Hello lovely, i saw the final last night and i can’t think of anything else. Could a request a Jannik x reader where she is watching the final with his team and family and when Jannik wins he goes straight to her like Duplantis did at the olympics, like something super cute and fluffy where maybe she is crying and they joke around that she is almost more exited than Jannik himself. Yeah just a cute little wholesome moment
Where's the trophy ?
Sum up: when you're in love with the number one, you have to learn how to lose together so you can win after
ok this one is shorter because i didn't want it to have much backgroung and be more focused on the raw moment.
The silence of the hotel suite was suffocating, as if something died and would never come back. And perhaps something did die today. Your hand was hesitating on the door handle. Your ears kept buzzing, hallucinating voices after countless hours in a crowd. The only thing grounding you was the faint the hum of Paris traffic, the muted elevator chime. Despite that, Paris still felt miles away from the pain ripping itself in his chest from the other side of this door.
After it all ended, he had slipped away like a shadow, away from the lights and flashes. Away from the curling pressure. And he couldn’t have been stopped, even by you.
Because you knew better.
You saw his face the moment the last ball hit the clay. How his eyes changed for a fraction of second. How he avoided to look towards where you and his parents were. How his lips pursed in a painful expression, holding back from breaking in front of the thousand of people watching Jannik Sinner being defeated after loosing three match points. His words trembled dusting the post-match interview, blurring and loosing their english. His pauses painful as he tried to breathe under the pressure of such a defeat. He had tried to answer professionally and humbly as always but everyone saw the way it cut something raw in him.
He had broken, but beautifully, quietly. Like a beautiful champagne glass fracturing against marble.
You knew this must have yet to be the longest and hardest fight of his career. He had rewritten history today in heart of the French capital, with the help of Carlos. But that story had no happy ending for him. Even he tried, even if he had poured every part of himself into those sets : mind, body, soul. It hadn't been enough. It wasn’t his time yet.
And now that the story had said its happily ever after. He has to alone with it. In the quiet of the cool hotel room. And the smell of clay, shampoo and defeat. His fingers tingling as he still felt his dream slipping through them.
You gave him half an hour alone in that room.
Because he had to sit with it for a while on his own and fight his inner self. It hurt you to know he was hurt. But the only thing you could do was give him space and wait. Let the storm inside his head pass.
You looked down at your watch for what felt like the hundredth time, your other hand on the handle. You sighed and put your hotel card on the receptor, hearing the lock twisting automatically. And then, gently, you pushed the door open.
The room was all darkness, the curtains were drawn. The only light was the golden lamp by the bedside was on. It casted shadows on the white walls. Like nightmares catching up to you. To him. And there he was.
Jannik was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Like when he was in the bench earlier. Two of his finger were pinching the space between his browns. As if the sole pressure could hold him together. The light made some of his strands look blond. You had to adapt to the dim lighting before you could see his face. From behind his hand his freckled cheeks were flushed, blotchy. You let you heels pad against the soft carpet. The conjonctive of his eyes was blown red with blood, the bottom of his eyes were still wet.
And for a moment time stopped. He didn’t look up and you kept your silence like a holy glory. The moment needed pure peace.
The breeze of the open window made your hair shift and a shiver went down your spine. You were now so close. You finally reached your hand up, your fingers gently brushing his hair back, they weren’t as smooth as usual. Probably still tangled from the match. His shoulders tensed under your touch… and then, gradually, sank.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes met yours first time since the fourth set.
It was slow, his shoulders trembled and he choked on a sob. And then the doors opened with any turning back. He crumpled forward, instinctively looking for more of your touch. He clutched on your close, desperately trying to bring you as close as possible. You sunk to your knees, and welcomed him into your embrace.
He hid his face deep into the crook of your neck, his arms tightly pulled around your waist, sobbing like there was no tomorrow. Maybe he tried to forget it all and if he hid enough the rest of the world and his pain would disappear. But it didn’t work that way.
All day he was Jannik Sinner, a 23 year old man with responsibility and pressure on his shoulders. But right now he was a boy, loosing himself into your embrace. A boy who had tried so hard and still failed.
is tears soaked the collar of your shirt as he apologized over and over, barely coherent, his voice thick and broken in Italian.
"Mi dispiace... non sono stato abbastanza... ho rovinato tutto…" ("I’m sorry... I wasn’t enough... I ruined everything...") You held him tighter, attempting to squeeze out all those thoughts away.
“Shh... amore mio,” you whispered against his temple, rocking him gently. “You didn’t ruin anything. You fought. You fought with everything you had.”
He kept drowning deeper in his guilt, shaking your head violently against your neck. He was rushing out apologies, some phrases about missed chances. His breathing was erratic. His Italian words tumbling out. He was choking on his own words.
You tried to hold the broken pieces pieces together. But it felt like a building collapsing into thin sand.
“I know it hurts,” you made your voice as soft and steady as possible, afraid it would break him further. You pulled back just enough to see his face. You cupped it gently so he would meet your eyes. “But you made history today. Not because of a trophy. Because of how you fought. People won’t remember the ending as much as they’ll remember the heart you put in every point. Every single point, Jannik. They won’t remember the way you do.” He blinked, making more tears fall. His eyes looking like beautiful green pools. He parted his humid lips, trembling. But you cut him off, placing your other hand on his other cheek. You tried to reason with him.
"You always say this sport is about rising. That you chose it over skiing because tennis lets you fall and come back stronger. That’s the whole point. Right now that’s the fall. You’re allowed to grieve this moment, but you’re not allowed to hate yourself for it.”
You looked deep into his eyes, waiting for an answer, even if coming just from his eyes. He bit his lower lip, hard, as another tear slipped down his cheek.
You kissed it away. In fact you kissed them all away. You always did this when he had that frown restraining his face. You peppered them all over, each kiss fluttering against his freckles.
"And when you’re too hard on yourself," you continued, resting your forehead against his, "I’ll be here to catch you. Always. That’s my job. Your job is to trust yourself to be better." His hands tightened around you as if you were the only anchor keeping him from drifting away in the sea of shame and what-ifs. His warm hands swallowing yours in moments of passions, now seemed fragile and hesitant.
“Ti amo,” he whispered, raw and hoarse. It was almost a confession, like it had never been said before. Like it was the only true thing he had left in this world. Because it meant a thousand things, but tonight it meant: thank you for loving me even when I’m lost.
You didn’t speak, because you didn’t need to say it back. In your eyes, he knew.
And when the silence came back, you continued to brush against his skin, as a reminder of your presence. Even in the darkness of his lows. He curled into your side, his head on your chest, his long legs tangling with yours like a child too tired to fight sleep. And you felt him let go in your arms.
He cried and cried until there was nothing left of him but those tears. He cried in your arms as you let the storm go through both of you. Because you would fix it together. And he would rise from this. Higher. Stronger. He always did. Not because you expected it from him but because you knew him.But for tonight, he didn’t have to be a warrior. He could be human. And you would love him through it all.
Grief is not something that disappears. It a scar under your ribcage that you carry and stings from time to time. The healing is never linear and leave bruises you don’t realize you have until they’re touched again. That scar Roland Garros left almost broke him and swallowed him whole. Thankfully he had you, and his team and his family to keep him to the surface. He said he was focused. And you believed him.
Mostly.
But you also saw the nightmares that followed him, that fear that blocked his resilience. The way the shadows would pass over his eyes when he thought no one was looking.
Halle was meant to be a fresh start. But the nightmare prolonged into another round. He got eliminated in the eighth round by Bublik. Some understood, others in the press were awful. And when he walked off the court, his lips pursed not with anger or defeat. But hollowness. That quiet that installed itself between you. Like the world had gone slightly dim around him. He swallowed in his mind the label Not Good Enough.
In the car on the way back, you left a seat between you. But your hand timidly drawled closer and he took it before he thought about his moves. Like a reflex. A silent: I’m here. But it was not enough.
When you reached the hotel room, you found him in the same posture as the night in Paris. You had left to bring him a snack, to find him something that would cheer him up. You put away his favorite candy on the table and approached him. You kneeled in front of him, hands on his thighs. “Jannik,” you whispered, “You have time. Halle’s done. Now we focus on Wimbledon.”
His jaw tightened, not meeting your eyes. “You say it like it’s easy.”
“I say it because it’s necessary.” Your tone was gentle, but firm. Enough with the softness, you had to call your boyfriend back. Even with how deep he was buried under the insecurity and fear. You didn’t coddle him. You loved him. And loving Jannik meant holding him accountable to himself. And you noticed the recognition in his eyes.
And so, he listened.
He trained. He showed up. He kept going. And something had changed in the way he moved, in the way he existed on court during training. He was always more relaxed with his team, but he seemed more in his head now. Especially now that he had no trainer to help. And you were there every step of the way towards Wimbledon. You became the shadow he could look for in the stands, firm and grounding.
Wimbledon came, and with it, a version of Jannik that was slowly knitting himself back together. Until the quarterfinal against Dimitrov.
At first, it was barely noticeable. Maybe a strange stiffness in his movements, the way his forehand didn’t swing as freely. He still fought like hell, but you knew his body and this wasn’t quite it. Something was off. His team saw it.
Dimitrov, tragically, was the one who had to pull out mid-match after sustaining an injury. Jannik advanced to the semifinals… but he didn’t celebrate. He was as quiet as he was on court and stayed that way for a long time. Carrying that sadness in his eyes when his opponent couldn’t continue. It was bitter on his tongue and burning in his lungs.
That night, he sat with his hand wrapped around his elbow, staring out the hotel window. You started to miss the carefree and more smiling version of him. You had your arms crossed loosely, watching him from the bed.
“He should’ve won,” Jannik said after a long stretch of silence. That made you stiffen against the pillow. You had expected that it would come out on way or another. “Don’t.” He looked at you, weary. “But it’s true. I wasn’t—”
“You didn’t take anything from him,” you said. “You played. He played. The match ended. That’s it. You are not here to carry someone else’s misfortune like it’s your sin. You didn’t hurt him. That’s not your fault. Don’t carry guilt that isn’t yours. That kind of thinking?” You stood and walked over to him, brushing your fingers along his forearm. “It pollutes your mind. You need clarity now, not self-doubt. The moment you start apologizing for moving forward, you start playing backwards.”
He looked down, then leaned his forehead gently against yours, exhaling. “You’re scary when you’re wise,” he murmured with a small smirk. Man you had missed that doppy smile. “And you’re annoying when you refuse to believe in yourself. When even your opponents do.”
The next day, the MRI confirmed a mild strain in his elbow. Nothing too serious, but enough to require monitoring. You were in the room with him, arms crossed tight, chin tilted just slightly as the doctor spoke in clinical tones.
You became a worried mom. Asking questions on his recovery, the time, the needs, the strain and impacts. Jannik had to shush you so the poor fmdoctor could put him his arms sock and show him the benefits and impacts on his playing. And when the doctor left, probably freaked out by so many questions, you fell into a more relaxed silence.
“Arm sock,” you said, eyeing the compression support he’d been given. You saw it j in black but to respect the Wimbledon dress code he chose white. And to be honest it was to drool over for. “Gotta admit… looks hot on you.” That finally made him laugh. It was a slow, genuine sound that warmed the whole room. “Yeah?” His eyebrows were shot in surprise, looking at you as if you had grown a second head.
“Oh yeah,” you grinned, leaning against the examination table. “Like... ‘I just rehabbed my elbow but I could still bench-press your dignity’ hot.” Jannik rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting even if he tried to fight it. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” you said, kissing his soft shaved cheek, “you keep me around.” He looked at true, like truly looked at his girlfriend for the first time in weeks. Here in his arms, smiling at your bad jokes and not seeming to be willing to be anywhere. He pushed a small behind your ear, his thumb travelled down as the rest of his hand cupped your warm neck. Your smile faltered, but because you were more focused on his reaction. And he knew you were reading right through him. He softly leaned down, pressing a soft and true kiss to your lips. Not a hungry one, but a powerful and plush endearment. He was still hurting, still healing. But now, he was smiling again. Because you knew, come whatever match, whatever outcome, he’d rise again. And you’d be right there.
Deja vu had a cruel way of creeping in unnoticed. Same opponent, same loud crowd. Just different ground. It was happening again.
It swept over Jannik when his opponent was announced for the Semifinal : Novak Djokovic. Again. The player he admired but also sounded like the echoes of the French capital. Only this time, it wasn’t the clay courts of Roland Garros, it was Centre Court, green and humming under a grey English sky. But for him the stakes were the same, so was the man across the net was the same.
And he won again.
It wasn’t easier, but it was cleaner. Sharper. Every set fought tooth and nail, every moment a test of nerve and heart. When it ended and Novak walked across the net to shake his hand, Jannik looked to the stands, not at the cameras, not at the journalists but at you. And you nodded, slow and proud.
But it was like a firework in the dark summer night, only fleeting waiting for the next one. And the next spark wore a name, the same storm that had broken his heart 35 days before.
Carlos
The golden boy. The perfect smiling Spaniard. The two-time defending Wimbledon champion. Media darling, and most importantly untouchable on grass. The headlines practically wrote themselves:
"A Repeat of Roland Garros? Can Alcaraz Claim His Third Straight Wimbledon?"
"Sinner the Underdog Once More: Can He Rewrite the Ending?"
It got into his head. Even if he was used to it by now.
He read things he shouldn't have. Or maybe someone showed him. Either way you were ready to murder some journalists. Because that small wave made your boyfriend stutter in his determined path. And your fear were confirmed that evening, after the semifinal. Something behind his eyes had dimmed after the press conference. He was too quiet. You really hated the quiet right now. Filling your ears right until it reached your lungs and suffocated you while you watched hopelessly. Picking at his dinner like a boy who had just been told to eat before a test he knew he might fail. You didn’t say anything at first. Just sat beside him, the soft clink of cutlery filling the space. But then, when you couldn’t take the silence anymore, you reached for his hand.
He didn’t pull away. His fingers curled loosely into yours.
“Hey,” you said softly, drawing his attention. He looked at you, tired. Worried. Somewhere between present and lost in the weight of what tomorrow meant. He wasn’t all yours tonight. That had become usual now. You may be a safe island in the storm, you were still flooded in his mind. So you just tried to keep him afloat, even for a few moments The chair scraped and you stood up and walked around the table. You stood behind him, your two hands first on his shoulders then gliding as you your arms gently around his shoulders and leaned over. Your lips brushed his temple.
“I know you like to be alone on match day,” you whispered. “So I won’t bother you tomorrow.” He let out a faint breath, and you felt his broad shoulders sag down. Relief? Maybe. “But I want you to hear this tonight,” you continued, your voice low and steady. You brushed his freshly washed hair behind his ear. “Whatever happens tomorrow... you don’t owe me anything. You don’t owe anyone anything.” You said it close to his ear, so there was no mistake or misunderstanding. You were all in and he also needed to be. He reached up to grab your other hand on his chest. His fingers tightened around your wrist.
He blinked, like your voice had cut through the fog, and let you intertwine your fingers. He studied the nothing ahead of him, visualizing everything he had done and how far he had gone. He had found the light in his foggy brain. Though he seemed to realize how thick the fog was, filled either uncertainty.
“You’re spiraling,” you whispered. He shook his head half heartedly. “I’m fine.”“You’re not,” you said, firmer now, pressing your cheek against his shoulder blade. “And you don’t have to be.” He exhaled through his nose. His shoulders were rigid. “They don’t believe in me.” You held him tighter. “So what? You don’t owe anyone proof. Not them. Not the press. Not even your fans.” He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his heartbeat where your palm rested over his chest.
“You’re not doing this for them,” you continued, your voice calmer now, steady. “You’re not doing it for me either.” At that, he turned slightly, looking over his shoulder at you. You smiled gently, moving a rebellious curl that had landed before his eyes. “Tomorrow’s match... it's for you, Jannik. Win or lose. It’s for the boy who picked up a racquet in northern Italy and didn’t stop fighting, even when people said skiing made more sense. It’s for the man who chose tennis because it lets you fall and rise again.”
He stared at you, face unreadable. He had to make the decision. Fight or not. “You go in there,” you said, brushing his cheek with your knuckles, “and you play the way you always do. With heart. Because that’s what you do, you try. You try because you might never know the outcome if you don’t. And whether it’s a win or not, I’ll be waiting the same way. You don’t need to carry me or anyone else into that match. The people who truly believe in you, don’t need proof. They’ll cheer either way.”
His jaw clenched, you brushed his jaw in a soothing motion and his eyes softened. Then, finally, that fondness reached his lips. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, half into your arm. “Maybe not,” you teased gently, kissing the corner of his jaw. “But lucky for you, I’m very stubborn. And when I like something, I tend to keep it.” He raised a brow. “Just like ?” You fought a laugh and shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re pretty tolerable to me.” This time a laugh erupted from his chest as he leaned his forehead against yours. He then kissed it. Then your cheek. Then your lips.
You stayed like that, curled into him, while he finished eating in silence. There was no more to say. You had said it all.
The next morning, he was gone by the time you woke. As you pulled the white dress over your shoulders, you paused for a moment, watching your reflection. You kept your makeup simple, hair soft, understated. You didn’t want the attention, though you knew the cameras would find you quickly. You dressed to be comfortable. After all, they could make you watch 5 hours again.
You walked and took your Uber, planning to meet his brother outside at the special guests entrance. You avoided the crowds and kept your head down. Finally you spotted Mark. He gave you a gentle smile, one that carried more nerves than he would admit. At least the feeling was shared. And not just among you two. After a little walking, and small talk, you found his parents in the box area. They were still warm as usual, but their posture as tight as yours. Probably worry. You had lunch together, trying it as a distraction as you spoke Italian with them. The language making like a dome, a barrier that made it all more intimate. You were all desssed in white, like for a baptism. Maybe it would be a rebirth today. Maybe not. And the time finally came, like bells calling in the distance.
The match was brutal. Like a war with no or injury, just a ball thrown back and forth two strong welded men. You could feel the strength of his serves vibrating in your ribs.
The match was brutal. Not in blood or injury, but in tension—in the sheer emotional whiplash of it. From the first serve, you could feel it vibrating in your ribs: the stakes, the doubt, the weight of déjà vu. And almost immediately… he was struggling.
Carlos was in his element, it was clear. He danced and ran though his side of the court like he was born to do so. Every move was controlled, and he toyed with his drop shots. And Jannik, your Jannik, started tight. Every swing was a little too safe. Every shot a fraction too hesitant. His frustration simmered visibly, his jaw clenched, his lips pressed into a hard line. He lost the first set, and you felt your chest tighten like it had back in Paris.
You wanted to shout, he had a new strategy, he could be unpredictable. He could be a new man if he just let it all go. But you couldn’t, even if you tried by telepathy, starring intensely at him. But he was alone on the grass, just him and his mind. So you sat there, knuckles white as white as your dress as you fiddled with its hem. Then… something changed.
It shifted like two heart pieces fitting perfectly. He changed, he took risks, he hit stronger, was faster. He was a fox, sly and never letting you see his next move. He found the opening he had been looking for. He knew where to bring Carlos.
That’s where the fight really started. He won against himself, now Carlos was next in line. And point by point, game by game, he rose. The second set was tighter. More rallies. More heart. And then he took it. You stood, clapping, breath caught in your throat. You were buzzing your seat, muscles taught in leaning forward.
The third was electric. He moved with purpose now. Controlled aggression. You could see the fire building behind his composure. The ice was meeting the fire and running it down by melting.
By the fourth set, he was the one owning the court. It was his match now, the court watching a future king ascend to the throne. And even Carlos knew it. His movements tried to fight it. But when he was on the bench it was clear, he knew Jannik was much better than him today. You couldn’t smile yet, that sport was nothing you could expect. After all he had it all the last time and it was ripped away. But then it approached, the final ball the final hit. The try final point on the page of the history of this tournament.
And after 3 hours and 4 minutes. Game, set, match: Sinner. Loud in your ear like everything else was muted.
He stood frozen for half a second, disbelief flickering like a spark, before he dropped his racquet and threw his arms in the air. You were on your feet in seconds, screaming and clapping, hugging his family. A roar erupted around Centre Court, but it all fell away when his eyes met yours.
And it was seeing him for the very first time again. There he was. Your Jannik. Your sweet boy.
He ran towards Carlos, shaking hands and walking off the holy territory they had just dignified. They exchanged a few words as they thanked the umpire. But soon enough, his feet guided him to his true blessing. The king needed someone to crown at his side. And there he was already climbing, already sprinting up the stands like a man possessed. And you were already crying.
You were a mess to be honest. Not the glamorous emotional perfect girlfriend you would see on some telenovelas. You were jumping and laughing, with your hand over your heart and your cheeks already wet as the tears blurred your vision. He arrived at your row, pushing gently through the crowd, his green eyes focused on his prize. His girl. You didn’t even realize how much you were shaking until you saw his frame closing in, wide-eyed, unstoppable. He cut your breath for the millionth time that day, crushing you in his embrace so hard you nearly fell over. Oh to hell with the oxygen. You tried to embrace him and weirdly enough it felt like holding your whole world right against your racing heartbeat. His whole body melted into yours, and the crowd could’ve disappeared completely. It wouldn’t have mattered.
“I did it!” his voice cracked in your ear as he tried to be heard above the crowd. And he continued in ragged, broken Italian. “L’ho fatto, y/n ! Ho vinto, ho vinto!” (“I did it, y/n ! I won, I won!”) You buried your nose in the side of his neck, rocking from left to right together in a soft soothing dance. He used your name. Oh it tasted even sweeter than those strawberries. “L’hai fatto per te, amore mio,” (“You did it for yourself, my love,”) you whispered, crying freely now. “You did it for him. For the boy in you. Tonight, you took back the pen… and you wrote history.” He pulled back just enough to cup your face, his hands trembling. You were both laughing and crying, eyes wild with joy.
"Stai piangendo," (“You’re crying,”) he said, awestruck, studying your face as if he would never get enough. “So are you,” you bit back, your voice soft and cracking. You cupped his cheek, wiping a few tears that had escaped. He blinked, realizing you were right, and exhaled shakily. He pressed his lips together. Hod how he wanted to kiss you right now.
And today he didn’t to think. He was a free man. He went against all the odds, his brain didn’t need anymore work.
So he pulled off his cap and, grinning like that day when he won that ski competition. And he used it to cover your faces. The world disappeared beneath it, in between cloths of white. So bridal and soft. And he kissed you.
It was messy, not just one kiss, but multiple ones testing the limits of your lips. And one final, longer than made you smile into it. He tasted like sweat and…sunscreen ? You tasted like strawberries. He wasn’t big on PDA, not in crowds like this. But the hat made it yours. Just yours.
Private in a sea of thousands. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless. “I couldn’t have done this without you,” he whispered. You shook your head. “You could have. But I’m glad you didn’t have to.”
You watched as the love of your life made his way to his team, embracing them and cheering. The people who were there every step, every doubt, every injury and every loss. Inch by inch towards the success. You swore you had never seen a more beautiful smile than the one playing on his lips.
Then he turned to his parents. His mother, who looked oh so proud of her youngest son. Tears sparkling in the dimming sun of July. Her son, the one she had raised was now written in history once again. And when he turned to his father, no words were needed, just the melting embrace of the exhaustion and pride between a son and a father. The rich core of a moment that would last forever.
He finally held his trophy, the prize he deserved from every bead of sweat collecting on his brows. You listened to the speech, hanging onto every word falling from hiss lips like the crowd around you. He laughed with them, humble as always, and still somehow a little surprised. He greeted the royal family with poise, with that calm grace everyone seemed to envy. His own signature in a way, that the world had finally come to recognize for what it was: quiet greatness.
When the camera flashes had dimmed off to the intimacy of the room before the evening gala. You finally had him back before he had to join back his team. It was just the two of you. You stood in the suite’s bathroom, fastening a small earring as you checked your reflection. You necklace was perfect with it and you felt so confident in your gown. Its deep emerald color shining in the artificial light of the mirror. Falling upon your figure like a cloth that had been sculpted onto you by a Florentine artist. The open back shimmered, and the fabric caught the light like moonlight on water. You checked your face, lately you had been stressing so much that your skin had become a mess, but right now it was perfect. You spotted something moving behind you in the reflection. You lifted a brow.
You saw him before you heard him. And then you smelled him. The masculine musk of his perfume mixed with an aftershave cream and his shampoo. A smell to make your knees buckle. He stood in the doorway, his tie undone and rested around his collar. His lips were slightly parted, his hair still slightly damp. He was perfect, you wanted to bite him for being so perfect in his fresh-cut suit that fit him like second skin, black, sharp, handsome in a way that made your chest ache. He had stopped mid-step.
“Stai scherzando… sei bellissima,” (“You're kidding… you're beautiful,”) he breathed in Italian, completely forgetting himself. You smiled to yourself, tidying your makeup and securing your second earring. “Italian again? Must be serious.” His eyes widened when he registered he had said it out loud. He rubbed the back of his neck, the burn on his cheeks going up to his ears. “I—sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t apologize,” you interrupted, turning around to face him fully, your voice soft. “It sounds better that way.” You took him in, crossing the room slowly, your heels clicking with a musical rhythm. “You’re not looking too bad yourself,” you teased, you reached up to slide off the tie and secure it better around his neck. “Though clearly, you still need me.” You stepped closer, focusing on not messing up the knot. You frowned slightly while he couldn’t tear his gaze away from you. Observing the line between your brows. You finally managed to do it. You looked to up to check if it wasn’t too tight and you finally seemed to realize how close you were. It didn’t feel flustering. No, it was intimate, warm, perfect.
Your smile was so full it made your cheeks ache. Your left hand slid down his shoulder to his arm, squeezing his muscle gently. “You’re handsome, you know. But that trophy might be the best accessory you’ve ever worn.” He chuckled, looking down at you with affection that bordered on worship. “I thought you said it was the arm sleeve.” You shrugged, walking past him. I don’t know, the gold suits you best than the silver of the us open one. It makes your eyes look even better. Plus I’m a gold girly.” You wink and he laugh, catching up to you and twirling you softly. “Come on Jan, don’t make them wait. Darren will scold you.” you walk towards the door, grabbing your purses He sighs and smiles. “You’re almost more excited than I am,” he teased.
“Excuse you,” you said, snatching your phone from the nearby table, unlocking it quickly. “You haven’t seen this.” You turned the screen to him. A candid photo. The moment under the cap. The kiss the cameras weren’t supposed to catch, but someone had. You both hidden, lips pressed together, grinning through the emotion. The caption? Simple: "Protected in plain sight." He blinked, stunned for a second. Then laughed, really laughed, and ran a hand over his face. “We’re going viral,” he murmured. “Good,” you grinned, slipping your hand into his. “About time they know what winning really looks like.”
The ceremony after was a golden blur. There were toasts and cameras, endless clinking of glasses and flashes. You posed with his team, with his family. With the trophy. You had your fun too, one where he tried to kiss the trophy and you jokingly pretended to be jealous, pouting beside him. He was slightly tipsy, drinking from a champagne bottle on the way and even before. The official photos were elegant: Jannik alone with the trophy, radiant. One with Iga Swiatek, grinning as they held their trophies side by side, then laughing mid-spin during the traditional dance. You watched him dance with her, your arms crossed, giggling as his movements grew looser, his smile wider. When he stood on stage it was clear his head was slightly spinning which made it was funnier. He kept glancing back at you as if making sure you were still watching.
He didn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night. And even as the party raged on, it felt like he only had eyes for you.
The next morning, you turned off your airplane mode to find your phone buzzing with notifications. A few from IG.
Wimbledon Official Account: 3 new posts.
The first, elegant portraits. Jannik and Iga with their trophy, all quiet pride and vintage grace. The second, a carousel: alone with his prize, with his family, with his team, with you, same thing for Iga. Celebration captured frame by frame.
And the third made you sit up straight on the edge of the messy bed from last night. It was a photo you hadn’t even realized had been taken. Jannik, during the official shots with you, his hands occupied with holding the trophy like it was made of glass towards his left side. You were beside him, leaning towards his figure, angled toward the camera with a soft, genuine smile. But him, he wasn’t looking at the camera. He wasn’t even looking at the trophy.
He was looking at you. Eyes wide and glossy with pride and awe. As he couldn’t believe this exact moment was real. And it held such a deep and heavy love you could feel it through the pixels. And beneath it, a caption that made your breath catch:
"We wonder which is really the trophy."
You hadn’t realize you were smiling like an idiot, heart thudding loudly when the culprit came out of the bathroom. He was scratching his cheek, toothbrush hanging loosely from his lips as toothpaste bubbled on the corners of his lips. He was only in boxers and one of his many white t-shirts, hair tousled “Stai bene?” (“You okay?”) he mumbled, mouth full of toothpaste. You just turned the screen to him. He stopped chewing mid-brush, his eyes squinting at the bright light. Then slowly, the corners of his mouth turned up in a shy, sleepy grin. He tried to hide his blush by turning around and spitting in the sink. He wiped his mouth, and walked over to you. His voice was still raspy even if it was 10 am. “I mean… they’re not wrong,” he murmured, pulling you up and twirling you like he had done so many times last night. “I’d trade ten trophies for this.” You rolled your eyes, laughing into his neck. “Don’t you dare say that out loud.” He smirked. “Okay. Just between us. You’re my real prize.”
And with your hands tangled in his hair, the scent of mint on his lips, and the soft sunlight of the morning filtering through the curtains, you kissed the Wimbledon champion.
So beautiful that in the first one there was the relief of achieving this goal and now there’s the fullest and complete joy of doing it again and basking into it
your fics are poetry, soooo romantic and dreamy!!! hoping for jannik angst 👉👈 maybe exes who were in a secret relationship but im trusting your vision hehe thank you🙏🙏🙏
My most beautiful tragedy...
sum up : When secrets and expectations are too heavy, decisions are taken. But can you ever take it back ?
Ahhhh I loved that idea. Still French!reader au, I really like that one. She’s in med school because I just finished my first year (hardest one in France) so small tribute. Have fun ! (there is second part a more focused on Carlos though)
You met when the heat of a spanish summer could fill your lungs, a warth that stuck to your skin just thinking about it and felt like a fever dream. And like many love stories : you weren't where you were supposed to be, and he wasn't supposed to notice your existence.
Your father was one of the elected physician that were invited to a training camp in Valencia. It was his job, he was always all around the world, following future sports stars and helping their body keep up with their rising dreams. That summer you had tagged along, just because Lille had become a little too suffocating for your teenage mind. The promise of the spanish summer and its freedom was much more enticing than staying in the north of France. Though you weren't allowed to wander the grounds, especially at night. A strict rule your father had put up for you to respect the tennis camp's rules and schedules. But like any rules at that age, you made sure to not respect them, obviously. .That is how you found yourself slipping away barefoot frome the guest quarters during a hot summer night as you trailed into the shadows of the clay courts.
That’s when you saw him.
He was tall, a shadow in the darkness as he moved with precision. He had his hood on, letting only a few curls escape as he bounced the tennis ball against the court wall. The ryhtmic thum of the tennis ball meeting your heartbeat. You recognized his figure, who wouldn't. The rising Italian star. Jannik Sinner. La volpe. Even back then, people whispered about him like he was more comet than boy. Rising star. Future number one. Or that's what they all said. He was the incarnation of humility and class.
You almost tripped against a rock, making him turn around. He looked surprise to find someone there. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, voice soft, in accented English.
You felt your ears going red. His beautiful eyes were on you, and you felt like the whole world was watching. Maybe your future whole world ? You smiled timidly, balancing your weight on your feet. “Neither are you.”
And at simple as it looked, that's was the beginning fo everything. At first it was all teenage innocence : shared glances over protein bars and taped ankles, secret midnight walks under the orange trees behind the courts. He showed you his world in the deep ways you never saw from your seat. He taught you how to serve while the stars were the only spectators. And you taught him how to curse in French. And the thrill of staying quiet and avoiding any suspicions made it all better. It was a secret nobody knew existed and was only for the two of you to keep sacred.
Of course nobody could know. Not your friends, his team and especially not your father. It began as a funny little flirt. A summer fling that would fade. But destiny has a way to keep you twisted in the ropes of your love. You kept goign after that summer. And months bled into years, and the secret only grew deeper, heavier. Like something precious you'd buried in the crest of your ribs.
And soon, 3 summers had passed and spring of 2022 made its entrance. You were now both adults, not the teens who met on that court. But that pure and simple love never faded, but could never escape the shadows of your secret.
When you would go to the same destination, you would handle the airport alone, never by his side. You wished you could board with him, sind sole silly and overpriced things in the dutyfree. But it would mess up all those year of secret where you were trapped in.
So you had to stand back, like a spectator of your own secret. And you watched. Watched his matches in silence, heart clenched every time his name was shouted into stadiums full of strangers. When you passed him in the corridors of the court between his two interviews, you finger twisted to just reach for him. But you did nothing, he kept walking, his gaze striaght ahead. And you stayed in the dark, just as you'd agreed. Because you thought your love was like that.
And when the night fell, when all the eyes weren't on him, he allowed himsemf to call you, to hold you. All of it trapped in the privacu of the walls of his hotel room as he whispered his love in corner of your ears. His words melting into a mix of Italian and English. "You’re my world, even if no one knows it," he used to say. And you believed him.
That was until 2023.
That week was silent. You knew silence, it part of the act. But this time it was bone deep, like a rythm miising in the back ground. He didn’t call that week. Not even a text. You knew something was wrong, but you waited. You always waited.
And when he finally came around, it wasn’t to see you. It was to end it.
The quiet hotel room in Monte Carlo was suffocating, at least that's hw you remember it now. He was a few hours from one of his big matches, one you would attend in silence like always. You remeber the look he had in his eyes. How hee didn’t look like yours anymore. He had cut his hair shorter, his smile was dimmer. He spoke in short, clean sentences. Clinical. Controlled. As if you were the media and not his girlfriend.
“I can’t do this anymore.” It was simple. Just five words that resumed the end of 5 years of relationship. It was almost too simple that it made you laugh. Not because it was funny, but because it felt impossible. “Do what exactly?”
“This,” he said, gesturing between the two of you. “Us.” Your world cracked like a frozen lake that was too fragile to step on. “Why?”
He didn’t answer at first, and it didn't look like he was trying to find the right words either. He just looked down at his hands, his broad hands that knew your body by the heart. Those hands you used to kiss after every match, where he would light up the court like firework. “Because it’s too complicated,” he said finally. “Because people wouldn’t understand. My family wouldn’t. The public wouldn’t.”
Your voice was hollow, the life was living your body. Your heart was ripping apart. “I thought that’s why we kept it secret. To protect it.” You tried to keep your voice steady but your facial expression said otherwise. He didn’t meet your eyes and you craved to see the green in them. “I need to focus on my career. I have a shot now. A real one. And I can’t… I can’t afford distractions.”
“Is that what I was to you?” you asked, heart breaking open. “A distraction?” He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no. You left before you started crying. And he didn't try to stop you.
And tha's how it all ended. In silence just like it begun. No one ever knew you'd loved each other. Not even your father. And to the world he was a comet, a rising star that shone like fire with no holding back, not even love. And you remained a ghost of his past, a girl who loved in silence but so hidden she was no better than a fan. And those memories you shared, so secret that if both forgotten them, they would never exist.
But you remembered.
You remembered the way he kissed your fingers when you were cooking together in your small apartment. The way he once whispered, "Vorrei l'eternità, ma non so se me lo merito." (“I want forever, but I don’t know if I deserve it.”) You remembered being his secret, and how beautiful and lonely that made you feel.
You didn’t break in the way anyone would expect. Not even yourself. You didn't break like a plate shattering on a kitchen's floor during a fight that was taken too far. No, it was slower, more like an ice cream melting on your fingers, making it more and more uncomfortable.
Yes, there were nights where the silence screamed louder than it ever did before. Where you sat on your bedroom floor in Lyon, clutching a dark red hoodie that still smelled faintly of clay and mint and heartbreak. What were you doing... He didn't even like playing on clay...
But you didn’t fall apart. You rebuilt. piece by piece you stuck back your broken heart. And you never told anyone. Not even your roommate in Lyon, the one who knew how you liked you favourite drink and when you needed space. Not the girls in your study group, or the boy who tried to flirt with you in anatomy class. Not your father, especially not him.
Because now you were used to the silence that followed Jannik and you. You carried him like a scar righ on the suraface of your heart, but deep anough to still burn at night. Piece by slow, stubborn piece, you found yourself again. Med school in Lyon was grueling, sometimes you couldn't recognize yourself. So you focused on the textbooks, the only thing grounding you to the world that kept on turning. After a while, your hands stopped trembling. Your gaze no longer searched the crowd for a tuff of red heard and sparkling green eyes, for someone who had erased you.
You also stopped watching tennis. Unfollowing every platform that would keep you upp on how he was doing out there. And so when people talked about a certain Jannik Sinner, the new golden boy, all you did was nod vaguely. As if you barely knew who they meant.
You told yourself that maybe if you forgot the curve of his jaw in candlelight of a Monte Carlo rooftop. Or if you blanked out the way he whispered your name in between two languages, the memories would finally dissolve. Because if no one else knew… then none of it had ever existed.
But again, destiny and life had planned out other things for you, with what they would call an almost comic timing. Six months passed like that. You didn’t speak his name, even in your head. You finally forgot how his voice sounded like.
Until a storm came around your now perfectly rebuilt world. And that storm was called Carlos.
Carlos Alcaraz was an absolute hurricane in human form. he washed everything and you didn't know if the chaos that awful or peaceful. Even through the screen you could feel the contagious joy. You had known him from the sidelines of Jannik’s world. The loud one. The rival. The one who made crowds chant and girls scream. The one your ex always eyed with a kind of quiet, respectful wariness.
You hadn’t expected him. It always starts like that afterall. Not in a sun-soaked café in Nice. Not with that kind of smile, the kind that came with heat and history. He was visitting and looking around the city and he looked like a tourist. The kind french people could trace down ust by looking at them for less than 30 seconds. It was easy, tourists were always looking up.
But now, Carlos looked at you like you were the sun and he was done orbiting anyone else. He recognized you instantly. You weren’t sure whether that surprised you or not.
“Eres la hija del médico, ¿verdad?” ("You're the doctor's daughter, right?") he said, with a crooked grin and far too much mischief for one afternoon. He must have met your father and see you from afar to some trainings. "You’re the girl who disappeares." And you knew he was right. You rolled your eyes, trying to not reflect his smile and keep your french brooding act. “And you’re the boy who never learned to stop flirting without noticing himself.”
He laughed, it was loud, warm, unashamed. The kind of laugh Jannik never allowed himself to have much in public. A laugh that crinckled the eyes and made people forget why they were upset.
You expectedhim to flirt that day, but he didn't, he stayed and listened. He talked truthfully. About his life, his hometown, his family. About how hard it was to find friends who didn’t want something. About how he hated suits and ties and events where people spoke only to be heard. He opened up and didn't ask you to open up in return.
You were cautious around him, like a tango where you kept your distance. You had every right to start such a dance. And in someway he understood without even knowing the reason. Carlos kept showing up, never pushed. And the spaniard was persistent.
Not in a way that overwhelmed, but in a way that made you laugh when you hadn’t meant to. He texted you memes at 2 a.m., sent you pastries after your night shifts, even memorized your class schedule just to call while you walked home in the busy streets.
He didn't wander in places that were risky, he stayed on the ground and built something solid and let you wander if you wanted to. He didn't touch the still fresh wound of your heart and just contributed to help you rebuild around it.
Carlos was loud — in his affections, in his joy. Where Jannik had whispered, Carlos shouted. Where Jannik hid you like a secret, Carlos made you his muse. He gave you the world just for you to look at him. It was like the air he breathed became less necessary compared to your smile in his eyes.
He didn't find the key to your heart. He let you open the door yourself. And slowly, painfully, you invited him in.
He was everything Jannik wasn’t. Not better. You couldn't compare such different men. Just… different.
Carlos was loud in every way. Laughed with his whole chest. Took pictures of you at the worst moments and made them his phone background. He posted you after a few months. Because he communicated, because he trusted you and this relationship. And when the press caught on, expecting some gossip and maybe a scandal from tennis’s golden playboy, they got something else instead.
They got a man whose smile softened when he looked at you. Who would visibly look for you in any crowds and smile like a kid spotting his parents at a recital. Because showing up for Carlos was your way of loving him, and for him it was perfect.
He became another man to the media. A man who took you to Ibiza, yes, but who never once left you behind. Never even giving the chance to doubt his love for you. A man who would openly describe you and tell anyone how much he loved you. A man who even started to learn your language when he still had trouble with English sometimes. Who never made you feel like a secret. More like a grand painting that only him was allowed to touch in the museum of his life.
He held your hand in airports.
He called you hermosa in interviews like it was your new name.
And maybe, just maybe, you were beginning to believe that love didn’t have to be hidden to be real.
Before you even noticed, life went along, the earthkept spinning and your love tangle with Carlos. The day you passed your sixth-year med exams, Lyon was bursting with early summer heat. You stood on your balcony, tired and proud, champagne glass in hand, the city pulsing softly around you. The horns of cars in the distance, the light june air against your skin as you watched the sky turn pink.
And that was also the day Jannik became number one.
You saw the headline by accident, scrolling through your phone to find a song to your story about your successful exam.
Jannik Sinner, the New World No. 1 #S1NNER
And for a moment, your breath caught. Not in the way it used to catch when you saw him on the screen years ago. He changed, not in a bad way.
You stared at the screen, at his name. His photo. His triumph. You imagined the joy of tonight and what relief it held that he had accomplished his dream. Just like you did. But apart.
He did it.
Without you.
And for once you stared at the screen and felt...nothing. Like a news flash that went by and that soon you would forget. He was nothing to you now, erased by everything you built without him. And in that way, you were successful too. You raised your glass to the sky, the bubbles fizzling up,as if to toast the past, to that quiet, hidden boy who once kissed you behind tennis courts and told you you were everything, even when he was too afraid to say it out loud.
“Félicitations,” (“Congratulations,”) you whispered, to no one really. And then you turned your phone face-down, walked back inside, and into Carlos's arms, where you belonged now.
He had everything.
He had the number one title in ranking. More and more trophies. The legacy. Everything he’d ever told himself he wanted. Everything everyone expected him to get.
And yet.
Sometimes when he was finally alone in the silence of hotel rooms that smelled of fresh and clean sheets, he would lie awake and feel like he’d forgotten how to breathe. The cameras had becomed his shadows, like a constant surveillance of his every move. Because that's the thing when people don't know much about you, it furstrates them and they try to find signs in your moves and words. Like a paranoia.
He was the golden boy, the pride of Italy. And still, some days, he woke up and felt... hollow.
The dream was real, it was right there in the palm of his hand. Theis dream he had traced from the moment he took back a racket of tennis at 13. He had climbed the mountain, conquered the court, made history, but he had lost the only thing that made it all feel worth it.
He had lost you.
Originally, he told himself it had been necessary. It was strategic and calculated. Anyone made sacrifices to achieve some things, right? He couldn't not loose a few feathers while reaching the top. That’s what everyone said.
He had to embody focus, discipline, control.
But you... You had been everything but that. You were the laughter that sounded like bells chiming in the middel of a spring night, you were the warmth of a fire after an afternoon skiing, you were the voice that haunted him when he lost a match. When he was with you it was like he had discovered new colors he could onlly reach when he saw your smile. But he blamed those pretty colors to be distracting and pulling his mind away from the real goal. He was addicted t the colors and he thought it made him weak, that needing someone made him weak.
But you had never been his weakness. You had been his home. And when he let you go, the colors of the world seemed dimmer but he told himself you'd wait. Or maybe you'd fade like the colors. Either way, he’d be fine.
But then came Carlos. A hurricane without any rainbows after.
At first it was rumors and pictures, the ones from Madrid, Ibiza, Roland-Garros. The internet couldn’t get enough of it: Carlos Alcaraz and the mystery girl who tamed him. The one who made the golden boy of Spain settle down.
Jannik scrolled through them, thinking he would feel nothing out of it. Well that was before he saw the look in your eyes, the warmth he recognized and had once belonged to him. The sparkle that erupted out of your irises like a june 2nd when you looked at him.
You looked happy. Radiant. The secret that had held you in a tint bird box was no longer holding you back. And you had found a poet ready to make you his muse. You didn’t need to hide anymore. You weren't in the shadows, waiting for phone calls at midnight. You were front-row now, your smile splashed across timelines and headlines. Carlos held your hand like he couldn’t bear to let go. Like he never would.
It made Jannik sick in the pit of his stomach. He was physically torn, and his breath caught just seeing the proofs his eyes had refused to see. It was not out of bitterness, but out of guilt. Out of grief.
Because when he saw those images, he close his eyes and behind his eyelids were engraved the moment he broke your heart. He remembered your silence after he ended it. How you didn’t fight, didn’t beg. You just... left. And he had convinced himself that meant you didn’t care as much. That letting go of someone because you loved them was some poetry bullshit.
Anna came after. She was blonde as anyone would expect, elegant, and photogenic. And more importantly, she was your opposite in personnality.
The media called them a "match". Publicly perfect. She balanced his awkwardness, and he balanced her fire.
But Jannik always felt like he was wearing someone else’s suit. Something too tight, too glossy. Like he was holding the wrong role in a scene he didn't know the scenario of. So he resorted to pretending. He smiled on red carpets, posed for campaigns, stood beside someone who looked like a partner but never felt like one. Anna loved the spotlight. She thrived in it.
And him? He just wanted to escape it some days. He liked the quiet dinners. He wasn't really romantic in what Anna would expect. And he craved a connection only the right person and the right amount of time would bring. A person like you. His person.
He tried to drown in work as a coping mechanism. Everyday became a blend in a routine : the gym, practice, tournament after tournament. Until tennis was the only voice in his life. The only path he could walk towards because he had made his choice.
But the quiet always came back. And in that quiet that axphyxiated his soul, he missed you.
The news came like a thunderbolt in the middle of summer. So loud yet you didn't see it coming. Though it was presented as a card in his mailbox in early January, 2025.
He missed it, the letter absentmindly burried under a ton of papers in his living room, unopened.
But the whispers in locker rooms became louder and soon it morphed into headlines on social media: a diamond ring on your hand, shining under the Spanish sky.
At first, he called it fake news, people could do anything with AI these days.
But then came the official post. A photo of your hand, the same hand he once kissed at dawn, now enveloped Carlos’s, ring glittering like a promise. And it clicked
That night he rushed back to his apartment, goign through the papers on the coffee table. I wasn't real, it couldn't be. He finally found the pristine but simple letter. And his hand shook as he opened, and soon the whole world crashed on his head as he read the beautiful letter in your handwriting.
Engagement party of Y/N M/N L/N and Carlos Alcaraz Garfia
Set for June 2025, between Grand Slam commitments
A calligraphy he would recognize everywhere, that he used to find in the small notes you left hidden in his locker the summer you met. The words blurred for a moment. He set the card down. Picked it up again. Read it twice more, just to be sure. A photo fell out of the envelope. And there you were, not a blurry photo taken by some paparazzi this time, not a passing rumor. No, you were smiling. Laughing. It was in France, he recongized the architecture. It was taken in a cold afternoon while you were huddled in a coat. He was holding you in front of a cafe, his smile brighter than the sun.
And bellow the photo was written : in Nice, where it all began, where it will begin again. He guessed it was the place you first met, and where he had proposed. Fuck, he was romantic in such simple and deep ways...
And then it hit him like a truck. He thought it would pass. That you and Carlos were a phase. A fling. He thought the fire between them would die out, the way so many short-lived romances do. The way yours did.
But it didn’t.
It bloomed.
And now, you were marrying him.
You were going to marry Carlos, the boy Jannik used to beat on the court, and now the man who had everything Jannik had thrown away carelessly. And even worse : he had to watch it happen.
Late May, Paris
You didn't notice how six months had passed until you could heard the birds singing. These past months were joyful, exhausting, sun-drenched and stormy in the ways only a life on the move can be.
It was the first season where you followed Carlos through this whirlwind, hopping from one city to the next, his hand always finding yours in airports, press rooms, hotel elevators. He held on like a man would hold on to his most precious gear in a fight. You were his lucky charm this season and he didn't have any intention to let you go. And that for the rest of his life, like he had promissed you back in december in Nice. And you never asked for more.
And together, between wins and loss, you planned a wedding. Your wedding. The plan was for it to be simple, small. Spanish countryside during december, during his off season. Olive trees. White linen. A family meal under the stars. You didn’t want extravagance — just honesty, and the beginning of a forever.
And his family helped. His mother helped with the venue. His father insisted on the music. His cousins would all be there, loud and dancing before the sun even set. Because you were family too now. It was going to be perfect.
But first you had the engagement party to deal with. And it was trickier too. Being in Paris made the organisation easier, since you had a few friends who could help.
And Carlos, bless his heart, was like a knight in shining armor. He made eveything possible for it to be perfect in an imperfect way. He would help you dring long nights on the hotel rooms floor as you choose some canapes together, not that his stomach minded. And truly, watching him with a mouth full and crumbs on the corner of his lips was making you go insane. To be honest, nights like this often ended up fervently tangled in bed.
One of those nights, he mentioned inviting a few tennis friends. "Not too many," he promised, scrolling through names on his phone. "Just the ones who matter."
You hadn’t thought about it. Hadn’t realized the possibility until it was too late.
Because of course Jannik would be on that list. Carlos liked him, respected him. Called him “mi rival favorito.” Jannik had congratulated him publicly when you got engaged. Of course Carlos wouldn’t see any reason not to invite him.
Because he didn’t know. And still no one did.
Not about the summer nights hidden behind a court in Spain. Not about the quietness of a secret that burned in your ribcage before consuming you frome inside. Not about being a ghost in a story that rewrote itself with your stolen pen. He only saw the part where you stiched yourself back up ater an injury you never told him about. You never told Carlos, not because you were hiding, but because it didn’t belong in your now. It was part of another life. One you buried gently, and hoped would stay quiet.
But the earth was moving underneath the grave and the ghost of it still breathed sometimes.
The night had fallen on the capital, a chill ran through the open window, soft with spring. Roland-Garros roared in the background of the city. Carlos had just come back from another win. You had watched and let him enjoy while you went to a small apartment your friend lended you during the tournament and preparations of the party.
He entered the living room, smeling of citrus soap and victory. He sat behin you on the wooden floor, encastering between his legs and arms from behind. He let his hand resting loosely over your stomach. You relaxed against him, flicking through the last few details, like the flower arrangement.
He looked at you like he always did, full of unshakable belief. And then he asked, voice low in the quiet dark: “Estás segura?” (“Are you sure?”)
You turned toward him, his chin resting against your shoulder. “About what?” He hesitated, then tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “About us. About the wedding. About everything. You’ve been quiet lately.”
Some people would mistake it as insecurity, as suspicion. But it was love, laced with concern. He knew himself, he was sure of it, and he was ready to go through. Carlos never needed reassurances for himself, he needed to know you felt safe. That this path was a choice, and you were ready to step in it with him.
You inhaled deeply, then nodded, forehead pressing to his. “Yes. I’m sure.” And you were.
Because if Jannik had once loved you in secret, hidden so far you forgot you even existed. Carlos had loved you out loud.
And while Jannik left to chase gold on a trophy. Carlos stayed and built a home. And because even now, with the past rising like fog in the corners of your thoughts, you knew one thing clearly:
This was where you were supposed to be.
“I don’t doubt you,” you whispered. “I just… want to do this right. It matters to me. You matter.”
Carlos smiled, slow and certain. He squeezed your middle gently. “Then we’ll do it right. Together.” He looked so cute, trying to contain his joy and not really knowing how to express it out loud. So you did the first thought that came through because you could. And you kissed him, long and deep, anchoring yourself to the truth you’d chosen. Even if ghosts walked the aisle too.
Even if one pair of green eyes watched from the crowd, wondering what might have been.
Roland-Garros Final, June 2025
Those days felt like a fire burning the moment the sun was up. They felt tingly, like history was already scribbling on a paper for a new scenario, a new event. And today it was about the final.
Rolland Garros was fizzling like some Rémois Champagne. The sun was already high, the crowd arriving with a tense anticipation and it felt like the whole city was counting their next breath. It was a final everyone was hoping to watch : Jannik Sinner versus Carlos Alcaraz. Two rivals and two of the best players in the world. And one was trying to keep his crown on the clay while the other was trying to steal it.
And you, you were in the stands, trying not to crumble.
Your sunglasses became a shield from more than the sun, but from two stars that were about to collide. Two part of your words. They were your armor, a barrier between you and a world that didn’t know. That just knew you as the girl who transformed the Spanish beast into a lover boy under your eyes. But they didn’t know you had kissed both men. That you had themThat had loved one and lost him. Had built a life with the other.
You sat next to his family and friends. You were fiddling nervously with your hands. You knew he could do it. He had done it before, just last year. You felt his mother’s hand squeeze yours, her hand warm and light. And she whispered in rapid Spanish which you now understood after years of spending his off season around them. His father clenched his fists beside you like he was trying to will the ball across the net.
You clapped. You cheered. You smiled. You could only do that, the dice were currently being rolled.
But from behind the shade of your sunglasses, you couldn’t help your eyes from trailing a little longer on a figure that used to be so familiar. On a vibrant tuff of red hair tousled with sweat. His green eyes sharp as he stared down his opponent’s moves.
Regardless. Jannik looked… empty.
At first, he had the upper hand. The first two sets had been his. He owned them, ready to win against the king of clay’s heir. He stayed distant and cold blooded under the pressure. As always he was efficient, almost cruel in his precision. Carlos fought, with all his will and heart. He knew that if he had to crawl by the end of this match : he would. But Jannik had been on another level.
Until he wasn’t. Until something cracked and Carlos went through that tiny weakness of the Italian player.
You felt it before it happened. It was like the air shifted, like gravity reversed but this time back around Carlos.
And Carlos rose.
Set three. Set four. The crowd was screaming both with disbelief and incredulity. Carlos grinned through the chaos, wild and radiant. You were standing up and down, your heart was pounding so loud it blocked out tthe crowd and empire. Jannik's serve wavered, his unbreakable facade crumbling in real time like dry clay.
Set five was war and the two soldiers faced each other fiercly. The air didn't seem like a necessity to your lungs anymore.
And finally, after a fight that lasted 5 hours and 29 minutes, where you went through too many emotions: Carlos won.
You saw the way the last ball landed on the ground. Thae way he let himself slip on the clay, falling on his back, his hands to his face. You watched his chest rises up and down animated with something between a laugh or a cry of relief.
He collapsed to his back, hands to his face. And then he was up, congratulating his opponent and shaking the umpire's hand before he took off running.
You wondered how he still had energy in his body, but everyone knew why. It was because he was running back to you breathless and laughing. You stood in front of the steps, smiling so wide your cheek hurt, tears already on the corners of your eyes.
He jumped through the steps guiding him to the stands. And just launched at you and embracing you so tight you thought the world had disappeared. He lifted vou off vour feet, spinning you around as you laughed. This very moment would be forever in your mind, and story to tell to the future you woul build. Because right night your love was infinite. He had truly won everything, including your heart, through loss and win.
On the opposite side of victory, the loser had to swallow his downfall. Jannik was sitting at his bennch, processing what just happened and how he lost so much during this match.
He had lost before. But this ? This was shattering. Because in between his points and serves, he realized something that terrified him. For once he wasn't playing for himself, for once this wasn't just a game. This was a fight, and it was not against Carlos. He was trying to beat himself because all ha wanted to win was a woman in the stands, cheering and crying for you. That woudl synchronize your heartbeats with you and understand when to speak or stay silent.
He was fighting for you. And he has lost it all.
He dared to look just one moment. And he saw you in his embrace, sobbing in relief as you traced his smiling face. He turned away immidiately. Because your brain recognized home in your arms. But you were no longer his. He felt his mouth twisting into a pained expression he tried to suppress.
Carlos had truly won everything. The title and the girl. And Jannik came to the realization that he gave it all up. A part of his privacy, love and happiness. And for what ? To lose it all in one go like gambling ?
And for the first time, when Jannik had to make a speech, he couldn't find the words in English. Not because he was tired, but because he was grieving the life he could have had and that was laying out in front of him. And he wasn't the main character this time.
When the sun dipped on this historical day, you stepped out in the corridor to leave Carlos to wrap it up with the interviews before going to celebrate. Your heart couldn't stop buzzing in your chest. Well it stopped when you spotted him. Jannik was walking towards the exit and it seems like his green eyes were already looking for yours. You nodded politely towards him and it took him a moment to return the gesture. And when he walked past you, you couldn't help but whisper : "You played well today."
That made him visibly stop mid step for just a half second before he resumed to walking, eyes up front. "So did he." And he disappeared like that.
June 11th, 2025 — Paris
Engagement Party
The room was everything Paris promised at night. It was like time had stop frome the moment it was built and gold replaced the dust in the air.
It was the top of an Haussmannian building, The room effortlessly elegant in a french way but still warm from the people filling it. You thanked yourslef for choosing such a honey-colored lightening. You smiled as real laughter, not rehearsed, illed the room. People were truly happy because this wasn't a show for appearences. It was a reunion with two family that will melt into on, with your world and his. There was no hesitation in the love floating in the air.
You stood by Carlos, hand resting lightly on his arm as people drifted past — family, old friends, a few faces from the tour. Everyone had something to say, a compliment to offer, a toast to give. You passed around canapés with a smile so effortless it seemed carved from light, your cream dress dancing gently around your legs as you moved.
Carlos couldn’t stop looking at you, it was very obvious, not that he ever tried to hide it. In between your words, as you were launched into somehting passionate, he would reach for your hand, pressing soft kisses along your knuckles to linger against your engagement ring. He would sometime steal you away or whisper something in your ear that made you throw your head back in laughter
You didn’t notice the pair of eyes watching you from across the room.
And that it belonged to a certain Italian.
He leaned againt a white wall, out of the crowd and its rythm. He was like a ghost hanging for something he will never have and stuck to this place for eternity.
You still hadn't noticed his presence. You were in a deep conversation with your grandmother, clinging to your fiancé's arm. You looked like the happiest woman in the world, glowing from the inside out like the Eiffel tower when the sun was gone.
He noticed the way each of you were proud to flaunt the other to different family member. How your fingers brushed his back when you passed him a flute of champagne. Every gesture subtle, intimate, natural, like you’d been doing it your whole life. Or the life before.
And for a moment, and for maybe the rest of his life, Jannik hated himself. Because he had known that version of you first. Far before Carlos even knew you breathed the same oxygen.
He had known it all : the quiet intimacy, the soft glances, the words invented by a mix of three languages meeting. He had built a love language with you. He had known every crevice of your soul — your fears, your dreams. He had noticed every crunch of your nose when you were loosing at some game. Or the way you used to close your eyes when the Spanish sun set too fast. He had held you in secret like a treasure he wasn’t brave enough to claim.
And now here you were. Shining. Loved. Belonging.
To someone else.
To him.
Jannik's hand clenched around the stem of the champagne coupe he hadn’t touched. He only snapped out of it when a head of blond hair appeared beside him in a flash of red, the shimmer of her gown catching the light like a mirror. She offered the glass with a flirtatious tilt of her head. She didn’t seem to notice how the dress was catching more attention than it should. Or she simply didn’t care, basking in the attention it gave her. Like a drop of blood on a piece of paper.
“You’re brooding again,” she teased lightly, her voice dripping with effortless glamour. “Smile. People are watching.” Her tone had meant to be soft, but it ended up being tight. Like a mother correcting her child.
He took the glass without meeting her gaze, pasting on a half-smile that felt like glass in his mouth. He was too shy and too polite to reflect on her tone. And he didn’t have the energy for yet another fight. “Ovviamente.” ("Of course")
But she didn’t listen, she never did. It was like he was the spectator to their own relationship. She was already turning away, laughing at something someone said about her dress, soaking in the attention like it was a drug. She didn’t notice he wasn’t drinking. She never asked if he was okay.
He didn’t care. Not really.
Because from across the room, he could hear your contagious laugh. He didn’t have to look, he could already imagine the way you would throw your head back and hold your chest. He turned just as you let Carlos pull you closer with his hand at your waist, again, always.
And Jannik couldn’t help but stare at the perfect bridal picture that was painting itself without him in the back.
At you.
The future Mrs. Alcaraz.
After all the smiles, the kisses on cheeks, the congratulations that blurred into one, you slipped away quietly.
Your fingers pushed past the linen curtain, revealing a stone balcony bathed in moonlight. It was like a secret place, not really hidden but you’d have to have the courage to go behind the curtains. You felt the summer air brushing between your limbs as you finally emptied your lungs for the first time this evening. The only sound was the capital never going to sleep and your heels against the aged stone. You stepped closer, leaning against the railing. You took in the beautiful scenery. You had seen it before but tonight it looked different. The balcony was narrow and elegant, stone railing carved with age and care. The night stretched beyond you, the rooftops of Paris lit in a haze of golden windows and blue twilight. From here, the city hummed like a living thing.
Paris looked like it was holding its breath, waiting for an event to happen. Cars passed slowly beneath, lights flickered from distant windows, and the air buzzed with quiet life. And beside all those lights, something else gleamed.
You glanced down at your hand.
The diamond shimmered, catching the light. Carlos had chose the perfect model, preserving a family ring for later. It held a promise, a future, a life you chose and that chose you back. It should have felt heavy but it was lighter than a feather. You smiled. And then-
“Congratulazioni.” ("Congratulations.")
His voice sliced through the silence. It felt too unfamiliar to keep you relaxed now. Your spine straightened and the air felt freezing. Slowly, you turned your head just enough to see him standing there, only steps away. In his tux, he used to not be comfortable in those, but now it suited him more than you cared to admit. Jannik.
He looked at ease, his hands in his pocket but his face said something else. Jannik stepped up beside you, but kept his distance, almost two meters away, like the space between you had been measured in guilt. His tie was slightly loose like he’d been tugging at it all night. Maybe he lacked oxygen like you did.
But your heart didn’t flutter. This time it clenched. “Thanks,” you said curtly, your voice steady despite the pounding in your ears.
He shifted awkwardly, hands in the pockets of his slacks, gaze flicking between the skyline and the back of your head. “It’s… really nice out here.”
You didn’t answer. It’s not like there was anything to say. He tried again.
"You look…" he began, but the words fumbled, vanishing from his brain when he needed them most. "Happy. You look happy." Really Jan ? Of all the thoughts you had, those are the one you chose ?
You stayed silent, eyes locked on the skyline. Maybe Paris would give you the answers?
"I didn’t expect… I mean, I didn’t know you'd-"
"Get engaged?" you cut in flatly. It slipped out that way. "That tends to happen when people fall in love."
The silence between you was taut. Painful. The noise from inside became muffled behind the glass. Out here, there were no photographers. No spectators. Just ghosts of a love that seized to exist, ghosts in the city of love.
You sighed and turned, you were about to leave. No, he had to keep there just for a moment more or he would regret it forever. So he didn’t think before talking. “Have you been back to Spain lately?”
You stopped in your track, turning to look at him like he had a third eye in the, the middle of his forehead. Still you stayed silent. He exhaled a short, bitter laugh. “God, I sound stupid.” You closed your eyes. “Then stop talking.” That quieted him. For a moment. Then something inside him cracked.
“I can’t believe it.” Your jaw tightened at his next words. He couldn’t get more stupid could he ? “What is ‘it’.”
“I mean- this... all of this. You. Him. The ring. I-It can’t be real. I didn’t think- I didn’t know.” You turned to face him now, your back no longer a shield. “What didn’t you know, Jannik?” His nqme felt butter and raw on your tongue. It was pronouncing a language you had forgotten or tried to.
His eyes were frantic, chest rising fast. “That you were it, the one. That leaving you was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. I thought it was for the best. That you’d hold me back. That we’d outgrow each other. That it wouldn’t last. But I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong—”
“Jannik—”
“Please.” His voice cracked. “Please don’t marry him. Don’t do this. Not yet. Not to me.”
Your hands gripped the stone railing until your knuckles paled. You couldn’t recognize him anymore. He took a step closer, voice breaking with every syllable. “I’ll end things with Anna. I’ll go public. I’ll tell the world everything. I don’t care what anyone thinks. I don’t care if you hate me for the rest of our lives- just let me be in it. You can hold what I did against me for the rest of our lives, I don't care, just be mine. Just… let it be me.”
You stared at him. Eyes wide. Mouth parted. And then— You laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was unbelievable.
“Let you be in it?” Your voice sharpened. “Where were you when I cried myself to sleep for months, Jannik?” He blinked, stunned. “You disappeared without a fight. Without a word. Just walked away like we had been nothing. Like I was a mistake you couldn’t afford.” He tried to speak, but you stepped forward. “I gave you everything. And you left me alone to pretend it never happened. You made me erase you.” Tears welled in your eyes, hot and fast, but they didn’t fall.
“I rebuilt my life from ashes. I swallowed every sob, every memory, every ‘what if,’ and turned it into silence. Because you made sure no one would ever know what we had. And now? Now you think you can beg for it back like it’s yours to take?”
“I—” he rasped. “I didn’t know it would feel like this. I didn’t know I’d—”
“That’s the thing,” you snapped. “You never knew. You just left.”
His voice cracked, you had never seen the Fox crack. At least not in such a messy way. He was always so good under pressure while you weren’t. But the roles had changed. He looked at the city of love for a moment, then deep into your eyes, the lights reflecting into his welled up tears. "Why him ?" You could only shalke your head. "I could never fall so low and make a guy fall for me to spite you... It happened, that's it. I fell in love, hard. Because he was there to catch me. And I see everyday that it was never a choice, he wasn't the option, he is the one. In the way he loves me, in the way he shows it, in the way he respects me and my family, in the way I hear him butcher up some French but get it right when he thinks I'm not watching. Because he fought for it, where you left."
He looked at you then. Really looked. And for the first time in years, you let it show. Everything. And he saw it. The lack of love in your eyes. The emptiness where his reflection used to live. He remembered that night he had first met you in Spain. Your eyes were sparkling like a galaxy just looking at him and back then he felt like the sun himself. But you had burned your wings and he watched as you fell, and now the light was gone because you had seen the sun for what it had always been : dangerous and unapproachable. “Per favore, non sposarlo…” ("Please don’t marry him…") Your eyes burned. But your heart didn’t move.
It didn’t ache. It didn’t crack. It just… stood still. The music box had made its time.
“I’m not walking away from anything, Jannik,” you said gently. “You did. And now I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.”
He looked at you, your wings were burning, you had stopped falling because another star had caught you. “I don’t hate you,” truth resided in your eyes. “But I also don’t love you anymore.” It hit him like a gut punch.
And before he could speak again, you whispered, low and cutting:
“If you have even an ounce of respect for what we once shared… don’t come to the wedding.”
The silence between you stretched, cold and final.
Then, just like that-
“Ah, voilà!”
Carlos’s voice rang out as he stepped onto the balcony, beaming. He held a glass of champagne in one hand, the other slipping naturally around your waist.
“There you are, mi amor. I thought you had vanished.”
His eyes found Jannik and lit up. “Hey! Good to see you, man. Am I interrupting something?” He saw in your eyes that you had something to tell but you were caging it inside. Jannik forced a tight smile. “Yeah… you too. No, nothing.” But Carlos hesitated. “Do you guys know each other ?” Jannik glanced at you and you took it where he ended. "We met long ago, in Spain, my father was the responsible physio of the camps." Your fiancé nodded, surprised but satisfied with the answer. "Oh, ok. Well I appologize for interrupting the reunion but I have to steal her."
Carlos turned to you, dropping to French as he kissed your temple.
“Viens, chérie, je viens te chercher pour les toasts. Tout le monde t'attend, mon amour.” (“Come on, darling, I'll get you for toast. Everyone's waiting for you, my love.”), he said slowly with that spanish accent that made it all warmer. He had learned your language, the way to love you. Everything Jannik had known but better.
You nodded, lips twitching into something that resembled a smile. You looked back at Jannik one last time. Your eyes softened, not with pity, not with love but with goodbye.
“Have a good night,” you said simply.
And with that, you slipped back into the warmth of the party, Carlos guiding you gently, the future pulling you forward.
And Jannik? He stood alone on that balcony. The city lights didn’t feel romantic anymore. Just distant.
Game.
Set.
Match.
And this time, he knew it was truly over. You would always be the one that slipped through his fingers like the sand of a sandcastle that didn't resist the sun. Beautiful and tragic. His most beautiful tragedy.
I was in the stands for this match and honestly, you could see the crowd noticeably supported Jakub more. I really hoped he would turn this around and get this abuser away from the final. He doesn’t deserve to be there or touch this trophy or being accepted by the tennis society like nothing happened. I just heard about Arnaldi on the speakers. Let us pray that Flavio finds the same strength as yesterday.
Especially when it's about being on your bed on a friday night, tired from the whole week because life is kicking your ass. And you're laying down, reading some silly fluff on tumblr or a book you've pause months ago and that you'll probably finish tonight. You're engrossed in the romance when from the corner of your eye you see a shadow behind your window.
The blinds weren't closed yet, since you were too confortable on your bed to get up and close them yet. You nearly jump out of your skin, not really trained to take intruders passing by the windowsill. You squint a little, heart racing when the shadow taps on the glass. Is that..?
Relief floods your lungs briefly until astonishment fills your head. You hurriedly get up from your bed, briefly looking at your door, hoping nobody was too alarmed by the small shrieck you let out mere moments ago and would come in to check on you. Luckily the tv is still humming a dialogue somewhere in your home and you have one less problem to deal with.
You rush to the windom and open it with difficulty, your arm still numb from the sudden rush of adrenaline you just felt. And he's here, proud smile, kneeling in front of you window. His hair is ruffled probably from the effort he put climbing up here. And you don't want to ask how he got up here because he'd only make you worry more.
You scold him with your eyes. He knows perfectly he can't be here and why. And he also knows the risks it is to have curious siblings or nosy neighbors. But he doesnt seem to care, not one bit. Because as you swiflty check outside to see if anyone saw him maybe climb or is still spying on you, he's only looking at you, searching for your eyes.
He might not be able to explain the urge, but he only wanted to have your eyes on him in this moment. Looking at him, in anger, love, annoyance. He didn't care. Was it selfish ? Perhaps. But everyone needs to be from time to time. He just wanted to see the reflection the stars brought into your eyes in this humid night of late april.
You're not allowed to talk, not that you could anyway from how breathtaking he looks. But it would probably alarm someone from inside, pulling them towards the scene out of curiosity.
There's not even the need to talk. The eyes do everything for themselves. First you scold him. And he gives you those puppy eyes, not really sorry but more amused. You can only shake your head and lower it so he can't see the giddy smile creeping up your face. Eventhough, he doesnt need to see to know it's there. He tilts his head slightly so he can come back in your line of sight. Back into your eyes, swallowed by their color. You smile back sheepishly, silently admiting you're still glad he's here.
He smiles wide now, he can't help it. You're too pretty when you try to be angry at him. He thought of your face the whole week, painting your features with his mind over and over again like a painter with his muse. Imagining the different expression on his face until he crave to see that one smile he could swim across oceans for.
He wipes his sweaty hand on the fabric of his jeans, a little nervous even after months of seeing you. He gently cups your face while you study his. He seems focused and the line between his brows looks more permanent each time you see him. You graze it with your finger and he closes his eyes, enjoying their warmth. He reopens them, craving more of that slimmer of heat. He quietly leans in, you don't realize, focused on the sound of someone moving in the room occupied next to your. You mindlessly lean in as well. Like a reflex. His lips now centimeters from yours.
From down the street, you hear the barks of a dog, making you turn your head in panic, dodging his kiss accidentally. He frowns a little, though you don't see it. In fact you don't have time to see much because he gently grabbed your chin to direct you back to your original destination.
Your lips crash a bit messily since you weren't exactly prepared for such gesture. But you melt like the candle burning on your bedside table. You enjoy his slightly colder lips, fresh and wet against yours, like the rest of the midnight air currently rushing in your bedroom. They move slowly against yours. You should be rushing, being scared and thrilled. But you'd rather take the moment and taste it against his lips.
You feel like a princess, the ones they write and rewrite stories about for centuries, never truly sticking to the original plot. Simply because no author will ever be able to depict this feeling of forbidden. Unless it's their story. Unless they've hidden in corner or kissed like this under a windowsill.
You know he soon has to go and you try to memorise the taste of his lips. He detaches himself reluctantly, frowning a little. He looks at you with a look of pure adoration, slightly sad he already has to leave. He leaves a kiss on the back of your hand and one in between your brows before silently climbing down, keeping his eyes on you for as long as he can.
No words were exchanged. But dreaming taught us words are useless in some matters of love. Because where the body won't speak, the soul will.
sum up : you get frustrated with your curls and decide out loud to make a chopping off decision, leaving your just out of bed boyfriends appalled
@uzmacchiato for the dividers
The bathroom mirror was fogged from the shower, the air still warm and heavy as you leaned closer to the glass. You had to wipe the mirror already three times from the steam, and you neck was sore, your back soaked. And worse of it all, it seemed it was all for nothing. Because your curls had chosen violence today.
One side was flat, outlining the form of your skull. Not that there was anything wrong with it, you loved having a definitions curl style from time to time. But that was without counting that the other side had chosen a volume style day. Worse of all, it was getting frizzy, and the two sides didn’t match their shrinking pattern, making one look longer than the other. You’d tried water. You’d tried leave-in. You’d tried scrunching, diffusing, praying.
Nothing. “Oh my God,” you muttered, gripping the edge of the sink. “Why do you look like this? We talked about this.” You had just showered yet you felt dirty again. The steam still suffocating you and making you want to either pass out or burst out in tears.
Coming from the bedroom, you heard the lazy rustle of sheets. “You arguing with someone in there, sweetheart?” Eddie’s voice drifted down the hall, rough with sleep. Right, it was still before 7:30, another great perks of having these hair was getting up earlier than the birds.
“Yes,” you snapped. “My hair.” A pause. “Ah,” Steve replied knowingly. “The usual nemesis.”
You huffed, dragging your fingers through one rebellious curl that immediately puffed up like it was offended. Before literally shrieking in frustration, fluffing them roughly and pulling on your roots for a few seconds. “I’m cutting it. I swear to God, I’m chopping it all off. Buzz cut. Gone. I’m done.”
The bed immediately creaked. “What?” Steve and Eddie said at the exact same time. Heavy footsteps padded down the hall. Eddie appeared first, shirtless, his tattoos sculpting his pale torso, hair wild and haloed around his face. How could he wake up and look so heavenly with his curls while you looked like you crawled out of hell. He squinted at you like you’d just announced you were joining a cult.
“You’re doing what now?”
Steve slides behind him, in an equal state of undressing. His hair on the right side was sticking out a little, supposedly he slept on it, and the rest was all straight, missing their Farrah Fawcett glory. His eyes wide open and worried line baring his forehead. “Absolutely not.”
You gestured wildly at your reflection. “Look at it! It has its own zip code now! I can’t do this anymore. I should’ve been born with nice, normal, manageable hair. Or maybe I should’ve stayed bald from birth. No hair, like when Eddie was born.”
Eddie gasped like you’d personally insulted him. Which you did. “First of all? Rude. This is supposed to be classified information. Second of all? Your curls are literally the eighth wonder of the world.”
Steve stepped closer, peering over your shoulder into the mirror. He reached out cautiously, like he was approaching a startled animal, and gently lifted a curl that had decided to spiral dramatically near your temple.
“They’re just being dramatic today,” he said softly. “Humidity’s weird.”
“It’s Indiana,” you deadpanned. “Humidity is always weird.” Eddie leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Okay. Let’s slow down. No one is buzzing anything. We don’t make life-altering hair decisions before breakfast.”
You groaned. “It’s not life-altering. And I doubt cereals would change my mental state.”
“It absolutely is,” Steve insisted. “Your hair is–it’s–”
“Magnificent,” Eddie supplied. “Exactly.” You dropped your forehead against the mirror with a soft thunk. “You’re both biased.”
“Yeah,” Eddie said easily. “’Cause we love you.” That took a little wind out of your sails. Man, now you were really going to cry. Steve gently turned you around by your shoulders. “Hey. Look at me.” You did, begrudgingly. Damn him and his sweet tone.
“You are not cutting your hair because it’s having one off day,” he said firmly. “You love your curls. You complain about them, yeah, but you love them.” You opened your mouth to argue then hesitated.
Eddie pushed off the wall and came closer, resting his chin on your shoulder from behind. You could feel the light scruff of his morning stubble against your shoulders blade. “Also, do you have any idea how long it would take to grow back? You’d be mad about that too. Take it from me who had a buzz cut in middle school.”
You sighed. “I just… I don’t know how to make it behave.” Steve perked up slightly. “Okay. That’s fixable. That’s a problem we can solve.”
Eddie snapped his fingers. His hand was bare, he always takes off his rings before sleeping and didn’t put them on again. “Operation Save the Curls.” You gave him a look. “That sounds like a bad 70s cartoon.”
“It’s a great 70s cartoon,” he corrected. “Now move. Let the professionals work.” You blinked. “Professionals?”
Steve rolled up his sleeves with alarming seriousness and looked at you through the mirror as if you’d grown a second head. “I have hair experience. It’s literally in my nickname.”
“Your hair is straight,” you pointed out. “Hair is hair.”, he mumbled. Eddie squeezed your sides lightly. “C’mon, sweetheart. Sit.” Reluctantly, you perched on the edge of the tub. Steve rummaged through your products like he was strategizing a military operation. “Okay. What did you use?”
“Leave-in. Mousse. The curl cream. The gel. The— everything.” Eddie crouched in front of you, studying one of your curls. “I think you overloaded it.” You narrowed your eyes. “Since when are you a curl expert?”
“Since I have some. And since I’ve spent months admiring yours up close when you sleep in my arms,” he said smugly. Steve shot him a look. “Focus.”
Eddie started to humidify his side while Steve dampened his hands and gently scrunched one side of your hair. His touch was careful, patient. Eddie followed suit on the other side, surprisingly delicate as he separated a few clumped pieces.
You watched them in the mirror. Steve biting his lip in concentration. Eddie frowning slightly just like when he’s figuring out notes on his guitar. Your chest softened. “You don’t have to do this,” you muttered. “Yes, we do,” Steve said immediately. “Yeah,” Eddie agreed. “You think I’m letting you wage war on perfectly innocent curls? Not happening.”
You let out a reluctant laugh.
They kept working, adding a tiny bit of water, scrunching gently, twisting a few strands around their fingers. Man they must have really watched you because you knew for sure Eddie didn’t take such care with his curls and Steve only swore by his magic spray.
“Okay,” Steve said after a moment. “Now we let it air dry a bit. No touching.” You froze mid-reach. Eddie caught your wrist dramatically. “Step away from the curls.” He said in a big deep voice, shaking you numb hand around before gently biting it.
You rolled your eyes but smiled a little. There was a quiet beat as the three of you looked at your reflection together. They weren’t perfect. But they were settling. Softening. Curling back into shape. “You see?” Steve said gently. Eddie nudged your knee with his. “They just needed a little love. Like someone else I know.” You glanced between them, throat tight in a way that had nothing to do with frustration anymore. “I’m sorry I freaked out.”
Steve leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple. “You’re allowed to freak out.” Eddie kissed the other side of your head. “Just maybe don’t threaten to chop off one of our favorite things about you.” You snorted. “Oh so that’s the truth, you love me for my hair.” Eddie shook his head, his messy curls flowing around his face. “No. We love you for your sparkling personality and unparalleled charm.”
“And then your hair,” Steve added quickly. You let a laugh bubble up your throat. Steve brushed a curl away from your cheek, his puppy dog eyes studying your face. “You’re beautiful. Even when you’re mad at your reflection.” Eddie sunk his teeth into his grin. “Especially when you’re mad. It’s kinda hot.”
“Edward.” You warned. “What? I’m being honest.” You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re both ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” Steve said softly, slipping his hand into yours. “But you stick around so you must like the spectacle.” Eddie wrapped his arms around both of you from behind, squeezing tight.
And as your curls continued drying, settling into their usual, soft spirals, the urge to grab the scissors faded completely. Maybe they were dramatic. But apparently, so were you and your boyfriends. It was just a question of who was it the most.
nora's note : ok, i'm still not fully satisfied but you'll tell me if it's shitty. I cannot do a sad ending for the life of myself. Thanks for the long ass wait. (dividers : @pixopix)
part 1 needed
Warnings : mention of violence, swearing, grief, death, heaven (no use of y/n)
summary : after the phonecall, Steve rushes to the hospital only to find his world breaking. On your side, you're fighting into the depths or the world.
Steve doesn’t remember agreeing to get into the car.
One moment he’s basically on his knees in the Wheeler's basement, the air thick and not coming through his lung. The next he’s in the backseat of Nancy’s car, the door slamming shut behind him as Robin sits beside him. The engine starts, and the streets of Hawkins blur past the window.
Nancy is driving because she has to be. Because she’s the only one whose hands aren’t shaking so badly they’d lose grip of the wheel. Steve is normally the designated driver, great driver to be honest but right now he’s broken open. Robin is beside Steve in the backseat, her knee bouncing uncontrollably, fingers twisted into the hem of her sweater. She's not even rambling which makes it even more worrying.
Steve sits still.
His body feels wrong, like it doesn’t belong to him anymore. There’s no adrenaline, no sharp spike of action the way there always was before a fight. The fight or flight instincts are abolished. All there is left is this vast, hollow terror clawing at his chest from the inside out, scraping against bone.
This isn’t fear of dying. This is fear of watching everything fall apart while he stands there, helpless. A fear that he thought would never come up again.
He stares straight ahead, eyes unfocused, denial settling over him like a heavy blanket. This isn’t real. It can’t be. This is a misunderstanding, a bad joke, some cruel nightmare brought on by exhaustion and too many beers. Any second now, he’s going to wake up in his bed with you warm at his side, hair tangled across his shoulder, complaining that he stole the blankets again.
His brain almost believes it, since it was safer than anything in this moment. Until Nancy slows down the car.
Steve’s head snaps toward the window without him consciously deciding to move. The simple movement already send nausea straight through his senses. He finally notices the world outside has shifted. Red and blue lights flood the night.
They flash so brightly it burns his retinas, and for a split second he has the absurd thought that this must be what dying feels like. Just a brightness swallowing everything else. Like a nuclear bomb.
Police cars. Fire trucks. An ambulance parked at an angle that makes Steve’s stomach lurch.
Time seems to become a concept. Everything moves in slow motion now, like the world has decided to torture him by forcing him to see every detail.
His brain tells him not to look but he does anyway. There’s a car on its roof. Your car.
The recognition is instant and devastating. His breath catches so sharply that his lungs burn immediatly from the lack. The side of the car is torn open, metal bent and ripped like paper, glass scattered across the asphalt in a cruel constellation. It doesn’t look like a car anymore. It looks like wreckage. Like something that should never have had a person inside it.
Steve’s vision swims. He feels sick.
Robin is quick to act. She grips the side of his face, turning his head away with desperation. “Don’t,” she says, voice breaking. “Steve—don’t.”
She prevented something worse, something she saw before he did. The dark stain on the pavement half-dried and soaking into the cracks in the road. What could only be your blood.
The distance between the car and that awful patch of ground tells her everything he never wanted to know. How your body must have been thrown weightless through the windshield, laying on the cold and soaked ground. She holds back something between a sob and a gag. She pulls him closer, pressing his face into her shoulder as if she’s trying to shield him from the image burned into her brain.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, over and over, like it’s a prayer. “I’m so sorry.” She turns to Nancy through the mirror and signals her to drive faster throught the god awful scene. Past the place where your life split violently into before and after.
Steve doesn’t move away from her shoulder until they arrive at the hospital.
The automatic doors slide open and he’s suddenly rushing forward, words tumbling out of him as he tries to explain to the poor receptionist. "My girlfriend, she was in an accident, please, I need to see her-" but the receptionist’s calm voice only makes the panic worse.
Then a fire door down the corridor opens, revealing Hopper stepping out. He looks older somehow. Smaller. His face is drawn tight, red around the eyes, like he’s been scrubbing at himself too hard. When he sees Steve, something painful crosses his expression.
And a part of Steve already knows.
He starts talking immediately, questions spilling out of him in a rush. "Is she awake? Can I see her? Where is she? Is she okay?" Hopper raises a firm hand to stop him. “Steve,” he says, voice low. “Sit down.”
Steve doesn’t want to. He wants to keep moving, because moving means alive. And right now he needs you to be alive. And if he keeps moving, that means he's alive and you are too because he can't live without you. But his legs finally betray him, and he sinks into the plastic chair as Hopper sits across from him, forearms resting on his knees.
“She has internal bleeding,” Hopper says carefully. “They took her straight into emergency surgery.” Steve’s heart slams painfully against his ribs. “She took a hard hit to the chest,” Hopper continues. “Some of her organs didn’t handle it well.”
Steve swallows hard. “Did you… did you see her?” Hopper hesitates, and that's never good. “I was in the ambulance with her,” Hopper admits quietly. “Her heart stopped once on the way. They got it back.”
Steve’s world fractures with an audible crack. “She was hooked up to more tubes and machines than I’ve ever seen,” Hopper adds, voice thick. “And that’s saying something.”
Steve can’t breathe.
He presses his palms into his eyes like he can physically hold himself together, like pressure alone might keep him from splintering apart. Images crash through his mind, ricochetting against one another, your laugh, your hands in his hair, the way you looked at him like he was something good.
“Did they get the guy?” Steve asks hoarsely, clinging to anything that isn’t this. “The driver.”
Hopper shakes his head. “Not yet.” Another feeling fills him. He follows it because it's beter than just the pain. Anger , hot and useless, but it burns and it keeps him going.
Steve just wants to wake up. He wants to go back to this evening. Just before the argument and all the words he wishes he’d said differently. He wants to chase you out the door this time, grab your wrist, pull you back, tell you he’d go anywhere as long as it was with you.
He wants to hold you. To apologize. To tell you that he’d leave Hawkins, the country, the planet if that’s what it took. That he’d fly to the moon just to see you smile again. Your beautiful smile. Will it fade into a memory one day, sooner than he wishes.
But all he can do now is wait. Steve bends forward, sinking his head into his hands, shoulders caving inward as the weight of it all finally crushes down on him.
Everything feels…wrong in the gentlest way possible.
You feel light. Not like you're floating, or falling, just unburdened. There’s a faint chill against your skin, like a breeze brushing past you. You feel somehting tickling your arms and legs. You don’t remember how you got here. That realization doesn’t frighten you at first. It simply is.
Your eyes flutter open.
Sunlight floods your vision, bright and golden, sitting high in the sky. The sun is too high to be morning, not low enough to be evening. It looks like early afternoon, maybe. Close to two. The warmth presses against your skin in that unmistakable way that can only belong to summer. You ears buzz with the chorus of cicadas. Simply because the world itself is alive and breathing.
It's summer.
You sit up and immediately regret it. A sharp brightness forces your eyes shut again as sunlight reflects violently off some surface nearby. You lift a hand to shield your face, blinking until the glare softens enough for you to look again.
Lovers Lake.
The sight steals the breath from your lungs.
The water stretches out before you, reflecting the sky like glass. The trees surrounding it are lush and green, leaves shimmering gently in the heat. Everything looks warm. Alive. Glistening. Beautiful in a way that feels almost unreal, like the edges are too soft, the colors too saturated.
So beautiful it almost feels like...
A memory.
A knot twists faintly in your stomach. You’ve never liked the lake. Not really. Not since the spring of ’86. Not since things crawled out of water and tried to destroy everything you knew once again. But standing here right now, there isn’t the fear you expected. No dread. Just a quiet sense of familiarity, like you’ve been here before in this exact moment.
You push yourself to your feet. When you look down, you realize you’re wearing your favorite summer dress. The soft fabric brushes against your knees, sun-warmed and familiar. You smile faintly.
Someone gave this to you. Someone special, someone who knew you well enough to know this would become your favorite thing to wear in summer.
But your mind doesn’t come up with any name.
You try to grasp it but find only fog. The harder you push, the emptier it feels. Your head feels warm, hazy, like you’ve been lying in the sun for too long. Still, the confusion doesn’t panic you. Not yet.
You’re alone.
The realization settles slowly. You turn in a slow circle, scanning the shoreline, the trees, the path that winds into the woods. No voices. No movement. No sign of anyone else.
And you don’t remember how you got here.
You start walking, you feel your ankles brushing against hairy and soft grass. You know these woods. At least, you feel like you do. Your body seems to remember paths your mind can’t quite access. But after a while, something feels off.
The trees start to blur together.
You swear you’ve passed that same crooked tree before. The one with the split trunk and the exposed roots. Once. Twice. Three times.
Your pace quickens.
“Hello?” you call out, your voice sounding too loud in the quiet. “Is anyone there?”
No answer.
You walk faster, and faster. Until your heart begins to pound. You don’t know if it’s from exertion, or from the growing sense that something isn’t right. The woods feel familiar yet wrong, as if it was the réflexion of reality. Everything was right where it was supposed to be but at the opposite. And you didn’t know where to cross the mirror.
You break into a sprint. “Hey-!” you shout, breath hitching. “Please-someone!”
But even as the words leave your mouth, you falter. Who are you calling for?
The question hits you hard, stopping you mid-step. Your chest tightens as you realize there are no names on your lips. None waiting to be spoken. You know you’re missing someone, more than one someone, surely. But their faces blur, their voices slip through your fingers like sand.
It’s not that you don’t. It’s that you can’t remember anything.
Panic finally claws its way into your chest. You run again, blindly now, branches brushing past your arms, heart racing as if it’s trying to escape your ribcage.
Then finally the trees thin. You stumble into a clearing. You know it’s a place you’ve been before. Like an old music you haven’t listened to in a long time. Wildflowers blanket the grass in every color imaginable, swaying gently in the breeze. You don’t remember such details. It’s like an edited painting made to be more beautiful. In the center stands a single wooden picnic table, worn smooth by time, its surface faded and scarred.
You approach it slowly, as if afraid it might disappear.
Your fingers trail over the wood, tracing old marks scratches, shallow carvings, initials that have been worn nearly smooth by years of weather and use. You feel a strange affection for it, a warmth spreading through your chest as if you’ve sat here before. Laughed here. Loved here.
A rustle sounds behind you. You stiffen instinctively as the sound morphs into heavy steady footsteps, crunching against the fallen leaves.
You spin around, heart leaping into your throat.
And then you see him.
A familiar silhouette stands at the edge of the clearing, emerging from the trees like a ghost pulled from memory. Dark curls frame his face, just as wild and unmistakable as you remember. He looks the same. Exactly the same. As if time itself never dared touch him.
Your breath catches painfully.
You haven’t seen him in what feels like decades.
You would recognize him anywhere. In any lifetime. From how desperately, how endlessly, you’ve wished to see him standing in front of you again.
His name slips from your lips before you can stop it.
“Eddie?”
Hours bleed into what feels like eternity in his mind. Time loses all meaning.
The hospital lights never dim, giving him a headache to the back of his skull. The beeping machines never stop. Steve sits hunched forward in a plastic chair that feels molded to his body by now, elbows on knees, hands clasped so tightly his fingers ache. Every few minutes he looks up, hoping someone will come out smiling, telling him it was bad but manageable, that you’re strong, that you pulled through.
Instead, when the doctors finally approach, their faces are grim in a way Steve recognizes instantly. He hasn't seen that kind of expression much in life. he had seen it on Dustin's face when he came back alone from the upside down that day. For a split second, he is certain you are already gone.
The thought hits him like a physical blow. His vision narrows, ears ringing, heart slamming so violently against his ribs it hurts. The world caves inward, crushing him beneath its weight. Even though the doctors haven't said anything just yet. He stands on wobbly legs, grabbing the attention of his friends sitting beside him.
Then one of the doctors speaks. They tell him your heart is still beating. Steve latches onto that word like a lifeline. His hands tremble as hope surges up. But hope is the most uncontrolable dangerous things your heart can follow. For it can be crushes as quickly as it appeared, leaving you with its poison.
They explain that the damage was too severe. That despite everything they tried, your body is failing you piece by piece. That machines are doing what you can no longer do on your own. That they can keep your heart going a little longer but not you. That it would be a 16% chance that you ever wake up. And it would need a miracle for your body to start working on its own. That it’s time to say goodbye.
Nancy’s hand flies to her mouth, a broken sound slipping past her fingers as tears immediately spill down her cheeks. She turns away, shoulders shaking, pressing her forehead into Robin's shoulder as if she needs something solid to hold her upright.
Robin barely registered. She feels like the world had stopped spinning. That gravity would collapse and swallow them whole. Her face drains of color, lips parting as she shakes her head slowly. Perhaps if she refuses to accept the words they’ll rearrange themselves into something else.
Hopper closes his eyes. He exhales slowly, deeply, he’s done this before. This story is becoming too familiar that it makes his chest number. When he opens them again, they’re glassy, rimmed red, but steady. He nods once at the doctors, voice rough when he thanks them. There’s grief there, heavy and familiar, etched into every line of his face.
Steve hears all of it as if from underwater. Goodbye.
The word circles his mind, refusing to land. It’s absurd. It’s wrong. You don’t say goodbye to the love of your life at twenty-something in a hospital hallway that smells like antiseptic and despair. You say goodbye after fights, after road trips, after late nights when you promise to see each other tomorrow. Because there shouldn't be a permanent goodbye in his world.
His chest tightens violently. Memories start crashing into him without warning. The first day you met, how unimpressed you were, how he’d tried too hard. The night you punched him square in the jaw because you thought he was an intruder in the darkness and you were protecting the kids, and he’d been so stunned he almost laughed. The way you rolled your eyes when he teased you, the way you always reached for his hand when you were in that awful upside down.
It's like your life is flashing in front of his eyes and it's becoming blurry. He can’t remember your smile. Not clearly anymore. What if he forgets? What if grief steals pieces of you from him until all that’s left is pain and blurred edges? When was the last time you smiled at him? Was it this morning? Yesterday? During the argument?
His breathing spirals out of control, chest hitching sharply as he gasps for air that won’t come. His hands shake violently, vision blurring. “No—no, no,” he mutters, rocking forward. “This doesn’t—this doesn’t make sense.”
Robin is at his side immediately, crouching in front of him, gripping his knees to ground him. “Steve, hey—look at me,” she says, voice trembling but firm. “Breathe. You’re here. You’re okay. We’ve got you.”
Hopper kneels beside him too, one large hand steady on Steve’s shoulder. “Listen to me, son,” he says quietly. “I know it feels impossible. I know you think you won’t survive this.” Steve looks at him, eyes wild and wet. “But you will,” Hopper continues, voice thick with lived pain. “And right now? The only thing that matters is making sure she knows she’s loved. She deserves that.”
Steve doesn’t know how long it takes, but eventually the panic loosens its grip. His breaths slow.
Robin and Nancy excuse themselves not long after, voices breaking as they say they need to make calls to let everyone know, to give them the chance to come say goodbye too.
Steve barely hears them. He asks to see you. It’s close to five in the morning when they let him in. The room is quiet except for the machines.
You lie so still it hurts to look at you. Tubes snake around your body, wires attached everywhere. Your skin is so pale that you look like a porcelain doll. You look smaller. Nothing like the person who argued with him hours ago, who stormed out without giving him a chance to complain. His heart sinks in time with the monitor’s steady beeping.
Steve drags a chair closer and sinks into it, every movement careful, reverent. He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair back from your face with trembling fingers. “Hey,” he whispers, forcing his voice to stay soft, normal. “You fell asleep again.” He pretends this is just another late night. Another moment where you promised you’d stay awake through the movie and failed. He talks to you quietly, telling you everything and nothing at once, how the kids are still arguing about stupid stuff, how Robin’s trying to be brave and failing, how you scared the absolute shit out of him.
“I’m here,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek. “I’ve got you. You’re not alone, okay?” He whispers sweet nothings over and over, voice breaking more with each one, memorizing every detail of your face like he’s afraid it’ll fade the second he looks away. This is the last time, he knows it is. The last time he’ll feel your warmth, even through the machines.
When Robin knocks softly at the door, it feels like being ripped out of a dream. She looks destroyed. Red eyes, tear-streaked cheeks. He probably doesn't look any better. Her gaze drifts to you before settling back on Steve. “They’re here,” she says quietly. “Everyone.”
The room fills slowly. Friends crowd in, standing shoulder to shoulder, breathing the same air, none of them quite believing this is real. One by one, they take turns speaking to you, voices cracking, hands trembling, tears falling freely.
Steve can’t stay. He steps outside into the night, rain pouring down just beyond the hospital overhang. Jonathan follows him out, silent for a moment before offering a cigarette.
Steve stares at it. He hasn’t smoked in years. Not since Nancy. But right now, his heart is shattering all over again. He takes it.
As the rain falls and the cigarette burns between his fingers, Steve Harrington stands there, staring into the darkness, wondering how the world can keep moving when his has just stopped.
The moment you see him, you don’t think, but your body moves.
You rush forward and throw your arms around Eddie, gripping him like he might vanish if you loosen your hold even a little. He lets out a surprised oof, stumbling back a step before wrapping his arms around you just as tightly, squeezing like it’s instinct, like muscle memory.
“Jesus–okay–hi–wow,” he blurts, voice cracking into nervous laughter. “Damn, missed you too, sunshine.”
You bury your face in his never changing leather jacket, breathing him in, and your chest aches with the relief of it. He’s here. He’s really here. And finally the hole he left is filled.
You pull back just enough to look at him, hands still fisted in his shirt like you’re afraid to let go. Words spill out of you in a rush.
“Eddie—how are you here? You–you died. Where were you? Where are we? Where’s everyone else? Why does it feel like–like something’s missing, like I forgot something important–”
“Okay, okay, whoa,” Eddie cuts in, hands up defensively, eyes wide. “Slow down, tiger. One existential crisis at a time, yeah?”
He looks at you properly now, really looks, like he’s been craving to be in front of you once again. He studies you like decades have been spent apart. And perhaps it has. After a few moments his grin falters just a bit, falling into sadness.
“Shit,” he mutters. “You’re not supposed to be here.” Your stomach drops.
“What do you mean I’m not supposed to be here?” you ask, panic already creeping in. “Eddie, what is this place?”
He drags a hand through his curls, pacing in a tight circle. “Okay, okay, uh–how do I explain this without you completely freaking out–nope, too late, you’re already freaking out, cool.” He adds when he sees the look on your face.
Then it hits you.
The intersection. The headlights. The sound of metal tearing apart.
Steve.
“Oh my God,” you whisper. “The crash. Steve–oh God, Steve.” You press a hand to your mouth, horror washing over your face. “How could I forget him?”
Eddie winces. “Yeah. That’s the part I hate about this place.” You look at him, eyes wide and shining. “Am I–am I dead?” The word feels heavy and wrong in your mouth.
Eddie shakes his head quickly. “No. No, no, no–don’t do that.” He steps closer, gripping your shoulders. “You’re not dead. Not yet. Emphasis on the yet part please.”
“Not yet?” you squeak. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Right. So,” he exhales sharply, “welcome to the Middle. Super exclusive. I’d give it a 0/5 stars” You stare at him, utterly lost. Is he messing with you right now?
“It’s… like a waiting room,” he explains, waving his hands vaguely. “Some people call it the start of death. Some call it the space between. Basically, when you’re drifting toward the other side, your brain starts doing this fun little thing where it deletes your memories like it’s freeing up storage. You know that’s what starts to happens when you see your life passing in front of your eyes.”
“That’s comforting,” you mutter weakly.
“I know, right?” Eddie snorts. “Real design flaw.”
“So… that’s why I forgot everyone?” you ask. “Steve. Our friends.”
“Yeah,” he says more softly. “You forget in the middle. You remember again at the final stop.” Fear grips your chest again. “Am I going to die?”
Eddie doesn’t joke this time. “That’s why I’m here,” he says. “Because you’re not ready. And they know it.”
“They?”
“Management,” he says with a shrug. “Big cosmic HR department. Suits everywhere. Total buzzkill.” You blink. “They sent you ?”
“Yeah,” he scoffs. “Trust me, I asked the same question. ‘You sure you want the guy with the Hellfire shirt?’ Still negotiating that, by the way. But it had some crap with your soul calling me, or some shit.”
You let out a shaky laugh despite yourself. He is indeed still dressed in his hellfire attire. “Heaven really let you in wearing that?”
He grins. “Bold of you to assume I’m in.” You smile at him. “We both know after all that happened that you’re in.” He smiles back and nod. You breathe a little easier.
“So,” you say quietly, “how do I go back?” Eddie nods once. “Come on.”
He turns and starts walking, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you follow. You do, falling into step beside him as the woods stretch out ahead.
As you walk, you talk. About him. About what he left behind. The fear. The guilt. The way Hawkins never mourned him.
“I saw,” Eddie says softly. “All of it. You can, too. But later.” The trees part, and suddenly you’re standing at Skull Rock. You smile sadly. “We really went through hell here, didn’t we?”
“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Would not recommend the experience.”
That’s when you see it.
A door, white, floating in the air, light seeping through its edges like something alive. Warm. Inviting.
“That’s it,” Eddie says, presenting it with his hand. “Your exit.” You step closer, then stop. “Why can’t you come with me?” Eddie reaches for the handle. It doesn’t budge. “Locked,” he says simply. “Figures.”
“Let me try,” you whisper. You grasp the handle, and it opens effortlessly. Light spills out, wrapping around you in warmth and comfort so intense it almost makes you cry.
You turn back to him, tears already falling. “I don’t want to say goodbye again.” Eddie smiles, soft and real, eyes shining. “I prefer to say it’s a ‘see you later’.” He taps your chest gently. “You’ll know the way back to Harrington. Trust me.”
You sob, pulling him into one last hug. “Go,” Eddie murmurs. “He’s waiting.”
Steve finishes his cigarette in silence. Jonathan doesn’t say anything, and Steve is grateful for that. He doesn’t need words. Jonathan’s quiet presence is enough. Because the next days are goign to be loud, and the next years will be silent. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask anything of you.
The rain has stopped. It’s 7 a.m., early May. The air smells clean, washed of the night. The sky is no longer black but a pale, fragile blue. Steve watches it like it means something. Like it’s a sign.
The last sunrise, a part of him thinks, and he doesn’t know whether he means yours or his.
He turns back toward the hospital and walks inside.
The moment he crosses the threshold, a tight grip seizes his chest. He knows. There’s no logic to it, no medical explanation, just the deep, animal certainty that the end is close. The hallway is filled with quiet sobbing.
Robin is folded into herself against the wall, face buried in her hands. Nancy’s arms are wrapped around her, both of them shaking. Hopper stands a little apart, staring at the floor next to Joyce.
Dustin looks up when he sees Steve. He doesn’t say anything. He just steps forward and hugs him like he’s afraid Steve might disappear too. It’s a warm hug. Steve holds on. For just a second, he lets himself lean into it. Then Dustin pulls back, nodding once, eyes red and glossy but steady. He understands. They all do.
Steve looks around at them, his family, his kids, his people and his heart aches with the sheer amount of love packed into such a small space. Love with nowhere to go. Love with no place to land.
He turns and walks toward your room. At the doorway, he stops, taking it all in. Entering your space one last time.
He sits in the chair beside your bed as dawn spills through the window behind him, painting the room in pale gold. You look so still. So impossibly young. Twenty-two forever.
Steve had always thought he would die first. Even if it was decades from now. Even if it was old age, gray hair, wrinkled hands. He had never imagined a world where he’d have to walk it without you. Never imagined plans unraveling like this, because life doesn’t care about promises or futures. “You know,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “I really thought I’d go first.” He tells you how the world will keep spinning. How he’ll get older while you stay exactly as you are. How unfair that feels. How wrong. Then he forces himself to smile a little, changing the subject, because he doesn’t want the last things you hear to be sadness.
He tells you about your first date. How he was convinced he’d screwed it up beyond repair. How he sat by the phone afterward, heart in his throat, fully prepared to never hear from you again. “But you called,” he whispers, a soft laugh breaking through his tears. “And I swear, there’s no universe where we didn’t end up together. Even if this one… didn’t give us enough time.” He swallows hard. “No matter what,” he says, “I’ll wait for you.”
His voice cracks when he apologizes, for the argument, for the words he didn’t say, for every moment he wasted being afraid. “I love you,” he whispers, leaning forward, forehead resting gently against your hand. Then the beeping changes. It becomes loudand continuous. Flat.
Steve freezes. Doctors rush in, voices urgent, hands moving fast, and Steve stumbles back as panic explodes in his chest. He knows.
This is it. This is the end.
You step toward the doorway.
The light spilling from it is warm, gentle, silver, wrapping around your skin like moonlight. You take one more breath and move to cross the threshold.
The door slams shut before you can. Hard.
It hits you square in the face, the sound echoing unnaturally loud through Skull Rock. You stumble back with a startled cry, clutching your nose.
“What the hell?!” you gasp. You reach for the handle immediately, rattling it.
Locked. You twist it again, harder this time. Nothing. You turn slowly toward Eddie. He looks just as confused as you feel. “Uh,” he says intelligently. “That’s… new.” You frown. “You said this was my way out.”
“It is!” he insists, hands flying up. “At least it was ! I swear I didn’t know, there’s no cosmic ‘slam door in face’ feature that I know of!”
You open your mouth to respond and then it hits. A searing, blinding pain explodes in your chest.
It feels like something is squeezing your heart in a fist made of fire. Your breath vanishes. The world tilts violently beneath you and your knees buckle.
Eddie catches you.
“Whoa—hey, hey!” he shouts, lowering with you, panic replacing every trace of humor. “What’s happening? Talk to me!” He's swearing things he probably shouldn't say considering he comes frome heaven or something. You clutch at your chest, gasping. “It- hurts-”
The pain is like a sharp stab and spreads quickly through your chest like electricity, and you instinctively look down at your hands. They’re flickering. For a split second, you can see through them like you’re nothing more than a projection glitching in and out of existence. Then they solidify again. Then flicker.
Your stomach drops. “Eddie,” you whisper, terrified. He stares at your hands, eyes going wide. “No. No, no, no, shit—that’s not supposed to happen.” You blink, now your whole arm fades again, translucent, barely there. “What’s happening to me?” you choke out.
Eddie shakes his head, curls bouncing wildly as he looks around like he expects someone to pop out and fix this. “This isn’t how it works. You’re supposed to go back. That’s the whole point. You’re not supposed to-” His voice cracks. “You’re not supposed to glitch out like some busted arcade machine!”
Another wave of pain rips through you and you double over, clutching his jacket. “I can’t-” you gasp. “I can’t feel-”
“You’re crossing,” Eddie breathes, realization dawning on his face. “But not the right way.” You look at him, vision blurring. “Your body,” he says quickly, gripping your shoulders. “It’s starting to cross you toward the after. When it’s supposed to be pulling you back to the before.” You shake your head weakly. “I don’t understand-”
“It means your body’s failing,” he says, and the words sound foreign in his mouth, like he doesn’t want to claim them. “It’s not holding on. It’s not doing what it’s supposed to do.” Your hands flicker again, longer this time.
Eddie swears under his breath, fear finally cracking fully through his messy bravado. “No, no, no, come on. This isn’t the plan. This is not the plan.” He looks at the sky, as if he's screaming at corporation. You can feel it now. The pull.
Not the warm invitation of the door you tried to walk through but something deeper. It's light blue and colder, dragging you somewhere you didn’t choose. Eddie cups your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. “Hey. Stay with me,” he says urgently. “You’re not done. You hear me? You’re not done.” But your edges blur again, your body flickering like a dying light.
The flatline barely finishes echoing before the room explodes into motion.
Doctors and nurses flood in, surrounding your bed in a rush of blue scrubs and sharp commands. Steve is shoved back by the sheer force of it, the chair scraping loudly across the floor.
“She’s not a DNR!” someone snaps. “We can get her back, start compressions!”
Steve stands frozen as hands press hard against your chest. The rhythmic, brutal force of it makes his stomach turn. One, two, three, counting under their breath. The flat light on the machine starts to vibrate. “She’s no longer asystolic, charge the machine.” The machine whines as they charge it.
“Clear!” Your body jolts with the shock, it’s not as violent as he’d expected. Steve flinches like he’s the one being electrocuted. “Epinephrine!” “Push one milligram!” Another shock. Another jolt.
The room is chaos, shouting, beeping, the mechanical hiss of oxygen. Steve’s ears ring, his brain unable to process any of it except one terrible thought: this is how she dies.
Not the calm death you could’ve had but people around you fighting to keep you.
A nurse appears at his side. “Sir,” she says gently, placing a steady hand on his arm. “We need some space.”
“I—no, I can’t—” His voice cracks apart. “I can’t leave her.”
“You’re not leaving her,” she assures him softly, guiding him toward the door. “We’re working on her. She’s young. Strong. You probably haven’t said your last words yet.”
He’s too numb to answer. He lets himself be led into the hallway, but the second the door swings shut, the sounds become worse somehow, ramming through his skull. Like nightmare being loved over and over.
Steve’s legs wobble violently.
He presses his back against the wall, trying to stay upright, but the weight on his chest becomes unbearable. His knees give out and he slides down until he’s sitting on the cold hospital floor, head falling forward into his hands.
He’s crying now.
Not quiet tears. Not controlled. He’s wrecked, shoulders shaking, breath hitching painfully as if the air itself is cutting him on the way in. The kind of sobs you only have when you’re a kid and disappear with age.
It feels like the world is collapsing inward, the walls narrowing, the ceiling pressing down. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. He can’t survive this.
So his brain tries to save itself where the heart can’t. He goes to his happy place.
Sunday mornings.
The kitchen is warm and golden with sunlight. The radio hums softly in the background, “Don’t stop me now” makes you hips swing excitedly. You’re barefoot, wearing one of his old t-shirts, swaying absentmindedly as you flip pancakes at the stove.
You hum off-key.
He stands at the counter, pretending to be offended that you won’t let him handle the flipping because “you always burn them, Harrington.”
He only burns them because he’s distracted by you. He laughs in the memory.
He can smell the batter. Hear the sizzle in the pan. See the way you bump your hip against his when you pass by.
It’s simple. So simple it feels stupid. But it’s happiness and he can feel it slipping through his fingers. God knows how long he stays there.
The flickering stops. Just like it appeared it simply went away without explanation.
One second you’re blinking in and out like a dying bulb and the next, you’re solid again. And the searing pain in your chest vanishes as if it was never there.
You let your lungs gasp some much needed oxygen, even though air doesn’t quite feel like air.
Eddie exhales so hard it’s almost a laugh. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t do that. I already died once, I don’t need round two for heart failure.”
You look down at your hands. “I think…” you breathe. “I think it stopped.”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding quickly. “Yeah, you’re good. You’re back on track. Whatever was going on down there? They fixed it.”
Down there. The Before. Your body.
You slowly push yourself to your feet. Eddie keeps a steadying hand near your elbow like he doesn’t quite trust the universe not to yank you sideways again.
You walk back to the door. It’s still there luckily. You grab the handle.
Locked. You frown, rattling it once more. “Seriously?” you mutter. Eddie shrugs. “Your body’s probably not ready to wake up yet.”
“So what do I do?” He gestures broadly to the clearing. “We wait.” You glance at him. “You’ve got a few hours,” he adds. “Give or take. Hard to tell. Time’s weird here.”
You nod slowly and sit down in the grass beside him. The flowers sway around you, the sky still painted in that endless golden afternoon. And you talk. For hours. Face to face in the grass like you’re kids again. You tell him everything that happened after he was gone, even though he says he saw most of it.
“I know,” he says softly at one point. “I saw you guys. All of you. Especially Henderson disobeying me. But when did that kid ever listened you'll tell me.”, he shrugs. You tell him about the way Hawkins changed.About the guilt. The grief. The way Dustin still talks about him like he might walk through a door any second.
You tell him about Steve. About how messy and stubborn and soft he is. About your fights and your dreams and the way he knocks on doors in secret rhythms.You're sure it's not his favourite part, talking about Steve Harrington's love life. But he listens.
You tell him about people he never got to meet. Like Johnathan or El or Will. About friends who came later. He listens to every word like it matters. Like you weren't in the middle of life or death and none of it really mattered anymore. But for him you matter. Right this moment.
The sun begins to lower in the sky of the Middle. The light shifts from gold to amber to something darker. You’re mid-sentence, laughing about something stupid, when the door behind you slams open on its own.
You both turn. It stands wide open now, light pouring out in warm waves. Eddie nods slowly. “Huh. Took less time than I thought.” You blink. “What do you mean?” He pushes himself up, brushing grass off his jeans. “Time’s different here. The Middle and the After run faster than the Before.” You frown. “Faster how?” He tilts his head, calculating.
“Roughly? A day here is about six months down there.” Your breath catches in your throat. “You’ve been waiting…” he glances at the sky, squiting his eyes. “About eight hours.” Your mind spins at the calculation. “That’s two months,” you whisper. He glances back down at you. “Yup,” he says gently. Two months. So much time you've lost for a simple mistake.
Steve. You step toward the door, heart pounding. You’re ready. But then something stops you. It’s not physical pain this time. It’s grief. It swells in your chest, stealing your breath in a completely different way. You turn back to Eddie. “I don’t want to leave you,” you whisper.
His face softens immediately. “And I don’t want you to stay,” he replies.Tears well in your eyes. “You’re here alone.”
“I’m not alone,” he says gently. “And even if I was? That’s not your burden to carry, sweetheart.”
“I want you back with me,” you ramble, voice breaking. “You should be there. You should’ve had more time. You didn’t get to live your life, Eddie.” He steps closer. “Hey,” he says softly. “It’s not your time. That’s the deal. And yeah, it’s gonna hurt like a bitch. Death sucks. And it'll hurt you more for you than me.” You blink. “What?”
“You’ve got a lifetime ahead of you,” he explains. “Decades. You’re gonna miss me sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” you choke out. He smiles faintly. “Okay. A lot, at first.” Tears spill down your cheeks. “But for me?” he continues. “It’ll only be a few days.” You stare at him, confused. He nods toward the sky. “Time here, remember? Six months a day. You’ve been gone two months already. By the time you get back and live your whole long ass life? It’ll feel like a blink to me.”
That brings slight dread and relief to you. “I’ll see you soon,” he says softly. “Just not your soon.” You step closer, gripping his hands. They're as warm as you expected them to be, and the cold metal of his rings contrasting with them.
“I wish you a long, long life,” he says, voice thick now. “Go study. Go love. Go fight. Go live every stupid, beautiful dream you’ve got. Miss me sometimes. But not all the time. Because you know you’ll find me again.” You’re crying openly now.
“How long till I see you again?” you ask. He grins, that cheeky grin, and blinks rapidly to chast away the tears. “I wish you to live at least...140 days.” You frown. “Seventy years,” he clarifies. “I'd say it's a pretty good deal.” You let out a watery laugh. “Deal?” he asks. “Deal,” you whisper.
You throw your arms around him and he hugs you tight; as tight like he did when you first ran to him. Both of you shaking a little now. He presses a soft kiss to your cheek.
“Go,” he murmurs. He takes your hand and guides you to the doorway. The light spills over your skin. You hesitate just once more. He squeezes your fingers. “I’ve got you,” he says. You focus on his hand as he slowly lets go. The light envelops you completely.
And the last thing you feel...Is him.
The hand doesn’t let go. You keep holding on to that single thought as you walk through was at first only light and became darkness.
It's like your vision is gone, just endless darkness. It's like you stepped wrong and fell straight into nothing. For one terrifying second, you think it failed. Think the door lied. Think this is it. An eternal, empty void where sound doesn’t exist and you’re stuck floating forever.
Panic crawls up your throat. You try to move, but you feel weightless, attatched to nothing not even the ground. Like you’re drifting farther and farther away from everything that ever mattered. Into space like a lost meteorite.
Then sound rushes in your ears.
Beep.
Another one follows.
Beep.
It’s distant at first, echoing like it’s underwater. You cling to it instinctively, like a rope thrown into darkness. You follow the sound, even though something in your gut screams that it’s a bad idea. The closer you get, the louder it becomes, until it’s not echoing anymore, it’s pounding. Right into your skull. You wince. You can't even look down at yourself, it's like you don't exist. You don't have legs or arms or hands... Hands.
And that’s when you notice it again. The hand. You still feel a hand wrapped around yours. But it’s not Eddie. And then what you suggest is your chest, flutters.
Once.
Twice.
Your breath stutters like your body is remembering how to exist. You’re not floating. You’re heavy. Anchored. Pressed into something firm beneath you.
A bed.
It’s not a void.
It’s just your stupid, stubborn, closed eyes. And you're the conscience right now. You focus with everything you have, every ounce of will, and try to open them. Your lids feel impossibly heavy, like they’re glued shut. You manage the smallest crack and light spills in, blinding and soft all at once.
You hum weakly, a sound you don’t even realize you make. Already complaining at the all to bright light. Everything is blurry.
Hand.
Beeping.
Light.
There’s a figure beside you.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Standing close enough that you can feel their presence even before you see them properly. The sun is behind them, pouring in through a window, outlining them in gold. For half a second you wonder if this is what angels are supposed to look like.
The figure moves, they lean closer, squeezing your hand just a little tighter. A voice reaches you, muffled, like it has to fight its way through cotton.
“Hey… hey, easy. I’ve got you.” I've got you ? Someone said that to you a few moments ago but you can't remember. Your throat feels raw when you try to speak. “St—” it comes out broken. The figure stiffens.
You try again, forcing the word through with everything you have. “Steve.” He lets out a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Yeah,” he breathes, voice cracking completely now. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m here.” Your vision clears just enough for his face to come into focus.
Steve.
He's real. Yes he seems exhausted, with eyes red and glassy, tears clinging to his lashes. His hair is a mess like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop. And his freckled skin needed some rest from the frowning. It was unfair how wrecked he looked yet still impossibly beautiful in the early morning light.
He squeezes your hand again like he’s scared you might disappear if he doesn’t.
You stare at him. Just stare. Drinking him in, the way some people do while looking at painting in museum, you're looking at your love. The way his jaw trembles. The way his smile keeps breaking apart because he can’t stop crying.
He's here and you are too. And it's morning on Hawkins. Just sunrise filtering into a quiet hospital room. His thumb strokes across your knuckles absentmindedly. You take a slow breath, not really knowing what to say.
“I…” You swallow. Your voice is small. “I fell asleep during the movie again, didn’t I?” It takes him a second to process it. Then he huffs out another wet laugh, tears spilling over. “Yeah,” he nods quickly, playing along immediately. “Yeah, you did. Worst timing ever.”
“I told you to pause it,” you murmur weakly. He wipes his face with the back of his hand. “You were out for a while. Thought about finishing it without you.” You narrow your eyes slightly. “Rude.”
“I know.” He leans down and kisses your forehead gently. His lips linger there. “But it was worth the wait.” There’s so much in his voice. So much love. So much relief. So much fear. Something like disbelief.
You let your eyes close for just a second to bask in the warmth of it all. The sun is higher now, bathing the room in soft morning gold. When you open them again, he’s still there. Watching you like you’re the only thing in the world.
Apologies are hanging in the air. Explanations. Questions about what you remember. About what happened.
You know there will be conversations. Hard ones. Emotional ones. But not right now. Right now, you’re here. He’s here.
Your heart is beating. The world didn’t end.
You squeeze his hand back with what little strength you have. “I’m okay,” you whisper. His face crumples again at that. “I know,” he says softly. “You’re okay. I'm okay. We're okay.”
And you let it all go to flames. Between the rising sun of Hawkins, with monitors humming gently and his hand anchoring you to the earth, you let it all be simple. Because that's what it is. And it's happy. And that’s enough.
tag list for this second part : @sarkastic1515 @taylor-27
@itslivz @aestheticsunflower19 @ilovesfandoms @thexhotmess @theallisonkeery @lalqu @catloverteen @girlnextdoore @offbrandhandymanny @mblovestaylor @damiiworld @hottie-bishop-belova @lala426
hello guys, just wanted to appologize, i'm taking much more time for the second part of the line goes dead
I went into this not really knowing where the story would bring me, and i tried to follow through even though i didn't quite like the idea. so i have to rewrite a big part of it because i had a change of scenario
again sorry for the slight delay, but i can sure tag you if you want when the next part is out.
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