound anything like the composed, deadpan voice you'd known, hips stuttering, before he stilled deep, spilling ropes into you, both of you breathing like you'd run somewhere.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, one hand smoothing the line of your hip.
You lay there underneath the weight of him thinking, distantly, that you'd never once associated gentle and Brendon Park before tonight and now you weren't sure you'd be able to separate them again.
Eventually he rolled to the side, pulling you with him against his chest, his hand now tracing slow lines up your spine.
"I should go," you said, even as your body did the exact opposite of going, settling deeper into him.
"Or," his mouth was against your neck, "you could stay."
"I'd be late." You'd already started counting the hours, and whether you had a fresh set of scrubs in your locker or if you'd have to do the walk of shame in yesterday's, whether anyone would actually notice or if you were just assuming the entire hospital revolved around tracking your sleep schedule the way you currently were.
"I'll write you a note." He said it with such a straight face, you almost believed there was a version of this where that worked. Brendon Park scrawling an excuse on a prescription pad and Robby just accepting it without asking a single follow-up question. The image alone nearly made you laugh into his chest.
You propped yourself up enough to glare at him, even though the effect was probably ruined by whatever state your hair was currently in. "First of all, I'm not five. I’m not going to school. Secondly, you're not my attending."
His hand found the back of your head before you'd finished the sentence, guiding you back down against his chest. "Robby's the only attending you take orders from, huh?"
"Well. He is my attending."
"Mm." For a man who'd had you twice in the last hour, he sounded almost petulant.
"Brendon. I'm in your bed." You tipped your head back to look at him, his mouth set in a soft frown, more like a pout. "You don’t have to be jealous of Robby."
"I'm not."
"You're jealous of Robby right now. Post-nut."
His nose scrunched up, and you immediately wanted to kiss it. "Don't — don't say post-nut."
A laugh cracked out of you, and not a cute one. "Park the Shark. Jealous. Of Robby." You dragged out the syllables, drawing it into a sing song taunt.
"Watch it."
You bit down on a smile and lost, mouth pressed flat against his chest where you figured he couldn't see it.
Apparently he could feel it though, his hand stilled mid-stroke. "You're hiding."
"I'm not hiding anything."
"You're smiling. I can feel it."
"Shut up, Brendon."
EXTRAS guess who was studying Ortho when this plot came to mind? Also final fic for a while, I’m going on a proper break this time 🙂↕️
summary: you and steve have to fake-date after an awkward dinner at the wheeler-byers household—all while you're sure that he still wants nancy.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
word count: 6.9k
tags: (set before stranger things season 5 !!), fake-dating, friends-to-lovers, fluff & angst, requited unrequited love, miscommunication, awkward family dinners, robin = wingman, steve = clueless
cross-posted to ao3
a/n: had to rush this out before vol. 2 came out, just in case steve dies (if he dies, i die) — merry christmas if you celebrate !!
“I’ll give you twenty bucks if you admit it right now.”
“I’m broke, but I’m not that broke,” you shake your head, “Jesus, Rob.”
You’re mildly offended, but not remotely shocked, by the proposal. It’s easier to pretend to sort between The Jesus and Mary Chain and The Stone Roses and Modern English than to listen to Robin try to pry her way into your personal life; your fingers slide against the paper covers as you slot them back into their alphabetical placements. Even if your friend is well-intentioned, she’s completely out of her depth.
“A hundred bucks. A hundred bucks, and I’ll let you select the entire noon roster. That’s a bargain!” Robin rattles on, close on your trail; if she was any closer, she’d probably give you a flat. “Do you know how many times the boys have tried to get me to play The Cramps on-air this month? I’ve lost count. And, sure, the psychobilly stuff isn’t bad—but, hello, it’s the middle of December, not, like, Halloween night. What I’m trying to say is: it’s a pretty hefty deal I’m offering up here. Limited time offer.”
“You’d have to give me a thousand bucks. Or, put a gun to my head.”
“Dramatic,” she murmurs under her breath—not nearly enough to seem any less rude than it sounds, “Does that imply you’re only worth a grand?” You decide to let her think it out, but it doesn’t last for nearly long enough. Robin’s eyes flit from the ground, to the ceiling, and then back to you. She exclaims, “It’ll exponentially improve your mood if you just let it out. It’s psychologically proven!”
Though she’s been trying to convince you for the better part of a month, you still haven’t let up: you will not admit that you’re jealous of Nancy Wheeler. By no means is it Nancy’s fault. In fact, you adore her just a little bit more everyday with the way she takes lead on the crawls and makes sure that everyone’s in top shape for any major emergencies. The fact of the matter is that Nancy Wheeler is still the centripetal force of Steve’s affections. Steve sees her shaggy curls, the denim-jackets placed over floral blouses, the stack of metal bracelets, and his brain goes on the fritz.
The way that he looks at her makes you want to retreat into your own skin—siphon yourself out of existence—and still, you stick around to watch. A train crash you can’t bring yourself to look away from. Part of you wonders if it’s the nostalgia factor of it all—if Steve’s just one to reminisce about the good old days, still caught up on “King of Hawkins.” The worse, and fearfully more accurate alternative, is that Steve is in love with Nancy as she is now. Clever, witty, journalist Wheeler. The kind of gal to chew the ends of her pens and weasel the right information out of people. Strategist with a sawed-off shotgun. Though you’re not one for comparison, you’re sure that she must win in some way or another.
But, your harbored feelings for Steve are hardly anything new. Robin’s known about your little schoolgirl crush—you try to tell her, We’re early-twenties! Not early-tens, to no avail—since you started working at Family Video. You’re sure that’s when it started, because that’s when you had to start being around him five days of the week. Though you’d been a particularly good fly on the wall in high school, graduation swung around quickly. You needed a job to pool up a good sum of cash to move to some far-off city (the cliché smalltown transplant). Family Video was conveniently there. So were Steve and Robin.
Robin takes the record—U2, you think—gingerly from your hands and deposits it into the shelf in some off-place you’ll likely fix within the hour. She places both of her hands atop your shoulders. “Okay. You cannot tell me that you weren’t trying to laser-blast her with your eyeballs last weekend at the Wheeler’s. I saw it.”
You snort skeptically, “Why would I do that?”
“Because Steve was being all Steve. He offered to serve her plate and you were all weird and zoned and didn’t talk until Mrs. Wheeler started asking you about where you got your blouse.” Robin tugs at your collar—hung smile, like she’s got you all figured out—and it nearly makes your left eye twitch.
“Well, maybe, I’m just watching out for Jonathan. He gets all weird and jealous whenever Steve’s involved, and we kind-of, sort-of don’t have time for infighting.” You retreat from Robin’s touch, taking yourself into the little seating area the WSQK has set aside for breaks. You crash down on the coffee-stained orange couch, trying to be as leveled as possible with Robin; she lands just beside you, half-leaned on the back of the couch, legs crossed.
“There’s actually plenty of time for it. It’s been months with zero action in the Upside Down—minus the stupid patrols. Hop’s found nothing. You are scot-free to play this whole thing out. Finally!” Aside from Vickie and radio-hosting, you’re absolutely convinced that this is the only entertainment that Robin gets. “You are the master,” she claps her hands together, bows down to you just slightly, “of the long-game.”
You hate to think of it like that. Like you’d had some deliberate motive. For the first month of knowing Steve (Mr. Cologne-Heavy) in the flesh, you were just slightly dazed by the normalcy of him. He was just a guy—and, frankly, a bit of a dork. Clumsy sometimes, and easy-to-please. You weren’t nearly as serious about your little boy-crush then. Steve was just the nice back you got to look at during your morning shifts, you labeling the VHS tapes and him re-alphabetizing the romcoms.
You liked Steve; he was attentive. He knew that you liked to park your car under the fir in the backlot to keep the leather from frying up under the sun. He knew which customers you despised, and he knew when to step in. He knew that you wanted nothing but silence for the first hour of your shared morning shift—and was ready and willing to sort tapes conversation-less with you. He was your very good friend.
You sat through every single one of his failed matches with a strong-held despondence—even the desperate one-night stand he’d had with one Priscilla Allbright, a matchmaking scheme hatched up by Robin herself; she was the older sister of one of Robin’s theatre-kid buddies, but a tad too mean towards waiters—so it was easily one-and-done. And though Steve had rambled on about his continuous dry spell, you didn’t see it fit for you to throw yourself in the ring. It wasn’t until Steve’s dating ceased that you started to get concerned. He’d just stopped trying after Hawkins split in two. Nancy’s unintended doing.
Robin can’t help it. She wants more than anything to see the two do to shack up. She’s been making nothing but stupid bets and wagers for the past year—and even though she hasn’t made even a dime from it all, she still gets to revel in the satisfaction of you and Steve even being in the same room.
“I’m not jealous,” you affirm—easily ignored by Robin, who stretches her back left-and-right on the cushions.
“I don’t blame you. I’d be freaked too if Vick had some super-cool, fiery ex-girlfriend. No—I’d die!”
—
The next time the five of you get together—you, Rob, Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve—is at another one of those Wheeler-Byers dinners. This is the routine under your newfound militarized quarantine, especially when the Hawkins movie theater has tired of playing the same collection of movies five times over and you can only hit the same bar up so many times. All things considered, you think it’s a nice gesture that the Wheelers have offered up their home; it works out to have everyone under the same roof. They’re just as charitable when they host their little dinners, foldable chairs pulled from the basement and stuffed leg-to-leg at the dining table. Everyone pitches in to help prep—save for Mr. Wheeler, who slouches at the television box watching old tapes of football games from the year prior.
You have a decent spot at the corner of the table, wedged between Robin and Steve. Then, Steve next to Nancy, Nancy across from Jonathan… the usual. Steve has the tendency to jump his leg up and down underneath the table; the friction of his against yours isn’t easily ignorable, and yet you try to keep yourself quiet. In your peripheral vision, you can see the dad-looking sweater he chose for tonight, and his coiffed black hair.
You hate sitting next to Steve. It’s like this every dinner. You, getting passing whiffs of sandalwood and hairspray—trying not to look him in the eyes. Him, oblivious. There’s lots of ruckus; you’re pretty sure that there are four different conversations being shot across the table between the boys (save for a recluse Dustin), the parents, and you half-adults. Though Hop and El are still where they always are at the cabin, you’re sure that Joyce will bring them a well-packed plate the morning after. This dinner, Jonathan has persistently wrestled to pick up Nancy’s plate and serve her food; you’re very sure that she’s irritated by his insistence, because she gently scolds him with “I’m not a child.” Steve snorts, and you… don’t do a single thing. The chatter carries on, and you sit scooping peas over your mashed-potatoes.
You feel Steve lean his shoulder against yours, a too-warm attempt to get your attention. You’re too quiet for his liking. You crane your neck to look up at him, with a too-casual, “Yeah?”
“You know, the ‘indie’ stuff is really growing on me,” Steve chews, “I mean, I don’t really like how it’s all British—Go, Boston Tea Party, right?—but, they sound great.” You’ve been tossing in your personal favorites into Robin’s morning setlists. He’s clearly noticed.
You almost have to laugh. It’s a shocker, coming from him. “You like indie.”
Steve’s brows furrow, nodding his head along mid-question. “I do now. You’re, like, the connoisseur of the stuff. No offense, Rob.”
Robin beams. “Sure. None taken.” You hate sitting next to Steve. Especially when he acts like this.
The conversations carry on. Topics are restricted to normal, non-Upside Down, non-military—a house rule set by the kids. It’s like you’re spies. Steve picks up his reindeer-shaped ceramic mug—no thanks to the cup shortage (the Wheeler’s never hosted parties this big before)—takes a big swig of water out of the top. “You know what I miss? County fair.” Random. He continues, “I would kill for a churro. You guys ever ride the Zipper?”
Will diverts his attention from whatever pre-Calculus assignment Mike keeps moaning about to over to the other half of the table. “Jonathan threw up after the Zipper. Didn’t you?” Though he’s flat-faced, Jonathan’s clearly frothing with embarrassment.
“I did not throw up,” the older Byer brother insists, tone wavering just slightly. Will takes the win, turning back to the rest of the boys to continue rattling on about trigonometry.
“No throw-up talk at the table, please. Dinner,” Joyce warns, lifting her fork pointedly at Will and Jonathan. Tight-leash. You’re sure that she tries very hard to push good manners, especially under the Wheelers’ roof.
Steve carries on, trying to recall under his breath: “I took… Dana Mattey to the county fair? Think I won her a bear.”
“That was me, actually,” Nancy amends. Too loudly. Any existing conversation ruptures, leaving only the lingering silence of a dinner turned sour. Steve softens in his chair, looking at her meekly—before looking straight down at the table; he stops his jittery leg, eerily still. You’re very sure that you can see Jonathan’s knuckles whiten as he grips his fork. Mr. Wheeler grumbles some string of expletives that you can’t quite catch, and little Holly’s eyes flit between her parents and her siblings.
Mrs. Wheeler—already half wine-drunk—jumps to turn the conversation back around. She slurs, “The two of you aren’t seeing anyone?” The direction of her question toward the half-adult end of the table tells you that the question is pointed. The interrogatees: you and Robin. Steve is exempted, clearly. Mrs. Wheeler does this most nights, because Steve’s still very much her daughter’s preppy, popular high school ex-boyfriend.
Robin coughs up a bit—caught off-guard: “Oh. No. I’m not really looking for dates right now. Very career-focused. Radio’s, like, the new TV.” Robin lets out an affirmative, little “mhm!” before scarfing down too much food. Shitty liar. You try to give a nod in agreement, hoping that Robin’s response is satiating enough.
Mrs. Wheeler takes another swig of her wine, and then points lazily with her glass at you: “You?”
“Me.” You feel clammy.
She giggles coquettishly, “Well, you’re gorgeous. There’s got to be guys flocking to see you.” The wine in her glass sloshes left and right with the beat of her matter-of-fact explanation. You hear a little bit of a snort coming from the other half of the table.
“Lucas had a crush on you in middle school after you babysat him for Memorial Day,” Mike snickers, “Does that count?”
“Dude, shut up.” Lucas smacks Mike’s hand down into the table brusquely. You can see the two of them shove each other back-and-forth just beneath the sightline of the dining table. Robin gives you a nudge; the sole of her shoe juts into your calf, trying to urge a response out of you.
You’ve got a choice: tell the truth (you’re the modern-day equivalent of an old maid) or, opt for the easy way out. You choose the latter, replying wondrously—and maybe too proud: “I actually have a date on Saturday night.” Robin stifles her loud guffaw; she’s loving your improv. The rest of your friends—no, the entire table—look quite caught off-guard. Seems like everyone’s hushed up, save for the metallic scraping of forks against plates. It’s the puzzled tilt of Steve’s head that really does you in.
Though, Mrs. Wheeler is pleased enough with your response. “Of course you do, honey. Who’s the lucky guy?”
“He’s… uh…” Now, you’ve really dug your own grave. Your stammering dims her grin, and you’re afraid Mrs. Wheeler can see right through you.
It’s taking you far too long to spill. Robin brings her own drink slowly to her lips—wineglass, filled with apple juice—trying not to wear a sorry look on her face; it’ll only make it worse if she tries to come up with something for you. You’re just about to say a measly “boyfriend from Canada” joke, when Steve wraps his hand around your knee. “I’m taking her to Enzo’s.”
Robin makes a quick inhale-and-snort of her apple juice, and grabs for her napkin to try to wipe away the mess under her nose, dribbling down to her chin. The rest of the table reacts similarly—doe-eyed and curious. How did this happen? Mike murmurs a quick “Bullshit” under his breath, to which Nancy shoots out a stern “Mike!” By the looks of it, though, Nancy and Jonathan are the most confused out of everyone; after all, they spend the majority of the week with you guys at the Squawk, and they’d be able to see if you two were hooking up. And, it certainly doesn’t pair well with Steve’s here-and-there advances towards Nancy. The only person who’s mildly amused happens to be Will, who wears a proud, open-toothed smile on his face.
You try not to look as astonished as they do, but it’s taking a lot of work considering the fact that Steve’s hand is still landed on your knee—fingers edging toward your inner thigh. You’re so packed together in this dining room that you’re sure that the heat pooling off your cheeks easily reaches the other end of the table. You sum up just enough courage to look Steve in the eyes—maybe, to try and seal the deal, convince everyone that you are going out. Steve only gives you that tender, puppy-dog sort of look that he gives to pretty girls. You almost want to punch him for doing this for you. It’s too big of a lie.
When you swivel your head to look back at the rest of the table, everyone’s rather occupied by the sight of the two of you: Steve’s watchful eye and your electrified posture. You smile weakly, “We don’t have to talk about it right now. Lotta pressure.” An un-entertained Mr. Wheeler excuses himself to the living room (presumably, to watch last year’s baseball), and all the chatter resumes accordingly.
—
Robin’s the first to leave. A promise to Vickie to bring coffee for her late shift at the hospital gets her out the door promptly by nine o’ clock; she uses an easy excuse—need to make sure Grandma takes her meds. She doesn’t leave without giving you a wary look—you’ll get a stern talking to tomorrow—before she makes it out the door.
There’s a handful of things that run through your mind as you’re washing the dishes after dinner—up to your elbows in suds as you wash everyone’s plates. It’s Steve who insists on helping you dry them all off with a kitchen towel and file them back into the cabinets. Together, you create a two-person factory line. Wash-and-dry.
“You didn’t have to do that for me,” you murmur to him—hoping that the sound of the sink running will drown out your voices. Everyone else is scattered back around the house by now, but you’re quite sure that the boys are gathered in the living room. Nosy.
Steve shrugs. He leans in to murmur back to you, “Isn’t that what friends are for?” Right. Friends. “And, besides, it’ll get old Jonathan off my back about being around Nance so much.”
Now, you’ve got a better picture. If Steve “dates” you, he’s not nearly as much of a threat to their relationship. You’re not sure how much you like the sound of it. “Yeah. It’s a… good trade.” It’s hard for you not to wince. You focus more ardently on scrubbing the fork in your hand. “But, if they ask about the date—“
Steve tosses the towel over his shoulder, leaning against the counter beside you. “You’re right. Enzo’s is a stretch; I’d pay for it if you wanted me to, but realistically, you’d probably insist that I not do that. We would probably go for fries and a shake at Dee’s. Then, a late showing. Top Gun.” It’s the same old routine you go through every other week: post-work snack and a movie.
You snort, trying not to spritz soapy water on yourself: “God, we’ve seen it like a trillion times.” Steve pops a grin, too—satisfied with making you laugh for the first time tonight.
He leads, “Which is exactly why we would totally go see it again. Boom: flawless plan.” As soon as you slot the last plate into the dish rack, Steve takes the towel over his shoulder and tosses it to you. After drying up, you toss it over the rack of the oven. “Let me walk you out to your car, babe?”
“Asshole.”
—
You’re on one of the wheelie chairs back at WSQK. Saturday opening shift—you and Robin. It’s still shivering-cold this time of year, and there isn’t a bit of insulation. Steve’s not due for thirty, so the two of you are stuffed into the sound booth wrapped in blankets pulled straight from Robin’s trunk. You talk about the dinner, and after the dinner, all while you’re queuing up the setlist and sound cues for today’s morning segment. Robin’s too excited—flailing her arms around, up and at ‘em, pacing back and forth in the studio—while you scribble hard on the clipboard on your lap.
“This is perfect!” she shouts. It makes your right eye twitch; her volume is fifty decibels too loud for six-in-the-morning.
“No, Rob. It’s embarrassing.” You check off cassette numbers, placing the janky plastic cases into their respective slots.
“Sure, he volunteered to be your boyfriend—fake boyfriend—to save you the embarrassment of being a perpetual single. That’s nice and all. But, if you guys keep this up—“
It’s a nightmare just to think about. Every Wheeler-Byers dinner spent with Steve pretending to coddle you. Now, you’re really feeling sick of the military quarantine; New York sounds especially appealing. Or, Antarctica. You have to interrupt her. “We can’t keep it up.”
Robin goes blank, dingy-old Converse glued to the rug beneath you both, before shaking her head with an especially sharp-edged stare. “Sure you can. You have to. Or, it’ll disappoint the hell out of everyone.” ‘Everyone’ and ‘Robin’ are somewhat interchangeable, you think.
“I don’t think he’s going to want to keep it up that long.”
“He might surprise you,” she says earnestly. You wonder if you should trust Robin a little bit more than you do with these matters; after all, she is his best friend as much as she is yours. She carries on, “And, he’ll eventually face the fact that you are the top-tier option. Can’t get better than this.” Robin tugs cheekily at your collar, flouncing your hair a bit. It isn’t until you hear Steve’s Beamer roll up onto the gravel out front that you begin to shove her wriggly hands away. “Okay, okay,” you tell her, “Cool it, Buckley.”
As you carefully smooth down your hair, Steve makes it through the metal front door with a carton cup holder balanced on one hand and his keyring swinging in the other. “Coffee delivery,” he shouts over to the two of you, shoving his keys into his back pocket.
“Robs,” he deposits the cup on the nearest surface by her: counter by the microphones. “Steve, equipment. We talked about this,” she squeaks out, picking up the hot drink and placing it outside of the booth on the sturdier surface of a coffee table.
“Sorry, sorry,” he spews out haphazardly, before sliding over to you. You prop the clipboard gently onto the floor so you can take the coffee cup from his grip. Leaning down to bestow the cup upon you, Steve mumbles, “Girlfriend.” Your hands tremble just slightly as he hands it over to you—fingertips pressing against yours. A strong grip around the coffee cup quells your shaking—but you feel extremely hot-faced. Through the waxed-glass window of the sound booth, you can see Robin flags you with a crazed, wide-eyed smile. You’re only thankful that Steve has his back turned away from her.
“You don’t have to fake it right now,” you tell him. He knows and you know and Robin knows. There’s absolutely nothing to hide amongst the three of you.
Steve tuts softly, “Well, I know that. I’m just trying to build a good habit. I don’t want to be the one who slips up.”
“Well, I definitely won’t be the slipper-upper,” you retort. It’s a half-competitive, half-truthful sentiment that urges you to stand up, shedding your blanket over the top of the rolling chair—still gripping your cup tight. This brings you and Steve chest-to-chest, you tilting your head up to meet his gaze. You swear to God that the sound booth usually feels a lot bigger than it does right now. Steve pulls at the hem of your shirt as he looks over you.
“Actually, speaking of,” Steve perks up, “I wanted to run something by you.” You try to keep it cool, letting a lowly breath pass your lips.
“Yeah?” You can feel heat fanning across your body.
“If any of our friends ask about our little movie-date—like the little P.I.’s that we know they are—we should probably make sure that our stories line up.” Right. Steve wants to make sure that you both have all your bases covered. Clever. You give him a curt nod, under the impression you’ll both just have a little study session after Robin gets off-air, when he says: “We’ll just go on it—the date. As friends.”
You’re not sure whether you should be pleased or frightened, but Steve looks rather adamant about carrying through with the whole ordeal. “Are you sure?”
“Well, yeah. We’ve already put in all this work to keep it up, so we can’t just back down now,” he tells you plainly, “I’ll even bring you flowers to seal the deal. Still, flawless plan.”
The thought of Steve showing up to your doorstep with his stupid cologne and bouquet of lilies is nice. Too nice. A part of you has to wonder whether he’s still doing it for you, or if he’s doing it for himself. Realistically, it’s a bit of both—and you’re not sure if you see this working out well for either of you. You want to tell Steve, No, you should just tell her that you love her, but the sound of Robin knocking over a stack of cassettes just outside the booth makes you falter.
“Flawless plan,” she crackly echoes, before ushering herself to the vinyl shelves. You’re certain that if she turns around to face the both of you, her face will be highlighted red from top to bottom. But, Robin merely huddles herself against the wall—face out-of-sight.
—
Steve doesn’t show up with lilies, because you both leave straight from the WSQK. The sappy offshoot: a couple of daisies picked off the lawn outside. Curfew in Hawkins means any plans are pushed back at least a couple of hours. So, your Saturday night date is more like a Saturday afternoon. The two of you roll up to Dee’s with a Daryl Hall & Oates cassette slotted into the player of his Beamer. It’s better this way, you think. More like you. You’re just glad it’s not Enzo’s, and that neither of you had to dress up. Steve spritzes his cologne, you spruce your hair up a bit. It’s comfortable.
Not too many customers at this hour—so you and Steve get placed at a booth in the corner right away. You wonder how it looks from an outsider’s perspective—if it looks right, the two of you sitting on the same side. The waitress sure buys it, with Steve ordering for the both of you with his arm scooped around the back of your seat. She takes your orders as quickly as she can so she can skitter away to the kitchens, out of sight—probably to smoke a cigarette out back.
Once she’s gone, you turn to Steve with a hint of a smile on your face. “Okay. We should have, like, a good anecdote. Something really cute.” You want to be able to make this whole thing believable for the entire clan that is your friends.
“Right.” Steve tries to think something up, hand rubbing his cheek, eyebrows furrowed. He’s sifting through the possibilities. Then, he gets it—finger successively tapping on the surface of the vinyl table: “This old couple sat right by us and told us that we reminded us of them.” He looks so exhilarated by the little made-up scenario, head perked up like a meerkat out of Nat Geo—that you almost don’t want to shoot it down…
Still, you shoot out: “...Yeah, that sounds like bullshit.” He’s just a little bit offended—shoulders dropped, huffing out in only slight irritation.
He nudges his shoulder against yours. “Go ahead, then. Come up with something better.”
“Okay—we… got bored and played hangman on the placemats,” you volunteer. It’s not a terrible lie; Dee’s has the plain-white paper placemats, and crayons in cups just behind the counter for kids. A pretty good way to stay entertained.
“Just as bad as mine,” Steve retorts, stretching back out with his arms folded by his head, extended against the back of the seat. You’re very sure that Steve has some kind of back issues from everything you’ve been through—he’s always complaining about knots—and it worries you every now and again. Twenty-one going on sixty. It worries you even more when he does the little stretch-and-groan, an occasional test of your self-restraint. You try your hardest not to flick your gaze down to the sliver of stomach that gets exposed in his movement. Steve grumbles out: “My God—that’s gotta be from a movie or something.” Absolutely clueless.
You keep your eyes locked on the table in front of you—hands locked neatly together. “It probably is. God knows how many bullshit romcoms we sped through back at Family Video. Probably printed onto our brains by now.” He snorts.
The waitress comes with the fries—a large plate of them for the two of you, and a cookies and cream shake with two straws plunged into the cup. You don’t remember Steve asking them to group it like that, but to ask the waitress to send it back sounds like so much of a hassle, and you’re already pretending—it would be weird if you didn’t split it. The image of the two of you sharing the shake, nose-to-nose, makes your palms sweat.
Steve doesn’t give you any flack for the panic setting in on your face, just scoots the shake towards you with a nod. You first. “I know you totally dig that stuff. You don’t have to lie,” Steve carries on, “Hots for Swayze big time.” Relief. You pull the straw into your mouth, sipping up a gulp of the shake. It cools you down, only by a bit, and you spend the next couple of seconds focusing very intently on mashing the cookies around the bottom of the cup.
“Swayze’s not my type,” you say. Too much conviction. You know your type well—got it all figured out. So, this piques Steve’s interest; his eyebrow raises up just a tad, and you can feel him eyeing you.
Steve tries again, not before chewing on a couple of fries. “Then, what is your type?” Tall, dark hair, loyal as a German Shepherd, maybe a little bit dense…
“Don’t have one.”
“Everybody has a type,” Steve insists, “I’ve got a type.” He drags the shake towards himself, out from your hands, to take a generous sip. You’re very sure that you have his type all figured out, too.
“Witty and unavailable?” Nancy Wheeler, in two words. This gets him straightened out, trying to check the validity of your suggestion. Steve mulls it over, while you find yourself grabbing for a messy stack of fries to shut yourself up. This is small-talk Hell, and you’re only making it worse for yourself.
Finally, Steve gives a noncommittal shrug—wick of black hair falling over his forehead. You’re even sure that his ears have turned a bit pink; the overhead lights of the diner are bright, not doing him any favors in concealing it. He hums, “That’s one way to put it.” Then, he slides the cookies and cream shake back over to you insistently: finish it. “You’re sure Swayze doesn’t do it for you? No? Okay. The, uh, the Indiana Jones guy,” he guesses.
“None of the above,” you retort, shaking your head with a faint grin on your face. Steve smiles to himself, only satisfied with the fact that he’s giving you a light bit of entertainment.
You spend the rest of the meal—as short as it is—thinking about his answer. It’s still daylight by the time the two of you make it out of Dee’s and back to Steve’s Beamer. On the drive to the movie theater, you’re still thinking about it. About him. It puts you into a bit of a crisis, really. Steve’s in love with Nancy, but he’s out on this date with you. It takes a bit of time to settle with it again: it’s fake, it’s a favor, and Steve’s only half-there on your behalf. He isn’t yours.
Your contemplative silence on the drive to the movie theater makes him only a little bit unnerved. Steve decides to drive the two of you around to the back of the theater—“knowing a guy who knows a guy who’ll let him park his car in the backlot.” You’re pretty sure it’s one of Steve’s old basketball teammates, but you’re not particularly inclined to call him on it. You know it’ll all be pretty patched-up once you make it through to Top Gun. Quoting lines to each other, all whispers and airy laughs, like always. Good friends.
—
You decide to go in one car for the next Wheeler-Byers dinner a week after. Robin’s already inside, planning some monthly interview for the WSQK with Nancy—so it’s just you and Steve in the Beamer, parked up on the end of the block. “Should I give you my sweater?” he asks you, shifting his gear shifting into park, “I feel like that shouts ‘We’re together now.’ You can leave your coat in the backseat, we’ll say you forgot it, and I’ll freeze my ass off. Totally sells it.” He doesn’t wait to hear your response, just slides out of the car and shuts the door soft behind him. Steve swings his keyring around his index finger, coming around to the passenger’s seat to open your door for you. He grabs your hand, helps you out of the car with a steady grip.
Once he shuts the door, you jump to ask him: “How long do you think we should keep this up?” Like a deer caught in headlights, Steve stares at you. He purses his lips.
Erring on the side of caution, he replies, “That’s a good question. How long do you want to keep it up?”
“Well, what if there’s somebody that you really, really like and we have to stage a massive fake-breakup?” A worst case scenario given Nancy breaks up with Ionathan. Even worse: “Or, what if they expect us to kiss?” So, maybe you sound a bit immature, but it isn’t out of the realm of possibility. There’s a chance that—given enough wine—Mrs. Wheeler will become just audacious enough to ask you about the more intimate aspects of your relationship; it’d be strange for you and Steve not to be all attached at the hip. And, other places. Steve seems to think it over, hands moving to rest on his hips. He looks troubled, tapping his sneaker against the sidewalk, eyes darting across your face like he’s trying to glean something off of you.
“Okay,” he decides, a short sigh—before sidling up closer to you. He tries to kiss you—and you let him. He leans in, plants his lips onto yours—your noses tentatively bumping against one another in the quick motion. Steve’s face is hot against yours, and you can hear him let out a guttural sigh as your lips move to meet one another. It’s like a dream, the way he walks you back against the Beamer, and runs his fingers through your hair… He stops as soon as he feels you push against his chest. Your lips brush for a second more, before Steve retreats away from you. “Shit. I’m sorry.” He peels off of you to lean on the side-door of the Beamer beside you. Steve’s hands are stuffed into his jacket pockets, as he looks gravely down at both of your shoes on the concrete. “Stupid idea.”
You have your arms crossed, hand over your mouth. He just kissed you—hard. You can’t say you’re not pleased with it, because you are. Extremely so. But, you’re even more confused by it than anything else. “You’re in love with Nancy,” you spout.
Steve’s head whips up, dumbfounded. “No, I’m not.”
“Uh… yeah, you are. You hate Jonathan, you get all close and weird like you do, and you can never stop staring at her.”
“I don’t hate Jonathan. I love pissing him off,” Steve corrects you. The lack of reaction that you give him makes him startled. He backtracks, “Okay, okay—maybe, I thought I had a shot with her last year, but that was last year. I wasn’t thinking straight, I was all over the place. We’re friends and all now, but that’s it.”
“But, we were talking about—y’know, on Saturday,” you stutter out, “Nance.”
“I was talking about you,” Steve shakes his head, “You’re witty and unavailable and…” His train of thought takes him right up against the truth. Steve is nearly glowing with recognition—you don’t respond, reticent, face hardened with embarrassment: “You’re jealous.”
You almost feel like bolting down the edge of the street, ditching Wheeler-Byers’, and maybe even running home. You open your mouth to protest against the claim, and Steve’s astounded expression just makes you more fired up to prove him wrong. There’s a long string of “I’m not’s” and “You are’s” that passes between the two of you, enough to lose count—God, he’s so like Robin in his stubbornness. No wonder they get along—before you finally shut him up with a loud: “I am! I’m jealous of Nancy, and it drives me crazy. Happy?”
With a tilt of his head and a shrug, Steve murmurs, “I mean, yeah.” You can only reach out to shove him by the shoulder. He lets you push him back a couple of feet, soles scuffing against the sidewalk, before he plants himself more solidly on the ground. He’s trying very hard to conceal the growing grin on his face as you swat at his arms, all pissed and flustered. The second you let up, he grips you by your arms. “I should’ve just asked you on a regular date,” Steve admits, “I kept on putting it off because you’re just so…” He moves his hands to gesture over you. “You. And, with the whole dinner thing, I thought, ‘What the hell, why not take the easy way out of friendzone?’—even though I could’ve just asked you out months ago and solved the whole issue in the first place.”
“We’ve been dancing around each other for no reason,” you murmur.
“Not a lick of it,” Steve nods, shooing you aside a bit to pull open the backseat of the Beamer. “Now, toss your coat in the back.” You shrug your coat off of yourself, taking the heavy lump of fabric and tossing it haphazardly on the leather cushions. It’s shivering cold without it on, but the heat emanating off your face makes up for the lack of layers.
It doesn’t last for long. Steve shuts the door, before grabbing at the bottom of his sweater and pulling it over his head. He gestures for you to come closer to him, before tugging it carefully over your head. You slot your arms through the sleeves, well-wrapped in the warmth of the plush fabric. He makes sure the hem is straightened out, and fixes your hair accordingly. “You’re it for me. No fake-outs.”
You hook your pinkies into his belt loops, pulling him in for a chaste kiss. A flat “oh” slips past his lips as you pull him in, and he makes sure to place his hands around your hips as your lips slot together. Again. And, again. Steve’s wearing a smirk through each of your kisses, nothing but pleased about how it’s all played out. “Can’t wait to do this all the time,” he exhales.
“Let’s get inside. I know you’re freezing to death in just this.” You pull at Steve’s white t-shirt. His shoulders are tightened, arms quickly crossed, and you can tell very clearly that he’s trying not to shiver.
—
Entry into the Wheeler house isn’t anything but excitable. As soon as you're through the front door, Robin peeks the two of you from the staircase—Steve’s red face and your swollen lips; she nearly pushes Nancy over to tumble down the steps, inspecting each of you closely. “Holy shit,” she gasps quietly, “Holy shit! Did the two of you hook up? Say yes.”
“We kissed, you dork.” You have to slap her hand away as she pokes her index finger against your bottom lip. “Don’t say the H-word. There’s kids around.”
“Holy shit, or hook-up?” Steve asks. Neither of you respond.
“Well, I’m just saying that the credit for the H-word should be given where it’s due.” Robin points two thumbs in her own direction, and you reach up to noogie her hair. She yelps, trying to pry you off of her. “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up,” she tells you, but you can see her divert her attention towards Steve with a devilishly pleased expression. Robin punches him without restriction on the arm with a cheerful “You did it, bud!”
Your eyes flit suspiciously between the two of them. She’s proud, and he’s sheepish. God, Robin’s a meddler, but you can’t be completely irritated with her. Nancy makes her way down the stairs behind Robin with a pleased smile—and a teasing “nice”—shot at all three of you before she passes through the hall. You follow her trajectory to the dining room, where you can see the rest of your motley gathering of family moving around to set the table. You’re not nearly as scared to play boyfriend-girlfriend with Steve—especially when you can feel his hand resting securely on the small of your back.
you insisted on going to the horror movie night with your new boyfriend, sukuna, after overhearing his idiot frat brothers whispering about you.
“she’s really soft.”
“i've never seen ryo with a girl like her.”
“watch her piss herself at the first jumpscare.”
laughter all around.
and maybe it was stupid, but you wanted to prove them wrong. prove you could handle the same things as the girls he usually kept around. cool girls. confident girls. mature girls who didn’t cling to their boyfriend’s sleeve every five minutes.
so you sat beside sukuna and in that freezing theater, chin lifted stubbornly, pretending your stomach wasn’t already twisting from the opening music alone.
for the first thirty minutes, you held it together.
barely.
you got by closing your eyes at the scarier parts and subtly whispering to sukuna to tell you when it was over.
then the movie hit you with the most horrific, satan-spawned jumpscare imaginable.
you shrieked so loud the entire row flinched.
your hand jerked violently.
and your ice cream launched directly into satoru gojo's face.
silence.
then satoru yelling, “WHAT THE HELLY?”
suguru and toji snickered.
and suddenly you were crying.
partly because you’d just assaulted sukuna's friend with matcha soft serve after you'd spent a whole minute outside the theatre convincing all of them you weren't scared in the slightest before you'd gone in.
partly because that was some really good ice cream you'd just wasted.
partly because everyone was staring.
but mostly because that movie was fucking terrifying.
sukuna immediately grabbed your wrist and stood up. “aight, we’re leaving.”
you hid your face in his arm while his friends snickered behind you. humiliation burned hot in your chest as he guided you out of the theater, your legs still shaky.
outside, the cold night air hit your cheeks.
“sorry…” you mumbled miserably.
sukuna snorted. “it's fine, baby. gojo deserved it, he was being an asshole."
you whined, covering your face. "i wasn't talking about that!"
he laughed under his breath, but there wasn’t an ounce of cruelty in it. just amusement. then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, “i’ll take you home, yeah?”
you sniffled and nodded. “that was scary.”
“i know, babe. i'm sorry,” he opened the passenger door for you, buckling your seatbelt himself with surprising gentleness. “should’ve known that shit would freak you out.”
“it was my idea…” you hiccuped.
“i still shoulda said no.” he shut the door and rounded the hood of the car.
the few seconds you sat alone were awful. your eyes immediately darted to the rearview mirror. the backseat looked way too dark. you stared at it, fully convinced some horrifying demon woman was about to crawl over the seats and kill you.
the driver door opened and sukuna slid in and caught you staring.
“…you looking at your little friend back there?”
you gasped, “kuna, don’t SAY that!”
he barked out a laugh while starting the engine. “you want another ice cream?”
your watery eyes widened hopefully. “…yeah.”
“thought so.”
by the time you reached your apartment complex, you were clutching a drive-thru soft serve with both hands while sukuna walked beside you toward your door.
you were finally calm again.
until he kissed your forehead, patted your ass lightly, and turned away. “see you tomorrow, babe.”
terror immediately flooded your face. you grabbed his arm so fast he almost stumbled back.
he looked down at you with a blink. then sighed. “…should’ve expected that.”
your eyes welled up again. “y-you’re leaving?”
“nah.” he unlocked your apartment and walked in beside you. “just wanted to see your face.” sukuna lied smoothly.
you blinked. “…oh.”
“cute reaction though.”
you huffed at him before setting your ice cream on the counter. “um… i need to pee.”
“okay?” he said, lifting a questioning brow, not quite sure what this has to do with him.
you awkwardly twisted your fingers together before looking up at him nervously.
a beat passed.
then sukuna sighed the sigh of a man accepting his fate.
a minute later, he was inside your bathroom aggressively yanking the shower curtain open .checking the cabinets. looking behind the door.
“there.” he deadpanned. “no demons.”
you stood in the doorway anxiously. “is it safe?”
“yes.”
“…promise?”
“baby, if something attacks you while you piss, i’ll personally beat its ass.”
you considered that seriously.
“…okay.”
you stepped inside cautiously.
“stand by the door.”
“stand by the—” he repeated in disbelief, before he stopped himself with a long exhale. “fine.”
“and turn around.”
“baby, i’ve literally seen you naked—”
“TURN AROUND.”
“bossy as hell,” he muttered, turning around anyway.
“and cover your ears.”
he stared at you over his shoulder in disbelief. “why?”
"i don't want you hearing me pee!"
sukuna sighed slowly. then lifted two resigned hands to his ears.
“not all the way though,” you continued nervously, “or you won’t hear me scream.”
sukuna closed his eyes and covered his ears, “that all, princess?”
“mhm!” you chirped brightly, kissing his cheek. “thanks honey. you’re sooo brave.”
he looked up at the ceiling like he was asking the universe for strength.
“next time we’re watching finding nemo.”
supa kyoot dividers by my fave @anitalenia !!
perm taglist: @dreamydaredevil @paparaysstuff
[ a/n ] : if u liked this one, i'd super duper appreciate if u checked out the prequel i wrote where kuna and reader a fwb (before they become official) !! love u guys sm THANK U FOR THE SUPPORT ON THIS i didn't expect it at all c,:
thinking v hard abt what you were saying abt enemies-to-lovers bkg love island au....... reader who doesn't rlly get along with bkg bc he did her friend dirty (typical li stuff like he wasn't really interested her) and their first impression of one another is that their personalities don't really mesh. anyways, some sort of challenge that involves kissing comes up (kiss the islander you think this statement is abt or whatever - idk, i dont watch li and your au is the most involved i've been in the fandom/show) and by chance, bkg kisses reader (for a slyly suggestive prompt or smth) which sends social media into a FRENZY. from then on bkg and reader seem to have more interactions (production's shenanigans) which leads to some intense flirtation between them. i'm thinking specifically of a scene in dami and indiyah's season where i think ikenna had left and dami said to one of the other guys in the villa that he was interested in indiyah (it was an itv snippet so again have no clue) BUT ANYWAYS they start interacting more. looooong before they even interact btw, i hc that reader is PERFECTLY bkg's type but he coupled up with reader's friend and reader coupled up with a BUM (who bkg disliked but this is a lesser aspect of the hc)
anyways this is all i have!! hope you enjoyed and i would love to hear what you think - love from another black brit that is GAGGING to be friends with you and tteokdoroki 😔😔😔
okay now this!!!!!! if i were to do a whole new updated love island au this enemies to lovers route is what i’d wanna go down. sooo tasty. like i wanna make drabble after drabble big ass series from this one. i had to save this for when i had time. also i screenshotted the end and sent it to tteok!
you and bkg both being ogs too. him doing your friend dirty but really it was just that she liked him a lot and was trying really hard with him and he wasn’t into her. i imagine bkg saying “erm,, fuck. maybe let’s take it slow?” which is mad for your friend because people are already making out on the second day with their couples and he’s barely touched her. i think it’s very clear to viewers at home as well that he’s just notttt into her.
and then you with your couple. i think maybe you and your guy just work better as friends. he does like you but your personalities don’t mesh well in a couple. you’ve kissed a few times. once out a challenge but that’s it.
till the big blow up with bkg and his girl. she gets upset, crying to all the girls about “he just doesn’t like me. i don’t know what to do!! i see everyone else getting on and not us. it feels like he hasn’t even tried!” from then on you’re just put off by bkg. he’s always blunt, harsh. he doesn’t smile much and is always frowning at something. he made your friend cry and you don’t understand why he’d go on this show if he’s not TRYING. just wasting a spot for another guy.
so you and him are kinda passive aggressive. 100% from your side. he never is to you. if anything, he hardly speaks to you besides from offering if you want some of his breakfast, if you’re both in the kitchen and he’s refilling his bottle he’ll ask if yours is empty. he’ll tell you if there’s something on your face, or if your bikini string is loose. to YOU this is nothing much. but he’s always watching and paying attention to you. he never pulls you for a chat and neither you him.
when he made your friend cry that evening, you walk past him in your pyjamas rolling your eyes. he notices, blurting a loud, “hah? what?” and you go, “just because you don’t like a girl, it doesn’t mean you have to be unkind!” and honestly you’re in the wrong here, the public things you’re in the wrong here and bakugou is confused because it’s not his fault he’s not into her. he does like that you’re sticking up for your friend though. he says nothing to that. just watches you walk away. AND THAT is when the public sees it. that bakugou likes YOU. he keeps his eyes on you walking away. he smirks a little and then rubs his face with his palm to fix up before going into the bathroom to wash up.
then it’s a truth or dare challenge around the firepit. bakugou grabbing a dare and it says “kiss one islander, outside of your couple, that you find most attractive.”
and he immediately looks up and over at you.
all the islanders are shocked. jaw dropped. the guys, who bakugou is actually quite close to, didn’t even know about this.
“since when?”
“yn?”
“really?”
“this is a sticky one.”
he walks over to you, grabs your hand to pull you up.
so politely but rough in tone, he asks, “can i?”
and you’re flustered, not expecting this at all and he’s up close. towering over you. “yes.”
you and bkg have your first kiss. first makeout. first tongue in his mouth as he sucks and bites your bottom lip.
another challenge and its fill in the blanks. momo holds up a board and reads from it.
“it reads, ‘i have never been with a blonde but damn BLANK can get it. otherwise he’s my type.’”
and the villa is guessing who said it. what’s worse is that everyone thinks it’s your friend because she’s been so upfront about her like for bkg.
until momo rips off the blank, obviously revealing katsuki and then “said by YN.”
gasps. “really? yn? it was just a joke! he’s attractive! we all know that.”
you lock eyes with bkg across the sofa who’s silent, leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed. his stare gets you hot, has you glancing away with embarrassment in your eyes. you also don’t miss the confused look your friend gives you. “just a joke.” you mumble to her.
then that changes things completely between you both. public at home are questioning whether you’re loyal to your friend if you’re going after the man she likes. some islanders think this too! then the public says that you should just go for it with bkg because you clearly both like each other.
the kiss and your admission leads to you both being somewhat secretive. you’re playing hard to get because you feel like you shouldn’t like him and you genuinely feel bad. then bkg is giving you a completely new side. where he’s sweet, funny and honest. still swears but clear with his compliments. if your clothing isn’t situated right he’s privately helping you fix it. it’s all so acts of service. secret sneaky link relationship or you both sneaking away to talk. on the terrace, in the hallway, by the stairs, in the bathroom, in the mornings. flirty conversations and deep ones.
you going, “i really wanna kiss you but i don’t want to hurt anybody.”
hand on his jaw, leg over his. he looks like a puppy dog. staring at your lips, biting down on his.
“isn’t that the point of this fuckin’ game. we aren’t datin’ anyone.”
“but she’s my friend. she likes you.”
you don’t end up kissing. he likes your loyalty.
having beds side by side in your couples. both of you looking at each other in your separate beds. you waving at him in the dark while he nods. when you think everyone’s asleep, you reach for his hand and he grabs yours.
i think the public are rooting for you both at this point. wanting you to just give in. apologise to your friend afterwards. it’s not friend island!!
then bakugou makes it more obvious talking to all his buddies. when they ask if he’s got his eyes on anyone he point blank says, “yn.” he makes you a coffee/tea/matcha in the morning. compliments you before the guy in your couple can. he always reassures you it’s okay because it’s him perusing you! you’re not doing anything wrong.
and with bakugou it’s so easy. easy chat, easy flirt, easy to look at. he pulls you for your first public chat after secretly chatting for the last few days.
sitting alone at the firepit with him.
“i’ve been tellin’ the guys that i wanna get to know you properly.”
your body heats. you bite down on your lip. he’s got sunglasses on, these thick black ones, a gold chain and navy swim shorts.
“i already told you how i feel. i can’t… i don’t wanna hurt her. she really likes you and you hurt her.”
bakugou sighs, “there’s no way i couldn’t have not hurt her. if i didnt like her back. i didn’t wanna force it.”
“but you didn’t even give her a chance!”
“‘cause i know what i want.”
you look at him, he looks at you.
“me? from when?”
“since we came in this place. ‘been watchin’ you from the beginnin’ didn’t know how to get to you.”
and that’s when you realise all the little things he did for you at the beginning.
you pout, moaning out, “oh katsuki. this is so fucked up.”
then your guy you coupled up with. “do you like your guy? doesn’t look like it.”
that makes you laugh, slapping his arm, “shut up. i do. i mean, he’s okay.”
“but you like me more. even if i am blonde.”
it’s been tiring caring for everyone’s emotions. not focusing on yourself and being a little selfish. you decide to take a page out of bakugou’s book and just be honest.
“i do. i do like you more.”
bakugou grins, all teeth showing. “i fuckin’ like the sound of that.”
you want to kiss him, share a bed with him. you wanna be able to talk to him without all this guilt in the pit of your stomach.
“i have to talk to her and him. i’ve got a whole lot more to lose here than you do,” then you wag your finger at him though your voice is completely serious, “you better be worth it katsuki.”
“i’d treat you like a princess. my one and only priority.”
he says it so earnestly, looking you deep in your eyes that you have to stand up. flicking his forehead.
unsure about bakugou in the love island villa!!! him being straightforward, new bombshell in the villa saying he wants to get to know you and only you. though you feel the need to stay loyal to shouto, the man you’ve been coupled up with for the past two weeks. it’s been going great with him, you have things in common, the same hobbies. but he just doesn’t bring out a spark inside you. doesn’t fill you with butterflies or get you excited to see him every morning.
you’ve told the girls katsuki does. especially when he wears his glasses at bedtime, climbing into his bed with another girl across the room. your heart races when he looks at you from his bed, staring at you like he’s trying to tell you he’d rather be with you right now.
in the mornings, he’s always up at the same time as you. grumpily trodding out the bathroom, rubbing his palm against his bare stomach. those fucking glasses on and messy wheat blonde bed hair.
“you look beautiful.” he mumbles to you as you tie your sarong around your waist. he leans on the doorframe to the girls make up room, biting down on his lip with sleep creases on his cheek.
you’ve just got your bikini on, not having done your makeup yet. his ruby eyes hold so much, mostly sleep deprivation but also admiration for you.
you don’t look at his tiny tight boxers as he crosses his arms across his chest.
“thanks katsuki,” you breathe, focusing on putting your hair in place in the mirror.
why are you staying loyal to your couple? isn’t the point of this experience to talk to as many people as you can? find a real connection?
it’s a few seconds of silence. you looking through your makeup bag as katsuki looks over at you.
“you okay?” you ask, peering at him through your lashes.
“i’m not… fuck i’m not tryna pressure you or anythin’. i’d hate for you to think that,” he sighs, shoves his fingertips under his glasses to rub his eyes, “but i’m still around. waitin’ if you wanna give me a chance.”
you moan to yourself. you’re not sure why you’re so afraid of giving him a chance. perhaps the fact you know he will be perfect for you. but what will everyone else say? the talk of how quickly you dropped shouto, two weeks long, for this new bombshell? isn’t that the point of it all?
“katsuki…,” you trail off.
he lets himself in the room.
“can i sit? i wont fuck anythin’ up.”
you nod, studying how this big, six foot six man plops down in one of the makeup stools beside you.
he even smells good after a sweaty night sleep, looks sexy as hell too. sweet and sugary. a touch of mint from just brushing his teeth.
“what’s the glasses for?” you ask, checking your face in the mirror. you can’t be looking stupid in front of him.
katsuki chuckles, “shit eyes.”
you roll your eyes, “i know that, idiot. long sighted or short short sighted.”
he spreads his legs to get comfortable, crosses his arms and leans forward to stretch his back. it feels as if he’s under your nose, all around your body. his presence is all consuming, warm.
“shortsighted. can’t miss what’s right in front of me,” he sniffs, “gotta have them on if i’m talkin’ to you.”
“shut up,” you whisper, so clearly amused. you adjust the strap of your bikini while he stares at your lips. “how’s your couple going?”
he pushes his glasses up his nose, makes a scrunched up face at your question. “in the nicest way possible, i couldn’t give a fuck.”
you slap his arm, “katsuki!”
“no wait, i mean we get on as friends but there’s nothing romantic there. nothing like an actual couple.” he tries to explain.
you raise your eyebrows at him. you get it. a few of your girls are in one right now. you opt to put your hair in a slick ponytail, smoothing out the bumps on your head. bakugou struggles to look away.
then he tilts his head, “what about you and what’s his face? you still lovin’ it there?”
“it’s complicated.” you grab your brush but you can’t get your hair to look right. you sigh to yourself, arms aching in the air.
“i can do it?”
you look at him through the mirror. he pokes his tongue in his cheek.
“my hair?”
“yeah? looks easy, dunno what you’re doing wrong.”
the audacity makes you give him a try, letting go of your hair for him to try.
“go on then. pro hero and a hairdresser. jack of all trades.”
bakugou smirks, rising from his stool, “yeah. that’s what they call me.”
with ease he swoops up your hair in one calloused hand and immediately your eyes widen. you’ve not even kissed the guy yet but with his hips to your back, holding your hair tight like this, somehow feels even more intimate.
“pass the brush. i’ll show you how it’s done.”
“you’re acting like i’ve never done it before.”
“this is gonna be the best ponytail you’ve ever had.”
he takes an odd boyish technique to it. holding your hair in a fist as he slowly brushes out every bump. he takes care, bending closer and looking at you through the mirror to check again. you’re cheek to cheek and you feel your body heat up like you’re out on the terrace and not in an air conditioned room.
“that’s good, right? smooth as hell,” he whispers next to you, voice husky.
“y-yeah. looks good.”
“sick,” he grins, grabbing your two hair bands off the table and tying your hair up into a high pony tail.
then katsuki steps away as if to check over his work.
“pretty. i’d kiss you if i was in a couple with you.”
you pout instinctively, “i’ll talk with shouto to keep him in the loop. i do… i think we’d get on.”
both your heads dart to the door at the sound of footsteps and giggles. everyone’s awake now.
“i think we’d more than get on, princess.”
“yn, baby! there you are!” your best friend momo says in her pyjamas, coming around the table to give you a side hug. “hey katsuki.”
katsuki grunts a hi, slowly inching out the room without taking his eyes off you.
“love the hair. how’d you get it so clean?”
you don’t give him the satisfaction, “trial and error, babe.”
“i’ll see you two later,” bakugou says, hand on the top of the doorframe to leave. “i’m gonna pull you later, yn.”
then he’s off down the corridor.
momo opens her eyes wide, staring at you. “spill. how long were you both in here? are you giving him a chance now? you… you didn’t kiss did you?”
you shake your hands in the air, “no, no, no! no kisses but i think i’m gonna give him a chance.” you throw your head back and close your eyes, “i’m scared of how much i’m going to like him.”
momo grins, “finally, babe. i’ve been waiting for you to wake up! you deserve excitement, fun, even love! and he’s fine as fuck! it’s going to be fun either way.”
about twenty minutes later, more girls have flooded the make up room getting ready while you sit back on the sofa and chat with everyone.
he’s hard to ignore, bakugou katsuki, as he steps into the room for the second time in the morning.
“for you,” he thrusts a green matcha at you. a pink straw out the top.
he’s got black shorts on now but still those goddamn glasses.
“thanks katsuki.”
“no worries, princess. see you outside.”
he doesn’t waste anytime, hating how all eyes are on him and the room has fallen silent. though he waits for you to take a sip, a slow smirk rising as you nod in delight.
“tasty! i’ll see you out there.”
with that, he nods, circling out the room.
“did he fucking call you princess?”
“are you finally letting him in now? that poor boy has been waiting!”
“how long has this been going on for?”
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