Plagued with insomnia, creative writing, Shakespeare quoter. My inbox is always open for a chat!
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Currently writing for Michael Robinavitch, John Carter, and Jack Abbot. I’m also open to writing for DC and Marvel. If you have any ideas please send them my way!
Series summary: Robby left for his sabbatical without a thought and you’re left to pick up the pieces. But now he’s back at PTMC and trying desperately to reconnect. Robby learns the truth of how long a year really is.
WC: 1.1k
Tags/Content: unexpected pregnancy, motherhood, past relationship, second chance relationship, slow burn, implied age gap, hurt, angst, reader is high key avoidant, no use of Y/N, possible OC ish, Robby calls reader baby, mental heaviness, lot of swearing, not proofed, consider this a part 1 of 11
(Masterlist) (Previous) (Next)
I’m calm.
I can be normal.
Right. Sure.
It had been on the calendar for weeks. Robby’s first overnight with Mason. Right there on “Baby Boy’s” shared Google Calendar.
That didn’t make Mason’s packed bag on your shoulder and the baby carrier in your other hand feel any lighter.
You were doing what you were supposed to. Openly choosing Robby to be in Mason’s life.
Just knock.
Fucking knock.
The door opens just as you’re raising your fist. Robby stood there in an old band shirt you use to steal and a pair of sweatpants.
“Hi.” He says softly. He smiles down at Mason and goes to unstrap Mason from his carrier. “Hey buddy.”
“He’s due for a bottle at eight. He’ll fight sleep around nine. The sound machine sticks.” You list off, matter of fact.
“Okay,” he says gently.
You keep going anyway.
“He likes the green sleep sack more than the blue one. If he wakes up after midnight, don’t pick him up right away. Sometimes he just…”
You stop.
Robby doesn’t interrupt.
He just waits.
“…I know.” He says quietly.
Of course he knew.
He’d been there practically every night for weeks.
“Mason, made you something. It’s in the bag.” You say quickly handing over Mason’s overnight bag.
“Mason?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“It’s not making it weird.”
“It’s a mug. You know, for Father’s Day. He insisted.”
The silence stretches between you longer than you intended. Robby fights the smile threatening to spill across his face.
“Mason picked it out?” He hums clearly enjoying this.
“You think I’d get you something for Father’s Day?” You hit him with a deadpan. “Don’t doubt your son like that.”
“Right, of course. He has impeccable taste in coffee cups.”
“Damn right.” You clear your throat. “I’m gonna leave now.”
“Okay.”
“He’s good?”
He shifts Mason a little higher against his shoulder.
“Why wouldn’t he be?” He watches you carefully. “You’re his mom. You’re supposed to worry.”
He smiles.
“My job is making sure you don’t have to while he’s with me.”
He says it so simply it almost irritates you.
“I’m supposed to go now…” you say like you’re trying to urge yourself in the direction of the elevator.
“Yes you are.” He says it with that all-knowing smile on his face. “We’ll see you in the morning?”
Why did this feel worse than daycare drop off? daycare had a set time. This did too, but daycare was never overnight.
Fuckkkkkk.
Tomorrow suddenly seems every far away.
You take a deep breath and force yourself to turn on your heels. The elevator door opens. Before it can close behind you, Robby lifts Mason’s little hand in a wave.
“Say bye to mommy.”
Mason blinks sleepily.
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second as a smile tugs at his mouth.
“Love you. See you tomorrow.”
The elevator door slides shut before you can decide who he was talking to.
The apartment is quiet.
Not sleeping-baby quiet.
The kind of quiet where you can hear the fridge running and the sound of your steps on the floorboards.
Usually by now you’d hear the sound machine through the nursery wall. Or Mason’s coos. Or the dryer running because Mason spit up on your clothes five minutes before bedtime.
Nothing.
Was the fridge always that loud?
Could you always hear the neighbor’s tv through the wall?
Huh.
You’d wanted silence for months.
Turns out silence is loud.
You don’t bother turning on the television.
Somehow manufactured noise feels cheating.
Instead, you kick your shoes off and grab the first hoodie draped over the back of a dining chair.
It smells faintly like laundry detergent and rain. The sleeves swallow your hands.
You tug it over your head before dropping onto the couch.
9:07pm
Your eyes drift towards the hallway before you can stop them.
Right about now, Mason usually lets out one offended little cry because he’d rolled onto his side and started to wake himself.
Two pats on his belly.
Maybe a pacifier.
Back to sleep.
9:37pm
You catch yourself listening for the faint rustle of him rolling around in his crib.
At 10:02pm, you make it exactly fifty-five more seconds before reaching for your phone. Mason was fine. You knew he would be. That doesn’t stop you.
Mason pic now.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Robby: Bossy.
A second later, a photo pops up on your screen.
Mason is sprawled in his crib, one first tucked beneath his cheek, mouth hanging open.
The crib Robby built catches in the edge of the frame.
Robby: He’s snoring.
Robby: Pretty sure he got that from you.
You scoff before hammering out a response.
He definitely got your inability to mind your own business.
You stare at it.
Delete.
Too flirty.
He’s lucky he’s cute.
Delete.
Absolutely not.
Whatever.
Delete.
Since when did texting Robby require this much editing?
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Reappear.
He was doing the same thing.
Robby: You okay?
It’s weird here.
Robby: Yeah.
Robby: it was weird here too the first night I went home without him.
You lock your phone, tossing it onto the sofa next to you.
The apartment falls silent again.
Right.
Now what?
You open the dishwasher.
Close it.
Walked to the fridge the forgot why.
Checked the baby monitor sitting on the counter before remembering it wasn’t plugged in.
You make your way into the nursery before you realize where your feet are taking you. Force of habit. It was your closing night routine.
The crib is empty.
The mobile turns lazily from the air conditioning.
You laugh once.
“Well, that was stupid.”
You climb into bed before eleven.
For the first time in months, you don’t set an alarm for a bottle.
You stare at your phone for a long time scrolling through photos.
Mason swaddled.
Mason and Dana.
Robby holding Mason. His little hand curled into Robby’s shirt. You don’t remember taking that one.
Series summary: Robby left for his sabbatical without a thought and you’re left to pick up the pieces. But now he’s back at PTMC and trying desperately to reconnect. Robby learns the truth of how long a year really is.
WC: 1.1k
Tags/Content: unexpected pregnancy, motherhood, past relationship, second chance relationship, slow burn, implied age gap, hurt, angst, reader is high key avoidant, no use of Y/N, possible OC ish, Robby calls reader baby, mental heaviness, lot of swearing, not proofed, consider this a part 1 of 11
(Masterlist) (Previous) (Next)
I’m calm.
I can be normal.
Right. Sure.
It had been on the calendar for weeks. Robby’s first overnight with Mason. Right there on “Baby Boy’s” shared Google Calendar.
That didn’t make Mason’s packed bag on your shoulder and the baby carrier in your other hand feel any lighter.
You were doing what you were supposed to. Openly choosing Robby to be in Mason’s life.
Just knock.
Fucking knock.
The door opens just as you’re raising your fist. Robby stood there in an old band shirt you use to steal and a pair of sweatpants.
“Hi.” He says softly. He smiles down at Mason and goes to unstrap Mason from his carrier. “Hey buddy.”
“He’s due for a bottle at eight. He’ll fight sleep around nine. The sound machine sticks.” You list off, matter of fact.
“Okay,” he says gently.
You keep going anyway.
“He likes the green sleep sack more than the blue one. If he wakes up after midnight, don’t pick him up right away. Sometimes he just…”
You stop.
Robby doesn’t interrupt.
He just waits.
“…I know.” He says quietly.
Of course he knew.
He’d been there practically every night for weeks.
“Mason, made you something. It’s in the bag.” You say quickly handing over Mason’s overnight bag.
“Mason?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“It’s not making it weird.”
“It’s a mug. You know, for Father’s Day. He insisted.”
The silence stretches between you longer than you intended. Robby fights the smile threatening to spill across his face.
“Mason picked it out?” He hums clearly enjoying this.
“You think I’d get you something for Father’s Day?” You hit him with a deadpan. “Don’t doubt your son like that.”
“Right, of course. He has impeccable taste in coffee cups.”
“Damn right.” You clear your throat. “I’m gonna leave now.”
“Okay.”
“He’s good?”
He shifts Mason a little higher against his shoulder.
“Why wouldn’t he be?” He watches you carefully. “You’re his mom. You’re supposed to worry.”
He smiles.
“My job is making sure you don’t have to while he’s with me.”
He says it so simply it almost irritates you.
“I’m supposed to go now…” you say like you’re trying to urge yourself in the direction of the elevator.
“Yes you are.” He says it with that all-knowing smile on his face. “We’ll see you in the morning?”
Why did this feel worse than daycare drop off? daycare had a set time. This did too, but daycare was never overnight.
Fuckkkkkk.
Tomorrow suddenly seems every far away.
You take a deep breath and force yourself to turn on your heels. The elevator door opens. Before it can close behind you, Robby lifts Mason’s little hand in a wave.
“Say bye to mommy.”
Mason blinks sleepily.
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second as a smile tugs at his mouth.
“Love you. See you tomorrow.”
The elevator door slides shut before you can decide who he was talking to.
The apartment is quiet.
Not sleeping-baby quiet.
The kind of quiet where you can hear the fridge running and the sound of your steps on the floorboards.
Usually by now you’d hear the sound machine through the nursery wall. Or Mason’s coos. Or the dryer running because Mason spit up on your clothes five minutes before bedtime.
Nothing.
Was the fridge always that loud?
Could you always hear the neighbor’s tv through the wall?
Huh.
You’d wanted silence for months.
Turns out silence is loud.
You don’t bother turning on the television.
Somehow manufactured noise feels cheating.
Instead, you kick your shoes off and grab the first hoodie draped over the back of a dining chair.
It smells faintly like laundry detergent and rain. The sleeves swallow your hands.
You tug it over your head before dropping onto the couch.
9:07pm
Your eyes drift towards the hallway before you can stop them.
Right about now, Mason usually lets out one offended little cry because he’d rolled onto his side and started to wake himself.
Two pats on his belly.
Maybe a pacifier.
Back to sleep.
9:37pm
You catch yourself listening for the faint rustle of him rolling around in his crib.
At 10:02pm, you make it exactly fifty-five more seconds before reaching for your phone. Mason was fine. You knew he would be. That doesn’t stop you.
Mason pic now.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Robby: Bossy.
A second later, a photo pops up on your screen.
Mason is sprawled in his crib, one first tucked beneath his cheek, mouth hanging open.
The crib Robby built catches in the edge of the frame.
Robby: He’s snoring.
Robby: Pretty sure he got that from you.
You scoff before hammering out a response.
He definitely got your inability to mind your own business.
You stare at it.
Delete.
Too flirty.
He’s lucky he’s cute.
Delete.
Absolutely not.
Whatever.
Delete.
Since when did texting Robby require this much editing?
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Reappear.
He was doing the same thing.
Robby: You okay?
It’s weird here.
Robby: Yeah.
Robby: it was weird here too the first night I went home without him.
You lock your phone, tossing it onto the sofa next to you.
The apartment falls silent again.
Right.
Now what?
You open the dishwasher.
Close it.
Walked to the fridge the forgot why.
Checked the baby monitor sitting on the counter before remembering it wasn’t plugged in.
You make your way into the nursery before you realize where your feet are taking you. Force of habit. It was your closing night routine.
The crib is empty.
The mobile turns lazily from the air conditioning.
You laugh once.
“Well, that was stupid.”
You climb into bed before eleven.
For the first time in months, you don’t set an alarm for a bottle.
You stare at your phone for a long time scrolling through photos.
Mason swaddled.
Mason and Dana.
Robby holding Mason. His little hand curled into Robby’s shirt. You don’t remember taking that one.
summary: despite you and robby agreeing to keep your strictly physical relationship under wraps, you self-combust when your attending keeps calling you 'sweetheart'.
wc. 1k
notes.this is completely based off my lab partner calling me 'sweetheart' and me nearly breaking a vial. enjoy :)
Sweetheart. Sweetheart. Thanks, sweetheart.
It replays in your head like a cursed audio loop as you meander your way through the Pitt. You stay focused but your mind circles back to it. Sweetheart.
The nickname (petname? Term of endearment? The fucking key to the unraveling of your psyche?) continues to echo around your head that Dana mistakes your distracted countenance for exhaustion and hustles you to the break room with a protein bar in hand. You take the few minutes of reprieve in hopes to recalibrate your headspace, prep yourself for the remaining hours of your shift, but instead you chew on that small little instance that rocks the world beneath your feet instead.
Dr. Robby had called you sweetheart.
It's not the first time he's called you anything by your name, given the fact that the two of you have been sleeping together by the time your final year of residency kicked off a few months ago. But the two of you have been detached and professional outside of the bedroom, managing to find time even when you've been moved over to the night shift to avoid any suspicion.
Covering a double means seeing Robby and you didn't realize how it rearranges the neat order of your life to see him in daylight after your midnight trysts.
"Hey."
Speak of the devil—
"Hi," you wave your half eaten protein bar, already leaning forward to get to your feet from where you've been hiding in the break room. "Did you need me for something?"
He shakes his head, a warm hand pressing on your shoulder to sit you back down while he remains standing. The distance, the way your head tilts up to meet his gaze, makes his head shortcircuit. The image flickers and the hospital is replaced with his bedroom, your chair replaced with his floor as he gazes down at you—
He blinks and the hospital shifts back into view. "No, Dana told me you were in here takin' a breather. You okay?"
You nod and take another chomp of your bar. "Yeah, she said I got a little spacey. Oh, the woes of a double."
A chuckle rumbles through his chest as he absentmindedly tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. It's done casually, like he didn't even think about what he's doing. Second nature. "Make sure you get some sleep tonight, sweetheart. Did you need a ride?"
"I—" Your lashes flutter, mouth parting slightly in shock. "Um. Yeah. Yes, please."
Something settles in his chest at your easy compliance. "Good. Meet me at the ambulance bay after handoffs then."
The door shuts behind him when he leaves you but you're still staring at the door in utter befuddlement. When did Dr. Robby get so… boyfriend?
—
The rest of the shift goes by smoothly, enough traumas (and even a degloved foot) to keep your mind on the fact that the attending you've been fucking has suddenly taken on the boyfriend mantle. It's disarming to say the least, garnering attention from the other day shift residents and nosy nurses whenever Robby hovers close enough to touch.
"Sweetheart, go finish charting," he interrupts your conversation with McKay, steering you away from chairs where you've been headed to help triage. "Your shift's almost over and you've been dead on your feet."
Exhaustion has you nodding in easy agreement as the older woman enlists Joy instead to help out but the familiar petname zaps you awake the moment you settle behind the computer.
Beside you, wheels scrape against linoleum floors and Trinity is immediately hissing in your ear in absolute giddy— "'Sweetheart'?"
You wince and shove her shoulder to push her off before glancing up to see Princess and Perlah nowhere to be seen. "Shut up."
"Since when did you and Dr. Grumpy make things official?"
The cursor blinks in front of you as you try to recall your last patient. "We didn't. And stop talking so loud—!"
"Please— the entire department know you two have been messing around, I just didn't think he's been promoted to boyfriend—"
"Who got promoted to boyfriend?"
Your stomach drops and you peek over your shoulder to see the man in question, holding his bag and yours. Trinity's grin is downright villainous as she rises from her chair to make her exit. "Nothing, Dr. Robby. Have a good night, you two."
Your fingers fly across the screen to finish and submit before getting to your feet. When you reach up to grab your bag, he angles his shoulder away to stop you. "Dr. Robby—"
"No, I got it. Come on, I took the car with me today."
You trail behind him in slight apprehension but upon feeling the curious looks from incoming night shift (as well as Dr. Abbot's amused stare), you scurry faster to walk beside Robby.
"Did I do something?" you blurt out before the two of you can get too far.
Robby pauses, chuckles and gives you a confused but easy smile. "No…? Do you think you're in trouble, sweetheart?"
"That!" You jab a finger up at his lips, feeling the double hit you all at once; your brain to mouth filter is non-existent now. "Sweetheart! You don't call me that, you don't make me take breaks during a busy shift, you fuck me 'til I cry and give me coffee before I leave. Did I miss something important?"
His smile falls and dread creeps in. You ruined it now. "I… didn't realize it wasn't as smooth as a transition as I thought."
"What?"
He sets down the bags to hold you gently by the shoulders, slightly lowering himself to meet your eyes. The simple action makes something warm twist happily in your stomach. "I thought I could've started hinting at wanting more instead of just scaring you off by asking you out on a date."
"… what?"
Robby frowns now and he gently holds your cheek. His gaze is clinical and you realize he's trying to diagnose whatever the hell's wrong with you and not the fact that he's flipped your world upside down. "Did you hit your head—"
"No! I'm fine, I just— I didn't expect you to… want more." You shrug, seeking out this newfound type of attention. "Your seven-week threshold for dating isn't exactly a secret. In fact, I was expecting you to start ghosting me."
A wry chuckle escapes him. "Sweetheart. We've been fooling around for nine weeks now."
"… oh."
"Mhm. So, you ready to head home and get some sleep?"
last song: Need to Know by Doja Cat (I saw it in an edit 🫣🤭)
currently watching: I’m currently rewatching the Punisher. I saw it when it first came out and forgot how much I enjoyed it. I also forgot Ben Barnes was a major character in it which was fun!
current obsession: Lemon Drop candies. Like the old hard candy version. Fandom wise, probably Daredevil (which is so far from anything I’ve written)
currently reading: I wish I could say something cool. Honest answer is an Anatomy and Physiology text book. The fun answer is I keep picking up “The House at Watch Hill” by Karen Marie Moning. I haven’t started it yet but I really want to 😫 might end up being a fall read with how busy I’ve been.
currently working on: I should say “A Year Anyways” chapter 11. I’m going through a little bit of writers block right now and exams coming up. But the ending for “Tropical Depression” keeps going through my head and I really want to write it and one scene at the mid point of that story.
currently wearing: I’ve got a cat shirt on where he’s dressed like a cowboy and it says “you just buttered your last biscuit”
last google search: “Does Canes have honey mustard?” Yes they do. Pro tip for the Americans out there
favorite flower: Roses. Lame I know. But not the glittered ones or the dyed ones. I like the natural solid colored ones or the red and white ones.
No pressure tags: @killora1708 @drhobby @queensinxs @robbys-glasses
Guys, I’m so sorry I’ve been inactive this week. I’m heading into finals and work has been insane. I’ve also got the worst case of writers block ever. Let me get through the next week and a bit and I will update my fics promise 🫶
We should really be doing more marvel x DC au. Batman works with literally everything. I don’t care that New York is suppose to be multiple different cities. It’s funnier if Superman, Batman, and the avengers are all running around the same city.
Don’t even get me started on Kingpin and the Joker so close together
Summer in Bluebell Wade Kinsella x GN!Reader (AO3)
Summary: A summer cookout at the river is supposed to be nothing more than good food, old friends, and a long day in the Alabama sun, but something about the way Wade is looking at you through out the day changes a few things.
Tags: Fluff, Kissing, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Feelings Realizations, Friends to Lovers, Pet Names (Darlin', Sugar other country nicknames...), Yearning
a/n: I'm only on s1 so it might not be biblically accurate. Please enjoy, <333 If any pronouns are in here, I'm sorry and send me a dm to let me know. I'm trying to make my fics as GN as possible so all can enjoy.
dividers by uzmacchiato
The Alabama sun sits high and heavy over the river lot by the time you finish setting up the last folding table. Sweat beads at your temples, and you swipe at it with the back of your wrist, looking at the property with a bit of satisfaction. The old boathouse leans slightly to one side like it has for the past thirty years, the dock stretches out over water.
This place has been in your family longer than you've been alive. Every summer of your childhood happened here: scraped knees on the dock, the taste of river water, your mother's laughter carrying across the lawn. Now it's yours to maintain, yours to share, and on a Saturday in the thick of summer, that means opening it up to everyone you know and love.
Your phone buzzes. Lavon's texted that he's five minutes out. You're pulling sweet tea from the cooler when you hear tires on gravel.
The first vehicle that rolls up isn't Lavon's. It's a classic Chevelle-beat-up enough to be charming, polished enough to show he cares about it, and your stomach does something stupid and fluttery that you absolutely refuse to examine. Wade gets out from the driver's seat, all lazy confidence and sun-bronzed skin, wearing a faded t-shirt that's seen better days and a smile that hasn't.
"Well, hey there," he calls out, grabbing a case of beer from his Chevelle's trunk. "Figured I'd get here early, make myself useful for once."
"Wade Kinsella, useful?" You raise an eyebrow. "Should I be worried? Is this a sign of the apocalypse?"
"Darlin', I'm plenty useful." He sets the beer down near your cooler, and something about the way he says darlin' in such a casual way, like he's said it a thousand times, but it still makes your heart skip. "You just never ask for the right kind of help. You and Wade always seemed to have such a flirty friendship.
You're saved from having to figure out what Wade means by the arrival of Lavon's Lincoln followed immediately by George's vehicle. Within twenty minutes, the property transforms.
Annabeth arrives with homemade potato salad. Lemon steps carefully across the grass, in shoes entirely too nice for a river lot, with George trailing behind carrying enough supplies for a week-long camping trip.
"Lemon, you know we have plates here, right?" you ask, watching George unload what appears to be a complete dining set.
"I've seen your paper plates," Lemon says with a sniff. "They're flimsy. What if someone wants seconds of potato salad? The structural integrity would be completely compromised."
"God forbid," Wade mutters next to you, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
Brick and Tom show up next, both of them immediately gravitating toward the horseshoe pit.
Someone starts the grill, and soon the smell of charcoal and lighter fluid mingles with sunscreen and cut grass. Kids from down the river show up, like they always do when they see trucks at your lot, and within an hour there are bodies launching themselves off the dock, their shrieks of laughter bouncing across the water.
You're barefoot in the grass, having kicked off your sandals sometime around noon, and the grass is warm and slightly damp beneath your feet. An old country station plays from someone's truck radio.
"You want a drink?"
You turn to find Wade standing there, holding out a bottle of beer. You hadn't asked for one. Hadn't even thought about it yet.
"How'd you know I wanted one?" you ask, taking it from him.
Wade shrugs, that easy smile playing at his lips. "Just seemed like the right time." You twist off the cap and take a long drink, the cold cutting through the heat in your throat. Wade watches you for a moment, just a moment before Brick calls him over to help with the grill, and he ambles away.
You tell yourself the flutter in your chest is just the cold beer hitting your system.
The afternoon drifts. You find yourself at the picnic table where Annabeth and Wanda are setting out food, and you're reaching for a chip when you realize you're not grabbing from the communal bowl. You're stealing a handful from the plate Wade left sitting there, the one he'd piled high with his particular combination of chips, pickles, and what looks like half a burger.
You freeze with a chip halfway to your mouth. "He won't miss a few."
"Uh-huh." Annabeth's smile is knowing in a way that makes you want to throw a pickle at her. But you eat the chips anyway. And when Wade comes back and sees his half empty plate, he just laughs, low and warm and says, "Help yourself, sugar," before sliding the whole plate toward you.
Sugar.
You clear your throat. "I was just-"
"I know what you were doing." Wade's eyes crinkle at the corners. "You've been stealing food off my plate since we were in high school."
Have you? You try to remember, but the memories blur together bonfires and football games and late nights at the Rammer Jammer. Maybe you have, this is just what you do with Wade, this casual intimacy that you've never bothered to name.
"Horseshoes!" Brick calls out. "We need teams!"
Wade looks at you, "partners?" he asks.
"Only if you promise not to throw like you did last Fourth of July," you say. "I'm still traumatized."
"That was one bad throw, okay, I think I can handle it."
"It ended up in the river, Wade."
You're laughing as you follow him to the horseshoe pit, and somehow your shoulder bumps against his arm, and neither of you moves away. The game is less about horseshoes and more about the four of you talking trash and laughing so hard you can barely throw straight. Wade stands behind you at one point to 'show you the proper form,' his hand warm on your elbow, his voice low near your ear.
"You gotta follow through, darlin'. Like this."
He guides your arm through the motion, and you're aware of every point of contact: his chest near your back and his breath on your neck. You manage to throw the horseshoe, and it actually rings the stake.
"See?" Wade's voice is full of pride, like he's personally responsible for your win. "Natural."
You turn your head to respond and find his face closer than you expected. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, close enough to count the freckles the sun's brought out across his nose.
"Lucky shot," you manage.
"Luck's got nothing to do with it." He steps back, grinning. "That's all skill, baby."
Baby. Oh, hell. You win the game barely and Wade celebrates by lifting you clean off your feet in a hug that lasts two seconds too long to be purely friendly. When he sets you down, his hands linger on your waist, and you're suddenly aware of how much you don't want him to let go.
"Boat ride!" Lavon announces. "Who's coming?"
A group forms quickly: Lavon, George, Annabeth, you, and Wade. The boat has been in your family almost as long as the lot itself, and it putters out onto the river. The sun is starting its descent, turning the sky shades of orange and pink. You end up sitting next to Wade on the back bench, thighs pressed together. The boat rocks gently, and every small movement pushes you closer to Wade's side.
His arm stretches out along the back of the bench. Not around you, exactly, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of it behind your shoulders.
"Pretty, isn't it?" Wade says quietly, and you realize he's not looking at the sunset. He's looking at you looking at the sunset.
"Yeah," you say, not turning your head. "Really pretty."
His fingers brush your shoulder. Once, twice. Like he's testing something, or maybe like he can't help himself, but you don't move away. The boat ride last about another twenty minutes before Lavon is heading back to the dock.
Back on shore, the sun is properly setting now, and someone's started the fire. The group gravitates toward it naturally, pulling chairs and blankets into a loose circle around the ring.
You can't take your eyes off him.
The firelight catches in his hair, on his face, making shadows dance across his features. Every time Wade glances up and catches your eye across the fire. Every time he smiles at something someone says, that easy, genuine smile that makes your chest ache.
You realize, suddenly and completely, that you don't want this day to end. More specifically, you don't want this... whatever this is with Wade to end. The thought should scare you. Instead, it settles into your chest like it's been waiting there all along.
"I should head out," Lavon says eventually, checking his phone. "Got an early meeting with the county commissioner tomorrow."
Lemon stands a few mintues after Lavon, brushing invisible dirt from her dress. "Finally. The mosquitoes here are absolutely vicious."
"You've been sitting by the fire for two hours, Lemon," George points out. "The smoke keeps them away."
Lemon makes some kind of irritated noise before George gets the message and starts gathering their things. George gives you an apologetic look as Lemon pulls him toward their car. "Great party. Really. We'll have to do it again soon."
Eventually everyone packs up their stuff in their vehicles and heads off the bumpy road that leads to the main one. Before you know it, it's just you and Wade and the dying fire. The silence should be awkward, but it's not.
Wade pokes at the embers with a stick. "Hell of a day."
"Yeah," you agree. "It was."
You should probably start cleaning up. Should gather the plates and cups, should make sure the grill is properly off, should do all the responsible host things you're supposed to do.
Instead, you stand up and walk toward the dock. The wood is warm under your feet, still holding the heat. You walk to the very end and sit down, letting your legs dangle over the edge. The sky is deep purple now, scattered with stars.
You're thinking about Wade. About his hands on your waist after the horseshoe game. About the way he said darlin' and sugar like the words were made for you. About how many times today you found yourself next to him without planning it, without trying.
The dock creaks softly, and you don't have to turn around to know it's him. Wade settles beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. He doesn't say anything at first, just sits there with his own feet dangling, looking out at the water.
"Pretty night," Wade says finally.
"Yeah."
"Pretty day, too."
Another silence. His shoulder presses more firmly against yours, and you realize he's shifted closer.
"Can I tell you something?" Wade's voice is quieter now, more serious than you're used to hearing it.
Your heart kicks up. "Okay."
"I didn't come early to be helpful." He's still looking at the water, not at you. "I came early because I wanted to see you. Before everyone else got here. Just... you."
Oh. Oh.
"Wade-"
"And all day," he continues, like now that he's started he can't stop, "all day I kept finding reasons to be near you. Kept looking for you in the crowd. Kept thinking about how your laugh sounds, and how you steal food off my plate, and how you fit perfectly under my arm during that hug, and..." He stops. Takes a breath. "And I think I've been doing this for a while. Longer than just today. I just didn't let myself see it."
You turn to look at him, and he finally turns to look at you.
"Darlin'," Wade says, and this time when he says it, you feel it everywhere—in your chest, in your stomach, in the tips of your fingers. "I really want to kiss you right now."
"Yeah," you breathe. "Yeah, okay."
He moves slowly, giving you time to change your mind, time to pull away, but you don't. His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and the touch is so gentle it makes your throat tight.
When his lips meet yours, it's soft. You make a small sound, and Wade takes it as permission to deepen the kiss. His other hand finds your waist, steadying you, pulling you closer, and you reach up to fist your hand in his shirt. The kiss breaks for just a moment, both of you breathing hard, and Wade rests his forehead against yours.
"Jesus," he mutters.
"Yeah."
"Can I-"
"Yes."
You don't even know what he's asking, but the answer is yes. Yes to all of it. This time when he kisses you, it's deeper and hungrier. His tongue traces your bottom lip and you open for him, tasting beer and smoke and something that's just Wade. Your hands move from his shirt to his hair, fingers threading through it, and he groans low in his throat.
The sound does something to you. Unravels something. You shift closer, practically climbing into his lap there on the dock, and Wade's hands tighten on your waist, holding you steady, holding you close.
"Sugar," he murmurs against your mouth, and the word sends heat spiraling through you.
You've never been kissed like this. Like he's been waiting for this and now that he has it, he never wants to stop. You don't want to stop either. Wade's mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, trailing kisses down to the sensitive spot below your ear, and you gasp, tilting your head to give him better access. His teeth graze your skin and you actually whimper.
"You like that, darlin'?" His voice is rough, wrecked, and you've never heard anything sexier in your life.
"Yes," you breathe. "God, yes."
He comes back to your mouth, and this kiss is slower but no less intense. Deep and thorough, like he's trying to learn every inch of you. Your hands roam over his shoulders, his chest, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt, and you think distantly that you should probably slow down, should probably think about what this means.
You're not sure how long you stay like that minutes or hours, time has lost all meaning, but eventually you have to break apart to breathe. You're both panting, foreheads pressed together, hands still clutching at each other like you're afraid to let go.
"Holy hell," Wade says.
You laugh, breathless and giddy. "Yeah."
"I don't..." He stops, swallows hard. "I don't want this to end."
"Me neither."
"So let's not let it." He pulls back to look at you properly, and his expression is so open, so honest, it makes your chest ache. "Stay. Stay here with me. We can sit on this dock all night if you want. I don't care. I just, I don't want you to go."
"I'm not going anywhere," you promise, and you mean it. You mean it more than you've meant anything in a long time.
Wade's smile is so bright you can't help but mirror it. He shifts so you're tucked against his side, his arm around your shoulders, your head resting on his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, still racing, matching your own.
"This is crazy," you say quietly. "We've known each other for years."
"I know."
"Why now? Why today?"
Wade is quiet for a moment, his hand tracing absent patterns on your arm. "Maybe it's always been now. Maybe we just finally stopped pretending it wasn't."
You think about that. About all the times over the years when you found yourself looking for Wade in a crowd. About how his laugh always made you smile. About the way you felt comfortable with him in a way you weren't with anyone else.
Maybe he's right. "I'm glad we stopped pretending," you say.
Series summary: Robby left for his sabbatical without a thought and you’re left to pick up the pieces. But now he’s back at PTMC and trying desperately to reconnect. Robby learns the truth of how long a year really is.
WC: 1.7k
Tags/Content: unexpected pregnancy, motherhood, past relationship, second chance relationship, slow burn, implied age gap, hurt, angst, reader is high key avoidant, no use of Y/N, possible OC ish, Robby calls reader baby, mental heaviness, lot of swearing, not proofed (I’m doing this on my phone)
(Masterlist) (Previous) (Next)
Mason was cleared sometime between 10 and 11 the next night. You weren’t really sure. The hours had blurred together between the conversation with Robby, the endless nurse visits, and the beeping from the monitors.
It didn’t matter what time it was truthfully.
Fuck it would be nice to leave this hospital and get Mason a change of clothes.
Wanting to leave the hospital? There’s a first for everything.
“I’ll get him,” Robby mutters, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. A moment passes between the two of you before you hand over the carrier.
You were doing what you were supposed to.
Attempting to willingly rely on him.
Willing being the operative word.
“Do you mind finishing the discharge papers?” He asks softly, “I’ll get him buckled in and pull your car around.”
He holds his hand out for your car key.
Come on, pass them over.
You dig through your cluttered bag. Napkins, Mason’s sock, half a stick of gum.
“Fuck it,” you sling your bag off of your shoulder, “They’re in there somewhere. Touch the handle, it’ll unlock.”
Something soft passes across his face before he looks away. He places the strap on his shoulder. Mason in one hand and your bag in the other. He was the pinnacle of a dad leaving the hospital.
A small part of you wonders if that’s how he would have looked leaving the hospital after Mason’s birth.
Doesn’t matter.
The paperwork is quick. Much quicker than it probably should have been. Maybe someone here was doing you a solid. You were too tired to think too hard about it.
You slink your way to the front doors. Rain pounded onto the concrete outside.
Why is it always raining?
A sheet of rain cascades over your car when it pulls up. Robby climbs out of your comically too small car, drenched from head to toe.
He grabs his jacket from the back seat before racing over to you.
“That’s not necessary,” you try but he’s holding it over your head to protect you for the very short walk.
“Mason got to the car dry, not fair you don’t get to as well.” He shrugs, making the decision. Then he’s guiding you towards the passenger side.
You stop when he opens the door for you.
“Micheal.” He glances down from where he was accidentally crowding your space for his chivalrous act. “This is my car.”
For a second, he just stares. Then he laughs, the sound rough from lack of sleep.
“I know. Figured you could take a nap on the drive home.” he says, like his logic makes perfect sense. It does in a way.
“I’ve gone longer without sleep.” You try to stand your ground but then he’s softly guiding you into the backseat and it does sound nice to have a moment with Mason.
“No one is questioning your independence.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
Because that wasn’t what this was really about.
Independence sounded noble.
The truth was uglier.
Depend on someone long enough and eventually they got to leave.
“Get in the car,” he says, softer this time.
You glare at him.
“That wasn’t a request was it?”
“Not remotely.”
You’re sliding into the middle seat next to Mason’s carrier before you can think too much about it.
Rain drops streak across the car window as the car makes the familiar turns towards your apartment. Your hand drifts over to Mason’s car seat where your hand rests on his stomach. Robby’s hoodie settles comfortably over your shoulders.
It wouldn’t hurt to just close your eyes for a second right?
Before you know it your car is being put in park and the door is being open. A door opens. Then another.
The clicks from Mason car seat are careful.
Deliberate.
Like someone is not trying to wake either of you.
Weird.
The realization comes a second later as you’re stretching your arms and reaching for your seatbelt.
You’d fallen asleep.
The two of you all but drag yourselves up to your apartment. Robby carefully pulls Mason from the car seat, trying not to wake him.
“I’ll get him changed if you want to put him down,” Robby whispers as he grabs a diaper, wipes, and a clean sleeper in one smooth motion.
Like he’d done it a hundred times.
Huh.
“Yeah,” you clear your throat. “Just let me throw the laundry in the dryer then I’ll be right in.”
He nods once before heading for the nursery.
The apartment was quiet.
Well, mostly.
You could hear the faint creak of the rocking chair down the hall and Robby’s faint hums.
The sound follows you to the laundry closet. You stare at the washing machine for a moment longer than necessary.
Then another.
The wet clothes in your arms suddenly feel heavier than they should.
God, you’re tired.
You shove them all in the dryer and slam the door harder than warranted. The machine rattles in protest.
For a second, you just lean against it counting your breaths
One.
Two.
Three.
You’re fine.
The conversation from the hospital keeps replaying in your mind whether you want it to or not.
I left it blank for three days. Then I wrote your name.
I just need you to stop acting like I’m temporary.
Maybe this was your way of processing it. Your brain’s strange way of picking it apart until there was nothing left.
Stupid brain.
Truthfully, neither one of you had been lying.
Lying would have been easier.
Anger was easy.
Anger had rules.
Anger told you where to stand.
This?
This just left you hollow and confused.
Every time you decided you were in manageable territory, he had to do something stupidly domestic.
Drove your car.
Let you use his jacket.
Remembered where the diapers were.
You close your eyes, your hands braced on the washer, your knuckles white.
Realistically, the diaper thing shouldn’t bother it.
Except it does.
He hadn’t hesitated.
He’d reached into the bag and grabbed exactly what he needed like he’d been doing it forever.
Somewhere along the way, while you were fighting his very existence, he’d learned your routines.
Mason’s routines.
Your life.
Your skin felt like it was on fire. Fuck, he had learned exactly where he could fit in. He’d found a place in your life.
Bastard.
No.
Fuck.
Worse than that. He just… stayed.
Long enough to know where the diapers were.
Long enough to know when you needed help but wouldn’t ask.
Long enough to stop feeling temporary.
Fuck.
You weren’t supposed to be doing this.
You had said you’d stop doing this. Throwing your mental road block up.
Well, shit.
You scrub your hand over your face.
Enough.
The dryer thumps behind you, giving you something else to focus on. Something in your control.
Laundry.
A baby who needs to be tucked in.
Things you could immediately handle.
Taking one final breath, you push away from the washing machine.
A low murmur drifts from the nursery.
Your feet slow before you can stop them.
Billy Joel’s Goodnight, My Angel.
Or at least Robby’s very off-key version of it.
The nursery door sits cracked open, like he had tapped it with his foot but never fully closed it.
Just enough for the warm glow of the nightlight to spill into the hallway.
Inside, Robby stands over the changing table with Mason balanced awkwardly on one arm.
The dirty diaper is already gone.
The clean sleeper already halfway on.
Mason hadn’t woken up once.
And for some reason he’s still singing.
“Goodnight, my angel, now it’s time to dream…” his voice drifts through the crack in the door.
Too low to really be called singing. More like talking on beat. Mason responds with a soft coo.
“Yeah?” Robby whispers. His entire attention shifts to his four-month-old like Mason had just offered him the most important opinion in the world.
“That’s a good point.”
A tiny smile pulls at your mouth before you can stop it.
Robby tugs the sleeper over Mason’s stomach.
“Oh, she’s definitely having a meltdown in the laundry room.”
Mason rubs his eyes in his sleep.
“See? Glad you agree.”
You roll your eyes.
Mood killer.
The sleeper snaps shut with practiced hands.
Not perfect.
Not the lightning fast efficiency you had developed.
But, comfortable.
Robby lifts Mason to his shoulder. One hand settles automatically against the back of his head. The other rubs slow circles on his back.
Again, muscle memory.
Just something he does.
Nobody is grading him. Nobody is watching him.
He’s just…
Being Mason’s dad.
The rocking chair creaks softly as he lowers himself into it. Mason immediately curls against his chest.
Robby’s song starts again. Quieter this time. Softer.
Like he forgot there was anyone else in the world.
You should move.
You know you should.
Walk in.
Say something.
Do literally anything other than stand in the hallway spying on a man singing Billy Joel to your son.
But you don’t.
He looks like he belongs here.
“No no,” he murmurs. Mason fusses softly against his chest.
“She’s coming.”
The rocking chair creeks.
“Let her have her moment.”
His hand rubs a slow path up and down Mason’s back.
“We can wait.”
The words settle somewhere deep in you before he adds quietly:
“We’ve got time.” He sighs, “Always for her.”
You needed a minute.
Really, it felt like your heart was going to race out of your chest.
Maybe the laundry was done.
Maybe you could reorganize the bookshelf.
Anything to get you out of this hallway.
In.
Out.
Breathe.
The floorboard creaks underneath you.
“You ready?” His voice calls out softly.
You freeze.
Robby’s eyes lift towards the doorway.
Not surprised.
Like he’d known you were there for a while.
A sleepy smile tugs at his mouth.
“Told you she’d come.”
Something uncomfortable and warm twist beneath your ribs.
God.
You were exhausted.
Too tired to pretend this wasn’t happening.
What was the saying? Show up or ship out? Shit or get off the pot?
Fuck it.
You square your shoulders, then you’re pushing the door open gently.
Summer in Bluebell Wade Kinsella x GN!Reader (AO3)
Summary: A summer cookout at the river is supposed to be nothing more than good food, old friends, and a long day in the Alabama sun, but something about the way Wade is looking at you through out the day changes a few things.
Tags: Fluff, Kissing, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Feelings Realizations, Friends to Lovers, Pet Names (Darlin', Sugar other country nicknames...), Yearning
a/n: I'm only on s1 so it might not be biblically accurate. Please enjoy, <333 If any pronouns are in here, I'm sorry and send me a dm to let me know. I'm trying to make my fics as GN as possible so all can enjoy.
dividers by uzmacchiato
The Alabama sun sits high and heavy over the river lot by the time you finish setting up the last folding table. Sweat beads at your temples, and you swipe at it with the back of your wrist, looking at the property with a bit of satisfaction. The old boathouse leans slightly to one side like it has for the past thirty years, the dock stretches out over water.
This place has been in your family longer than you've been alive. Every summer of your childhood happened here: scraped knees on the dock, the taste of river water, your mother's laughter carrying across the lawn. Now it's yours to maintain, yours to share, and on a Saturday in the thick of summer, that means opening it up to everyone you know and love.
Your phone buzzes. Lavon's texted that he's five minutes out. You're pulling sweet tea from the cooler when you hear tires on gravel.
The first vehicle that rolls up isn't Lavon's. It's a classic Chevelle-beat-up enough to be charming, polished enough to show he cares about it, and your stomach does something stupid and fluttery that you absolutely refuse to examine. Wade gets out from the driver's seat, all lazy confidence and sun-bronzed skin, wearing a faded t-shirt that's seen better days and a smile that hasn't.
"Well, hey there," he calls out, grabbing a case of beer from his Chevelle's trunk. "Figured I'd get here early, make myself useful for once."
"Wade Kinsella, useful?" You raise an eyebrow. "Should I be worried? Is this a sign of the apocalypse?"
"Darlin', I'm plenty useful." He sets the beer down near your cooler, and something about the way he says darlin' in such a casual way, like he's said it a thousand times, but it still makes your heart skip. "You just never ask for the right kind of help. You and Wade always seemed to have such a flirty friendship.
You're saved from having to figure out what Wade means by the arrival of Lavon's Lincoln followed immediately by George's vehicle. Within twenty minutes, the property transforms.
Annabeth arrives with homemade potato salad. Lemon steps carefully across the grass, in shoes entirely too nice for a river lot, with George trailing behind carrying enough supplies for a week-long camping trip.
"Lemon, you know we have plates here, right?" you ask, watching George unload what appears to be a complete dining set.
"I've seen your paper plates," Lemon says with a sniff. "They're flimsy. What if someone wants seconds of potato salad? The structural integrity would be completely compromised."
"God forbid," Wade mutters next to you, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
Brick and Tom show up next, both of them immediately gravitating toward the horseshoe pit.
Someone starts the grill, and soon the smell of charcoal and lighter fluid mingles with sunscreen and cut grass. Kids from down the river show up, like they always do when they see trucks at your lot, and within an hour there are bodies launching themselves off the dock, their shrieks of laughter bouncing across the water.
You're barefoot in the grass, having kicked off your sandals sometime around noon, and the grass is warm and slightly damp beneath your feet. An old country station plays from someone's truck radio.
"You want a drink?"
You turn to find Wade standing there, holding out a bottle of beer. You hadn't asked for one. Hadn't even thought about it yet.
"How'd you know I wanted one?" you ask, taking it from him.
Wade shrugs, that easy smile playing at his lips. "Just seemed like the right time." You twist off the cap and take a long drink, the cold cutting through the heat in your throat. Wade watches you for a moment, just a moment before Brick calls him over to help with the grill, and he ambles away.
You tell yourself the flutter in your chest is just the cold beer hitting your system.
The afternoon drifts. You find yourself at the picnic table where Annabeth and Wanda are setting out food, and you're reaching for a chip when you realize you're not grabbing from the communal bowl. You're stealing a handful from the plate Wade left sitting there, the one he'd piled high with his particular combination of chips, pickles, and what looks like half a burger.
You freeze with a chip halfway to your mouth. "He won't miss a few."
"Uh-huh." Annabeth's smile is knowing in a way that makes you want to throw a pickle at her. But you eat the chips anyway. And when Wade comes back and sees his half empty plate, he just laughs, low and warm and says, "Help yourself, sugar," before sliding the whole plate toward you.
Sugar.
You clear your throat. "I was just-"
"I know what you were doing." Wade's eyes crinkle at the corners. "You've been stealing food off my plate since we were in high school."
Have you? You try to remember, but the memories blur together bonfires and football games and late nights at the Rammer Jammer. Maybe you have, this is just what you do with Wade, this casual intimacy that you've never bothered to name.
"Horseshoes!" Brick calls out. "We need teams!"
Wade looks at you, "partners?" he asks.
"Only if you promise not to throw like you did last Fourth of July," you say. "I'm still traumatized."
"That was one bad throw, okay, I think I can handle it."
"It ended up in the river, Wade."
You're laughing as you follow him to the horseshoe pit, and somehow your shoulder bumps against his arm, and neither of you moves away. The game is less about horseshoes and more about the four of you talking trash and laughing so hard you can barely throw straight. Wade stands behind you at one point to 'show you the proper form,' his hand warm on your elbow, his voice low near your ear.
"You gotta follow through, darlin'. Like this."
He guides your arm through the motion, and you're aware of every point of contact: his chest near your back and his breath on your neck. You manage to throw the horseshoe, and it actually rings the stake.
"See?" Wade's voice is full of pride, like he's personally responsible for your win. "Natural."
You turn your head to respond and find his face closer than you expected. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, close enough to count the freckles the sun's brought out across his nose.
"Lucky shot," you manage.
"Luck's got nothing to do with it." He steps back, grinning. "That's all skill, baby."
Baby. Oh, hell. You win the game barely and Wade celebrates by lifting you clean off your feet in a hug that lasts two seconds too long to be purely friendly. When he sets you down, his hands linger on your waist, and you're suddenly aware of how much you don't want him to let go.
"Boat ride!" Lavon announces. "Who's coming?"
A group forms quickly: Lavon, George, Annabeth, you, and Wade. The boat has been in your family almost as long as the lot itself, and it putters out onto the river. The sun is starting its descent, turning the sky shades of orange and pink. You end up sitting next to Wade on the back bench, thighs pressed together. The boat rocks gently, and every small movement pushes you closer to Wade's side.
His arm stretches out along the back of the bench. Not around you, exactly, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of it behind your shoulders.
"Pretty, isn't it?" Wade says quietly, and you realize he's not looking at the sunset. He's looking at you looking at the sunset.
"Yeah," you say, not turning your head. "Really pretty."
His fingers brush your shoulder. Once, twice. Like he's testing something, or maybe like he can't help himself, but you don't move away. The boat ride last about another twenty minutes before Lavon is heading back to the dock.
Back on shore, the sun is properly setting now, and someone's started the fire. The group gravitates toward it naturally, pulling chairs and blankets into a loose circle around the ring.
You can't take your eyes off him.
The firelight catches in his hair, on his face, making shadows dance across his features. Every time Wade glances up and catches your eye across the fire. Every time he smiles at something someone says, that easy, genuine smile that makes your chest ache.
You realize, suddenly and completely, that you don't want this day to end. More specifically, you don't want this... whatever this is with Wade to end. The thought should scare you. Instead, it settles into your chest like it's been waiting there all along.
"I should head out," Lavon says eventually, checking his phone. "Got an early meeting with the county commissioner tomorrow."
Lemon stands a few mintues after Lavon, brushing invisible dirt from her dress. "Finally. The mosquitoes here are absolutely vicious."
"You've been sitting by the fire for two hours, Lemon," George points out. "The smoke keeps them away."
Lemon makes some kind of irritated noise before George gets the message and starts gathering their things. George gives you an apologetic look as Lemon pulls him toward their car. "Great party. Really. We'll have to do it again soon."
Eventually everyone packs up their stuff in their vehicles and heads off the bumpy road that leads to the main one. Before you know it, it's just you and Wade and the dying fire. The silence should be awkward, but it's not.
Wade pokes at the embers with a stick. "Hell of a day."
"Yeah," you agree. "It was."
You should probably start cleaning up. Should gather the plates and cups, should make sure the grill is properly off, should do all the responsible host things you're supposed to do.
Instead, you stand up and walk toward the dock. The wood is warm under your feet, still holding the heat. You walk to the very end and sit down, letting your legs dangle over the edge. The sky is deep purple now, scattered with stars.
You're thinking about Wade. About his hands on your waist after the horseshoe game. About the way he said darlin' and sugar like the words were made for you. About how many times today you found yourself next to him without planning it, without trying.
The dock creaks softly, and you don't have to turn around to know it's him. Wade settles beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. He doesn't say anything at first, just sits there with his own feet dangling, looking out at the water.
"Pretty night," Wade says finally.
"Yeah."
"Pretty day, too."
Another silence. His shoulder presses more firmly against yours, and you realize he's shifted closer.
"Can I tell you something?" Wade's voice is quieter now, more serious than you're used to hearing it.
Your heart kicks up. "Okay."
"I didn't come early to be helpful." He's still looking at the water, not at you. "I came early because I wanted to see you. Before everyone else got here. Just... you."
Oh. Oh.
"Wade-"
"And all day," he continues, like now that he's started he can't stop, "all day I kept finding reasons to be near you. Kept looking for you in the crowd. Kept thinking about how your laugh sounds, and how you steal food off my plate, and how you fit perfectly under my arm during that hug, and..." He stops. Takes a breath. "And I think I've been doing this for a while. Longer than just today. I just didn't let myself see it."
You turn to look at him, and he finally turns to look at you.
"Darlin'," Wade says, and this time when he says it, you feel it everywhere—in your chest, in your stomach, in the tips of your fingers. "I really want to kiss you right now."
"Yeah," you breathe. "Yeah, okay."
He moves slowly, giving you time to change your mind, time to pull away, but you don't. His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and the touch is so gentle it makes your throat tight.
When his lips meet yours, it's soft. You make a small sound, and Wade takes it as permission to deepen the kiss. His other hand finds your waist, steadying you, pulling you closer, and you reach up to fist your hand in his shirt. The kiss breaks for just a moment, both of you breathing hard, and Wade rests his forehead against yours.
"Jesus," he mutters.
"Yeah."
"Can I-"
"Yes."
You don't even know what he's asking, but the answer is yes. Yes to all of it. This time when he kisses you, it's deeper and hungrier. His tongue traces your bottom lip and you open for him, tasting beer and smoke and something that's just Wade. Your hands move from his shirt to his hair, fingers threading through it, and he groans low in his throat.
The sound does something to you. Unravels something. You shift closer, practically climbing into his lap there on the dock, and Wade's hands tighten on your waist, holding you steady, holding you close.
"Sugar," he murmurs against your mouth, and the word sends heat spiraling through you.
You've never been kissed like this. Like he's been waiting for this and now that he has it, he never wants to stop. You don't want to stop either. Wade's mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, trailing kisses down to the sensitive spot below your ear, and you gasp, tilting your head to give him better access. His teeth graze your skin and you actually whimper.
"You like that, darlin'?" His voice is rough, wrecked, and you've never heard anything sexier in your life.
"Yes," you breathe. "God, yes."
He comes back to your mouth, and this kiss is slower but no less intense. Deep and thorough, like he's trying to learn every inch of you. Your hands roam over his shoulders, his chest, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt, and you think distantly that you should probably slow down, should probably think about what this means.
You're not sure how long you stay like that minutes or hours, time has lost all meaning, but eventually you have to break apart to breathe. You're both panting, foreheads pressed together, hands still clutching at each other like you're afraid to let go.
"Holy hell," Wade says.
You laugh, breathless and giddy. "Yeah."
"I don't..." He stops, swallows hard. "I don't want this to end."
"Me neither."
"So let's not let it." He pulls back to look at you properly, and his expression is so open, so honest, it makes your chest ache. "Stay. Stay here with me. We can sit on this dock all night if you want. I don't care. I just, I don't want you to go."
"I'm not going anywhere," you promise, and you mean it. You mean it more than you've meant anything in a long time.
Wade's smile is so bright you can't help but mirror it. He shifts so you're tucked against his side, his arm around your shoulders, your head resting on his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, still racing, matching your own.
"This is crazy," you say quietly. "We've known each other for years."
"I know."
"Why now? Why today?"
Wade is quiet for a moment, his hand tracing absent patterns on your arm. "Maybe it's always been now. Maybe we just finally stopped pretending it wasn't."
You think about that. About all the times over the years when you found yourself looking for Wade in a crowd. About how his laugh always made you smile. About the way you felt comfortable with him in a way you weren't with anyone else.
Maybe he's right. "I'm glad we stopped pretending," you say.
