#kerberber

[kerberber]

Baby manning 13- arch manning

I’ve come to the conclusion that the boys aren’t doing well because I haven’t posted in a while. So I’m currently hiding in the bathroom in between innings so I can fix my bad luck. Miss you pookies

The drive from LSU's stadium to my dad's house feels normal.

Too normal.

The sun is starting to dip, turning everything gold and warm, and I'm tired in that heavy, seven-months-pregnant way where my back aches and my feet feel swollen inside sandals that fit fine this morning.

Arch keeps one hand draped lazily over the steering wheel, the other resting on my thigh like it belongs there. His thumb draws slow circles, absentminded.

"You survived," he teases gently.

I huff. "Barely."

"You only cried twice."

"Three times," I correct.

He grins. "I stopped counting after your dad kissed your head."

I look out the window, smiling to myself. "That was different, just feel relieved that he doesn't hate me."

"Yeah," he agrees quietly.

There's something settled in my chest now. Something that wasn't there this morning.

Peace, maybe.

We turn into my dad's neighborhood and I don't think anything of it at first. It's always busy during family weekend. People in town. Visitors everywhere.

But then I notice the cars.

Parked along both sides of the street.

SUVs.

Trucks.

I sit up straighter.

"Why are there so many cars?" I ask casually.

Arch shrugs. Too casually.

"No idea."

I narrow my eyes at him.

"Arch."

"What?" he says, fighting a smile.

We turn the corner onto my dad's street.

And that's when I see it.

Balloons.

Blue and white.

Clustered around the mailbox.

Tied along the porch railing.

A giant sign planted in the front yard.

Welcome to showering baby manning💙

My breath leaves my body in one shaky rush.

"Oh my God," I whisper.

Arch is already laughing softly as he pulls into the driveway.

I stare at the house like it might disappear.

"You did not," I breathe.

He parks the truck and turns it off, looking over at me with the most satisfied expression I've ever seen on his face.

"What did you do, Arch?" My voice cracks.

He shrugs slightly. "Just thought someone deserved to be celebrated."

Tears well instantly.

Of course they do.

I'm hormonal. Emotional. Already worn out from the day.

The truck door opens and he's around to my side before I can even wipe my eyes.

"Easy," he murmurs, helping me down carefully.

The second my feet hit the driveway, the front door flies open.

"Surprise!!!"

The sound hits me all at once.

Landry bursts out first, screaming and laughing.

Behind her is Ellen, hands clasped over her mouth.

Cooper steps out, grinning.

My mom is wiping at her eyes already.

My dad follows, pretending he's not smiling.

And then Maddie, Brooke, Tessa, cousins, aunts, family friends—both sides—flood the porch.

"Oh my God!" I gasp, covering my mouth.

I don't even think.

I waddle—because there's no other word for it at this point—straight to Landry and throw my arms around her.

She laughs, hugging me carefully around my shoulders.

"Don't hug me!" she squeals. "Arch planned it with Mom!"

I freeze mid-embrace.

"What?"

She pulls back dramatically and points behind me.

I turn slowly.

Arch is standing near the truck, hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels like he's nervous.

"Did you really do this for me?" I ask, tears already spilling.

He walks over, that soft smile still on his face.

"Of course I did, doll," he says, pulling me into him gently. "You deserve so much."

I bury my face into his chest and sob.

Actual sob.

"You're insane," I whisper into his shirt.

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to my hair. "You didn't think I was gonna let you not have a baby shower, did you?"

"I didn't even ask for one."

"Exactly."

More laughter erupts around us.

My mom is next to hug me.

"Do you like it?" she asks, her hands already cradling my cheeks.

"I love it," I choke out.

"You look beautiful," she whispers.

Inside the house, it's even more overwhelming.

Blue streamers draped across the ceilings.

Tiny football centerpieces on the tables.

Photos of me and Arch clipped onto twine along the walls—ultrasounds, bump pictures, candid shots of us laughing.

There's a giant banner that says:

Future Starting QB 💙

I laugh, shaking my head.

"That's Arch's idea," Ellen calls out from the kitchen.

"Guilty," Arch admits proudly.

People circle me.

Hands gently resting on my belly.

"Oh, he kicked!"

"He's going to be tall."

"He's already spoiled."

"Look at that bump!"

I'm glowing.

Actually glowing.

It doesn't feel like scandal.

Or pressure.

Or headlines.

It feels like love.

I move slowly through the house, thanking everyone, hugging cousins I haven't seen in months, letting aunts kiss my cheeks.

Then I see him.

My dad.

Standing near the kitchen island with a drink in his hand, watching everything quietly.

I don't hesitate.

I walk straight to him and wrap my arms around him.

"Thank you, Dad."

He laughs, hugging me carefully.

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters. "Your mom is the one who did this."

I pull back slightly, eyebrows raised.

"When she told me she reached out to him," he continues, nodding toward Arch, "I figured I had to fix my issues with Cooper."

My heart skips.

"You what?"

He sighs. "Called him. Told him we needed to act like adults."

I blink, stunned.

"You did that for me?"

"For you," he confirms. "And for him."

His hand rests gently on my belly.

"And for this little guy."

Emotion rises again, but softer this time.

"You don't hate him?" I ask quietly.

He shakes his head. "I don't hate him. I was scared. Big difference."

Across the room, I see Cooper and Arch talking.

Actually talking.

Not stiff.

Not forced.

Just normal.

Ellen is laughing at something Arch said.

It's surreal.

"He didn't snap at me earlier," Dad says thoughtfully. "I tried."

I laugh softly. "I know."

"He just stood there."

"That's what he does."

Dad hums, nodding slowly. "That's a good trait."

For Lane Kiffin, that's high praise. Even though he said the same things at the stadium. I love that he keeps saying it.

"You happy?" he asks me.

I look around the room.

Both families mixed together.

Arch laughing.

My mom smiling.

Landry yelling about cupcakes.

"Yes," I whisper. "I am."

He squeezes my shoulder. "Then I'm good."

Later, when everyone settles into opening gifts, Arch sits behind me on the couch, his arms wrapped loosely around my waist.

Every time I unwrap something tiny—little onesies, baby shoes, blankets—he leans forward and murmurs commentary.

"Okay that's cute."

"He's definitely wearing that."

"Mom, you bought how many outfits?"

When I open a tiny UT onesie and then an LSU one immediately after, the entire room erupts into playful argument.

"He's wearing LSU first," my dad declares.

"Absolutely not," Cooper counters.

Arch leans down to my ear. "We're buying him neutral colors."

I giggle.

At one point, I look back at him.

Really look at him.

He planned this.

With my mom.

Talked to my dad.

Fixed things with Cooper.

All without telling me.

Just so I could feel celebrated.

"You okay?" he whispers when he notices me staring.

I nod, blinking back tears.

"You did all this."

He shrugs like it's nothing. "You're carrying our son."

Like that explains everything.

Maybe it does.

When the party starts to wind down and the sun fully sets outside, people gather in little groups, laughing and talking.

I sit on the porch steps for a minute to get air.

Arch joins me, lowering himself carefully beside me.

"Tired?" he asks.

"Happy tired."

He nods.

Inside, I can hear my dad and Cooper talking.

Not tense.

Not defensive.

Just... talking.

"You did more than plan a shower today," I say quietly.

Arch looks at me.

"I just showed up," he says.

I lean my head on his shoulder.

"That's everything."

He kisses the side of my head gently.

Cars still line the street.

Laughter still fills the house.

And for the first time since that blurry photo went viral, since the rumors, since the pressure—

It doesn't feel like us against the world.

It feels like two families choosing to stand together.

Because of love.

Because of him.

Because of us.

[kerberber]

Baby manning 12- arch manning

The second we cross into Baton Rouge limits, my stomach flips.

Not the baby.

Me.

Seven months pregnant and back home.

Arch's hand rests on my thigh as he drives, thumb rubbing slow circles like he knows my brain is spiraling.

"You okay?" he asks for probably the tenth time since we left Austin.

"I don't know," I admit, staring out the window at familiar streets. "This feels different."

"It is different," he says simply.

Because I'm different.

Rounder. Slower. Carrying a Manning with a Kiffin temper already, if the way he kicks is any indication.

Landry and Knox had practically begged me to come home for the weekend.

Mom wanted to see me.

Dad had family weekend at the stadium.

And, to my complete shock, they'd told me to bring Arch.

I'd read that text three times before believing it.

Now here we are, pulling into the stadium lot just as the family day festivities are starting.

We barely make it in time.

Music's playing. Kids are running around on the field. Players are scattered everywhere with their families.

Arch hops out and immediately comes around to help me down.

Seven months pregnant is no joke.

My belly is big. Round. Undeniable. Stretching tight against the fitted dress I chose after changing four times because nothing feels right anymore.

"You good?" he murmurs as his hands steady my hips.

"I'm good," I say, adjusting the hem.

The second we step onto the field, I spot them.

Whit.

West.

Landry.

They're standing near midfield, already laughing about something.

Landry sees me first and shrieks.

"OH MY GOD."

She jogs over, stopping just short of tackling me because of the bump.

"Look at you," she breathes, hands hovering over my stomach. "You're huge."

"Thank you," I deadpan.

Arch laughs beside me.

Whit steps forward next, pulling me into a careful hug. "You look good, kid."

West gives me a nod, then looks at Arch. "Manning."

"Kiffin," Arch replies with a grin.

And somehow, it's not tense.

It's almost... normal.

The boys start talking football immediately, because of course they do. Arch fits in easily. Laughing. Shaking hands. Making some self-deprecating joke about throwing interceptions that gets Knox cackling.

I watch him from the side for a second.

He's comfortable.

Confident.

Like he's not intimidated at all.

Then I see them.

Across the field.

My mom and dad.

Standing near the sideline.

Dad's in a polo, sunglasses on like always. Mom's beside him, scanning the field like she's looking for me.

My heart starts racing.

"I'm gonna go say hi," I tell Landry quietly.

She squeezes my arm. "You'll be fine."

I look at Arch.

He follows my gaze and nods immediately. "Let's go."

We excuse ourselves from the group, walking side by side across the field.

Every step closer feels heavier.

Dad sees us first.

His jaw tightens.

Mom's face softens instantly.

"Oh my baby," she says the second we're close enough.

She doesn't hesitate.

She wraps me up in the biggest hug she can manage around my belly.

And I melt.

She hasn't seen me since before I was showing.

Now there's no hiding it.

She pulls back slowly, both hands coming to my stomach.

"Oh my God," she whispers, eyes glassy. "You're so far along."

"Seven months," I say softly.

She shakes her head like she can't believe it.

"My grandbaby," she murmurs.

Dad clears his throat.

And that's when the air shifts.

Arch steps forward slightly.

"Coach," he says respectfully.

Dad looks him up and down.

"You're taller in person," Dad says flatly.

Arch gives a polite smile. "Yes, sir."

There's a beat of silence.

Then Dad smirks slightly. "Still not sure you're any good at football."

I stiffen.

Arch doesn't.

He actually chuckles.

"I'm working on it," he replies.

Dad tilts his head. "Working on not getting my daughter pregnant too?"

"Dad," I snap immediately.

Mom shoots him a look. "Lane."

He shrugs like he's just making conversation.

"I'm just saying," he continues casually. "Not a great stat line so far."

My chest burns.

"Dad. Quit."

He glances at me.

"What?" he says innocently.

"You're being rude," Mom says firmly. "Stop."

Arch's hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm.

"I understand, sir," Arch says calmly. "I know this isn't how you pictured things."

Dad scoffs lightly. "That's one way to put it."

But he's not yelling.

He's not explosive.

Just... sharp.

Snarky.

Trying to get under Arch's skin.

"You know," Dad adds, crossing his arms, "Whit's been around a long time. Good kid. Focused."

There it is.

Comparison.

Arch nods. "He's a great player."

Dad studies him, almost like he's waiting for him to crack.

But Arch doesn't.

"I love your daughter," Arch says simply.

The words hang in the air.

Dad's jaw tightens.

"That doesn't mean much to me," he replies.

"It means everything to me," Arch says calmly.

I look up at him.

He's not defensive.

He's not angry.

He's steady.

Mom watches the exchange carefully.

"Lane," she says softly, "he's here. He showed up."

Dad exhales through his nose.

"And you think that makes it better?"

"I think it means something," Mom says.

Arch shifts slightly closer to me.

"I know I can't change how this started," he says. "But I can control what happens next."

Dad raises an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what's that?"

"I'm going to be there," Arch says firmly. "For her. For our son. Every day."

Dad's expression flickers—just for a second.

He wasn't expecting that.

"You're young," he mutters.

"I know," Arch replies.

"You're in the spotlight."

"I know."

"You're going to get drafted one day."

"That's the goal."

Dad studies him again.

"And you still think you can handle this?"

Arch doesn't hesitate.

"Yes, sir."

Silence stretches between them.

My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure they can hear it.

Then Dad looks at me.

"You okay?" he asks, softer than before.

I nod.

"I'm happy," I say quietly.

That seems to hit him harder than anything else.

Mom reaches for my hand again. "You look happy."

"I am."

Dad sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I still think you're not that good at football," he mutters at Arch.

Arch grins slightly. "I'll try to improve."

Despite myself, I laugh.

Mom shakes her head. "He's impossible."

Dad doesn't apologize.

But he doesn't push further either.

And when he finally mutters, "Well. Don't screw it up," it feels like the closest thing to acceptance we're getting today.

Arch nods seriously. "I won't."

As we walk away a few minutes later, Arch's arm slides around my shoulders.

"You good?" he whispers.

I nod.

"He didn't get to you?" I ask.

Arch shrugs lightly. "I expected worse."

I look back once.

Dad's watching us.

Not angry.

Just... thinking.

And for the first time since all of this started, I realize something.

Arch doesn't need to win him over with words.

He's going to win him over by staying.

——

Arch is a few feet away, laughing with a couple of the LSU guys like he belongs on the field.

And he does.

Even here.

Even in my world.

I'm watching him when I feel it.

That feeling.

I glance across the field and catch my dad staring at me.

Not at Arch.

At me.

He tilts his head slightly toward the far end zone.

Come here.

I swallow and tap Arch's arm. "I'll be right back."

He looks down at me immediately. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," I nod. "Just... dad."

His hand squeezes mine once before I step away.

I walk across the grass slowly, one hand instinctively cradling the underside of my belly.

Dad waits until I'm close, then throws his arm over my shoulders like he used to when I was little and scared of thunder.

We start walking.

Not toward anyone.

Just... walking.

For a minute he doesn't say anything.

The noise of the field hums around us—music, whistles, laughter—but it feels far away.

Finally, he exhales.

"I'm sorry, sis."

That alone makes my throat tighten.

"I just want what's best for you," he continues, voice quieter than I've heard it all day. "And sometimes I forget you're not twelve anymore."

I blink quickly.

"If you love him," he says, glancing toward where Arch is standing, "then I'm happy for you."

I stop walking.

He keeps going a step before realizing and turning back.

"I mean it."

"You don't act like it," I whisper.

He nods slowly. "I know."

There's no defensiveness now.

No sarcasm.

Just my dad.

"I apologized to Cooper," he says. "I didn't have to like how it happened. But that boy didn't ruin your life."

My chest cracks open at that.

"He didn't," I say.

Dad shakes his head lightly. "No. He didn't."

He looks out over the field.

"It's just hard," he admits. "Hard watching your baby girl grow up. Hard watching her carry a baby of her own."

The word baby makes my eyes sting.

"I know you don't like the spotlight," he continues. "And I wish I could change it. I wish I could protect you from that part."

He swallows.

"I miss you."

That's it.

That's what breaks me.

The tears spill before I can stop them.

Big, hot, embarrassing sobs that feel ten times heavier because pregnancy hormones are undefeated.

"Oh, come here," he murmurs immediately.

He pulls me into him carefully, arms wrapping around my shoulders and upper back so he doesn't press my stomach.

I cry into his chest like I'm sixteen again.

"I miss you too," I choke out. "I didn't want you to hate me."

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his hands coming up to cup my face.

"Hate you?" he repeats, horrified. "Sis. There is nothing you could ever do to make me hate you."

"You were so mad."

"I was scared," he corrects. "There's a difference."

I sniff, wiping at my cheeks.

"I didn't want you to think I messed up my life."

He shakes his head firmly. "You didn't mess up your life. You're building one."

That hits differently.

He leans down and presses a kiss to the top of my head.

"I'm sorry if I made you feel small," he says quietly. "That wasn't my job."

I nod, tears still falling even though I'm trying to stop.

"Blame the hormones," I mumble.

He actually laughs at that. "Oh, I am."

He wipes under my eyes with his thumbs.

"You're strong," he says. "Stronger than I gave you credit for."

"I'm scared sometimes," I admit.

"That's allowed."

He glances back toward Arch again.

"He didn't snap back at me."

"No," I say softly, giggling. "He won't."

Dad hums under his breath. "I tried."

"I know."

"He just kept standing there. With taht stupid face."

"That's what he does."

Dad nods once, slow.

"That's a good quality."

It's not a full stamp of approval.

But it's close.

"I forgive you," I whisper.

He squeezes me tighter. "Thank you."

We stand there for another minute, just holding onto each other while the noise of the field carries on around us.

When we finally pull apart, he rests his hand gently on my belly.

"How's my grandson?"

"Kicking like he's already mad at you," I tease.

Dad smirks. "Good. That's my blood."

I laugh through the leftover tears.

And when I look back toward Arch, he's watching us.

Not hovering.

Not interrupting.

Just waiting.

Dad follows my gaze.

"He loves you," he says quietly.

"I know."

He nods once.

"Alright," he says, clearing his throat and putting his arm around me again. "Let's go before your father starts crying too."

I lean into him as we walk back toward the crowd.

For the first time since we got here, my chest doesn't feel tight.

I feel lighter.

Still emotional.

Still pregnant.

Still overwhelmed.

But lighter.

And when Arch's hand finds mine again, I squeeze it, knowing something shifted today.

Not perfect.

But better.

[kerberber]

Baby manning 11- arch manning

Family weekend.

The words alone make my stomach twist.

UT has banners up everywhere, burnt orange flooding the stadium grounds like it's some kind of festival. Tents. Tables. Staff members smiling too hard. Moms in matching shirts. Dads with cameras around their necks.

And me.

Seven and a half months pregnant.

Very obviously pregnant at that. Like can't deny it.

Arch has been asking me all week.

"Please come," he'd said last night, kneeling in front of me on the couch like he was proposing all over again. "You are my family."

I'd laughed nervously. "Arch... your parents are going to be there."

"So?" he shrugged.

"So," I repeated. "Your dad and my dad basically just almost fist fought in New Orleans."

He'd rolled his eyes. "That's them. Not us."

I'd chewed on my bottom lip. "What if they hate me?"

His expression had changed instantly.

"They don't," he said firmly. "And if anyone says anything sideways to you, I promise you I'll handle it."

"I don't want you fighting with your family because of me."

He cupped my face in both hands. "Listen to me. You are carrying my son. Nobody gets to disrespect you. Not even blood."

The conviction in his voice had shaken something loose in me.

So now here I am.

Sitting in the passenger seat of his truck outside the stadium, staring at the entrance like it's a battlefield.

Arch kills the engine and turns toward me.

"You good?" he asks softly.

I look down at my belly. There's no hiding it anymore. My fitted dress stretches over the curve, round and proud. Baby boy shifts slightly, like he knows we're somewhere new.

"I'm scared," I admit quietly.

Arch reaches over and takes my hand, lacing our fingers together.

"Of what?"

"That they'll look at me and just see drama," I whisper. "Or a mistake."

His jaw tightens.

"They won't," he says. "And if they do, that's their problem. Not yours."

I nod slowly.

He gets out first and walks around to my side, opening my door like he always does. When I swing my legs out, he steadies me with both hands on my waist.

"I've got you," he murmurs.

The walk toward the stadium feels longer than it should. Every step, I'm hyper-aware of my body. Of the way my belly leads the way. Of the way people glance at us.

Some recognize him.

Some recognize me.

Some definitely recognize both.

Arch's hand stays at the small of my back.

As we round the corner near the entrance, I see them.

Cooper.

Ellen.

And Heid.

Arch already told me that May couldn't make it.

They're standing near one of the check-in tables, talking to someone in a UT polo.

My heart starts pounding.

"Too late to run?" I mutter under my breath.

Arch chuckles. "Yes ma'am."

Ellen sees us first.

Her face lights up instantly.

She doesn't hesitate. She walks straight toward us, arms already open.

"Y/n," she says warmly, like she's greeting someone she's known forever.

Before I can second guess it, she wraps me in a hug.

And not a polite one.

A real one.

Her hands settle gently on my back, careful of my stomach.

"You look beautiful," she says softly when she pulls back, eyes dropping to my belly with something that looks suspiciously like pride.

"Thank you," I say, my voice steadier than I expected.

She places a hand lightly on my bump. "And how's my grandson today?"

The word grandson makes my chest tighten.

"He's good," I smile. "Very active."

"Of course he is," she laughs. "He's a Manning."

Arch grins beside me.

Then Cooper steps forward.

This is the part I've been bracing for.

He looks at me for a second—really looks at me. Not scanning. Not judging.

Just... looking.

Then he opens his arms.

"Hi, Y/n," he says simply.

I step forward, and he hugs me too.

It's firm. Warm. Not forced.

"We're glad you're here," he adds when he pulls back.

I blink.

"You are?" I ask before I can stop myself.

He gives me a small smile. "Of course."

Heid steps in next, pulling me into a side hug. "I've been dying to see the bump in person," she says excitedly.

I laugh nervously. "It's definitely there."

We all stand there for a second, the tension I'd built up in my head slowly dissolving.

Arch squeezes my hip lightly.

"Told you," he whispers.

I elbow him gently.

As we walk into the stadium together, I make a conscious decision.

I'm not going to shrink.

I'm not going to act small.

This is my life too.

So I talk.

I ask Ellen about her garden. I ask Heid about school. I tell Cooper about my classes and how I'm finishing the semester online.

I'm myself.

Sweet. Talkative. A little sarcastic when Arch makes a joke.

At one point, Arch drifts off to talk to a teammate, and I'm left standing with his parents near the field.

"You feeling okay?" Ellen asks softly.

"I am," I nod. "Just a little overwhelmed."

"That's normal," she assures me.

Cooper clears his throat slightly.

"I owe you an apology," he says.

My eyes widen.

"For what?"

"For the way things have been handled publicly," he says carefully. "None of that is your fault."

I swallow.

"Thank you," I say quietly.

He nods once, like that's all he needs to say.

A few minutes later, Arch jogs back over, sliding an arm around my waist instinctively.

"You good?" he asks.

I look up at him.

And I realize I actually am.

"They've been sweet," I say honestly.

He smiles, relief flashing across his face.

Ellen looks between us and shakes her head lightly. "You two are ridiculous."

"Why?" Arch asks.

"Because you're both so dramatic," she laughs.

I laugh too.

For the first time since all of this started, I don't feel like an outsider.

I don't feel like a scandal.

I feel like... family.

Arch leans down slightly, pressing a soft kiss to my temple in front of everyone like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Arch pov

Dropping her off is harder than it should be.

Not because anything's wrong.

But because everything finally feels right.

I pull up in front of her house, my parents' rental car rolling in behind us. I can see them in my rearview mirror. Mom's silhouette in the passenger seat. Dad driving.

I shift the truck into park and glance over at Y/n.

She's glowing.

I don't even mean that in some cheesy way. She just is. Her hair's a little windblown from walking around the stadium. Her cheeks flushed. Her belly round and obvious beneath her dress.

My son.

I get out and walk around to her side, opening her door before she even reaches for the handle.

"I can do it, you know," she teases softly.

"I know," I grin. "But I don't want you to."

I hold my hand out, steadying her as she climbs down. She takes it without hesitation, fingers lacing through mine once she's standing.

I don't miss the way she looks at me.

It's not just affection.

It's trust.

It's... pride.

Like she's proud to be standing next to me.

That hits harder than anything.

I walk her up to her front door slowly, my hand resting at the small of her back.

"You survived," I murmur.

She laughs quietly. "They were nice."

"I told you."

She stops at her door and turns toward me, one hand sliding up to my chest.

"Thank you," she says softly.

"For what?"

"For not letting me hide."

I swallow.

I lean down and press a kiss to her forehead, then to the top of her head, letting my lips linger there for a second.

"I'll see you in the morning," I say.

"Text me when you get home."

"Yes, ma'am."

She rolls her eyes, smiling, then unlocks her door.

Before she goes inside, she looks back up at me one more time.

The way she looks at me—

Like I hung the moon.

It does something to me.

I wait until she's inside before walking back to my truck. I catch my parents watching from their car.

They definitely saw that.

When I get to the house I share with Michael, Colton, and Will, the place is louder than usual. Family weekend means parents everywhere. My roommates' families are inside, laughing, talking, eating whatever someone catered.

My parents follow me in a few seconds later.

Mom is smiling.

Dad is quieter.

They mingle for a bit, talking to the other parents, shaking hands, making small talk about practice and the season. I catch Mom mentioning Y/n at least twice.

"She's wonderful," I hear her say to someone.

I pretend not to notice, but I do.

After a while, I step outside to breathe.

The backyard is dim, lit by the porch light and the faint glow from inside. The old wooden swing creaks slightly in the corner.

Dad's already out there.

Sitting alone.

Hands clasped loosely between his knees.

I hesitate for half a second, then walk over and sit beside him.

The swing shifts under our weight.

For a minute, neither of us says anything.

Crickets in the distance. Faint laughter from inside.

Then he looks at me.

"She's a sweet little girl, Arch."

The words catch me off guard.

I glance at him. "Yeah."

He nods slowly. "She really is."

I don't say anything.

"I watched you drop her off," he continues. "The way you opened her door. Walked her to the house."

I feel my jaw tighten slightly, unsure where this is going.

"She looks at you," he says quietly, "like you are the best thing in her life."

My chest tightens.

"And that," he adds, "is not something you get to take lightly."

"I don't," I reply immediately.

He studies me for a second.

"I'm sorry," he says.

I blink. "For what?"

"For what I said months ago," he answers. "About her. About you. I let my pride and... history get in the way."

The word history hangs between us.

"She's not a mess," he continues. "She's not drama. She's a young woman who's about to be a mother. That's scary enough without grown men acting like idiots."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"I apologized to her earlier," he says. "Privately."

I look at him, surprised. "You did?"

He nods. "She was gracious about it. More than I deserved."

That sounds like her.

"I'm proud of you," he says then.

The words hit differently than anything else he's said tonight.

"For what?" I ask quietly.

"For standing up for her," he replies. "For not backing down. For stepping up."

I stare out at the yard for a second, trying to process that.

"I love her," I say simply.

He doesn't react dramatically.

He just nods.

"I can see that," he says.

The back door opens then, light spilling across the porch.

Mom steps out, closing it gently behind her.

"What are we talking about, boys?" she asks, walking toward us.

Dad glances at me before answering.

"Y/n," he says.

Mom's face lights up instantly. "Oh, I love her, Arch. She is the sweetest thing ever."

I can't help but smile.

"She kept asking if I needed water," Mom continues, laughing softly. "At my own son's event."

"That's her," I say.

"She has good manners," Dad adds quietly.

Mom sits on the other side of me on the swing, effectively boxing me in.

"And she's strong," she says. "I can tell."

"She is," I agree.

Mom looks down at my hands.

"You're happy," she observes.

I don't even hesitate.

"Yeah," I say. "I am."

Dad leans back slightly, the swing creaking again.

"Don't let her slip through your fingers," he says. "Girls who look at you like that? They don't come around twice."

"I won't," I say firmly.

Mom reaches over and squeezes my knee.

"We're lucky," she says softly. "That she's willing to be part of this family. That she trusts us."

I nod.

"I don't ever want her feeling like she has to prove herself," I add.

"She won't," Dad says. "Not from me."

That means more than he probably realizes.

We sit there for a few more minutes, just the three of us, the tension that used to exist between my dad and the idea of Y/n completely gone.

Replaced with something steadier.

Acceptance.

Expectation.

Hope.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Y/n: home safe?

I smile down at the screen.

Arch: yeah. miss you already.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Y/n: dramatic.

Arch: truthful.

I look up at my parents, both watching me with knowing expressions.

"What?" I ask.

Mom grins. "You're gone."

Dad chuckles under his breath. "Completely."

[kerberber]

Cowboy, baby 24- Colston Loveland

I don’t remember booking the flight.

I remember staring at my ceiling for two nights straight.

I remember checking my phone until the screen blurred.

I remember the silence.

That’s what finally did it.

Not anger.

Not pride.

Silence.

So now I’m standing in front of his apartment door in Michigan, my overnight bag dropped at my feet, heart beating so hard it feels like it might bruise my ribs.

The hallway smells like laundry detergent and something fried from a neighbor’s kitchen. My palms are sweating. My eyes are already burning because I’ve cried on the plane, in the Uber, in the elevator.

I knock.

For a second, I think maybe he won’t answer.

Maybe he won’t even be here.

But then I hear footsteps.

The lock turns.

The door opens.

And there he is.

Colston.

Sweatpants. Gray T-shirt. Hair messy like he’s been running his hands through it. His face is thinner than it was two days ago. Or maybe I’m just seeing him differently.

But what hits me hardest—

There’s no expression.

No shock.

No relief.

No anger.

Just… blank.

That’s what breaks me.

The tears spill immediately.

Before he can even say anything, I shove him backward into the apartment.

“You fucking left without telling me anything!” My voice cracks, raw and loud in the quiet room. “What a fucking coward, Colston! After you told me you wanted me to move here with you!”

He doesn’t fight me.

He just steps back, lets the door swing shut behind me.

And then—

He chuckles.

It’s not amused.

It’s hollow.

He walks past me and drops onto the couch like I’m the one who showed up uninvited and inconvenienced him.

“I was doing you and your parents a favor,” he says calmly.

The words hit like ice water.

“What?” I whisper, shaking.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

“You know what’s fucked up?” he continues. “Showing up to your house to take you to breakfast. Hearing your parents talk about me like that to you.”

My stomach drops.

“You were there?” I breathe.

He laughs again, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah. I was there.”

My mind flashes back to that morning. The kitchen. My dad’s sigh. Don’t give up your future for a boy who might not choose you in the end.

“Maybe they’re right,” Colston says quietly.

My heart stops.

“I shouldn’t be ruining your life,” he continues. “Wouldn’t want to take their perfect princess and ruin her anymore.”

“Stop,” I whisper.

“It was a mistake,” he says, voice hardening. “All of it. I shouldn’t have done anything the last couple months. I should’ve left you the fuck alone.”

The room spins.

“Colston,” I choke. “I didn’t say any of that. I stood up for you. That’s not fucking fair!”

He finally looks at me.

And my breath catches.

Because he’s crying.

Silent tears sliding down his face while he smiles like it doesn’t hurt.

“You didn’t have to say anything,” he says. “They said enough.”

My chest caves in.

“I ruined you before,” he goes on. “That’s all I’ll do again. I cheated on you in high school and that’s all they see. Even if it wasn’t my fault, they still only think that.”

“That was years ago,” I sob.

“Doesn’t matter,” he snaps, voice breaking. “I’ll make you move here, and then I’ll get busy. Football will take over. I’ll be gone all the time. You won’t know anyone. And they’ll be right.”

He shakes his head.

“They’re right.”

Something in me snaps.

I cross the room in two steps and climb onto his lap without asking, wrapping my arms around his neck so hard I almost knock the air out of him.

“Shut up,” I sob into his shoulder. “Just shut up.”

For a second, his hands stay in his lap.

Like he doesn’t think he deserves to touch me.

Then they lift.

Slowly.

Wrap around my waist.

And he breaks.

His whole body shakes.

I’ve seen him cry before.

But not like this.

Not like he’s trying to hold back years of guilt and fear and self-hatred and finally just can’t anymore.

“I don’t want to ruin you again,” he chokes.

“You didn’t ruin me,” I cry.

“I cheated—”

“And we were kids!” I pull back just enough to look at him. “You owned it. You grew up. I forgave you. My parents don’t get to decide who you are forever.”

He looks wrecked.

Completely wrecked.

“They don’t trust me,” he whispers.

“That’s their issue,” I say fiercely. “Not ours.”

He shakes his head.

“They’re right about one thing,” he says hoarsely. “You don’t know anyone here. You shouldn’t give up your life to move here. We can do long distance. Finish school back home. When you graduate, find a job wherever I get drafted.”

I cut him off immediately.

“You don’t get to choose things for my life.”

He flinches.

“I hate how everyone is trying to choose things for me,” I continue, tears still falling. “My parents. You. Everyone.”

He swallows hard.

“Would you leave me if I move here?” I ask, voice trembling. “Would you abandon me here?”

His lip quivers instantly.

“Absolutely not,” he says without hesitation. “You know that.”

“Then stop chasing decisions for me!” I cry. “I’m an adult. I can make those choices.”

His hands tighten around me.

“I was trying to protect you,” he whispers.

“From what?” I whisper back. “Loving you?”

He squeezes his eyes shut.

“I heard your dad say I might not choose you,” he says brokenly. “And it got in my head.”

My chest softens.

“Colston,” I breathe. “You leaving without telling me—that’s what made it feel like he was right.”

He winces like I slapped him.

“I didn’t want to see you cry,” he admits. “I didn’t trust myself not to stay.”

“You don’t get to decide that alone,” I say.

He nods weakly.

“I’m scared,” he whispers.

“I know,” I say, pressing my forehead to his.

“I don’t want to fail you.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

He studies my face like he’s searching for doubt.

There isn’t any.

“I’m not moving here blindly,” I say softly. “I’m going to look at programs. Talk to advisors. Make sure it makes sense for me.”

He nods.

“But don’t you ever leave me like that again,” I whisper.

“I won’t,” he says immediately.

We sit there, tangled together, crying until there’s nothing left to cry.

My body feels wrung out.

Exhausted.

Every breath comes in little gasps.

He keeps kissing the top of my head. Over and over. Like he’s trying to make up for disappearing.

“I love you,” he whispers into my hair.

“I love you,” I mumble back, barely able to keep my eyes open.

The adrenaline fades.

The fight drains out of me.

My head drops against his chest.

His heartbeat is steady under my ear.

My hands are still fisted in his shirt, like I’m afraid he’ll vanish again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs.

My body jerks slightly with that post-crying gasp, that shaky inhale that won’t quite smooth out.

He rubs my back slowly.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

“Sleep,” he whispers.

I don’t mean to.

But I do.

Right there.

Straddling his lap.

Arms around him.

Face pressed into his chest.

Still hiccuping soft little breaths from crying so hard.

The last thing I feel before everything fades is him pressing another kiss into my hair and tightening his arms around me like he’s holding onto something he almost lost.

[kerberber]

Cowboy, baby 23- Colston Loveland

Baby I’m so sorry. I just needed a little chaos to humble me this week. I’ll fix it tmr😛

The kitchen smells like coffee and toast.

It's painfully normal.

Sunlight pours in through the window over the sink, catching the dust in the air and turning it gold. My mom is standing at the stove, flipping eggs like she's done every morning for the past twenty years. My dad's at the table with the paper open, glasses low on his nose.

It feels like any other morning.

Except it isn't.

I barely slept.

Not because I'm upset anymore—but because my brain won't shut off. Because every time I close my eyes, I see the lake. I hear Colston's voice cracking. I feel his hands steady on my waist as we rode back.

And underneath all of it is this quiet, fragile thread of hope.

I sit at the table and wrap my hands around my coffee mug, trying to gather the courage to say it out loud.

My mom sets a plate down in front of me. "You've got class at nine, right?"

"Yeah," I say absently.

My dad folds a section of the paper down. "You're quiet."

I hesitate.

Now or never.

"Colston talked to his coach," I say, trying to sound casual even though my heart is pounding.

My mom pauses mid-step.

My dad lowers the paper completely.

"And?" he asks.

I take a breath.

"He said Coach would sign me on as a student sports med tech if I wanted. He'd talk to whoever he had to. Help me transfer to Michigan. Continue school there."

The words hang in the air.

I expect excitement.

At least curiosity.

Instead, my mom's mouth presses into a thin line.

My dad leans back in his chair slowly.

Neither of them smiles.

My stomach dips.

"It's just an option," I add quickly. "Nothing's decided. I just thought—"

My dad sighs.

It's not a small sigh.

It's heavy.

"Don't give up your future for a boy who might not choose you in the end."

The sentence hits like a slap.

I blink at him. "What?"

My mom sets the spatula down and turns around fully now, arms crossing over her chest.

"Your father's right," she says gently, but not gently enough.

I stare between them.

"Choose me in the end?" I repeat. "What does that even mean?"

My dad rubs a hand over his jaw. "It means football is unpredictable. Careers are unpredictable. Feelings are unpredictable."

"So I shouldn't even consider it?" I ask, disbelief creeping into my voice.

"We're saying," my mom steps in, "that transferring schools for a relationship is a massive decision."

"It wouldn't just be for him," I argue. "It's still school. It's still my degree."

"In a different state," my dad counters. "Away from your support system. For a program you haven't researched beyond what his coach promised."

I feel heat rising up my neck.

"You don't even know the details," I say. "You're shutting it down before I've explained anything."

My dad's voice stays calm. Too calm. "Because I've seen this before."

"That's not fair," I snap.

He leans forward slightly. "What happens if he gets drafted next year? Or transfers again? Or decides football has to be his entire focus and there's no room for you?"

"He wouldn't—"

"You don't know that," my mom cuts in softly.

The fact that she agrees with him stings worse.

"I'm not asking to follow him blindly," I say, my voice shaking now. "I'm saying it's an opportunity. One that could be good for both of us."

"And if it isn't?" my dad presses.

I push my chair back slightly, frustration bubbling over.

"Why are you acting like he's some random guy I met two weeks ago?" I demand. "You've known him since we were teenagers."

"Yes," my dad says. "And I also watched how devastated you were when he left."

That shuts me up for half a second.

My mom's expression softens, but it doesn't change. "You barely ate for weeks," she says quietly. "You cried in this kitchen more times than I can count."

"That was years ago," I say.

"And what makes this different?" my dad asks.

"Because we're not kids anymore!" I shoot back. "We actually talk about things now. We're trying to figure it out instead of pretending it doesn't hurt."

My dad shakes his head slowly. "You're still twenty-two."

"And?"

"And that means you don't build your life around someone else's dream."

"I'm not building my life around him!" I insist. "I'd still be studying. Still working toward something in sports medicine."

"In Michigan," my mom repeats.

"Yes. In Michigan."

Silence stretches across the table.

I can feel my pulse in my ears.

My dad's voice softens slightly, but his words don't. "You need to ask yourself something."

I cross my arms defensively. "What?"

"If he wasn't there, would Michigan even be on your radar?"

The question lands heavy.

I hesitate.

"...No," I admit.

"Then that's your answer," he says.

"No, it's not," I argue immediately. "That's not how life works. Opportunities come from people. Connections matter."

"Connections fade," my mom says quietly.

I look at her sharply. "You really think he's just going to wake up one day and decide I'm not worth it?"

"I think," she says carefully, "that football has been his priority since he was fifteen."

"And I'm not asking him to change that!"

"But you are considering changing yours," my dad says.

The words sink in.

I hate that they sound reasonable.

"I wouldn't be giving up anything," I say, though my confidence wavers slightly. "I'd just be continuing somewhere else."

"Where you know no one," my mom says.

"I'd know him."

My dad sighs again, quieter this time. "That's exactly what worries me."

I stare at him.

"You're smart," he continues. "Capable. Independent. Don't tie your future to someone whose path could change overnight."

"And what?" I demand. "I'm supposed to just stay here forever because it's safe? Stay here and take care of cows for the rest of my fucking life?"

"No," he says firmly. "You're supposed to choose something because it's right for you. Not because you're afraid of losing someone."

The word afraid makes my chest tighten.

"I'm not afraid," I say automatically.

They both just look at me.

And that silence says more than anything else.

I stand up abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor.

"You don't trust him," I say.

"That's not it," my mom says gently.

"It feels like it."

My dad shakes his head. "We don't trust the situation."

I grab my plate and carry it to the sink, even though I've barely eaten.

"You always told me to take risks," I say, my back to them. "To go after what I want."

"Yes," my dad agrees. "But not at the expense of yourself."

I turn around, tears threatening now.

"What if he's not the expense?" I ask quietly. "What if he's part of the future?"

Neither of them answers right away.

And that silence feels louder than any argument.

Finally, my mom steps closer. "We just don't want you to shrink your world for someone else's."

I swallow hard.

"I wouldn't be shrinking," I say, softer now. "I'd be expanding."

My dad's expression softens a fraction. "Then prove that," he says. "Research it. Look into the program. Talk to advisors. Make sure it stands on its own without him attached."

I hesitate.

"And if it does?" I ask.

"Then we'll talk," he says.

It's not approval.

But it's not a no either.

Still, the damage lingers.

I glance at the clock on the stove.

8:52.

"I have class," I say quietly.

I walk out of the kitchen before they can respond.

Up the stairs.

Into my room.

Closing the door softly behind me.

——-

The drive to the barn feels normal.

Too normal.

I've got the windows cracked, music playing low, gravel popping under my tires as I pull in. My stomach's been tight all morning after the conversation with my parents, but I keep telling myself I'll talk to him about it later.

We didn't set a time.

We didn't make plans.

But we didn't need to.

At least... I didn't think we did.

Chad's truck is parked crooked like always. Cayden's leaning against the fence, boot propped up, scrolling on his phone.

I park and climb out, slamming the door harder than I mean to.

"Hey," Chad calls.

"Hey," I reply automatically, scanning the yard. His truck isn't here.

That's fine.

Maybe he rode out early.

"Where's Colston?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

Chad and Cayden exchange a look.

It's subtle.

But I catch it.

My stomach drops.

"What?" I ask slowly.

Chad rubs the back of his neck. "You didn't know?"

Know what.

The words won't come out.

"Know what?" I force.

Cayden shifts his weight. "He left this morning."

The world tilts.

"Left?" I repeat.

"For Michigan," Chad says. "Spring training started early. He headed out around 9:30."

9:30

It's almost noon.

The air feels like it's been sucked out of my lungs.

"He—" I swallow. "He didn't say anything."

Chad's brows knit together. "We figured he talked to you."

I stare at him.

The sound of horses shifting in their stalls feels impossibly loud.

"No," I say, barely above a whisper.

Cayden pushes off the fence. "Y/n..."

But I'm already stepping backward.

He left.

He left without telling me.

After the lake.

After everything he said.

After promising to fight for us.

"He had to get on the road," Chad says quickly, like he's trying to patch something. "It was last minute. Coach moved things up."

Last minute.

Last minute doesn't mean you disappear.

Last minute doesn't mean you don't call.

My heart starts pounding so hard I feel it in my throat.

"Did he say—" My voice cracks. I clear it. "Did he say anything?"

Chad hesitates.

And that hesitation is worse than any answer.

"He just said he'd call," he says finally.

Call who.

Me?

Or just... call.

I nod stiffly.

"Okay."

The word tastes like ash.

I turn around before they can see my face crumble.

I don't even make it back into the barn. I get in my truck so fast I barely remember opening the door.

My hands are shaking.

I grab my phone.

Nothing.

No missed calls.

No texts.

No "I'm sorry."

Just silence.

The first tear falls before I even hit his name in my contacts.

He doesn't pick up.

It goes straight to ringing.

Each tone feels like a punch.

"Come on," I whisper. "Come on, Colst."

Voicemail.

I hang up immediately and call again.

And again.

And again.

Still nothing.

By the fourth time, I can't breathe properly.

I press my forehead against the steering wheel and let the sob rip out of me.

It's ugly.

Loud.

It feels like something tearing straight down the middle of my chest.

He left.

He left without saying goodbye.

Without looking at me.

Without giving me a chance to understand.

My brain scrambles for explanations.

Maybe he didn't want to make it harder.

Maybe he thought it would hurt less.

Maybe—

Or maybe he decided it was easier this way.

That thought shatters me completely.

I call again.

Straight to voicemail this time.

My hands shake so badly I almost drop the phone.

"Why would you do this?" I cry into the empty truck. "Why wouldn't you tell me?"

Images flash through my mind like cruel little memories.

His voice at the lake.

"I'm very serious about you."

"I'd give it up."

"I love you."

The way he held me on the horse.

The way he said we wouldn't waste time worrying about the time we didn't have.

Was that the goodbye?

Was that him knowing he was leaving?

Fresh sobs rack through me.

I try texting.

Did you leave?

Why didn't you tell me?

Please call me.

The messages send.

No response.

I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles ache.

I feel stupid.

Blindsided.

Embarrassed.

Like everyone knew except me.

Like I was the only one standing there believing we were building something steady.

Maybe this is what my parents meant.

The thought makes me cry harder.

I rest my head against the seat and stare at the barn through blurred vision.

Everything looks the same.

The fences.

The dust.

The open doors.

But it feels different now.

Empty.

He didn't even say goodbye.

Not a hug.

Not a kiss on my forehead.

Not a "I'll see you soon."

Just gone.

My phone buzzes suddenly in my hand and my heart leaps into my throat.

But it's not him.

It's a spam notification.

I let out a broken sound that's half laugh, half sob.

I call one more time.

It rings longer this time.

Hope spikes painfully in my chest.

Then voicemail again.

I can't do it anymore.

I drop the phone into my lap and curl forward, arms wrapping around myself like I'm trying to hold the pieces in.

It physically hurts.

Like someone reached inside and ripped something out without warning.

Two days ago we were fighting because I was scared of him leaving.

Yesterday we were promising to choose each other.

And today—

He left anyway.

Without me.

Without a word.

I whisper his name once, broken and small in the quiet truck.

And then I cry until I can't see straight.

[kerberber]

Baby manning 10- arch manning

I knew this day would come.

I just didn't think it would come like this.

It starts with a text from Maddie.

Maddie: um... don't freak out.

Which, obviously, makes me freak out immediately.

I'm sitting on my couch, legs tucked under me, halfway through folding my laundry. Arch had texted me earlier from practice asking if I could swing by his apartment and find his headphone charger because he couldn't find it anywhere.

I'd rolled my eyes, grabbed my keys, and gone.

In leggings. An oversized sweatshirt. Hair in a messy bun.

Nothing dramatic. I was there maybe fifteen minutes. That was two hours ago. My phone buzzes again.

Brooke: call me right now.

My stomach drops.

I open Instagram. And there it is. A blurry, grainy photo of me walking out of Arch's apartment complex. Head down. Hand on my stomach. You can't even really see my face—but it's enough.

The caption on some random sports gossip page reads:

"Manning and middle child Kiffin connection???"

My heart starts pounding so hard it feels like it's in my throat.

I click the comments.

Big mistake.

"Kiffin's daughter??? He has another one besides Landry????" To which someone replied- "yep. Quieter kid of the 3. Got tf out of BR the moment she could lmao."

"No way this is accidental."

"Football royalty and chaos royalty unite."

"They've been hooking up for sure."

My breathing gets shallow. I exit that post. There are already more. Articles. Speculation threads. Side-by-side comparisons of the soft launch picture I posted weeks ago and old photos of Arch's apartment interior.

People zooming in on countertops. Furniture. A damn lamp.

"They've been together for months."

"She's pregnant. Look at her hand placement."

"She's hiding a bump?? Wouldn't dress that way around a manning."

My hands start shaking. I toss my phone onto the couch like it burned me. This is exactly what I didn't want. Not because I'm ashamed. But because it's loud. And mean. And invasive. All the things Archibald Charles Manning said he hated.

By the time Arch texts me that he's heading home from practice, there are full articles up.

"Manning Heir Linked to Coach's Daughter."

"Rival Bloodlines Collide."

They make it sound like a war. Like we're a scandal.

I don't text him back. I just go to my bedroom, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over my head like that might somehow stop the internet.

I cry quietly. Not dramatic sobbing. Just exhausted tears. Because I knew this would happen eventually. I just didn't think it would feel like this—like the world trying to rip something fragile out of my hands.

I must fall asleep at some point, because the next thing I feel is the mattress dipping beside me.

A hand brushes gently over my hair.

"Doll?"

Arch's voice. Soft. Careful. I blink awake, my vision blurry.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his practice shorts and hoodie. His hair's damp from the shower at the facility. His jaw tight.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

I don't answer. I just reach for my phone on the nightstand and hand it to him.

He scrolls.

His expression shifts from confusion to irritation to something darker.

"They were at your place," I say, my voice hoarse. "Someone took a picture when I left."

He exhales sharply through his nose.

"This is my fault," he mutters.

"It's not," I whisper. "I chose to go."

He keeps scrolling.

"They're connecting everything," I say. "The pictures. My stories. They're saying I'm pregnant."

His head snaps up. "Are they?"

"Yes."

He goes still.

Then he locks his phone and sets it down slowly.

"Okay," he says.

I frown. "Okay?"

He shifts fully onto the bed and pulls me up so I'm sitting against his chest. His arms wrap around me automatically, his hand resting over my belly like it always does now.

"Look at me," he says gently.

I tilt my head back.

"I don't care what they think," he says. "I don't care what they say. It's you and me. That's it."

"They're going to tear it apart," I whisper.

"Let them," he shrugs. "They don't get to define it."

I study his face.

"You don't care about your image?" I ask.

He laughs softly. "My image? Doll, I play football. That's my job. This—" his hand presses slightly against my stomach, "—is my life. Media doesn't pay my bills."

My eyes burn again.

"What do you want to do?" he asks.

"I don't know," I admit. "I don't want them to control the narrative."

"Then don't let them," he says simply.

I blink. "What?"

He sits up straighter, looking down at me.

"Post it," he says. "All of it. Not some blurry picture. Not speculation. You. Us. Our son."

My heart skips.

"You'd do that?" I ask.

"In a heartbeat," he says. "I'm not hiding you. I never hid you, I just couldn't do that."

The conviction in his voice makes something inside me steady.

"You don't have to," I say.

"I want to," he replies. "You deserve to be the one to announce it. Not some gossip account."

I stare at him for a long moment.

Then I nod.

"Okay," I whisper.

We move slowly after that.

Not rushed.

Intentional.

Arch grabs his phone. I grab mine.

We scroll through our camera rolls together. There are more pictures than I realized. One of him lying across my lap, his head resting on my belly while he talks to it. One of me in jeans and a bra, standing in my bedroom mirror, holding my bump with both hands— that arch took.

One of us sitting on the couch, grinning like idiots while holding up the ultrasound.

"This one is so cute," he says, pointing to the photo of him with his ear pressed against my stomach.

I smile. "You look obsessed."

"I've been since day one, a baby didn't change that."

My caption: future starting QB.

His Caption: #1 prospect for the draft class of 2048.

We sit there in silence for maybe thirty seconds. Then we both giggle.

Then our phones explode.

Notifications flooding in faster than I can read them.

Likes. Comments. Tags. My heart pounds again—but this time, it's different. It's ours. Fans are commenting nonstop.

"No way."

"Baby Manning???"

"QB lineage continues."

"Wait they're actually cute."

"Future Heisman winner."

"2048 draft is cooked."

My phone keeps vibrating in my hand.

I glance at Arch. He's watching me. Not the comments. Me.

"You okay?" he asks.

I nod slowly.

"Yeah," I say, a small smile forming. "Yeah, I think I am."

He leans over and kisses my temple.

"It's us against the world," he murmurs.

I lean into him, watching the numbers climb higher and higher.

Blowing up. Trending. But somehow, it doesn't feel as loud anymore. Because this time? We chose it. And no matter how much the world talks—This is ours.

————-

Spoke too soon.

I knew it was going to be loud.

I just didn't realize how loud.

By the time I wake up the next morning, it's everywhere.

Trending on Twitter. Trending on Instagram. ESPN panels debating it like it's a draft pick. Podcasts dissecting it like it's game tape.

"Arch Manning having a baby boy with Lane Kiffin's middle child."

They keep saying it like that.

Not my name.

Not even just "Y/n."

Lane Kiffin's middle child.

Like I'm a subplot.

My phone hasn't stopped buzzing since last night. Notifications stacked so high I stopped trying to clear them. People I haven't spoken to in years suddenly in my DMs. Brands trying to "collaborate." Random strangers offering baby name suggestions.

I'm sitting at my kitchen table in leggings and one of Arch's hoodies, laptop open in front of me for my online class. The professor's voice drones through my AirPods, something about midterm review, but I'm barely listening.

My hand rests on my belly out of habit now.

Six and a half months.

My son.

The internet knows.

The world knows.

And somehow I feel both exposed and weirdly... relieved.

Arch left early for practice. He kissed my forehead before he walked out, whispered, "Call me if you need me," like he always does now.

He looked calm.

Too calm.

That's what scares me.

My phone lights up again on the table.

Landry.

I hesitate for half a second before answering.

"Hey," I say softly.

"Y/n."

Her voice is tight.

My stomach drops instantly. "What?"

She exhales sharply. "Me and Dad just ran into Cooper."

My back straightens in the chair. "Where?"

"Some meeting in New Orleans. Booster thing. I don't know. I just got here with Dad and—" she cuts herself off, clearly pacing. "Dad is already on edge with everything blowing up online. He's been moody all morning."

Of course he has.

"Seeing Cooper set him off," she continues. "Like immediately."

I close my laptop without thinking. I can't focus anymore.

"What happened?" I ask quietly.

There's a pause on the other end.

"Dad walked right up to him," she says. "Didn't even say hi. Just—went in."

My chest tightens.

"He told Cooper," Landry says slowly, "'Your no good son ruined my daughter's life. Just had to bring your no good son near my daughter and ruin her life.'"

It feels like someone dumped cold water over me.

Ruined my life.

My throat closes up.

"What did Cooper say?" I whisper.

"At first? Nothing," Landry says. "He tried to ignore Dad. Like he didn't even want to engage."

That sounds like him.

"But Dad kept going," she continues. "People were staring. It was awkward as hell."

I press my palm harder against my stomach, like I'm shielding him from words he can't even hear.

"Finally," Landry says, "Cooper turned around and said, 'You're talking about your daughter who is probably scared shitless. You're her father. Maybe put your ego to the side and be there for your child, Lane. Don't talk about my son—and his son's mom.'"

My breath stutters.

"And then he walked away," she finishes. "Dad's pissed."

Silence stretches between us.

I don't know what to say.

I don't know what I feel.

"Y/n?" Landry says softly.

"I'm here," I manage.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I know this is messy."

Messy doesn't even begin to cover it.

"He thinks he's protecting you," she adds carefully.

"By telling people my life is ruined?" I snap before I can stop myself.

She sighs. "I know."

Tears blur my vision.

"I'm not ruined," I whisper.

"I know you're not," she says immediately. "I know that. But Dad... you know how he is."

Yeah.

I do.

Football first.

Image second.

Everything else somewhere below that.

"I don't need him fighting with Arch's family," I say quietly. "That just makes it worse."

"He feels embarrassed," Landry admits. "The media keeps bringing his name up. He hates losing control of a narrative."

I let out a bitter laugh. "It's not a press conference. It's my baby."

"I know," she repeats.

I wipe at my cheeks, frustrated with myself for crying again.

"Has he tried to call you?" she asks.

"No."

"Figures."

I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.

"He said my life was ruined," I murmur, mostly to myself.

"That's not true," Landry says firmly. "And you know it."

Do I?

My phone buzzes again.

Arch.

Practice break.

Arch: you good?

I swallow.

"Land," I say quietly, "I have to call you back."

"Okay. I love you."

"Love you too."

I hang up and immediately call Arch.

He answers on the second ring.

"Hey, doll," he says, slightly out of breath. "Everything okay?"

I close my eyes at the sound of his voice.

"My dad ran into yours," I say.

There's a beat of silence.

"...Okay."

"He told Cooper that you ruined my life."

The silence stretches longer this time.

Then: "What?"

"He said you ruined my life. That you had to bring your no good son near his daughter and ruin her."

I hear the shift in Arch's breathing instantly.

"Where is he?" Arch asks, voice low.

"At some meeting in New Orleans," I say quickly. "It's over. Cooper walked away."

"What did my dad say?"

I repeat it.

The part about ego.

The part about being there for me.

The part about his son's mom.

Arch is quiet for a long moment.

"I'm sorry," he says finally.

"For what?" I ask.

"For you being stuck in the middle of this," he replies. "For them acting like this is some rivalry game."

My throat tightens.

"Am I ruining your life?" I whisper before I can stop myself.

There's no hesitation.

"No," he says immediately. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Don't let him get in your head," Arch continues. "You are not ruined. You're strong. You're carrying our son. That's not ruin—that's power."

A shaky laugh escapes me.

"Power?" I repeat.

"Yeah," he says. "You're growing a whole human. That's badass."

Despite everything, I smile.

"I don't care what they say," he adds. "This is our family. Not theirs."

I picture him on the practice field, helmet tucked under his arm, jaw set.

"They can trend it," he says. "They can podcast it. They can argue about it on TV. At the end of the day, I'm coming home to you."

Home.

The word settles deep.

"I just don't want you distracted," I say softly.

"Too late," he replies. "I've been distracted since the day I met you."

I roll my eyes through tears.

"Practice is wrapping up soon," he says. "I'll be there in an hour."

"You don't have to rush."

"I want to."

I hang up and sit there for a minute.

The world is loud.

Football Twitter is dissecting my life like it's a stat line.

My dad is angry.

His dad is defensive.

Podcasts are arguing about bloodlines.

But my son kicks lightly under my palm, like he doesn't care about any of that.

And when Arch walks through my door an hour later, eyes scanning for me immediately, I realize something:

They can argue about legacies all they want.

We're building our own.

[kerberber]

Cowboy, baby 22- Colston Loveland

Two days.

It doesn't sound like much when you say it out loud.

Two days is nothing in the grand scheme of a lifetime. Nothing compared to the years we already spent apart. Nothing compared to the seasons he's played, the miles between here and Michigan.

But it feels like everything.

It feels like something hollowed out my chest and left it echoing.

I haven't gone near him. Haven't texted. Haven't called. I've replayed the fight in my head so many times that I can hear every word in both of our voices. The hurt. The sharpness. The fear underneath it.

I don't want to miss him.

That's the part that keeps clawing at me.

He's not even gone yet, and I already feel like I'm bracing for absence.

The barn is quiet when I pull in that morning. Too quiet. No trucks. No music. No Chad yelling about something pointless.

Just wind brushing against the tin roof.

I saddle Malibu without really thinking about it. My hands move on autopilot—tighten the cinch, adjust the stirrups, smooth her mane. She nudges my shoulder like she senses the heaviness in me.

"I know," I whisper to her. "I just need to get out."

We don't usually go this far alone.

The big lake sits almost an hour out if you ride at an easy pace. Past the back pastures. Past the fence lines. Through the little wooded stretch where the ground dips and the air always feels cooler.

I let Malibu walk.

The rhythm of her hooves against dirt is steady. Calming. My thoughts, unfortunately, are not.

He said I was looking at him like he was already leaving.

Maybe I was.

Because he is.

Because that's the truth.

By the time the trees thin and the lake opens up in front of us, my chest feels raw.

It's beautiful out here.

The water stretches wide and glassy, reflecting the mountains that rise behind it like something out of a postcard. The sky is pale blue, barely any clouds. The air smells clean. Cold. Alive.

It feels like the kind of place you come when your heart's too loud.

I slide off Malibu and pull the reins loose, letting her wander toward the edge where the grass grows thicker near the water. She lowers her head and starts grazing peacefully.

I walk toward the big flat rock that juts out just enough to sit on.

I sit.

Kick my boots off.

Lower my feet into the water.

It's freezing.

The shock of it steals the air from my lungs, but I don't pull away. I let it bite at my skin. Let it ground me.

There's too much in my head.

His face when I told him not to go.

The way his voice cracked when he said he loved me.

The look in his eyes when he walked away.

I press my palms against the rock beside me and stare at the mountains.

I don't know how to love someone without being terrified of losing them.

An hour passes.

Maybe more.

The wind shifts slightly.

Then I hear it.

Hoofbeats.

Not Malibu's.

Another horse.

My stomach drops instantly.

I don't have to turn around to know who it is.

But I do anyway.

Colston rides into view slowly, like he doesn't want to spook me. His posture is tight. His jaw clenched. His eyes find me immediately.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Then I turn back around.

I don't say anything.

I don't know what to say.

I hear him dismount. Hear the reins being looped loosely over a branch. Hear his boots against gravel and dirt as he walks toward me.

He doesn't ask if he can sit.

He just lowers himself onto the rock beside me.

Close enough that our shoulders almost touch.

Not quite.

We sit in silence.

The kind that isn't comfortable.

The kind that's thick and fragile and waiting to crack.

I keep my eyes on the water.

He keeps his on me.

I can feel it.

Finally, he inhales shakily.

"It affects me more than you think."

His voice cracks immediately.

And that almost undoes me right there.

I stay quiet.

"When I moved to Michigan," he continues, staring out at the water now too, "I thought I'd finally move on. I thought I'd be so distracted that I wouldn't think about you again."

His hands are clasped together between his knees. Knuckles white.

"I struggled so much," he admits. "I was doing everything I could just to get your face out of my head."

My throat tightens.

"It didn't work," he says roughly. "I saw other women. Didn't work. I slept with girls. Didn't work. I worked out every chance I had, because if I sat at home alone—" His voice breaks again. "All I saw was you."

Tears sting my eyes.

"Even now," he says, swallowing hard, "all I fucking see is you."

The wind picks up slightly, rippling the water.

"I've been talking to Coach the past two weeks," he says quietly. "Trying to figure out if I should even go back. If it's worth it. If I really have a shot at going pro."

My head snaps toward him at that.

He finally looks at me.

"Truthfully?" he says. "None of this matters the way you do. I'd give it up to make you happy."

My heart slams against my ribs.

"I'm sorry for walking away," he adds, voice softer now. "I just... I feel defeated already. Like no matter what I choose, I lose something."

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.

"I don't know how to balance you and what I love to do," he admits. "I don't know how to build a future without feeling like I'm tearing something else down."

The vulnerability in him is raw.

"Coach said he'd sign you on as a student sports med tech," he says carefully. "He said he'd talk to whoever he had to if you wanted to transfer. He'd help you get into Michigan. Continue school there."

My breath leaves me in a quiet rush.

"I'd love nothing more than you moving there with me," he says, eyes steady on mine. "I'm very serious about you, y/n. I've been forever."

Silence stretches between us again.

But it's different now.

Not sharp.

Just heavy.

"You would really give it up?" I ask finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes," he says immediately.

"And if you did," I continue, "would you resent me one day?"

He hesitates.

Not because he's unsure about loving me.

But because he's honest.

"I don't know," he admits quietly. "I don't want to. But football is part of me."

I nod slowly.

"That's what I was scared of," I say. "Not that you'd leave. But that one day you'd look at me and wonder what you gave up."

His jaw tightens.

"I don't want to be the reason you shrink," I tell him. "I don't want to hold you back from something you've worked your whole life for."

"You don't hold me back," he says firmly.

"Then don't give it up," I say, even though it hurts to say it.

His eyes search mine.

"I don't want you to choose between me and your dream," I continue. "I want to choose you while you chase it."

Emotion floods his face.

"You'd really move?" he asks, almost afraid to hope.

"I don't know yet," I admit. "That's big. That's scary. But I know I don't want to lose you because we were too scared to try."

He exhales like he's been holding that breath for days.

"I don't need you to sacrifice everything," I say softly. "I just need you to fight for us too."

He reaches for my hand slowly this time.

I let him.

"I will," he says. "I swear to you, I will."

The mountains stand quiet behind us. The lake stretches wide and steady.

We don’t move for a while after that.

The hard parts are said. The scary parts are out in the open. And instead of breaking us, they’re just… sitting there between us. Honest. Manageable.

The lake glints under the afternoon sun. The wind brushes over the surface, making the mountains ripple in the reflection. Malibu lifts her head occasionally, ears flicking toward us, then goes back to grazing like she trusts we’re not going anywhere.

Colston’s hand stays wrapped around mine.

Not tight.

Just steady.

Like a promise.

We sit shoulder to shoulder on the rock, our feet still in the freezing water. At some point, he leans slightly into me, his temple brushing mine.

“You always pick the prettiest spots to fall apart,” he murmurs.

I huff a soft laugh. “I wasn’t falling apart.”

He glances at me. “You rode an hour out here alone.”

I shrug. “Dramatic, maybe.”

“Definitely dramatic,” he agrees gently.

Silence settles again, but it’s warm this time. Not tense. The kind of quiet that feels earned.

Eventually, the sun dips lower, painting everything in softer gold. The air cools a little more.

“We should head back,” he says quietly. “Before it gets dark.”

I nod, even though part of me wants to stay here where nothing feels urgent.

He stands first and offers me his hand to help me up from the rock. His grip is firm and familiar, pulling me easily to my feet. My legs tingle from the cold water.

We walk toward the horses together.

Malibu lifts her head and nickers softly when I call her name. She walks over without hesitation, like she knows I needed this today.

Colston whistles low and his horse steps forward too, calm and patient.

He grabs Malibu’s lead rope and looks at me.

“Colst?” I say before I can overthink it.

“Yeah?”

I hesitate for half a second, then push through it. “Can I ride back with you?”

His expression changes instantly.

Softens.

Warms.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling in that slow way that always makes my stomach flip. “Yeah, you can.”

He ties Malibu’s lead to his saddle horn carefully, making sure there’s enough slack but not too much. He double-checks the knot like he does everything—precise, steady.

Then he swings up onto his horse in one smooth motion.

He turns in the saddle and holds his hand out toward me.

I step closer, sliding my fingers into his. His grip tightens, and he leans down, pulling me up with an easy strength that still surprises me even though it shouldn’t.

I settle in front of him at first, facing forward.

But then I turn.

I don’t know why.

Maybe because I want to see his face. Maybe because I need to feel him closer.

I shift carefully until I’m straddling the saddle facing him instead, my knees bracketing his hips.

His hands automatically come to my waist to steady me.

We’re so close our foreheads almost touch.

“You comfortable?” he asks softly.

I nod.

My chest presses against his as the horse starts to move, slow and steady. The rocking rhythm shifts beneath us.

His arms slide fully around me now, secure and protective. My hands rest lightly against his shoulders.

And then he kisses my head.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Soft, lingering presses of his lips against my hairline.

“You scared me,” he murmurs into my hair.

“I know.”

“I don’t like fighting with you.”

“I don’t either.”

He exhales slowly and kisses my temple again.

The horses move at an easy walk, hooves crunching lightly against gravel and dirt. Malibu follows calmly behind us, the lead rope swaying gently between the two animals.

I rest my forehead against his collarbone.

His heartbeat is steady under my cheek.

“You really talked to Coach?” I ask quietly.

“Yeah.”

“For two weeks?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His hands tighten slightly around my waist. “Because I didn’t know what I was going to decide. And I didn’t want to promise you something I couldn’t follow through on.”

I nod against him.

“I meant what I said,” he adds. “I’d give it up.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“And I also meant it when I said I don’t want to resent anything. I don’t want us to build something that’s held together by sacrifice and ‘what ifs.’”

I lean back slightly so I can see his face.

“So we don’t,” I say.

His brow furrows faintly.

“We build it on choice,” I continue. “You choose football. I choose you. And we figure out how those things exist in the same life.”

His gaze searches mine like he’s committing every word to memory.

“You’d really consider Michigan?” he asks again, softer this time.

“I’d consider anything that means we’re choosing each other on purpose,” I say.

His jaw tightens, emotion flickering across his face.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” he says. “I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

“I don’t,” I tell him honestly. “I just don’t want fear making our decisions for us anymore.”

The sun is lower now, casting long shadows behind us as we move along the trail. The mountains glow pink at the edges.

He kisses my head again.

“You look good on my horse,” he murmurs.

I roll my eyes lightly. “You would say that.”

“It’s true.”

I smile faintly and slide my hands up into his hair, fingers curling into it the way I always do.

“You know what I realized?” I say.

“What?”

“I don’t want to miss you while you’re still here.”

His expression softens instantly.

“Then don’t,” he says.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he replies. “We don’t waste the time we have worrying about the time we don’t.”

The simplicity of it makes my throat tighten.

The horses continue their steady pace. The wind picks up slightly as we move through the open stretch near the back pasture.

I tuck my face into his neck this time.

He responds by tightening his arms around me and pressing another slow kiss to the top of my head.

“I love you,” he says quietly, like it’s something sacred.

I don’t hesitate this time.

“I love you too.”

He exhales like that’s the only thing he needed to hear all day.

We ride like that the rest of the way back.

Chest to chest.

Hands tangled.

His lips brushing my hair every few minutes like he can’t help himself.

And for the first time since Bonfire Night, I’m not thinking about when he’s leaving.

I’m just thinking about right now.

And right now, I’m exactly where I want to be.

[kerberber]

Lovebirds 46- arch manning

The apartment still feels like an echo.

Every sound bounces. Every step feels temporary. There are boxes stacked against the wall, my suitcase half-unpacked on the floor, hangers clinking in the tiny closet like they're confused about how they ended up here. It's small—smaller than my bedroom back home—but it's mine. One open room. One narrow kitchen counter. One window that looks out at the parking lot and a sliver of Texas sky.

And directly above me?

Arch.

I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him kneel in the middle of the room with a wrench in his hand, putting my bed together like he's assembling a championship trophy.

He's focused. Quiet. Tongue pressed slightly to the inside of his cheek the way he does when he's concentrating. His gray shirt stretches across his shoulders when he leans forward to tighten something, and I don't even try to hide the way I'm staring.

"Archie," I say casually.

He hums in response, not looking up.

"You look so sexy building things."

He chuckles under his breath but keeps working. "Baby," he says evenly, "don't make me make this bed only for us to break it in thirty minutes."

I burst out laughing, pushing off the doorway and stepping further into the room. "You are so full of yourself."

He finally glances up at me, eyes dragging over me slowly in a way that makes my stomach flip. "You're the one instigating."

"Maybe I just like watching you be domestic."

He snorts. "Tightening bolts is domestic now?"

"In my book? Yeah."

He shakes his head but there's a smile tugging at his mouth. He finishes tightening something and stands, stretching his back slightly. I can't help it—I bite my lip.

He notices.

"Don't," he warns lightly.

"Don't what?"

"Start something."

I grin. "I'm innocent."

Before he can argue, there's a knock at the door.

I glance at him. "Are you expecting someone?"

"Probably backup," he says.

I open the door and immediately light up.

"Y/N!" Parker's grin is wide and loud as always. He pulls me into a hug without hesitation. "Look at you. Official Austin resident."

Behind him, Will lifts a box like he's presenting it. "We brought tools. And moral support."

Michael steps in last, already scanning the apartment. "Okay, this is cute. Small. Efficient."

"Tiny," Parker corrects.

I laugh. "It's cozy."

"It's under Arch," Will says knowingly, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Direct access," Parker adds.

"Shut up," I say, but I'm smiling.

They spill into the apartment like they've always belonged here, filling the small space with familiar noise. It hits me suddenly—how much I missed this. Them. The way they tease me like a sister, protect me like a little sibling, and never make me feel like an outsider.

Michael sets the box down and ruffles my hair. "You good, though? For real?"

I nod. "Yeah. I am."

Arch watches the interaction quietly, something soft in his eyes. He loves them. And he loves that they love me.

The boys drop to the floor around the bed frame like it's a team project. Tools clink. Parker argues with Michael about instructions. Will reads the manual like it personally offended him.

I sit on one of the unopened boxes, hugging my knees, just watching.

This is what I wanted.

All of us in the same place again.

No more FaceTimes. No more countdowns. No more "I'll see you in two weeks."

"Yo," Parker says casually, tightening a bolt. "Kayla might come over tonight."

The room shifts.

It's subtle. If you didn't know Arch the way I do, you might miss it.

His shoulders stiffen.

He doesn't look up.

He just goes quiet.

Parker continues, oblivious. "She texted earlier asking what we were doing. Figured we'd all be here anyway."

I feel the air change.

Two months.

Two months of late-night calls from Arch while I was home in New Orleans.

"She's here again."

"She keeps filming everything."

"She posted me without asking."

"She doesn't take hints."

I remember the frustration in his voice. The discomfort he tried to brush off.

Michael pauses mid-screw, glancing at Parker. "Why, bro?"

Parker looks up. "What?"

Michael straightens. "Why would we invite her tonight? We literally just got Y/N back. Why don't we do something with her and us."

Thank you.

Will nods slowly. "Yeah. First night she's here. Feels like a... us thing."

Arch still hasn't said anything.

He's just working.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

Parker frowns, genuinely confused. "She'll be fine. It's not like she's—"

"I am fine," I say gently before it spirals.

They all look at me.

I stand, stepping closer to where Arch is kneeling, and rest my hand lightly on his shoulder. His body relaxes under my touch just slightly.

"I don't care if people come over," I continue carefully. "But tonight feels kind of special, doesn't it? First night back together."

Parker scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, I guess."

Michael gives him a look. "Read the room."

"I am reading the room," Parker insists weakly.

Arch finally speaks, voice calm but firm. "I just don't want cameras in my face tonight."

There it is.

Simple. Honest.

Parker's expression shifts. "She wouldn't—"

"She would," Michael interrupts.

Will nods. "She always does."

Parker exhales. "Okay. Damn. I didn't realize it bothered you that much."

Arch shrugs slightly. "It's whatever. Just not tonight."

There's no anger. No attitude.

Just boundary.

And I feel this overwhelming wave of pride.

Because that's growth.

Parker lifts his hands. "Alright. No Kayla. Just us."

The tension dissolves slowly.

Michael claps his hands together. "Good. Because I'm starving."

Will points at me. "You picking dinner. It's your welcome-to-Austin night."

I grin. "I choose something expensive."

"Absolutely not," Parker says immediately.

Arch finally smiles again, glancing up at me. His eyes soften, gratitude unspoken but obvious.

Later, when the bed is fully assembled and the boys are arguing about where my couch should go, I step onto the tiny balcony outside my door for air.

It's warm. Different than New Orleans. Drier.

Arch joins me a minute later.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

I nod. "You?"

He shrugs. "Yeah."

I tilt my head. "You don't like her."

He doesn't hesitate. "No."

"Because of me?"

His brows knit. "No. Because she doesn't respect boundaries."

I study him.

"I hated that you felt uncomfortable in your own place," I admit softly.

He leans against the railing beside me. "I just didn't want drama."

"You're allowed to not like someone."

He looks at me then. "I don't like how she talks about you either."

That catches me off guard.

"What?"

"She makes comments. Like you're competition or something. It's weird."

My stomach twists, but not from jealousy.

From protectiveness.

"She's not competition," I say lightly.

He smiles faintly. "I know."

I bump my shoulder against his. "Thanks for saying something."

He nudges me back. "Always."

Inside, Parker is laughing loudly at something Michael said. Will is pretending to measure something with a tape measure he's holding upside down.

It feels right.

"Hey," Arch says softly.

"Yeah?"

"You being under me... it's kind of perfect. Even though I'm going to be sleeping in your bed every night."

I grin. "You're insufferable."

"I meant apartment-wise."

"Mhm."

He smiles, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to my temple.

"Welcome home angel," he murmurs.

——

The boys’ apartment feels louder than mine.

Not in a bad way—just fuller. More echoes, more laughter, the TV too loud, controllers clicking nonstop. The familiar smell of cologne, takeout, and whatever cleaner they used last minute before people came over. It feels like college. It feels like Arch’s life here—one I’m stepping into instead of watching through a phone screen.

I’m curled into the loveseat with my back against Arch’s chest, his legs spread so I fit perfectly between them. My shoulders rest just under his collarbone, and one of his arms is loosely around my waist, thumb tracing idle shapes against my hip through my shirt. He didn’t want to play Xbox—said he was tired, said he just wanted to watch—so he’s leaned back, chin occasionally brushing the top of my head when he laughs at something stupid Parker says.

The boys are on the couch, mid-game, yelling over each other.

“Bro, you sold!”

“That was lag!”

“You always blame lag!”

Michael throws a pillow at Will. Parker laughs too loud. I smile without really thinking about it, just soaking in the normalcy of it all. This is what I missed. This is what long distance took from us.

Arch squeezes my waist slightly when I yawn, murmuring, “You okay, angel?”

“Mhm,” I say quietly. “Just comfy.”

He hums, presses a quick kiss to my hair, and keeps watching the screen.

It’s easy. Comfortable. Safe.

Until the door opens.

I don’t even look at first. I assume it’s someone running late, someone grabbing a drink, someone who forgot something. The game pauses mid-yell.

Then a voice I don’t recognize cuts through the room.

“Hi, Parkie baby!”

My stomach tightens before my brain even catches up.

I glance up.

She’s pretty. Of course she is. Long hair, perfect makeup, effortless confidence. She walks in like she belongs there—like this isn’t the first time she’s crossed that threshold. Her eyes flick around the room, landing on each of the boys with familiarity.

“Mikey, Willie, Archie,” she says smoothly.

Arch’s body goes rigid behind me.

Then her eyes land on me.

She smiles wide, fake-sweet.

“Oh,” she says brightly. “You must be Faith from Arch’s sports management class! Arch talks about you so much!”

The room drops dead silent.

Every single sound disappears—the TV, the controllers, the laughter. It’s like someone sucked the air out all at once.

I don’t move.

Arch doesn’t move.

His arm tightens around me, not pulling me closer, not pushing me away—just… frozen.

My heart starts pounding so loud I swear everyone can hear it.

Faith.

The name echoes in my head like a gunshot.

I replay everything. Every call. Every text. Every offhand comment he’s ever made about classes, teammates, professors, schedules. I scan my memory desperately, trying to find where that name could fit.

Nothing.

There has never been a Faith.

But that doesn’t stop the way my chest burns.

I don’t cause a scene. I don’t jump up. I don’t say anything sharp or loud or dramatic.

I just smile.

And wave.

A small, polite wave.

I don’t move from Arch’s arms.

Even though it feels like the floor just dropped out from under me.

Michael’s the first one to react.

He scoffs, controller dropping into his lap. “Not gonna correct your girl, Parker?”

Parker blinks. “What?”

Michael nods toward me. “That’s Y/N. Arch has never mentioned a Faith. Will and Parker can back that up.”

Will nods immediately. “Yeah. Never heard that name once.”

Parker frowns. “Yeah, no—Arch literally only talks about Y/N.”

Kayla’s smile falters for half a second before she recovers, laugh a little too high. “Oh my god, my bad! I must’ve mixed you up with someone else.”

She looks at me again, eyes scanning me like she’s sizing me up.

“I’m Kayla,” she says, tone syrupy. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I say calmly, even though my hands are starting to shake.

Arch still hasn’t said a word.

He’s gone completely still, jaw tight, eyes locked somewhere past the TV. I can feel his heartbeat now—fast, uneven.

Kayla keeps talking. Too much. Filling the silence with forced friendliness, asking where I’m from, how long I’ve been here, what I’m studying. I answer politely, briefly. I don’t give her anything extra.

But inside, my brain is spiraling.

Faith.

Why that name?

Why say Arch talks about her so much?

Why say sports management?

Is she lying? Or is she mixing things up? Or is this some weird attempt to get under my skin?

I watch Arch from the corner of my eye. He finally shifts, hand coming up to rest more firmly on my waist, grounding me—or maybe grounding himself.

A little while later, the tension fades just enough for the game to restart. Laughter creeps back in, but it’s different now. Thinner.

I yawn again, this time not faking it.

I sit up slightly, twisting so I can look back at Arch. His eyes drop to mine instantly.

“I’m pretty tired,” I say softly, standing. “I’ll catch y’all on the flip side.”

The boys groan halfheartedly.

“Already?”

“First night and she’s ditching us?”

“Traitor.”

I smile. “Jet lag. And moving exhaustion.”

Then I look back at Arch, tilting my head just slightly.

“Charles,” I say sweetly. “You sleeping over tonight?”

His eyes soften immediately.

That name always works.

“Yeah,” he says quickly, already standing. “I’ll be down in a second.”

I don’t miss the way Kayla watches him scramble to grab clothes from his room.

I don’t say anything.

We leave.

The walk down the stairs to my apartment is quiet. Arch’s hand is warm in mine, fingers laced tightly like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

Inside my apartment, the door closes behind us with a soft click.

The silence is louder than the boys’ place ever was.

“I’ve never heard a Faith before,” I say finally, voice quiet but steady.

Arch turns to me immediately. “Because there isn’t one.”

I search his face. “Kayla said—”

“She was starting shit,” he says firmly. “I don’t know a Faith. I don’t have a Faith in any class. I don’t talk about a Faith. I swear to you.”

I study him, really look at him. His eyes are earnest, frustrated, hurt that I’d even have to question it. Not defensive. Not guilty.

“Why would she say that?” I ask.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Because she likes attention. Because she wanted to see your reaction. Because she’s weird about you.”

“You’ve never mentioned that about her,” I say quietly.

“I didn’t want to,” he admits. “She makes me uncomfortable. I don’t say a word around her, just like tonight.”

That tracks. Too much.

I nod slowly.

“I believe you,” I say.

Relief floods his face so fast it almost makes me ache.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, pulling me into his chest. “I promise you, angel. There’s no one else. Never has been.”

We change into pajamas without talking much. When we finally crawl into my bed, Arch settles with his head on my belly, arm draped across my waist. His weight is grounding. Familiar.

My fingers slide into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, tracing down his neck and back. He sighs softly, tension melting out of him.

“I’m sorry she did that,” he says quietly.

“I know,” I whisper.

We lie there like that, breathing in sync, the chaos of the night fading into something softer.