Summary: when Mel’s friends from college come to visit, there’s only one way to keep them off her back, and it’s your job as her best friend to help her. How hard can pretending to be someone’s girlfriend really be?
CW: fake dating, friends-to-lovers, mutual pining, fluff, angst, kissing, kind of a slow burn, unresolved tension (in this part), homophobic language (use of “dyke” in a derogatory way), alcohol consumption, a man hitting on you for the plot.
WC: 12.2k
Tightrope (part 2)
A/N: this is the longest piece I’ve written on Tumblr so far.
♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡
You learned very quickly on her first day that people had a habit of walking away while Melissa King was still talking.
Not in an intentionally cruel way, but more like just drifting away. Nodding halfway through her explanation and then peeling off the second something bigger demanded their attention. She would never call them back or raise her voice, she would just let the rest of her sentence fall away and move on like she hadn’t been speaking at all.
You hated it.
Mel listens to everyone. Patients rambling about their lives, family members who are spiraling, med students panicking, you name it. She gives her full attention like it’s an unlimited resource. It bothered you that she poured so much into other people and rarely seemed to receive the same in return.
So you decided it had to be you.
At first, it had been small things: lingering after a conversation so she could actually finish her thought with another person in front of her. Asking follow-up questions when she would say something about her personal life. Seeking her out toward the end of a shift for something that wasn’t about a patient.
The first time you approached her about having dinner together, she’d looked almost startled, like she couldn’t figure out why someone would want her company without some sort of agenda. When she explained that she wanted to, but she had to pick up her sister from her day center, you adjusted the plan like it was no big deal. You ordered far too much spaghetti and garlic bread from Pasta Too and showed up at her apartment an hour later.
That was the first time you met Becca. The first time you saw Mel in her own space, far more relaxed than you’d ever seen her at work. You ate at her tiny dining room table while Becca explained why Pasta Too’s spaghetti is actually better than Sienna Mercato’s and Mel laughed along in a way that felt sincere.
After that, friendship settled in naturally. You weren’t work-friends, you were real friends. You learned the King sisters’ routines and had your own specific mug at their apartment.
And at some point, your reasons for showing up became a little less simple.
You told yourself it was just loyalty, or maybe protectiveness over Mel and her casual kindness that she gave a little too freely. Just the satisfaction of being the one person who didn’t walk away from her mid-sentence.
It was easier to just not think about it too much.
Mel was always careful with her heart, and you’ve never been sure there was space for you in that way, not when her life is already so full of responsibility, and certainly not when she’s never once looked at you like she’s wondering.
So you let the feeling hide away in the back of your thoughts where you could keep it smothered. Friendship, after all, was something you already had and you weren’t about to risk losing it.
Which is why, when Mel is off her game today, you notice immediately.
She normally doesn’t miss things. She doesn’t drift her attention in and out during work when nothing is wrong, and she certainly doesn’t stand in the middle of the ER staring at the board blankly until someone calls her name.
But today she does, and you don’t know why.
“Dr. King?” you say gently, nudging her elbow with yours. “You’re still with me, right?”
She blinks like she’s surfacing from underwater. “Right, sorry.”
You’ve watch her the entire morning. She’s competent - she’s always competent - but she’s quieter than normal, even for her. She’s slower between cases, and her smile at a patient’s joke hits her face half a second later than usual.
When you finally get five uninterrupted minutes where nobody is demanding either of your attention, you drag her toward the supply room, closing the door with your hip behind you.
“Okay,” you sigh. “What’s going on with you today?”
Mel doesn’t look at you, instead choosing to count suture kits that don’t require counting.
“Nothing.”
You lean against a shelf, arms crossed in front of your chest and a look of disbelief on your face. “Mel.”
Her tongue pokes the inside of her cheek as she deliberates. Then, with a resigned sigh, she says, “Charlie and Sabrina are coming into town.”
You frown, trying to recall the familiar names from your list of knowledge about Mel. “Those are your college friends, right?”
She nods.
You’ve heard about them before: stories about shared dorm kitchens and bad boyfriends and finals week meltdowns. They were the kind of friends who help shaped Mel when she was in college, long before her mother passed and life changed for Mel and Becca.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” you ask carefully. “You haven’t seen them in what, a year?”
“Eight months,” she corrects. “They come every year.”
“…and they’re staying with you?”
“On my couch,” Mel sighs. “For a few days.”
“So why do you look like someone just told you we’re short staffed for the next month?”
That almost gets a smile out of her.
“Because,” she says, exhaling through her nose, “every time they visit, it becomes a State of the Union on my personal life.”
You blink. “What does that even mean?”
“It means they think I’m overworked. Burnt out. Alone.” She shrugs one shoulder, still not meeting your eyes. “They’re not totally wrong.”
You purse your lips as she goes on.
“They just…” she pauses, looking for the words. “They care. They don’t want me pouring everything into work and Becca and ending up with nothing for myself.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“I know,” Mel says, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “I just don’t have the bandwidth for it right now.”
You soften a little. You know what her days look like. Long shifts, sometimes taking tablets home to finish charting at midnight. Checking in on Becca throughout the day, picking her up in the evenings, making sure her routine isn’t ever disrupted.
“So what do they do?” you ask. “Interrogate you?”
She huffs. “It’s more like…persistent encouragement.”
You’re more confused than ever at why any of this is a bad thing. “That just sounds like they love you.” You study her face, trying to understand what she isn’t saying.
Then, a lightbulb.
“They’re pushy about your love life, aren’t they?”
“Very.”
You nod slowly with the realization. “Okay, so we solve that.”
Mel’s brow furrows. “We?”
“Yeah, we.”
Mel leans back against the shelves next to you. “Unless you can find me a partner in the next two days, I don’t see how you’re going to be much help.”
An awkward laugh follows her words, both defensive and dismissive.
You exchange a look, and the conversation is left dangling as Dana’s muffled voice calls out an incoming trauma from the nurse’s station. Mel heads out of the supply room quickly, ducking her head to try and avoid others noticing the flush on her face at the very private topic of her love life.
You follow, silently brainstorming practically the rest of the day on how to help her.
All day, every time she appears, you notice how her eyes unfocus when nobody is watching her. The little tense curl of her shoulders as she, too, is clearly trying to solve this problem between patients.
And every time, you catch yourself thinking about how you could fix this. How you could make it easier for her.
She’s your friend, after all, right? That’s what friends do.
At the end of your shift, you spot her leaving through the employee door of the hospital. She’s checking her bag, a thin coat draped over one arm and her phone in her hand. The hallway is otherwise empty, not a soul coming in or out.
Perfect.
You fall into step beside her. “Hey.”
Mel glances up with a surprised expression. “Hey.”
“About earlier.” You pause. “I think I found a way to help.”
Her eyebrows furrow as she focuses on your face. “How?”
You stop walking as you make it out the door, standing close enough to her that the cool air feels different outside of the hospital. “I could…pretend to be your partner.”
She also stops walking, mid-step. “Excuse me?”
“Just for a few days,” you clarify quickly. “We tell your friends we’ve been seeing each other, they leave you alone about it, and then they leave and we never have to talk about it ever again.”
You can see the cogs turning in Mel’s head as she says, “…you would do that for me?”
“Who could do it better?” you urge, reaching out and taking hold of her arms gently just above her elbows. “We already spend time together outside the hospital, Becca knows me, I’ve been to your apartment and you’ve been to mine before. It’s a minimal disruption to your life and you get your friends off your back.”
She’s clearly weighing the risk, her gaze lifted somewhere above your heads as she thinks.
“I need to think about it,” she finally says, looking at you.
“Okay.”
Apparently, Mel didn’t have to think about it for long.
The following night, you’d barely had the energy to shower, let alone cook, so dinner had consisted of crackers, a string cheese, and the electrolyte drink you’d bought during your last grocery run when you were trying to be healthier and then forgotten about it until it was the only thing you had besides water.
Now, you’re curled sideways on the couch in an oversized sweatshirt and sleep shorts, a cooling face mask tight across your skin while Love Island plays to an audience of one just a little after 9pm.
Your phone buzzes against the arm of the couch.
Are you awake?
You smile at your phone, picturing Mel on the other end, practically sending a u up? text.
yeah, what’s up?
Barely a moment passes before your screen lights up again.
Can you come over please? Becca just went to bed.
Your pulse stutters for reasons you refuse to think about, even as you jump off your couch and pull on your coat.
Her apartment isn’t too far from yours, and it’s both silent and mostly dark when you arrive.
She opens the door before you can knock, as if she’s been standing just inside waiting. Given she waited until after Becca was in bed to text you, you assume that was on purpose.
“Hey,” she says softly. “Come on in.”
The TV murmurs faintly from her living room, the volume low. A blanket is rumpled on the couch, telling you that Mel had been mirroring you in your own home.
You slip off your shoes at the front door. You’ve been here enough to know the rhythm of Mel’s apartment.
For a moment she just stands there, her arms folded, like she’s rehearsing words in her head. Then she sighs, closing her eyes.
“I…I want to do it.”
You blink. “Do it?”
“The pretending,” she says with a small, awkward gesture of her hands. “Us, dating. For my friends.”
You smile, mostly out of surprise. “Oh, okay, yeah, let’s do it.”
Mel nods, hurrying past you to the kitchen counter, where she retrieves a folded sheet of lined paper. “I made a list of things we should think about.”
Of course she did.
You can’t stop the small laugh that escapes you as she hands you the paper, filled with her handwriting. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
“I was up most of last night,” she admits, not looking even a little embarrassed.
Her handwriting is neat but urgent, like she didn’t want to lose track of the thoughts as they came.
• Becca needs to know it isn’t real.
So her routine won’t be bothered when Mel’s friends leave, that one you understand.
• Relationship details planned ahead.
Makes sense, you need a cohesive story.
• No surprises in front of Becca.
Again, another one you understand. Mel always puts Becca first, anything that would disrupt or dysregulate her is an immediate no.
Your eyes drift over the rest of the list of what seems to be rules, until they finally reach the last line.
• Rules for PDA???
You look up, your eyebrows lifting as your gaze settles on Mel’s face.
She doesn’t even question which one you’re looking at, pressing her lips together firmly. “That one felt…necessary.”
You bite back another smile at her thoroughness. “Are we workshopping these rules right now?”
Mel takes a seat on her couch and you follow suit at the other end, drawing your knees up to your chest. “If we don’t do this right, it’s only going to make them ask more questions.”
“So,” you say carefully, “what kind of rules do you think we should have?”
She looks up until her eyes catch yours, then back down at her hands nervously. “I don’t know,” she admits.
You scoot across the couch until you’re on the seat next to her, and she almost shrinks under your gaze. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” you say slowly. And then you reach for her hand, taking it in yours. “Are you okay with this?”
Mel inhales, short and quick as she looks down at your joined hands. “Yeah, that’s okay.”
Her hand is warm in yours, and you let go before you can think too much about the contact.
“What about hugging?” you ask.
Her head lifts immediately, brows drawing together in confusion. “We’ve hugged before.”
There’s just a tiny bit of defensiveness in her tone. It’s not anger, more like she thinks you’re implying she’s fragile and can’t stand to be touched.
You smile gently. “I know, but I’m not talking about end-of-shift, ‘good job surviving’ hugs.”
She tilts her head a little as you go on.
“I mean,” you clarify, “if we’re pretending. Would your…partner need permission every time? Or is it normal to just -” you hesitate, searching for neutral phrasing. “Touch you.”
Her gaze drops to your hands again, though you’re no longer touching.
“I didn’t think about that,” she admits quietly.
You nod. “Like, if I came up behind you, would that be okay? Or would you want a warning first?”
Mel’s mouth tilts to one side, thoughtful. “I don’t like being surprised,” she says. “But I don’t need formal permission. Just…try not to sneak up on me.”
You study her face, searching for any discomfort there. “Mel,” you say gently, reaching out to take her hand again. She doesn’t pull away. “We don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do. If this is too much, we don’t have to do it. Your friends can kick rocks.”
“It’s okay,” she says quickly, looking back up at you. “I just don’t want this to ruin our friendship.”
Your thumb brushes across the back of her hand lightly.
“It won’t,” you promise. “We’re not changing anything. When they leave, everything will go back to normal.”
The words sound simple and sensible.
Mel’s shoulders loosen, tension easing from her posture as she nods in agreement.
You give her hand one last reassuring squeeze before letting go, leaning back into the couch.
Normal. Everything will go back to normal.
But as Mel relaxes beside you and the conversation moves back to your usual friendly banter, a quiet unease settles in your chest.
Because you’re not fully sure your heart understands the word pretend. And you’re not sure, once that door opens, that you’ll be able to close it again.
♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡
The following day comes too soon, and your shift is over faster than you expected. By the time you’ve clocked out, your feet ache and your brain feels like it’s been wrung dry.
It had been one of those shifts, full of non-stop call lights, two near-misses that left your adrenaline spiking for over an hour after each, and the kind of emotional exhaustion that settled deep in your bones. All you really want is a boiling hot shower, your own bed, and eight uninterrupted hours of silence.
Instead, your phone buzzed in your pocket long before your shift had ended, reminding you of your self-assigned responsibility.
They’re here. Making dinner.
You had stared at the message for a long time when it came in two hours ago, your exhaustion warring with obligation.
No pressure.
Right.
You want to go home. You want to collapse face-first into your pillow and pretend you never offered any of this.
But Mel is expecting you. And more than that, she’s counting on you.
So now you’re in your car, the engine humming beneath you as the city lights slide past in familiar turns and traffic lights while the sky dims into a soft blue-gray as the daytime turns to evening.
Your hands tighten on the steering wheel, and you tell yourself that it’s just nerves. This is acting, that’s all.
You and Mel are friends who are going to pretend to be girlfriends for a few days. You’ve run through the plan a dozen times since last night. Becca already knows, Mel promised she had explained everything. Everyone is on the same page.
Still, a small, treacherous worry creeps its way into your thoughts.
What if Becca forgets and says something? What if she cheerfully announces they’re pretending! halfway through dinner?
You sigh and try to shake your head of the thought.
Mel wouldn’t have agreed to this if she thought it would upset her sister in any way. And Becca knows you, she trusts you. That has to count for something.
At a red light, you flex your fingers against the steering wheel to try and steady your heart pounding in your chest.
This is no different than acting. You just have to be warm and familiar, and a little affectionate. Physical affection, you remind yourself, is part of the performance. Hugging. Sitting close. Holding her hand.
Your stomach flips and you try to force yourself to focus on the practical stuff instead.
A couple of months, that’s the story you’ve agreed on.
Long enough that sleepovers make sense; your toothbrush is already sitting beside Mel’s in the holder, your spare hoodie is hanging in her hall closet, a pair of socks in her dresser like you’re there all the time.
But not long enough that Charlie and Sabrina will be upset she didn’t tell them right away.
You’re new and easy and still in the honeymoon phase. You can do the honeymoon phase.
You pull into the parking lot of Mel’s apartment complex, parking in the closest spot you can find to the building’s single entry door. You turn off the engine and sit there for a moment, listening to the ticking quiet of the cooling car. Then you reach for your bag, step out into the cool air, and head toward the building.
When you make it to her floor, the spare key she’d given you slides easily into the lock.
You don’t hesitate. Because if you hesitate, you’ll overthink everything, and you’ve already done enough of that in the car.
The door opens to the warm, lived-in comfort you’ve come to associate with Mel’s apartment: there’s the low hum of voices, the soft clatter of dishes, and the unmistakable smell of garlic in sauce on the stove.
You toe off your shoes beside the door like you always do and set your backpack down.
“I’m home,” you call, the rehearsed words leaving your mouth before you can second-guess them.
The conversation and laughter coming from the kitchen halts immediately and silence takes its place.
From where you stand in the entryway, you can see the layout clearly: Becca and two women you don’t recognize are seated at the dining table, mid-conversation, their attention slowly pivoting toward you. One of them holds a drink in her hand, hovering mid-air like she was about to take a sip before you interrupted.
Mel stands at the small island with her back to the room, her shoulders hunched in concentration as she chops vegetables. She hasn’t turned around, clearly more prepared for you than anyone else was.
This is it.
You cross the apartment room on quiet feet, slipping into Mel’s personal space like you’re comfortable doing it. For half a second you catch the smell of her strawberry shampoo, the soft cotton of her shirt brushing your forearm as you wrap your arms gently around her waist.
You feel her entire body jolt in surprise at the contact.
Before she can turn, before you lose your nerve, you lean in and press a soft kiss to the curve of her shoulder.
Three things happen at once:
The first is that your own heart kickstarts into overdrive. You’re pretty sure Mel can feel it against her back, it’s pounding that hard against your chest. Your lips against her body, even through her shirt, is too much for your poor nervous system to take.
The second is that Mel freezes.
Not the small startle you’d expected from her, like when you first touched her, and certainly not the quick recovery you both rehearsed for, but a full, stunned stillness, as if her brain is short-circuiting. The knife remains suspended in her hand above the cutting board. You can feel the sudden inhale she takes, the way she goes rigid beneath your arms.
And the third, behind you, the room goes utterly and profoundly still.
You glance behind you.
Becca’s expression is bright with recognition and something like poorly-contained delight.
The other two women are looking at you like you’ve just materialized out of thin air.
You loosen your hold a little, suddenly aware of the heat that’s rushing into your face, the way Mel hasn’t moved an inch.
“Hi,” you say, voice soft, uncertain.
The taller of the two women, a redhead, blinks first. “Who are you?”
You glance at Mel, still frozen in front of you, then back at them, offering a small, sheepish smile. “I’m…I’m Mel’s -” you falter, unsure of yourself. “She didn’t tell you?”
Mel finally turns around in your arms. Her face is pink and her eyes are wide, the shock slowly giving way to embarrassment. A flicker of nervous laughter hovers at the corner of her mouth.
“I was going to,” she admits. “I just…hadn’t gotten there yet.”
The two women remain frozen. The one holding the drink sets it down very carefully.
Becca looks between all of you, clearly thrilled. Your name leaves her mouth suddenly, loud and excited. “That’s Mel’s girlfriend!”
The declaration lands in the room like a dropped plate.
Charlie and Sabrina, though you’re not sure which is which, both snap their attention from Becca back to you, then to Mel, then back again - their expressions astonished.
Mel lets out a small laugh that’s clearly made out of panic. “I -” She glances up at you, her cheeks flushed an even darker shade of pink. “Yeah, this is - we’re -”
You squeeze her lightly, trying to ground her before she can spiral.
“Hi,” you say gently, offering a small and apologetic smile. “Sorry for the dramatic entrance.”
Neither of them responds immediately.
Becca, however, looks immensely pleased with herself.
The brunette leans back in her chair, eyes wide. “Mel,” she says slowly, “you literally told me on the phone the other day that you don’t have time to date.”
“I didn’t say that,” Mel mutters.
The other woman gestures vaguely in your direction. “There is a person attached to you.”
You become acutely aware of your arms still around Mel’s waist, and you take a step back from her.
Mel sighs, tension cracking into shy resignation. “I-I was going to tell you,” she says. “It’s just…new.”
New.
Becca nods emphatically, as if confirming everything.
Charlie and Sabrina are still staring at the two of you, processing, rewriting the narrative in real time.
And slowly - very slowly - the shock in the room begins to melt into other things.
Curiosity. Delight. And the sense that your relationship has just become the most interesting development of their entire visit.
The silence breaks all at once.
The redhead recovers first, shoving her chair back as she stands and crosses the short distance toward you, her eyes bright with disbelief and curiosity.
“I’m Charlie,” she says, studying you. “And I have questions.”
The brunette rises more slowly, though her expression is just as stunned. “Sabrina,” she introduces herself, shaking her head like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. “Jesus, Mel, we leave you alone for five minutes…”
Mel makes a strangled noise behind you and abruptly turns back to the cutting board, knife meeting wood in quick thunks that suggest she’s channeling every ounce of her flustered energy into chopping the veggies.
“It’s really nice to meet you both,” you say.
Charlie leans an elbow on the counter like she’s settling in for an interview. “How long have you been dating?”
“Charlie,” Mel says warily without turning around.
“What? I’m pacing myself.”
“Two months,” you answer, trying to keep your tone easy.
Sabrina’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Only two months?”
Behind you, the knife pauses for a second before resuming it’s rhythm.
Becca, meanwhile, is practically vibrating in her chair. “They hold hands when they watch TV,” she announces proudly.
Mel drops a piece of zucchini.
“Becca,” she says weakly.
“And she sleeps over all the time,” Becca continues, clearly taking delight in divulging fake details. “Her toothbrush is blue.”
Your face warms.
Charlie presses her lips together, fighting a grin and losing. Sabrina looks openly charmed.
Mel’s shoulders creep higher toward her ears.
You take pity on her.
“I’m going to go change,” you say gently, placing a hand on the small of Mel’s back in passing. “Long shift.”
Mel nods quickly without turning around. “Yeah. Go. Please.”
Becca waves enthusiastically as you retreat down the hall like you live here - which, for the purposes of the next few days, you pretty much do.
You change into the clothes you’d stashed here yesterday: soft sweatpants and a tank top, the comfort of them helping to settle your nerves. The muffled cadence of voices carries from the kitchen, and you’re unable to make out the words, but they’re animated.
But while you’re gone -
Mel keeps her eyes on the cutting board long after you’ve disappeared down the hall.
The moment the bedroom door clicks shut, Charlie leans forward, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper.
“Mel.”
Mel sighs, “Don’t.”
Sabrina’s smile is soft. “She’s so cute.”
Mel’s knife slows.
Charlie props her chin on her hand. “Also, the way she walked in and just -” she gestures vaguely towards Mel, “-claimed her spot?”
Sabrina studies Mel’s back for a moment, thinking heavily. “Hey,” she says quietly. “Why didn’t you tell us? Really.”
Mel shrugs with a small lift of one shoulder. “I told you, it’s new.”
“Did you think we wouldn’t be happy for you?”
Mel’s brows knit faintly. “What? No.”
Sabrina presses, but carefully. “We’ve been giving you grief about dating for years now. Was it because we always said ‘boyfriend’?”
There’s no accusation in it. Just a question.
Mel finally turns around, knife in hand, leaning back against the counter.
“I didn’t think you’d be upset,” she says. “I just…didn’t want it to be a thing. You guys already think I work too much, and with Becca and everything else…” she gestures vaguely. “I didn’t want to add another conversation.”
Charlie frowns a little. “The only reason we’ve ever bothered you about dating is because we want you to be happy. We don’t care who it is.”
Sabrina nods. “If anything, I’m just offended you didn’t call me after your first date.”
Mel’s face flushes immediately. “I didn’t - it’s not -”
Becca kicks her feet under the table, happy with both the chaos and her sister’s embarrassment.
“For the record?” Charlie grins.
Mel looks up warily.
“She’s cute,” Charlie says. “And the way she looks at you? Yeah. I approve.”
Sabrina nods again. “Very much.”
Mel presses her lips together tightly, failing to hide the warmth and the smile creeping into her expression. “I know,” she admits quietly.
Dinner is surprisingly natural once you return.
Without making a big spectacle of it, you move alongside Mel in the kitchen - pulling plates from the cabinet she always uses, setting the table, spooning pasta and vegetables into neat portions that don’t touch on Becca’s plate while Mel protests that she can do it herself.
“You cooked,” you remind her, brushing past her. “Sit down.”
Mel only hesitates for a moment before relenting, her shoulders relaxing as she slides into the chair beside Becca.
You place a plate in front of Mel, another in front of Becca, and pause when Becca looks up at you expectantly.
You smile. This, you’ve done a thousand times.
“Orange juice?” you offer.
She nods enthusiastically.
“Coming right up.”
By the time you sit down with your own plate, this feels like things are back to normal. No forced niceness or awkward small talk, just having dinner instead of performing for Mel’s friends. It makes everything feel like less of a lie.
Charlie and Sabrina exchange looks over their forks any time you and Mel interact.
They don’t say it outright, but it’s obvious in their expressions with every gesture.
Questions come, but they arrive wrapped in curiosity rather than interrogation. How did you meet? Who asked who out? Do you work the same shifts often? Is Mel finally taking days off? You move through them carefully, Mel’s awkwardness at the nature of the questions helping make your answers feel natural.
A couple of months. Work friends first. Coffee after a long shift. It just sort of happened.
Becca contributes freely, offering enthusiastic confirmation of dinners and movie nights and hand-holding like she’s your relationship’s personal publicist.
Mel’s friends seem pleased with all of it.
By the time dishes are rinsed and stacked and the apartment settles into nighttime quiet, the initial shock has settled into warm approval. Eventually, yawns begin to spread around the living room. Blankets are claimed, the couch is prepared with pillows, and lights are dimmed.
You and Mel exchange a glance.
So far, so good.
The bedroom door closes softly behind you.
The quiet feels immediate and intimate after the grilling conversation you’ve been fielding all evening.
For a moment, you and Mel just stand there in her bedroom, looking at each other - then, like a string that’s been pulled too tight finally snapping, you both dissolve into soft, nervous laughter.
“Oh my god,” you whisper.
“I know,” she breathes, pressing a hand to her forehead as she leans back against the door. “Charlie’s face when you walked in -”
“You froze.”
“You kissed my shoulder!”
“You should’ve seen your face!”
She laughs again, trying to muffle the sound in the sleeve of her shirt.
“I thought I was prepared,” she admits. “I was not prepared.”
You grin, keeping your voice low as you say, “For what it’s worth, I think they believe us.”
Mel nods, passing you to flop onto her bed. “Yeah, they definitely do.” She’s quiet for a moment before adding, “Becca is being…extremely helpful.”
You smile, following to sit next to her. “She’s committed to the mission.”
She laughs, throwing an arm over her face, shielding her from the overhead light. You hurry back to the door, flipping off the ceiling light and instead turning on the lamp by her bedside.
“You know,” she says after a moment, not quite meeting your eyes, “you don’t actually have to stay the night. If you want to sneak out once everyone’s asleep, that’s okay.”
The words are soft and almost insecure.
You tilt your head. “Do you not want me to stay?”
Mel flushes instantly and she turns her head away under the pretense of smoothing the edge of her comforter, refusing to look at you.
“Of course not,” she says quickly. “Having you here has made this…a lot easier for me. It's actually kind of fun, pretending.”
You watch her reach up and tuck a corner of the blanket, redundant since it’ll be pulled back soon anyway. The movement betrays her nerves.
“I’m going to go brush my teeth then,” you say, keeping your voice low for the sleeping apartment beyond the bedroom door. “I’ll be right back.”
Mel nods quickly. “Okay.”
You offer her a small smile before disappearing into the hallway, the door closing behind you.
Mel exhales slowly, pressing her fingertips into her forehead to steady herself.
She can still feel the ghost of your arms around her waist earlier, she thinks back on the way you plated her dinner, poured Becca’s juice. The way you move around them like you’re part of her home.
This is supposed to be pretend.
Instead, watching you walk out of her bedroom toward the bathroom, your hair still slightly mussed from your long shift, something else is settling in her chest. A strange awareness that having you here, acting the way you are, doesn’t feel like much of an act at all.
♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡
The first light of morning is just barely brushing the edges of the blinds, painting the room in soft gold rays. You stir, only half-aware of the alarmingly cozy weight draped over you.
And then you open your eyes.
Mel is pressed up against you, her face tucked into your collarbone, both arms curled around your waist, one over, one under you. Her legs are tangled with yours, her body molded against you in a way that feels almost possessive. You inhale slowly, trying not to move too much, because you’re sure that the moment you do, the spell will break.
She’s asleep, but it’s not the restless sleep you’ve seen her in after a long shift when she falls asleep on her couch before you’ve left her apartment. There’s no furrowed brow, no twitch to her limbs. She’s just peaceful right now. The rise and fall of her chest is steady and calm, and it makes your heart squeeze.
You can feel the weight of her arms, the gentle press of her soft skin against yours, and the warmth of her hair brushing across your chest, stray hairs falling out of her usual braid. Your fingers itch to smooth her hair down, to trace the line of her arm. But you stay still, because again, this is delicate and you’re painfully aware that it’s stolen time.
Pretend. It’s just pretend.
But your thoughts betray you. Your chest feels tight, it knows you’re lying to yourself. You’ve been pretending for the last twelve hours straight, but the longer you hold her in this exact minute, the less fake it feels. You wonder if she knows deep down that this is no longer just a mission or a favor to you - that this isn’t entirely pretend.
A small, sleepy sigh escapes her lips and you catch the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, even in her sleep. You let your hand drift lightly along her back, just enough to feel the warmth of her body under the blanket, careful not to wake her.
Time seems to stretch. A minute is an hour, an hour is a second.
Eventually, though, the morning nudges you toward motion. You don’t want to get up, but you also know the world is coming. And with it will come Mel’s shift at the hospital.
She works today, you don’t.
Against your better judgment, you press a soft kiss to the top of her head. She moves just a little in her sleep and her arms tighten around you, her body trying hard to avoid the wake-up that her mind is heading toward.
“Coffee?” you whisper softly, more to yourself than her, partially because speaking her name might wake her and also because you know she doesn’t actually like coffee.
A soft groan drifts from her lips.
Careful not to wake her further, you slowly begin untangling yourself from Mel. One arm slips out, then a leg, moving cautiously. Her weight shifts against you, a small stir in her sleep.
Don’t wake her. Don’t wake her.
Finally, you’re free - fully separate, but the warmth of her still lingers on your skin. Relief washes over you for a moment…until you catch a glint of moisture on your collarbone.
Oh.
She’s drooled on you.
You giggle softly, trying to be discreet as you dab at it with the blanket, heart hammering. And that’s exactly when her eyes flutter open.
She blinks, slow and still half-asleep, and looks up at you. For a heartbeat, you think she’s going to say something, or maybe even recoil. But instead, she just watches you carefully, the tiniest trace of embarrassment in her gaze. Her mouth quirks to the side both in shyness and amusement, and she doesn’t look away.
“Morning,” she murmurs, her voice husky from sleep.
“Morning,” you echo quietly.
You both move to get ready - brushing your teeth, pulling on clothes and glasses, and tidying up her bed together quietly. There’s a strange feeling in the air, almost as if both of you are aware of the lingering closeness, the newness of it, yet trying not to admit it out loud.
By the time you emerge into the living room, the sun is rising higher, painting the apartment in gold. Becca is already perched on the couch, chatting happily with Charlie and Sabrina, who are lounging comfortably and clearly already invested in the dynamic.
“Morning!” Becca calls, her eyes lighting up when she sees you.
Charlie and Sabrina glance up, both smiling warmly, and you offer a small, nervous wave.
Mel stands behind you, her glasses propped up on top of her head as she rubs her eyes and greets the trio with a yawn.
You make your way into the kitchen, tying your hair back as you go, then opening the fridge and get to work making breakfast like you’re the host here.
Eggs crack softly against the bowl’s rim. Butter melts in the pan with a gentle hiss. Bread slides into the toaster. You rinse strawberries, slice them into halves, then add blueberries and orange slices to a bowl for everyone to share.
The eggs cook quickly - they’re just for you, Charlie, and Sabrina. Mel and Becca both hate the texture, something you learned toward the beginning of your friendship during a late-evening takeout debate on whether or not breakfast foods were acceptable as dinner.
The answer, by the way, was a resounding no from both of them. You disagreed.
Hyper-aware of Sabrina’s eyes on you from the living room and the need for performance, you call out softly, “Babe, can you c’mere for a moment?”
There’s a pause in conversation, and it seems to take Mel a moment to register that you’re talking to her. She appears in the entry to the kitchen, crossing the room slowly. When she reaches you, you slide an arm around her waist and pull her gently against your side, your lips brushing the side of her head.
Her body goes still.
You lean closer, your voice barely a whisper that’s meant only for her. “If you want them to stop interrogating you,” you murmur, “you’re gonna have to sell it a little harder.”
Mel exhales softly, and you can almost feel the decision as she makes it. Her fingers curl into the front of your shirt and she leans into you, resting her cheek against your shoulder, her arms wrapping around your middle as she buries her face against your neck.
“Better,” you whisper, continuing to flip the eggs. “I made breakfast,” you say, your voice returning to normal volume so everyone can hear you. “Figured you and Becks might want fruit.”
“Yes please!” you hear Becca call from the living room.
Mel tilts her face towards you, sliding her glasses from the top of her head onto her nose. “Only if you share with me.”
Oh fuck.
For a moment, the domesticity of the situation you’ve found yourself feels dangerously close to real. Mel’s face is close enough to your own that you could lean in and kiss her if you really wanted to, it would be so easy. And you want to, her lips are right there -
Down, girl.
You blink hard, turning away as your brain reminds you of the harsh reality you’re currently in. Mel isn’t your girlfriend, this is all pretend, and you just told her to play it up. You can’t let yourself be fooled by the acting you literally just made her do.
You can feel Mel still staring at the side of your head, her gaze scanning your face with the tiniest trace of confusion in her expression and you know the wheels are turning inside.
You plate the eggs, and then butter toast slices as they come out while the bread is still steaming.
Mel’s hands still haven’t left your shirt yet, and your free arm is still around her waist. But even that has to end if you ever want to eat.
Plates clink softly as you and Mel carry everything to the table.
Mel stays tucked against your side until the last possible second before sliding into her own chair. Her fingers trail lightly across your arm as she lets go. Subtle, but not so much that it goes unnoticed.
She's a surprisingly good actress.
You set the plates down and give a sheepish half-shrug.
“Not exactly a five-star breakfast,” you say, sliding into your seat. “I’m a nurse, not a chef.”
Charlie snorts as she joins you at the table, Sabrina and Becca not far behind. “This looks like a Pinterest breakfast compared to what Mel feeds herself.”
“Rude,” Mel mutters, reaching for a strawberry.
The table conversation drifts, everything from light teasing to stories from the night before, Becca explaining in detail why she doesn’t like the texture of eggs.
You aren’t listening. You’re too focused on the way your heart feels dangerously close to splitting open. You remember, with painful clarity, the night you sat in your car and cried while you promised yourself that you wouldn’t cross this line. That your friendship with Mel mattered more than wanting her.
But this pretending you’re doing feels like someone is reaching into your heart and prying all those carefully-sealed pieces back to the surface. And that’s worrisome, because this isn’t real. In two days, her friends will leave, the act will end, and you’ll have to step back across the line that you shouldn’t have crossed in the first place.
Mel laughs at something Sabrina says, and the sound pulls your eyes up despite your best effort. Her gaze meets yours instantly, like she was waiting for you.
You force a smile back, the kind that says everything is fine, even though you’re starting to feel anything but.
Charlie leans forward across the table, tilting her head with a playful grin. “So…coffee?”
Sabrina nods. “Yeah, I could use some caffeine.”
Your gaze immediately flicks back to Mel. You know she doesn’t keep coffee in the apartment, neither her nor Becca drink it, and the thought of her trying to host without it sparks fondness. Without a word, you turn toward her and hold up your hands, one in a fist on top of the other laid flat, forming the unmistakable shape of rock.
Mel freezes for a moment, then smirks and mirrors your gesture.
You play a single round of rock-paper-scissors quickly, and of course you lose.
“Alright, alright,” you say, holding your hands up in mock-surrender as you stand from the table. “I got it.”
As you slip on your shoes and grab your keys, you tell Charlie and Sabrina to have Mel text you their order as you head out the door. You give a wave over your shoulder with a quick “be right back!” as you shut it behind you, grateful for the out this has given you.
Inside the apartment, Mel stretches, letting out a soft sigh as she begins to gather her things for her shift at the hospital.
She hates the idea of leaving her friends when they're here specifically to visit her, but she was comforted by you promising to play host since you had the day off. Plus, that meant Becca didn't have to go to the day center.
Becca’s eyes light up at the sight of her sister retreating back to her bedroom for something and, without a word, she follows Mel, careful not to draw attention from Charlie or Sabrina. Once Mel is in her room and has begun rummaging through her drawers for her phone charger, Becca quietly closes the door behind them.
“Okay,” Becca says, sitting on Mel’s bed as she watches her flit about the room. “You have to tell me something and promise not to lie.”
Mel pauses, caught off guard. She sets the charger down on the bed carefully and glances at her sister. “Uh…need help with something?”
Becca tilts her chin, her expression confused. “I thought you said this whole thing with you and her was fake.”
Mirroring her confused expression, Mel sits down on the bed next to Becca. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been with you since birth,” Becca says pointedly. “And it doesn’t feel like you’re pretending. You want to kiss her, don’t you?”
Mel’s cheeks warm instantly. “What? Becca - I -” She pauses, looking down at her hands, trying to gather the right words through her fluster. “It’s…it’s complicated.”
“Why does it have to be complicated?” Becca asks innocently.
Sighing, Mel folds inward as she clasps her hands in her lap. “I don’t want to ruin our friendship,” she admits quietly, like the words are dangerous.
Becca blinks at her, clearly processing. Then, matter-of-factly, she says, “But you like her, I can see it. That’s not fake.”
Mel bites her lip, both flustered and relieved at her sister’s bluntness. “Becca…” she starts, but her twin shakes her head.
“No, no excuses. Just don’t mess it up,” Becca says simply. “If she makes you happy, then it’s not fake.”
“Okay. I…okay.” Mel smiles. “But you can’t tell anyone, okay? Even her.”
“Cross my heart,” Becca says plainly.
Mel nods in acknowledgement, standing to tuck her charger into her bag.
You aren’t gone for much longer, stepping back through the apartment door with two drink trays in hand, setting them down carefully on the kitchen counter. The smell of coffee and tea fills the small space. You’ve brought coffee for everyone else, but Mel’s drink is hers alone - boba, both sweet and piping hot.
She’s got her work backpack balanced on a stool and is shoving necessities into it when you set her drink in front of her.
“You didn’t have to get me boba,” she murmurs as she lifts the cup and straw. “That means you had to go to two different shops.”
You shrug, feigning casualness even though your chest tightens at the way her eyes linger on yours. “I didn’t want to leave you out just because you don’t drink coffee,” you say softly. "You're worth it."
You’re interrupted by Charlie popping her head into the kitchen, her voice bright and teasing as she says, “Okay, lovebirds, out of my way. Don’t get between me and coffee.” Her eyes turn to you. “Seriously, thanks for going.”
Sabrina follows her in, peering at you over her shoulder with a grin. “Are you guys always like this? Or is it just for show?”
Mel’s hands tighten around her own cup. She swallows and glances over at you, a mix of exasperation and worry in her expression. But you just shrug and reach for her, drawing her to your side by her waist, doing your best to ignore the muffled little squeak she lets out at the unexpected contact.
The moment lingers longer than necessary. You keep your arm around her waist just a second past performative necessity, long enough to feel the warmth of her through her thin shirt, long enough for your brain to feel like she belongs there. Charlie rolls her eyes and shoos you both out of the way, and Sabrina’s grin only widens as she steals her drink and retreats.
Mel pulls away first, mumbling something about leaving for work before she’s late.
You walk her to the door without really thinking too hard about it.
She slips her shoes on and double checks for her badge.
You see Dr. King nearly every day at work, but it feels weirdly intimate to see the transition, watching her change from the Mel you’ve gotten over the last eighteen hours to the doctor you know and lo-
Whoa.
Where did that come from?
“Where did you go?”
Your eyes snap up at the sound of Mel’s voice, and you realize you’ve been lost in your thoughts just standing at the door with her. You shake your head, ridding yourself of the intrusive thought that just infiltrated your brain, willing it to disappear.
“Ha-have a good shift,” you whisper, ignoring her question.
Her eyes are questioning as they search your face, but you watch as she lets it go and turns toward the door.
Then she’s gone.
Her apartment feels different without her in it.
Quieter.
Becca claims the far end of the couch, her laptop balanced on her knees. Charlie and Sabrina commandeer the coffee table with enthusiasm, the kind reserved for people who have nowhere to be. You settle in easily among them and let the day unfold in simple, comfortable ways.
Board games come out first, something strategy-heavy that Becca insists has clear rules and “no emotional ambiguity.” Charlie cheats at least twice, and Sabrina calls her out both times.
You laugh more than you expect to and allow yourself to relax.
And somewhere between Charlie’s dramatic (cheater) victory speech and Sabrina reorganizing the game pieces while insisting on a rematch, you begin to understand them. And, by extension, you understand Mel a little better too.
They fill space easily, just the two of them. Charlie with a bright warmth and charm, Sabrina with a dry steadiness that keeps everything relaxed and easy. They tell college stories in fragments: late-night study sessions Mel insisted she didn’t need but showed up to anyway; the time Charlie dragged Mel to a party and she spent the entire night befriending the host’s anxious dog; Sabrina getting locked out of their apartment at two in the morning and Mel sitting on the hallway floor with her for an hour just to keep her company until her roommate made it home to let her in.
You can see it clearly: two extroverts who decided at some point that Mel was theirs to keep, and an introvert who let herself be adopted without admitting out loud that she needed them.
It makes sense why she loves them. And why they love her right back.
But throughout the day, every so often, your gaze drifts toward the front door and you have to make a conscious effort not to religiously check your phone.
Time moves slowly throughout the day, and on multiple occasions you catch Becca studying you with a seriousness not often found on her face before she looks back at whatever she was doing before.
When the late afternoon light finally begins to fade and keys rattle in the lock hours later, your heart skips a beat, filled with anticipation and eagerness for you know who’s on the other side, and it worries you how much it feels like coming home.
♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡
Last night had ended quietly.
Mel had come home late, exhausted in that bone-deep way that comes with a shift at PTMC. You’d stayed long enough to make sure she ate something and to help Becca get settled for the night, then slipped back into your own apartment with a promise that you’d see her tomorrow.
The distance had felt strange.
Morning came with the muted gray light typical of Pittsburgh winter, and you moved through the day slowly, as if you were walking through sludge. A grocery run because your fridge was empty, a stop at the pharmacy, laundry folded while your comfort show played in the background. You were doing your best to be productive, but there was anticipation humming in your veins beneath everything, a current of energy that kept pulling your attention toward the evening ahead.
Going out isn’t something you do often, at least not out in public. Mel’s apartment? Sure. But a bar?
You took your time choosing what to wear, something that made you feel good in your body, nice enough that you wouldn’t feel out of place in public. You’d changed twice before settling on something that felt like you.
By the time you returned to Mel and Becca’s apartment, the already cramped space felt fuller.
Charlie and Sabrina had claimed the couch, sprawled out comfortably. A half-finished mug of coffee sat forgotten on the side table. Music played on a low volume. Becca sat cross-legged on the floor with a puzzle spread out before her, focused and content, while Mel moved through the kitchen in socked feet.
You eased into the rhythm without trouble, drifting between the kitchen and the living room, accepting a mug of tea, leaning against the counter while Mel absentmindedly nudged your foot with hers when she passed. It almost felt like it wasn’t a performance.
Eventually, as the afternoon fell closer to the late evening, change began slowly.
Makeup bags appeared on the coffee table and outfit options were considered. Sabrina disappeared to claim the bathroom and emerged ten minutes later smelling like perfume and hairspray. Music volume clicked up; phones were charged.
Energy built gradually, just a group of women getting ready for a night out together.
You were looking forward to it.
And that’s where you find yourself now: tucked into the warmth of the bar, the cold of the night already a distant memory that clings to the hems of the coat you’ve draped over the back of your chair.
You’ve chosen this bar meticulously. Light pools in halos from hanging lamps above the tables and the air smells a bit like spilled beer and fried foods that drift from the kitchen. Sound gathers rather than overwhelms, laughter layered over quiet music that has a thud of a bass line that you feel more than you can really hear.
“- I swear I’m not exaggerating,” Sabrina insists, one hand lifted like she’s testifying under oath. “She stood up on the coffee table like she was addressing Congress.”
Charlie is already laughing, her shoulders shaking with each breath. “No, no, you’re leaving out the best part! Tell her what she was wearing.”
Mel groans beside you, sliding lower in her chair. “If this is the toga story, I’m leaving.”
“It was a bedsheet,” Sabrina corrects. “A navy bedsheet. She looked like a stateswoman.”
Becca laughs into her soda, her eyes averted as she listens to a story she’s heard at least twice before.
“I was making a point,” Mel mutters.
“You declared,” Charlie says, lifting her finger in imitation, “’From this day forward, this kitchen is a democracy.’”
Sabrina nearly chokes on her drink, laughing at the memory. “And then she tried to pass legislation banning tequila.”
“It was a good policy,” Mel says defensively, even as the corners of her mouth twitch into a smile she tries to hide.
“You had consumed half a bottle of cheap margarita mix and like two sips of tequila,” Charlie says.
“Listen,” Mel says, pointing at her across the table, “that stuff is disgusting.”
You laugh with the rest of them, the sound escaping bright and easy. Mel’s hand tightens around yours on the tabletop - contact that had started as performative but was now starting to feel natural.
You lean toward Mel. “Did the kitchen remain a democracy?”
Mel sighs. “It did until Charlie tried to impeach me for burning grilled cheese.”
“I still stand by that impeachment,” Charlie says. “You were really drunk.”
Sabrina lifts her glass. “To the shortest-lived government in history.”
Everyone raises their drinks and the soft clink between them rings out as you all take a sip.
The laughter lingers for a few moments longer and Mel’s thumb traces an absentminded circle against the back of your hand. You take the last sip of your drink to give yourself something else to focus on, the ice clinking against the glass before the empty settles in your palm.
“Okay,” you say lightly, glancing around the table. “Who’s in for another?”
Charlie lifts her glass immediately. “Absolutely.”
Sabrina tips hers toward you in silent agreement.
Mel hesitates only a second. “Just water for me,” she says. “I’m pacing myself.”
Becca nudges her soda with two fingers. “I’m good.”
You nod, gathering glasses one by one - yours first, then Charlie’s, then Sabrina’s - the table colder where your hand leaves it. Mel’s fingers slip from yours and it almost feels like it happens reluctantly.
“I’ve got it,” you add, flashing a quick smile at Mel when she moves like she might stand too. “Stay. I’ll be right back.”
She looks at you for a long moment before settling back in her chair.
The bar is only ten feet away or so, and you set the empties down on the worn wood counter, catching the bartenders eye and nodding toward the table behind you.
“One more round,” you say. “Same as before. And a water.”
The bartender gives a short nod and turns around to start pouring.
You sigh, your shoulders loosening, letting yourself relax in the small pause between hosting and performing. It’s nice to just exist without feeling like eyes are on you, being able to focus on the conversation around you, the bass thrumming through the floor. You let yourself space out, nodding along with the music.
You don’t notice him step up beside you until he actually speaks.
He leans one arm against the bar beside you casually, like he’s been standing there longer than he actually has.
“Busy night,” he says. It’s not loud enough to intrude, just enough to be heard over the low hum of conversation.
You glance over, polite reflexes kicking in. He’s maybe mid-thirties, clean cut in a very relaxed way, with flannel sleeves pushed up and an easy smile that suggests he’s comfortable.
“Seems like it,” you reply, returning the small courtesy smile he gives you before shifting your attention back toward the bartending lining up glasses.
His gaze flicks to the cluster of empty cups in front of you. “You ordering for the whole place?”
You laugh quietly. “Just my table.”
“Good,” he says lightly. “Was about to feel left out.”
The bartender sets down the first fresh drink, and you slide it aside to make space for the others.
“I can grab that,” he offers, reaching for his wallet. “At least let me get you this round.”
You shake your head immediately, trying to keep your tone friendly. “That’s kind of you, but I’ve got it.”
He pauses, then lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug. “All right, next one, then.”
You tilt your head in noncommittal acknowledgement rather than actual agreement. “We’ll see.”
Another glass lands on the bar, ice clinking inside it. You line it up with the others.
His eyes linger on the drinks, assessing them - and you - without being overt. “So, what are you drinking?”
“Vodka cran.”
“Solid choice,” he says with an approving nod. “Let me upgrade you to something nicer than the well.”
“I’m good, I promise.” You keep your tone light but firm, trying to not invite further negotiation.
He smiles at you again, but there’s an edge of disbelief to his expression now, like your refusal was unexpected.
“What about your friends?” he tries. “I could send something over, be the hero of your table.”
You shake your head. “We’re taken care of.”
He studies you for another moment, then glances past your shoulder toward the room. “No boyfriends hovering nearby,” he says with a laugh, like he’s making an observation rather than the challenge you know is coming.
You lift one of the glasses, checking the level of the drink inside before setting it back down. “That would be because I don’t have one.”
His brows rise in interest.
You meet his eyes for a moment, then add, “I’ve got a girlfriend.”
His smile falters. Not fully gone, but altered.
“C’mon,” he says, the scoff he lets out in disbelief accompanying his words. “You don’t gotta lie about being a dyke just to get me to fuck off.”
You don’t match his scoff or his tone. You make a conscious effort to stay steady, more so out of self-preservation rather than actually caring what he thinks.
“I’m not lying,” you say evenly. “And I’m not interested.”
Another drink appears, then Mel’s water. You gather them closer, creating a careful lineup for carrying.
He lets out a heavy exhale, irritation beginning to show through the seams of his composure. “Your loss,” he mutters, even though he doesn’t step away. But when you reach for the first glass, his hand closes around your arm.
Across the bar, Sabrina’s voice cuts through the laughter of a nearby group. “Hey…uh, Mel, I think your girlfriend needs help.” She nods subtly in your direction, wide-eyed.
Mel turns sharply, following the gesture, and her stomach drops. She sees the man, leaning a little too close, his hand gripping your forearm. It’s casual, it doesn’t look overtly aggressive, maybe even friendly-looking to anyone else. Not you. She knows you. She knows that hand doesn’t belong there; the casualness in your stance is performative, and that’s enough to make her heart hammer.
The protective surge inside her is immediate. Her chair scrapes against the floor as she rises, all pretense of calm gone. “I’ll help you with those,” she calls out as she approaches you, forcing a casual lilt that doesn’t mask her panic. She moves fast through the crowd of people to get to you.
She reaches the bar just as the man’s grip tightens on your arm. You turn toward her instinctively, your lips parting to explain, but there’s no time. She doesn’t hesitate - her hand is on your waist in a protective hold, pulling you close to her.
“Let go of her.”
You pivot back to the man and take a steadying breath. “Oh look,” you say, “there’s the girlfriend I told you about.”
The words hang in the air between you, both a declaration and a warning. The man blinks, caught off guard as you pull your arm from his grip.
Your hand moves of its own accord, reaching up and your fingers pressing lightly against Mel’s jaw, tilting her face towards yours. Before you can overthink it, you lean in, pressing your lips to hers.
Mel freezes, startled, but doesn’t pull away from you. Her lips part slightly and you can taste her drink on her breath, the sweetness pairing with the faint saltiness of her skin.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny but distinct oh no cuts through - something you don’t voice. You’ve crossed the line you’d been toeing so carefully, but the sensation of her lips, the softness, the way she begins to respond and move against you in return, makes it impossible to pull away. You linger there, holding her mouth against yours, memorizing the way she tastes and the feeling of her hair against your cheek.
Finally, you ease back enough to breath. Your thumb grazes her lips, committing them to memory. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes wide and luminous, and there’s softness mixed with confusion as she studies your face.
And for the briefest instant, your gaze flicks from her face across the room, catching a shadowed profile near the dart boards - dark hair half-up, the rest falling over one shoulder, a stance that’s familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist. Recognition hits you, but before you can dwell on it, someone moves in between you and the sight, and the moment shatters into background noise. You shove the thought aside, telling yourself it was nothing.
The man’s presence has faded to background noise, but the bartender’s voice cuts through, clear and final as she addresses him: “you gonna order or move along?”
He mutters something under his breath and steps back, retreating, but the air between you and Mel is charged with electricity. Your hand slides from her jaw, lingering for a second on her shoulder, and you step back to gather the drinks. But the nerves in your body still thrum from the feeling of her lips on yours and the realization that kiss wasn’t performative, at least not for you.
It feels dangerous.
Surprisingly, it’s Mel who recovers first.
The world rushes back in around her and she becomes acutely aware that you’re still standing very close to her and your expression mirrors her own stunned silence.
She clears her throat softly. “I -” Her voice comes out thin and a bit strangled, so she tries again. “I’ll help you carry those.”
You nod, grateful for something practical to do, and turn toward the bar as the bartender slides the last glass forward. Neither of you mention what just happened. And neither of you look directly at each other.
Your fingers brush as you divide the drinks and you both pretend not to notice.
The walk back to the table is both quiet and quick. Mel can still feel the shape of your hand on her face, your mouth on hers. Her lips tingle as if the imprint remains.
She focuses on not dropping the glasses.
Sabrina looks up first from conversation as you approach, a grin already forming on her face. Charlie’s gaze flicks between the two of you, eyebrows raised with amusement.
“Well,” she says, accepting her drink, “that was quite the little show.”
Sabrina snorts into her own glass. “Seriously, ten out of ten performance, very convincing.”
Becca doesn’t comment. She just watches Mel carefully, perceptive eyes studying her face as she takes another sip of her soda.
Mel sits. Her pulse is still too fast.
Conversation resumes with surprising ease. Sabrina launches into another story, Charlie chimes in, you slide back into your seat and responding when spoken to. It all lends itself to the rhythm of the night knitting itself back together as though nothing unusual has happened.
Not for Mel.
She hears the conversation without absorbing it. Words drift past her like radio static. Her fingers curl around her water glass, condensation dampening her skin.
She can still feel you.
She risks a glance at you.
You’re laughing at something Sabrina said, your shoulders are relaxed but your smile doesn’t seem to quite reach your eyes. You almost look shaken. Maybe thoughtful? As if you’re trying to act normal and hoping nobody notices that you’re making a conscious effort to do so.
Mel’s stomach flips.
Her friends continue chatting, comfortable and obvious, the moment already filed away as proof of a cute couple.
But Mel can’t file it away.
Charlie is halfway through dissecting some disastrous Hinge date when you lean back into your chair, finally relaxing back into the conversation.
“Did he actually show up?” you ask, grinning. “Or -”
Sabrina cuts in animatedly. Charlie protests. The conversation overlaps in the messy, affectionate way it almost always does when people feel safe.
You turn a little, instinctively, to include Mel, who’s been strangely silent this whole time.
“What do you think?” you ask her, nudging her knee under the table lightly. “That’s totally a red flag, right? Am I being dramatic here?”
She doesn’t answer, and you turn fully to look at her. To make sure she’s okay.
There’s something noticeably undone about her. The composure she usually wears is missing, her expression filled with rawness, her lips even turned into a slight frown, and you can immediately tell she wasn’t listening. It’s identical to the expression she wore at work a while back when she was worried about her deposition and couldn’t focus on anything else.
“Mel?” you prompt softly.
You’re really close to her. Your shoulders are almost touching, she could bump you if she wanted. The golden bar light catches the curve of your lip, the same place where your thumb had brushed hers earlier, and her brain helpfully replays the exact feeling of your hand on her jaw.
You tilt your head when she doesn’t respond. “Are you okay?”
She swallows hard.
This is a mistake. This is toeing that line again.
This is -
She leans in.
Her hand comes up, fingers sliding around the back of your neck and tangling in your hair as she brings your lips to hers again. Her mouth presses against yours with a softness that’s almost unreal compared to the firmness of her grip on you. Like she’s asking a question she’s afraid to hear the answer to.
The table noise fades. Sabrina is still talking, Charlie is talking over her, and you have absolutely no idea what’s going on with Becca in this moment - but it all feels so far away.
Mel’s lips are warm as they move against yours, and you place a hand on her thigh to steady the way you’re leaned into her. Your lips part against hers and she tilts her head, deepening it. There’s a quiet sound from your throat, barely there, but she can feel it.
And God, she doesn’t want to stop.
But she does.
She pulls back slowly, her lips brushing yours one more in a lingering, almost unconscious follow-through before she forces herself to create space. She keeps her eyes closed for a second too long, trying to understand why she would do that.
When she opens them, you’re staring at her with the most unreadable expression on your face.
Nobody at the table says a word. To them, it’s ordinary, you’re just any other couple.
From her other side, Mel catches Becca watching her. Her soda straw is paused halfway to her mouth, her eyes moving between her sister’s face and yours. There’s no confusion in her expression, no surprise. Only a quiet, satisfied knowing, like she’s just seen a puzzle piece settle exactly where it belongs.
The night goes on without much disruption after that. Someone orders fries for the table, you laugh at something Becca says so hard that you have to wipe tears from your eyes, glasses clink over and over. Life continues.
And yet, nothing feels the same.
You sit beside Mel with intentional space between your thighs where there hadn’t been any earlier. Your knee no longer touches hers under the table and when your fingers brush reaching for a fry, both of you pull back too quickly. You fold your hands in your lap to stop yourself from reaching for her again.
Because now you know.
You know the shape of her mouth, the warmth of her breath, the way she leaned into you instead of away from you.
This performance has edges now, sharp ones. And they hurt.
So you keep your hands to yourself.
But still, the distance never fully holds. Her shoulder finds yours when she laughs. Your elbow grazes her arm when you reach for your glass. When she leans closer to hear Sabrina over the music, her hair brushes your cheek and you tense up so suddenly it steals the air from your lungs.
Across the table, Becca watches the two of you with contentment, sipping her soda and swaying faintly to the music that only she seems to be paying attention to. Both Charlie and Sabrina remain blissfully unaware, long since settling into the comfortable assumption that this is how the two of you behave together.
By the time the tab is paid and chairs scrape back from the table, the night has changed and the air is filled with a strange electricity that you don’t fully know what to do with.
Back at the apartment, the ritual of bedtime unfolds in tired smiles, far too late to avoid the hangover that’s sure to haunt you at work tomorrow. Charlie and Sabrina reclaim the couch with gratitude and soft blankets. Becca disappears into the her own bedroom long enough to change before reemerging to hug you goodnight with affection.
And then it’s just the two of you again.
Mel changes in the bathroom while you sit on the edge of her bed, staring at your hands like they might confess what you’re too afraid to say. When she returns, the room feels smaller. Quieter.
You slide beneath the blankets on your usual side and she turns off the lamp.
Her breathing evens out beside you, slow and steady, the rhythm of someone who has surrendered fully to sleep. Or is pretending to.
You lie on your back, staring into the dark, the nerves in your body aware of the mere inches between you.
Tomorrow, her friends will leave. Tomorrow, her spare key will be returned to her. Tomorrow, there will be no reason to stay the night, or hold her hand, or call her babe in any capacity. No reason to kiss her.
Your chest tightens.
You don’t know how to go back.
You don’t know how to fold your heart back into the safe little shape it fit into before this weekend.
Beside you, Mel shifts in her sleep - or something like it - and her fingers brush the back of your hand where it rests on the mattress between you.
You freeze. She stills.
Neither of you pull away.
You stare into the dark above you, heart pounding, and try to memorize this: the warmth, this unbearable tenderness of wanting something you’ve already begun to lose.
Synopsis: In which you and your boyfriend break up and Trinity knows she could do so much better if you’d give her a chance.
Pairing: Trinity Santos x black!fem!reader
Genre: Romance and roommates!
Warning(s): The mention of a terrible man?
❁✿❀❁✿❀ ❁✿❀❁✿❀ ❁✿❀❁✿❀
❁✿❀❁✿❀ ❁✿❀❁✿❀ ❁✿❀❁✿❀
“I just don’t understand why he acted like that Trin, like I feel like I went out of my way for him and then if for once he had to do anything for me that required some actual effort he couldn’t! Am I not as capable of being loved as everybody else?” You exclaim frustrated while pacing in yours and Trinity’s shared apartment.
“Well first of all, he’s an idiot,” She says before gently patting the space next to her on the coach, silently asking you to listen. You simply lifted an eyebrow in response, as stubborn as ever, though she can’t say she didn’t see it coming.
“Secondly, thats in no way true. You’re you and who you are is someone so very capable of loving and being loved. It’s actually so terribly easy to love you and he’s a fool for not seeing that,” She ranted, voice becoming dangerously low as she speaks.
“And third, c’mere.” She followed with softly in response to your silence. You just rolled your eyes before sitting next to her. Trinity placed her hand on your thigh, almost like it was second nature. You looked at her for a moment just to see her already staring at you. Both of you froze at the eye contact and you watched as a light blush began to dance along the slope of her nose bridge.
“Well, um… I’m gonna go and start getting ready!” You exclaimed, voice shaky as you stood up quickly, already heading to your room to get ready.
“Yeah sure, you’re going out with Victoria and joy, right?” She questioned.
“Yeah, I don’t know what outfit I wanna wear yet though, I’m between two. I’ll come out and show you them in a sec so you can help me decide.” You say before finally entering your room.
“Mhm,” Trinitys response came, moments after you had left the room, sounding hoarse and weak. She just sighed as she cocked her head back and began to relax into the couch, thighs spread wide.
Soon you came out of the room wearing a backless black capri jumpsuit with a leopard print bag that matched your heels. Trinity sat up upon seeing you exit the room.
“Ok, this is outfit number one,” You said while doing a quick twirl.
“Do we like?”
“Yeah, it’s cute. It fits you well.” Trinity replies, voice steady.
“Ok ok, lemme go try on the other one now.” You say smiling as you head back into your room. Meanwhile, Trinity finds herself still on the couch, slowly losing her mind. She doesn’t have too long to regain her composure though as you rush out in the second outfit.
You were now wearing a sheer black halter top, in which you could see your solid colored black bra through, some black shorts, and a pair of 6 inch heels that stopped at your mid calf.
“Now that I’m looking at this one, I think I like it more,” You murmured, more so speaking to yourself, before speaking to Trinity, “What do you think Trin?” You asked as you walked forward, which left you standing directly in front of her, towering over her.
“It’s definitely a look, you look gorgeous,” She answered as she stood, hands reaching out for your waist. You stayed silent, looking down at her, as she looked you over, gaze piercing.
“About what time do you think you’ll be coming back?” She inquired.
“Maybe like 11, today was a really long day so I do want to come home and get some sleep,” You replied honestly, now fidgeting with her hands that were still on your waist.
“Ok, alright. I’ll be up,” She said simply.
“Trin, you really don’t have to wait up.”
“What kind of roommate would I be if I didn’t?” She teased, as to which your response was, “A regular one?”
“Well, what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?” She said after, brow quirked. You simply rolled your eyes and slipped out of her hold as you went to accessorize and grab your purse.
“Alright, Trin. I’ll see you in a few hours. If I’m not back by 12, assume I’m dead,” You said as you made your way to the door.
“Right… See you later.”
❁✿❀❁✿❀ ❁✿❀❁✿❀ ❁✿❀❁✿❀
“So, what did Trinity say about the breakup?” Victoria questioned, seemingly innocent.
“She just said he was an idiot,” You said trying to end the conversation about it there.
“Well she’s not wrong,” Joy responded, shrugging.
“Yeah, but that’s all she said?” Victoria said, now interrogating you. You immediately gave in and just decided to tell them what happened.
“Ok well I guess she was trying to comfort me and called me beautiful or whatever, but that’s normal for her. And then she had me sit next her and she like put her hand on my thigh and…”
“Omg,” Victoria exclaimed while shaking Joy back and forth, trying to contain her excitement.
❁✿❀❁✿❀ ❁✿❀❁✿❀ ❁✿❀❁✿❀
yourusername guess how many drinks were had between the three of us and yes one was non alcoholic for tori
farmboy trinity is losinsner
yourusername WAIT NO, COME BACK??
melking this is what the fans wanna see!!
yourusername you used this in the perfect context, we’ve come so far🥹
❁✿❀❁✿❀ ❁✿❀❁✿❀ ❁✿❀❁✿❀
You were now at your apartment door fumbling with a keys, struggling to open the door when you heard a lock click and watched as the door began to open.
“Oh my god, is the apartment haunted? I always thought those things only happened in movies… What if it got Trin…” You said aloud, losing your mind and completely unaware of Trinity standing at the door and watching you spiral.
“Apartment is not haunted and I am alive and well.” She said before hooking her index finger on to the waistline of your shorts and gently pulling you inside as she shut the door behind you two.
“Trin? You’re alive,” You said, eyes full of childlike wonder as you placed your hands on either side of her face.
“Mhm…” She mumbled out softly as you continued to ramble
“Let me get you some water, walk with me,” She said gently as she continued to guide you and let you continue doing whatever you were doing.
As she began to move away to get you a glass, you clung to her and refused to move.
“Y/n… baby, it’s only going to take 5 seconds and I’ll be in your line of sight the whole time,” She whispered as the two of you were so close you could the warmth of her breath.
You felt your face grow warm as she then sat you on the kitchen stool and poured some water into a glass and made her way back over to you.
“Drink,” She said encouraged. You turned your head away from the cup.
“No, thank you.” You objected weakly, ready to just put on T-shirt and sleep.
“Y/n, it’ll help,” She advised. You simply rolled your eyes and continued to look away. She then lightly placed her hand on your throat and turned your head back towards her and the cup.
You nervously swallowed as she moved her hand up to cup your jaw, the other holding the cup to your lips.
“Come on pretty, just a few sips,” She crooned. You said nothing and simply began to drink from the cup as she continued whispering sweet praises.
“Good girl, I bet you feel better already, huh?” She teased. You felt your face become warm as she smiled and leaned in to get a better look at your expression.
❁✿❀❁✿❀ ❁✿❀❁✿❀ ❁✿❀❁✿❀
3 months later
triceratops two girls
yourusername woah really? never would’ve guessed if it wasn’t for the caption
triceratops is it still too early to say that I love you?
queenvictoria war is finally over
❁✿❀❁✿❀ ❁✿❀❁✿❀ ❁✿❀❁✿❀
Trinity santos with a gf that’s taller than her supremacy🥹
Synopsis: In which you interview Macklin Celebrini. Chaos Ensues.
Pairing: Macklin Celebrini x black!fem!reader
Genre: Love
Warning(s): None!
·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺
Talk to me, talk to me. Talk to me, talk to me…
“Alright I think we should start with introductions! Even though it’ll be on the thumbnail anyways. I’ll go first. My name is y/n!” You speak confidently and excitedly.
“Hey, I’m Macklin Celebrini,” He said after you with a noticeably nervous tinge in his voice.
“And today I’ll be asking him about all his deepest and darkest hockey secrets and desires,” You say jokingly before smiling brightly and angling yourself towards Macklin. You watch as he smiles awkwardly as though he’s can’t tell if that’s a joke or something else. You just laugh for a moment before speaking again.
“So, how are you doing today Macklin?”
“Pretty chill,” He replied.
“Not going to ask me how I’m feeling?” You say teasing. You watch as his face slightly flushes before returning back to its natural shade.
“Sorry… How are you doing?” He questions.
“Pretty good and no need to apologize. I was just teasing,” You say smiling. He just nods slowly.
“Alright, first official question! If you could steal the skills of any hockey player who would it be and why?” You start off.
“Probably from McDavid. His ability to score crazy goals is insane. It’s more so his stick handling like you think there’s no way that’s going in and it just does.”
“Yeah, I can definitely sympathize with that feeling. He has me both stressed and in awe every single game!” You exclaim while laughing. You watch as Macklin laughs too before the both of you make eye contact and start laughing again. The interview goes on pretty smoothly from there.
Looks like we're making up for lost time. Need you to spell it out for me!
·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺
yourusername Go check out my most recent interview with Macklin Celebrini aka Baby Shark #1
username1 A baby calling another baby a baby
username2 The way you can hear the nervousness in his voice
username3 so excited to watch
username4 I’m starting a rumorrrr
username5 he lowkey locked in by the end of that interview
username9 The two of them laughing the whole time is frying me
username89 Bossa Nova on all night, It's like a type of alchemy…
·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺
·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺
yourusername some days I wonder if this is rlly my life
username9 macklin’s greed knows no bounds bc will and y/n???
username72 omg will smith interview coming soon
mackcelebrini I hope that I was fun
username28 I love when she shares her life with us
username71 wait bc I’m sensing something rn
username78 Introduce me to your best friend, I can come and slot right in…
·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺
A satellite ain't even that far… I, I kinda wonder where you are.
Already know I can't leave it alone. You're on my mind… Already gave you the time and the place. So, don't be shy…
·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺
yourusername babysitting
username6 the photo of will, we’re being fed rn
username3 now I’m craving ice cream
username18 the last photo… y/n we know where u were
username50 this is so cute
username10 Just come be the man I need. Tell me you got something to give, I want it…
mackcelebrini Break
username50 the way I want to question the two cups but one could genuinely be for will
username1 the goat has posted
_willsmith2 making moves
username5 HELLO?? What does this mean??
username43 what can he not do bro
username90 I kinda like it when you call me wonderful. Whatever the type of talk it is, come on then!
·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺
I gotta know you're meant to be the man I need… Talk to me!
“Ok wait, alright hello! I know that everybody’s used to seeing me on my own podcast but today I’m taking a day off from being the interviewer and I am now the interviewee,” Y/n said smiling brightly while Mack and will were positioned of either side of her.
“And Mack and I are the interviewers,” Will said after a beat.
“How the tables have turned,” Mack followed with. Everyone was silent for a moment before bursting out into fits of giggles.
Mm, talk to me, talk to me! Be the man that I need, baby…
·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺ ·˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁺
_willsmith2 third wheeling
username2 evb pay up
username7 I manifested this into existence
username8 Who’s Etsy witch do we owe for this
username I can die happy
username9 him making himself the cover before posting the photos of them is frying me
or: Brendon Park has never felt welcome anywhere. When the new nurse is asked to summon him during a cyber-attack, he doesn't expect to see her beautiful face ever again. Except he does as he stops for cigarettes at his local gas station and sees her buying ice for some suspicious bruises. And, against his better judgement, he offers to bring her home.
join the ptolomia taglist!
want more ptolomia?
read on ao3
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
He discovers the cookies an hour later. He’d only come into work to do his rounds and leave quietly. Her handwriting loops perfectly over the torn piece of paper, and a smile ghosts on his lips looking at the glass container, decorated with cartoonish silhouettes.
Of course she had bunny tupperware, it was just so her. He sweeps the cookies up, taking them before anyone else can, and he goes on his merry way.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
He summons his residents, instructing them to meet him by the nurses station. Connor arrives first. He’s a frail thing, hair messily swept to the sides as the bags around his eyes. But his resolve was starting to harden under the pressure of his studies.
He reminded Brendon of himself–granted Brendon had never been small, but he was weak, wuthered into stone by life. He always recognized the exhaustion in Connor’s eyes, and the way he’d fiddle with the ring beneath his gloves. It almost takes Brendon back to the days when he’d clutch the cross gold chain on his chest, his mouth full of metal, bones breaking under the weight of his frame.
He’s snapped out of his thoughts as the rest of his students arrive, he shakes away all the emotion on his face as he stalks to the first patient’s room, cookies still resting above his chart. None of the residents are stupid enough to bait the shark—they trail behind him as he opens the door to their first patient.
A 72-year old woman named May, who’d tripped in the airport. He had just replaced her joint 2 days prior. He orders another resident—Alyssa to update the charts with their findings, the container only leaving his arms when he presses his fingers into the sides of May’s knee, assessing her reactions. “Does this hurt at all, Mrs. Alvez?” He asks gently, usual venom replaced with sickly sweet honey.
“This will hurt a bit, okay?” He speaks again, his palm curls into a fist, nudging at the new joint to test her reflexes. Everyone is mesmerized by his kindness toward her. In truth they’d never seen him so gentle, but none of them comment on it, heads hung low as he peels his gloves off and cleans his hands.
He snakes the container away from Connor, tilting it to make sure they were intact, he peels the note off and presses it into the pocket of his scrubs.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
They see 3 more patients before Brendon sends them away on a break. He tucks himself away into his office and opens the small container. The sweet scent wafts into the small space, sugar and peanut butter overwhelming him.
He picks one up—hesitating over his mouth. Memories of childhood flood him instantly, he hadn’t indulged himself in any saccharine desires since he was 14. He remembered the way the treats clung onto his body, his mind filling with sneers about his weight.
He shakes his head—he’s past that now, made a name for himself, got free. He unclenches his jaw and bites hard peanut butter and chocolate dancing on his tongue. Suddenly—the childhood memories are gone, replaced with something sweet and kind. For the first time in nearly 20 years, Brendon Park allows himself to smile.
He finishes the first one quickly, tucking the container into the refrigerator in his office. He walks to the bathroom, scrubbing his hands clean. His eyes fixate on his reflection for a long time. He ponders on the man staring back at him, it wasn’t someone he fully recognized, the wonder of childhood and the pains of growing had distorted him into something odd and unsettling.
The cold water runs, and runs, and runs. His hands slightly numbed by the sensation, the prickling snaps him out of his trance as he walks away.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ
Brendon headed toward the surgical break room to round up the residents for afternoon labs. As he neared the heavy door, the sound of laughter—the kind that carried an edge of mockery—made him pause.
"...and he was carrying this little glass container with bunnies on it," Alyssa was snickering. "Can you imagine the Shark with cartoon bunnies? I bet he stole them from a pediatric patient."
"Or maybe he has a secret girlfriend," Connor piped in, though his voice sounded more uneasy than the others. "Though who could stand him for more than an hour is a mystery."
"He’s probably just lonely," another voice whispered. "Tall, scary, and alone. It’s pathetic, really."
The words hit Brendon like a physical blow to the stomach. For a split second, he was twelve years old again, standing behind a locker room door, listening to the wolves howl at his expense. The old familiar sting of it all flared up, hot and bitter.
Then, he remembered. He wasn't that boy anymore. He didn't have to flatten himself to be small.
He opened the door. The sound of his breathing was like a gunshot in the small room. The residents scrambled, Alyssa nearly choking on her coffee as Brendon’s massive frame filled the doorway, his shadow stretching across the floor like a shroud.
"The container was a gift," Brendon said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that seemed to vibrate the very tiles. "From someone who actually understands the value of this work. Unlike the three of you."
He stepped into the room, looming over Alyssa until she had to crane her neck back. "If I hear your voices used for anything other than patient updates or medical inquiries for the rest of this month, you’ll be spending your rotations in the basement archives. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Dr. Park," they stammered in unison, faces pale.
"Good. Get out. Labs in five minutes. If you're late, don't bother coming back."
He watched them scramble out, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had power now, yes, but the taste of it was ash compared to the sweetness of the cookie he'd eaten earlier.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
Down in the ED, Emma was vibrating with a different kind of energy. Every time a chime echoed through the triage bay, her hand flew to her pocket. She was anxiously checking patients in, her mind a frantic loop of vitals and Brendon’s face.
Did he find them? Did he hate them? Was the note too much?
She felt exposed, even with the high-necked scrub top. Every time a patient moved too fast, she flinched, her throat tightening in a phantom grip. She was so focused on the swinging doors that she almost missed the vibration in her pocket.
She waited until a lull in the intake line before slipping into the staff restroom to check.
Dr Park 🦈 [5:15PM]: Best cookies I’ve had in twenty years. Thank you, Emma.
Dr Park 🦈 [5:16PM]: Check your door when you get home. I sent something over.
Emma stared at the screen, a giddy, breathless laugh escaping her. She wanted to reply instantly, but the guilt of her brothers' voices—don't trust—made her hesitate. She tucked the phone away as she headed back to her desk, the afternoon passing in a blur of paperwork and the dull throb of her healing injuries.
By the time her shift ended, she was exhausted. She hadn't looked at her phone since the first text; she hated using it on the commute, terrified of being distracted in the city. When she finally reached her door, she found a warm bag from a local Italian place hanging on the handle. Inside was a note: For the recovery. - B.
She fumbled for her phone as she sat on her kitchen island, the scent of garlic and basil filling the small room.
Emma [7:45PM]: I just got home! I’m so sorry I didn't see this sooner, I don't use my phone on the T. Thank you so much for the food, Brendon! It smells amazing.
The reply came as she was plating the pasta.
Dr Park 🦈 [7:47PM]: You shouldn't be walking or taking the train alone right now anyway. Not in your state.
Dr Park 🦈 [7:48PM]: I live four blocks from your building. I’m driving in tomorrow morning at 5:30. I'll pick you up.
Emma froze, a forkful of penne halfway to her mouth.
Emma [7:50PM]: Oh! I don't want to be a bother, really.
Dr Park 🦈 [7:51PM]: It’s not a request, Emma. See you at 5:30.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
The next morning was the definition of awkward. Brendon’s black truck was idling at the curb exactly at 5:29 AM. Emma climbed in, the interior smelling of expensive leather and lingering tobacco.
The silence was deafening. Brendon stared straight ahead, his large hands gripping the wheel at ten and two, his knuckles white. He looked like he was preparing for combat rather than a commute.
"Um," Emma started, her voice sounding far too loud in the confined space. "The pasta was really good. Thank you."
"Good," he grunted.
She rocked her feet against the floor mat, the same nervous habit from the gas station. "It’s a nice truck. Very... sturdy."
Brendon glanced at her, his eyes unreadable. "It gets the job done."
They hit a red light. Emma looked out the window, then back at him. She noticed he was wearing the cross chain again, the gold glinting against his dark scrubs. "I like your necklace," she blurted out.
He went rigid, his hand instinctively flying to cover the cross. "It’s old," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
"It suits you," she whispered, her heart doing that familiar somersault.
He didn't respond, but as the light turned green, he didn't pull away with his usual aggressive speed. He drove slowly, carefully, as if the small, bruised girl in his passenger seat was the most fragile thing he had ever taken care of.
The silence that followed wasn't as heavy as before. It was more like a held breath. Emma watched the city wake up through the window—the hazy blue light hitting the steel of the bridges.
"I grew up in a house where you didn't ask for things, but I did love cookies." Brendon said suddenly, his voice startling her. He didn't look at her, eyes fixed on the road. "You just took what was given or you went without. My mother—she didn't bake. She didn't have the time or the hands for it."
Emma turned in her seat, her seatbelt clicking softly. "My mom was the opposite. If you weren't eating, she thought you were dying. I think that's why I do it. It’s like a way to make sure everyone is okay."
Brendon’s jaw tightened, but not in anger. "I'm okay, Emma."
"I know," she smiled softly, reaching into her bag. "But you work too hard. And I know hospital cafeteria food is basically cardboard."
She pulled out a foil-wrapped bundle sealed in a pink ziplock. "I made sourdough yesterday. It’s a turkey club—I roasted the turkey myself so it's not that salty deli stuff. And I put a little extra cranberry spread on it because—well, because it's good."
She set it on the center console, right next to his massive hand. He looked at the sandwich like it was a foreign artifact. "You made the bread?"
"From a starter I've had for three years. His name is Barnaby. And the cranberry sauce was my grandmother’s recipe" she giggled, then immediately turned red. "I’m sorry, that must seem so nerdy."
For the first time since they’d met, Brendon actually chuckled. It was a dry, rusty sound, like a gate that hadn't been opened in decades. "Barnaby. Right. I'll be sure to thank him."
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
They arrived at the hospital separately to avoid the inevitable vultures of the morning shift. Emma went to triage, her mind surprisingly calm despite the chaos of an incoming three-car pileup.
Midday, during a rare twenty-minute lunch break, she found him near the staff lockers. He was leaning against the wall, looking exhausted, his surgical cap hanging around his neck.
When he saw her, he straightened up. He reached into his bag and pulled out the bunny-patterned glass container. It was sparkling clean—not a single crumb or smudge of peanut butter left.
"I washed it," he said, handing it back. His fingers brushed hers during the handoff, and the heat of it made her breath hitch. "And for the record... I didn't just like them. I loved them. They were the best thing I've eaten in years."
Emma hugged the container to her chest, the glass still cool from his office fridge. "Even with the bunnies?"
Brendon glanced around to make sure the hallway was empty, then leaned down so his face was level with hers. The scent of the Italian food from the night before seemed to linger on him, mixed with the sterile scent of the OR.
"Especially with the bunnies," he whispered. "And the sandwich was better than the cookies. Don't tell the bunnies I said so."
He gave her a look, his eyes gleaming in a way they hadn’t for years. And he suddenly felt something deeply, achingly human—before turning and heading back toward the elevators.
Emma watched him go, the bunny container pressed against her heart, feeling less like a liability and more like a woman who had finally found a home, even if that home was a six-foot-four surgeon with a cross around his neck and a heart he was finally learning how to use.
Synopsis: In which Clark and y/n torment the office with their slow burn romance.
Pairing: Clark Kent x black!fem!reader
Genre: Boy attempts to pursue girl. Girl runs for the hills. They’re both hopeless.
Warning(s): A very corny love story.
Master list
✿ . ˚ . ˚ ✿.
I know I stand in line until you think you have the time to spend an evening with me.
“I feel like I’m going insane.” You mumbled to yourself.
You had a late start to your morning due to your stupid alarm and you weren’t able to get breakfast. Everyone in the office had been tip toeing around you as to not add to whatever problems you were dealing with now.
That is until Clark Kent walked right up to your desk.
He had a bright smile on his face and while it seemed he sensed your off put mood he simply didn’t care. He tapped on your shoulder and you managed to get your head out of your work and turned to face him.
“What?” You hiss, almost hostile, arms crossed and eyes focused on him solely. Missing the items he held in his hands.
“Food and coffee.” Clark said softly holding his hands out to give them to you. Your mouth was now agape and your eyes lit up as you looked at the meal before looking back up into his warm eyes. Your eyes flickered down to the store name on the bag as you take the food from his hands.
“WAIT… Is this from that one boujee cafe way up the street.” You say excitedly.
“And you got my coffee order perfect. Clark, I will literally love you for the rest of my life.” You say after taking a sip, feeling renewed and a smile gracing your face for the first time today.
“Anytime n/n.” He assured, a bit caught off guard, rubbing his hand against the nape of his neck awkwardly before moving to find his seat just 2 down from her.
Behind them watching the interaction were Jimmy and Lois. They made eye contact before laughing and returning to work. This peaceful working environment lasted for 5 seconds before Jimmy got up and walked over to Y/n.
“So Y/n… got any plans tonight.” Jimmy says dragging his words out and speaking a bit loudly. You raise an eyebrow concerned for his mental health before responding.
“Not really, probably play some music at home and just vibe.” You say smiling.
“Well… Me, Lois, and Clark were wondering if you wanted to join us later on and head down to the new jazz club up the road.
“Umm?? Yess?? Absolutely! I’ve been saying I was gonna stop by but I kept putting it off.” You say laughing softly.
“Glad to hear it! See you guys later.” He says before heading back over to his desk. You were sure he was conspiring with Lois, if the hushed whispers and the occasional giggling were anything to go off of.
✿ . ˚ . ˚ ✿.
Caption: Finishing up some work before it’s time to get ready!
✿ . ˚ . ˚ ✿.
You had shown up early, excited for the night out with your favorite coworkers. Your outfit consisted long gold dress decorated in intricate patterns and some sleek low heels that hid under the feet of your dress. You had enhanced the outfit with gold jewelry had some gold body glitter spray.
While entering and triple checking that you had everything, your lipgloss falls out of your purse. To your surprise a hand reaches down and grabs it before you can. Upon looking up you make eye contact with the one and only Clark Kent.
Clark gave a shy wave and a small smile as you smiled softly in response. You guys were now settled at a table, waiting for the others and just taking in the atmosphere before you got a message from Lois saying she had some editing to finish up at the planet and that it would take a while.
You were a bit suspicious but just laughed softly showing Clark the text. It didn't come as much of a surprise when Clark received a text from Jimmy saying that he wouldn't be able to make it either.
“So they arranged this for it to just be us, huh?” You noted thoughtfully but not upset.
“Um yeah… I suppose so.” He responds like the two of you have never spoken before, hints of his country accent seeping through due to his nervousness.
“You’re lucky I like you Clark.” You teased, chuckling as you get up to get a drink from the bar and Clark trails behind you.
Later into the evening you had somehow ended up on the dance floor, Clark just sitting and watching seemingly in awe.
The way you moved almost had him in a trance. When you turned you had made eye contact with him and immediately waved him over to join you.
He shot up from his seat before making his way beside you on the dance floor. You just smiled and laughed as you reached out your hands for him to grab them.
You were now trying to find him some rhythm because he was just out here embarrassing himself and you. The two of you laughed as he moved a bit stiffly and stumbled and then laughed harder when you tripped over his foot.
"Clark... There's absolutely no way." You laughed as your chest started to hurt. He tried to respond but couldn't get any words out through his own laughing fit.
He eventually found something... or well he had a bit more pep in his step and you guys ended up dancing the night away. At some point in the night you found yourselves walking side by side down the sidewalk.
“Tonight was really fun.” You spoke, breaking the comfortable silence.
“Yeah?” Clark whispered, almost breathless, with a knowing smirk on his face.
“Yeah.” You confessed rolling your eyes in a playful manner.
And if we go some place to dance. I know that there's a chance. You won't be leaving with me.
✿ . ˚ . ˚ ✿.
yourusername my personal photographer aka my bestie
username they’re so adorable
username this is actually a need
c.grant cute!
username not Clark being friendzoned
imanirowe oh queen…
yourusername wait what happened??
username the way the first photo gives couple…
username Then afterwards we drop into a quiet little place and have a drink or two…
clarkkent date night
username ok y/n appreciation post
username the club being the last photo is frying me sb
yourusername I had so much fun, can’t wait to go on more friend dates with you!!
j.olsen yikes!
username she’s drop dead gorgeous
username ok im writing a fic like i can't take this anymore
username And then I go and spoil it all by saying somethin' stupid like, "I love you"…
Dailyplanet workplace romance?
username ok so my ship is finally sailing
username when is it my turnnn
username fork found in kitchen??
j.olsen well!
username the way nobody is shocked...
username I can see it in your eyes that you despise the same old lies you heard the night before…
✿ . ˚ . ˚ ✿.
And though it's just a line to you for me it's true and never seemed so right before.
"So y/n, did you see what was published on the planet earlier?" Jimmy teased mischievously, eager to stir up trouble.
"Umm no? Was it something important?" You questioned, brow raised, while sitting down and signing into your computer.
"You could say that..." He trails off and you immediately narrow your eyes in suspicion. You now put some pep in your step as you make your way over to your computer.
“Want to explain the mischievous look on your face before I find out for myself?” You said side eyeing him. He just smiles innocently, well as innocently as anyone named Jimmy Olsen could, before turning back to his computer.
You knew he was just pretending to be busy but you let him off the hook and signed into your computer to go see the reason behind his weird behavior.
“Sooo… who was gonna tell me that this was happening?” You inquired aloud so everyone in the office could hear you. The chatter ceased and everyone just looked at each other, avoiding looking in your direction. In the midst of the silence Clark had entered the room.
“Good morning, what’s happening in here?” Clark says noticing the awkward atmosphere.
“Well Clark, it seems our co-workers thought it was a good idea to post an article of us and title it workplace romance.” You say now crossing your arms.
“Are we opposed to it being posted or the romance aspect of all this?” Clark replied as he sat down at his desk and turned his rolly chair around. His legs were spread as he crossed his arms, eyebrow now raised.
You stood there silently for a moment, taking the scene in before you were reminded where you were.
“I see you didn’t bring me a coffee this morning?” You say dodging the question fully.
“Are you avoiding the question?” He remarked, words laced with amusement.
“And you know I hate the coffee from the cafeteria…” You go on continuing to talk around the question.
“How about a lunch date?” You looked at him before cocking your head to side.
“I’ll make it up to you?” He added shortly after.
“Alright then, I’ll hold you to it Mr. Kent.” You sang before making your way back over to your desk, hips swaying with every step. The whole office seemed to be frozen in silence before the commotion and conversations resumed.
Even though she was doing a good job at maintaining her composure his question from earlier continued to weigh on her mind. She found she wasn’t bothered very by the idea of her and Clark in a relationship, much less the idea of him being in love with her and a secret third thing she had no intention of speaking into the world.
This was going to be a long day.
I practice every day to find some clever lines to say to make the meaning come true.
Summary: you’re a designer for Armani. He’s Captain Canada. You meet at a club in Milan after he wins Olympic gold, and instead of falling at his feet, you circle him like a predator and systematically dismantle every article of clothing he’s wearing. The blazer is a disaster. The t-shirt is a crime against fashion. His entire outfit is, frankly, a personal insult to the city. He’s never been more intrigued in his life
The weight of it is the first thing that truly registers.
Not the roar of the crowd, which has become a dull, persistent ringing in his ears. Not the flash of a hundred cameras turning the ice into a sea of exploding stars. Not even the bone-deep, soul-singing relief that floods every cell in his body.
It’s the sheer, stunning weight of the gold medal as it’s placed around his neck.
It settles against his chest, cold and heavy and real. Sidney closes his eyes for a fraction of a second, letting the moment imprint itself on him. He can feel Nathan MacKinnon’s arm slung around his shoulders, can hear the wild, youthful whoop from Connor Bedard somewhere to his left. The whole team is a crush of bodies, an overload of joyous, breathless shouts. They’ve done it.
“Can you believe this, Sid?” Nate’s voice is hoarse, cracked with emotion, right next to his ear. “Can you actually believe it?”
Sidney opens his eyes, a slow grin spreading across his face. He looks at his best friend, at the pure happiness shining in his eyes, and just shakes his head. There are no words. There never are in moments like this. There’s just the feeling. This glorious, all-encompassing feeling.
***
Hours later, the feeling has morphed. It’s looser, louder, fueled by champagne that tastes like victory and the shared delirium of a dream realized. The quiet, focused captain has been temporarily shelved. In his place is just Sid, a guy in his late thirties who feels about twenty years older than the rookies buzzing around him.
They’re in a club. Of course they’re in a club. One of those places in Milan that doesn’t have a sign, just a velvet rope and a bouncer who looks like he could bench press a small car. Celebrini and a few of the other younger guys had insisted. “Come on, Sid! We’re in Milan! We won a gold medal! We can’t just go back to the village!”
So here he is. The music is a physical force, a bassline that thumps against his ribs and makes the bottle of water in his hand vibrate. Lights — blue, pink, gold — slice through manufactured fog. The air smells of expensive perfume and something vaguely electric. He’s wearing a blazer he packed at the last minute over a t-shirt and jeans. He feels … out of place.
“See? Told you it’d be fun!” Macklin yells over the music, his face flushed with excitement. He looks like a kid who just hit the world’s biggest jackpot, which, Sid supposes, he kind of has.
“It’s loud,” Sid yells back, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself.
“It’s a celebration!” Connor McDavid adds, clapping him on the shoulder. “Gotta celebrate properly.”
Sidney scans the room. It’s a blur of beautiful people in beautiful clothes, all sharp lines and deliberate nonchalance. He and his teammates, fresh off the ice and still radiating a kind of raw, athletic energy, stick out like a sore thumb. A very happy, very Canadian sore thumb.
He takes a sip of his water, leaning back against the plush velvet of their corner booth. He watches Marchand try to explain hockey to a statuesque Italian model, using salt and pepper shakers as players. He sees Nate laughing, head thrown back, a real, unguarded laugh. He feels a deep sense of contentment settle over him, even amidst the chaos. These are the moments. The ones that stick.
That’s when he notices you.
Or rather, that’s when his teammates notice you noticing him.
You’re sitting at a small, two-person table across the room, tucked away from the main throng. There’s a quiet elegance about you, a pool of calm in the middle of the thrumming energy. You have a sketchbook open in front of you, a pen dancing across the page. Every so often, your eyes lift, flick across the room, and land on him.
It’s not a flirtatious gaze. It’s not star-struck. It’s … analytical. Appraising. Your brow is slightly furrowed, your lips pursed in concentration. You look at him for a few seconds, then your eyes drop back to your sketchbook, and the pen moves with renewed vigor.
This happens three, four, five times.
“Uh, Sid?” It’s Mitch Marner, leaning across the table. “Don’t look now, but I think you’ve got an admirer.”
Sidney follows his gaze, even though he already knows where it’s going. “What? No. She’s just looking around.”
“No, man, she’s looking at you,” Nate insists, a conspiratorial grin spreading across his face. He takes a long drink from his glass. “Been doing it for the last ten minutes. Steady. Like a hawk.”
“She’s probably just trying to figure out who the old guy crashing the kids’ party is,” Sidney mutters, taking another sip of water.
“The old guy with a brand new gold medal hanging around his neck?” Marchand chimes in, having abandoned his salt-shaker hockey demonstration. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s it. Total mystery.” He smirks. “She’s into you, man. She’s probably got a thing for living legends.”
“Guys, come on.” He feels a familiar warmth creep up his neck. He’s never been good at this, the center-of-attention stuff off the ice. On the ice, he commands it. Here, he just feels like a guy in an ill-fitting blazer.
Your eyes lift again. They meet his for a split second. There’s no smile, no coy glance away. Just a direct assessment before you return to your work. It’s unnerving.
“That’s it. You’re going over there,” Nate declares, his voice taking on the tone of a coach giving a locker-room speech.
“What? No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” Macklin urges, his eyes wide. “Dude, this is your rom-com moment! Famous athlete meets mysterious beautiful girl in a foreign city! It writes itself!”
“You watch too many movies, kid,” Sid says, but he’s already being pushed, gently but firmly, out of the booth by Nate.
“Go on. What’s the worst that can happen? She says no?” Marchand scoffs. “You’re Sidney Crosby. She’s not gonna say no.”
Sidney straightens his blazer, a nervous habit. He glances back at his friends, a gallery of grinning idiots, giving him thumbs-ups. He feels like he’s about to take a face-off in overtime. He takes a breath, smooths down a shirt he suddenly feels is all wrong, and starts walking.
The short distance across the club floor feels like a mile. The music seems to swell, every beat a drum counting his steps. He can feel his teammates’ eyes on his back. He rehearses a line in his head. Hi, I’m Sid. My friends noticed you looking. No, that’s lame. Hi, can I buy you a drink? Too generic.
He reaches your table, a small island of focused energy. You don’t look up. You’re completely absorbed in your drawing, the fine lines of your pen creating something he can’t quite make out.
He clears his throat. “Excuse me?”
***
The voice is quiet, a little rough around the edges, with an accent that’s immediately and unmistakably North American. Canadian, probably. You don’t look up. You’re on the verge of a breakthrough with the dart placement on a new bodice design, and the idea is as fragile as a soap bubble.
“Hi,” the voice says again, closer this time.
With a sigh, you cap your pen. The bubble is popped. You look up, and your professional critique from across the room is now standing right in front of you. Sidney Crosby. In the flesh. And his outfit is even worse up close.
“Hello,” you say, your voice flat. You’re not trying to be rude, just efficient. You want to get back to your sketch.
He seems a little thrown off by your lack of reaction. He gestures vaguely back towards his booth. “My, uh, my teammates thought … they saw you looking over.”
“I was,” you confirm, your eyes automatically going to the collar of his shirt. It’s a t-shirt. A heather grey t-shirt with some kind of subtle jacquard pattern, peeking out from the lapels of a navy blazer. The combination is an aesthetic crime.
He gives a small, slightly awkward smile. “Oh. Okay. Well, I’m Sidney.”
He says it like it’s an explanation. And it would be, to anyone else on the planet. To you, in this moment, it’s irrelevant information.
You finally give him your full attention, your gaze sweeping from his shoes — decent, at least — up to his face. He has kind eyes, you’ll give him that. But the kindness of his eyes cannot distract from the travesty happening with his blazer.
“I know who you are,” you say, your tone measured. You lean forward slightly, unable to help yourself. “My question is, who dressed you?”
The smile on his face doesn’t just falter, it vanishes. It’s replaced by a look of pure confusion. He blinks. Once. Twice.
“I’m … sorry?”
“Who dressed you?” You repeat, pointing your capped pen at his chest. “Did you lose a bet? Is this some kind of team hazing ritual for the veterans? Because I can’t imagine you chose to pair that blazer with that t-shirt of your own free will.”
Sidney looks down at his own chest as if seeing it for the first time. He plucks at the fabric of his shirt. “What’s … what’s wrong with it?”
You let out a small, incredulous breath. “What’s wrong with it? Where do I begin?” You stand up, not to be intimidating, but because you can’t properly assess the structural problems while sitting. You circle him slowly, like a shark examining its prey. He stands frozen, looking bewildered.
“Okay, first, the blazer.” You gesture to his shoulders. “The shoulder seam is dropping a good inch past your natural shoulder line. It’s boxy. It’s designed for a man with a much broader torso. It completely swallows your frame instead of complementing it.”
You move behind him. “And it’s pulling here, across the back, see? That means it’s too tight in the lats, but too wide in the shoulder. It’s a terrible fit. Mass-produced, off-the-rack, zero tailoring. An absolute shame.”
You come back around to the front. He’s staring at you, his mouth slightly agape. His teammates, you notice from the corner of your eye, are watching this whole interaction with expressions of dawning horror and confusion.
“And the shirt,” you say, your voice dropping with gravitas. “A crew neck t-shirt under a blazer is already a risky proposition. It can work, in a very casual, very deliberate way. But this is a patterned, heathered crew neck. It’s fighting with the blazer, which has its own subtle texture. The fabrics are arguing. And visually, it chops up your neckline. You have a strong jawline, you should be framing it, not hiding it with a high-necked t-shirt that serves no purpose.”
You stop your tirade, crossing your arms. You look at his face. The initial shock has been replaced by something else. A flicker of amusement in those kind eyes.
He’s not offended. He’s intrigued.
“So … it’s bad?” He asks, a slow smile starting to form.
“It’s a cry for help,” you state, deadpan. “I was watching you from my table, and my professional instincts were screaming. I work in design. For Armani. Seeing something like this in Milan … it’s a personal insult to the entire city.”
He lets out a genuine laugh. A real, honest-to-god laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes. It’s a nice sound.
“Okay, wow. I, uh, I don’t think anyone’s ever talked to me like that before.”
“Then you’ve been surrounded by liars and sycophants,” you reply, though your tone has softened slightly. You sit back down, gesturing to the empty chair at your table. “You might as well sit down. You’ve come all this way.”
He hesitates for a second, glancing back at his team. Nate gives him a frantic, questioning ‘what is happening?’ gesture. Sidney just shrugs, a grin on his face, and pulls out the chair.
“So you’re a designer,” he says, leaning forward, his elbows on the small table. The terrible blazer bunches up around his shoulders when he does. You wince internally.
“I am,” you say. “You’re a hockey player.”
“I am,” he mimics, his smile widening. “We just, uh … we just won. Tonight.” He says it humbly, a little shyly.
“The gold medal. Yes, I’m aware. The entire city is aware. Which makes the outfit even more tragic. You’re representing your country, and you look like you got dressed in the dark from a suitcase that was packed by your fourteen-year-old nephew.”
He winces dramatically. “Ouch. That bad?”
“Worse,” you confirm. “My nephew has better taste.”
He laughs again. “Okay, fair enough. In my defense, this wasn’t exactly the outfit I planned on wearing to a fancy club in Milan. It was more of a … ‘get on the bus and go to the airport’ outfit.”
“An excuse, but not a justification,” you say, tapping your pen on your sketchbook. “The world is your runway, Sidney. Especially tonight.”
“The world is my runway?” He repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what you fashion people say?”
“Among other things,” you say, a small smile finally touching your own lips. “You have no idea.”
He looks at you, really looks at you, for the first time. Not as the girl staring from across the room, but as the person sitting in front of him, mercilessly deconstructing his wardrobe.
“What’s your name?” He asks.
You tell him. He repeats it, testing the sound of it.
“Well,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “It’s nice to meet you. I think.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” you say, your eyes twinkling. “I love a good project.”
Across the room, Nate turns to the rest of the table.
“What is going on over there?” He asks, completely bewildered. “She hasn’t smiled once. She was circling him like a vulture. Is she … is she yelling at him?”
“I don’t know,” Macklin says, his brow furrowed in concern. “But he’s laughing. I think Sid’s into it.”
Marchand just shakes his head, a look of grudging respect on his face. “Weird recognizes weird, I guess.”
Sidney doesn’t hear them. He’s locked in conversation with you. He’s telling you about the game, the final seconds, the feeling of the buzzer. You’re listening, really listening, while simultaneously redesigning his entire outfit in your head. Stronger shoulder pad, a lower gorge on the lapel, maybe a merino wool mock-neck sweater instead of the t-shirt. Yes, that would be much better.
“So you’re here for the whole Olympics?” He asks.
“I live here,” you answer. “This is just another Friday night for me. Well, usually it’s a Friday night with better-dressed people.”
He grins. “Right. Sorry to be dragging down the city’s average.”
“Someone has to,” you quip.
An hour passes like ten minutes. The rest of his team fades into the background, a noisy, happy blur. He learns that you moved to Milan four years ago for the job, that you speak fluent Italian, that you think fashion is less about clothes and more about architecture for the human body. You learn that he’s quieter than you’d expect, thoughtful, with a dry sense of humor that comes out when he’s comfortable. You learn that he feels a little old to be celebrating like this, but he’s doing it for the younger guys on the team.
He’s … nice. Genuinely nice. Underneath the terrible blazer is a good man. A good man who desperately needs a stylist.
Eventually, you see one of his teammates making motions that it’s time to leave.
“Looks like my curfew’s up,” Sidney says, a note of regret in his voice. He stands, and you stand with him.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Sidney Crosby. And to critique you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” he says, his smile warm and genuine. “Hey, so … we’re here for a few more days before we fly out. Press stuff, you know.”
“I see.”
He hesitates, and for the first time all night, he looks a little nervous, a little unsure. It’s endearing. “I was wondering … I mean, since you’re an expert and everything … and I clearly need help …”
You raise an eyebrow, waiting.
“Would you … would you be willing to help me? Not look like my nephew dressed me?”
You can’t help it. You laugh. A real, bright laugh that makes him break into a wide grin.
“Are you asking me to be your emergency stylist?”
“Is that a thing?” He asks hopefully.
“It is now,” you decide. You grab your sketchbook and tear a blank page from the back. You quickly scrawl your name and number on it. “Call me tomorrow. We’ll start from scratch. We’re burning that blazer.”
He takes the slip of paper, his fingers brushing yours for a brief, electric moment. He looks down at your handwriting, then back up at you. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” you say, your professional demeanor clicking back into place. “I’m sending you my invoice.”
He chuckles, folding the paper carefully and tucking it into his jeans pocket. “Deal.”
He says goodbye and walks back to his team, who immediately swarm him with a barrage of questions. You watch him go, a small, private smile on your face. You sit back down at your table and flip open your sketchbook.
But instead of the bodice you were designing, you find yourself sketching a man’s jacket. One with a perfect shoulder, a tapered waist, and a silhouette that’s strong and classic and kind.
Just like the man who’s going to wear it.
***
The morning after winning Olympic gold is a strange, distorted reality.
Sidney wakes up to a slice of pale Milanese sunlight cutting through a gap in the curtains. His head is blessedly clear — he’d stuck to water and one glass of champagne — but his body aches with a deep, settled exhaustion that has nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the release of a decade-long tension coil.
He rolls over, groaning softly. The gold medal is on the nightstand, gleaming even in the dim light. It looks unreal, like a prop from a movie. He reaches out and touches its cool, heavy surface. Real.
His phone buzzes. A text from Nate in the adjacent room.
Nate: Breakfast. Cafeteria. 15.
Followed by:
Nate: Don’t be late. I’m starving.
Sidney swings his legs out of bed. His team-issued travel sweats are pooled on the floor where he dropped them last night. Next to them are the jeans he wore. As he picks them up, a small, folded piece of paper falls out of the pocket.
He stares at it. Your number.
A wave of something hot and uncomfortable washes over him. A full-body cringe. Did that actually happen? Did he really walk up to a complete stranger, only to have her systematically dismantle his entire sense of style in front of a room full of people?
He remembers the clinical way you circled him. “The shoulder seam is dropping a good inch.” The undisguised pity in your voice. “It’s a cry for help.”
And he remembers his own reaction. The surprised, unwilling laugh that had bubbled up out of him. The way he’d been completely, utterly captivated.
He smooths out the paper. Your name is written in a sharp, architectural script. Below it, the numbers of your phone. He should throw it away. It was a joke, a funny story to tell. A world-famous athlete gets dressed down by a fashion designer in a Milan nightclub. End of story. Calling you would be … what? Mortifying? Presumptuous?
He’s still staring at the number when a keycard slides into his door and it swings open. Nate walks in, already dressed, hair still damp from the shower.
“Come on, man, let’s go. I could eat a … what are you looking at?”
Nate’s eyes zero in on the slip of paper in Sidney’s hand. A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face.
“No way. You actually got her number.”
“It’s not like that,” Sidney says quickly, folding the paper. “She was … giving me advice.”
“Advice?” Nate snorts, grabbing a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. “Sid, she looked at you like you were a science experiment gone wrong. I’ve never seen a woman look at you with that much disdain. It was kind of incredible.”
“She just … knows a lot about clothes.”
“Yeah, and you know a lot about hockey. Doesn’t mean you go up to strangers in bars and tell them their wrist shot is an insult to the sport.” Nate leans against the desk, crossing his arms. “So, are you gonna call her?”
Sidney shoves the paper into the pocket of his sweatpants. “No. Come on. What am I gonna say?”
“I don’t know. ‘Hi, it’s Sidney Crosby. You correctly identified my blazer as a crime against humanity last night, and I’d like to formally surrender to your custody for rehabilitation.’”
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” Nate counters, his grin widening. “Look, man. You’re in Milan. You have a few days off. A beautiful, terrifying, stylish woman gave you her number. What is the downside here?”
“The downside is the crushing embarrassment,” Sidney mutters, pulling on a fresh t-shirt. “She works for Armani. I wear sweatpants for a living.”
“And you’re the best in the world at what you do!” Nate says, his voice rising with exasperation. “You have more confidence in a triple-overtime Game 7 than you do calling a girl. It makes no sense.”
The door opens again. This time it’s Brad.
“Are we eating or what? My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.” He stops, sensing the tension. “What’s going on?”
“Sid’s chickening out,” Nate says, gesturing at Sidney. “He won’t call the fashion lady.”
Marchand’s face breaks into a gleeful, predatory smile. “Oh, you have to call her. One hundred percent. This is the most interesting thing that’s happened to you off the ice since … ever.” He pauses. “You think she’ll make you cry?”
“Get out,” Sidney says, but there’s no heat in it.
“I’m serious,” Marchand continues, walking further into the room. “Think about it. Best case scenario, you get a new wardrobe and maybe a date. Worst case scenario, she verbally flays you again and we get a great story out of it. It’s a win-win for the team.”
“Thanks for the support,” Sidney says dryly.
“That’s what we’re here for,” Nate says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Come on. Just do it. It’s not a big deal. It’s just a phone call.”
Sidney looks from Nate’s earnest, encouraging face to Marchand’s Cheshire Cat grin. He sighs, pulling the crumpled paper back out of his pocket. He feels like he’s standing at the blue line, about to take a penalty shot he knows he’s going to miss.
He pulls out his phone. His thumb hovers over the keypad.
“Just press the buttons, Sid,” Nate coaches, as if he’s talking him through a power play. “One number at a time.”
He takes a deep breath and dials. It rings once. Twice. He’s about to hang up, to declare it a failed attempt, when the line clicks.
“Pronto.”
The voice is crisp, professional, and sends an immediate jolt of nervous energy through him. It’s you.
“Uh … hi,” he stammers, his voice coming out a little hoarse. He clears his throat. “Is this … is this Y/N?”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end. Marchand mimes a prayer.
“This is she.” Another pause. “Sidney?”
The fact that you recognize his voice sends a wave of relief so profound through him it almost makes him dizzy.
“Yeah. Yeah, hi. It’s, uh … it’s me. From the club last night.”
“I remember,” you say. He can hear the smile in your voice, a dry, knowing sound. “I was wondering if you’d lost my number. Or your nerve.”
He flushes, acutely aware of Nate and Brad watching him, their expressions a mixture of pride and pure amusement. “No, just … morning meetings. Team stuff.”
“Of course,” you say, and he knows you don’t believe him for a second. “So, are you calling to book a consultation, or did you just want to hear my voice again?”
The directness of it throws him. It’s like a perfectly executed hip check he never saw coming.
“The, uh … the first one,” he manages. “The consultation. If you’re serious.”
“I’m always serious when it comes to crimes of fashion,” you reply smoothly. “I have a window this afternoon. Meet me at noon. Pasticceria Marchesi on Via Monte Napoleone. Do you know it?”
“I can find it.”
“Good. And Sidney?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t wear the blazer.”
The line goes dead.
Sidney lowers the phone, staring at it in his hand.
Marchand is the first to speak, his voice filled with awe. “She is a shark. And you, my friend, are a baby seal. This is gonna be amazing.”
Nate just pats him on the back. “Go get ‘em, man. And take your credit card.”
***
You are, in fact, always serious about your work. You arrive at the pasticceria at 11:55, securing a small table by the window. You’re wearing tailored black trousers, a simple silk shell, and a sharply cut blazer that puts his to shame. You order an espresso and watch the impossibly stylish river of people flow down the most famous fashion street in the world.
This is your arena. Your home ice.
You’re not entirely sure why you gave him your number. It was an impulse, a professional twitch. The man was a walking disaster area, and you’re a fixer. But there was something else, too. A quiet humility you didn’t expect. A genuine kindness in his eyes, even as you were systematically destroying his self-esteem. He was … intriguing.
At precisely 12:02, you see him. He’s walking down the street looking completely and utterly lost. Not geographically lost — he’s looking right at the cafe — but spiritually lost. He’s a lion in a library, a fish on a bicycle. He’s dressed in head-to-toe Team Canada athletic gear. Black track pants, a red zip-up jacket.
It’s an improvement, you decide. A vast, monumental improvement. At least it’s honest. It’s a uniform. It says, I am an athlete, and this is what I wear. It is a blank canvas.
He spots you through the window, and a look of relief crosses his face. He enters the cafe, a little awkward as he navigates the small, ornate tables.
“Hi,” he says, standing in front of you.
“You’re two minutes late,” you say, gesturing for him to sit. “But at least you followed my instructions. The blazer is nowhere in sight.”
He sits, placing his hands on the table. They’re strong hands, scarred and calloused. The hands of a man who works.
“I thought this was a safer option,” he says, indicating his jacket.
“Safer, yes. Appropriate for the Quadrilatero della Moda? No,” you reply, taking a sip of your espresso. “But it gives me a clear idea of what we’re working with. A complete teardown. A gut renovation. Are you ready for this?”
He looks around at the well-heeled patrons, the intricate pastries under glass, the general air of effortless wealth. “I don’t think anything could have prepared me for this.”
“Good,” you say, finishing your coffee and standing up. You place a few euros on the table. “Uncertainty is the first step toward enlightenment. Come on. Our first appointment is in five minutes.”
You lead him out into the bright Milanese afternoon. The air is crisp, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue.
“Appointment?” He asks, jogging a little to keep up with your determined pace.
“You don’t think we’re just ‘shopping,’ do you?” You ask, looking at him over your shoulder. “This isn’t a leisurely browse. This is a targeted surgical strike. We are here to build you a functional, elegant, and appropriate wardrobe from the ground up. This is not a game, Sidney. This is war.”
He looks genuinely alarmed. “A war against what?”
“Against everything you’re wearing right now,” you say, without a trace of irony. “And that blazer.”
The first stop is a Loro Piana boutique. It’s quiet, hushed, smelling of cedar and wool. The clothes are displayed like museum pieces. Sidney stops just inside the door, his eyes wide with a kind of primal fear.
A sales associate, a man with silver hair and an impeccable suit, glides towards you. “Signorina Y/L/N. Che piacere.”
“Ciao, Gianni,” you say warmly. “This is Sidney. He’s in need of … everything.”
Gianni looks Sidney up and down, his professional gaze missing nothing. “Capisco. I understand. We will begin with the fundamentals.”
What follows is, for Sidney, a two-hour ordeal of unprecedented confusion and discomfort. You and Gianni speak in rapid-fire Italian, a language that sounds beautiful and utterly terrifying. Sweaters are produced. He’s told to try on a soft, grey cashmere V-neck.
He looks at the tag. The price makes his heart skip a beat.
“This … this costs more than my suits,” he whispers to you as Gianni discreetly fetches another size.
“It will also last longer and feel better,” you say, walking over to him. You touch the sleeve. “This isn't a sweater. It’s an experience. It’s made from the fleece of a Hircus goat that lives a better, more stress-free life than either of us. You can feel it.”
He does feel it. It’s impossibly soft. He puts it on. He looks in the mirror. It’s just a grey sweater, but it hangs differently. It makes his shoulders look broader, his waist narrower.
“Stop looking at the price tags,” you instruct, your voice low. “That is not your concern. Your concern is fit and feel. My concern is everything else. You are a world champion. You can afford the happy goat.”
He’s hustled into the fitting room again and again. He tries on merino wool knits, linen shirts, a pair of suede loafers that feel like butter. You are a ruthless director.
“No, the color is wrong. It washes you out.”
“Stand up straight. Shoulders back. I need to see the drape.”
“Take that off. Immediately.”
He feels like a mannequin, a doll being dressed and undressed. It’s exhausting. It’s more mentally draining than breaking down game tape. The focus you command is absolute.
After you’ve assembled a small, ruinously expensive pile of basics at the counter, you move on. The next stop is for trousers.
This is where the real problem begins.
At a boutique specializing in menswear, you hand him a pair of beautifully cut grey flannel trousers. He disappears into the fitting room and emerges a minute later with a frustrated look on his face.
“See?” He says, turning in a circle. “This always happens.”
The pants are tight. Very tight. They cling to his thighs and stretch across his seat, pulling the pockets out of shape. But the waist is loose, gaping at the back.
You walk towards him, your expression unreadable. You circle him, just as you did in the club, but this time your gaze is purely professional. He feels a ridiculous urge to suck in his stomach, even though his stomach isn’t the issue.
Your eyes linger on his legs. Decades of skating, of grueling workouts, of explosive power, are written into the muscle there. You see the sweep of his quads, the solid curve of his glutes. It’s the physique of an elite athlete. It is, objectively, magnificent. A fleeting, completely unprofessional thought crosses your mind before you ruthlessly quash it.
You stop in front of him. You reach out and tap his thigh with your index finger. The muscle beneath the taut fabric is like granite.
“This,” you say, your voice clinical. “This is the problem.” Your hand moves, gesturing to his rear. “And this.”
He shifts, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “My … legs?”
“Your legs. Your ass,” you state, with the bluntness of a surgeon delivering a diagnosis. “All those years of squats and skating have built a lower body that designers do not account for. They design for handsome, waifish men who walk, not for powerful athletes who fly.”
“So … my ass is too big for Italian pants?” He asks, a note of disbelief in his voice.
“Precisely,” you confirm, crossing your arms. “It’s a good problem to have on the ice, I imagine. But on the Via Monte Napoleone, it’s a logistical nightmare. Off-the-rack trousers will never fit you. Ever. It’s a waste of time to even try.”
He looks genuinely crestfallen. “So what do I do?”
A slow smile spreads across your face. “Now, the fun begins.”
You lead him away from the gleaming storefronts, down a quiet side street to an old, unassuming building. There’s no sign, just a small brass plaque that reads “Sartoria Ricci.” Inside, it smells of chalk, steam, and old wool. An elderly man in a tape-measure-draped vest looks up from a cutting table.
“Y/N!” He exclaims, his face breaking into a warm smile. “What a beautiful surprise.”
“Ciao, Ugo,” you say, kissing him on both cheeks. “I have brought you a project.”
You introduce Sidney. Ugo, the tailor, regards him with the practiced eye of a master craftsman. He doesn’t see a hockey player; he sees a series of angles and lines, a challenge.
“Ah, an athlete,” Ugo says, nodding sagely. “The shoulders, the legs. It requires a different geometry.”
For the next hour, Sidney is measured from every conceivable angle. Ugo’s hands are quick and sure. They discuss fabrics, looking through heavy sample books. You guide the choices, vetoing a pattern you deem too fussy, championing a wool-silk blend you know will drape beautifully.
Sidney is quiet through it all, completely out of his depth. He’s in your world now, and he watches you, amazed. You are fluent, confident, passionate. You move through this world with the same effortless authority he has on the ice. He’s never seen anything like it.
“This will take a few weeks,” Ugo says at the end, jotting down the final measurements.
“We don’t have weeks,” you say. “I need one pair, rush. By tomorrow evening.”
Ugo looks horrified. “Impossible! The stitching, the pressing …”
“For me, Ugo?” You ask, putting a hand on his arm and giving him a look that is both pleading and commanding.
The old tailor sighs, defeated by your charm. “For you, I will perform a miracle. Tomorrow. Five o’clock.”
Back on the street, Sidney shakes his head in disbelief. “How did you do that?”
“Ugo has a soft spot for me,” you say with a shrug. “And I send a lot of business his way. Now, the final piece. The one that started it all.”
You take him to the Armani flagship store. It’s a temple of modern design, sleek and intimidating. Here, you are not just a customer; you are home. The staff greet you with a reverence usually reserved for royalty.
“We need a blazer,” you announce to the store manager. “Something for the evening. Structured. Modern, but timeless.”
You pull one off the rack. It’s a deep, midnight blue, made of a fabric that seems to drink the light.
“This one,” you say.
Sidney looks at it. It’s beautiful, but it feels like a costume. “I don’t know … it’s not really me.”
“Who you were ten minutes ago is not relevant,” you say, your voice firm but not unkind. “Try it on.”
He slips his arms into the silk-lined sleeves. He turns to the three-way mirror. And he stops.
It’s not just a jacket. It’s armor.
The shoulders are perfect, hitting the exact point of his own. The jacket tapers at his waist, hinting at the athletic frame beneath without clinging. The sleeves are the perfect length, showing just the right amount of shirt cuff (if he were wearing a dress shirt). It changes him. His posture straightens. He looks taller, more confident. He looks … important.
He catches your eye in the reflection. You’re standing behind him, arms crossed, with a small, deeply satisfied smile on your face.
“See?” You say softly. “It doesn’t fight you. It works with you. It frames you.”
He turns around, facing you. “Wow.” The word is quiet, filled with genuine awe. “I-I look different.”
“You look like yourself,” you correct him. “Just with a better frame.”
The moment hangs in the air between you. The professional transaction has melted away, replaced by something warmer, more personal. He’s not just a project anymore. You see the man in the jacket, and you like what you see.
***
An hour later, you’re both collapsed at a small table in a quiet café, surrounded by a small mountain of elegant shopping bags. Sidney looks shell-shocked. He’s slumped in his chair, staring into the middle distance. You are sipping a macchiato, looking as fresh and energized as when you started.
“I think I need a nap,” he says, his voice a low groan. “That was harder than the gold medal game. I’m serious. My feet hurt. My brain hurts. I’ve made fewer decisions in an entire playoff series.”
“That is the feeling of growth,” you say, placing your cup down. “It’s meant to be uncomfortable. You’ve just experienced a full style evolution in the span of four hours. Most men don’t manage that in a lifetime.”
He manages a weak smile. “Is that what that was?” He looks at the bags. “I think I just spent more money than I did on my last car.”
“And these things will bring you more joy and utility,” you assure him. “Cars just get you from one place to another. A perfect jacket gets you through the door.”
He shakes his head, a real smile finally breaking through the fatigue. He looks at you, his gaze direct and sincere. “Thank you. Really. I would never, ever have done any of this on my own. I would have been wandering around in my team jacket until I retired.”
“I know,” you say simply. “That’s why I was here.”
A comfortable silence settles between you. The sounds of the city — a distant siren, the clink of glasses from the bar — fill the space. The dynamic has shifted. The teacher and student, the stylist and client roles are dissolving. Now, you’re just a man and a woman, sitting at a cafe at the end of a long, strange day.
“So,” he says, breaking the silence. “The invoice you mentioned. Is it going to be as scary as those price tags?”
You take a thoughtful sip of your coffee. “Scarier,” you say, your eyes twinkling with mischief. He pales slightly. You laugh. “I’m joking. Mostly.” You lean forward, your tone softening. “Let me get this. Consider it a professional courtesy. For services rendered to the Canadian national pride. And for saving the city of Milan from having to witness that blazer ever again.”
He laughs, a warm, easy sound. “In that case … how about you let me buy you dinner tonight? As a proper thank you.” He gestures towards the shopping bags. “I could even wear one of my new, Y/N-approved outfits.”
You look at him. At his kind, tired eyes. At the genuine warmth in his smile. An actual date. The thought sends a little flutter through your chest, a feeling that has nothing to do with fabric weights or shoulder construction.
“Are you sure you have the energy?” You ask, raising an eyebrow.
“For you?” He says, his voice dropping a little. “I’ll rally.”
“Okay, Crosby,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your lips. “You’ve got a deal. Pick me up at eight.” You pull a pen from your purse and write your address on a napkin. “And you’d better be well-dressed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, taking the napkin like it’s a precious medal. “I have a very good teacher.”
***
Sidney’s room in the Olympic Village feels too small.
Or maybe he feels too big for it. Sidney stands in front of the full-length mirror attached to the wardrobe, turning slowly. He’s wearing the midnight blue Armani blazer from the store. Underneath it, not a t-shirt, but a fine-gauge merino wool sweater in a deep charcoal grey — one of the first things you and Gianni had approved of at Loro Piana. The custom-made trousers from Ugo won’t be ready until tomorrow, so he’s wearing a pair of dark, slim-fit chinos you had deemed “acceptable for now, but only under duress.”
He doesn’t recognize the man in the mirror. Not completely.
It’s still his face, his frame. But the clothes … they change the lines of him. They present him to the world in a language he is only just beginning to understand. He feels like he’s in costume for a role he hasn’t yet learned.
He runs a hand over the lapel of the blazer. The fabric is smooth, cool, and impossibly light. It’s nothing like the stiff, heavy suits he wears for team functions. This feels less like clothing and more like a second skin.
A knock at the door, and then Nate pokes his head in. “Hey, you ready to … whoa.”
Nate steps fully into the room, his eyes wide. He circles Sidney, an expression of profound shock on his face. “Dude. What happened to you? Did the fashion lady put you in a machine?”
“It’s just clothes, Nate,” Sidney says, feeling a familiar heat rise in his cheeks. He adjusts the sleeve of the jacket, a nervous gesture.
“No, it’s not ‘just clothes,’” Nate insists, pointing a finger at him. “You look … expensive. Like you own a yacht in Monaco or something. You look like you belong here.”
That’s the thing, isn’t it? He’s never felt like he belonged here, in this world of effortless European style. He’s a guy from Cole Harbour, Nova Scotia. His natural habitat is a sheet of ice, not a Milanese street that looks like a movie set. But standing here, in these clothes you picked, he feels … plausible. Like he might just be able to pull it off.
“Is it too much?” Sid asks, a genuine note of anxiety in his voice. “I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”
“Are you kidding me? You look like you’ve never had to try a day in your life,” Nate says, shaking his head in admiration. “She did a good job. The scary fashion lady, she knows her stuff.”
“Her name is Y/N,” Sidney corrects him automatically.
Nate grins, a knowing, triumphant look. “Oh, it’s ‘Y/N’ now, is it?” He claps Sidney on the shoulder. “Go get her, man. Seriously. Just try not to spill anything on the jacket. I have a feeling it costs more than my playoff bonus.”
Sidney takes one last look in the mirror. He takes a deep breath, the kind he takes before stepping onto the ice for a big game. He feels the same thrum of nervous energy, the same potent cocktail of fear and anticipation. He’s out of his element, playing a game where he doesn’t know the rules. And you’re the one who wrote them.
***
You, on the other hand, are in your element. Your apartment is a reflection of your aesthetic: clean lines, neutral colors, and a few carefully chosen pieces of art that explode with color. It’s organized, calm, and deliberate. A sanctuary from the beautiful chaos of your industry.
You stand in front of your own mirror, assessing. You’ve chosen a simple, impeccably cut black dress. It’s deceptively plain, its genius is in the drape of the heavy silk, the way it skims your body without clinging, the asymmetrical neckline that exposes one collarbone. It’s elegant, understated, and powerful. It’s a dress that doesn’t need to shout to be heard.
You’re not nervous. Not exactly. You’re … curious.
You’ve dated men who understand fashion. Men who work in the industry, artists, architects. Men who speak the same language of aesthetics and design as you do. They were often beautiful, charming, and, ultimately, exhausting. They were too much like you.
Sidney is different. He is a man who, twenty-four hours ago, considered a heather grey t-shirt appropriate evening wear. He is direct, humble, and completely unpretentious. He listens with a quiet intensity that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room. He is a solid, grounding presence in your world of ephemera and trends.
And there’s an undeniable, primal appeal to his physicality. You think of his legs in those ill-fitting trousers, the sheer power they contained. He is a man built for function, not for fashion, and you find that contrast … compelling.
The buzzer rings, pulling you from your thoughts. You take a final glance in the mirror, smooth down the silk of your dress, and go to let him in.
When you open the door, he’s standing there, looking perfect.
He’s holding a single, perfect white orchid. Not a bouquet. Just one. It’s a choice so simple and elegant it takes your breath away. Your eyes do a quick, professional scan. The fit of the jacket is precise. The color of the sweater complements his skin tone. The chinos are clean-lined and modern. He got it right. He actually listened.
A genuine, warm smile spreads across your face.
“Wow,” you say, your voice softer than you intended. “You clean up nicely, Crosby.”
He gives you a small, shy smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes. He looks at your dress, his gaze appreciative but respectful.
“You, uh, you too,” he says, his voice a little rough. “I mean. You look amazing.” He holds out the orchid. “This is for you. I didn’t know what to get, so …”
“It’s perfect,” you say, taking it from him. The tips of your fingers brush against his, and a tiny, surprising spark jumps between you. You step back to let him in. “Come on in. I just have to put this in water.”
He steps into your apartment, his eyes scanning the space. He looks from the abstract painting on your wall to the carefully curated stack of art books on your coffee table. He seems to be memorizing it, trying to understand you through the things you’ve chosen to surround yourself with.
“Nice place,” he says, his voice quiet with respect. “It’s … calm.”
“I need calm,” you say from the small kitchen, placing the orchid in a slim glass vase. “My job is the opposite of calm.” You walk back out, grabbing a small clutch from a console table. “Ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he says, his eyes finding yours. “Lead the way.”
The restaurant is called Il Silenzio. It’s tucked away on a street that doesn’t seem to exist on most maps. The entrance is a single, unmarked wooden door. Inside, it’s a revelation. Low lighting, dark wood, and tables spaced so far apart that every conversation is a private world. The air is filled with the low hum of quiet conversation and the scent of truffle oil and old leather. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t need to advertise. If you know, you know.
The maître d’, a man who looks like he was carved from Italian marble, greets you with a warm, familiar smile.
“Signorina Y/L/N. Welcome. Your usual table is ready.” He doesn’t even look at a book.
He leads you to a secluded corner booth. Sidney slides in across from you, looking around with a sense of wonder.
“How did you even find this place?” He asks in a low voice, as if he’s afraid of breaking the spell.
“It’s my job to know places like this,” you say, taking a sip of the water the waiter has already poured. “It’s where designers bring editors, where deals are made, where secrets are kept. It’s a part of the ecosystem.”
“The ecosystem,” he repeats, a small smile playing on his lips. “You make it sound like a jungle.”
“That’s the kindest way to describe it,” you say, your eyes twinkling. The waiter returns, and you order for both of you in fluent, flowing Italian, recommending a wine with the confidence of a sommelier.
Sidney just watches you, mesmerized. “You’re pretty impressive, you know that?” He says after the waiter has gone.
“I’m competent,” you correct him gently. “There’s a difference.”
“Okay. You’re very competent,” he allows. “This is … this is your world. I feel like I need a passport.”
“And you,” you counter, leaning forward slightly, “are a god in your world. I saw the way people looked at you last night in the club, before you came over. The reverence. The awe. I imagine that comes with its own set of rules.”
He shifts a little, uncomfortable with the praise. “It’s different. It’s a game. There are lines on the ice, a clock on the wall. It’s contained.” He gestures around the hushed, elegant room. “This feels like it has a million rules I don’t know.”
“Rule number one,” you say, your expression serious. “The man in the Armani blazer belongs anywhere he wants to be.”
He laughs, a real, uninhibited laugh that makes the couple at the nearest table glance over. The tension in his shoulders seems to dissolve. “Okay. Okay, I can work with that.”
The food arrives, course after perfect course. The conversation flows as easily as the wine. You move past the easy subjects of fashion and hockey and into something deeper. You ask him what it feels like, that moment of silence after he scores a goal in an away arena, before the groans of the crowd kick in. He asks you where an idea for a dress comes from, whether it starts with a color, a fabric, or a feeling.
You talk about the relentless pursuit of perfection that drives you both.
“It’s never good enough,” he admits, swirling the wine in his glass. “We can win a game five to one, and I’ll be up all night thinking about the one that got past the goalie. The missed pass. The turnover.”
“I understand,” you say, and you truly do. “I can work on a collection for six months. I can oversee every stitch, every seam. And when the model walks down the runway, all I see is the one hem that’s a millimeter too short.”
He looks at you, a shock of recognition in his eyes. “Exactly. It’s a sickness, isn’t it?”
“It’s the engine,” you reply. “It’s what makes us who we are. It’s the price of being the best.”
You learn that he still gets nervous before every game. You tell him that you still get a jolt of panic every time you have to present a new design. You talk about family. He speaks about his parents, his sister, the small-town Canadian values that keep him grounded, with a deep, uncomplicated love. You talk a little about your own family, more reserved, more complicated, an adolescence spent in London and New York and Paris, always feeling slightly like an outsider.
He listens, truly listens, his gaze never leaving your face. He makes you feel fascinating. He makes you feel seen.
The restaurant begins to empty, but neither of you notices. You’re in a bubble, a private world of your own making.
“So,” you say, your voice a little softer now. “This gold medal. Is it everything you thought it would be?”
He’s quiet for a moment, considering the question. “It’s heavy,” he says finally. “That’s the first thing you notice. And then … it’s quiet. The celebration is loud, but the feeling itself is quiet. It’s just … relief. Like you’ve been carrying something since the last time you were on Olympic ice, and you can finally set it down.”
“And what happens when you pick the next thing up?” You ask.
He looks at you, and you see the weight of his world in his eyes. “The season starts again. Or, it continues. We have a game in a few days.”
There it is. The intrusion of the real world. The ticking clock.
“You’re leaving soon,” you state, your voice carefully neutral. It’s not a question.
He nods, his expression unreadable. “Day after tomorrow. I fly back to Pittsburgh.”
Pittsburgh. The name of the city sounds foreign, impossibly far away. A different planet. The bubble you’ve been in all night shimmers, and for the first time, you can see the world outside. A world where he lives on another continent, in a life that has nothing to do with you.
A sudden, sharp pang of disappointment hits you. It’s an unwelcome, unfamiliar feeling. You’re the one who leaves. You’re the one who is self-contained. You don’t get attached.
“Right,” you say, pulling back slightly, your professional composure slipping back into place like a shield. “The season. Of course.” You signal for the check, a gesture that is smooth and practiced but feels, in this moment, like a retreat.
The easy warmth between you has been replaced by a new awareness. An awareness of the ending that was written before you even began.
Sidney puts his hand over yours on the table. His touch is warm, firm, and grounding. It stops your retreat in its tracks.
“Hey,” he says softly, his eyes searching yours. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” You ask, though you both know the answer.
“Shut down,” he says. “I can see you doing it.”
You pull your hand away, picking up your wine glass. “I’m not shutting down. I’m being practical. You have a life. I have a life. They’re thousands of miles apart.”
“I know,” he says. “But I don’t want tonight to just be a fun story about the time I went shopping in Milan.” He leans forward, his voice low and earnest. “This isn’t that. For me.”
You look at him, at the raw sincerity in his face. There’s no game here. No pretense. Just a man telling you the truth. It’s terrifying. And it’s thrilling.
“What is it, then?” You whisper.
“I don’t know yet,” he admits, his honesty disarming you completely. “But I want to find out.”
***
He pays the bill, overriding your protests with a quiet firmness. The walk back to your apartment is different from the walk to the restaurant. Then, there was a space between you, a zone of polite distance. Now, you walk closer. The sleeves of your coats brush against each other. The night air is cool, and the quiet streets of Milan feel like they belong only to you.
You don’t talk much. There’s a new kind of communication happening in the silence, in the shared glances, in the way he slows his long athlete’s stride to match your pace.
When you reach the large, imposing door of your apartment building, you both stop. This is it. The end of the night. The end of the story, maybe.
You turn to face him, the dim light from the streetlamp casting long shadows on the cobblestones.
“Thank you for dinner,” you say, your voice sounding small in the quiet street. “It was …”
“Yeah,” he says, finishing your thought. “It was.”
He takes a small step closer. He’s so close now you can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. He smells of the cold night air, expensive wine, and something that is just … him.
“I really do have to go back,” he says, as if he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. “There are twenty-six games left in the season.”
“I know,” you whisper.
“But Pittsburgh has an international airport.” The statement is a non-sequitur, but you understand it completely. It’s not a statement of fact. It’s an offer. A question. A bridge being built across an ocean.
“And Milan has three,” you reply, your voice barely audible. It’s your answer.
A slow smile touches his lips. He reaches out, not to grab you, but to gently cup your face in his hand. His palm is warm and slightly rough against your cheek. It’s the most wonderful thing you’ve ever felt.
“Good,” he murmurs.
And then he leans in and kisses you.
It’s not a hard, passionate kiss. It’s tentative at first, a soft question. His lips are gentle against yours. You respond instinctively, your hand coming up to rest on his chest, right over his heart. You can feel it beating, a steady, strong rhythm beneath the fine wool of his sweater. The kiss deepens, becoming more confident, more sure. It’s a kiss that tastes of hope and red wine and the promise of something just beginning. It’s a kiss that says everything you were both too afraid to say over dinner.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours. You both breathe, your breaths mingling in the cold air.
“Wow,” he says again, the word a soft puff of air.
You let out a shaky laugh. “Wow,” you agree.
He stays there for a moment longer, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. Then he straightens up, his hand dropping reluctantly from your face.
“I should … I should go,” he says, though he makes no move to leave.
“You should,” you agree, your voice still breathy.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says. It’s not a line. It’s a promise. “Before I head to the airport.”
“Okay.”
He backs away slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He gives you one last, small smile before turning and walking down the quiet, moonlit street.
You watch him until he turns the corner, a silhouette against the ancient stones of Milan. You unlock the heavy door to your building and step inside, the cool marble of the lobby a stark contrast to the warmth still blooming in your chest. You lean back against the closed door, your fingers coming up to touch your lips.
You, the woman who directs collections, who commands boardrooms, who can wither a man with a single, well-chosen word about his shoes, are smiling like a teenager.
You have no idea what happens next. You, who always has a plan, a sketch, a design for everything. For the first time in a very long time, you are working without a pattern. And you find, to your absolute shock, that you don’t mind at all.
***
The silence in your apartment is a presence.
Just hours ago, it was filled with the low murmur of his voice, the solid, comforting space he seemed to occupy. Now, he is gone. The single white orchid on your console table is the only proof he was ever here at all. The quiet feels different now — not peaceful, but empty.
Your phone buzzes on the marble countertop. You pick it up. It’s him.
“Hey,” his voice comes through the line, a little muffled. He’s in a car. “I’m on my way to the airport.”
“Don’t miss your flight,” you say, your voice coming out lighter and more teasing than you feel. “They won’t hold the plane, not even for a man with a new appreciation for cashmere.”
He chuckles, a low, warm sound. “I don’t know. This coat feels pretty powerful. I might be able to work something out.” A pause. “I got the pants from Ugo this morning. He finished them.”
“I know. He texted me a picture. He’s very proud of his ‘miracle.’”
“They fit,” Sidney says, and there’s a note of genuine wonder in his voice. “Like, perfectly. I’ve never had pants that just … fit.”
“That’s the point of bespoke, Sidney,” you say, a smile in your voice. “It’s made for your body, not for a mannequin that marketing thinks your body should look like.”
Another silence stretches between you, this one heavier. The unspoken things hang in the air: the kiss, the thousands of miles of ocean that will soon be between you, the absurdity of this connection.
“So …” he starts, hesitant. “This is weird, right?”
“Completely, certifiably insane,” you agree, tracing a pattern on the cool marble. “I spent yesterday teaching a future Hall of Famer the difference between merino and cashmere. Now he’s flying back to a life I can’t even begin to imagine.”
“It’s not that different,” he says quietly. “It’s just colder. And there’s more checking from behind.”
You laugh, a real laugh. “I’ll try to remember that.”
“Listen,” he says, his voice becoming more serious. “I’ll call you. When I land and get settled. We can … I don’t know. Figure this out.”
“Okay,” you say, the word a small island of certainty in a sea of unknowns. “Call me.”
“I will,” he promises. “Talk to you from Pittsburgh.”
“Safe flight, Sid.”
You hang up and place the phone back on the counter. You look around your perfect, quiet apartment. For the first time since you designed it, it feels incomplete. As if a key piece is suddenly, inexplicably missing.
***
The culture shock hits Sidney the moment he walks through the doors of the UPMC Lemieux Sports Complex. The air smells of sweat, skate lubricant, and stale coffee. It’s the smell of home. His teammates, a comfortable, chaotic scrum of oversized bodies in sweats and hoodies, greet him with a chorus of shouts and back-slaps.
“Look what the cat dragged in!”
“The Olympic hero returns!”
“Hey, Sid, did you bring us any of that Italian pasta?”
He grins, the familiar comfort of the locker room washing over him. This is his world. Simple, direct, known.
Geno, his face split in a wide grin, comes over and pulls him into a rough hug. “Sid! Is good to see you. We miss you. You win big.”
“We missed you too, Geno,” Sid says, clapping him on the back. “Good to be back.”
Geno pulls back, his eyes narrowing as he takes in Sidney’s appearance. Sid is wearing the chinos you approved of and a simple, well-fitting henley. It’s a casual outfit, but compared to the usual team-issued gear, it’s a revelation.
“You look …” Geno says, tilting his head. He searches for the English word. “Clean. Very clean.”
Tanger, who has always been the most style-conscious of the group, saunters over, a cup of coffee in his hand. His gaze is more analytical. “It’s the fit. Everything … fits you. What did you do, get a tailor in the Olympic Village?”
Sidney feels a flush creep up his neck. “Just picked up a few new things while I was there.”
“A few things?” Tanger scoffs, gesturing at him. “You look like a different person. You look … European.” He says the word with a mixture of suspicion and grudging respect. “My wife is going to love this. She’s been trying to get me to throw out my favorite hoodie for five years. Now you’re going to make us all look bad.”
“I’m not trying to make anyone look bad,” Sid mutters, starting to unpack his gear. He’s not used to this kind of attention being focused on his clothes. He wants to talk about the forecheck, about the power play, not about the drape of his trousers.
But the interrogation continues all through practice. The story of the “scary fashion lady” has been passed from Nate to a few others, and the legend has grown. By the end of the day, the rumor is that he’s been completely remade by a mysterious, all-powerful Italian designer who threatened to burn his entire wardrobe. Which, Sid thinks wryly, isn’t that far from the truth.
***
Two days later, it’s game day.
The Penguins’ social media manager stands near the players’ entrance to the arena, a team-branded backdrop behind her, snapping photos as the players arrive. It’s a standard ritual, content for Instagram and Twitter. The fans love it. They love seeing their heroes out of uniform, in their suits or “civvies.”
Then Sidney arrives.
He’s wearing the custom-fit charcoal trousers from Ugo. They fit his powerful legs perfectly, falling with a clean, sharp line to a pair of sleek leather boots. On top, he has on the soft grey cashmere V-neck, and over that, a dark, structured wool coat you had insisted was a “non-negotiable investment.” He looks poised, confident, and impossibly chic. He looks like he owns the building, not just the ice inside it.
The social media manager’s eyes widen. She takes the photo, then another. She knows instantly that this isn’t just another pre-game picture. This is the picture.
She posts it to the team’s official Twitter and Instagram accounts with a simple caption: The Captain has arrived.
The internet proceeds to lose its collective mind.
The first comments are simple disbelief.
@PensFan_2017: THAT’S SIDNEY CROSBY?!?!?
@HockeyGirl4Life: My man went to Italy and came back a whole different person. I am NOT complaining.
@SteelCityHockey: Okay who is responsible for this glow-up I need to know immediately.
Then, the more discerning eyes start to notice the details. The people who live at the strange, wonderful intersection of high fashion and professional hockey.
@StyleOnIce: Okay let’ss break this down. The coat has the lines of a Cucinelli, the sweater is clearly Loro Piana cashmere, but those PANTS. Look at the fit. That’s not off-the-rack. That is 100% bespoke tailoring. Something major happened in Milan.
@PuckAndPrada: Replying to @StyleOnIce: I was thinking the same thing! He went from ‘Dad on a coffee run’ to ‘Secretly owns half of Milan’ in the span of a week. I’m obsessed.
The photo is screenshotted, reposted, dissected. The change is so stark, so undeniable, that it becomes a bigger topic of conversation than the game itself. It’s a mystery, a delightful piece of gossip in a world that is usually just about stats and standings. Who was responsible for the reinvention of Sidney Crosby?
***
The game itself is almost an afterthought. The Penguins win 4-2. Sidney has two assists. He plays his usual steady, brilliant game. It’s business as usual.
After the game, he heads straight to the locker room for the post-game media scrum. He sits in his stall, blinking against the bright lights, and prepares for the usual questions.
“Sid, can you talk about the power play tonight? Seemed to be clicking.”
“Yeah, you know, I thought we moved the puck well …”
“Sid, what did you see on that pass to Geno for the second goal?”
“He did a good job finding the open space, and I just tried to get it to him …”
He fields the questions with his usual calm, deflecting praise, crediting his teammates. He’s on autopilot. Then, a reporter from a local TV station raises her hand.
“Sidney, great game. But I want to switch gears for a second. The big talk on social media tonight, believe it or not, wasn’t just about your two assists. It was about your arrival photo. People have noticed … well, a significant style evolution since you came back from the Olympics. Any comment on your new look?”
A few of the old-school hockey writers chuckle. Sidney is caught completely off guard. He can feel the heat rising up his neck and spreading across his face. He looks down at the floor, then back up. Every camera and microphone in the room is pointed directly at him.
He could deflect. He could say, “Just trying a few new things,” and move on. That would be the easy thing to do. That would be the private thing to do.
But then he thinks of you. He thinks of your passion, the way your eyes lit up when you talked about the architecture of a jacket. He thinks of the way you took his hopelessly clumsy fashion sense and treated it not with ridicule, but as a serious problem to be solved. He thinks of the kiss in the quiet Milanese street.
He owes you more than a deflection.
A small, fond, slightly embarrassed smile touches his lips.
“Oh,” he says, his voice a little softer than usual. “Uh … yeah. I guess. I had some help when I was in Milan.” He looks directly at the reporter. “A friend of mine, Y/N Y/L/N. She’s a designer there.” He pauses, and the smile widens a little. “She, uh, she told me I needed an upgrade.”
The room is silent for a second, and then there’s a frantic scribbling of pens on notepads and the clicking of keyboards. Y/N Y/L/N. He said your full name. On camera. To a room full of reporters.
He has no idea what he’s just done.
***
It’s 3:30 AM in Milan. You are asleep, dreaming of fabric swatches and impossible deadlines. Your phone, on silent mode on your nightstand, begins to light up. A cascade of notifications, an avalanche of digital noise. Your social media accounts, usually a quiet, curated space for your work, are exploding.
A text message from a friend in New York manages to break through your ‘do not disturb’ setting. It’s just a link to a Twitter search page. You groggily open one eye, tapping the screen.
The page loads. The top trending topics in North America:
4. Sidney Crosby
7. #LetsGoPens
8. Y/N Y/L/N
12. Armani
You stare at the screen, your brain struggling to process the information. Why is your name there? Tucked after a hockey team and its captain? You sit bolt upright in bed, suddenly wide awake.
You click on your name. It’s a torrent of tweets. Photos of Sidney walking into the arena. Screenshots of his new clothes. And then, the clip. A video from the post-game press conference.
You watch it once, then twice. You watch him blush. You watch him smile that small, private smile. You hear him say your name. “A friend of mine, Y/N Y/L/N … she told me I needed an upgrade.”
A wave of emotions washes over you. First, sheer, unadulterated panic. Your life is private. You have cultivated a career based on quiet competence and letting your work speak for itself. You are not a celebrity. You do not want to be a celebrity.
Then, a flicker of anger. How could he be so careless? To just say your name, to throw you into his world of rabid fans and constant scrutiny without even a warning?
But then, as you watch the clip a third time, the anger melts away, replaced by something warm and ridiculously tender. It wasn’t careless. It was honest. There was no media-trained deflection. He was asked a question, and he answered it truthfully, with a fondness in his eyes that is unmistakable. He didn’t hide you. He credited you.
While you’re trying to process this, the internet detectives are already connecting the dots.
@PuckAndPrada: HOLY SHIT I FOUND HER. Y/N Y/L/N. SHE’S A SENIOR WOMENSWEAR DESIGNER AT ARMANI PRIVÉ. I KNEW IT. This is not a drill! The Captain is being dressed by Italian haute couture royalty!
The tweet is accompanied by a grainy photo of you from six months ago, taking a bow at the end of an Armani runway show. You look serious, professional, and completely in your element.
@HockeyGirl4Life: Replying to @PuckAndPrada: So you're telling me Sidney Crosby, who for 20 years dressed like he was perpetually about to mow his lawn, is maybe dating a woman who does THIS for a living??? This is my favorite romance novel and I need the next chapter immediately.
Your phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a call. The screen says SIDNEY CROSBY. You take a deep, steadying breath and answer it.
“Hello, Sidney,” you say, your voice remarkably calm.
There’s a frantic energy on his end of the line. “Hey. So. I think I might have messed up. Royally.”
“You think?” You ask, a hint of amusement creeping into your tone. “I was just having a lovely dream about silk taffeta, and now my phone is having a seizure. I’ve gained twenty thousand new Instagram followers in the past hour, and they all seem to be teenage girls from western Pennsylvania who want to know the exact inseam of your new pants.”
He lets out a long groan. “I’m so, so sorry. I swear, I didn’t think. The reporter asked me about the clothes, and I just … I panicked, and I said your name. It was stupid.”
“It wasn’t stupid,” you say, surprising yourself with the words. You swing your legs out of bed and walk over to the window, looking out at the dark, sleeping city. “It was unexpected.”
“Is that a good ‘unexpected’ or a bad ‘unexpected’?” He asks, his voice laced with anxiety. “Because it feels pretty bad from over here.”
You think for a moment. Your private life is now very public. Your name is attached to his. The carefully constructed wall between your personal and professional worlds has been demolished by a single, honest sentence in a press conference.
“It was weird for me to wake up to my name trending next to the hashtag #LetsGoPens,” you admit. “It was deeply weird. But …” You pause, watching as the first hints of dawn begin to lighten the Milanese sky. “The way you said it …”
“Yeah?” He asks, his voice barely a whisper.
“You looked … sweet,” you finish. The admission feels huge.
He’s quiet for a moment on the other end of the line. You can hear the faint sounds of a locker room in the background, muffled voices and closing doors.
“I miss you,” he says, the words simple and direct and devastating.
The chaos of the last hour, the tweets, the followers, the sudden, jarring fame — it all fades away. It’s just his voice, coming to you from an ocean away, telling you a truth you didn’t know you were desperate to hear.
“I miss you, too,” you say, and the words are just as true.
“So you’re not mad?” He asks.
“I’m not mad,” you confirm. A smile touches your lips. “But you do owe me. Big time.” You lean against the cold glass of the window. “Now, forget about the internet for a second. Tell me about the game. Did you at least win?”
He laughs, a sound of pure relief. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we won.”
And for the next hour, as the sun rises over Milan, you don’t talk about the media storm or the thousands of new people who suddenly know your name. He tells you about his two assists. You tell him about a design problem you’re having with a difficult sleeve. You carve out your own quiet space in the middle of the noise he created, two people finding their way, one phone call at a time.
***
The months that follow are a study in contradictions. The distance is a vast, physical ache, a constant, six-hour time difference that becomes the third person in your relationship. But the intimacy is startling, a connection that deepens in the strange, digitized space of late-night phone calls and grainy FaceTime screens.
Your life is a whirlwind of fabrics and deadlines, the relentless, beautiful pressure of an upcoming collection. His is a brutal rhythm of games, travel, and practice. You build a new kind of calendar around it all. His post-game interviews become your morning coffee routine. Your late-night sketching sessions in the studio are his pre-practice check-ins.
You learn the esoteric language of his world. You now know what a “power play” is, what “back-to-back” means, and that a “five-hole” is not, in fact, a tailoring term. He, in turn, learns the difference between prêt-à-porter and haute couture. He learns that “cerulean” and “cobalt” are not the same color. He learns about the soul-crushing terror of a final runway show.
“You look tired,” you say one Tuesday morning, which is his Monday night. He’s in a hotel room in Seattle, his face illuminated by the blue glow of his phone. His hair is wet, and there’s a small, fresh cut above his eyebrow.
“Long game,” he says, his voice raspy with exhaustion. He manages a small smile. “We lost in overtime. But it’s … it’s really good to see your face.”
“You need to sleep,” you tell him, your heart aching with the thousands of miles between you.
“In a minute,” he says, his eyes soft. “Just tell me about your day first. Tell me about the dress with the impossible sleeve.”
And you do. You talk for an hour. You are two people living on different planets, desperately trying to map the geography of each other’s lives through stories and screens. You learn every line on his face, every inflection in his voice. You fall in love with a man who feels both impossibly far and closer than your own skin.
As the NHL season grinds toward its conclusion, a word starts to dominate your conversations: “playoffs.” You can hear the shift in his voice when he says it. The focus sharpens, the intensity ratchets up. It’s the final, grueling ascent of his four-season-long mountain.
And an idea, an insane, reckless, completely impractical idea, begins to take root in your mind.
***
It starts with a box. A simple, brown cardboard box, shipped from a sporting goods store in Pennsylvania to your pristine, minimalist studio in Milan. Your assistant looks at the customs declaration with a confused frown.
“Signorina,” she says, holding the box as if it might contain a live animal. “This package … it says it contains ‘licensed athletic apparel.’”
“Put it on my private worktable,” you say, not looking up from your sketch. “And please, ensure no one else goes near it.”
Later that night, when the studio is empty and the city is quiet, you open it. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is a Pittsburgh Penguins hockey jersey. Black, with gold and white accents. On the back, in thick, stitched letters, it says CROSBY above the number 87. You lift it out. The material is a heavy, slightly rough polyester. The construction is purely functional. It is, by every measure of your professional life, a design nightmare.
And you are going to make it perfect.
For the next two weeks, you work in secret. It becomes your obsession. You treat the jersey with the reverence of a historical artifact. You don’t want to merely embellish it, you want to translate it. You begin by carefully, painstakingly deconstructing it, using a seam ripper to detach the most important elements: the iconic Penguins crest from the chest, the numbers, and the nameplate from the back.
You discard the polyester body. In its place, you choose a material from your private collection — a heavy, double-faced Italian wool crêpe in the deepest possible black. It has structure, but it also has a magnificent drape. You re-draft the pattern of the jersey, but you do it your way. You give it a slightly more defined shoulder, a subtly tapered waist. You design a new neckline, a shallow boatneck that is infinitely more elegant than the original crew neck.
Using the original jersey as a guide, you recreate the gold and white sleeve panels, but you use strips of buttery soft lambskin leather and heavy silk satin, layering them to give the design depth and texture. The work is meticulous. Each stitch is perfect. Finally, you take the original crest, the numbers, and the nameplate, and you hand-stitch them onto your creation. The iconic, athletic symbols are now attached to a garment of undisputed high fashion.
When it’s finished, you put it on a mannequin in your private office. It is an impossible object — a collision of two worlds. It is a hockey jersey, undeniably. It is also haute couture. It is the most ridiculous, self-indulgent, and romantic thing you have ever made.
You book a flight to Pittsburgh.
***
The culture shock is immediate and visceral. Pittsburgh is a city of steel and stone, of broad shoulders and unpretentious grit. It is the polar opposite of Milan’s curated, historical beauty. As the taxi takes you from the airport to your hotel downtown, you look out at the city’s famous yellow bridges, at the industrial bones of its past. It is strong, solid, real. It is the city that made him.
Your hotel room is sleek and modern, a sterile bubble of anonymous luxury. You feel a tremor of anxiety, a feeling you are not accustomed to. Is this insane? Am I about to make a complete fool of myself? You are a woman who commands rooms, who can assess the flaws in a garment from fifty paces. But you have willingly flown across an ocean to surprise a man in his world, a world you do not understand, armed with nothing but a secret, redesigned hockey jersey. It is, by any objective measure, a crazy plan.
You lay out the outfit on the king-sized bed. The jersey. A pair of skin-tight black leather trousers that took you a month to source. A pair of lethally sharp stiletto heels.
You get dressed. Standing in front of the mirror, you assess the look. It’s bold. It’s dramatic. It is, you realize, a declaration. It says, I am here. I have crossed an ocean. And I have learned to speak your language, even if I have to translate it through my own.
You take a deep breath, grab your ticket, and head for the arena.
***
The noise is the first thing that hits you. A wall of sound — thumping rock music, the roar of tens of thousands of people, the sharp crack of pucks hitting the boards. The air is cold, smelling of ice and popcorn. It’s a sensory assault, chaotic and thrilling and utterly alien. You follow the signs to your seat, your heels clicking on the concrete floor, drawing more than a few curious stares. You are a black-and-white film star who has wandered into a technicolor sports broadcast.
Your seat is exactly where you specified. Front row. Right against the glass, next to the Penguins’ bench.
The arena lights go down, the pre-game hype video begins, and then the team skates out onto the ice for warmups. It’s a blur of black and gold. You scan the ice, searching for him.
And then you see him. Number 87.
He’s just as you’ve seen him a hundred times on your laptop screen, but in person, the effect is completely different. The speed is breathtaking. The power is palpable. He moves with a fluid grace that seems impossible for a man so solidly built. He is in his element. The god in his world.
He goes through his rituals, his patterns, completely absorbed. He is in the zone, a place of pure focus you know and respect. He skates past your section once, twice, a focused blur. He doesn’t see you. Your heart is pounding against your ribs.
He circles back toward the bench, gathering loose pucks. He stops near the boards, just feet from where you’re sitting. He turns, ready to fire a puck at the net. And then, as he has done thousands of times in his career, he glances up at the crowd.
His eyes scan the first few rows. They pass over you, and then, they snap back.
Time seems to slow down. His body freezes for a fraction of a second. His stick stills on the ice. His eyes widen in pure shock. His mouth falls open slightly. It’s you. You are here. In Pittsburgh. Wearing his name.
He does a comical double-take, shaking his head as if to clear it. He thinks he’s hallucinating. He squints. You just smile, a slow, deliberate smile, and give him a small wave.
A massive, incredulous grin breaks across his face, shattering his intense game-day focus. He skates directly over to the glass, his blades cutting a sharp line in the ice. He’s still grinning, shaking his head in disbelief. He mouths the words, “What are you doing here?”
You just shrug, your smile widening, and place your hand flat against the cold, thick glass.
His eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. He brings his own gloved hand up and presses it against the glass, right over yours. The materials are different — your bare skin, his padded leather — but the connection is electric, a current passing through the barrier between his world and yours.
The moment is so private, so intense, that you forget you’re being watched by twenty thousand people.
“Hey, Sid!” A voice yells from the ice. “Stop making eyes at the pretty girl and get back to warmups!”
Sidney turns. Tanger is skating by, a huge, teasing smirk on his face. He’s seen you. Geno skates over, his eyes wide. He looks at you, then at your jersey, then back at you. He gives Sidney a hard shove. The spell is broken.
Sidney’s face flushes, but he’s still grinning like an idiot. He gives you one last look, a look that says I can’t believe this, I can’t wait to talk to you, and then he skates off to rejoin his team, his steps looking noticeably lighter than they did a minute ago.
***
Watching a hockey game live, you discover, is a brutal, beautiful, terrifying ballet. You don’t understand all the rules, but you understand the objective. And you understand, with a startling clarity, what he does. The intelligence of his play, the way he sees the ice not as it is, but as it will be in three seconds. The sheer, dogged determination. The physical punishment he endures.
You see him get knocked down, hard, and you jump to your feet with a gasp, your hands flying to your mouth. You see him score a goal, and you’re screaming and cheering along with the rest of the roaring crowd, the sound raw and unfamiliar in your own throat. You get into a one-sided argument with a referee through two inches of plexiglass.
You are completely captivated. You are watching a master at his craft. And for the first time, you feel like you truly understand a fundamental part of who he is.
***
The game ends. The Penguins win. The arena slowly empties, the noise fading to a dull hum. A team employee comes to collect you, leading you through a series of concrete corridors deep into the bowels of the building. You end up in a simple, unadorned room designated for players’ families.
You wait. The minutes stretch on. You can feel the adrenaline from the game starting to fade, replaced by a nervous flutter.
And then, the door opens, and he’s there.
He’s out of his uniform, wearing a black Penguins tracksuit and slides. His hair is wet, his face is flushed, and there’s a fresh scratch on his cheek. He looks exhausted and exhilarated and he is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.
He just stands in the doorway for a second, looking at you as if he still can’t quite believe it. Then he crosses the room in three long strides and pulls you into his arms.
He holds you tight, his face buried in your hair. You wrap your arms around his neck, breathing in the scent of him — clean soap and the faint, lingering smell of the ice. It’s real. He’s real. After months of pixels and phone lines, he is solid and warm and here.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “I swear, I thought I was dreaming. I almost fell over.”
You pull back just enough to look at him. “I thought it was time I saw what you do for a living,” you say, your voice a little shaky. “It’s impressive.”
“It’s better when you’re here,” he says, his hands framing your face. He leans in and kisses you, a deep, hungry kiss that is full of all the months of longing, all the missed moments. It’s a kiss that says finally.
When you break apart, breathless, his eyes fall to your jersey. He reaches out and gently touches the iconic crest stitched over your heart. He traces the edges, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle against the wool.
“And this …” he says, his voice filled with awe. “What is this? I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s incredible.”
“A designer’s interpretation,” you say, a small smile playing on your lips. You smooth down the front of it. “I did a market study. The existing product was lacking. And I couldn’t possibly be seen in public wearing polyester.”
He laughs, a deep, happy sound. “Of course you couldn’t.” He looks from your ridiculously stylish jersey to his own simple, functional tracksuit. He looks around the bare-bones concrete room. “This is a little different from Il Silenzio, huh?”
You follow his gaze. You take in the utilitarian furniture, the scuffed floors, the faint smell of sweat in the air. You look at him, this brilliant athlete, so completely at home in this world that is the antithesis of your own. And you feel a wave of affection for him so powerful it almost knocks you off your stilettos.
You reach up and touch the scratch on his cheek.
“Sidney,” you say, your voice suddenly serious. He meets your gaze, his expression open and waiting. “You should know,” you continue, your voice dropping to a near whisper. “You are the only person on this entire planet I would ever wear athletic wear for.” You gesture around the room, at him, at your own impossible outfit. “Even if it is couture.”
He just stares at you, his eyes searching yours. He understands. He understands that for you, this is not a statement about clothes. This is the biggest declaration of love you could possibly make. It’s you, in your own language, telling him that you will cross into his world, learn his rules, wear his colors. For him.
He doesn’t say anything. He just pulls you back into his arms, holding you so tightly you can feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your chest. He kisses the top of your head, a gesture of pure, overwhelming tenderness. The playoffs, the pressure, the noise of the outside world — it all melts away.
For tonight, in a concrete room deep beneath a hockey rink in Pittsburgh, the only thing that matters is that you are finally here.
Synopsis: In which she's in her 30’s and feels like she's running out of time to fall in love. She meets Lewis Hamilton, a renowned snowboarder who retired a year ago, who now works as a snowboard instructor. Good thing she sucks as snowboarding!
Pairing: Snowboard Instructor!Lewis Hamilton x black!fem!reader
Genre: Treat yourself to a love that you can drown in! It is never too late…
Warning(s): None
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
Moved out to a new city. June is dawning down on me and all that I can find…
liked by imanirowe, username, and 7,890 others
yourusername I think I’m gonna have to accept that skiing just isn’t for me bc wtf
username girl i feel you, you gotta get yourself an instructor fr
yourusername hold on sista, why nobody told me abt this?
imanirowe boo we must def did, you js thought you were gonna be a pro first try
username mind you, her face card is still overly tea while she’s slipping and sliding
username this is frying me sb
username I js know it’s never a boring day in your life because how did we get to Colorado
username I mean as long as your having fun ig…
liked by kimiantonelli, georgerussell, and 349,450 others
lewishamilton life before the work schedule comes in
username maximum aura
username @yourusername this is who you need fr
username if this guy came out of retirement it would be over for everyone
username a rare Lewis post
username he is so fineeee
username …a sickly romance in the air. Lovers stroll without a care in sight. Ooh, this can't be right
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
Cause the sun's engaged to the sky and my best friend's found a new guy. I’m only getting older.
“Cause why would ya’ll tag me in that man’s post? Now I’m embarrassed,” You said, speaking to the phone as the live chat kept updating.
“Like I’m not gonna deny the fact that he’s fine but I don’t even know if he’s at the resort I’m at. Chances are pretty low actually,”
“This is how you guys know she didn’t even think about getting an instructor at first, just slipping and sliding all over those slopes,” Imani said before cackling in the background.
“Not too much now…” You cautioned while side eyeing her playfully.
“Well guys, that’s it for me. I’m overly tired and everything’s sore from tripping and falling all over that snow. Ya’ll know at this age auntie gotta start sleeping early. Wish me luck though because Ima get an instructor and lock in tomorrow! And yes my nieces taught me that one.” You said before ending the instagram live.
“Well I already got me an instructor and he’s something so strict,” Imani let out sighing.
“What for real? Tuh I hope whoever I get has some patience because baby all I do is play,” You replied.
“Girl yes, I can’t even find some time to catch a breath before he talking bout some get up. Like who?” Imani said getting into the other bed in the room. You guys both fought in your sleep like you had been married 30 years but still remembered that one time the other cheated. And nobody had the time for all that on this trip.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
*Beep* *Beep* *Beep*
“Who tf?” You grumbled out before opening your eyes to turn that alarm off expeditiously. You cozied back up before jumping up realizing you had to get ready. You most definitely weren’t wasting your good spent vacation money sleeping in all day.
“Girl get up, we got places to be!” You exclaimed, waking Imani right on up.
After the typical morning shenanigans, the two of your were now making your way over to the main center. Imani was meeting up with her instructor, while you were going to find one. When you got in there, you made your way over to the counter.
“Hello ma’am, I’m Y/n. I wanted to know how I would go about finding a snowboard instructor?” You questioned politely.
“Oh of course, we can handle that! Lemme see who has a free slot,” She said before clicking a few things on her keyboard.
“Alright ma’am, we have someone arranged to come teach you. He’ll be here in about 5 minutes,” She said, you just smiled in response. You hoped he wasn’t too expensive because you weren’t going to throw away 6 figures on learning how to snowboard cause you could really spend nothing and teach yourself.
Soon the guy who you had been stalking on instagram yesterday walked in. You just sat there trying to remember his name before seeing his name tag.
‘Lewis Hamilton’
In the midst of your zoning out, Lewis had taken that time to make his way over to you.
“Hey, are you y/n?” He said raising an eyebrow.
“Um yeah, did you need something?” You immediately regretted it as soon as you said it because you and him both knew what he was here for. This is what happens when you your whole life without seriously dating anybody, just over here all awkward and shit.
“Yeah, I’ll be your instructor for the remainder of your time here or rather for how long you need an instructor,”
“With the way it’s looking, it might be the rest of the time boo,” You say, sighing softly.
“I mean I don’t wanna brag but I consider myself to be a pretty good teacher,” He says, chuckling, before picking up your snowboard and walking. You just trail behind him until you two get to the destination.
“What’s this level?” You say, curious.
“Green, it’s for beginners. Helps me get an idea of where you are.” He says before placing your snowboard down in front of you.
“Do you need help or you got it?” He questions.
“Yeah I got it, just give me a second,” You say struggling a little but successfully getting everything situated.
“Alright, let’s get started.”
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
“Oh I’m overly tired. I need to sleep forever after today.” You said, exhausted.
“Hey, you did good today. You’re on the blue slopes now. Good improvement for your second day snowboarding,” Lewis says leaning on a locker next to yours.
“Thanks, I don’t know if that makes me feel that much better but I guess so,” You say, ready to go to your cabin and rest.
“And thank you for helping me out, even though I’m paying you. I could’ve ended up with somebody who go irritated quick and just ended up pushing me down the slopes,” You say, jumping to all sorts of conclusions.
“You’ve got quite an imagination but I got you. Think you’re gonna give it another try tomorrow?”
“Yeah I guesss.”
“See you then,” Lewis responds with a slight smile on his face before pushing himself off the locker and walking away.
I've never had a shoulder to cry on, someone to call mine. Everybody's falling in love and I'm falling behind.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
liked by lewishamilton, imanirowe, and 20,890 others
yourusername professional snowboarder
username ok, got her that instructor and never looked back
username so are we gonna address the elephant in the room…
username I’m wondering the same thing, who she got posted up on slide 3
username Ouhh this is so cute, I’m adding you to my travel board
username Touched the ocean, fell right in. Stepped outside and burned my skin. My life won't go my way.
liked by yourusername, georgerussell, and 479,000 others
lewishamilton friends
username ok friends but it’s just two snowboards on the first slide?
username now ik gramps didn’t get a girl before me
username 3rd pic is insane
username Bossa nova in my room. Hope that I'll find someone too to love because…
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
The sun's engaged to the sky and my best friend's found a new guy. I'm only getting older.
You had woken up in Lewis’s bed all sore and stiff.
“What stretches do you do to help compensate for all this snowboarding because I literally can’t move anymore.” You complain.
“I’ll send you my routine,” He says while chuckling before continuing”, I’m pretty sure my body’s just really used to the snowboarding though, so it doesn’t bother me as much.”
“Ughh one day,” You say before laying your head back down on the soft pillow you had woken up on.
“Nahh, you gotta get up now,” He says while making his way over to your side of the bed.
“I’m good, no thank you.” You say trying to bundle back up fully before shrieking as Lewis picked you up off the bed and threw you over his shoulder.
“Boy, you must be out of your mind!” You damn near yell.
He just laughs before walking out of the room and into the kitchen, placing you down on a seat at the island.
“Awake now?” He teases.
You just glare at him.
I've never had a shoulder to cry on, someone to call mine. Everybody's falling in love and I'm falling behind.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
Everybody's falling in love…
liked by lewishamilton, imanirowe, and 48,890 others
yourusername ig I’m obligated to become a pro now
username I can’t wait for her next live
username #needthis
imanirowe this is everybody’s sign to move to Colorado!
username not granny finally got herself a mannn
yourusername not too much now
username I’d like to point out that I started the trend of tagging her under Lewis’s post
liked by yourusername, maxverstappen, and 489,000 others
lewishamilton travels before home
username with that lame ass caption
username bet hold on to her real tight
username I’m so proud, like they better last forever fr
username #goals
Everybody's falling in love, oh
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
Idk too much about snowboarding but I definitely tried…
Thank you for reading and lemme know what we wanna see next!
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
dededos
baratheonpilled
blakekathryn
kianamaiart
