Prompt: a slip in the shower causes you to call your best friend for help, your best friend who you haven’t admitted you’re in love with
requested!
Getting in a heated argument over cereal wasn’t on Mack’s list of things to do for the day. But he learned early on that was life with Will Smith.
“Dude, it tastes the way the box fucking smells. Like cardboard.” Will says, shaking the box of chocolate cereal like he’s trying to get his point across.
“Shut up Smit.” Mack says, content on eating whatever he wants to eat. “Y/N would agree with me, this is one of the best cereals.”
Will was quiet for a second, staring at his best friend with eyebrows raised. “Gee Mack, I wonder why.” Will says sarcastically, tapping his chin like he’s thinking very hard. “Oh I know! Maybe it’s because you two are in love with each other.” Will exclaims, smiling at the way Mack turns red.
“She’s my one of my best friends, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that.” Mack says, looking down.
“No man.” Will says, teasing aside. “I’m your best friend. She’s the person you’re in love with.”
Call you crazy, but your morning showers with your phone propped up on the shower shelf with New Girl playing is one of your favorite things. The cozy lighting of your bathroom, the way your coffee maker brews in the kitchen, and the way it smells of eucalyptus as soon as you pump out your body wash.
Except this morning, things don’t go as normally planned. They did of course, New Girl is playing as you half watch half scrub your hair. But it’s the clumsiness of you that makes the whole thing horrible.
It’s the glob of shampoo you didn’t realize you dropped, and it’s the foot you just stepped down on, causing you to slip, and slipping in the shower has never proven to be a good thing.
You try to catch yourself, grabbing out for anything, but with everything being slippery tile, it doesn’t work. You go down hard, your ankle twisting painfully, your shoulder hitting the tub, your phone making a mockery out of you as it lands at the bottom of the tub. Thankfully in your shock you at least immediately grab it out of the spray of water still barreling out of the shower head.
The sound of Nick Miller’s voice and the water now hitting your body at the bottom of the tub are the only sounds in the bathroom.
“Fuck!” You exclaim, trying to move but instantly noting how bad of an idea that is. Your ankle screams in pain, and your shoulder throbs a bit too. “Oh my god.” You state, realizing the predicament you’re in.
You’re stuck, your ankle already bigger than normal, your shoulder telling you there’s no way you’re using upper body strength to get yourself out. And the cherry on top? You’re in the shower, naked.
There are two blatantly obvious choices. And you choose option number two, because calling 911 just isn’t in the cards for you today.
Your thumb hovers over your best friend’s number. And before you can talk yourself out of it, you call.
—
Mack and Will are still arguing over cereal when your name and picture flash across Macklin’s phone. The familiar photo of you and Mack in the Toffoli’s backyard capturing his attention.
Mack smiles as he goes to answer, knowing you’ll back him on the cereal debate. But Mack stills as he answers the phone because your voice, normally loud and full of laughter is quiet, it sounds wrong.
“Mack?” You whisper, but it sounds like you’re underwater.
“Y/N?” He asks, his tone instantly making Will drop the argument and freeze. “What’s wrong?”
“I-“ you start to say, and you suck in a breath before continuing. “This is so embarrassing but I don’t know what else to do.” You say into the phone, trying to adjust but the pain makes you suck in a breath.
“Are you hurt?” Mack asks, and he’s already grabbing for his shoes.
“Yea.” You say, and the simple word causes Mack’s brain to become blank.
“Okay, okay. What happened? Where are you? I’ll come and get you.” He stutters out, cursing at his shoes for not slipping immediately on and almost tempted to go without them.
“I slipped in the shower.” You say, the embarrassment evident in your tone. “I can’t move my ankle, and maybe my shoulder? I don’t know I’m kind of just… stuck here.” You say.
“Are you bleeding?” Mack asks, and his eyes are frozen on Will who’s grabbing his phone and wallet.
“I don’t think so, but I’m cold and I can’t reach to turn the water off.” You say, and for the first time your voice slips and the words come out as a sob.
“I’m coming right now okay? I’ll be there in ten minutes sweetheart, I promise.”
But Mack’s words go unanswered, and as he pulls the phone away from his ear he sees the call dropped. He tries again, straight to voicemail.
“Fuck!” Mack exclaims, befitting shoving his phone in his back pocket and eyes are frantically scanning the countertops for his keys. “Where the fuck are my fucking keys?” Mack asks, and Will grabs them from the entryway table and throws them to his best friend.
“Let’s go!” Will says, and Mack books it to the passenger seat, Will knowing it’s not the best idea for Mack to be driving right now.
And as they high tail it to your place, your skin covers itself in goosebumps, and you shiver, but you wait, knowing Macklin is trying like hell to get to you as fast as possible.
—
“Y/N?” You hear your name being called from the front. The familiar voice of your best friend, before a knock comes on the bathroom door.
“Mack!”
“I’m coming in, okay?” He asks, and you say okay, yelling over the sound of the water still spraying.
You hear the bathroom door open, and you can hear movement in the living room, who you can only assume is Will. The curtain is closed, but you can see the giant outline of Mack as he enters the bathroom.
“I’m stuck.” You say, biting your lip because of the pain.
“I’m going to turn the water off.” He says, and you nod even though he can’t see you. But you watch as his hand comes through the edge of the shower curtain, blindly fumbling around until he finds the knob and turns it off.
The silence is thick, and without meaning to you let out a little sob. You aren’t an idiot, you know Mack is going to have to pick you up from the bottom of the tub. And while you’ve been in love with him forever, this wasn’t exactly what you envisioned.
“Okay, where exactly are you hurt?” His voice asks, softly and without its normal expression.
“My ankle is the worst.” You say, not even daring to look. “But my shoulder too, I don’t know what’s wrong with it but it hurts to move.”
The sound of your voice cracking breaks Macklin’s heart.
“Alright, I’m going to help you out.” Mack states, his eyes scanning around for a towel.
“Mack.” You state, and he pauses. “I’m not wearing anything.”
In any other situation Mack’s racing heart wouldn’t be a bad thing. But you’re hurt, you’re scared, and Mack would rather step into traffic than make you uncomfortable.
“Do you trust me?” He asks softly, and your voice answers with a yes. His heart cracks even more as he finds a fluffy green towel in the closet. “Here’s my plan.” He says, standing outside of the curtain. “I’m going to hand this to you, cover yourself as best as you can, I’m going to open the curtain, figure out the best way to pick you up, and then I’m going to close my eyes and set you on the counter until you can wrap the towel around yourself.” He says, surprised he was able to get through all of that without stuttering.
It takes a second for you to respond, but then you whisper back the smallest, “your eyes will be closed when you pick me up?”
“Until you wrap yourself up, I promise.” He says, and you sniffle a bit from the other side.
“Okay.” You say, and Mack nods, before going to put the towel past the curtain, turning his head towards the door just in case. But he feels the towel being pulled from his fingers, and he waits until you say you’re ready.
“I’m covered.” You say, and for the first time since he picked up the phone you let out the tiniest laugh. He feels just a little weight come off of his shoulders at the sound.
“Ready for me to open the curtain?” He asks, wanting to hear your confirmation before anything.
“Yeah.” You state, and he does.
You look pitiful, not that Macklin would ever say it. But he keeps his eyes on yours, only moving them to scan your shoulder and your ankle. The towel is laid over the top of your body, but he knows when he goes to wrap his arms around you he’ll be met with bare skin on your back.
“Fuck, sweetheart.” He says, and your chest gives a jump with the sob you’re holding in.
But Mack doesn’t want to prolong this any longer than he has to, so he bends down, knees on the floor as he looks into your bloodshot eyes.
“Mackie.” You say, wanting nothing more than to launch into him but you can’t.
“I know, I know.” He says, scanning you trying to figure out the best way to lift you without knocking into your shoulder and keeping your foot steady. “I’m going to get you out now, okay? We’ve got to get you out” He says, and you nod, biting your lip.
And before Mack can question himself, he gets his arms into a good position before keeping his word of closing his eyes. One arm of yours, which he can only assume is your good arm, goes around his neck, and he reaches under you. His hands are met by your freezing cold skin, and he has to bite his tongue to not make a sound. One arm slips under your knees, the other wrapping around your back as you’re pulled into his body.
Your head rests against his shoulder as he carries you. Making small steps so he doesn’t trip and make this worse. And you try to force yourself to focus on how good it feels to be in his arms versus the pain of your ankle and shoulder.
Macklin forces his eyes to stay shut, he wants to make sure you’re okay, wants to see your wounds and fix them. But your comfort comes first, so he follows your voice as you lead him to the counter top.
“Okay, I’m situated.” You say after you adjust the towel to go completely around your body. And still, when Mack opens his eyes, he’s looking towards the top of the mirror. “I’m covered.” You whisper, and the sound of your voice makes him look back to you. His eyes focusing in on you. You’re covered, yes, but water still drips from your soaking wet hair down your exposed shoulders. And as he goes to look at your ankle, water also drips down your legs and falls to the tile floor below.
“We’ve got to take you in.” He says to you, his voice so soft, so sweet that new tears appear in your eyes. You just nod your head, a shiver racking through you. “I’m going to go grab you some clothes okay?” He says, and you nod.
“Mack? Can you grab me another towel?” You ask as he’s reaching for the door.
“Yeah, of course.” He says, handing you a second fuzzy green towel.
“Do you think you can-“ you start to ask, but Mack doesn’t need you to finish. He opens the towel up, and like he’s seen you do a million times when you get out of a pool, or the lakes and oceans in the summers, he wraps the towel around your hair, getting it off your shoulders. He twists it, and you laugh lightly as he stands back to eye his work.
“You look beautiful.” He says, his eyes so loving as he looks at you. But he leaves before you can respond, the anxiety of what he just said coursing through his veins.
Mack moves swiftly through your room, finding all the clothes he needs for you to go to the ER. He blindly grabs at for a bra and underwear, like even this he wants to be respectful of. Then he moves to grab you pants, before opting for shorts since they’d be easier to slip around your ankle. Then last, a sweatshirt. But he pauses, before pulling his off of his body, fixing his black t shirt that rides up a bit.
You have a thing for taking Mack’s sweatshirts. Especially ones off his back. And he lets you, no matter where you are, no matter who you’re with. You tell him it’s because they are warm, which is partly true. The other part is that they smell like him. As he makes it back to the bathroom, he sets your things down on the counter top, before realizing this too may be a bigger challenge than he thought.
“Maybe I’ll just go naked?” You ask him, shrugging your good shoulder.
In any other situation this would have Mack laughing, have him looking at you like he always does. Have him so close to cutting the shit and admitting his feelings. And while he does crack a smile, a snort also coming out, Mack shakes his head.
“I can help,” he states, before quickly finishing it with, “if you want.”
You eye him for a second, before nodding. And like before, Macklin’s heart races as his eyes are back to being slammed shut, and he helps you put bottoms on. Your bra, however, is his undoing.
“You’re going to have to clip it.” You say, and Mack’s hands freeze, and he must have been making a face because you let out a pained laugh. “You’ve seen me in bikinis, Mack.” You say, and he nods.
“Yeah, yeah, bikinis.” He says, shaking his head like that is going to help the thoughts of you in a bikini leave his head. The thoughts of your skin golden after spending hours in the sun, the thoughts of your laugh at something stupid he or Will decided to do. And especially the thoughts of that stupid teal bikini you bought insisting on wearing it for ‘Sharks support’.
“Macklin?” The sound of his name pulls him back to the present, and he turns red as he realizes he just completely zoned out while you’re waiting for him to clip your bra.
What the fuck is his life? He thinks as he clears his throat and reaches behind your back. His fingers stumble over the hooks, and apologies spill from his mouth. But he gets it finally, and next holds up his sweatshirt to help over your head.
Your eyes catch on it, noting the fact he came in wearing it, and now he’s not. But that’s the thing about you and Mack. You know each other, maybe too well, but you do. Mack knows how much the small things he does mean to you. Giving you sweatshirts, bringing you coffee, how when he’s with you he’s so invested in you that half the time he forgets anything and anyone else exist.
To Macklin, it’s just you. He wouldn’t notice if the world was ending, so long as you’re breathing the same air as him.
It takes a second to get the sweatshirt on, and you cry out as he bumps your shoulder funny.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He says, and like it it’s nothing, he plants a kiss to your temple.
You turn red, you can feel the heat all throughout your body. But you just rest your head against his chest. Your bad shoulder and arm are sitting loosely under the sweatshirt, with no point in putting your arm in the sleeve to have them take it back out at the hospital.
“Thank you.” You say, your head still tucked against his chest.
“You don’t have to thank me.” He says with a small shrug, you can feel it against your head.
“Yes.” You say, closing your eyes. “Yes I do. You came here and you saw me like this and-“
“I’ll come,” he says, voice softer now. “Every single time. Whether you need me to kill a spider, sit with you in silence, bring you coffee, or pick you up off the bathroom floor. I’ll come as soon as you call.”
“Mack.” You whisper, tears leaking down your cheeks.
His hand is on the side of your face, thumb carefully wiping the falling tears away. His face is flushed, and his hair messy from how fast he runs his hands through it.
“After.” He says, and you lean the side of your head into his palm. “We’ll talk about all of this after, I promise. But please, please I need to get you to the hospital.” He says, and you nod, preparing yourself for the pain of the jostle into his arms. “I’ll go slow.” He says, reaching around you to be able to pick you up.
“I trust you.” You whisper, and you swear you hear a sharp inhale at your words.
But he picks you up, careful to try not to move you so much. You scrunch your face, your eyes shutting tightly in pain.
“God, I’m sorry.” He says, carrying you out to the living room where you can tell Will has been anxiously waiting.
He looks at you, giving you a sad little smile.
“Hey there, disaster.” He says, his normal nickname for you never fit as perfectly as it does now.
“Sorry for ruining your day.” You say, but Will cuts you off before Mack can.
“Absolutely not.” He says, waving his hands in front of him. “Go get fixed up, I’ll take care of everything here.” He says, and Macklin nods his appreciation at his best friend.
“You don’t have to-“
“Too late. I’ll see you guys when you get back.” Will says, already starting to build what looks like a makeshift bed on your couch.
You smile, the overwhelming feeling of love spreading through you as Macklin carries you to the car.
—
The hospital wasn’t as horrible as you thought. You get discharged with a cast on your foot, and a bruised shoulder you’re told not to over extend.
But Macklin was there the whole time. He stayed plastered by the bed, the nurses even told you he wouldn’t stop pacing while you got your x-rays. And as he nodded, listening and asking questions about your recovery, you couldn’t even listen to the doctor. All you could focus on was him.
So when you finally returned home, Will having stocked your entire place with necessities, you look to Mack, and blurt the words you’ve felt since you laid eyes on him for the first time.
“I love you.” You say, and you watch as Mack freezes. His hand stills on the pillow beneath your cast, his shoulders lock, his eyes flick up to yours completely stunned.
But it’s the the silence that follows that is horrible. You let one second pass, then two before you’re back pedaling like mad.
“Oh my god,” you say, panic flooding your chest. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to just say that. I mean, I did, but I didn’t mean to say it like that. Not while I’m in a cast and high on pain meds and you’re just trying to be nice because I fell in the shower like a fucking idiot-“ But your rambling ends as Mack stands.
For one second, you think he’s going to step back. You think he’s going to put space between you or that you’ve ruined everything in the exact way you always feared you would.
“Mack,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”
But he doesn’t say anything, instead he just leans down. One hand bracing himself on the back of the couch beside your head. The other coming to your face, so slowly and carefully.
And before you could process it, Macklin is kissing you. His lips warm, touch still light but lips firm and steady. And you make the smallest sound and lift your good hand to his hoodie, your fingers curling into the fabric.
That’s all he needs as he kisses you deeper. It’s still gentle, but there’s something underneath it. Relief, want, months and months of almosts and words neither of you were brave enough to say. And as he finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours, and his breathing is uneven.
And with his voice barely above a whisper, his cheeks pink and his green eyes glassy he whispers, “I love you too, sweetheart. More than anything in this whole fucking world.” And your best friend leans down to kiss you again.
I love your writing so much, and your dad!Fraser fic! Would you be open to writing more for that??
I love writing about dad!Fraser <3
Girl Dad
pairing: Fraser Minten x female reader
description: Fraser learns what it's really like to be a girl dad,
TW: Fluff, domestic bliss, established relationship, dad!Fraser being adorable, kissing.
masterlist
The first thing you're aware of is the weight of Fraser's arm draped heavily over your waist, his body a solid, warm line pressed against your back. The second is the small foot poking into your ribs. You crack an eye open to see the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, illuminating a mop of Fraser's dark hair and nestled between the two of you, your daughter's sleepy face.
"Mmmph," Fraser mumbles into your shoulder, pulling you impossibly closer. "Don't go."
"I have to," you whisper, carefully extracting yourself from his grip without disturbing the little girl between you. "Client meeting at nine."
He groans, a deep, mournful sound, and his arm tightens. "Five more minutes. My girls are too cozy to let go of."
You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to his stubbled cheek. "If I stay five more minutes, I'll stay an hour and then I'll really be late."
He finally relents, letting you slip out of bed. You're pulling on your work clothes when you feel two small arms wrap around your legs. Your daughter looks up at you, her brow furrowed in a perfect imitation of her father's pout. "Don't go, Mommy."
You crouch down, smoothing her messy hair. "I'll be back before you know it, sweetpea. You and Daddy are going to have the best day, aren't you?" You look up at Fraser, who is now propped up on his elbow, watching you both with an expression so full of love it makes your chest ache.
"The absolute best," he confirms. "We're going to do everything."
After a breakfast of pancakes shaped like hockey sticks (Fraser's specialty), you grab your bag. Fraser meets you at the door, pulling you into a proper hug. His chin rests on the top of your head and he breathes you in. "Have a good day, my love. We'll miss you."
"Miss you too," you say, standing on your toes to kiss him. "Be good for Daddy, okay?"
Your daughter nods solemnly, then holds up her arms for her own goodbye hug and kiss. As you drive away, you glance in the rearview mirror to see Fraser standing on the porch with her on his hip, both of them waving until you turn the corner.
The moment the door closes, Fraser turns to his daughter. "Alright, boss. What's first on the agenda?"
"Mommy always braids my hair," she says, patting her tangled locks. "Can you do it?"
Fraser's heart sinks. He can deke a defenseman at full speed, but a simple French braid is beyond his expertise. "Of course," he says with all the confidence he can muster. "Let's go sit on the couch."
For the next twenty minutes, he fumbles with her hair, watching tutorial after tutorial on his phone. His fingers feel clumsy and huge compared to the delicate strands. His first few attempts are disastrous, resulting in what she generously calls "a spiky nest." But finally, after pausing and rewinding a video one more time, he gets it. It's lopsided and a bit messy, but it's a braid. She runs to the mirror, her face glowing with pride. "It's beautiful! You did it, Daddy!"
His chest swells. If this is the hardest thing he does all day, he'll count it as a win.
"Next," she declares, holding up a tiny bottle of sparkly pink nail polish. "Nails!"
An hour later, Fraser's own fingernails are painted a garish pink, each one sporting a wobbly, hand-drawn smiley face courtesy of his daughter. He looks at his hands and laughs. He wouldn't have it any other way.
They spend the afternoon on the couch, watching her favorite animated movie for the third time. Fraser knows all the songs by heart now and he sings along, his off-key voice making her giggle. When the movie ends, she tugs on his shirt. "Daddy, can we make cookies? The chocolate chip ones?"
The kitchen becomes their next adventure. Flour dusts the counters and Fraser's nose. She "helps" by cracking an egg, most of which ends up on the floor. He lets her stir the batter, though he has to hold the bowl steady with one hand to prevent a catastrophe. As they wait for the cookies to bake, the smell of chocolate and warmth fills the house and he scoops her up for a dance in the middle of the kitchen, spinning her around until she's dizzy with laughter.
By the time evening falls, Fraser is exhausted but deeply content. They've built a pillow fort in the living room, eaten slightly-too-soft cookies for dinner and he's read her favorite storybook twice. She's curled up on his chest, her breathing soft and even, when he hears the key turn in the lock.
He looks up and his entire world narrows to the sight of you standing in the doorway, dropping your bag with a soft thud. The love that surges through him is so potent it almost takes his breath away.
"Mommy!" your daughter squeals, scrambling off his lap to run to you.
You scoop her up, hugging her tight. "I missed you so much! Did you have a good day with Daddy?"
"The best day!" she exclaims, her words tumbling over each other. "He braided my hair all by himself! And we painted our nails, look, Daddy has smiley faces! And we watched The Princess Unicorn and we made cookies and we danced in the kitchen!"
You listen, your eyes finding Fraser's over her shoulder. He's watching you with a soft, tired smile, his heart laid bare. He pushes himself up from the couch and walks over, wrapping his arms around both of you. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling your scent.
"Missed you," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "So much."
"I missed you too," you reply, leaning into his embrace. "It sounds like you two were very busy."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb stroking your cheek. "She's the best. But it's not the same without you. The house is too quiet when she's sleeping."
You lean in and kiss him, a slow, sweet kiss that tastes like home and chocolate chip cookies. "I'm home now," you whisper against his lips.
He smiles, the kind of smile that's just for you. "Yeah. You are." And as he holds his two girls in the middle of their living room, Fraser knows there's nowhere else in the world he'd rather be.
Wondering if you could do a wsh or Mack x reader where she’s a nurse that had a really tough shift as a pediatric nurse and he’s there to comfort her, let her cry & maybe help her shower and relax?
thank you for sending this in, I love it so much! ☆𖹭
After the Storm
pairing: Will Smith x female reader
description: After an emotionally devastating shift as a pediatric nurse, you find solace in the gentle comfort of your boyfriend.
TW: Emotional distress, grief, medical trauma, caregiving burnout.
masterlist
The sound of the front door closing echoes in the quiet apartment, but you don't turn to greet him. You can't. You just stand there in the entryway, your coat still on, your shoulders slumped under a weight that feels heavier than anything you've ever carried.
"Hey, baby," Will's voice comes from behind you, warm and familiar. "Tough day?"
You try to answer, but the words catch in your throat. All day you've been holding it together, the professional smile, the calm demeanor, the reassuring words for worried parents and scared children. But now, in the safety of your own home, with the one person who sees all of you, the dam begins to crack.
Will approaches slowly, his hockey gear forgotten by the door as he reads the tension in your posture. "Hey," he says softly, turning you gently to face him. "What's wrong?"
That's all it takes. One gentle question and the tears you've been fighting back for twelve hours finally break free. They come in silent, gut-wrenching sobs that shake your entire body. Will doesn't ask questions, he just pulls you into his arms, holding you as you cry against his chest.
"I've got you," he murmurs into your hair, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. "Let it out. I'm right here."
You don't know how long you stand there, crying into the soft material of his hoodie. Minutes blur together as the day's events replay in your mind, the little boy with the chronic illness who took a turn for the worse, the parents who had to make impossible decisions and the tiny, lifeless body you held after codes failed to bring him back.
"I couldn't save him," you finally manage to choke out between sobs. "He was only five, Will. He had his whole life ahead of him and I couldn't..."
"Shh," Will whispers, pulling you even closer. "You did everything you could. You gave him the best care, the best chance. That's all anyone can ask."
"But it wasn't enough," you cry, your voice breaking. "His mother... she looked at me like I failed them. Like I failed her son."
Will tilts your chin up, his blue eyes filled with a compassion that makes your heart ache. "You didn't fail anyone," he says firmly. "You're a nurse, not a magician. You can't always fix things, no matter how much you want to. And the fact that it hurts this much proves how much you care."
When your sobs finally subside to occasional hiccups, he leads you to the bedroom, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. "Let's get you out of these scrubs," he says softly. "They're probably reminding you of the hospital."
You nod numbly, letting him help you change out of the uniform that feels stained with today's sorrow. As you stand there in just your underwear, shivering despite the warmth of the room, Will notices the faraway look in your eyes.
"Come on," he says, taking your hand. "Let's get you warmed up."
He leads you to the bathroom, starting the shower and adjusting the temperature until steam begins to fill the small space. While the water warms, he gently helps you remove the rest of your clothes, his touch respectful and caring.
"In you go," he says softly, holding back the shower curtain. "I'll be right here."
You step under the hot spray, closing your eyes as the water cascades over your body. For a moment, you just stand there, letting it wash away the day, the sterile hospital smell, the weight of grief and the feeling of helplessness.
After a few minutes, the shower curtain opens and Will steps in behind you. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you back against his chest as the water continues to fall over both of you.
"Let me take care of you," he murmurs into your ear, reaching for the bottle of your favorite body wash.
He lathers his hands and begins to wash you, starting with your shoulders and working his way down. His touch is gentle, reverent, as if he's worshipping every inch of your body.
When he reaches your hands, he spends extra time massaging your palms and fingers. "These hands save lives," he says softly. "They hold crying children and worried parents. They administer medicine and comfort. They're amazing."
Tears well up again, but this time they're different, softer, born of gratitude rather than grief. "I love you," you whisper, leaning your head back against his shoulder.
"I love you too," he replies, continuing his ministrations. "More than you know."
After he's washed every part of you, he turns you to face him, gently tilting your chin up. "Close your eyes," he says, and when you do, he carefully washes your face, his touch incredibly gentle.
"All done," he says finally, shutting off the water and wrapping you in a fluffy towel. He dries you off with the same care he used to wash you, then helps you into your softest pajamas.
In the bedroom, he tucks you into bed before disappearing into the kitchen. He returns a few minutes later with a mug of chamomile tea and a plate of your favorite cookies.
"Just what you need," he says, setting them on the nightstand before climbing into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms.
You sip the tea slowly, the warmth spreading through your body as you lean against Will's chest. His heartbeat is steady and reassuring beneath your ear, a reminder that despite the pain and loss you witnessed today, life goes on.
"Thank you," you say softly, setting the mug aside and turning to face him. "For being here."
"Always," he replies, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "That's what partners do. We carry each other when the other one can't walk."
You trace the line of his jaw with your finger, marveling at this man who chose you. "How did I get so lucky?"
He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "I think I'm the lucky one. I get to come home to the strongest, bravest and most compassionate woman I know."
You snuggle closer, letting his warmth envelop you. For the first time all day, the darkness begins to recede, replaced by the light of his love. The grief is still there, a dull ache beneath the surface, but it's no longer overwhelming.
"Will?" you whisper into the quiet room.
"Yeah, baby?"
"Hold me tonight? Don't let go?"
His arms tighten around you. "I'm not going anywhere. I've got you. Always."
about ៸៸៸ fraser minten has always known he loves you. but watching you carry his cousin’s four month old baby across the backyard in your yellow sundress, cooing at her like she’s the whole world — that’s the afternoon he knows he’s never going to stop.
℘ word count ⸝⸝ 3694 ⋆.˚
fraser minten masterlist 𑜷 main masterlist <3
the minten backyard in vancouver smells like cut grass and sunscreen and something warm on the grill, and the air is thick with the particular kind of noise that only happens when an entire family descends on a house all at once — overlapping conversations, someone’s kid screaming in the best way, the clatter of plates being passed hand to hand across the long folding table that trevor and fraser’s uncle had dragged out from the garage earlier this morning. it’s gorgeous out. the kind of afternoon that feels almost unfairly beautiful, the sky a deep cloudless blue above the cedar fence, the backyard strung with little fairy lights that won’t really come on until the evening but are pretty anyway, woven through the branches of the big maple at the back of the yard.
and fraser has barely been able to breathe for the last three hours.
it’s not that the family gathering is overwhelming — it isn’t, not really, this is home, these are the people he’s grown up with, his aunts who pinch his cheeks even now, his grandparents settled comfortably in the good patio chairs chantal dragged out especially for them, his cousins who he hasn’t seen since christmas running around with the younger kids and occasionally crashing into the table. it’s all exactly as it always is. familiar and warm and a little loud and exactly right.
but you’re here.
you’re here and you’re wearing that yellow dress.
he’d watched you pull it on this morning in the soft light of his childhood bedroom, the fabric flowy and long, skimming the floor when you moved, little delicate straps at the shoulders. it’s a gentle, pretty yellow, like something out of an old painting, and with your hair the way you’d done it and your glasses on and the way the light was coming in through the curtains — he’d stood in the doorway holding both your coffees and forgotten entirely what he was doing. you’d turned and found him staring and laughed, taking your mug from his hand and asking what, and he’d said nothing, nothing, you just look really good, and you’d smiled into your coffee like you were trying to hide it.
he hadn’t been able to stop looking at you since.
the thing is — he tries to explain it to himself sometimes, quietly, in the in-between moments. tries to put words to what it is about you that makes him feel like he’s been turned inside out. it’s not just that you’re beautiful, though you are, god, you are, especially in that yellow dress in the afternoon sun. it’s something else. it’s the way you walked into his parents’ house the first time and hugged his mum like you’d known her for years. it’s the way you remember everything — every detail his brother mentions in passing, every story his dad tells twice over. it’s the way you fit here. the way you always, somehow, fit.
he’s been watching you all afternoon.
he told himself he’d stop. made a whole internal promise about it, actually, because bryce had caught him staring across the yard at you laughing at something his aunt had said, and had bumped his shoulder and gone, you’re so down bad it’s embarrassing, and fraser had said shut up, but he’d also known it was completely, absolutely true.
he is. he is so far gone on you it isn’t even a little bit funny.
and then the baby happened.
his cousin maya — twenty-four and four months postpartum, moving careful and a little tired around the edges, her husband close by — had brought the baby over to the main table about an hour into lunch, this tiny little thing wrapped in a white blanket with pink ducks on it, all scrunched face and small fists, and the whole family had descended immediately the way families do, everyone wanting a hold, everyone cooing. the baby, isla, had been passed around about four times before she’d started to fuss — that low, escalating fuss that means i’m done with all of you — and then maya had held her out vaguely in your direction because you’d been sitting closest, and said, do you want to try? just to see?
and you’d taken her. you’d settled her into the crook of your arm like you’d done it a thousand times, adjusted her head with this easy careful confidence, and isla had just — stopped. blinked. looked up at you with those dark unfocused eyes.
and then she’d gone quiet.
maya had actually laughed, a little exhausted and a little relieved. fraser had watched the whole thing from three seats down and felt something shift very quietly in his chest.
that was forty minutes ago. isla hasn’t left your arms since. twice someone’s tried to take her — maya herself, once, and fraser’s grandma, who has decades of baby-holding experience and approached the whole thing with the confidence of a woman who has seen everything — and both times isla had gone rigid and red-faced, tiny mouth opening in outrage, and both times you’d pulled her back close and started rocking and she’d gone quiet again within seconds. you’d apologized to maya, who had waved you off and said no, please, keep her, i’m eating my first full meal in three weeks.
and so you’ve been moving around the backyard with isla tucked against you ever since, one hand supporting her head, the other at her back, rocking very slightly with every step. you’ve been talking to her in that voice — that soft, high, gentle baby voice that fraser has never heard come out of you before today and is now going to be thinking about for the rest of his life — telling her things. look at that tree, see the leaves? and, you’re being so so good, aren’t you, yeah you are, you’re the best girl. and isla keeps looking up at you with those wide eyes like you’re the most fascinating thing she’s ever encountered, which is fair, fraser thinks. he understands completely.
he’s been doing the same thing all afternoon.
he’s standing now near the edge of the patio with a half-drunk glass of lemonade, having excused himself from a conversation with his uncle about the bruins’ cap situation — he was barely paying attention anyway — and he’s just. watching you. you’re walking slowly along the grass, bouncing very gently, and you’ve got your nose tipped down toward isla’s face and you’re saying something he can’t hear from here, and isla’s little fist has closed around your finger. you’re smiling. that full, real smile, the one that reaches your eyes and creases the corners of them. the afternoon sun is doing something to the yellow fabric of your dress, making it almost luminous, and your glasses are catching the light too, and fraser thinks, genuinely and without any particular destination, that he is the luckiest person on this entire earth.
his mum appears at his elbow.
“you’re staring,” chantal says, very pleasantly.
“i know,” fraser says. he doesn’t look away from you.
chantal makes a soft sound, warm and knowing. she wraps her hand briefly around his arm. “she’s wonderful, fraser.”
“yeah,” he says. it comes out quieter than he means it to. “i know.”
chantal squeezes his arm and drifts away back toward the table, and fraser stays where he is, watching you carry his cousin’s baby across the sun-lit grass of his parents’ backyard in your yellow dress, and he thinks he might actually be in danger of embarrassing himself.
there’s something about it. there’s something about watching you here, in this specific place, with these specific people, doing this specific thing, that is hitting him somewhere very deep and very soft, somewhere he hadn’t entirely known was there until just now. he’s thought about you in a lot of contexts over the past eleven months. thought about you constantly, actually, thought about you in the library with your highlighters and your textbooks and your slightly chaotic organization system, thought about you in his apartment eating cereal at midnight, thought about you curled up in his bed with his old world juniors hoodie on, glasses pushed up on your nose, squinting at whatever was on your phone. he knows the shape of you in about a hundred different versions now.
but this.
this is something new.
you look up from isla and find him across the yard, and your face does this thing — this immediate, involuntary, soft thing — and you lift one hand in a little wave, careful not to disturb the baby, and fraser’s chest does something complicated. he raises his lemonade at you. you roll your eyes at him, fond, the way you always do when he’s being too much, and then you look back down at isla and start moving toward him.
he watches you come across the grass. he watches the way the dress moves when you walk, the way you’re still rocking ever so slightly even in motion, the way isla’s fist is still loosely curled around your finger and you’re letting her hold on like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
he puts his lemonade down on the patio table.
you stop in front of him. you’re smiling, and isla is awake and calm against your chest, looking up at the two of you with those dark, considering eyes.
“hey,” you say, softly, voice still carrying that gentle quality it’s had all afternoon, like you’ve been talking to the baby so long it’s leaked into everything else.
“hey,” fraser says. and then: “how is she?”
“perfect,” you say, immediately and with great conviction, and you glance down at isla with this expression on your face that does something to fraser’s ribcage. “she’s so perfect, frase. look at her little—” you pause to tap one gentle finger against the side of isla’s tiny fist. “look at her hands.”
fraser looks at her hands. “yeah,” he says. “she’s really small.”
“she’s barely four months old,” you say, like this is extraordinary, like you’ve only just understood what four months old means and the information is overwhelming. “she’s so little.”
“you’re really good with her,” fraser says. it comes out with more feeling than he intends, a little unguarded, and you look up at him and your eyes go soft.
“she just likes me,” you say, and shrug, and look back down at isla.
fraser watches you for a second. the way your thumb is moving in small slow circles against the baby’s back. the total ease of it, the confidence, like this is just something you do, like you’ve always done this.
he loves you so much it’s insane.
you turn so that you’re angled slightly toward fraser, adjusting isla so she’s facing out a little more. you tip your head down toward the baby.
“hey, little one,” you say, in the baby voice, soft and warm and a little sing-song. “hey, sweet girl, look — look who that is.” you reach out and take isla’s tiny hand between your fingers, and you wave it. you wave her little hand toward fraser. “that’s uncle fraser,” you tell her, very seriously. “can you say hi to uncle fraser? yeah? hi uncle fraser.”
fraser blinks.
“isn’t he the best uncle in the world?” you’re saying, still in that voice, still moving isla’s little hand back and forth in the gentlest wave. “yeah he is. he really really is. oh yes he is, sweet girl. he is the absolute best.” you pause. isla makes a small sound, something content and bubbly, not quite a laugh but close, and you make a face at her that fraser can only describe as delight. “he plays hockey,” you tell her, very gravely. “which is very impressive. you should be very proud of him. we’re very proud of him, right? yes we are.”
“you’re narrating my whole life to a newborn,” fraser says.
“she’s interested,” you say, without looking up. isla grabs at your finger again and you let her take it. “see? she’s listening.” you glance up at him then, bright-eyed, glasses catching the light, and there’s something in your expression that is so — so full, so warm, that fraser has to look away for a second and then look back because he can’t not look at you. “she wants you to say hi,” you say.
“hi, isla,” fraser says, obediently, a little helplessly.
and then isla — she looks toward his voice. she turns her tiny head, unfocused gaze drifting toward him, and she makes that sound again, that bubbling almost-laugh, and her little fist opens and closes.
“oh my god,” you breathe. “fraser, she—”
“i see her,” he says. his voice has gone very soft.
you’re grinning now, wide and open, the fullest version of your smile, and you’re looking between fraser and isla like you can’t decide which one to watch, like both of them are equally wonderful and you’re not sure where to put your eyes. “she likes you,” you say. “she’s saying hi.”
“hi, sweetheart,” fraser says again, softer this time, and he reaches out and very carefully, very gently, lets the tip of his finger brush against isla’s tiny open hand. her fingers close around it instantly, reflexive, and fraser makes a sound that he will deny if asked about it later.
“see?” you say. your voice is very fond.
he looks up at you. you’re watching him with this expression — soft and warm and a little knowing, like you can see exactly what’s happening inside him and you find it very sweet and you’re going to let him feel it. you’re still rocking very slightly. the sun is in your hair.
“my sweet girl,” he says, quiet, almost without thinking, and he’s looking at you when he says it, not at isla, and you know that, you know exactly where it’s directed, because your smile changes. softens at the edges. goes from bright to something more private.
“hi,” you say again, softer this time, just to him.
“hi,” he says back.
isla makes another sound between you, and you both look down at her, and then back up at each other, and fraser takes a breath and thinks, i am going to marry you. it lands in his chest quiet and certain and completely unannounced, not like a thought he’s having for the first time but like a thought he’s been having for so long it’s become fact. i am going to marry you someday. and it’s going to be the best thing that has ever happened to me.
he doesn’t say it. he’s not quite there yet, not in the middle of his parents’ backyard on a tuesday afternoon with half his family ten feet away. but he feels it. god, he feels it.
instead he steps in close and tips his head down and presses his lips to your temple, slow and soft, and you lean into it a little, automatic, and isla’s little fist is still loosely curled around both your fingers and his, all three of them connected in that small warm point of contact.
“thank you for coming,” he says, against your hair.
“frase,” you say. like he’s being silly.
“i mean it,” he says. “thank you for being here. for — all of this.” he pulls back just enough to look at you. “my whole family is obsessed with you, you know. my grandma asked me three times if you were going to be at christmas.”
you laugh, the real one, quiet and surprised. “she did not.”
“she absolutely did.” he reaches out and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, careful, gentle, and your eyes track the movement and then come back to his. “and bryce has texted me twice today saying don’t mess this up.”
“bryce is texting you while he’s twelve feet away at the same table?”
“bryce has a lot of feelings,” fraser says. “we all have a lot of feelings. about you.”
you look at him for a moment. something in your expression goes a little soft and unguarded, and you adjust isla against your chest and say, “i have a lot of feelings about all of you too, you know.”
“yeah?”
“yeah.” you tilt your head up. “especially you. obviously. you know that.”
“i know,” he says. “i just like hearing it.”
you shake your head at him, fond, a little exasperated. then you turn back to isla and drop your voice back into the baby register, warm and gentle. “your uncle fraser is very sentimental,” you tell her. “and very sweet. don’t tell him i said that.” you glance up at fraser. “and he’s the best uncle ever, right? because you’re the best baby ever.”
“i’m going to try,” fraser says seriously, looking at isla.
“she believes you,” you say. “look at her. she completely believes you.”
fraser looks. isla is, it must be said, looking approximately in his direction with an expression of serene indifference that is genuinely very difficult to read, but her fingers are still loosely curled around his, and he decides that counts.
“she does look pretty convinced,” he says.
you laugh again, quiet, and lean your shoulder into his arm, and he shifts to accommodate you, to put his arm around you without disturbing the baby, hand resting warm at the curve of your waist through the soft yellow fabric. the backyard hums around you. someone’s turned on some music, quiet in the background, and the smell of whatever’s on the grill has shifted to something sweeter, and two of his cousins are kicking a ball around on the far side of the yard, and his mum is laughing at something his grandma said, and his dad is watching the whole scene from the patio with a cup of coffee and an expression of deep satisfaction.
fraser stands in the middle of all of it with you leaning against his arm and his cousin’s baby holding your finger and the sun on the yellow of your dress, and he breathes.
he is so, so lucky.
“she’s going to fall asleep,” you say softly, watching isla. her eyes have gone heavy, slow-blinking. “she’s almost out.”
“do you want to sit down?”
“yeah,” you say. “somewhere quiet? the side of the yard, maybe?”
“yeah,” he says. “come on.”
he keeps his arm around you as you move. guides you with his hand at your waist, walks close, watches the way you keep rocking even while you walk, steady and instinctive. you find the wooden bench along the fence at the far edge of the yard, half in the shade of the maple tree, and you sit down carefully and fraser sits beside you, close, his knee pressing against yours. you adjust isla against your chest and she makes a small sound and then goes still again, and you put your lips to the top of her head, just for a second, feather-light.
fraser watches you. he can’t stop. he doesn’t want to.
“she really won’t go to anyone else,” he says.
“she went to maya for like two minutes earlier,” you say.
“and then screamed until she got back to you.”
“she was adjusting,” you say, with great dignity.
fraser smiles. “she loves you.”
you look up from isla. you look at him with that expression again — the soft, private one. the one just for him. “she just met me two hours ago.”
“so?” fraser shrugs. “that’s enough. people know, especially babies. they always know.”
you hold his gaze for a moment. then you look back down at isla, whose eyes are fully closed now, tiny chest rising and falling in the deep even rhythm of a baby who has decided she is done with being awake.
“she’s asleep,” you whisper.
“yeah,” he whispers back.
the backyard goes on around you, warm and full of noise, but here in the maple’s shadow it’s quieter, a little separate. fraser watches isla sleep in your arms and watches you watch her, and he thinks about what his mum said to him earlier, she’s wonderful, fraser, and he thinks about his grandma asking three times about christmas, and he thinks about bryce texting him don’t mess this up from twelve feet away. he thinks about you in his childhood bedroom this morning pulling on the yellow dress. he thinks about the way you’d walked into this house the first time, almost a year ago now, and hugged his mum without hesitation like coming home.
he reaches over and takes your free hand. holds it in his lap.
you look at your joined hands and then up at him.
“hey, honey,” he says, quiet.
“hi,” you say back.
he squeezes your hand once. doesn’t say anything else. you lean your head against his shoulder, careful not to disturb isla, and the sun moves through the maple leaves in shifting patches of gold and green, and isla sleeps on in your arms, and the minten family makes their beautiful chaos all around you, and fraser sits in it and breathes and thinks this is the best afternoon of his entire life.
he thinks that a lot, lately. best afternoon. best morning. best tuesday. it keeps updating.
you’ve been together eleven months.
he can’t wait for the next eleven. and the eleven after that. and all of the ones after that.
“you’re doing your thinking face,” you murmur, into his shoulder.
“what thinking face.”
“the one where you go very still and quiet and your jaw does the thing.”
“my jaw doesn’t do a thing.”
“fraser,” you say patiently. “your jaw absolutely does a thing.”
he tips his head down and presses his mouth to the top of yours, which makes you go quiet. you smile against his shirt.
“what are you thinking about?” you ask.
he looks at isla. looks at you. looks at the sun coming through the leaves.
“just,” he says. “this.”
you’re quiet for a moment. then: “yeah?”
“yeah.”
you settle a little further into his shoulder. “me too,” you say, very softly.
isla sleeps on. the afternoon stretches long and golden around you.
Fraser Minten is like one of those dogs that act all cute and calm when they're on a leash but once they are unleashed they run over everything and bite ankles
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