girl you had me worried.!!😭 so glad you’re back though & I hope you’re doing better 🤍
now when you feel up to it…I’m gonna selfishly request more Aaron Gordon fics, you killed the last ones.!🤩🤩
i choose you.
an aaron gordon fic
summary ~ you don’t think you’re quite ready for aaron to pop the question..
includes ~ angst to fluff // reader having to face herself // boyfriend aaron
word count ~ 3,032
a/n ~ what an emotional one.
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Aaron had been acting weird for three weeks.
Not bad weird. Not suspicious weird. Just… intentional.
He kept looking at you too long when you weren’t paying attention. He kept asking random questions about your dream house, your favorite flowers, whether you preferred gold or silver jewelry even though he knew you wore gold almost every day. He kept getting quiet whenever one of his teammates mentioned their wives or kids, and whenever the two of you passed a bridal shop or saw a wedding scene on TV, his eyes would flick to you like he was waiting for your reaction.
You noticed.
Of course you noticed.
You just pretended you didn’t.
That was your first mistake.
You and Aaron had been together for almost four years. Four years of long flights, late-night facetimes, Denver winters, family cookouts, playoff stress, soft mornings, hard conversations, and learning each other in ways nobody else did. He knew how you took your coffee. You knew when his silence meant peace and when it meant frustration. He knew you got mean when you were scared. You knew he started cleaning when he was anxious. You had built something real, something warm, something people around you admired.
And that was exactly why the word marriage felt so heavy.
It wasn’t that you didn’t love him. God, you loved him so much it irritated you sometimes. You loved his laugh, his patience, his big hands on your waist when he walked behind you in the kitchen. You loved the way he listened, the way he tried, the way he didn’t make you feel small even when his life was massive. You loved the calmness he brought into your life.
But marriage?
Marriage felt permanent in a way that scared you.
Marriage meant being seen fully. Chosen fully. Responsible for someone else’s heart in a way you couldn’t run from when things got hard. And you were good at loving Aaron when it was easy. You were good at being soft when you felt safe. But the second something asked you to grow up emotionally, to stop centering only your fear, you had a habit of making it about freedom, timing, independence, anything except the truth.
The truth was, Aaron was ready.
And you weren’t.
Or at least, you kept telling yourself you weren’t.
The conversation finally happened on a Sunday night.
You were in his kitchen, wearing one of his shirts, standing barefoot by the counter while he loaded the dishwasher. Dinner was over. The house smelled like garlic, lemon pepper, and the vanilla candle you always lit after cleaning. It should’ve been peaceful, but Aaron had been quiet all evening.
Too quiet.
You watched him rinse a plate for longer than necessary.
“Okay,” you said. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t turn around right away.
That made your stomach tighten.
“AG.”
He shut the water off, dried his hands slowly, then turned to face you. His expression was calm, but his eyes were serious.
“We need to talk.”
You hated that sentence.
Your whole body reacted before your mind did. Shoulders tense. Face guarded. Heart already preparing for impact.
“About what?”
He leaned back against the counter across from you. “Us.”
You let out a small laugh, but it sounded fake even to you. “That’s specific.”
“I’m serious.”
“I can see that.”
His jaw moved slightly. “I’ve been thinking about our future.”
There it was.
Your stomach dropped.
You looked away, pretending to adjust the sleeve of his hoodie. “Okay.”
“And I need to know where you are with that.”
“With what?”
Aaron stared at you.
You knew exactly what he meant, and he knew you knew.
He gave a small, humorless laugh. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you don’t understand me so you don’t have to answer.”
Your eyes snapped to his. “I’m not acting.”
“Yes, you are.”
The kitchen went still.
Aaron rarely raised his voice. That was the thing about him. He wasn’t the type to yell just to be heard. But when he was hurt, his voice got lower, firmer, like he was trying hard not to let emotion take over.
You crossed your arms. “So say what you want to say.”
He held your gaze. “I want to marry you.”
The words landed hard.
Not because you didn’t know.
Because hearing them out loud took away your ability to keep pretending.
Aaron’s face softened slightly. “I’ve wanted to marry you for a while.”
Your throat tightened.
“Aaron…”
“And I’m not saying we have to get married tomorrow. I’m not saying you need to have everything figured out. But I need to know if you see that with me. Because I do. I see it clearly.”
You looked down.
That was your second mistake.
Because Aaron noticed.
He always noticed.
His voice changed. “You don’t.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair is me being in this relationship for almost four years and still feeling like I have to guess whether I’m part of your future.”
Your head snapped up. “You are part of my future.”
“How?”
“What do you mean how?”
“I mean how?” His voice sharpened slightly. “Am I your boyfriend forever? Am I just somebody you love as long as I don’t ask for more? What am I to you?”
You flinched. “That’s a crazy thing to say.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Then answer me.”
You stared at him, anger rising because fear had nowhere else to go.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to tell me the truth.”
“The truth is I’m not ready!”
The words burst out louder than you meant them to.
Aaron went quiet.
Your chest rose and fell quickly. “I’m not ready, okay? I’m sorry if that’s not the answer you wanted, but I’m not.”
He nodded slowly, looking down at the floor for a second. “Okay.”
The calmness in his voice scared you more than yelling would have.
You swallowed. “Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Why are you saying it like that?”
“Because at least now I know.”
Something cold moved through you.
“Know what?”
He looked back up at you, and this time, the hurt on his face was impossible to miss. “That I’ve been building toward something you’ve been avoiding.”
Your eyes burned. “That’s not fair.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s not. You’re acting like I don’t love you.”
“I know you love me,” he said. “That’s the problem.”
You blinked.
He pushed off the counter, running a hand over his face. “You love me, but you still make every big step about what it might cost you. Your freedom. Your comfort. Your control. You don’t think about what it costs me to keep waiting.”
That hit a nerve.
So you hit back.
“I’m sorry that I don’t want to rush into marriage just because you decided you’re ready.”
His face changed.
The second the words left your mouth, you knew they were cruel.
But you were too defensive to take them back.
Aaron stared at you for a long moment. “Rush?”
You didn’t answer.
“Four years is rushing to you?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No, say it.” His voice was still quiet, but there was something sharp underneath it now. “Say what you mean.”
You looked away. “I just don’t want to end up trapped.”
The silence after that was awful.
Heavy.
Immediate.
Aaron’s face went still.
“Trapped,” he repeated.
Your stomach twisted. “Aaron—”
“With me?”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“But you said it like that.”
“I mean marriage in general.”
“You said it while looking at me.”
Your eyes filled, but you blinked the tears back because you didn’t want to be the one crying when you had hurt him.
“I’m scared,” you said, quieter now.
He let out a breath, almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “And I’m tired.”
That shut you up.
Aaron looked at you, and for the first time in a long time, he looked exhausted by you. Not angry. Not hateful. Just tired in a way that made your chest ache.
“I’ve been patient,” he said. “I’ve given you space. I’ve let you move at your pace. But sometimes it feels like your pace means I don’t get to have needs.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
He nodded like your silence confirmed something painful.
“I don’t want to force you into anything,” he said. “I would never do that. But I also can’t keep shrinking what I want just because you don’t want to be uncomfortable.”
Your tears slipped then.
“Aaron, please.”
He looked away, jaw tight.
“I love you,” you said.
“I know.”
“Then why does this feel like you’re giving up on me?”
His eyes came back to yours. “Because I’m finally asking you to choose me with more than words.”
That broke something open in the room.
You stood there in his hoodie, crying silently, and Aaron looked like it was taking everything in him not to comfort you. That hurt too, because he always comforted you. Even when you were wrong. Especially when you were wrong. But tonight, he didn’t move.
“I think you should go home tonight,” he said.
Your breath caught. “What?”
“I don’t want to keep arguing.”
“So you’re kicking me out?”
His face tightened. “Don’t make me the villain because I’m asking for space.”
You hated that he was right.
You hated that you wanted to twist this into him being cold so you didn’t have to sit with how selfish you had been.
You wiped your face quickly. “Fine.”
He closed his eyes for a second.
You grabbed your bag from the couch, shoving your phone and keys inside with shaky hands. You wanted him to stop you. You wanted him to say he didn’t mean it. You wanted him to choose your comfort again, like he always did.
But he didn’t.
He stood in the kitchen, quiet and heartbroken, and let you leave.
That was when it started to feel real.
The drive home was a blur.
You cried at two red lights and almost called him three times, but your pride kept dropping your phone back into the cup holder. By the time you got to your apartment, your chest hurt from holding back sobs. You kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag by the door, and sat on the edge of your bed in silence.
At first, you were angry.
How dare he make you feel guilty for not being ready? How dare he turn marriage into some test? How dare he act like four years automatically meant you owed him a yes?
But the anger didn’t hold.
Because underneath it was the truth.
Aaron had not asked for a wedding tomorrow. He had not demanded a ring on your finger by morning. He had asked if you saw a future with him, and instead of meeting him with honesty, you had made him feel like loving him was a cage.
You pressed your hands over your face.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
You thought about his face when you said trapped. The way he went still. The way his voice sounded when he said, “With me?”
Your stomach turned.
Aaron, who had never tried to control you. Aaron, who celebrated your wins like they were his own. Aaron, who held space for your fears even when they inconvenienced him. Aaron, who never once made you feel like you had to shrink beside him.
And you had made him feel like a prison.
That realization hurt worse than the argument.
You didn’t sleep much that night. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him standing in the kitchen, tired and wounded and finally done swallowing his own needs to protect yours.
The next morning, you almost texted him a paragraph.
Then deleted it.
Because for once, words weren’t enough.
You needed to think. Really think. Not about your fear. Not about how marriage would change your life. But about him. About what it meant to keep accepting a man’s devotion while refusing to consider what devotion required of you.
By noon, your best friend called.
You tried to sound normal. Failed.
“What happened?” she asked.
You told her everything.
Not the cleaned-up version. The real one. The ugly one. The one where you admitted what you said.
When you finished, she was quiet.
You groaned. “Say something.”
“Girl.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
You sat up. “What does that mean?”
“It means Aaron has been loving you like a husband while you keep treating marriage like he’s asking you to sign away your life.”
You closed your eyes.
She continued, softer now. “Being scared is real. But you can’t keep making him pay for fears he didn’t create.”
That sentence sat in your chest like a stone.
“I know,” you whispered.
“Do you want to marry him someday?”
You didn’t answer right away.
Not because you didn’t know.
Because the answer scared you.
“Yes,” you finally said.
“Then why didn’t you say that?”
Your eyes filled again. “Because if I say it, then it becomes real. Then I have to stop hiding behind ‘I’m not ready’ and actually grow into the person who can love him like that.”
“There it is.”
You let out a shaky breath.
“I messed up.”
“Yeah,” she said gently. “You did. So fix it without making him comfort you through your guilt.”
That was the part that stuck.
Do not make him comfort you through your guilt.
So you waited until evening. You gave him space. You wrote down what you needed to say, not because you wanted a script, but because you knew your fear would try to protect itself again if you didn’t come prepared with the truth.
Then you drove to his house.
Your hands shook the whole way.
When Aaron opened the door, he looked surprised to see you. He was wearing sweats and a plain white tee, his hair slightly messy, his face tired. The sight of him made your throat ache.
“Hey,” he said carefully.
“Hey.”
There was a long pause.
“I know you asked for space,” you said. “And I’m sorry for showing up. I just… I need to say this in person. Then I’ll leave if you want me to.”
He studied you, then stepped aside.
You walked in, but you didn’t sit. You didn’t want to get comfortable. You didn’t deserve comfortable yet.
Aaron closed the door and faced you.
You took a breath.
“I was wrong.”
His expression shifted slightly.
You kept going before you lost courage. “Not for being scared. I think fear is something we should be able to talk about. But I was wrong for making my fear the only thing that mattered. I was wrong for acting like your needs were pressure. I was wrong for saying marriage would make me feel trapped, because you have never trapped me. You’ve only loved me.”
His jaw tightened, but this time it looked like emotion, not anger.
You swallowed hard. “And I hurt you. I saw it when I said it, and I still didn’t stop to fix it because I was too busy defending myself.”
Aaron looked down for a second.
You blinked back tears. “I’m sorry.”
The room was quiet.
You forced yourself not to rush into more words just because the silence made you uncomfortable.
Finally, he said, “Why are you scared?”
You exhaled shakily.
“Because marriage feels like something I could fail at,” you admitted. “And I know that sounds selfish, but it’s true. I’m scared that if we get married, you’ll see all the parts of me that are hard to love and eventually regret choosing me. I’m scared that I’ll lose myself. I’m scared that I’ll become responsible for your happiness and disappoint you. And instead of saying that, I acted like you were asking too much.”
Aaron’s face softened, but he still didn’t move closer.
“And what do you want?” he asked.
You nodded slowly, accepting the question for what it was.
“I want you,” you said. “I want a future with you. I want marriage with you someday. Not because I’m being cornered into saying it, but because when I actually stop running from the fear, I know you’re the person I want. I’m not ready to plan a wedding tomorrow. But I’m ready to stop acting like talking about marriage is a threat. I’m ready to grow up in this relationship, Aaron. For real this time.”
His eyes searched yours.
“You mean that?”
“Yes.”
“Because I can’t keep doing this push-and-pull.”
“I know.”
“I can’t be the only one thinking about us long-term.”
“You won’t be.”
He let out a breath, and you could see the fight in him. The part that wanted to believe you, and the part that was tired of being hurt.
“I love you,” he said quietly. “But last night hurt.”
Your lips trembled. “I know.”
“I need you to understand that I’m not just asking for a title. I’m asking if you’re willing to build with me. Even when it scares you. Even when it requires you to think beyond what feels safe for you.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
You nodded, tears slipping again. “Yes. And I know I’ve been selfish.”
Aaron’s face changed at that.
You wiped your cheeks quickly. “I kept thinking about what marriage would ask from me. I didn’t think enough about what waiting in uncertainty was asking from you. I’m sorry.”
For a second, he just looked at you.
Then his shoulders dropped slightly, like some of the tension had finally left his body.
“Come here,” he said quietly.
You nearly broke.
You walked into his arms, and the second he wrapped them around you, you cried harder. But you remembered what your friend said. You couldn’t make him responsible for your guilt. So you pulled back enough to look at him.
“I’m not crying so you’ll make me feel better.”
His mouth twitched faintly despite everything. “Okay.”
“I mean it. I just love you, and I hate that I hurt you.”
His hand came up to your face, thumb brushing gently under your eye. “I hate it too.”
That made you laugh through the tears, watery and small.
He smiled a little, then leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours.
“We have to do better,” he said.
“I know.”
“Both of us.”
You nodded. “Both of us.”
He held you for a long time after that, and it wasn’t a perfect fix. It wasn’t a movie ending where one apology erased the damage. The hurt was still there, but so was the love. And for the first time, you didn’t treat the hard part like a sign to run. You stood in it with him.
A few weeks later, you started couples counseling.
It was your idea.
Aaron looked surprised when you brought it up over breakfast.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
He studied you. “You sure?”
“I’m sure. I don’t want to just say I’m working on it. I want to actually work on it.”
His face softened in that way that always made your chest feel too full.
“I appreciate that.”
“I know I still have stuff to unpack,” you said, pushing your eggs around your plate. “I don’t want to bring fear into every big decision we make.”
Aaron reached across the table and took your hand. “We’ll figure it out.”
There it was again.
We.
But this time, you understood that we was not just something comforting to hear. It was something you had to participate in. It meant showing up when it was uncomfortable. It meant listening when Aaron said he needed more. It meant not treating compromise like a loss.
Months passed.
You talked more honestly than you ever had. Sometimes it was messy. Sometimes you cried. Sometimes Aaron had to admit that he kept things in too long because he was afraid of overwhelming you. Sometimes you had to admit that you used independence as armor, acting like needing time meant you didn’t need reassurance, commitment, or help.
But you changed.
Not overnight.
But slowly, intentionally, in ways Aaron could feel.
You started bringing up the future without him having to be the one to do it. You talked about where you might live one day. What kind of family traditions you wanted. How you both wanted to handle money, holidays, careers, children, pressure, faith, rest. You started asking him what marriage looked like in his heart, not just what it triggered in your fear.
One night, almost six months after the argument, you and Aaron were lying on the couch together, your head on his chest, his hand moving slowly over your back. A movie played quietly in the background, ignored by both of you.
“Aaron?”
“Yeah?”
You took a breath. “I’m ready.”
His hand stilled.
You lifted your head to look at him. “Not in a ‘propose tomorrow or else’ way. I just mean… I’m not scared of seeing it anymore. I want that with you. I want to be your wife someday.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything.
Then he sat up slowly, taking you with him.
“Say that again,” he said.
Your eyes softened. “I want to be your wife someday.”
The emotion that moved across his face nearly took you out. Relief, love, disbelief, all of it. He cupped your face in both hands and kissed you deeply, the kind of kiss that felt like an exhale after holding your breath for too long.
When he pulled back, his eyes were damp.
“You know I already knew,” he said, voice rough.
You laughed softly. “You did not.”
“I hoped.”
You touched his face. “Thank you for waiting for me.”
He shook his head. “Thank you for not making me wait alone anymore.”
That was the difference.
You weren’t suddenly fearless. You weren’t magically perfect. But you were present. You were choosing him with your words, your actions, your plans, and your growth.
And when Aaron eventually proposed months later, it wasn’t because he had finally convinced you.
It was because you had finally met him there.
He proposed at home, because he knew you better than anyone. No cameras. No crowd. No massive spectacle. Just the two of you in the living room, candles lit, your favorite song playing softly, and him standing there with tears in his eyes before he even pulled out the ring.
You knew before he spoke.
Your hands flew to your mouth.
“Aaron…”
He laughed softly, already emotional. “Just let me get through it.”
You nodded, crying.
He got down on one knee, and the sight of him there, so strong and so soft, almost made your knees give out.
“I’ve loved you through easy days and hard ones,” he said. “I’ve loved you when we were laughing, when we were learning, when we were getting it wrong, and when we were trying again. I don’t need perfect. I don’t need fearless. I just need you beside me, choosing me the way I choose you.”
You sobbed.
He smiled through his own tears.
“So,” he said, opening the box, “will you marry me?”
This time, there was no fear loud enough to drown out the truth.
You nodded, laughing and crying all at once. “Yes.”
Aaron’s face broke open with joy.
“Yes?”
“Yes,” you said again. “Of course, yes.”
He slid the ring onto your finger with shaking hands, then stood and pulled you into him, lifting you off the ground as you laughed into his neck. He held you like he had been waiting years to breathe this way.
And maybe he had.
Later, when the two of you sat on the floor together, your hand in his, the ring catching the candlelight, you rested your head on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry it took me so long,” you whispered.
Aaron kissed your temple. “You got here.”
“You waited.”
“You worked.”
You looked up at him.
He smiled softly. “That matters.”
And you knew he was right.
Love had not demanded that you be ready before you were. But it had asked you to be honest. To be brave. To stop confusing fear with freedom. To stop treating commitment like a cage when, in Aaron’s hands, it had always been a home being built brick by brick.
You looked at the ring, then at him.
Your fiancé.
Your best friend.
The man who had loved you enough to wait, but respected himself enough to ask for more.
You leaned in and kissed him softly.
“I choose you,” you whispered.
Aaron’s arms tightened around you.
“I know,” he said. “I can feel it now.”
And that was how you knew the two of you would be okay.
Not because love never got hard.
But because this time, when it did, you stayed.
