YOU KNOW YOU SHOULDN'T BE WATCHING HER THIS HARD. It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic. But there’s just something about the way she’s standing—too close, too smiley, all teeth and hair flips—that makes your blood itch.
Ryan’s leaning against the hood of his car, cigarette between two fingers, looking like he’s doing the world’s worst impression of James Dean if he had a scruffy beard and messy, dirty blonde hair. And she’s just there, soaking it in like he’s on display.
You’re sitting on the porch steps, pretending to scroll through your flip phone like you’ve got something better to do than burn holes through this chick’s skull. Spoiler: you don’t.
She laughs at something Ryan says. It’s high-pitched, the kind of laugh that makes you want to grind your teeth down to dust. Ryan smirks. Not his “I’m gonna sleep with you” smirk—at least you don’t think so. More like his “I’m saying stupid shit just to get a reaction” smirk. But still. Your stomach knots.
You know Ryan. You’ve known him long enough to recognise when he’s just screwing around versus when he’s actually interested. This is supposed to be one of those moments where you feel secure, right? Where you smugly sip your beer and think, Ha, that poor girl doesn’t stand a chance, he’s all mine. But instead you’re watching her fingers brush his sleeve like she’s testing fabric, and your insides do that ugly, twisty thing.
He doesn’t move away.
Your phone flips shut with a snap louder than you meant. Ryan glances over, cigarette halfway to his lips, eyebrows lifting like he can feel the heat of your glare all the way from the car. The girl follows his gaze and looks at you too—head tilt, polite smile, like oh, you must be the girlfriend.
No shit.
Ryan says something low to her and then pushes off the car, walking toward you. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t look guilty, doesn’t act like anything is wrong. Which, somehow, makes it worse.
“Hey,” he says, flicking ash onto the driveway. “What’s with the murder eyes?”
You blink up at him, deliberately slow. “What’s with the audition for Bachelor: White Trash Edition?”
He laughs, a quick bark that makes your chest both warm and irritated. “What the fuck does that even mean?”
“It means,” you say, standing because sitting feels too submissive, “that you looked real cozy with Blondie over there.”
Ryan turns, glances back at her. She’s fiddling with her keys, pretending she’s not listening. When he looks at you again, his smirk is full-blown. “You jealous?”
“No.” Too fast. Too sharp.
His grin widens. “You are.”
“I’m not,” you insist, lying, crossing your arms.
He takes a drag off his cigarette, exhaling slow. “Babe, she was asking about Bam’s party this weekend. That’s it.”
“Oh, sure,” you say, voice dripping. “Because asking about a party requires leaning in like she’s trying to smell your aftershave.”
“Do I even wear aftershave?” he asks, brows knitting, genuinely puzzled.
“That’s not the point.”
Ryan chuckles and flicks the cigarette butt into the street. “You’re hot when you’re pissed.”
You roll your eyes so hard it actually hurts. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not,” he says, suddenly softer. His hand brushes your arm, tentative, testing the waters. “Come on. You know I don’t give a shit about her.”
You want to believe him. You really do. And honestly? You probably should—Ryan’s many things: reckless, juvenile, occasionally an asshole, but he’s never made you feel disposable. Still, the image of her fingers on his tattooed sleeve is carved into your brain like graffiti you can’t scrub off.
“Then maybe act like it,” you mutter.
He exhales, long and slow, running a hand through his messy hair. “Jesus. You’re really gonna stew on this all night, aren’t you?”
“Depends,” you shoot back. “You planning on giving me another reason to?”
There’s a beat where neither of you talk, where the air feels heavy and awkward, and then Ryan does what Ryan always does: he deflects with humor.
He grins, leaning closer. “Want me to go tell her I’m wildly in love with my crazy, jealous girlfriend?”
You glare, but the corner of your mouth betrays you, twitching upward. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low, “but I’m your idiot.”
It should make you melt. It almost does. But the knot in your chest hasn’t unraveled yet, not completely. You shove your hands into your pockets and look away, muttering, “Don’t push it.”
Ryan tilts his head, studying you. There’s a flicker—serious, searching—before he breaks it with another grin. “Fine. But you’re still hot when you’re mad.”
You flip him off, but your stomach is buzzing.
The night drags on in that weird limbo—half banter, half tension. You both end up at Bam’s place anyway, surrounded by too much noise and too much beer. The same girl’s there too, which does wonders for your mood.
Ryan sticks close, though. His hand stays on the small of your back, his shoulder brushing yours, his laugh aimed in your direction. He’s not oblivious. He knows you’re wound tight.
At one point, you catch her looking again—quick, sharp, calculating. And yeah, maybe you imagine shoving her face-first into the beer pong table. Just a little.
Ryan notices. He leans down, his breath warm against your ear. “If looks could kill, babe, you’d be serving life by now.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, but you don’t move when his arm slides around your waist, pulling you tighter against him.
You hate that it helps, and you hate that he knows it.
-
By the time the night is halfway over, you’re simmering. It’s not like Ryan has done anything specific, not like he’s disappeared into a corner with her or ignored you. He’s been by your side most of the time, cracking jokes, stealing sips of your drink, brushing his fingers across your lower back like he owns the spot.
But it’s the way she hovers. The way she laughs extra loud when he says something dumb, the way she tosses her hair every time he glances her way. Like she’s waiting for a signal.
You try to ignore it, play it cool, but then you catch her leaning in again while Ryan’s lighting a cigarette outside, and that’s it. Something inside you just breaks.
You storm out onto the porch, heels clicking hard on the wood, and Ryan looks up mid-drag. He frowns, squinting through the smoke.
“What now?” he asks, voice half amusement, half exasperation.
You stop in front of him, arms crossed. “You seriously don’t see it?”
“See what?” He looks genuinely confused, which only pisses you off more.
“Her. All over you. It’s pathetic.”
Ryan exhales smoke through his nose, tilting his head like he’s studying you under a microscope. “You’re still on this?”
“Yeah, I’m still on this,” you snap. “Because she hasn’t stopped all night.”
“She’s drunk,” he says, as if that explains everything. “She’s hanging around everybody.”
“Not like that,” you shoot back. “Not with everybody. Just you.”
Ryan smirks, shaking his head. “So what, you think I’m entertaining her? You think I’m into it?”
Your chest tightens. The words come out before you can stop them.
“I know that if it was me and another guy—if some dude was hovering and laughing at every dumb joke I cracked—you’d act the same way I am.”
That shuts him up for a second. His grin slips, his eyes narrowing. You press on, heat rising in your voice.
“You’d lose your mind, Ryan. Don’t even try to deny it. You’d be throwing daggers across the room, and if he so much as touched me, you’d be out the door with your fists up. So don’t stand here and act like I’m crazy for being pissed when the shoe’s on the other foot.”
He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “It’s different.”
You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, right. Because you’re the one in the spotlight, you get a free pass?”
“No.” His voice cuts through yours, low and sudden. “Because I trust you.”
The words hang there like smoke. Hot, heavy. You swallow hard, trying to make your brain catch up with your mouth. Your pulse is a drum in your ears. You need a second — just one — to breathe, to stop your thoughts from running circles around each other.
Ryan takes a step toward you, the fight in his eyes dimming into something steadier. His voice drops, rough but quiet. “Babe. Look at me.”
You do, reluctantly, and he holds your gaze like he’s trying to nail you to the spot. “I don’t want her. I don’t want anyone else. You get that, right?”
You swallow, throat tight. “Then tell her to back the fuck off.”
He smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “What do you want me to do? Make an announcement? ‘Hey, everyone, this is my girlfriend, and if you so much as breathe in my direction, she’ll claw your eyes out.’”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not.” His tone sharpens. “I’m trying to figure out why you don’t trust me enough to let this shit roll off.”
That stings. Hard. You feel your face heat, anger and shame tangled up until you can’t separate them. “It’s not about trusting you,” you say. “It’s about respecting me. Do you get how it looks? Do you get how it feels to watch some chick paw at you while you just stand there like—like you don’t even notice?”
Ryan’s jaw tightens. He flicks the cigarette into the yard, grinding the butt under his shoe. “You think I like being accused of shit I didn’t do?”
“I’m not accusing you.”
“You kinda are.”
Silence drops between you, heavy as concrete. Inside, you can still hear Bam’s stereo blasting some awful nu-metal, people shouting, laughing, glasses clinking. Out here, it’s just the two of you and the quiet roar of your tempers colliding.
Ryan rakes a hand through his hair, pacing a couple steps before turning back to you. “You think I don’t notice her? Of course I fucking notice her. I notice every time she tries to slide in, every time she bats her lashes. You think I’m blind?”
Your stomach flips, cold and hot at once. “Then why not shut it down?”
“Because it’s not worth my time!” His voice rises, sharp enough to cut. “Because you’re the only one who matters. Why the fuck should I waste energy on some background noise when you’re standing right here?”
The words hit hard, rattling in your chest. You want to be satisfied with that, you want it to fix everything, but instead it leaves you raw, strung out.
“You make it sound so simple,” you say, voice low.
“It is simple,” he fires back. “You and me. That’s it. That's all that matters.”
You’re standing so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him, the frustration, the weight of all the things neither of you are saying out loud.
You should back down. You should breathe, nod, let it drop. But instead you hear yourself whisper, “Then prove it.”
Ryan’s eyes darken, narrowing. “Prove it?”
“Yeah.” Your heart’s racing, but you hold steady. “Make me believe you’re not just feeding me lines.”
His jaw works, muscles tight, and for a moment, you think he’s going to laugh it off. But he doesn’t. He leans down, close enough that you feel his breath on your mouth.
“You’re really pushing me tonight,” he says, voice gravel-low.
“Good,” you whisper back. “Push harder.”
The air between you hums, thick with something dangerous, something electric. Neither of you move, but you know the line’s about to snap.
Inside, the door creaks open and a couple of drunk voices spill out, breaking the spell. Ryan pulls back, cursing under his breath, and you’re left buzzing, furious, aching.
“We’re leaving,” he mutters, grabbing your hand.
You don’t argue.
The drive back to your shared place is silent, except for the rumble of the engine and the occasional squeal of tyres when he takes a corner too sharply. His grip on the wheel is tight, knuckles pale, jaw set. You sit with your arms folded, staring out the window, replaying every word, every look, until the tension is a living thing between you.
When you finally pull into his driveway, Ryan kills the engine but doesn’t move. He sits there breathing hard, like he’s trying to wrestle himself down from the edge.
You turn to him, your own pulse a hammer in your throat. “Say it.”
He looks at you, eyes wild. “Say what?”
“Say I’m the only one. Say it out loud.”
Something snaps in him then. He lunges, hand tangling in your hair, mouth crushing against yours in a kiss that’s more bite than anything else.
It’s messy, desperate, all teeth and heat. You gasp into it, clawing at his shirt, and he growls low in his chest like he’s been holding back all night.
When he finally pulls back, your lips are swollen, breath ragged. His forehead rests against yours, his voice rough. “You’re the only fucking one. Always.”
Your stomach twists, not with jealousy this time, but with something darker, hungrier.
And you know exactly how the night’s going to end.
-
The second the front door slams behind you, Ryan’s on you again. No hesitation this time, no holding back. His hands grip your hips like he’s staking a claim, dragging you against him hard enough that your breath stutters.
You kiss him back just as roughly, teeth clashing, lips bruising. All that jealousy, all that anger—it boils over into something hot and frantic. You push at his chest, not to get away but to provoke, and he groans against your mouth, shoving you backwards until your spine hits the wall.
“Still jealous?” he mutters against your lips, voice rough, almost mocking.
“Shut up,” you gasp, tugging at his shirt.
He chuckles darkly, catching your wrists and pinning them above your head against the drywall. “Nah. You started this. Gotta finish it.”
You writhe, frustrated, and his grin flashes sharp. He knows exactly what he’s doing—making you squirm, dragging it out, feeding on the heat he’s stoked all night.
“Say it,” he demands, pressing his thigh between yours.
“Say what?”
“That you’re mine.”
You glare at him, stubborn even as your hips roll against his leg. “Cocky bastard.”
His eyes darken, grip tightening around your wrists. “Wrong answer.”
He kisses you again, harder, teeth scraping your bottom lip until you gasp. The sound slips free before you can choke it down, and Ryan growls like it’s exactly what he wanted. His hands drop to your thighs, hauling you up so your legs wrap around his waist.
He carries you to the couch, dropping you onto it with a bounce that makes you yelp. He’s on top of you immediately, one hand braced by your head, the other sliding up under your shirt. His calloused palm drags across your skin, rough and hot, and you arch into it before you can stop yourself.
“See?” he mutters against your neck, sucking a mark into your skin. “Nobody else gets this. Nobody else gets you like this.”
You want to argue, to throw something sharp back at him, but then his fingers slip under your bra and your brain short-circuits. You moan instead, low and raw, and his smirk presses into your collarbone.
“Thought so.”
He peels your shirt off, tossing it aside without looking. His mouth latches onto your breast, sucking hard while his hand teases the other, and your back bows against the cushions. Your fingers dig into his hair, tugging, urging him on, and he groans like he loves the roughness.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs again, this time against your nipple, and the vibration makes you shiver.
“Ryan,” you whine, hips grinding up against him.
“Yeah, babe, I know,” he says, dragging his mouth down your stomach. “I’ve got you.”
He yanks your jeans open, shoving them down impatiently until they’re tangled around your ankles. You kick them off, not caring where they land, too focused on the way his hands are sliding up your thighs.
Ryan spreads you open with his thumbs, groaning when he sees how wet you are already. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, almost to himself. “All worked up over me, huh?”
You shoot him a look, trying to muster some dignity. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He grins, eyes wicked. “Too late.”
And then his mouth is on you, hot and hungry, tongue sliding through your slick folds like he’s starving. Your head snaps back against the couch, a cry ripping free as your fingers clutch at the cushions.
He eats you like it’s a challenge, like proving you’re his means devouring every single sound you make. His tongue flicks your clit in quick, relentless strokes, then plunges inside you, fucking you with his mouth until your thighs are trembling around his head.
You can’t keep your voice down—every moan, every gasp fills the room, and Ryan groans against you like he’s feeding on it. When you tug his hair hard enough to sting, he moans into your cunt, the vibration shooting straight through you.
“Fuck, Ryan—”
He pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, chin wet, eyes blazing. “You're mine forever.”
His statement makes you moan, and he smirks in return.
“Say what you are,"
The words are stuck in your throat, pride warring, but then he slides two fingers inside you, curling them perfectly, and the fight drains out of you in a broken moan.
“Say it,” he repeats, thrusting deep.
“I’m yours,” you gasp, arching up against his hand. “I’m yours, fuck—”
He grins like he’s won the lottery, then dives back in, tongue circling your clit as his fingers fuck you faster. The pressure builds sharp and hot, coiling in your gut until it snaps, and you come hard, shuddering under him, moaning his name like a prayer.
Ryan doesn’t stop until you’re whining, pushing at his head, too sensitive. He finally pulls back, licking his lips like he’s tasting victory.
“Mine,” he says again, smug.
You glare weakly. “Asshole.”
He laughs, low and dark, already unbuckling his belt. “You love it.”
Your breath catches when he frees himself, thick and hard in his hand. He strokes once, slow, then lines up at your entrance.
“Still jealous?” he asks, teasing.
“Shut the fuck up,” you snap, pulling him down to kiss you.
He thrusts into you in one deep, hard stroke, swallowing your cry with his mouth. The stretch is intense, overwhelming, but it feels so damn good you’re clinging to him instantly, nails digging into his back.
“God, you’re so tight,” he groans into your neck, driving in harder. “Like you’re made for me.”
Your answer is a moan, high and desperate, as your hips meet his. Every thrust is rough, almost punishing, the couch creaking under the force. His forehead presses to yours, sweat dripping, his eyes locked on you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.
“This,” he pants, punctuating each thrust. “This is how you know. Nobody—fucking nobody—gets this but me.”
You can barely breathe, let alone talk, but you manage a hoarse, “Then don’t stop.”
He laughs breathlessly, kissing you hard. “Not planning on it.”
His pace quickens, hips slamming into yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, chasing that edge again.
Ryan’s hand slips between you, rubbing your clit in rough circles that make you cry out. “Come for me again,” he demands, voice gravel. “Do it, babe. I wanna feel you.”
You don’t stand a chance. The orgasm rips through you sudden and violent, your body clenching around him so hard he curses, nearly losing it right there. He fucks you through it, relentless, until you’re sobbing his name, overstimulated but addicted.
His rhythm falters then, hips stuttering, breath ragged. “Fuck, I’m—shit—”
You grab his face, kiss him hard, and whisper, “Do it inside. I don’t care. Just—fuck—please.”
That’s all it takes. He groans your name, burying himself deep as he comes, hot and pulsing, filling you. His whole body shudders against yours, every muscle straining as he rides it out.
When it’s over, he collapses on top of you, both of you sweaty, breathless, wrecked.
For a long minute, the only sound is your breathing. Then Ryan lifts his head, eyes half-lidded, lips curved in a lazy grin.
“God… that was fucking great,” he murmurs, smirking. “Now I get why you’d be jealous.”
He’s teasing, but damn if you don’t know he means it—you’re trembling, spent, all pride gone, and he’s still grinning like a jerk.
You smack his shoulder weakly and laugh, "Don’t push it.”
He laughs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re mine. End of story. I love you forever,”
The elevator lurches hard enough that you nearly lose your footing.
You’re mid-sentence—something about travel schedules and a last-minute media request—when the floor jolts beneath you. The lights flicker, and your heel slips against the polished surface. Before you can fully tip forward, a solid arm wraps around your waist, steady and strong.
“Easy,” Vince says quietly.
Your hands land against his chest to catch yourself. Warm. Solid. You’re acutely aware of the way his jacket stretches over muscle, the way his fingers span almost entirely across your side.
Then the elevator goes still. Too still.
You both look toward the doors. But they don’t open. There’s a mechanical groan from somewhere above, and the overhead lights dim to a low, humming glow. The silence that follows feels louder than the jolt did.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you breathe.
Vince leans past you and presses the button for the lobby again. Nothing. He presses it harder, like that might intimidate the system into working. Still nothing.
“Seriously?” he mutters.
You’re hyperaware now—of the confined space, of how close he’s standing, of the faint scent of clean laundry and something woodsy clinging to him. The team hotel elevator was not built for this kind of tension.
He hits the emergency button. After a few seconds, a distant voice answers, calm and detached, informing you that maintenance is on the way.
“How long?” you ask.
“Hard to say,” the voice replies. “Shouldn’t be too long.”
Shouldn’t. The line clicks off.
You blow out a breath and lean back against the wall. “This is so on brand for my week.”
He glances at you, brow lifting slightly. “Yeah?”
“I handle every crisis for this team,” you say dryly. “Flight delays. Equipment mix-ups. Media chaos. And now I’m stuck in an elevator. With a defenseman.”
He snorts softly. “Wow. You make it sound like I’m the worst part of this.”
You glance at him. “I didn’t say that.” But you don’t elaborate.
Working for the team means you’re used to keeping a professional distance. You coordinate schedules, handle communications, smooth over issues before they become headlines. You do not develop feelings for players. Especially not players who look at you the way Vince does when he thinks you’re not paying attention.
The elevator feels smaller by the second. He shifts slightly, and your shoulders brush. Neither of you move away.
“Guess we sit?” he suggests.
You nod and slide down the wall to the floor, grateful for something to do. He follows, long legs stretching out in front of him. His knee ends up pressed against yours. It would be so easy to shift an inch to the side. You don’t.
The silence settles between you. Not awkward, exactly. Just charged.
You’re acutely aware of your perfume—something light and subtle you’d spritzed on that morning without thinking. You’re aware of how close he is, how the warmth of his body radiates in the small space.
He inhales slightly. You notice.
He hesitates, jaw tightening like he’s debating something. And then, softly—
“This might be a bad time to mention it, but i really like your perfume.”
For a second, you think you misheard him.
“My what?”
He huffs a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. The movement pulls his sleeve up slightly, revealing the strong line of his forearm. “Your perfume,” he repeats, a little sheepish now. “I noticed it earlier. In the hallway. And now we’re stuck in here and it’s kinda impossible not to notice.”
Heat floods your face.
“You’re unbelievable,” you murmur, staring straight ahead at the elevator doors. “We’re trapped between floors.”
“I know.”
“And that’s what you choose to say?”
He shrugs lightly, though there’s tension in his shoulders. “Didn’t exactly plan it.”
You risk a glance at him.
He’s not smirking. Not teasing. He looks almost… nervous.
“It smells really good,” he adds quietly. “On you.”
Your heart stutters.
This is dangerous territory. You work for the team. You know the policies. You know the unspoken rules. You know how complicated this could get.
“You’re making this weird,” you say, though your voice lacks conviction.
“I think it was already weird,” he replies gently.
You swallow.
He shifts slightly, turning toward you more fully. His knee presses more firmly against yours now, deliberate. His shoulder brushes yours again.
“You make it hard,” he says after a moment.
“To do my job?” you ask, trying for lightness.
He shakes his head faintly. “To pretend I don’t feel anything.”
The air leaves your lungs.
“Vince…”
“I know,” he says quickly. “You work for us. I get it. I’m not trying to make this complicated.” His voice lowers. “But I notice you. All the time. The way you run around fixing everything. The way you bite your lip when you’re stressed. The way you smell when you walk past me.”
Your pulse is racing now.
“You shouldn’t be noticing that,” you whisper.
“Probably not.”
The elevator hums softly, suspended in place. The world feels narrowed to this small metal box and the inches between you.
His hand shifts on the floor, brushing against yours. He stills, giving you the chance to pull away. You don’t. Your fingers remain there, barely touching. His thumb moves slightly, testing, then gently threads between your fingers. The contact is electric.
“We can pretend this never happened when those doors open,” he says quietly. “If that’s what you want.”
The thought makes your chest ache unexpectedly.
“And if it’s not?” you ask.
His eyes meet yours, steady and searching. “Then we figure it out.”
Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. You should pull away. You should remind him of the rules, of the risks. Instead, you squeeze his hand.
The elevator jolts suddenly, making you both tense. The lights brighten as the mechanism whirs back to life. The car begins to move again, slow and steady.
You don’t let go.
The doors slide open to the lobby, bright and normal and full of the world you’re supposed to exist in—professional, composed, careful.
For a split second, neither of you move. Then Vince stands, still holding your hand, and gently pulls you up with him. As you step out of the elevator together, his fingers brush yours one last time before releasing—subtle, fleeting, like a secret. But the look he gives you isn’t fleeting at all.
ok but like if there was a ninth mission impossible film it should be about Paris and her becoming an IMF agent - her first solo mission. Donloe and Jane should be her other team members then halfway through the film they realise they need a hacker. Paris opens a laptop and video calls Benji who is retired and in the middle of nowhere. he stays on the call for most of the movie, occasionally the connection cutting out then about halfway through, we just see Ethan walk through the frame, kiss Benji on the top of the head, wave to Paris and the gang and walk off again. this is never mentioned again.
