#like political rivals..restaurant rivals..

[thefinality]

and if i say katewron is a 4halo variant then what

[alltoolewis]

The risk- Lando Norris

Summary- Being charle's twin sister was always hard growing up in the racing word... but the hardest part is hiding your relationship with his new rival! (CONTAINS SMUT) Request- Hey, Your writing is so good!! Can I send you a request with Lando Norris x Leclerc sister reader? (Thank you angel xx)

words- 4.8k

Notes- Me.. writing for Lando in 2026! For my newer followers Lando was actually fav driver when I first started watchin f1 however over the years he's slipped down (honestly not the biggest fan anymore... at all) however I know much a lot of you love him so am gonna keep writing for him!

You never meant to fall for Lando Norris.

It happened gradually, like the sun rising over the Monaco harbor—so slowly you didn't notice until suddenly everything was illuminated. You'd grown up in the paddock alongside Charles, your twin brother, watching him climb the ranks from karting to Formula 1. Racing was in your blood, the Leclerc legacy coursing through your veins just as strongly as it did through Charles's, even if you'd chosen a different path—working in sports marketing rather than behind the wheel.

The paddock had always been your second home. You knew every driver, every team principal, every corner of every circuit. And you'd known Lando for years—the cheeky British driver with the infectious laugh and the perpetually youthful energy that made everyone around him smile.

But something shifted last season in Barcelona.

You'd been in the McLaren hospitality area, discussing a potential sponsorship collaboration, when Lando walked in after qualifying. His hair was still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the edges, and he wore that papaya team shirt that somehow made his eyes look impossibly green. He'd flopped down on the sofa beside you with his characteristic lack of personal space awareness, close enough that you could smell his cologne—something fresh and citrusy that made your stomach flip.

"Alright?" he'd asked, flashing you that trademark grin.

"yeah," you'd replied, trying to ignore the way your heart had suddenly decided to run its own qualifying session.

He'd started talking about the session, about the car, about some joke he'd played on Oscar, and you'd found yourself genuinely laughing—not the polite laughter you gave to sponsors or journalists, but real, stomach-aching laughter. And when you'd caught your breath and looked up, you'd found him staring at you with an expression you'd never seen before. Soft. Wondering.

"What?" you'd asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothing," he'd said quickly, but his cheeks had flushed pink. "You just... you have a really nice laugh."

It should have been nothing. A throwaway comment. But the way he'd said it, like he was confessing something important, made it everything.

After that, you started noticing him everywhere. Or maybe he started appearing everywhere you were—you were never quite sure which. He'd materialize beside you during driver briefings, would somehow end up at the same restaurants in whatever city you were in, would text you memes at three in the morning that made you snort-laugh into your pillow.

The first kiss happened in Silverstone.

It had been raining—of course it had been raining, this was England—and you'd ducked under the awning behind the McLaren motorhome to escape the downpour. Lando had found you there, soaked through despite his umbrella, laughing at the absurdity of the weather.

"Very British of you to complain about rain at Silverstone," you'd teased.

"I'm not complaining," he'd protested. "I'm just... observing. Meteorologically."

"Meteorologically?"

"It's a word!"

"Is it though?"

He'd stepped closer then, and suddenly the small space under the awning felt impossibly tiny. You could see the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes, could count the freckles the summer sun had brought out across his nose.

"Tu es belle," he'd said suddenly, his accent absolutely atrocious.

You'd burst out laughing. "Oh my God, what was that?"

"French!" he'd said defensively. "I'm trying to be romantic!"

"You sound like you're choking on a baguette!"

"Rude," he'd said, but he was grinning. "I'm trying here. Doesn't your French heart find it charming?"

"My Monégasque heart finds it offensive you think i'm french however i have to say it is a little bit adorable," you'd admitted, and then his smile had softened into something that made your breath catch.

"Yeah?" he'd whispered.

"Yeah."

He'd kissed you then, soft and sweet and tasting like rain, one hand coming up to cup your cheek while the other braced against the motorhome wall beside your head. It was perfect. It was terrifying. Because he was Lando, and you were Charles's sister, and this could only end in disaster.

But when he'd pulled back and looked at you like you'd hung the stars in the sky, you'd decided that some disasters were worth it.

"We can't tell anyone," you'd said. "Not yet. Charles would—"

"I know," Lando had agreed quickly. "We'll keep it quiet. Just... just for a bit. Until we figure out how to tell him."

That had been six months ago.

Keeping a relationship secret in the Formula 1 paddock was like trying to hide a neon sign in a dark room—technically possible, but requiring constant vigilance and creativity.

You became experts at it.

There were the stolen kisses behind the motorhomes, quick and breathless, always with one of you keeping watch. There were the "accidental" meetings in hotel hallways, where Lando would pull you into his room with a grin and lock the door behind you. There were the coded text messages, the careful distance you maintained in public, the way you'd trained yourselves not to stare at each other during team briefings.

It was thrilling and exhausting in equal measure.

"Je t'aime," Lando whispered one night in Hungary, his arms wrapped around you in his hotel room, the city lights of Budapest twinkling through the window.

You'd dissolved into giggles against his chest. "Je t'aime is 'I love you,' Lando. You can't just throw that around!"

"I know what it means," he'd said, and when you'd pulled back to look at him, his expression was serious. "Why do you think I said it?"

Your heart had stopped. "Lando..."

"You don't have to say it back," he'd said quickly. "I just... I wanted you to know. I'm rubbish at French, but I'm not rubbish at this. At us. I love you."

You'd kissed him instead of answering, pouring everything you felt into it—all the fear and joy and overwhelming affection that had been building for months. When you'd finally pulled away, you'd pressed your forehead to his.

"Je t'aime aussi," you'd whispered. "That means 'I love you too.'"

"I know," he'd grinned. "I'm not that bad at French."

"You really are though."

"Shut up and kiss me again."

You did.

But the secrecy was wearing on both of you. You wanted to hold his hand in public, wanted to kiss him in victory lane, wanted to stop pretending that your heart didn't race every time he walked into a room. You'd decided, finally, to tell Charles after the next race. You'd sit him down, explain everything, and hope that your twin brother would understand.

Then Monza happened.

You'd watched the incident from the Ferrari garage, your heart in your throat as Lando and Charles had battled for position through Lesmo. They'd been racing hard—too hard—and when they'd come together at the apex, sending both cars spinning into the gravel, you'd felt your carefully constructed world begin to crumble.

Charles had been furious in the post-race interviews. "Reckless," he'd called Lando's driving. "Dangerous and disrespectful."

Lando had fired back just as hard. "Maybe if he left more than a millimeter of space, we wouldn't have crashed. But that's Charles, isn't it? His way or no way."

The media had eaten it up. Social media had exploded. And you'd stood in the middle of it all, feeling like you were being torn in two.

You'd tried to talk to Charles that evening, but he'd been too angry, pacing his hotel room like a caged animal.

"He could have hurt someone," Charles had ranted in rapid French. "He could have hurt himself, or me, or—" He'd stopped, looking at you. "Why are you defending him?"

"I'm not defending anyone," you'd said carefully. "I just think maybe you're both too heated right now to—"

"He's not your friend," Charles had said sharply. "I know you're friendly with all the drivers, but Lando Norris is not your friend. He's reckless and immature and—"

You'd left before he could finish, before you could say something you'd regret.

The feud had continued into the next race week in Singapore. Charles wasn't speaking to Lando. Lando wasn't speaking to Charles. The tension in the paddock was thick enough to cut with a knife, and you were caught in the middle, unable to comfort your boyfriend or defend him to your brother.

"We need to wait," you'd told Lando when you'd managed to steal a moment alone. "We can't tell him now. Not when he's like this."

Lando had looked devastated but had nodded. "Okay. Okay, we'll wait. But I hate this. I hate hiding you."

"I know," you'd whispered, kissing him softly. "I hate it too."

Singapore was a night race, which meant the paddock was quieter during the day. You'd snuck into Lando's motorhome during the afternoon break, when most people were at the hotel resting before the evening's activities.

"This is risky," you'd said as Lando locked the door behind you.

"I know," he'd replied, pulling you close. "But I needed to see you. Properly. Not just stolen glances across the paddock."

He'd kissed you then, deep and desperate, and you'd melted into him. It had been days since you'd been properly alone together, days of tension and secrecy and wanting, and suddenly all of that was pouring out.

"I missed you," you'd breathed against his lips.

"Missed you too," he'd murmured, walking you backward toward the small bedroom area. "Missed this. Missed touching you."

His hands had slipped under your shirt, warm against your skin, and you'd gasped. "Lando..."

"Tell me to stop," he'd said, but he was already lifting your shirt over your head. "Tell me this is a bad idea."

"It's a terrible idea," you'd agreed, but you were unbuttoning his jeans.

He'd laughed, that bright, joyful sound you loved, and then his mouth had been on your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts above your bra. You'd fumbled with the clasp, frustrated, until he'd reached around and unhooked it with practiced ease.

"Show off," you'd muttered.

"You love it," he'd grinned, and then his mouth had closed around your nipple and you'd stopped thinking entirely.

Clothes had disappeared in a blur of urgent hands and breathless laughter. He'd laid you back on the narrow bed, hovering over you with eyes gone dark with want.

"Tu es magnifique," he'd attempted, and even through the haze of desire, you'd giggled.

"That's not even close to right."

"I'm trying!"

"Try less talking, more—oh God—"

He'd slid into you in one smooth thrust, and whatever you'd been about to say had dissolved into a moan. He'd stilled, giving you a moment to adjust, his forehead pressed to yours.

"Okay?" he'd whispered.

"More than okay," you'd breathed. "Move. Please move."

He had.

Lando had always been attentive in bed, but today there was an edge of desperation to it, like he was trying to prove something. He'd set a punishing pace, deep and hard, one hand gripping your hip while the other braced beside your head. The motorhome bed had creaked with every thrust, and you'd briefly worried about the noise before his mouth had found that spot on your neck and you'd stopped caring about anything except the feeling of him inside you.

"Fuck," he'd groaned against your skin. "You feel so good. So perfect. My perfect girl."

"Yours," you'd agreed breathlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper. "All yours."

He'd shifted the angle slightly, and suddenly he was hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. You'd cried out, probably too loud, and he'd captured your mouth with his, swallowing your moans.

"That's it," he'd panted against your lips. "Let me hear you. Want to hear how good I make you feel."

His hand had slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and you'd nearly sobbed with the intensity of it. The dual sensation of him pounding into you while his fingers worked that bundle of nerves was overwhelming, pushing you rapidly toward the edge.

"Lando," you'd gasped. "I'm going to—I'm—"

"Come for me," he'd commanded, and the authority in his voice had sent you tumbling over the edge.

You'd come with a cry that he'd muffled with another kiss, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure rolled through you. He'd followed moments later, burying himself deep with a groan as he spilled inside you.

For a long moment, you'd just laid there, tangled together, hearts racing in sync. He'd pressed soft kisses to your face—your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your lips.

"Je t'adore," he'd murmured.

"Better," you'd smiled. "Still terrible pronunciation, but better."

He'd been about to reply when there was a sharp knock on the motorhome door.

You'd both frozen.

"Lando!" Charles's voice, angry and unmistakable. "I know you're in there. We need to talk. Now."

"Shit," Lando had breathed, scrambling off you. "Shit, shit, shit."

You'd grabbed for your clothes, panic flooding your system, but they were scattered everywhere. Your shirt was on the other side of the room. Your bra was somewhere under the bed. You'd managed to grab Lando's McLaren team shirt from the floor and yank it on just as Charles knocked again, harder this time.

"Lando! Open this door!"

"Just a second!" Lando had called, pulling on his jeans. He'd looked at you, wild-eyed. "The cupboard. Hide in the cupboard."

"Are you serious?"

"Do you have a better idea?"

You hadn't. You'd scrambled into the small storage cupboard, pulling the door shut just as Lando opened the motorhome entrance.

"What?" Lando had said, and even through the cupboard door, you could hear the tension in his voice.

"We need to talk about today's practice," Charles had said, his accent thicker with anger. "That move you pulled in Turn 7—"

"That was a clean overtake."

"That was dangerous! You nearly put me in the wall!"

"Maybe you should leave more space then!"

Their voices had risen, the argument escalating quickly. You'd pressed yourself against the back of the cupboard, your heart pounding so hard you were sure they could hear it. You were shaking, whether from the aftermath of sex or pure fear, you weren't sure.

"You know what your problem is?" Charles had shouted. "You think you're invincible! You think you can just do whatever you want with no consequences!"

"And you think you're perfect!" Lando had fired back. "You think everyone should just move out of your way because you're Charles Leclerc!"

"That's not—I'm leaving. I can't talk to you when you're like this."

You'd heard footsteps, heard Charles moving toward the door, and you'd started to breathe a sigh of relief.

Then everything had gone silent.

"Lando," Charles had said, his voice suddenly cold. "Why is my sister's paddock pass on your floor?"

Your blood had turned to ice.

"What?" Lando had said, but his voice had lost its anger, replaced with something like dread.

"Her paddock pass. It's right here. Why is it in your motorhome?"

"She must have dropped it earlier, we were—"

"Don't lie to me." Charles's voice had been deadly quiet. "Where is she?"

"Charles—"

"WHERE IS SHE?"

You'd heard footsteps, heard doors being yanked open, and then suddenly light had flooded your hiding spot as Charles had wrenched open the cupboard door.

For a moment, nobody had moved. Charles had stared at you—at his twin sister, wearing Lando's shirt, hair messed, lips swollen, hiding in a cupboard—and you'd watched realization dawn across his face.

"No," he'd said. "No, no, no."

"Charles—" you'd started, but your voice had come out as barely a whisper. You were shaking so hard you could barely stand.

"How long?" Charles had demanded. "How long has this been going on?"

"It's not—" you'd tried.

"HOW LONG?"

You'd flinched at his shout, pressing back against the cupboard wall, and suddenly Lando had been there, stepping between you and Charles.

"Don't yell at her," Lando had said, his voice hard.

"Don't tell me what to do!" Charles had shouted. "She's my sister! My twin sister! And you—you—"

"I love her," Lando had said firmly.

Charles had laughed, but it was a bitter, angry sound. "Love her? You don't love her. This is just—this is just another game to you!"

"It's not a game," Lando had said, and you could hear the strain in his voice. "I love her. We've been together for six months."

"Six months?" Charles had looked like he'd been slapped. "Six months and you didn't tell me?"

"We were going to," you'd managed to say, finally finding your voice. You'd stepped out of the cupboard on shaky legs, and Lando had immediately moved closer, his hand finding yours. "We were going to tell you after this race, but then you and Lando had the incident and—"

"So this is my fault?" Charles had asked incredulously.

"No! That's not what I'm saying!"

"I can't believe this," Charles had said, running his hands through his hair. "I can't—I need to leave."

"Charles, please—" you'd started, but he'd already been heading for the door.

"Don't," he'd said without turning around. "Just... don't."

The door had slammed behind him, and you'd felt your knees give out. Lando had caught you, lowering you both to the floor, pulling you into his arms as you'd started to shake in earnest.

"It's okay," he'd murmured, pressing kisses to your hair. "It's going to be okay."

But you'd both known it wasn't.

Charles didn't speak to you for three weeks.

He ignored your calls, your texts, your attempts to catch him in the paddock. When you showed up at his hotel room, he wouldn't answer the door. When you tried to approach him at the track, he'd turn and walk away.

It was like losing half of yourself. You and Charles had been inseparable since birth, had shared everything, had never gone more than a day without talking. And now there was just... silence.

Lando stayed by your side through all of it.

He held you when you cried, brought you food when you forgot to eat, ran interference when photographers tried to catch you looking miserable in the paddock. The secret was out now—someone had seen Charles storm out of Lando's motorhome, and the paddock gossip mill had done the rest. Within days, it was all over social media.

"Charles Leclerc's sister dating Lando Norris?"

"The real reason behind the Leclerc-Norris feud?"

"Lando Norris: Home-wrecker or True Love?"

You'd stopped reading after that one.

"I'm sorry," you'd said to Lando one night, curled up in his hotel room. "I'm sorry you're caught in the middle of this."

"I'm not in the middle," he'd said firmly, tilting your chin up to look at him. "I'm on your side. Always on your side."

"He hates you."

"He hates me anyway," Lando had said with a wry smile. "At least now it's for a good reason."

"This isn't funny."

"I know," he'd said, his expression softening. "I know, love. But we'll get through this. He'll come around."

"What if he doesn't?"

Lando had been quiet for a moment. "Then that's his choice. But I'm not giving you up. Not for him, not for anyone."

The breaking point came at the Austin race.

You'd been invited to a major sponsorship event—a huge deal for your career, the kind of opportunity you'd been working toward for years. It was being held on the Thursday before the race weekend, and everyone who was anyone in the motorsport world would be there.

Charles had been invited too. You'd hoped, desperately, that he would show up. That maybe in a public setting, he'd at least acknowledge you.

He hadn't come.

You'd stood in that ballroom, surrounded by people congratulating you on your success, and felt utterly alone. You'd excused yourself halfway through, finding a quiet corner outside to cry.

That's where Lando had found you.

"He didn't come," you'd said unnecessarily.

"I know," Lando had said, pulling you into his arms. "I'm sorry."

"This was important. He knew this was important."

"I know."

You'd cried into his shoulder while he'd held you, one hand stroking your hair, murmuring soft reassurances in terrible French that made you laugh despite everything.

The next day, you'd been in the McLaren garage when you'd heard the shouting.

You'd rushed out to find Lando and Charles face to face in the paddock, Lando's expression thunderous.

"You don't get to do this," Lando was saying, his voice low and dangerous. "You don't get to shut her out."

"This is none of your business," Charles had snapped.

"It's absolutely my business! She's my girlfriend, and you're breaking her heart!"

"I'm breaking her heart? You're the one who—"

"Who what? Who fell in love with her? Who treats her like she's the most incredible person in the world? Because she is, Charles. She's amazing and brilliant and kind, and she deserves better than this."

"You don't know anything about what she deserves!"

"I know she deserves a brother who shows up for her!" Lando had shouted. "That event last night was huge for her, and you couldn't even be bothered to come!"

Charles had flinched.

"You want to be mad at me? Fine. Be mad at me. Yell at me, punch me, I don't care. But you don't get to punish her for my mistakes. You don't get to shut her out because you're angry at me."

"She lied to me," Charles had said, but his voice had lost some of its heat.

"She was scared," Lando had said. "She was scared of exactly this. Of losing you. And you're proving her right."

"I just... I need time."

"Then take time. But don't make her feel like she has to choose between us. Don't make her feel like loving me means losing you."

Charles had looked past Lando then, and you'd realized he'd known you were there the whole time. Your eyes had met, and you'd seen your own pain reflected back at you.

"I'm sorry," Charles had said quietly. "I'm sorry I missed your event."

"Charles—" you'd started, but he'd already been walking away.

But it was a start.

Charles had texted you that night. Just two words: "Can we talk?"

You'd met him at a quiet café away from the circuit, away from the cameras and the gossip. For a long moment, you'd just sat there, two halves of the same whole, separated by hurt and misunderstanding.

"I'm sorry," Charles had said finally. "I'm sorry for shutting you out. That was... that was wrong of me."

"I'm sorry too," you'd said. "I should have told you sooner. I wanted to, I just—"

"You were scared," Charles had finished. "Lando said. And I... I understand why."

"Do you?"

He'd sighed, running a hand through his hair—a gesture so familiar it made your chest ache. "You're my baby sister—"

"By three minutes!"

"—and I've always felt like I needed to protect you. From everything. From the media, from the pressure, from... from guys who might hurt you."

"Lando's not going to hurt me."

"I know," Charles had said, and he'd sounded almost surprised by his own admission. "I've been watching him these past few weeks. The way he looks at you, the way he's been there for you even when I wasn't. He loves you. Really loves you."

You'd felt tears prick your eyes. "He does."

"And you love him?"

"So much it scares me sometimes."

Charles had reached across the table, taking your hand. "Then I'm happy for you. I am. It's just... it's going to take me some time to get used to it. To seeing you with him. To sharing you."

"You're not sharing me," you'd said firmly. "You're my brother. My twin. Nothing and no one will ever change that."

"Not even Lando?"

"Not even Lando."

Charles had smiled then, the first real smile you'd seen from him in weeks. "He's good for you. I can see that. You're happy with him."

"I am."

"But if he hurts you—if he hurts even one hair on your head—"

"I know, I know. You'll kill him."

"Slowly," Charles had agreed. "Very slowly."

You'd laughed, and it had felt like breathing again after being underwater.

Later that day, you'd watched from the garage as Charles had approached Lando in the paddock. You'd held your breath, not sure what to expect.

Charles had extended his hand.

"Take care of her," he'd said.

Lando had shaken it, his expression serious. "Always."

"I mean it, Norris. She's the most important person in my life."

"Mine too," Lando had said.

Charles had studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay. Okay, then."

It wasn't perfect. There was still tension, still awkwardness. But it was a beginning.

The first time you kissed Lando in public, it felt like flying.

It was after the race in Brazil, where he'd finished on the podium. You'd been waiting for him when he'd come down from the ceremony, still soaked in champagne, and he'd spotted you in the crowd and broken into a run.

He'd swept you up in his arms, spinning you around, and you'd laughed with pure joy.

"I'm all wet," he'd warned.

"I don't care," you'd said, and kissed him.

The cameras had flashed. The crowd had cheered. And for the first time in months, you hadn't cared who was watching.

When you'd finally pulled apart, both grinning like idiots, you'd spotted Charles nearby. He'd rolled his eyes, but he'd been smiling.

"Get a room," he'd called.

"Jealous?" Lando had shot back.

"Of you? Please."

But there had been no heat in it. Just the easy banter of friends—or at least, of people learning to be friends.

That night, in Lando's hotel room, he'd pulled you close.

"Mon coeur," he'd attempted.

"My heart," you'd translated, smiling. "That's actually pretty good."

"I've been practicing," he'd admitted. "I want to be able to tell you I love you in your language. Properly."

"You can tell me in any language," you'd said, cupping his face. "I'll always understand."

"Je t'aime," he'd said, his pronunciation still terrible but his sincerity unmistakable. "Je t'aime plus que tout."

"I love you more than anything," you'd whispered. "That's what that means."

"I know," he'd grinned. "I looked it up."

"Show off."

"You love it."

"I love you," you'd corrected, and kissed him.

Later, wrapped in his arms, you'd thought about how far you'd come. From stolen kisses behind motorhomes to this—open, honest, real. It hadn't been easy. It had been messy and complicated and painful.

But as Lando had pressed a kiss to your temple and murmured something in absolutely atrocious French that made you giggle, you'd known it had been worth it.

Every moment. Every risk. Every fear.

Because this—this love, this man, this life—was worth fighting for.

"What did you just say?" you'd asked, still laughing.

"I said you're beautiful," he'd insisted.

"That is not what you said."

"It's what I meant to say!"

"You said something about a potato."

"I did not!"

"You absolutely did. You called me your beautiful potato."

"That's... that's romantic!"

"It's really not."

"In England it is!"

"It's really, really not."

He'd kissed you to shut you up, and you'd let him, still smiling against his lips.

"Je t'aime, ma belle pomme de terre," you'd teased when you'd come up for air.

"What does that mean?"

"My beautiful potato."

"I hate you," he'd laughed.

"No you don't."

"No," he'd agreed, pulling you closer. "I really don't."

And outside, the Brazilian night had sparkled with city lights, and somewhere in the same hotel your brother was probably rolling his eyes at the thought of you two together, and the racing world was probably still gossiping about the Leclerc-Norris drama.

But in that moment, wrapped in Lando's arms, you'd never felt more at peace.

You were done hiding. Done sneaking around. Done pretending that your heart didn't belong entirely to the British driver with the terrible French and the beautiful smile.

You were finally, completely, wonderfully free.

And it was perfect.

[moodswriting]

crimson nights

summary: your relationship with aerion targaryen cements into a carefully crafted visage for the public. the two of you are enviable and untouchable in every way a couple of your status should be. but behind this facade, his recklessness spirals, and one disastrous night threatens not just your reputation, but your safety, your future, and the truth you can no longer ignore. word count: 5.3k

content: modern!aerion x fem!baratheon!reader, modern corporate rivals au, political/business arrangement, fake relationship, enemies to lovers, high society politics, drag racing (and a resulting car crash), messy!aerion, jealous!aerion, possessive tendencies, toxic romance, loooots of tension (and angst), emotional slow burn, public image maintenance, strained relationship, reader has a backbone, old friends reunion (raymun)

warnings: aerion is aerion, jealousy, possessiveness, toxic dynamics, manipulation, alcohol use, reckless driving, illegal street racing, car crash, kinda? graphic injury (head trauma, blood), loss of consciousness, hospitalization, emotional distress, verbal arguments, controlling behavior (grabbing/forcing into situation), misogynistic and objectifying comments, gaslighting/blaming, power imbalance, memory confusion after injury

notes: guys i'm sorry this took a fucking SECOND for me to write lol. i also hope it's worth the wait! there's a lot of angst in this one! i personally really enjoy both writing and reading angst so i feel like its lowkey my schtick. i really enjoyed writing this one! i feel like i got to explore aerion's character and his (true) feelings towards reader in this second part. i try my hardest to keep him as in character as possible :). thank you to all those who asked to be tagged for this part (you have no idea how much that meant to me) and i hope you enjoy and a big thank you to @cherryite for beta reading hehe

previous: velvet teeth

taglist: @iislal @mismwaa @danaaa21 @lokalokahaw @bubblescookiesandcream @mayyvxc @zrhsnclr @emeloyy @smnthsstuff @emneedshelp @harper1666 @confusedwhitegirl10 @stupendouspurseflappaper-blog @httyd-marauders @tehahhshits @ohlalalakai @beggarsnotchoosey @miniaturebluebirdpoetry @confusedwhitegirl10

// reblogs, likes, and comments appreciated! //

The rhythmic tapping of piano keys is soft and inviting, the pianist seated at it playing a familiar tune, though you can't quite place your finger on the name. A singer stands to the left, their voice is low and sultry, crooning words in a language you don't recognize. You're in a floor length gown, a deep forest green, soft and shimmering in the dim lighting of the restaurant. Your hands are folded in your lap, eyes tracing over the same pattern on the wall trim opposite you for the hundredth time.

A quiet voice startles you out of your reverie.

"Ma'am? Are we still waiting for one more?" Your server is an older man, with kind, warm eyes.

"Yes, yes, I am so sorry. He usually isn't late, and I don't know where he's gone off to tonight!" The words escape your lips with a nervous laugh.

He nods and walks back off into the kitchen.

You pick at the table cloth, tracing the circle of condensation your now-empty glass of water left behind. You can feel your face beginning to warm with embarrassment of having been sat here for thirty minutes in silence waiting for Aerion to show up.

You can hear the people around you whispering. Uneasily, you watch as a woman looks at you and whispers to her partner, a hand covering her mouth as her eyes flick back and forth. You're not surprised, not really.

Yours and Aerion's relationship is highly publicized. For all the public knew, the two of you were in a happy partnership, a loving couple. Maekar had ensured both parties, Targaryens and Baratheons, were aware of what was to take place. The intention was for this relationship to be successful, more specifically, as publicly successful as possible.

It must come as such a shock, for them to see you, younger sister to Lyonel Baratheon, sitting all alone at a dining room table in one of the nicest restaurants in King's Landing, waiting for a date who would never show. You'd noticed the looks and the whispers as soon as you stepped through the front doors of the restaurant. It seemed these days your face lived permanently on the front pages of the tabloids devoted to keeping up with the new "it" couple in King's Landing. But as the seconds turned to minutes, and the minutes to a half hour, the whispers had grown into a loud murmur of noise, and each glance your way had burned like a hot iron brand against your skin. The thought makes you sick to your stomach.

Suddenly, you stand up so fast that the chair's legs protest as they screech against the floor. This was humiliating. Gathering your dress up at in your hands, you stride toward the front door. Your heels clack softly against the floor as you make your way out. You murmur a soft apology to the host at the front desk, an apologetic smiling gracing your lips before you step out into the night air.

For a moment you just stand in the chill of the outdoors, pulling in a deep breath of fresh, cool air as you stand with your arms wrapped around your thin dress. Your head is tilted up, watching the faint glow of the moon in the sky, washed out by the bright lights of the city. You close your eyes briefly, savoring the sudden stillness of an ever-bustling street. It's just late enough that there are far fewer people out on the street.

Reaching a hand into your bag, you pull out your phone, hitting the Face Time button on the group chat you share with Dunk and Tanselle.

The call chimes once, twice, than a third time before connecting. Tanselle is sitting at the desk in her bedroom, with a straightener in her hand. Her other hand is tangled deep in the tight coils of her hair. Dunk's glasses are low on his nose, squinting over the camera at something out of sight.

"Hey! Hows the date going?" Tanselle asks, steam rising into the air as she pulls the straightener through her hair. Dunk nods enthusiastically, but obviously preoccupied.

You grip your phone tighter, shouldering your bag higher up so it rests more comfortably.

"Aerion never showed. I don't know where he is. He didn't bother to text or to call, and—"

"Oh boy."

"Jesus Christ."

The words come in unison. Tanselle halts, straightener still hot in her hand. Dunk looks up, pushing his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose.

"What?" You raise an eyebrow, the streetlight above you casting an eerie halo around your head. "Do you know where he is?"

The two of them quickly look away from their cameras. Tanselle drops her straightener onto her desk, and both of them reach for their phones. For a couple seconds all you can see are their foreheads, blue-white in the light of their phone screens. You watch as they type furiously to each other before setting their phones back in position and looking back at you.

"So. A couple times—" Tanselle starts.

"Only a few, you know, not a ton—" Dunk injects quickly.

"Maekar has had us go get Daeron, and Aerion, when they get too…you know." Tanselle is looking directly at the camera now. Based on how shes talking, you quickly deduce that it's far more than a couple times. All of King's Landing knows of Daeron and his… proclivities towards getting drunk—and staying drunk.

Dunk speaks again. "Daeron frequents the pubs so he's always easy to find but Aerion… Aerion… uh, he—" Dunk scratches the back of his head and pauses, as if he's rethinking his choice to tell you this. "—drag races."

The call goes totally silent. For a second all you can hear are the crickets chirping in the nearby bushes and the soft whistle of the wind rushing through near-naked branches, trees long since stripped of their leaves as fall bleeds into winter.

"So instead of showing up to our date he is…what? Risking his life driving some car around?" You scoff.

Aerion hadn't exactly treated you well these past weeks since the gala, not since the kiss you shared in the courtyard. You still remembered how you'd stood there, fingers pressed against swollen lips, staring at the dark, gaping doorway he'd walked back through.

You honestly shouldn't be shocked. If you were to be given a dollar each time he showed up on-time—each time he showed up at all—to dates, you'd be the poorest beggar on the streets of Flea Bottom.

Despite it all, you'd thought that maybe the two of you were finally on the same page. That, however naively, you'd begun to enjoy each others company. At least, to the extent that you could—you still hadn't forgiven him for the way he'd treated you at the gala. The thought of him in that hallway, hands sliding up the back of that girls dress, kissing her harder as soon as he locked eyes with you.

The two of them stare off to the side, quiet. They wait for you to speak first.

"Just when I thought he couldn't get any—" You break off with a tired sigh. "Where is he?"

The driver pulls off slowly, leaving you standing before a multi-floored parking garage. It's a colossal structure made of sun-bleached concrete, with words scrawled on the walls in black graffiti. Crushed cans and cigarette butts are scattered between the tufts of weeds, growing up through the cracks in the pavement.

The bass of distant music is so loud you can feel it even all the way out in the lot. There are a few people milling about the entrance to the garage dressed in a fashion far from what you're used to in your world. Three guys and one girl stare you down from where they stand, leaned up against the wall, cigarettes flickering orange between their lips. The girl is in a short paid miniskirt, a near see through white collared shirt tied over her belly button. The men are in loose tees and shirts, shorts and pants slung low around their waists. One wears a silk black bandana tied over his bleached blond hair. Another, a gray beanie tugged low over his face. The last wears an expensive, but well-loved gray leather jacket.

In truth, you felt peoples' eyes on you the second you stepped out of the company car. You were dressed in a gown you didn't even want to know the price of. Maekar had sent it and you knew the Targaryens paid well for protection. You know you stick out like a sore thumb. Their eyes continue tracking you as you walk through the entrance, heels clicking as you walk deeper into the garage, their soft murmurs following you as cigarette smoke wafts into the darkened sky.

The area is flooded in multi colored lights and smoke. There are throngs of people leaned up against cars you've only seen in movies. People dance in the flashing lights, skin tight outfits glimmering as they twist their bodies.

That's when you see him. He stands with his back facing you, talking with a couple of other guys.

You still, frozen in step, eyes locked onto Aerion. Fury boils hot beneath your skin and you feel a sick sense of wonder at how it is possible for him to completely forget about you.

He's wearing a loose white cutoff tank and low slung black washed jeans. There are silver chains looped through belt buckles. As he reaches to clap someone on the shoulder, his shirt lifts just high enough. You can see a black inked dragon, wings tucked, stretched over his side. His hair is messy, tufts of his hair stick up like the ridges on a dragon's back.

You cross the space between you in the blink of an eye, your hand closing around his forearm before he even realizes what's happening.

He turns as you tug his arm hard, a look of confusion and annoyance on his face. He pivots slightly, half facing the group, half facing you. He looks at you as if you are nothing but a fly, annoyingly buzzing around him on a hot summer day.

"What are you doing here?"

You glance around at the other people in the group, yanking him away into a quieter corner.

"What do you mean what am I doing here?" The words escape your lips in a hiss so cold you're sure the room's temperature drops a few degrees. He shrugs out of your tight grip with almost no effort at all.

Aerion's eyes glow unnaturally in the light of the room as he watches you, gaze tracing appreciatively over your dress. It hugs you in all the right places, the forest green nearly black in the dim light of the corner you've pulled him into. He runs a hand through his hair, tousling the short strands even further before leaning back against a stone pillar.

"You look nice." His tongue darts out, swiping across his lips as they stretch into a familiar smirk.

"Are you serious? That's all you have to say?" You try your best to keep your voice down, but your patience begins to slip. Anger surges through you, your voice growing louder.

"What? I can't compliment my girlfriend?" The words are teasing in tone, dancing across your skin. There is no guilt in them. They are empty. Nothing.

That is when you realize that he had forgotten, completely and utterly, about your date. He hadn't even actively decided to skip it. It had been so unimportant that he didn't even know what he had done wrong. Your heart betrays you, the pang is sharp and deep in your chest, pumping this rot through the rest of you.

You push it all down, because despite it all, you find yourself worried. "We need to go. Is this even legal? Does Maekar even know? Lyonel is going to kill me—" The words leave you in a panic.

He cuts you off as he rights himself, moving away from the pillar he was leaning against. He's already turning away from you. "Yeah, whatever. We can go after I race."

Aerion leaves you there, in a room full of unfamiliar people, in a dress that's too thin for the weather—alone.

You stand hugging yourself with your arms, thinking of all the places you'd rather be then here. As you glance around the room, searching for a spot you might be able to wait in unnoticed, you hear your name called out by a familiar voice.

A man with a mop of curly brown hair on his head makes his way to you. He wears a deep maroon leather jacket and loose black pants.

"Raymun!" Your smile is huge, a wave of nostalgia crashing over you as you embrace him.

He laughs as you squeeze him tightly, a warm and genuine smile stretching across his face. "Dressed up for the drag race?"

You laugh. "No, this was from—never mind. How have you been? It's been such a long time."

Raymun smiles, shaking his head. "Almost didn't recognize you. We don't exactly look like how we did in high school anymore, eh?"

You suppress a shiver at the cold. "Not anymore, I guess. For better or for worse."

His eyes widen. "Shit, are you cold?"

Before you can say anything, Raymun pulls his jacket off, wrapping it around your shoulders. It smells faintly of wood-smoke and green apples. The jacket is smooth and warm against your chilled skin.

You look at him for a bit, before you speak again. Taking in his warm brown eyes, hair the color of a chocolate lab (the personality of one, too).

You nudge him, teasingly, "So why are you at a drag race?"

The tips of his ears turn red, "Oh! Yeah, I'm, uh, helping Steffon. He's racing today. He's being a right dick though."

"I see some things never change."

Raymun laughs at your words. You find it easy to slip into conversation with him. Being around him feels like old times, simpler times, and the banter comes easily. You begin to feel the stress and annoyance from the night melting away. You'd missed having such a good friend around.

"Hey, do you want something to drink?" He rubs the back of his head. "Not sure they'll have anything besides shitty liquor, but you look like you'd need something to keep you warm. Besides my jacket of course."

You grin. "Sure, thank you."

You watch him walk back into the crowd, melting into the sea of bodies, before emerging out on the other side. The lights dance over the floor and over the bar where he stands, yelling to the bartender who can barely hear him.

Raymun is looking down at the drinks he's balancing, "Hey, okay so I got them to make us some—" his voice cuts off abruptly as he looks up, "—drinks."

Aerion stands behind you, cold fury radiating off of him in suffocating waves.

"Fossoway." He glances at you, taking in the red leather jacket draped over your dress. His hand reaches for the collar of the jacket before he begins to tug it off, your arms tangled up in the fabric of the coat.

"She won't be needing this anymore." He tosses the jacket at Raymun's feet. It lands in a heap on the cold concrete floor.

You stand there in shock, the chill forcing you to wrap your arms around yourself once more. The music that reverberates through the space fades into the background.

Then Aerion wraps his hand around your forearm, gripping tightly, before pulling you away. His lips brush the shell of your ear, and a chill—that has nothing to do with the cool temperature—runs through your body.

"Time to go, little stag." You feel him smiling, the edge of a sharp canine grazing the skin of your ear.

You turn to look back at Raymun, sending him what you hope is a soft smile as if to say, don't worry about me. Raymun is still standing there, a drink in each hand. The shocked look on his face has faded into anger and disbelief. Not at you, no, at the way that Aerion has treated you.

You wonder briefly if he knows anything about yours and Aerion's relationship. If he does, it'll be from what he sees on the tabloids. He'll have only seen the performance the two of you put on for the flashing shutters of cameras.

You pull your arm, twisting it in Aerion's grip till the skin of your arm burns hot. It's futile, and you know it.

"Aerion, stop. Are you crazy? Where are you taking me?"

You're watching the back of his head, waiting for him to turn and answer. He doesn't, long strides forcing you to quicken your step so as to not be dragged behind him.

"Aerion? Look at me. Please." Your words are desperate, fear snaking through your veins. "I'm not even angry about the dinner okay? I just want to go home."

When he doesn't respond you continue, "I'm sorry I came out here, okay? I can leave. I'll call the driver and he can take me back."

He stops abruptly. The two of you have stopped in front of a sleek black Dodge Challenger with silver trim. He finally turns to look at you.

When your eyes meet, you swear his gaze burns. "Get in the car."

He yanks the passenger side door open, his arm resting on the top of the frame.

You pull your lip between your teeth, before releasing it. "I don't know if this is a good idea Aerion. You're clearly angry, and driving while you're—"

"Get. In. The. Car." His jaw tightens, and the words fall through clenched teeth.

You place one hand on the door, the metal cool against your palm, before ducking your head and sliding into the leather seat. The seat is ice-cold beneath your legs. You're barely settled inside before Aerion slams the passenger door shut. The heavy door nearly catches your hand.

When Aerion slides into the driver seat, you're still sitting stiffly in the passenger seat. You risk a glance over at him, taking in the prominent veins along his neck, the clench of his jaw, his eyes scanning the room through the car windshield. One hand is on the wheel, squeezing so tightly his knuckles show white through his skin. The other hand rests on the gearshift. The leather squeaks under the strength of his grip.

In this moment, you find yourself wondering how he could possibly be mad at you. Annoyance bursts through you at the thought. You open your mouth to speak before a knock on the driver side door stops you.

It is a woman, hair done up in space buns, dark eyeliner lining her eyes. She shouts something through the glass at Aerion, her top glimmering in the light as she leans closer to the closed window. You watch her gloved hand gesture at the beginning of the track. Aerion nods, and something in his eyes shutters as he pulls the car into reverse.

The engine starts not with a soft purr, no, it starts with a roar so loud, heads whip around to look. Those nearest the car clear out of the way fast, parting to create a path for Aerion to pull his car to the starting line. The rumble of the engine beneath you is so loud it drowns out the sound of the music and party goers.

Aerion turns the wheel with one hand, the other resting against the center console, close enough you could feel the heat of him through your dress. You stare straight ahead, fingers laced tightly together in your lap. When Aerion got angry, he got angry. If you gave him an inch, he'd take a whole mile. He can act however he wants and you were going to punish him for it.

Another car, a deep green color, pulls up beside you. The driver has dyed red hair so dark it looks the color of blood. It's gelled back, spiked up to form a pair of aggressive devil horns. The knuckles on the hand gripping his steering wheel are tattooed with letters you can't make out. His other hand is holding a lit cigarette to his lips.

He exhales a cloud of smoke, as he rolls down his window.

"Hey, Aerion, maybe we race for her yeah? If I win, I get to have a night with this one, if you win, well," He looks at your, oily black eyes appraising you. "Looks like you're gonna get a night with her anyways. 'Sides, I ain't slept with a girl this fancy before." He lets out a loud, abrasive laugh as he rolls his window back up.

Aerion's jaw just clenches in response, teeth grinding as he stares straight ahead. The veins in his arms bulge as he grips the wheel of the car impossibly tight.

Neither of you get the chance to say anything. At that instant, a woman in a bikini top and cutoff cargo shorts walks out in front of the cars. She holds two small bandannas in her hand, one bright red, the other black. Her slender arms lift up over her head, red painted nails bright against the fabric.

The bandannas fall, floating down to the floor. The second they touch the floor, the smell of burning rubber fills your nose, tires squealing and engine growling as Aerion presses the gas pedal to the floor. You don't even hear the loud yell the crowd lets out as the cars take off.

The garage is a narrow space. Just wide enough for two cars to fit through side-by-side, the turns so tight you could knock off a side mirror if you weren't watching where you were going.

The cars are side by side, the walls of the garage blur past in a tapestry of gray, blues, and blacks. You sit tense in your seat, watching as Aerion deftly switches gears, his feet dancing over the different pedals.

There is something fascinating about his concentration, about the skill and practice it takes to race the way he does. The thought flashes through your mind before you can stop it—I hope he wins.

You convince yourself you only want him to win because of the smug bastard racing him. You tell yourself it's so that you can see the look on his face when Aerion's car pulls forward and across the finish line.

You are still trying to convince yourself when you realize, in your distress, you never strapped your seatbelt on. In that moment, you hear the tires of Aerion's car screech and the car wobble. He tries to correct it, hand turning the wheel to counteract the skid—but it's no use.

The car clips the pillar hard, and the vehicle slams to the side, and then suddenly, you're floating upside down. You're weightless in the air, if only for a split second. Your necklace floats, dangling down over your face. Your fingers tighten, gripping the armrest in a futile attempt to keep yourself anchored.

The moment feels frozen in time—until you pitch forward, slamming head first into the windshield. Your head is feels split open, something warm and wet trickling down your temple. The last thing you hear before your vision goes black is the sound of the car groaning, the metal creaking in protest under the strain.

AERION TARGARYEN AND SISTER OF LYONEL BARATHEON CAUGHT IN FIERY CAR CRASH

Just this past weekend, the power couple were traveling through King's Landing on their way to a dinner date at one of the most esteemed restaurants in the area. The Targaryen heir was in the driver's seat, and the Baratheon in the passenger seat when the accident occurred. A source close to the family mentioned that the pair had been seen arguing before getting into the car and leaving the Targaryen family estate.

The two were traveling southbound on the King's Road when a car swerved out of the other lane, and crashed head on into the pair's car. Bystanders stated the car spun wildly out of control before crashing into one of the pillars lining the main road. Upon impact, it was said that the hood of the car began to smoke, before bursting into flames.

When ambulances arrived, Aerion Targaryen stepped out unharmed, smoky and bruised, but alright. The same could not be said for the sister of Lyonel Baratheon. She was seen loaded onto a stretcher, and into an ambulance.

We are currently unsure which hospital she is being treated at, but sources have phoned in saying it she's being held at a private wing of the hospital within the Red Keep Estate. Updates on this story will be posted as soon as possible.

Aerion slips into the room, the door opening silently, a small gust of air fluttering through his hair when he shuts the door gently. In his bruised hand is a bundle of yellow tulips, your favorite. His hand had tightened around them earlier, without him noticing, and the stems had crumpled just slightly.

He pads into the space, eyes roving over your peaceful figure. He stands over you, breathing deeply, the sterile scent of the hospital stinging as it fills his nose, cut with the soft, clean scent of you. Turning to the bedside table, he arranges the tulips in the empty vase, amongst the other get-well-soon items others have left.

Aerion spots the balloons Lyonel tied to your hospital bed, and the sight of the words and images printed on them makes the slightest of grins stretch across his face. They're covered in ridiculous photos of you, 0.5 pictures of you that warp your face so much you look like an alien. He's never seen this side of you—a non-serious, normal, side of you.

When he turns back to look at you, your chest softly rising and falling underneath the thin hospital blanket, he feels something deep within his chest. Aerion's eyes trail over the bruises, the place where your head hit the windshield, the marks along the side of your face. He lingers, and it hits him, unwanted and sudden—he's afraid of losing you. There's a rush of guilt, of anger, and all these feelings he'd never felt—no, feelings he'd suppressed—for you.

All that he'd been doing had been to push you away. Every smirk, every time he'd missed a date, every time the two of you had argued. His father had decided what was best for him was to leash him to you. You'd be his handler now. He'd wanted to spite Maekar, to do just enough. Malicious compliance is what he had decided on committing to. If Maekar wanted you two to look good together and for Aerion to pretend to behave, that he would do. That, and nothing more.

Watching you in the hospital bed, knowing it'd been hours and you still hadn't woken—knowing that each bruise was his fault—he turned towards the door, chest heaving. Oh, how far he had fallen.

It is so bright. Even through your eyelids, the light stings your eyes. They feel as if they'd been glued shut. Your whole body hurts.

You part your cracked lips, a soft groan escaping you. Your eyes finally open, taking in the stark white hospital room, a thin blue curtain tied up near your bed.

Blinking hard, you scan the room as you vision slowly clears, weakly turning your head until your eyes land on Aerion.

He has stitches over his eyebrow, and one eye is badly bruised and swollen. He has his hands in the pocket of an oversized jacket.

He speaks first, softly, "What do you remember?"

You think. And think. All you can remember are bits and pieces, flashing lights, the crunch of metal, the pounding bass of a song you don't recognize. Frustration floods you.

"I don't know. I remember it being noisy. There were bright lights. I don't—" You clench your fists into the blanket, the IV stings as you shift.

Aerion just watches you silently, white-blond hair glowing in the bright light of the midday sun. Dust motes float gently through the air, sparkling as they're caught by rays of sunlight.

The memories surge through you like a tidal wave, flashing through your mind like the scenes of an old film motion picture. You feel everything at once, then only one thing—anger. Anger at Aerion, and anger at yourself for thinking he could ever be better than he is. You grit your teeth, looking to the floor, then at him.

The words burst forth, pouring from you like water from a broken dam.

"Why did you make me get in that car? The accident—I was only there to try to bring you home." You gasp a breath. "I didn't even want to be there, Aerion. Do you know how long I sat at that restaurant waiting—"

"Maybe you shouldn't have been flirting with Fossoway then." He says it coolly. As if the whole ordeal had been your fault.

Your jaw drops in shock, and you wince from the way the movement pulls at your bruised skin.

"Are you—are you serious?" Your voice reflects genuine surprise. You are astounded that that's what he's thinking about right now.

Aerion's jaw clenches, and you see emotions warring behind his eyes till they shutter, growing cold once more.

"You leave me, sitting at a restaurant, waiting around for you as if I have nothing better to do, nowhere better to be, so you can go off an drag race? Aerion, I don't know if you remember, but I, we, the Baratheons, are doing this to save you. Out of whatever good faith is left between our families."

You pause, chest heaving as you catch your breathe. You can feel traitorous tears beginning to gather in the corners of your eyes. Your vision blurs.

"I got hurt Aerion. This time is different. You continuously stand me up? It's fine. Maekar is there to cover your tracks and I can just go back home and pretend I'm not dating some—" You gesture angrily at him, hands flying as you talk. "—absolute dickhead who doesn't care about me. Who doesn't care about my feelings, or my time, or anything at all."

The first tear falls, tracing a wet path down your cheek. You wipe at it angrily, wincing again when you press too hard on a bruise.

He opens his mouth as if to say something, pink lips parting around empty air, then closes them again. They press together so tightly his mouth forms a think pink line.

"You won't even say anything?" Your voice is defeated, the energy and the fight drained out of you. "Get out."

He just stands there for a moment, still in that relaxed posture, hands still limp inside the pockets of his jacket.

"I said, get the fuck out." You raise your voice, the anger is biting, writhing beneath your carefully calm exterior.

Tears threaten to fall from your eyes but you don't let them. You don't let them fall until Aerion turns on his heel, slamming the door behind him as he leaves. As they trace salty paths down your face, you stand on unsteady feet—cold tile a shock to your bare feet. You wrench the tulips out of the vase, throwing them into the small plastic trash can by your bed.

You are still standing, in your thin and flimsy hospital gown when a nurse knocks. She peeks in to check on you.

"Sweetie, are you okay? I heard the door slam." Her eyes are kind, and filled with concerned. She takes in your tears, your red eyes, and trembling hands. "Do you need me to call someone, hon? Or an extra blanket?"

You smile a sad, soft smile. "I'm fine." You wipe the tears away gently, careful of the bruises littering your face. "I promise I'm okay, thank you."

© moodswriting, 2026 ♡ please do not copy, repost, or translate my work.

[sunnysidepages]

I'd rather kiss the drummer! - ka12

𖤓 when their bassist breaks his hand two weeks before the biggest uni band competition of the year, they need a replacement. fast. You weren’t planning on joining a band, especially not one that’s competing against your ex. But when their post shows up on your feed, it suddenly feels like the perfect idea. Revenge first. Everything else later.

𖤓 kimi antonelli x fem!reader, band au, uni au, rivals, strangers to bandmates to lovers, smau + written (multi-part), drummer!Kimi, quiet!Kimi x chaotic!reader, fc:bea

𖤓 note: All the uni stuff is UK based, so if some things seem odd, sorry gang idk how uni life or degrees work in other countries! Also my goofy ass has never touched a guitar, let alone been in a band so um if all the music stuff also doesn't make any sense, just ignore it pls! Episodes will be posted weekly!

𖤓 Listen to "Teenage Dirtbag" when reading this!

Profiles | Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five | Part six | Part seven | Part eight | Part nine | Part ten

You stared at your phone.

Kimi's last message glowed on the screen: see you at 7.

Your brain had stopped working approximately four texts ago, somewhere between dinner at Antonio's and dress nice. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. You'd asked about a bracelet. A BRACELET. How had a bracelet turned into dinner at the most romantic restaurant in the city?

He's just being nice, you told yourself. Friends have dinner together. Friends dress up and go to nice restaurants and —

"EMERGENCY. EMERGENCY MEET UP AT MY DORM NOW."

You'd already typed the message before you could stop yourself. Your fingers moved faster than your brain, which was probably for the best because your brain was currently useless.

The first knock came thirty seconds later.

Franco leaned against your doorframe, not even out of breath, like he'd been teleported there. "You said emergency."

"How are you always this fast? like genouinly how??"

"Because you always desperately need my amazing guidance and help," He stepped inside, scanning the room. "What happened? Tell me everything."

Before you could answer, Gabriel appeared in the doorway, shirt inside out, hair somehow vertical. "I was in the middle of a nap. This better be good."

Next, Devon came running down the hall in heels — HEELS — because of course she did. "WHAT. WHAT HAPPENED. IS EVERYONE OKAY."

"I'm fine —"

"THEN WHY DID YOU SAY EMERGENCY."

"I panicked —"

"YOU NEVER PANIC. THIS IS SERIOUS."

Isack arrived next, laptop under his arm, looking like he'd been dragged away from something important. Ella stumbled in last, still wearing her supermarket uniform — a blue polo shirt with a grease stain on the collar, her name tag slightly crooked. "I RAN. I RAN THE WHOLE WAY. MY MANAGER IS GOING TO KILL ME."

"Your shift isn't over?" Isack questioned with a raised eyebrow.

"I told her it was a family emergency."

"It IS a family emergency," Devon said. "This is about LOVE."

Ella's eyes went wide. "I see we're using the scary L word Y/N hates, so it must be super serious then"

"YES." You held up your phone. "Look. Just — look."

They crowded around. Five heads bent over the screen, reading the messages in unison. The silence stretched. Then —

"HE ASKED YOU ON A DATE," Devon screamed.

"I don't know that —"

"ANTONIO'S," Gabriel yelled. "ANTONIO'S IS WHERE PEOPLE PROPOSE."

"It's just dinner —" you try to argue.

"DRESS NICE," Isack read aloud. "I'll PICK YOU UP at SEVEN."

"He's just being polite —"

"KIMI ANTONELLI," Ella said slowly, "just asked you to dinner at the most expensive restaurant in the city and told you to dress nice."

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

"That's a date," Franco said quietly.

"It's NOT —"

"Y/N." Franco's voice was gentle. "Friends don't go to Antonio's on a Tuesday night. Friends don't say dress nice. Friends don't —" he glanced at the phone, "— send smiley faces."

"That's not —"

"Let me get you dressed," Devon said, already pulling open your wardrobe. "Oh my god, let me get you DRESSED."

"You don't even know if I'm going —"

"You're going."

"I'm not —"

"You're going." Devon pulled out a dress — the black one, the one she'd been begging you to wear for months. "Wear this."

"That's too fancy."

"It's Antonio's. Nothing is too fancy."

Gabriel was already on his phone. "Okay so I just looked it up and the cheapest thing on the menu is like forty pounds."

"FORTY POUNDS FOR WHAT?" you shout from your bedroom as you put the dress on.

"Garlic bread."

"GARLIC BREAD IS NOT WORTH FORTY POUNDS."

Isack took the phone from Gabriel. "It says here they do a couples discount."

"A COUPLES DISCOUNT?!"

"It's a romantic restaurant, Y/N. What did you expect?"

"I expected —" You stopped. Swallowed. "I expected to get my bracelet back. That's it. That's all this was supposed to be."

Ella sat on the bed, still in her work uniform, still slightly out of breath. "But it's not, though. Is it?"

You looked at your friends. Franco's gentle smile. Devon's excited energy. Gabriel's chaos. Isack's raised eyebrow. Ella's knowing eyes.

"I don't do dates," you said. "You know I don't do dates. After Mark — I'm not — I don't —"

"You don't have to call it a date," Franco said. "Call it dinner. Call it a friendly meal. Call it whatever you need to call it. But you're going. Because you want to."

"I don't —"

"You walked twenty minutes to his building last week."

"That was —"

"You let him carry your bass."

"That's just —"

"You rested your head on his shoulder for thirty minutes and pretended to be asleep."

Your face went hot. "I WAS tired."

"You were pretending."

"I was —" You stopped. Sighed. "I hate all of you."

"No you don't," Devon said, already holding up the black dress. "Now put this on. We have three hours and your hair is a disaster."

The doorbell rang at exactly 7 PM.

You'd been pacing for ten minutes. Devon had done your makeup. Ella had fixed your hair. Franco had told you to breathe approximately forty-seven times. Gabriel had taken approximately eighty photos for "archival purposes."

"Go," Devon hissed. "GO."

"I'm going."

"You look hot."

"I look like I'm trying too hard."

"You look like you're about to make him forget his own name."

You opened the door.

Kimi was standing there.

He was wearing a dark button-down you'd never seen before. His hair was pushed back from his forehead. His jaw was —

Stop it, you told yourself. He's just a friend. This is just dinner.

But then he looked at you.

And stopped.

His eyes went wide. His mouth opened slightly. He stared — actually stared — like he'd forgotten how to speak, how to move, how to do anything except stand there and look at you.

"You look —" he started.

"You have my bracelet," you interrupted.

"I do." He held it up — the silver chain you'd left in the practice room, the one your grandmother had given you. "Figured I should return it in person."

"You could have given it to me tomorrow."

"I could have."

"You didn't have to —"

Kimi tilted his head. "Friends can have dinner."

"Friends can."

"At nice restaurants."

"They can."

"On Tuesday nights."

"If they want to."

Kimi's mouth twitched. That almost-smile. "Then it's settled. We're friends. Having dinner."

"Exactly."

"At a romantic restaurant."

"Okay." You stepped out, closing the door behind you. "Then let's go."

He didn't move.

"Kimi?"

"Yeah." He shook his head slightly, like he was waking up from a dream. "Yeah. Sorry. You just —" He stopped. Started again. "The dress."

"What about it?"

"Nothing." He looked away, hiding his face that was now turning light pink. "Nothing. Let's go."

You walked to his car.

He opened the door for you.

You pretended not to notice the way his hand lingered on the frame, or the way he looked at you one more time before walking around to the driver's side.

Friends, you told yourself. Just friends.

But friends didn't look at each other like that.

Antonio's was exactly as ridiculous as your friends had described.

Candles on every table. White tablecloths. A pianist in the corner playing something soft and romantic. The lighting was low, intimate, the kind of lighting that made everyone look like they were in a movie.

You felt wildly out of place.

Kimi pulled out your chair. You sat. He sat across from you, close enough that your knees almost touched under the table.

"So," you said.

"So."

"This is —"

"Nice."

"Yeah." You looked around. "Really nice."

"You sound surprised."

"I didn't think you were the type to know places like this."

Kimi shrugged. "My parents took me here once. For a graduation."

"Engineering graduation?"

"Drumming graduation."

"You had a drumming graduation?"

"I had a recital. They made a big deal out of it." His mouth curved. "My sister cried."

"That's adorable."

"It was embarrassing."

"What else?"

Kimi tilted his head. "What else what?"

"You know everything about me. My major. My friends. My coffee order. I know nothing about you." You leaned forward. "So. Tell me."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I have a sister. Maggie. She's eleven."

"Eleven?"

"She's annoying. She steals my hoodies. She sends me voice notes that are thirteen minutes long."

"That's adorable."

"It's exhausting."

"What else?"

Kimi shrugged. "My parents are both engineers. They wanted me to be an engineer too."

"And instead you became a drummer."

"And instead I became a drummer." His mouth curved. "They're still processing."

You laughed. It felt easy. Natural. Like you'd been doing this for years.

"What about you?" Kimi asked. "How did you start playing bass?"

You hesitated. You didn't talk about this. Not with Mark. Not with most people.

"My grandfather," you said finally. "He was a musician. He taught me when I was twelve. I wasn't very good at first —"

"You're good now."

"You haven't heard me play outside of band practice."

"I've heard enough."

Your chest tightened. "He died a few years ago. I stopped playing after that. It didn't feel right. Playing without him. And well, Mark was also not very keen on me playing bass."

Kimi didn't say anything. He just listened. The way he always did.

"But then Ollie asked me to join the band," you continued. "And I thought — maybe it's time. Maybe I don't have to stop just because he's gone."

"You don't," Kimi said softly. "He'd probably want you to play."

"Yeah," you said. "He probably would."

The food came. Pasta. Wine. Things you couldn't pronounce. You talked about nothing and everything — about Maggie's obsession with cats, about your grandfather's terrible taste in hats, about the time Kimi accidentally set off the fire alarm in his dorm and blamed it on burnt toast.

"You didn't burn toast," you said, mid-laugh.

"I burned something."

"What did you burn?"

"…Popcorn."

"Kimi."

"It was a mistake."

"You set off a fire alarm because of POPCORN."

"The bag said three minutes. I got distracted."

"By what?"

Kimi looked at you. His eyes were dark in the candlelight. "By something."

Your heart skipped.

Stop it, you told yourself. This is just dinner. Friends have dinner.

But friends didn't look at each other like that.

The waiter appeared with the bill.

You reached for it automatically. "I'll get half —"

Kimi's hand covered yours. "No."

"I can pay for myself —"

"I know." He didn't move his hand. "But you're not going to."

"Kimi —"

"Friends can treat friends."

"This isn't —" You stopped. His hand was warm. His fingers were wrapped around yours, not tight, just — there. "This is expensive."

"I know."

"Kimi."

"Y/N."

The waiter cleared his throat. "Couple's discount?"

You opened your mouth to correct him — we're not a couple, we're just friends, this isn't a date —

"Yes," Kimi said. "Thank you."

The waiter smiled. Walked away.

You stared at Kimi. "Why did you —"

"It's cheaper."

"You let him think —"

"It's significantly cheaper."

"That's not the point —"

"What's the point?"

The point was that your heart was racing. The point was that his hand was still on yours. The point was that you didn't pull away.

"Nothing," you said. "No point."

Kimi's thumb brushed across your knuckles. Once. Twice. Then he let go.

"Ready to go?" he asked.

"Yeah," you said. "Okay."

His car was warm. The heater hummed. The city lights blurred past the window, gold and orange against the dark.

You sat in the passenger seat, bracelet back on your wrist, your grandmother's silver cool against your skin. Kimi drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. Close to your knee. Not touching.

"So," you said.

"So."

"That was —"

"Dinner."

"Yeah." You looked at him. His profile was sharp against the streetlights. "Good dinner."

"Yeah."

"You didn't have to pay."

"I know."

"You didn't have to let the waiter think we were a couple."

Kimi was quiet for a moment. Then: "Maybe I wanted to."

Your breath caught.

He didn't look at you. His eyes stayed on the road. But his hand — his hand shifted on the gearshift. Closer. Not touching. Almost.

This is not a date, you told yourself. This is not a date.

But it felt like one.

And you weren't sure you minded.

He walked you to your building. The street was quiet, the party long over, the only light from the lamp above the entrance.

You stopped at the door. Turned to face him.

"Thanks," you said. "For the bracelet."

"You're welcome."

"And the dinner."

"You're welcome."

"And —" You paused. "For not making it weird."

Kimi tilted his head. "Was it not weird?"

"No," you said. "It was — it was nice."

"Nice."

"Nice."

He smiled. That small, private smile that made your stomach flip.

"Goodnight, Y/N."

"Goodnight, Kimi."

You should have gone inside. You should have turned, walked through the door, ended the night like a normal person.

Instead, you leaned up.

Pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Quick. Soft. Barely there.

Then you turned, pushed open the door, and walked inside before you could see his face.

Your heart was pounding. Your hands were shaking. Your cheek was burning where his stubble had brushed against your skin.

You closed the door behind you and leaned against it.

Devon, Ella, and Franco were standing in the living room.

Franco was holding a mug of tea. Devon was holding her phone, clearly mid-text. Ella was still in her work uniform, because of course she hadn't changed.

"WE SAW THAT," Devon screamed.

"FROM THE WINDOW," Ella added.

"I'm not even going to ask why you're here," you said, looking at Franco.

"I'm sleeping over," Franco said. "And discussing tea. Don't even start."

"You kissed him on the cheek," Devon said. "ON THE CHEEK."

"It was a friend kiss."

"THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS A FRIEND KISS."

"There is in France."

"We're not in France."

"Cultural ignorance."

Devon threw a pillow at you. You caught it.

"WHAT DID HE SAY," Ella demanded. "After you kissed him. WHAT DID HE DO."

"I didn't look."

"YOU DIDN'T LOOK."

"I closed the door. I didn't want to — I didn't —" You pressed your hands to your cheeks. They were burning. "Oh god."

"Oh god good or oh god bad?"

"I don't know."

Franco set down his tea. Walked over. Put his hands on your shoulders.

"Breathe," he said.

"I'm breathing."

"You're hyperventilating."

"I'm fine."

"You're in love."

"I'm not —"

"You kissed him on the cheek and ran inside like a teenager."

"I was being polite."

"You were being romantic."

"I don't do romance."

Franco smiled. "You do now."

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him he was wrong. You wanted to list all the reasons this was just a friendly dinner between two people who happened to be in a band together.

But then you remembered the way Kimi had looked at you across the table. The way his hand had covered yours. The way he'd said maybe I wanted to.

And you couldn't.

Because Franco was right.

Kimi stood on the pavement for a full minute.

His cheek was still warm where your lips had been. His heart was still racing. His hands were still shaking.

She kissed me, he thought. She kissed me on the cheek and ran inside.

He touched his face. Right where you'd been.

Then he smiled.

A real smile. The kind he rarely showed anyone.

He walked back to his car. Got in. Sat there for another minute, replaying the night. The way you'd looked in that dress. The way you'd laughed at his stupid popcorn story. The way you'd said goodnight like you meant it.

Friends, he thought.

Then he laughed — a quiet, disbelieving laugh — and shook his head.

They were not just friends.

They had never been just friends.

His phone buzzed.

Kimi set down his phone.

Started the car.

Drove home.

Still smiling.

Still touching his cheek.

Still thinking about you.

taglist: @sunlightsunset @recklessyears @butwhocaresstillthelouvre @straykidsobsessionandenha @honeyedshark @hannahbananababybanana @lauray1x @thatcrazybooklovergirl @beabadoobee81 @f1obsessor4life @avkizi @imakeartandwatchf1 @lliicsa @zhqvie @acethedinosaur @thegirlinblackgreensilver @fuckingsimp4azriel@sarahlizbeth070 @hrtsaeko @sanguineassassinblizzard @sandrasteahouse @babydollmari3 @thequeenofdramaqueens @imsleepingwhataboutu @thisisthesoundofthend @archival-aphrodite @aceofspades190 @josephinel83 @cherryniyaah @hwyfar-gwen

[missmisconduct]

hey jo!!! i’m not sure if you write for seth jarvis, but if you do i have a request! since he seems so goofy all the time i was wondering if we could get a fic that gives “touch her and you die” energy? i would love to see that protective side! thanks!!!

I love writing for Jarvy!!

Touch her and you die – Seth Jarvis

Most days dating Seth was chaos.

The first time you went to one of his team practices, you sat in the stands with a coffee and watched him chirp someone during drills, grinning like a kid who had gotten away with something.

At one point he skated past the bench and sprayed a light mist of ice at a teammate on purpose.

He looked up at the stands and spotted you, then waved both arms like he had just scored the winning goal.

You laughed and shook your head.

That was Seth most of the time. Loud, playful, and always looking for the next joke.

But the thing people didn’t notice right away was that he paid attention to everything. Especially when it came to you.

----

The first time you saw that other side of him was at a team dinner early in the season.

You sat beside him at the long table while everyone talked over each other. Plates clinked and someone at the far end was telling a story that made half the group groan.

Seth leaned back in his chair; one arm draped behind you.

He looked relaxed, completely relaxed. At least until someone across the table made a comment.

It wasn’t even loud, just a quick remark about you, about how you were “so quiet” compared to Seth.

Before you could respond, Seth spoke. “Or, maybe, she just doesn’t need to talk over everyone,” he said casually.

The table went quiet for a second.

His time wasn’t angry. It was calm, but the message was clear.

Drop it.

You glanced at him. He shrugged slightly like nothing had happened, then nudged your knee under the table.

“Want dessert?” he asked and the conversations around the table moved on.

Later, when you walked out of the restaurant together, you bumped his shoulder. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He frowned slightly. “Do what?”

“You know what.”

He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “You looked uncomfortable.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to defend me.”

He stopped walking. When you turned, he looked genuinely confused. “Yeah, it does.”

----

The first time someone actually crossed a line happened a few months later.

You and Seth went to a small bar with a few of his teammates after a win over a divisional rival.

Seth disappeared for a few minutes to join Jesperi´s billiard team while you stayed near the bar with one of the other girlfriends.

You were halfway through a drink when a guy you didn’t recognize leaned next to you. “You here with the team?”

You nodded politely. “My boyfriend plays.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, sounding like he wasn’t quite believing you. “Which one?”

“Jarvis.”

He gave a short laugh. “The loud one?”

You shrugged. “One way to describe him.”

The guy leaned a little closer than necessary. “You could do better than some goof.”

You stiffened. “I´m good.”

He didn’t move away. “You sure? Gorgeous girls like you deserve real men by their side.”

That’s when your patience ran out. “Yes.”

You stepped aside, planning to walk away. Then Seth´s voice came from behind you. “She´s sure and I think she told you twice actually.”

The guy turned.

Seth stood behind him with a neutral expression. No grin. No joke on his lips. Just watching.

The guy raised his hands slightly. “Relax, my man. Just talking.”

Seth stepped forward. “You´re done talking.”

The room didn’t go silent or anything else dramatic happened, but you could feel tension between them.

The guy scoffed. “You don’t own –“

“Didn’t say I did,” Seth interrupted. “She still said she´s good.”

His voice stayed calm and that somehow made it more serious.

The guy stared at him for a moment. Then backed off. “Whatever.”

He walked away.

Seth watched until he disappeared into the crowd, then he turned back. “You okay?”

You nodded slowly. “I was handling it.”

“I know.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I still didn’t like it.”

 “You looked like you were about to murder him,” you giggled.

Seth shrugged. “Touch her and you die is kind of the vibe for today.”

You laughed out loud. “Very subtle.”

----

People often underestimated Seth.

They saw the jokes, the constant smiling, the way he messed with his teammates, and they assumed that was all there was.

But you noticed things others didn’t.

Like the way he always positioned himself between you and strangers in crowded places. Or how his hand found yours without looking when you crossed streets. Or the way his attention snapped toward any raised voice near you.

It wasn’t possessive.

He just paid attention.

----

The real moment that changed things happened during a road trip weekend.

You traveled to another city with a few other partners to watch the game. Afterward, everyone ended up at a hotel bar.

It was a relaxed night. Music played softly. Players mixed with fans and staff.

Seth sat beside you telling some story about practice while you were halfway through laughing when someone approached the table.

He looked like a fan that had been drinking too much. “Jarvis,” he announced loudly.

Seth glanced up. “Hey.”

The guy pointed at you. “This your girl?”

Seth nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

The guy smirked. “You´re lucky, man.”

Seth´s expression didn’t change. “Yeah. I am.”

The guy leaned closer toward you. “Seriously though, if you ever get tired of hockey boys –“

Seth stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the floor when he did.

The guy froze.

Seth wasn’t smiling anymore. Not even a little. “You´re leaving,” he said with seriousness you hardly saw from home before.

The guy blinked. “What?”

“You are leaving. Now.”

A few nearby conversations stopped. The guy laughed awkwardly. “I´m just joking, come on bro.”

“No, you´re not.”

Seth stepped between you and the table. He wasn’t yelling and that somehow made the whole thing heavier. “You´re done talking to her.”

The guy´s smile faded. “Relax, man.”

Seth´s eyes stayed locked on him. “Leave.”

For a moment you thought the guy might argue, then he looked around the room. Too many people were watching; a scene would be more embarrassing than to just follow Seth´s instruction.

He muttered something and walked away.

The tension slowly drained from the space, especially when Seth sat back down.

You stared at him. “That was intense.”

He rubbed his face. “Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“I don’t like scenes.”

“You just almost caused one.”

“Yeah.”

You leaned closer. “You looked like you were about to commit a crime.”

He sighed. “I warned you about the vibe.”

“Touch her and you die?”

“Exactly.”

You laughed quietly, then you leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I appreciate it.”

----

The funny part was that Seth went right back to normal afterward. Ten minutes later he was joking with teammates again.

You watched him across the table. Same goofy smile. Same playful energy. But you knew exactly what sat under it.

Later, when you left the bar together, you brought it up again. “You know people think you´re harmless, right?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I am harmless.”

“Mostly.”

He nudged your shoulder. “I just don’t like idiots.”

“Or people talking to me,” you laughed.

“That too.”

You rolled your eyes. “You´re impossible.”

“Yet you´re still here.”

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned.

[yujisbabyy]

Mature Era x Black! Reader (hints of chubby reader)

A.N: I feel romantical

Micheal as he gets older takes on an air of sensual maturity. Yes he still the lively and shy man but the aura he has had changed quite a bit.

- Michael's love for you didn't change though, he was still in love with your spirit and your face after years of being together. Through bad tabloids, paparazzi on you two necks like flies, the crazies who disguised themselves as fan trying to break you too up never made him stray. But as the years went he started to let go of the shy guy personality, the politeness became strictly for respectability but never true. And you knew it as well as everyone else. Your man was tired and sick of pleasing anyone that wasn't you.

- Mature era also made Michael more in tuned with your body, hands are always on your body moving you around and closer to him, like he's controlling you without even speaking and it makes you crumble. He always was an handsy guy, but when you give him control over your body he becomes a puppeteer, moving your arms and body to move in the same wavelength when you two dance. When you in the way, he doesn't push you away he grabs your waist and moves you to the other side of him. When walking and you get ahead of him, a quick grab of your hand and pushing you into his side.

"Stay close please"

- Mature era Michael who is still very much sex crazed, his eyes focus on your neck and how you move your luscious lips to say... Anything really. And it being known that he loves to kiss, he's on you every moment

- Kissing your neck, thighs, and even the cute button that you hide inside those folds every time he sees you. You could be in the library sitting with your tea and he'll just scent you out, your smell lingers through the air and leads him to you. Your legs curled into a cross and you look out the window at the many animals and cars going by. You feel his lips on the top of your head before his body, and you smile so goofy

"I missed you today pretty"

"I did too Michael, how was the studio day"

"Long and unimpressive, alot of mess up with sound but you know what makes it better pretty?"

"What?"

"Seeing you in those new shoes and dress I bought you"

-----------

-Mature era also spoils you too much, he wonders how you can be so bratty with him sometimes and he looks to see you in a literal diamond encrusted necklace casually like a queen resting after a relaxing day.

"Darling where you get that?"

"You bought it for me when you went to paris remember? You saw it in the ad list"

"Ah, yes it look beautiful on you, I saw they had a anklet that matches. I'll order it for you"

"Nooo Michael I don't have enough room in the closet!"

But he's already running to the phone to call it in, and you can only chase him giggling at the thought of modeling the new piece for him.

- Mature era also doesn't tolerate any of the bullshit though, he's seen many faces and with you being the prettiest and most important face, he cannot stand any lies to him. Even white ones

"Did you eat today"

"Yes" the look he gives you could rival your mom's own glare

"are you sure you wanna keep that up?"

"Honestly no" a nod is given as he moves closer to you, lifting your head up, another thing he developed with age, he hates when you head hangs low, makes him feel like you think your lesser or he's angry with you, and he could be truly angry at little ole you

"Did you eat"

"I mean I did but it was only a bowl of fruit" and another heavy sigh

"Michaelll"

"Shoes on, we're going to the restaurant you wanted to try"

..."the one with the pretty ice cream cakes"

"Mhm, go get dressed and wear the bangle I laid out on your desk, I want to see if you like it"

-Mature era also til this day still loves your bratty act though, but he handles you differently he used to give your punishments like a spanking or overstimulation like candy each time but he's learned you love when he spanks your cute ass. So he does the next best thing, condescending talk

"Ohh.. and I thought I had the most grateful girl in the world. Seems like we have to stop and go home since you can't stand it when I don't spend millions on you at every whim hm?"

- That was when you stomped you foot at him over not getting the newest version of some figure you found in japan, did you end up getting it? Yes but after you apologized to him so it cancels out

- When you don't listen to him trying to comfort after an argument he just sighs "I see, you must have something or someone else that cares about you more than I?" And you can only shake your head because you know he's doing his best to look out for you

"But all of the girls are going! It's only for a few hours

"A few hours at the same place you didn't enjoy the last time baby, cmon use your head baby, you don't like places like that"

"I know but what if I have fun... Please?" And he gives in every single time. Michael can never see you sad especially if he caused it.

"...just be home before 2 okay? And take your slippers with you, you can't stand in those heels for too long" and a squeal and a kiss was heard for the whole house to know

------------

-Mature Michael who still is a kid at heart, trips to Disney aren't as frequent but you still go. Him dressed in a sexy ass suit as he walk you around your own little private area of the Disney restaurants

"You like the little mermaid right pretty?" You nod as you look away from the menu

"If I see a mermaid tail and red hair I'll faint Michael" and right on cue he gets the actress out and you already crying, kid like wonder in your eyes as your gifted with your own personal Ariel themed ears with little seashells in them. Michael watches you as you watch the actors and actress all dressed up sing songs from the movie, and after a few photos your snuggled up in Michael's arms as you talk all about it

-Mature era who manages everything like it's his job not to ever inconvenience you. He knows you hate being wokem up by the sound of gardeners mowing the lawn so he gets them to work around your sleep schedule. You love watching the early morning game shows so he gets you up and well fed before the show starts, you like watching the sunset? He has the back patio decorated for you every time

-mature era Michael who gets tired easily so you always pamper him, when he gets back from the studio you already there with his slippers and a warm cup of tea. When he's up at night thinking about new lyrics you move right beside him to coax him back to bed, you little body (no matter how big you are to him your his little wifey) closer as you coo at him, telling him he's gonna not be able to perform well tomorrow if he doesn't sleep today, and he knows to follow you right back into bed

-------------

- Did I mention he likes to dress you up? Because he does, you his model, a muse for everything in his life since he's met you. As he gets older he taliors each outfit to match yours, if your wearing anything floral he gets a suit jacket or accessories match it. Wearing a pink tight dress to a club? He's dressed in a pink silk shirt and white pants. And it's been times where he's more dolled up than you but you enjoy your pretty boy looking so delicious that you can't even get mad

"I dunno Michael baby, this is a bit tight around the chest"

"Hm.. I ordered it a size larger though" he did not. Actually it's size smaller

"Michael do you I should get this heels or these wedges for out date tonight?"

"Try them on for me pretty, and if you like, get both we have an event coming up anyways"

-------

"Why are we in the lingerie shop baby?

"I want to get the green apple underwear for me darling"

"Hardy har, very funny"

"I know" and you can't believe you let him put you into the bed

- And just because looks like he's dada doesn't mean he ain't still the same sassy ass man he always was. He always back talking you, he has rolled his eyes at you so many times and it so random

"I told you I don't like it when you don't call me! How do I know your not yet or anything Michael??"

"TMZ will tell you before me baby" and you can't laugh because you wanna be strict and pissed off but God you can't stand him

-mature era and he's still such a lover boy, always hugging on you and whispering sweet words that are like poetry to you.

-------

-mature era that leaves his mark on you and you never really noticed. His cuff links on your beside table. A piece of his hair on the sink, his toothbrush in your cup holder. He has his shoes by the door, and his jacket across the chair. You look around the apartment that you only visit a few days out the week and you completely claimed by him, and you wouldn't change it worth a damn

-mature era Michael whose more freaked out that usual, cupping your ass when you sit in his lap, rubbing your hips and thighs when your cooking, in bed when you sleep he watches you his sharp eyes look over you body and he feels himself get more aroused. And he can't stop himself from imagining every little kink he wants to try out on you, while on tour he visits a lot of sex shops to find things he believes you'd enjoy or be interested in. Calling you later that day and tells you about all the things

"And I found out about wax, it's like when I put the ice on you baby but hot. I got a candles for that and then guess what else I got"

"I'm scared to ask. We got wax, a spread bar, a nipple clamp what else"

"Remember when we saw that riding crop?"

"Michael return it immediately"

"Your no fun" and you can see through the phone his pout

-------

- Mature era who always can find a way to mention in every conversation. Mature era Michael who takes you everywhere with him, he'll take you to tour with him and sit you on the stage with him if he could (the stage part, your always on your with him your an honorary dancer)

- When Michael gone you dance to his older music, from off the wall and thriller to dancing Naomi part from in the closet, you think your by yourself but he's always watching you. He finds it cute and adorable when you try to do all his moves, but the more sensual songs he has hold himself back from taking in on the floor, he can't let you see his so beastly all because you shook your hips when blood on the dancefloor came on

- Mature era Michael who just a big ball of sunshine, he believes he doesn't have his same type of charm but when you look at him, and sees the same young love you always possessed he can't let those thoughts be any louder

"When do you want to renew our vows"

"Hm.. I think during the spring time, you know it the season who nature birth and rejuvenation or something of the sort"

"Wonderful words I think?"

"Michael. Don't piss me mad right now" and you hear that loud ass laugh again.

Me stuffing all the ideas in my hand into this little ass note document. But if you enjoyed please give me more ideas or just comment! I think I wanna dabble in a more eras but y'all gotta give a young hoe some time lol

[lyricii]

can you do something fluffy with wife or highschool sweetheart paige x reader🥹

american wedding

pairing: hopkins!uconn!paige!rivals!dating!married x hopkins!uconn!reader!rivals!dating!married

wc: 23.1k

summary: from rivalry to rings, from hardwood to headlines, they kept choosing each other long before the world realized they already had.

lyricii yaps: so this is one of my longer stories but enjoy this..and it's 75 pages on google docs 😬😬

🏷️: @timunhater, @yourmom-25s-blog, @shisinterlude, @333dee, @sammiejane22, @marleymarleymarleymarley

friday night feels like it was written for you.

the gym is loud in that specific way it only gets when something historic is about to happen, banners trembling slightly from the bass of the crowd, sneakers squeaking sharp against polished wood.

your name has already been said twice over the loudspeaker and once by a reporter standing too close to the scorer’s table. earlier that week espn mentioned you again—“one of the most electric freshmen in the midwest”—and your teammates replayed the clip like it was a music video.

you pretended not to care, you always pretend.

you play like you’ve been here before, even though you’re only fourteen. controlled, precise, reading the defense two steps ahead. by halftime you already have eighteen. by the fourth quarter they’re double-teaming you and it doesn’t matter. you finish with thirty-four, eight assists, five steals. the buzzer sounds and you don’t scream.

you just exhale.

your team doesn’t as they crash into you, arms around your shoulders, chanting your name like you’re something bigger than a girl from naperville, illinois. middle school national champion. two-time state mvp. gatorade player of the year finalist. ranked number one in your state for your class. first team all-state since eighth grade. the golden girl with a quiet face and a loud game.

your coach is nearly shaking when he hugs you. “that’s how you close,” he says, voice thick with pride. “that’s how stars respond.”

you shrug slightly, because this is what you do. you don’t realize someone important is watching until your coach leans closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “we’ve got a scout here,” he says. “flew in from connecticut.”

connecticut as you tilt your head, calm. “he’s been asking about you,” your coach adds, barely containing his excitement. “wants to talk.”

you nod once, not surprised and yet not cocky just steady. the locker room is loud, your teammates still cheering, still replaying your crossovers like folklore. your coach beams at you before bringing the scout inside. the man introduces himself politely, shakes your hand firmly, tells you he’s been following your tape for years. years.

he talks about footwork, about vision, about leadership. says you play older than you are. you thank him, you listen as you don’t promise anything. when you step outside after changing, your parents are waiting to take you to dinner. your mom hugs you tighter than usual. your dad’s smile looks practiced.

you notice.

the restaurant is warm and smells like butter and celebration, but something feels different. your mom keeps glancing at your dad as your dad keeps clearing his throat. finally he sets his fork down. “i got the offer,” he says. 

your heart pauses.

“minnesota,” he continues. “hopkins. it’s…a really good opportunity.” your mom squeezes your hand. “better hours, more stability and it’s the right move.”

mid-freshman year.

that’s when you’d leave. you nod while they explain it, because you can see how much it means to them. you don’t want to ruin that, you don’t say that you’ve built everything here. that your banners hang in this gym. that espn article just said your name like it belonged here.

you don’t say you don’t want to go, the car ride home is quiet. your dog greets you at the door like nothing is changing. your room looks the same—medals on the wall, framed articles, your middle school championship ring glinting softly on your desk.

you sit on your bed and you cry softly, privately into your pillow so no one hears. friday becomes your last day before winter break. boxes fill the living room. your trophies are wrapped in newspaper. your dog sits in the backseat when you finally pull away from the only house you’ve ever known.

you don’t look back—minnesota greets you with cold air and skies that feel too wide. hopkins high school is bigger than you expected. the gym smells different, the banners aren’t yours.

you’re mid-year new, which means everyone already knows who everyone is and they definitely know who she is, you see her before she sees you.

blonde ponytail, effortless jumper, the ball barely touching the net as someone whispers her name behind you like it’s obvious.

paige.

she notices you watching. “you must be the illinois girl,” she says, catching the rebound without breaking eye contact. “espn’s been busy.”

it’s not cruel but it’s not welcoming either. “you must be the minnesota one,” you reply evenly.

her mouth curves slightly—practice is tense two girls used to being the headline. two girls who don’t like being second—she bumps you harder than necessary during a scrimmage. you respond by crossing her clean and finishing through contact.

the gym goes quiet, rivals—because pride meets pride and neither of you flinch.

because you both heard the whispers—which one is better? which one will lead? which one is the future? after practice, though, most of the team leaves.

you stay—she stays shots echo in the empty gym. she rebounds for you, you rebound for her as no one says anything for a while. finally she tosses you the ball and says, “you’re good.”

it sounds honest. “so are you,” you answer and something shifts.

rivalry softens into competition with a grin. competition melts into partnership. partnership turns into late nights studying at her kitchen table, her dad offering snacks, your dog asleep at her feet. it turns into her hand brushing yours after a win, lingering a second too long.

it turns into high school sweethearts without either of you meaning to.

years later, when people talk about paige and the girl who moved halfway through freshman year, they’ll say it was inevitable. two midwest stars in one gym but you know better.

it wasn’t inevitable—it was a rivalry that turned into love and it started on a cold morning in hopkins, when neither of you were ready to lose—and neither of you realized you’d just found something better than winning.

the final buzzer sounds and the scoreboard glows 83–43, blue and white lights reflecting off polished wood like the night belonged to hopkins and no one else. the student section is still screaming, still stomping, and your teammates are laughing like forty-point wins are normal, like this is easy. you stand near the free throw line for a second longer than everyone else, hands on your hips, chest rising slow, eyes finding her before you even mean to.

she’s already walking toward the bench, jaw set, ponytail swinging, looking like she carried something heavier than the stat sheet will ever show.

you finished with twenty-four, seven assists, four steals. she had twenty-eight, nine rebounds, five assists. it should feel clean. it should feel like balance.

it doesn’t.

because you remember the second quarter, the way you cut backdoor and lifted your hand, wide open, and watched her drive instead. you remember the third, when you flared to the corner and she waved you off without even looking. you remember every moment you were ready and she chose not to see you.

the locker room is loud when you walk in, music bouncing off tile, girls shouting about the margin, about how st. michael-albertville didn’t stand a chance. your coach is grinning, clapping shoulders, telling everyone this is what discipline looks like.

she sits at her locker, unlacing her shoes, focused on the knot like it personally offended her.

you step in front of her. “i was open,” you say. not loud, not sharp, just true. she doesn’t look up right away. “we won.”

“that’s not what i’m talking about.”

now she looks at you steady yet unreadable. “what are you talking about then?” you cross your arms, not defensive, just grounding yourself. “you didn’t pass.”

a small exhale leaves her, something between frustration and restraint. “i don’t know you yet.” the words settle heavier than the score ever could. “you don’t have to know me,” you reply. “you just have to trust the read.”

her jaw tightens slightly. “this isn’t where you came from.” you hold her gaze. “i know.”

“everyone talks about you,” she continues, voice lower now, less edge, more honesty. “espn, rankings, golden girl from out of state. i need to know you’re not here for yourself.” you blink once, steady. “i had seven assists.”

she stands then, close enough that you feel the heat of her frustration. “that’s not what i mean.”

“then say what you mean.” a beat stretches between you. the music in the background suddenly feels too loud, too far away. “i don’t trust you yet,” she says finally.

it doesn’t feel like an insult—it feels like a confession. you nod slowly, even though something in your chest tightens. “then i’ll earn it.” she studies you for a second, like she’s trying to decide whether you’re serious.

“prove you’re here for the team,” she says. “i am.” your shoulders brush when she grabs her bag, not rough and not gentle either.

she takes a few steps toward the door, then pauses until she doesn’t turn fully around—just enough that you can see her profile. “you were open,” she admits.

the words are quiet, almost swallowed by the noise of the room, but they reach you anyway. you don’t smile, you don’t chase her, you just stand there, letting the moment sit where it is, unfinished and fragile. because this isn’t hate, it isn't even anger.

it’s two girls who have only ever been the centerpiece learning what it means to share the court without losing themselves and somewhere beneath the pride, beneath the rivalry, beneath the bruised egos and bright lights, something softer is forming.

not trust yet but the start of it.

the parking lot is quieter than the gym was, the echoes of sneakers and student sections swallowed by cold air and exhaust smoke. your mom’s car is warm when you slide into the passenger seat, heat humming low, the windows fogging softly at the edges, and she glances at you once before pulling out, streetlights passing in slow intervals across your face like they’re counting something you don’t want counted.

“you okay?” she asks gently.

you watch the road ahead instead of her, the snowbanks, the empty sidewalks as your reflection faint in the glass, jaw set tighter than you meant it to be.

you don’t answer.

because you’re thinking about the first night she came over, how she stood in your doorway like she didn’t know whether to step in or wait to be invited, how your dog didn’t give her a choice, barreling into her legs, tail wild, claiming her immediately.

she laughed then, surprised and bright, crouching without hesitation, letting him lick her hands like she’d always belonged in that space. your mom loved her before dessert. your dad asked her about school, about practice, about her goals, and she answered respectfully, steady, eyes clear in a way that didn’t feel rehearsed.

you remember meeting her dad too, sitting at her kitchen table while her stepmom set out snacks like you were something important. you remember the way she nudged your knee under the table when you got quiet, a small grounding touch, like she’d already figured out the rhythm of you. like she was paying attention.

and then her voice cuts through the memory.

i don’t trust you yet.

your mom’s hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. “tough night?” you shake your head once, eyes still forward. “we won.”

“then what is it?” she asks, softer now.

you swallow; how do you explain that it isn’t about the scoreboard, that it isn’t about twenty-four points or seven assists or the margin glowing bright against a dark gym. how do you explain that it’s about someone who’s met your parents, who’s sat on your couch, who’s thrown a tennis ball for your dog in the backyard, telling you she doesn’t trust you. 

that it felt less like basketball and more like distance. you lean your head against the window, cold glass against warm skin, and let the quiet stretch. “nothing,” you say finally.

your mom studies you for a second but doesn’t push. she never does when she knows you’re holding something fragile. the car fills with a different kind of silence now, heavier, thoughtful, the kind that wraps around you instead of leaving.

outside, minnesota looks still, snow untouched, houses glowing softly from inside. inside your chest, nothing feels still at all.

because you trusted her early, maybe too early. trusted the way she stayed after practice to rebound for you. trusted the way she laughed when you teased her about her free throws. trusted the way she looked at you sometimes, not like a rival, not like competition, but like something softer she wasn’t ready to name.

and now you’re left wondering if you misread it. if you built something in your head that hasn’t fully formed in hers as your mom pulls into the driveway and the porch light is on, warm and familiar. you can already picture your dog waiting at the door, paws against the wood, tail thumping because to him nothing has shifted.

before you reach for the handle, your mom says quietly, “i’m proud of you.”

you nod—but pride isn’t what you’re carrying tonight it’s something quieter, something that sits low and steady beneath your ribs. something that feels like hurt and hope tangled together. something that feels like wanting her to choose you—on the court, in the quiet, in the spaces that matter—without having to be convinced first.

morning comes too fast, like it skipped the part where you were supposed to rest. your alarm cuts through the quiet and you shut it off before the second ring, staring at the ceiling while pale light presses through your curtains in thin, stubborn lines. you didn’t sleep much. every time you drifted off you heard it again—i don’t trust you yet—softer each time, but never lighter, never easier to hold. the words don’t echo loud anymore, they just sit there, steady, like something placed carefully on your chest.

you roll onto your side and stare at the wall for a second longer than you mean to before forcing yourself up. the floor is cold under your feet. you move through your routine without thinking, brushing your teeth, splashing water on your face, pulling your hair back into something simple. you choose a hoodie without really seeing it, just reaching for whatever is closest, whatever feels familiar. when you lace your shoes, you tug the strings tighter than necessary, pulling until your fingers ache, like tension can be drawn into something clean and symmetrical if you just focus hard enough.

your dog follows you down the hallway, nails clicking softly against hardwood, tail brushing your calf every few steps. he doesn’t know anything shifted last night. he doesn’t know about locker rooms or pride or trust. he just knows you’re leaving and he wants to be near you for as long as he can. you crouch for a second and press your forehead lightly against his, breathing in the comfort of something uncomplicated.

outside, the air is sharp and bright. minnesota mornings feel colder than they need to be, like the sky is always trying to prove something. your mom drives quietly, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. when she pulls up to the curb, she squeezes your shoulder before you step out, not asking questions, just reminding you she’s there.

the hallways are already alive when you walk in. lockers slam. laughter bounces off tile. someone replays a highlight from last night on their phone, the sound tinny but unmistakable. you hear the score again—eighty-three to forty-three—hear your name, hear hers right after it, paired together like a headline that writes itself. you keep your eyes forward.

you don’t look for her.

you don’t have to.

you feel her the same way you did the first time she checked into a game against you—that subtle shift in the room, the way attention leans without meaning to. she’s at her locker, laughing at something someone says, hair falling loose around her shoulders, one hand resting against the metal door. for a second your eyes almost stay too long.

you make them move, you walk past without slowing down, shoulders straight, expression neutral.

first period feels heavier than it should. you take your seat before the bell rings, notebook already open, pen in your hand like you’re prepared for something important. the chair beside you scrapes lightly against the floor a few minutes later. you don’t look, but you recognize the rhythm of her movements now—the quiet drop of her bag, the soft exhale before she sits, the way she adjusts her sleeve.

the teacher begins talking and you focus so hard your temples start to throb. you write down sentences without absorbing them, underline phrases you won’t remember. halfway through the period, something slides gently onto your desk.

a folded piece of paper, neatly creased as your pulse shifts anyway. you keep your eyes on the board. you don’t touch it. you don’t even glance down. you can feel her attention in the corner of your vision, steady and patient, waiting for some kind of reaction.

the paper sits there for a full minute, then two.

you ignore it. eventually she reaches over and taps it once with her finger, subtle but deliberate, like she’s testing how far your silence will go. you keep writing. your pen moves in straight lines that don’t match how your chest feels.

a quiet exhale leaves her.

the chair shifts back. she stands without raising her hand, mutters something about the bathroom, and walks toward the door. for a second you think that’s it, that she’ll let it sit between you untouched.

but she doesn’t.

before stepping out, she circles back around your desk. you finally glance up because she’s close now, close enough that the air feels thinner. she doesn’t speak. she just places the note directly in front of you this time, closer, impossible to pretend it doesn’t exist.

her fingers linger on the edge for half a second.

then she flips it over.

— p.b.

not her full name, not dramatic just initials like you would recognize them anywhere. she holds your gaze for a beat. not defensive, not sharp. not the girl from the locker room standing tall behind pride. just quieter, in a way uncertain in a way she never is under bright lights.

then she walks out. the classroom noise rushes back in around you. chairs creak, someone coughs as the teacher keeps talking like nothing has shifted.

you look down at the folded paper, your hands hesitate ignoring her across a court was easy. pride made sense under noise and adrenaline. this feels different; this feels private, and yet so fragile.

slowly, you unfold it.

her handwriting is neat, slightly slanted, careful in a way you wouldn’t expect from someone who plays as fast as she does.

i’m not used to sharing the floor.

i’ve always had the ball in my hands. i’ve always been the one they trust.

when you came here, it felt like i was supposed to compete with you, not trust you.

that’s not your fault.

last night wasn’t about you being open. i saw you. i just…hesitated.

and i don’t like that i did.

— p.b.

you read it once then again she said she didn’t trust you but she wrote that she hesitated and hesitation isn’t the same as doubt.

you sit there for a long second, the paper open between your hands, the words steady and unguarded in a way her voice wasn’t. this isn’t arrogance inked in confidence. this is someone admitting they felt threatened, someone admitting they faltered.

you fold the note carefully, slower this time, smoothing the crease with your thumb, the hurt from last night doesn’t disappear, it shifts less sharp—less defensive more like something that might, if you let it, turn into understanding instead of distance.

you don’t realize you’ve been staring at the folded paper until the bell rings and the room shifts all at once, chairs scraping back, voices rising, the normal chaos of transition swallowing whatever quiet moment you were sitting in. you slide the note into the front pocket of your hoodie instead of your backpack, closer than it needs to be, like it matters where it rests, like proximity might change what it means.

she’s not back yet, and you tell yourself that doesn’t bother you, that it doesn’t matter whether she comes through that door or not, but your eyes still flick up once before you leave.

second period passes in a blur you don’t register, you answer a question when your name is called, nod when someone makes a joke about last night, move through the hallway with the same steady expression you’ve perfected over years of cameras and commentary and expectations. you know how to look unaffected, you know how to let things roll off you in public, but your fingers keep brushing the edge of that folded paper like it’s there to remind you this isn’t just noise.

by lunch you finally see her again.

she’s at the far end of the cafeteria with a few teammates, tray untouched in front of her, fork balanced loosely in her hand like she forgot what she was doing. she looks up when you walk in, and it’s subtle, the way her posture shifts, shoulders straightening just slightly, like she’s bracing for something without wanting anyone else to notice.

your friends are already waving you over, calling your name, sliding over to make room.

you go to them, you sit down as you talk about homework and practice later and how coach is probably going to make you run because even forty-point wins aren’t enough around here, you laugh at the right moments, nod when someone says you two are unstoppable, pretend that word doesn’t sit strangely in your chest.

and you feel her looking at you not constantly just enough. at some point you glance up without meaning to and she’s still watching, not intense, not challenging, just waiting, like she’s trying to read whether the note changed anything.

you break eye contact first because this isn’t the court, there’s no scoreboard here to hide behind, no crowd to drown out the quiet.

practice comes after school and the gym feels different than it did last night, quieter but still charged, sneakers squeaking, balls bouncing, coach’s whistle cutting sharp through the air. drills start simple, passing, spacing, timing, the fundamentals that decide whether talent turns into trust.

you line up opposite her for a three-man weave, the two of you at the top like you’ve done this a hundred times already.

the first run is clean, automatic. the second, the ball comes to her at the top of the key and you cut hard, fast, without hesitation for a split second you think she might pause again.

she doesn’t.

the pass is sharp, direct, right into your hands without you breaking stride, you finish the layup smooth and controlled, not flashy, not forced.

no words, you jog back and by third rep, she calls your name before you even cut, it’s small and almost lost under the echo of the gym, but it’s intentional, deliberate in a way that makes your chest shift slightly. the pass comes earlier this time, quicker, like she trusts the angle before it fully opens, and you catch it, glance once at the rim, then swing it to the corner for the assist instead of taking the shot yourself.

she notices—you can feel it in the way her head tilts just slightly, in the way she nods once as you reset.

practice ends with sprints, lungs burning, legs heavy, everyone collapsing near the baseline when coach finally blows the last whistle. girls start filing out in clusters, laughing, complaining about homework, about how tired they are.

she stays back to grab her water bottle—you stay too.

for a second it feels like that first empty-gym afternoon all over again, the one where rivalry softened into something quieter without either of you admitting it.

she walks over slowly, not dramatic, not rushed, just close enough that you don’t have to raise your voice.

“you read it,” she says.

it’s not a question. “yeah,” you answer, steady. a small pause, then she nods like she didn’t know what she would’ve done if you said no, like she was bracing for rejection and didn’t want to show it.

“okay,” she murmurs. you shift your weight, glance at the floor for half a second before meeting her eyes. “you hesitated.”

she exhales, something almost like a laugh but not quite, more relief than humor. “i did.” you study her for a moment, the girl who never hesitates on a fast break, who never doubts a shot under pressure.

“don’t,” you say, not sharp, not accusing, just honest.

her eyes flick up to yours, surprised by how simple that sounds, surprised that you aren’t angrier, louder, more defensive.

“i won’t,” she replies.

and this time it doesn’t sound like pride, doesn’t sound like someone protecting their spotlight.

it sounds like promise, quiet and real, like the first step toward something that isn’t about headlines or rivalry or who gets the ball last.

it sounds like trust beginning, even if neither of you say the word out loud.

you don’t realize you’ve been staring at the folded paper until the bell rings and the room shifts all at once, chairs scraping back, voices rising, the normal chaos of transition swallowing whatever quiet moment you were sitting in. you slide the note into the front pocket of your hoodie instead of your backpack, closer than it needs to be, like it matters where it rests, like proximity might change what it means.

she’s not back yet, and you tell yourself that doesn’t bother you, that it doesn’t matter whether she comes through that door or not, but your eyes still flick up once before you leave.

second period passes in a blur you don’t register, you answer a question when your name is called, nod when someone makes a joke about last night, move through the hallway with the same steady expression you’ve perfected over years of cameras and commentary and expectations. you know how to look unaffected, you know how to let things roll off you in public, but your fingers keep brushing the edge of that folded paper like it’s there to remind you this isn’t just noise.

by lunch you finally see her again.

she’s at the far end of the cafeteria with a few teammates, tray untouched in front of her, fork balanced loosely in her hand like she forgot what she was doing. she looks up when you walk in, and it’s subtle, the way her posture shifts, shoulders straightening just slightly, like she’s bracing for something without wanting anyone else to notice.

your friends are already waving you over, calling your name, sliding over to make room.

you go to them, you sit down as you talk about homework and practice later and how coach is probably going to make you run because even forty-point wins aren’t enough around here, you laugh at the right moments, nod when someone says you two are unstoppable, pretend that word doesn’t sit strangely in your chest.

and you feel her looking at you not constantly just enough. at some point you glance up without meaning to and she’s still watching, not intense, not challenging, just waiting, like she’s trying to read whether the note changed anything.

you break eye contact first because this isn’t the court, there’s no scoreboard here to hide behind, no crowd to drown out the quiet.

practice comes after school and the gym feels different than it did last night, quieter but still charged, sneakers squeaking, balls bouncing, coach’s whistle cutting sharp through the air. drills start simple, passing, spacing, timing, the fundamentals that decide whether talent turns into trust.

you line up opposite her for a three-man weave, the two of you at the top like you’ve done this a hundred times already.

the first run is clean, automatic. the second, the ball comes to her at the top of the key and you cut hard, fast, without hesitation.

for a split second you think she might pause again.

she doesn’t as the pass is sharp, direct, right into your hands without you breaking stride, you finish the layup smooth and controlled, not flashy, not forced.

no words.

you jog back by the third rep, she calls your name before you even cut, it’s small and almost lost under the echo of the gym, but it’s intentional, deliberate in a way that makes your chest shift slightly. the pass comes earlier this time, quicker, like she trusts the angle before it fully opens, and you catch it, glance once at the rim, then swing it to the corner for the assist instead of taking the shot yourself.

she notices.

you can feel it in the way her head tilts just slightly, in the way she nods once as you reset.

practice ends with sprints, lungs burning, legs heavy, everyone collapsing near the baseline when coach finally blows the last whistle. girls start filing out in clusters, laughing, complaining about homework, about how tired they are.

she stays back to grab her water bottle, you stay too and for a second it feels like that first empty-gym afternoon all over again, the one where rivalry softened into something quieter without either of you admitting it.

she walks over slowly, not dramatic, not rushed, just close enough that you don’t have to raise your voice. “you read it,” she says. it’s not a question.

“yeah,” you answer, steady. a small pause, then she nods like she didn’t know what she would’ve done if you said no, like she was bracing for rejection and didn’t want to show it. “okay,” she murmurs.

you shift your weight, glance at the floor for half a second before meeting her eyes. “you hesitated.” she exhales, something almost like a laugh but not quite, more relief than humor. “i did.”

you study her for a moment, the girl who never hesitates on a fast break, who never doubts a shot under pressure. “don’t,” you say, not sharp, not accusing, just honest.

her eyes flick up to yours, surprised by how simple that sounds, surprised that you aren’t angrier, louder, more defensive.

“i won’t,” she replies and this time it doesn’t sound like pride, doesn’t sound like someone protecting their spotlight.

it sounds like a promise, quiet and real, like the first step toward something that isn’t about headlines or rivalry or who gets the ball last and yet it sounds like trust beginning, even if neither of you say the word out loud.

senior year feels different, not louder, not brighter, just heavier in a way neither of you say out loud. hopkins still smells the same, that mix of polished wood and old banners, the gym still echoing with every dribble, every whistle, your names stitched high above like history already decided you mattered. but something between you and her has shifted, stretched thin over something small that somehow became too big. it was a stupid fight, the kind that starts over nothing—a comment taken the wrong way, a practice where tempers were short, jealousy neither of you wanted to name—and somehow it ended with silence that lasted longer than it ever should have.

you’re still friends, technically, you sit near each other at team dinners, laugh at the same jokes, share glances during games when something chaotic happens on the court. you still know how she moves before she moves, still feel when she’s about to pull up instead of drive, still cut at the exact second she lifts her head. the chemistry never left the hardwood, it never could. but off it, there’s space, and space can be louder than yelling, louder than any argument you could’ve finished.

college talk is everywhere now, recruiters calling, emails stacking up, coaches standing along the baseline pretending not to stare. your name has been on highlight reels for years, espn still pairing you together like a headline that refuses to separate, like minnesota built something special and doesn’t want to let it go. uconn has been calling you for years, quietly at first, then seriously, then with a tone that feels less like a question and more like inevitability.

you visited in the fall without telling her, walked through those halls, saw the banners, felt the weight of legacy pressing down in a way that didn’t scare you, just steadied you. it felt like expectation instead of pressure, like something you could grow into instead of something chasing you. you liked the cold there, liked the way it reminded you of minnesota but sharper, more focused.

you committed two weeks ago, signed the paper in your living room with your parents watching, your dog asleep at your feet like nothing monumental was happening. your mom cried quietly, your dad squeezed your shoulder, and you smiled for the camera, composed, steady.

you didn’t tell her because you haven’t really been talking and because the last real conversation you had ended with sharp words and pride and both of you deciding to protect yourselves instead of fix it.

because she’s been quieter too.

you heard through someone else—not her—that she committed as well. you found out the same way everyone else did, an instagram story, a caption, blue and white emojis, congratulations flooding in. you stared at your phone longer than you meant to, thumb hovering over her name, not typing, not calling.

neither of you texted.

the first game of senior season is electric, packed gym, cameras lining the baseline, the usual noise turned up a notch because everyone knows this is the last year of something. you stand at the free throw line and she’s at the wing, and for a second it feels like freshman year again, like rivalry and longing and everything in between never complicated itself. you make eye contact, it lingers half a second too long, long enough to remember what it felt like when you were closer.

the pass she throws you later in the third quarter is perfect, threaded through two defenders like muscle memory never forgot, like silence never touched it. you finish without hesitation, smooth and controlled, the crowd roaring as if this is what they’ve been waiting for.

you don’t celebrate, you just glance at her—she nods once.

it’s small, but it means everything after the game, reporters crowd around both of you, asking about the future, about next year, about how it feels to represent hopkins one last time. microphones hover too close, cameras blinking red.

“we’re focused on this season,” you both say, almost in sync and that’s the truth but it’s not the whole truth.

because next year you’ll both be in connecticut, under the same banners, wearing the same jersey, and neither of you have said it out loud.

that night, senior banners hanging fresh above the court, you sit alone in the bleachers long after everyone leaves, gym lights dimmer now, softer, shadows stretching across the hardwood. you trace the lines of the court with your eyes, the places you’ve memorized, the spots where everything changed once before.

you hear footsteps.

you don’t have to turn around to know it’s her; she sits two seats away, not touching, not far, close enough that you feel the warmth of her presence without brushing shoulders.

“you going to tell me,” she says quietly, staring at the court instead of you, “or were you just going to let me find out with everyone else?”

your breath catches, subtle but real.

so she knows.

you look at her profile, older now, sharper, but still the same girl who once passed you a folded note signed in small neat letters, still the same girl who learned to trust you one pass at a time.

“i was going to tell you,” you say, steady but softer than you expect.

“when?” you don’t have an answer that doesn’t sound weak, so you don’t give one right away. she exhales slowly, shoulders dropping just slightly. “i didn’t think we’d let something stupid carry this far.”

“neither did i.”

the silence that follows isn’t angry, isn’t defensive, just tired of pretending distance feels safer than honesty.

“i’m going,” she says softly, like she needs to hear it spoken between you.

“i know.”

“are you?”

you nod.

for the first time in months, something close to a smile tugs at her mouth, not amused, not mocking, just relieved, like a weight she didn’t realize she was carrying finally shifted.

“guess we’re not done with each other,” she murmurs.

you look out at the empty court, at the lines you’ve memorized, at the place where rivalry turned into something softer once before and where maybe it could again.

“i never thought we were,” you admit and the silence that settles between you now doesn’t feel like space anymore, doesn’t feel like distance or pride or something left unfinished.

it feels like possibility, quiet and steady, like the beginning of something neither of you are brave enough to name yet, but both of you are finally ready to stop running from.

the drive home feels longer than it should, even though you’ve taken this road a thousand times, past the same frozen lakes, the same streetlights, the same houses with porches you could probably sketch from memory. senior season is over, banners taken down, lockers cleaned out, the finality of it settling in slowly instead of all at once. you’re leaving in the morning, heading to connecticut, heading toward something that feels both inevitable and fragile.

your mom talks softly about logistics from the passenger seat, about departure times and hotel confirmations, about how your dad already loaded most of the bigger bags. you nod at the right moments, but your mind isn’t on directions or suitcases, it’s on the gym, on the bleachers, on the way she said guess we’re not done with each other like it was both a question and a promise.

when you pull into the driveway, the house looks the same as it always has, porch light warm against the evening air. your dog meets you at the door, tail thumping against the wall, unaware that tomorrow shifts everything. you crouch and hug him tighter than usual, breathing in the familiarity of it.

your room is half empty now, posters taken down, shelves cleared, trophies wrapped in newspaper and stacked carefully in boxes. the walls look bare without your history on them. it feels strange seeing space where there used to be proof.

you kneel by the last open box on your floor, folding a hoodie you’ve had since freshman year, the fabric soft from too many washes. when you lift it, something flutters out and lands near your knee.

a folded piece of paper neatly creased as your chest tightens before you even pick it up but you know what it is.

you sit back on your heels slowly, the room quieter than it’s ever been, and unfold it carefully, like it might fall apart if you rush.

her handwriting hasn’t changed in your memory.

i’m not used to sharing the floor.

i’ve always had the ball in my hands. i’ve always been the one they trust.

when you came here, it felt like i was supposed to compete with you, not trust you.

that’s not your fault.

last night wasn’t about you being open. i saw you. i just….hesitated.

and i don’t like that i did.

— p.b.

you read it again, even though you could probably recite it by heart.

freshman year feels like another lifetime now, two girls stubborn and proud, circling each other carefully, learning trust one pass at a time. you remember how your hands shook when you first unfolded this, how hurt and relief tangled together in your chest. you remember deciding to believe her.

so much changed after that.

you became inseparable for a while, late practices turning into late-night drives, rivalry dissolving into something softer neither of you named out loud. then senior year came, pride resurfaced, distance growing where there used to be easy closeness.

and still, this note survived.

you smooth the crease with your thumb, eyes tracing the slight curve of her letters, the way she pressed harder on certain words like she needed them to mean more.

i hesitated.

back then, hesitation was the problem now, you wonder if you both hesitated again, just in different ways.

you glance around your half-empty room, at the boxes labeled college, at the suitcase waiting by the door. tomorrow you’ll be on the same campus, wearing the same colors, walking the same halls. tomorrow, there won’t be space for pride the way there was here.

your phone buzzes on your desk, your heart jumps before you can stop it, her name lights up the screen and for a second you just stare at it, the note still open in your lap, freshman year staring back at you in ink and honesty.

you answer. “hey,” you say softly.

there’s a pause on the other end, then her voice, quieter than usual but steady. “you packing?” you look down at the paper again, at the words that started everything once before. “yeah,” you reply, a small smile tugging at your mouth, “i found something.”

“what?”

you hesitate, just for a second not out of fear but out of memory. “a note,” you say. “from freshman year.”

silence stretches between you, not awkward, just aware. “you kept that?” she asks, and there’s something in her tone that sounds like hope. “yeah,” you answer.

another pause, softer this time. “guess we’ve both been holding onto things,” she murmurs. you fold the paper carefully, not hiding it away, not shoving it into a box, just holding it for a moment longer.

“guess we have,” you agree.

and as you sit there, room half empty, future waiting, the weight in your chest doesn’t feel like distance anymore it feels like something unfinished, finally ready to be finished the right way.

the drive to connecticut feels longer than minnesota ever did, your car packed tight with suitcases and duffel bags and the last pieces of a life you’ve been slowly folding away, your dad driving the first half while your mom turns around every so often to ask if you’re warm enough, if you’re hungry, if you’re nervous, and you keep saying you’re fine because you are, mostly, because this is what you wanted even if wanting something doesn’t make it easy. it’s your first day at uconn, move-in day, the start of something you’ve been circling for years, and when the campus finally rises into view with brick buildings and banners and history stitched into every corner, your chest tightens in a way that feels like excitement pretending not to be fear.

your car is fully packed, the trunk barely closing, your parents laughing about how you somehow brought your entire room with you, and when you pull up to the dorm there’s chaos everywhere, upperclassmen directing traffic, shouting instructions, carrying boxes like this happens every day. it doesn’t feel routine to you. your heart beats faster the second your shoes hit the sidewalk, the air different here, sharper, focused, like everyone is already moving toward something big.

your parents help you unload everything, your dad balancing two boxes at once like he refuses to admit he’s tired, your mom carrying your bedding and reminding you to text when you’re settled, and you try to memorize the way they look standing there, proud and emotional and pretending not to be. you hug them quickly because lingering makes it harder.

when you step inside the room, it’s already half set up.

string lights pinned along one wall, a comforter spread tight over a made bed, shoes lined up with careful symmetry, everything neat in a way that feels intentional. you pause in the doorway for half a second before a voice cuts through the quiet.

“you must be my roommate.”

you look up and see her, azzi fudd, sitting cross-legged on her bed with her phone in her hand, smiling easy and open like she’s been waiting for you. she tells you it’s her third day on campus, she came early for workouts and orientation, already knows where the best dining hall is, already figured out which stairwell not to use because it smells weird, and you laugh before you mean to because something about her is effortless, comfortable in a way that makes the nerves settle.

you introduce yourself even though you both obviously know who the other is, because that’s how this works, two highly recruited players pretending this is normal, and within ten minutes you’re both sitting on the floor surrounded by half-opened boxes, comparing hometown stories and high school chaos like you’ve been doing this longer than a day.

“i watched your senior highlights,” she says casually, not fangirling, just honest. “that step-back was crazy.”

you shrug even though you’re smiling. “i watched yours too.”

her grin widens.

your parents hover a little longer, helping you sort things into drawers, your mom smoothing your blanket twice before she finally says goodbye, your dad squeezing your shoulders like he always does before big games. when they leave, the room feels bigger and smaller at the same time, quiet settling in where their voices used to be.

azzi helps you make your bed without being asked, shifts your boxes out of the walkway so you won’t trip later, hands you a hanger when she sees you struggling with one, and it’s easy, fast, like friendship didn’t need permission or buildup, just proximity and shared understanding.

by evening your side of the room looks lived in, hoodies folded, shoes tucked away, photos taped lightly to the wall. you and azzi sit on your beds with your legs stretched out, talking about practice tomorrow, about rumors of how intense the coaching staff is, about how weird it feels to finally be here after years of hearing about it.

your phone buzzes.

you glance down.

her name.

paige.

you hesitate for half a second before answering, turning slightly away without meaning to.

“you moved in?” she asks, no greeting, just straight to it.

“yeah,” you say, glancing at azzi who pretends not to listen but absolutely is. “just finished unpacking.”

“who’d they room you with?”

“azzi.”

there’s a pause on the other end, not long, just enough to notice.

“oh,” she says, tone controlled, neutral in a way that sounds practiced. “already friends?”

you look at azzi across from you, the way she’s scrolling through her phone, the way she offered earlier to show you around campus, the way she made this unfamiliar place feel less overwhelming.

“yeah,” you answer honestly. “she’s cool.”

another small pause.

“that was fast,” paige replies, and you can’t tell if it’s teasing or something sharper hiding underneath.

you lean back against your pillow. “it’s move-in, everyone’s trying.”

she hums softly, and you picture her wherever she is, probably unpacked in record time, probably already knowing the gym schedule by heart.

“practice is early,” she says finally. “don’t oversleep.”

“i won’t.”

there’s something unsaid sitting between you, something familiar and tight, the same tension that’s followed you since senior year, since all the things neither of you said when you should’ve.

“see you tomorrow,” she adds.

“yeah,” you say softly.

you hang up and azzi raises an eyebrow. “that was her?”

you nod.

“she sounded…intense,” azzi says lightly, teasing but curious.

you roll your eyes, warmth creeping in anyway. “she’s just competitive.”

“about basketball?” azzi asks.

you hesitate.

“about everything,” you admit.

later that night the lights are off, the room quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner, azzi already half asleep across from you, and you stare up at the ceiling thinking about the way paige’s voice shifted when you said azzi’s name, the way it tightened just slightly like she didn’t mean for you to hear it. 

jealousy looks different on her now, quieter, more controlled, but you know her well enough to recognize it, and as you lie there in a brand new room hundreds of miles from home, you can’t help wondering if maybe it isn’t just about basketball anymore, if maybe whatever this is between you followed you all the way here and is waiting to be figured out.

practice starts early, the kind of early where the gym lights feel too bright and everyone’s voices sound softer than usual, shoes squeaking as people trickle in one by one, duffel bags dropped near the baseline, laughter mixing with nerves because even the best players in the country are still figuring each other out on day one. you step onto the court beside azzi and it already feels easier than it should, like you’ve been teammates longer than a few hours, the two of you stretching side by side while music plays low in the background.

geno’s voice cuts through the noise before warmups even begin, sharp but familiar from years of watching him on tv, and suddenly everyone straightens a little. chris and marisa move around the court setting things up, tossing balls into racks, calling out drills, the rhythm of a program that’s run this way for years.

you glance around and realize this is real now.

olivia laughing near the sideline. christyn tying her shoes tighter. nika bouncing a ball like she’s impatient to start. aaliyah stretching quietly, focused already. evina joking with anna while caroline adjusts her ponytail. everyone moving like pieces of something bigger that you’re only just stepping into.

and somehow, within minutes, it feels natural.

you and azzi fall into drills together, passing quick and clean, laughing when one of you misses a read, nudging each other during water breaks like you’ve always done this. she’s easy to joke with, easy to trust, and the more you move the more the nerves fade. the team energy pulls you in fast, conversations happening between reps, people asking where you’re from, how move-in went, what you thought of campus food.

you answer, you laugh, you settle and every time you laugh with someone new, you feel it that quiet shift in the air, paige

she’s on the other side of the court, hair pulled back, expression focused, moving through drills like she’s trying to outpace her own thoughts. she jokes with nika once, smiles briefly at christyn, but her attention keeps sliding back to you, almost involuntary, like she’s checking something without meaning to.

during shooting drills, you and azzi end up in the same line, teasing each other over who missed more warmup shots. “that didn’t count,” azzi mutters when her three rims out, and you laugh so hard you miss your next one too.

the sound carries. you catch paige looking over. her jaw tightens just slightly before she turns away and drains her next shot without touching rim.

scrimmage starts and the energy changes, everyone more serious now, movements sharper. you end up on azzi’s side first, the two of you running in sync, cutting instinctively, the chemistry coming faster than expected. you throw her a pass in transition and she finishes clean, grinning as she jogs back.

“we’re cooking already,” she says under her breath. you laugh, breathless. on the next possession you hear your name paige’s voice.

you look up and the pass hits your hands perfectly, threaded through traffic, precise like she’s been waiting to prove something. you finish at the rim and glance back at her.

she doesn’t smile just nods once, like that was supposed to happen.

scrimmage goes on and the gym gets louder, sneakers squeaking, coaches yelling adjustments, balls slapping against hardwood. you move between lineups, playing with everyone, building rhythm fast. by the end of practice you’re laughing with nika about her trash talk, talking footwork with aaliyah, joking with evina about who’s going to survive conditioning tomorrow.

it happens quickly you belong.

and that’s exactly when you notice the way paige’s energy shifts, quieter but heavier, like she’s carrying something she doesn’t know how to say. she plays harder every rep you’re on the court, drives sharper, passes quicker, like she’s trying to remind everyone—maybe herself—where her place is.

during a water break, you and azzi sit side by side, shoulders bumping while you catch your breath. azzi leans over, whispering something ridiculous that makes you laugh again, and out of the corner of your eye you see paige watching.

not angry, way worse protective.

intense in that quiet way she gets when something matters too much.

geno blows the whistle and everyone resets. next drill pairs you and paige together. the two of you stand across from each other, balls in hand, silence hanging for half a second.

“having fun?” she asks, tone light but eyes searching. you shrug slightly. “yeah. everyone’s nice.”

she nods, spinning the ball in her hands. “good.” but the word sounds tight, controlled, like she’s holding something back.

you run the drill and she goes hard, faster than necessary, pushing you to keep up, pushing herself even harder. when you score on her once she smirks faintly, competitive fire flashing.

there it is that familiar edge.

the sense that she would burn through anything standing between her and what she cares about, not out of anger but devotion, loyalty wrapped in intensity.

practice ends with everyone exhausted, jerseys damp, laughter returning as the tension fades. girls gather their things, talking about food and showers and how dead their legs already feel. you stay back for a second, stretching near midcourt.

paige walks past you, slowing just enough. “you fit in fast,” she says quietly. you glance up. “is that a problem?” she shakes her head, small smile tugging at her mouth. “no.”

a beat. “just…don’t forget who you run best with,” she adds, voice softer, almost teasing but not entirely.

then she walks away before you can answer, joining nika and christyn near the exit. you stand there for a second longer, heartbeat still high from practice but something else layered underneath it now.

because today felt easy too easy—and the way she looked at you, like she’d protect something even if it meant tearing through everything else first, sits quietly in your chest as you grab your bag and follow the team out, wondering how long it will take before whatever this is finally stops pretending to be just basketball.

you and azzi leave the gym side by side, bags slung over your shoulders, the late afternoon air cooler than you expect after the heat of practice, both of you moving a little slower from tired legs but still buzzing from the energy of the first real run. campus feels louder now, students crossing between buildings, bikes weaving past, everyone moving with purpose while you and her walk like you’re trying to stretch the moment a little longer.

“i didn’t realize college practice would feel that intense already,” azzi says, laughing softly, adjusting the strap of her bag.

you glance at her. “you literally looked fine the whole time.”

“that’s called pretending,” she replies, and you laugh, the sound easy between you.

you talk about little things on the walk back, where you’re from, the weird adjustment of being around people who are all just as good as you, how strange it feels not being the only star in the gym anymore. she tells you about arriving early, about wandering campus alone the first night because she couldn’t sleep, about how quiet it felt until everyone else got here.

you tell her you almost turned around twice on the drive because leaving home felt heavier than you expected she nods like she understands without needing details.

by the time you reach the dorm, the conversation feels natural, less like getting to know someone and more like settling into rhythm. you both drop your bags by the door and collapse onto your beds at the same time, laughing at how synchronized that looked.

“i think i’m going to sleep for twelve hours,” azzi mutters, throwing her arm over her face. you smile, but your phone buzzes with a reminder.

class. 

you groan quietly. “i forgot i actually have somewhere to be.” azzi peeks over at you. “already?” “yeah,” you say, sitting up and pulling your hoodie back on. “first day and they’re already making us be responsible.”

she laughs. “tragic.” you grab your notebook and keys, pausing by the door. “don’t rearrange the whole room without me.”

“no promises,” she replies. the walk to class feels different from the walk back from practice, slower, your body finally noticing how tired it is. your legs ache climbing the stairs, your mind drifting back to the gym—the passes, the laughter, the way paige watched you sometimes without meaning to.

class passes in a blur of introductions and syllabi you barely absorb, your pen moving automatically while your brain catches up to the day. people whisper about basketball when they recognize you, subtle glances, quiet curiosity. you’re used to it by now, but it still feels strange in a new place.

when it finally ends, the sky outside is darker, campus lights flickering on one by one. you walk back to the dorm slower, exhaustion settling into your shoulders, the day catching up all at once. you expect the room to be quiet when you open the door.

it’s not. azzi is sitting cross-legged on her bed, scrolling through her phone, music playing softly from somewhere in the room. she looks up immediately. “hey,” she says. “how was class?” you drop your bag with a sigh. “i already forgot everything they said.”

she laughs. “same energy.” you kick off your shoes and sit down, letting yourself relax for the first time all day. the room feels warmer now, lived in, less temporary. “someone stopped by,” azzi says casually. you look up. “who?” she shrugs lightly. “paige.”

your stomach does something small and annoying. “oh,” you say, trying to sound neutral. “she just asked if you were here,” azzi continues. “i said you had class.” you nod slowly. “did she say anything else?” azzi tilts her head. “not really. she kinda…looked around the room though.”

you laugh under your breath, shaking your head. “what?” azzi asks, curious. “nothing,” you say, but you’re smiling slightly because you can picture it clearly—paige standing in the doorway, quiet, observing, taking in the space where you’re starting over, trying to understand where she fits in it.

you lean back against your pillow, the weight of the day finally pressing down, but it feels lighter now somehow. azzi starts telling you about a random conversation she had in the dining hall, and you listen, half focused, half drifting.

your phone lights up again. a text this time.

paige: you survive class?

you stare at it for a second, thumb hovering. then you type back.

“barely.”

her reply comes fast. 

“good. need you alive for practice tomorrow.”

you smile before you can stop yourself. azzi notices. “that her again?” you nod. she grins knowingly but doesn’t push, just goes back to talking about something funny nika said earlier.

you settle deeper into your bed, listening, laughing when you need to, the day slowly softening around you and somewhere underneath the exhaustion, underneath the newness of everything, you feel it again—that quiet pull between you and paige, not loud, not dramatic, just steady, like something that followed you here and refuses to be left behind.

sleep pulls you under before you even realize you’re tired, your body heavy from practice, your brain finally quiet enough to let go. the room stays dim and calm, azzi’s breathing soft across from you, the kind of quiet that makes the new place feel almost familiar. for a few hours everything pauses, no expectations, no decisions, just rest.

morning doesn’t feel kind.

your alarm goes off too early, sunlight barely filtering through the blinds, and your body protests the second you sit up. your legs already ache from yesterday, your shoulders tight, and you stare at the ceiling for a moment trying to remember where you are before the reality settles in—uconn, classes, practice later, a full day already waiting for you.

azzi groans from her bed. “tell me we don’t have to be functioning humans today.” you laugh softly. “five classes.” she throws a pillow over her face in despair. the day moves fast and slow at the same time, walking across campus with your backpack heavier than it should be, introductions blending together, professors talking about syllabi and deadlines like you’ve been here forever instead of barely a week. 

by class three you’re already over it, pen moving but your brain lagging behind. by class four you’re staring at the clock more than your notes, and by class five your professor casually assigns homework due next week like it’s nothing. you blink at the page already college doesn’t wait.

when class finally ends you step outside, air cool against your face, exhaustion sitting heavy in your bones. your phone buzzes and you expect maybe a teammate or azzi, but instead it’s a message from an upperclassman you barely know yet.

“party tonight. you and your roommate should come.”

you stare at it longer than you mean to—a party feels like the last thing you want right now. when you get back to the dorm, azzi is halfway through changing, music playing low while she sorts through her clothes.

“long day?” she asks without looking up. “five classes,” you sigh, dropping your bag dramatically. “and homework already.” she laughs. “welcome to college.”

you hesitate before holding up your phone. “also…got invited to a party.” azzi perks up immediately. “wait really?”

“yeah,” you say, falling onto your bed. “i don’t wanna go though. i’m tired.” she studies you for a second, head tilted. “you should go.” you groan. “azzi.”

“no seriously,” she says, walking over. “we’re new here, everyone’s trying to get to know each other. you don’t have to stay long, just go, show your face.” you hesitate. she softens a little. “it’ll be fun. and i’ll go with you.”

that makes it easier after a moment when you nod slowly. “fine. but if it’s weird, we leave.” “deal,” she says, already opening your closet. “okay, what are you wearing.” you end up standing in front of the mirror while azzi judges options like it’s a serious competition, tossing things onto the bed until she finally holds up something and nods decisively.

“this.”

you change, pulling on the outfit she picked, adjusting it uncertainly once you’re done. the top feels a little more bold than usual, paired with jeans that sit perfectly, layered necklaces catching light when you move. 

you turn toward her. “is this too much?” azzi’s eyes widen slightly. “no,” she says immediately. “it’s perfect.” you narrow your eyes. “you’re sure.”

“trust me,” she laughs, fixing a strap slightly. “you look good. like…effortlessly cool good.” you roll your eyes but you’re smiling now, nerves mixing with amusement. she finishes getting ready too, and suddenly the room feels charged with pre-party energy, music louder, laughter easier.

on the walk over, campus feels different at night, music drifting from houses, voices louder, lights glowing warm against the dark. you tug lightly at your sleeves once, still unsure. “relax,” azzi nudges you. “we’re just going to hang out.” you nod, taking a breath as you step inside.

the party is loud but not overwhelming, people talking in clusters, music pulsing through the floor. someone immediately waves you both over, introducing you around, and within minutes you’re laughing at something silly while holding a drink you keep forgetting to sip.

it’s easier than you expected you catch yourself relaxing. azzi stays close, leaning over occasionally to comment on something funny, and for a moment you forget about being tired, about homework, about practice tomorrow.

until you glance toward the doorway and freeze slightly because she’s there.

paige.

standing just inside, eyes scanning the room until they land on you her expression shifts almost imperceptibly when she sees what you’re wearing, the way you’re laughing, the way azzi’s standing close beside you.

not anger something quieter, yet sharper you feel it from across the room, that familiar intensity rising, the kind that never announces itself but fills the space anyway.

azzi notices your attention shift. “you okay?” you nod slowly, but your heart beats a little faster because you suddenly realize tonight might not be as simple as just showing up and the way paige’s gaze doesn’t leave you feels like the beginning of something you’re not sure you’re ready for yet.

the music feels louder the second she walks in, not because it actually is, but because your pulse shifts, because something low in your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with bass or flashing lights. you’re mid-laugh at something azzi said when you feel it, that familiar pull, that subtle awareness you’ve carried since you were fourteen and stubborn and pretending not to look at her from across a gym.

she doesn’t look away when you catch her staring doesn’t pretend she wasn’t she just walks toward you, slow and steady, like she’s already decided something and the only thing left is saying it.

the room feels smaller as she gets closer “can we talk,” she says, voice calm but edged with something underneath it, something tight.

you nod before you think about it, telling azzi you’ll be right back. azzi studies paige for half a second, reads something in her expression, then squeezes your hand lightly like she understands more than she says.

outside the air is cooler, quieter, music muffled behind closed doors. porch lights cast soft shadows across the pavement, yellow against dark, and for a second neither of you speak. she runs a hand through her hair, exhales slowly like she’s been carrying this all day, maybe all year.

“i didn’t plan on coming,” she says finally. “but i heard you were here.” you cross your arms lightly, not defensive, just steady. “and?”

“and i didn’t like it.” you tilt your head. “didn’t like what.” she looks at you then, really looks at you, eyes sharper than usual, less guarded. “the idea of you being here without me,” she says, voice lower now, more honest than it’s been in months. “the idea of you laughing with someone else and it not being me.”

your heart skips in a way that feels too loud for how quiet the night is. she steps closer not enough to touch just enough to feel. “i’ve had feelings for you since freshman year of high school,” she says, the words tumbling out before she can catch them, before pride can interrupt. “since that day i wrote you that note. since you didn’t walk away when i pushed you. since you looked at me like i was more than just competition.”

your breath catches the night feels suspended, like everything else paused to listen. “paige—”

“i was jealous,” she interrupts softly, and there’s no ego in it, no defense. “not because of basketball. because every time you got close to someone else, it felt like i was losing something i never even claimed. like i was watching you drift away and i didn’t know how to stop it.”

the honesty hits harder than anything else, harder than the fight, harder than the silence before you can process it fully, she steps forward and kisses you. it's not tentative, it’s not rushed, it's like she’s been holding it in for years and finally lets herself stop holding back.

for a second you freeze, stunned, breath caught somewhere between surprise and something deeper. her lips are warm, familiar in a way that doesn’t make sense because this is the first time then instinct takes over.

you grab the front of her shirt lightly, fingers curling into the fabric, pulling her back toward you instead of away, your hands pressing against her chest like you need to feel that she’s real. you kiss her back, not careful, not cautious, and it feels like something inside you finally aligning after years of circling each other.

her hands slide to your waist, firm and sure, grounding you, thumbs brushing against the curve of your hips like she’s memorizing the shape of you. your hands move from her chest to her neck, fingers brushing into her hair, holding her there like you’re afraid she’ll disappear if you loosen your grip.

the world narrows to the space between you to the way her breath catches when you pull her closer to the way your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure she can feel it the music inside fades into nothing.

there’s only this when you finally pull back, foreheads almost touching, neither of you speak right away. her hands are still at your waist. yours are still at her neck. the air between you feels charged, fragile, real.

“you could’ve said something,” you whisper, voice softer than you expected. she lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, shaky at the edges. “so could you.” you smile despite yourself because she’s right because every glance across a court, every late-night text, every moment of jealousy and pride and hesitation led here. you trace your thumb along her jaw, slower now, deliberate. “i thought i was the only one.”

“you never were,” she says quietly and as you stand there under dim porch lights, hands still tangled together, you realize this was never just about rivalry or ego or who got the last shot. it was about two people who didn’t know how to admit they wanted more, who hid behind competition because it felt safer than saying the truth.

it was always this always the way she looked at you like you were hers even before she said it always the way you felt steadier when she was near not jealousy not pride just waiting for one of you to finally be brave enough to step first.

you stand there for a second longer than either of you meant to, the night quieter now, the air cooler against your skin but your pulse still warm and unsteady. her hand lingers at your waist until she finally pulls back just enough to look at you properly, eyes softer than you’re used to seeing, like whatever wall she’s been holding up finally came down.

“we should probably go back,” you say softly, though neither of you moves yet. she nods, small and almost shy, which feels strange for her. “yeah.”

your hands brush when you start walking and this time she doesn’t hesitate, her fingers threading through yours naturally, like it was always supposed to happen that way. it’s simple, the way your palms fit together, but it sends something quiet through you anyway, a kind of calm that feels new and familiar at the same time.

you walk back toward the house slowly, not rushing, listening to the muffled music grow louder with every step. the lights spill through the windows, silhouettes moving inside, laughter drifting out every time the door opens.

“you okay?” she asks after a moment, glancing sideways at you. you squeeze her hand lightly. “yeah. just…processing.”

she smiles faintly. “me too.” when you step back inside, the warmth hits you immediately, music loud again, people talking over each other, cups clinking. for a second you wonder if anyone will notice, if it’ll feel obvious, but the moment feels strangely normal, like the world didn’t stop just because yours shifted.

azzi spots you first. her eyes drop to your joined hands and her eyebrows lift slowly, a knowing smile spreading across her face. you feel your cheeks warm a little. paige doesn’t let go. if anything, her grip tightens slightly, protective, steady, like she’s not interested in pretending this didn’t just happen.

“you guys good?” azzi asks, tone casual but curious. “yeah,” you say, unable to stop smiling. paige nods once beside you. “we’re good.” azzi’s smile widens but she doesn’t tease, just shifts over to make space for both of you. conversation picks back up around you, music swelling, someone pulling azzi into a story that makes her laugh loudly.

you stand there for a moment, still hand in hand, taking it in. paige leans closer so only you can hear. “i was worried you’d pull away.” you look up at her. “i almost did.” she winces slightly. “yeah, that’s fair.”

“but i didn’t,” you say quietly. something soft flashes across her face, relief mixed with disbelief, like she’s still catching up to the fact that this is real.

you stay near each other the rest of the night, not glued together but orbiting close, shoulders brushing, hands finding each other again every time the crowd shifts. people talk to you, laugh with you, but everything feels quieter underneath it all, grounded by the way her thumb keeps tracing slow circles against your hand.

at one point she leans down and murmurs, “so…this means i don’t have to pretend anymore?” you smile, turning toward her slightly. “no more pretending.”

she laughs softly, shaking her head like she can’t believe it either and for the first time since you stepped onto uconn’s campus, since freshman year of high school, since that folded note passed across a desk, everything between you feels simple.

not easy, not perfect, just honest and when she squeezes your hand again, standing beside you in the middle of noise and lights and laughter, you realize this is what you’d both been circling for years—not the rivalry, not the tension, but this quiet certainty that feels like coming home in a place that’s still brand new.

the night before minnesota, your suitcase sits open on the dorm floor, half packed, half ignored, jerseys folded with careful hands, sneakers lined up heel to heel at the bottom, headphones tossed in last minute like an afterthought. the room smells faintly like detergent and whatever candle azzi insists on lighting when she studies, something vanilla and too calm for how fast your heart is moving. you reach for one more hoodie draped over the back of your chair and pause.

it’s hers—navy, oversized, sleeves too long, cuffs worn soft from her tugging at them during film sessions. it still smells like her shampoo, like the cologne she swears she doesn’t wear but somehow lingers anyway. you press it to your face for a second, breathing in something steady, then pull it on, letting it swallow you whole azzi watches from her bed, chin propped in her hand. “you’re dramatic.”

“i’m layered,” you reply, tugging the sleeves over your fingers. your phone buzzes against your comforter.

mom: row 12 tomorrow. don’t pretend you didn’t see us.

dad: drop 30 or 40. we’re flexible.

you smile at the screen, chest tightening in that warm, pre-game way, the kind that feels like nerves and pride braided together. minnesota, home state, familiar cold, familiar noise, the place that made you and the place that made her.

paige walks in from across the hall, duffel slung over her shoulder, hair damp from a shower, cheeks still flushed. she looks at the hoodie and smirks.

“that’s mine.”

“was,” you correct lightly. she steps closer, tugging the hem once, eyes lingering on you a second longer than necessary before she leans down and kisses your temple. “bring it back in one piece.”

“no promises.” she leaves like tomorrow is just another game, steady, composed, but you know her well enough to feel the undercurrent on the bus ride to the airport she grabs both bags before you can reach for yours, swinging her duffel over one shoulder and yours over the other like the weight doesn’t exist.

“i’ve got it,” she says when you protest.

you don’t argue in the airplane you take the window seat on the team bus, paige sliding into the aisle beside you. you put your headphones in before the engine even hums, music low and steady, something that lets you sink inward. your head rests against the cool glass and you fall asleep almost instantly, exhaustion from travel and anticipation catching up, the rhythm of the road rocking you under.

paige lets you sleep as her shoulder brushes yours every time the bus turns, her knee steady against your leg like an anchor.

the arena is louder than november should allow, maroon and gold spilling down from the rafters, uconn blue scattered like defiance through the crowd. during warmups you find row 12 without trying, your mom waving too obviously, your dad standing with his hands in his pockets like if he moves too much something fragile might break.

tip-off feels electric.

first quarter you’re locked in, hit your first three from the wing, smooth release, net snapping clean. the sound is sharp and satisfying, the crowd quieting just enough to notice. second possession you drive baseline, draw two defenders and kick to paige in the corner, she buries it and nods at you like that’s expected. by halftime you’ve got 16 points, 4 rebounds, 3 assists, shooting lights-out, crisp and controlled.

third quarter comes fast.

uconn pushes the pace and you’re at 22 now, 5 rebounds, 4 assists, 8–13 from the field, 3–5 from three, the game slowing down in that way it does when you’re in rhythm. you catch the ball beyond the arc on the right side, toes just behind the three-point line, defender closing late. you rise without thinking.

knees bend, jump release high over her hand, wrist snapping clean time slows midair, the kind of suspension that feels almost cinematic you come down—and your foot hits wrong, not dramatic at first, just off, a slight shift that your body doesn’t recognize. your knee caves inward at an angle it was never meant to, a hollow pop cutting through the noise, sharp and final.

boom.

you’re on the floor before your brain catches up, the ball already dropping through the net behind you like a cruel punchline. the crowd noise splinters into confusion, a wave of sound that doesn’t match what just happened.

you don’t scream as you just know. your hands press into the hardwood, breath stuck halfway in your chest, pain blooming fast and white-hot, wrong in a way that feels permanent.

in row 12 your mom’s hand flies to her mouth your dad stands before he realizes he is, eyes wide and unblinking. paige is there instantly, dropping beside you, hands hovering over your leg like she’s terrified to touch the wrong place. “look at me,” she says, voice steady but tight at the edges. “hey, look at me.”

you try to sit up and the pain spikes, sharp enough to blur the edges of the arena lights. trainers rush in, geno frozen on the sideline for half a second before chris signals for help, aaliyah stepping back with her hands at her mouth, nika muttering something under her breath that sounds like a prayer and a curse tangled together.

they help you up slowly, your weight uneven, the crowd quiet in that uncomfortable, collective way, thousands of people holding their breath at once. as they guide you toward the tunnel you glance once toward row 12.

your mom looks like she’s trying not to cry but your dad looks like he wants to run down the steps and catch you himself.

uconn finishes the game 62–44.

you watch part of it from the locker room, ice wrapped heavy around your knee, adrenaline draining until only ache and realization remain. paige doesn’t leave your side once she’s off the court, sitting close enough that her shoulder presses into yours, thumb rubbing slow circles against your hand.

after the buzzer, media waits. geno steps to the podium first in the press room, lights too bright, microphones crowded together with logos from espn, star tribune, hartford courant. cameras flash.

“geno,” a reporter from espn asks, “what’s the initial outlook?”

“we don’t speculate,” geno answers flatly, jaw set. “we’ll get imaging tomorrow. she was playing one of the best games of her career.” another voice cuts in. “she had 22 through three, how big was her impact before the injury?”

“huge,” geno says without hesitation. “efficient, composed, aggressive. she set the tone. she’s a competitor.”

they bring you in after, brace wrapped tight, paige walking just behind you before stopping short of the cameras, her presence close but just out of frame. you sit down carefully, adjusting the mic, flashes reflecting off the metal table. “can you describe the play?” a reporter from the hartford courant asks. you swallow. “caught it at the three-point line, went up, landed wrong. it happens fast.”

“did you hear anything?”

“yeah,” you admit quietly. “a pop.” a murmur ripples through the room. “are you concerned it’s serious?” someone from the star tribune presses.

you hold the mic steady. “i’ll handle whatever it is. i’ve handled things before.” another question follows, softer but pointed. “how do you mentally reset after something like this?” you pause, thinking of freshman year of high school, of rivalry, of silence, of choosing each other anyway. “you don’t reset,” you say finally. “you adjust.”

your voice doesn’t shake—not there later, back at the hotel, the silence is heavier than the arena ever was. the brace presses into your skin, reality settling slowly and loudly, the kind that doesn’t ask permission. you lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, the game replaying behind your eyelids.

paige sits on the edge of your bed, your hand in hers, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin like she’s memorizing the shape of you all over again.

“it doesn’t change anything,” she says quietly, you don’t answer at first. she leans closer, forehead pressing gently to yours, voice low and fierce in a way only you hear. “if you think this scares me off, you don’t know me at all.”

and even with the ache in your knee, even with uncertainty pressing down like weight on your chest, you believe her because some things snap in a second and some things hold steady no matter how hard you land.

morning comes without asking if you’re ready for it, pale minneapolis light slipping through the half-open curtains and stretching across the carpet like nothing catastrophic happened twelve hours ago. for a second you forget, for a second you’re just heavy and tired and normal, cocooned in hotel sheets that smell like detergent and travel. then you try to move.

the brace reminds you first. the stiffness. the deep, dull ache behind your kneecap, something lodged there that doesn’t belong to your body, something foreign and permanent-feeling. the memory follows quickly after—hardwood, pop, silence—and your stomach tightens.

you don’t cry, you just stare at the ceiling and let the reality settle properly this time, not as adrenaline, not as noise, but as fact it’s quiet in the room, too quiet for a team trip. you turn your head and paige is already awake, sitting in the chair by the window, hoodie on, elbows resting on her knees, watching you like she hasn’t blinked in hours. her jaw is tight, but her eyes soften when you meet them.

“hey,” she says softly. “hey.” you try to sit up and she’s beside you instantly, one hand steady at your back, the other adjusting the pillows behind you like she’s done this before, like she’s been preparing for this exact version of you.

“don’t rush it,” she murmurs you hate that she has to say that. hate that your body now requires caution, instructions, careful movements.

there’s a knock at the door an hour later, trainers stepping inside with quiet voices and professional expressions. follow-up evaluation before imaging, swelling checks, stability tests, words like anterior drawer and laxity and inflammation, clinical language that sounds detached while your body feels anything but. you grit your teeth through it, knuckles white against the sheet.

paige doesn’t leave—not when they bend your knee carefully. not when you inhale sharply. not when the trainer nods in that way that says they already know. when they finally leave the room, the silence feels heavier than before. you let your head fall back against the pillow, staring at nothing.

“i felt it,” you say quietly. “when it happened i knew.” she nods once, not pretending otherwise. “i know.” the bus ride back to the airport is quieter than the ride there, no music in your ears this time, no soft sleep against the window. just the low hum of the engine and teammates speaking softly a few rows up. 

nika squeezes your shoulder as she passes, whispering something about how you still owe her dinner. aaliyah leans over the seat and says, “we’ve got you.” azzi sits across the aisle and keeps glancing at you like she’s trying to stay upbeat without forcing it, offering small smiles that feel steady.

paige sits beside you again, aisle seat, one hand resting carefully on your thigh just above the brace, not over it, just enough to let you know she’s there. you watch the city pass by outside the window and try not to think about how different it looks now, how one play rewrites entire seasons.

back in storrs the imaging appointment feels sterile and too bright, white walls and quiet machines humming in the background. your parents flew in overnight, your mom’s eyes tired but determined, your dad pacing like he’s about to check into a game instead of you. paige sits beside you in the waiting room, knee touching yours, fingers threaded loosely through yours like she refuses to let go of something that fragile.

the doctor doesn’t take long. “it’s a complete tear,” he says gently. “acl.” the words land exactly how you expected, heavy and final, like a door closing your mom inhales sharply and your dad closes his eyes for half a second before nodding once you nod too like this is just information.

like this isn’t the kind of injury that rewrites seasons, shifts timelines, tests patience in ways you’ve never had to practice before surgery is scheduled quickly, timelines are discussed in the nine months ten recovery protocol and physical therapy small goals controlled progress patience. patience—that’s the word that catches in your throat, the word that feels heavier than pain.

the next practice you’re there in sweats, brace locked in place, sitting on the sideline while the team runs through drills. the gym smells the same, sneakers squeaking against hardwood, balls echoing off the rim, geno’s voice cutting through the air like always. but it feels different when you’re not moving inside it, when you’re watching instead of reacting.

paige glances at you between reps.

every time—geno walks over during a water break and crouches beside you, expression unreadable but firm. “you’ll come back stronger,” he says, not sentimental, not dramatic, just certain you nod because that’s easier than saying anything else.

when practice ends paige sits beside you on the sideline, both of you watching the court empty slowly, the noise fading. “you scared?” she asks quietly—you consider lying.

“yeah.”

she laces her fingers through yours, squeezing once. “good.” you frown slightly. “good?”

“means you care,” she says, looking straight ahead. “means this matters.” she leans her head briefly against your shoulder, careful of the brace, voice softer now. “you’ve never been the kind of person who lets something define you. don’t start now.”

that night in your dorm azzi moves your laundry basket closer to the bed without you asking, rearranges your desk so you don’t have to stretch too far. nika texts something ridiculous that makes you laugh despite yourself. christyn sends a video of practice with a caption that reads still your team. little things, small acts that feel louder than sympathy.

you sit on the edge of your bed, staring down at your knee, the brace bulky and unfamiliar. paige kneels in front of you, hands resting gently on your thighs. “look at me,” she says again, softer than the night before but just as steady you do. “we’re not done,” she says.

not just basketball, not just the season, not just you we and for the first time since the pop, since the hardwood slammed against your palms, something inside you steadies, something that feels less like loss and more like resolve.

this wasn’t how the year was supposed to go but it isn’t the end it’s just a different version of the fight and you’ve never been afraid of that.

two weeks post-surgery, your dorm room feels smaller than it ever has, crutches leaning against the wall like an accusation, ice machine humming beside your bed through the night like a reminder that this is real. the scar is still fresh, stitched and swollen, skin tight and unfamiliar, your knee wrapped thick in gauze and caution. movement is measured now, calculated, every shift deliberate, every step negotiated with pain.

you used to move without thinking now you think about everything. paige sits cross-legged at the foot of your bed while you try to adjust the brace yourself, jaw tight, fingers fumbling with straps that suddenly feel too complicated.

“let me,” she says quietly. “i’ve got it.” you don’t—your hands shake, frustration rising hot and humiliating, and she sees it before you say anything. she doesn’t argue, doesn’t tell you to calm down. she just shifts closer, knees brushing the mattress, hands gentle but sure as she tightens each strap with careful precision.

“i hate this,” you admit, staring at the wall instead of her. “i know.” she doesn’t try to spin it into something positive she just stays. she stays when you’re irritable, stays when you’re quiet, stays when you pretend you’re fine and both of you know you’re not.

march 2023 arrives loud and relentless, brackets filling screens, commentators dissecting matchups and storylines, your name drifting through broadcasts like a shadow that refuses to leave. you’re in sweats on the sideline, brace gone but knee still not ready, hands clasped tight while the arena roars around you. every possession feels amplified when you’re not inside it.

uconn advances as paige drops 28. she plays like she’s carrying something invisible with her, something stitched into every drive and pull-up. when she hits a dagger three late in the fourth, she turns without thinking and points toward the bench, toward you.

the cameras catch it after the game a reporter asks her if she feels extra pressure without you on the floor. she doesn’t hesitate. “we’re still playing together,” she says, eyes steady. “she’s just not in uniform.”

you swallow hard behind the bench, chest tightening in the locker room she finds you before anyone else can, sweat still clinging to her hair, breathing heavy, and presses her forehead to yours like the noise outside doesn’t exist. “told you,” she whispers. “we’re not done.” and for the first time since surgery, you believe that in your bones.

six months later the brace is gone for good. you’re walking without thinking about it, climbing stairs without gripping railings, the muscle in your quad slowly returning to where it used to be. rehab has become routine, early mornings in the training room, resistance bands and controlled squats, small victories stacked quietly on top of each other.

strength returns in increments so small no one else notices. you do. media starts shifting their tone. from injury to comeback. from uncertainty to timeline. from “if” to “when.”

the first time you jog on the anti-gravity treadmill, your weight supported artificially, paige stands just outside the glass wall, phone raised like it’s a championship moment.

“don’t post that,” you warn, breathless but smiling. “never,” she lies easily. that night you sit on the floor of her dorm, legs stretched out in front of you, ice pack resting loosely over your knee. she studies you the way she studies film, quietly, thoroughly.

“this changed you,” she says. “yeah.”

“for the better.” you think about the silence after the pop, the fear in row 12, the helplessness of watching from the bench. you think about patience, about staying, about love that doesn’t evaporate when things get hard. “maybe,” you admit. she bumps her shoulder against yours gently. “definitely.”

first non-contact practice back as the gym smells the same, hardwood and sweat and echoes, but you feel different inside it. leaner. quieter. not less confident, just more deliberate. geno watches closely from the sideline, arms crossed, expression unreadable. teammates clap once when you step across the baseline, a small acknowledgment that means more than they realize.

paige stands at half court with a ball tucked under her arm, waiting like she’s been counting down to this moment. “don’t baby it,” she says. you smirk. “wouldn’t dream of it.” the first jumper feels foreign, release slightly off the second feels closer and by the third swishes clean, net snapping sharp and honest.

the gym goes quiet for half a second before noise returns in a rush, sneakers squeaking, someone shouting your name paige doesn’t cheer, she just nods once that nod feels like trust restored.

full clearance day arrives almost quietly. the doctor scrolls through your chart, taps your knee once, smiles faintly. “you’re good.” you stare at him like you misheard. “cleared?”

“fully.”

for a second the room feels suspended, like you’re waiting for someone to take it back paige squeezes your hand so tight you laugh through the shock, the sound shaky but real. when you step outside into the sunlight she doesn’t hesitate, pulling you into her chest without caring who’s watching, forehead pressed into your hair.

“you did it,” she says, voice thick. “we did,” you correct softly because she was there for every band, every ice pack, every quiet spiral. that night, back in her room, it’s quiet in a way that feels earned. no crutches leaning against the wall. no brace buckled tight. no ice machine humming in the background. just you and her and the soft glow of a lamp casting gold across the ceiling.

she’s lying on her back, staring up, fingers tracing lazy patterns against your arm. you’re curled into her side, knee warm and solid against her thigh, no longer fragile.

“i love you,” she says. not dramatic, not rehearsed, just said. the words settle between you, simple and enormous. you freeze for half a heartbeat. she freezes too, like she didn’t mean to let it slip. “you don’t have to say it back,” she adds quickly, voice softer now, almost uncertain in a way you’ve never heard from her.

you lift yourself onto one elbow, looking at her properly, at the girl who stayed in hospital rooms and empty gyms and quiet nights when you felt like less than yourself.

“i love you too,” you say. it doesn’t feel like a confession, it feels like something that’s always been true finally finding language. she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for a year, hands sliding to your waist, grounding herself in something solid and certain.

“took you long enough,” she murmurs, smiling faintly.

you smile back because somewhere between hardwood and hospital rooms, between sidelines and rehab, between jealousy and devotion, something shifted. the injury didn’t break you. it stripped everything unnecessary away. it revealed who stays when the lights dim. revealed who you are when you can’t perform.

and when you fall asleep that night with her hand steady against your back, breathing even and close, you realize the comeback was never just about basketball, it was about resilience, about patience, about a love that doesn’t flinch when seasons change and about choosing each other through every version of the game and meaning it.

fall 2023 arrives quieter than the year before, but heavier in a different way, like the air itself understands what it took to get here. the first time you step into gampel fully cleared, fully dressed, jersey hanging right where it belongs against your shoulders, the lights feel brighter than you remember, the court wider, the air thinner. 

your name is announced during starting lineups and the sound that follows isn’t just noise, it’s recognition layered with relief, it’s something close to reverence, a crowd exhaling all at once. you jog to the line and paige is already there, bouncing on the balls of her feet, jaw set in that focused way she gets before tip. her fingers brush yours briefly, quick and subtle before you break apart, almost invisible to anyone watching, but it steadies you more than the brace ever did. 

you don’t need tape wrapped tight around your knee anymore, you need that touch, that reminder that you’re not stepping into this alone. first possession comes to you faster than expected. ball swings around the perimeter, snaps to your hands at the wing. defender closes hard, feet chopping, crowd rising with anticipation.

a year ago you would’ve attacked without thinking, pure instinct and adrenaline. now you feel everything—your feet planted evenly, your balance centered, the floor beneath you solid and forgiving—and you rise anyway.

release, net, clean the sound is sharp, satisfying, a swish that doesn’t just echo through the arena, it answers something inside you that’s been waiting since the pop, since the hardwood, since the hospital room. you don’t celebrate wildly, just backpedal with a small nod, but paige is already in your face, grinning, not loud, not exaggerated, just proud in that quiet way she gets when something matters.

“told you,” she murmurs as you run back on defense.

the game moves quickly after that, instincts returning in layers, not rushed, not forced, just unfolding naturally. you find a rhythm, slipping into passing lanes, cutting at the right angles, trusting your body without second-guessing it. 14 points by halftime, 3 assists, 4 rebounds. efficient, controlled. not frantic, not proving anything, just playing the way you used to, only calmer.

but it’s the third quarter that seals it, that makes the comeback feel real instead of symbolic.

you drive left, defender shading you toward the baseline, and for a split second the memory flashes—that same knee, that same plant. you don’t hesitate. you plant hard, feel the muscle engage, feel strength instead of weakness, and spin back right into the lane. contact meets you midair, shoulder to chest, but you absorb it and finish through it, ball kissing the glass before dropping clean. whistle blows.

the arena erupts and you land steady you don’t look at your knee you look at her. she’s already looking at you, eyes bright, no fear in them anymore, no flash of worry like there used to be every time you cut hard, only fire, only pride and only something that says she always knew you’d get here. postgame feels different too. you sit at the table, jersey still damp with sweat, hair pulled back, mic angled toward your mouth. reporters don’t ask about the injury like it defines you now, they ask about rhythm, about growth, about how it feels to be back in control of your own body.

“what did that first basket mean to you?” someone asks. you lean forward slightly, hands folded together. “it meant i trusted my body again,” you say, voice steady. “it meant i stopped waiting for something bad to happen.”

a murmur ripples through the room. they ask paige what it’s like playing beside you after the year you both had. she doesn’t look at the reporters when she answers. she looks at you, direct and unwavering. “worth the wait,” she says simply. the room laughs softly, but you feel the weight of it. she means more than basketball.

later that night, back in her dorm, jerseys tossed over chairs, sneakers kicked off near the door, adrenaline still humming faintly under your skin, you sit cross-legged on the floor while she leans back against her bed, watching you with that same careful attention she’s had since rehab.

“you weren’t scared,” she says, like she’s testing the truth of it. “i was,” you admit. “i just didn’t let it win.” she studies you like she did months ago on that anti-gravity treadmill, but this time there’s no tightness behind her eyes, no quiet worry. just admiration.

“you’re different,” she says softly. “so are you.” because she is. steadier, less reactive, less sharp around the edges. the year sanded something down in both of you, smoothed pride into patience, turned jealousy into certainty.

she reaches for you then, pulling you closer until your knees bump and your hands settle naturally at her waist, familiar and unforced. “we’re not the same as last season,” she says. “good,” you whisper, because you don’t want to be who you were before the injury, before the fear, before the waiting.

she smiles against your mouth before kissing you slow, unhurried, nothing desperate about it. this isn’t tension snapping or adrenaline spilling over. this is something earned, something built quietly through hospital visits and rehab mornings and nights when neither of you said much but stayed anyway.

when you pull back, foreheads resting together, she murmurs, “next time you hit a spin like that, maybe warn me.” you laugh softly. “you survived.”

“barely,” she says, though she’s smiling. you fall asleep tangled together, no brace on the nightstand, no ice machine humming in the dark, just steady breathing and the distant hum of campus outside the window.

her hand rests low on your back like it belongs there, like it always has. as the season stretches ahead, bigger games waiting, bigger stages looming, you realize something has shifted permanently. you didn’t just come back. you grew back stronger in places you didn’t know needed strengthening, softer in places you used to armor.

this time you’re not playing to prove you’re unbreakable you’re playing because you know exactly what it took to rebuild and she’s right there beside you, not carrying you, not protecting you, not hovering just running with you exactly where she’s always meant to be.

april 2024 doesn’t rush you.

it unfolds slowly, deliberately, like the moment knows exactly how much weight it’s carrying and refuses to be careless with it. the arena hums long before tip, a low electric sound that vibrates under your shoes as you walk out for warmups. south carolina is already on the floor, bodies moving with that familiar confidence, size and strength and discipline all wrapped into one presence. you clock them once, then look away. you’ve learned where to put your focus.

your jersey settles against your shoulders like it belongs there, not borrowed, not tentative. paige jogs beside you, loose but locked in, the two of you moving in parallel without thinking about it. when your eyes meet, there’s no nod this time, no reassurance needed. everything you had to survive already happened.

the lights dim as introductions roll when your name echoes through the building, the sound doesn’t lift you, it anchors you. it reminds you of hospital ceilings and rehab mornings and quiet dorm rooms and promises whispered when no one else was listening. you don’t smile, you don’t close your eyes, you just breathe and let it settle.

tip-off is sharp and physical from the jump. south carolina establishes the paint early, pounding the ball inside, testing whistles, testing patience. the first few minutes are bruising, bodies colliding, rebounds ripped down with intent. you miss your first look, a jumper that rattles out, and for half a heartbeat the noise spikes.

then paige steals an entry pass and pushes.

you fill the lane instinctively, catch on the move, finish through contact whistle and-one the sound shifts not loud yet just aware.

first quarter becomes a chess match, adjustments layered on top of adjustments. you start slipping screens instead of forcing them, finding seams where there shouldn’t be any. azzi hits from deep, calm and lethal. aaliyah controls the glass. paige orchestrates, patient, surgical.

19–14.

second quarter slows everything down. south carolina throws different looks at you, length on the perimeter, pressure up high. you respond by trusting movement instead of shots, swinging the ball until something opens. you hit a pull-up from the elbow, then thread a pass through traffic for a backdoor cut that makes geno clap once from the sideline.

by halftime your stat line sits quietly impressive, 12 points, 5 assists, 4 boards, nothing forced, nothing wasted. paige’s towel is draped over her shoulders in the locker room, sweat darkening her hairline.

she leans toward you, voice low. “they’re going to make a run.”

“i know.”

“let them,” she says. “we’ll answer.” third quarter arrives exactly how she predicts it. south carolina surges, bodies crashing harder, pace quickening. an 8–0 run flips momentum and the crowd tilts, noise spilling over itself. geno calls timeout before doubt can get a foothold. you sit, hands on knees, breathing controlled.

“reset,” he says, not angry, not urgent, just certain but back on the floor, paige takes over without taking over, driving into traffic, absorbing contact, drawing fouls. you space wide, defender cheating just enough. when the pass comes, you don’t hesitate. step-back beyond the arc release high.

swish.

the arena exhales next possession you fight through a screen, contest a shot, secure the rebound yourself, pushing pace before anyone can set. this time you kick to kk. net again. tie game. fourth quarter comes by at 64, every possession suddenly enormous. you feel it in your calves, in your lungs, in the way the crowd holds its breath with each bounce of the ball. south carolina doesn’t fold. they never do. they answer inside, then outside, then inside again.

two minutes left as uconn up twenty two south carolina cuts it to three on a putback that rattles the rim twice before dropping. the building roars. you bring the ball up slowly, clock ticking under your control, defender pressing tight. paige comes to set the screen, solid and unyielding. you use it, draw help, see the opening before it fully forms.

you could force the shot you don’t you kick up as paige catches on the wing, one defender scrambling late, one dribble pull-up. the ball hangs just long enough to stretch time thin—net, clean everything breaks open after that.

final buzzer.

82–59.

this one isn’t close, it's decisive. it’s complete. confetti falls thick and fast, blue and white sticking to sweat-damp skin, catching in hair and lashes. you don’t stand still this time. you run straight to her, arms wrapping around her shoulders as she lifts you slightly off the floor, both of you laughing, breathless, overwhelmed in the best way.

your stat line flashes overhead, 24 points, 8 assists, 6 rebounds, 4–7 from three. hers follows, 17 points, 6 boards, 3 assists, efficient and ruthless when it mattered most. but the numbers feel like footnotes because this isn’t about proving anything anymore.

during the trophy ceremony, the net cuts clean under your fingers, nylon warm and rough as you loop it around your wrist. paige stands beside you, confetti clinging to her hair, eyes bright in a way that isn’t adrenaline, it’s certainty.

“we did it again,” she says, quieter now. you nod, throat tight. “we weren’t done.” in the press conference they ask about legacy, about repeating, about what separates this team from the rest. you lean into the mic, paige a few chairs down, listening.

“we trust each other,” you say. “and we didn’t panic when things got hard.” they ask her about leadership, about growth. she glances at you before answering. “we learned how to win when everything was stripped away first.”

later, when the cameras finally thin out and the locker room settles into something close to quiet, you sit side by side on the bench, trophy resting a few feet away, the echo of celebration still humming faintly in your ears.

“remember minneapolis,” she says. you smile softly. “yeah.”

“remember thinking it was over.” you lean into her shoulder, comfortable, steady. “yeah.” she exhales, long and slow. “look at us now.” and you do. one championship, two years one fall, one rise, one domination last year taught you how to survive. this year taught you how to stay and as the confetti finally settles and the lights dim, you realize the story didn’t end with a comeback or a repeat.

it settled into something stronger, something earned something unbreakable with her right there exactly where she’s always been.

april 2024 doesn’t begin with noise; it begins in the locker room, quiet and heavy and sacred.

your jersey hangs in front of you, crisp white with navy trim, senior stitched into the fabric like a promise kept. the tape around your fingers is tight, the smell of it mixing with sweat and detergent and something almost electric in the air. outside, gampel is already shaking, a sold-out crowd packed shoulder to shoulder, white towels draped over every seat, signs lifted high as senior night and a national title in the same breath. it feels impossible and inevitable all at once.

geno stands in the middle of the room; he doesn't yell, he doesn't need to. “legacy,” he says, voice steady, eyes scanning each of you. “you don’t build it in one night. you build it in the mornings no one sees. in the rehab sessions. in the losses. in the discipline. tonight is just the receipt.”

kk stands first, clapping once. “for the seniors,” she says, voice sharp and bright. “for everything they carried.” azzi looks at you and paige, eyes soft but fierce. “you set the tone but we finish it.”

aaliyah bumps her fist against yours. “forty minutes,” she says quietly. paige doesn’t speak right away she just looks at you, jaw tight, eyes shining in a way that makes your chest ache. “we didn’t survive last year to stop now,” she says finally. “we finish this.”

geno turns to you at the end “you ready?” he asks you nod, but your throat tightens anyway. he pulls you into a hug, quick but firm, one hand heavy on the back of your head. “proud of you,” he murmurs, and that’s when it hits. not the game. not the pressure.

the journey minneapolis, the pop, the brace, the sideline, the treadmill and the first jumper back as you blink hard but the tears come anyway, quick and hot. paige squeezes your hand once, steadying you without saying a word. “hey,” geno adds quietly, stepping back, “go enjoy it.”

senior night ceremonies happen before tip.

parents walk onto the court. your mom clutches your arm like she did freshman year when she dropped you off. your dad looks older somehow, proud and overwhelmed at the same time. the crowd stands, long and loud, applause stretching into something almost deafening. a tribute video rolls on the big screen, highlights flashing—high school rivalry, freshman assists, the injury, the comeback, the spin move in the championship.

you glance at paige beside you and see her blinking fast too. “don’t start,” she whispers. too late when they call your name, the roar shakes the rafters. you wave, half laughing, half crying, heart too full to contain.

tip-off against south carolina feels like fate.

two powerhouses again. undefeated narratives. analysts debating pace and size and perimeter shooting. you block it out.

first quarter is physical, bodies crashing inside, rebounding wars erupting in the paint. south carolina tries to establish dominance early, pounding the ball inside, but aaliyah answers with a block that sends the crowd into hysteria.

you push in transition. kick to paige in the corner. three. net snaps clean.

paige drives hard the next possession, absorbing contact, finishing with a kiss off the glass. she backpedals with that calm expression, the one that says she’s locked in.

end of first quarter, uconn up five.

second quarter, the game tightens. south carolina makes a run, cutting it to two. geno calls timeout. you huddle tight, sweat dripping, lungs steady.

“pace,” he reminds you.

back on the floor, you come off a high screen, defender trailing. hesitation dribble. pull-up from the elbow.

bucket. you don’t celebrate. you just run back. by halftime you’ve got 13 points, 4 assists, 5 rebounds. paige at 10, azzi heating up from deep.

locker room at half is focused, not frantic.

“forty minutes,” paige says softly, repeating what’s been said all season.

third quarter is the turning point.

south carolina throws a full-court press at you. you split it with a bounce pass to nika, who swings it ahead. fast break. you trail. paige finds you on the wing. plant. rise. release. swish.

the sound is loud and final. the crowd feels like it’s levitating. fourth quarter. uconn up eight.

south carolina makes one last push, cutting it to four with under two minutes left. tension thick, every possession heavy.

you bring the ball up slowly paige sets a screen you use it defense collapses. as you kick out to azzi. three. good. gampel explodes. final minute ticks down.

82–59 flashes across the scoreboard as the buzzer sounds, blue and white confetti cannons firing into the air, students spilling over rails, seniors collapsing into each other’s arms.

you don’t freeze this time.

you drop to your knees, hands on the hardwood, overwhelmed.

paige is there immediately, pulling you up, arms wrapping tight around your waist. she lifts you slightly off the floor, spinning once through the confetti storm.

“champions,” she breathes into your ear.

“again,” you laugh through tears.

your stat line scrolls across the screen: 24 points, 8 assists, 6 rebounds, efficient and controlled. hers reads 17 points, 6 boards, 3 assists, steady leadership.

geno hugs each of you in turn, longer this time. when he gets to you, he doesn’t say anything at first. he just holds you.

“full circle,” he says finally.

trophy presentation feels surreal. nets cut down. paige hands you a piece of nylon. you wrap it around your wrist like a reminder.

press conference afterward is calmer, almost reflective.

“what does it mean to win on senior night?” a reporter asks.

you lean into the mic. “it means we finished what we started,” you say. “it means growth isn’t linear, but it’s worth it.”

they ask paige about playing beside you through injury and return.

she smiles softly. “we learned how to win the hard way first.”

later, long after the cameras leave, you sit alone at half court for a moment. the arena is mostly empty now, confetti swept into piles, lights dimmed softer.

paige sits beside you.

“remember freshman year?” she asks.

“yeah.”

“remember minneapolis?”

you nod.

she bumps her shoulder into yours. “look at us.”

you look around at the banners, at the empty seats that were once shaking, at the place where you fell and rose and built something unbreakable.

last year was survival.

this year was domination.

senior night wasn’t just a game.

it was proof.

and as you lace your fingers through hers one last time on that court, you realize something simple and overwhelming.

you didn’t just win a championship.

you finished the story the right way.

confetti is still caught in your hair when you sit down for the final presser.

not the televised one from the floor. not the chaotic trophy moment. this one is smaller, quieter, the room upstairs at gampel where the banners line the walls and the microphones are already set before you walk in. your jersey has been swapped for a navy blazer, uconn stitched over your heart one more time.

geno sits on your right.

kk on your left, still in warmups, still buzzing from the win.

you settle into the chair, fingers brushing the edge of the table, and for the first time all night the noise isn’t overwhelming.

it’s still.

reporters shuffle papers. cameras click.

“we’ll start with the seniors,” someone says.

your name is first.

five years.

2020 feels like another lifetime, like the freshman who arrived in storrs with a rivalry and a chip on her shoulder wasn’t you but someone you used to know. bachelor’s degree finished. master’s degree nearly complete. national titles. an acl. a comeback. a legacy that doesn’t fit neatly into a stat sheet.

“can you reflect on your time here?” a reporter asks.

you breathe in slowly.

“uconn wasn’t just basketball for me,” you say. “it was growth. academically, mentally, emotionally. i came here at eighteen thinking talent was enough. i’m leaving understanding discipline is everything.”

geno shifts slightly beside you, but you don’t look at him yet.

another question follows quickly. “five years is a long time in college basketball. what kept you here?”

you smile faintly. “unfinished business and a master’s degree,” you add, earning a few soft laughs. “but really, it was the people. my teammates. the culture. i didn’t want to rush something that was building the right way.”

“how did the injury change you?”

the room quiets a little at that.

you nod once. “it forced me to separate who i am from what i do. basketball is part of me. it isn’t all of me. that lesson matters more than any trophy.”

geno clears his throat softly, like agreement without interruption.

another voice cuts in. “have you decided about the draft?”

there it is.

the question that’s been hovering all season.

you glance briefly to your left. kk meets your eyes, eyebrows lifting slightly like she already knows the answer. to your right, geno doesn’t look at you, but his hand folds calmly over the other, steady.

you don’t rush it.

“yeah,” you say finally.

the room stills.

“i’m declaring for the draft.”

cameras flash harder.

pens move quickly across notepads.

kk nudges your elbow under the table, subtle but proud.

“why now?” someone asks.

“because i’m ready,” you answer simply. “academically, i’m finishing my master’s. athletically, i gave everything i had here. emotionally… i think it’s time.”

a reporter in the front leans forward. “what do you hope to bring to the next level?”

you think about minneapolis, about rehab mornings and about senior night.

“resilience,” you say. “and perspective. i know how fast things can change. i don’t take a possession for granted anymore.”

“what will you miss most?”

this one makes your throat tighten unexpectedly.

“the tunnel before games,” you admit. “the way gampel sounds when it’s full. and this,” you gesture slightly between geno and kk. “the family part.”

geno finally speaks then.

“she changed this program,” he says evenly. “not just with points or assists. with toughness. with leadership. you don’t replace that.”

you swallow hard, blinking quickly.

another reporter asks, “what do you want your legacy at uconn to be?”

you sit with that.

“growth,” you say. “not perfection. growth. i want the next freshman who walks in here to know you don’t have to start complete. you just have to be willing to evolve.”

kk leans toward the mic next. “she’s the reason i believed i could survive my first year,” she says bluntly. “she made it safe to struggle.”

you glance at her, eyes soft.

“any message for uconn fans?” someone calls out.

you smile properly now. “thank you for staying,” you say. “through injury. through doubt. through everything. this place made me better.”

the final question comes softer.

“what are you feeling right now?”

you pause.

five years collapse inward—freshman rivalry, first assist to paige, the note, the pop, the brace, the comeback jumper, the two championships, senior night confetti.

“grateful,” you answer. “and proud.”

the moderator thanks everyone. chairs scrape softly as people stand. cameras shut off one by one.

you rise too.

geno pulls you into a hug before you can step away, firm and brief, like it always has been.

“go do great things,” he murmurs.

kk squeezes you next, tighter, laughing into your shoulder. “draft night watch party at my place,” she says.

you laugh.

when you step out of the room, the hallway feels quieter than it should. banners lining the walls. echoes of five seasons stitched into every inch of this building.

paige is waiting at the end of the corridor, hands in her hoodie pocket, watching you.

“so,” she says softly. “draft?”

you nod.

she smiles, not surprised.

“about time.”

you walk toward her, slower now, taking in the hallway one last time.

five years ago you arrived here chasing something.

now you’re leaving with it.

and when you lace your fingers through hers as you step out of gampel together, it doesn’t feel like an ending.

it feels like the next beginning.

you didn’t believe you would be here.

even sitting in the hotel suite hours before the draft, robe tied loosely around your waist, garment bags hanging along the closet door, heels lined up in a careful row, it still feels like something you’re watching from outside yourself. the television is already tuned to espn, draft preview graphics rotating across the screen, analysts debating projections like your future is a math equation.

your phone will not stop buzzing.

group chat notifications stack one on top of the other. uconn team thread exploding with blue heart emojis. aaliyah sending “YOU READY?” in all caps. nika posting an old freshman practice photo. azzi texting a mirror selfie from her own room: don’t trip walking up there please.

and then kk.

voice memo after voice memo.

you tap one open.

“AHHHHHH YOU’RE GONNA CRY AND I’M GONNA CRY AND IF YOU DON’T ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW I’M DRIVING TO THE HOTEL.”

you laugh out loud.

the mua pauses mid-brush. “sorry, am i tickling?”

“no,” you smile, glancing at the screen lighting up again. “my teammates are feral.”

she’s blending highlighter along your cheekbones, soft champagne shimmer catching the light just enough. foundation flawless but not heavy. brows shaped clean. a subtle wing, lashes lifted, lip gloss clear and simple. you watch yourself transform slowly in the mirror, not into someone new, just into the most polished version of who you already are.

your hair is pulled sleek and low, clean lines framing your face.

“okay,” the mua says finally, stepping back. “draft night ready.”

your phone buzzes again.

geno: proud of you.

you swallow.

uconn teammates start arriving at the hotel lobby in coordinated fits, not matching, but intentionally sharp. they insisted on being there. “family shows up,” nika said earlier. so they did.

paige is already dressed.

black. tailored. sharp shoulders. clean lines. understated but powerful. she leans against the window scrolling through her phone when you step out in the white gown.

she looks up.

goes completely still.

the dress is sculpted ivory, high neckline, open back dipping low and smooth, fabric hugging your frame before falling clean to the floor. minimal gold earrings. nothing flashy. everything intentional.

“okay,” she breathes.

“too much?” you ask automatically.

“not even close.”

she steps closer, smoothing a wrinkle at your waist gently. “they’re not ready for you.”

the drive to the venue is a blur of flash photography and traffic control and nerves rising and falling in waves. when you step onto the orange carpet, the lights hit immediately. cameras. espn backdrop. reporters lined up with mics extended.

your phone vibrates one more time before you slip it into your clutch.

kk: I SEE YOU ON TV DON’T FALL.

you inhale.

paige squeezes your hand once before you walk forward together.

“we’re here with two projected top picks,” the espn reporter says brightly. “how are you feeling?”

“grateful,” you answer, voice steady. “and excited.”

“you’ve both had remarkable college careers,” the reporter continues. “what does it mean to share this moment?”

paige doesn’t hesitate.

“it means everything,” she says calmly. “we built something real at uconn, on and off the court. this isn’t just draft night. it’s the next chapter for us.”

the reporter’s eyebrows lift slightly. “on and off the court?”

paige turns slightly toward you, not shy, not coy.

“yeah,” she says simply. “she’s my person.”

the words land clean no ambiguity, no hedging, just a hard launch.

cameras flash harder. somewhere behind you, you can practically hear the internet combusting.

you feel heat climb up your neck but you don’t look away. you lace your fingers through hers more deliberately this time.

“we’ve been through a lot,” you add softly. “it’s special to be here together.”

the reporter smiles knowingly. “so draft night date?”

“always,” paige says.

inside, the draft hall is electric. team tables draped in colors. large screens replaying your highlights— your championship spin, her game winner, senior night tears. the uconn crew is scattered throughout the seating, dressed sharp, cheering louder than anyone else when your faces appear on screen.

kk blows you a dramatic kiss from three rows back.

you roll your eyes.

first pick.

paige’s name.

the room erupts.

you stand instantly, hugging her tight, whispering “go” against her ear because you can’t get more out than that. she squeezes you back hard before walking to the stage, commissioner waiting at center.

flashbulbs.

jersey reveal.

pose.

applause.

she looks over her shoulder at you before stepping off stage.

a few picks later, your heart starts hammering.

“with the second pick in the 2025 wnba draft…”

your name.

for half a second you don’t move.

paige is already up, pulling you into her arms before you fully process it. she laughs into your hair.

“told you,” she whispers.

you walk the stage in white, lights hotter than anything you’ve played under, commissioner shaking your hand firmly. jersey placed into your hands. the weight of it heavier than expected.

when you step down, your uconn family is on their feet.

kk is crying openly.

geno claps once, proud and composed.

post-pick interview, espn mic in your face again. “you and paige both drafted tonight. how does that feel?”

you glance sideways at her in black.

“like the work was worth it,” you say. “like everything we went through mattered.”

later, when the cameras thin and the noise fades, you sit back in the hotel room, makeup still flawless, heels abandoned on the carpet.

your phone is exploding again.

instagram notifications. headlines. teammates sending screenshots of the orange carpet clip. kk sending another voice memo screaming “HARD LAUNCH???”

you laugh, head tipping back.

paige sits beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

“you didn’t believe you’d be here,” she says quietly.

you shake your head.

“but you are.”

you look at her—black against white, steady against your pulse.

“yeah,” you whisper.

because tonight wasn’t just about hearing your name called.

it was about walking into the league already knowing who stands beside you.

and this time, when the lights flashed and the world watched, you didn’t shrink.

you stepped forward.

together.

after the draft the night doesn’t end. it stretches into an after party lit too warm and too bright, music loud enough to blur edges, uconn blue scattered through the room like you never left campus. someone ordered champagne. someone else is already halfway through telling the same story for the third time. heels are abandoned under tables. jackets draped over chairs.

you’re a little tipsy, not reckless, just light. kk is holding court in the middle of the dance floor, narrating your draft walk like she was the one who got called. azzi keeps pulling you into photos. nika is recording everything with zero intention of deleting it later.

paige’s hand hasn’t left your waist in twenty minutes. “you good?” she murmurs against your ear. “i’m floating,” you admit.

your phone is in your hand before you really think about it. someone yells, “story it!” and you laugh, flipping the camera around. you film kk screaming. you film geno pretending not to dance. you film the champagne tower someone probably shouldn’t have attempted.

and then—you flip the camera toward you and paige. she’s smiling, a little softer than usual, black suit jacket off now, sleeves rolled up. you lean into her automatically. she presses a quick kiss to your temple.

it’s sweet, it's unguarded, it's public. “to the league,” you say into the camera. “to us,” she adds quietly. you don’t notice the rings at first thin gold bands matching.

ones you’ve worn for months as promise rings, something private and symbolic between you, not flashy, not announced but the camera catches it, her hand on your waist, your hand laced through hers. rings clear in the light you post it. no second thought three minutes later your phone detonates.

notifications stacking so fast the screen lags comments mentions group chats.

“ARE THOSE RINGS?”

“WAIT.”

“WEDDING???”

kk bursts into laughter from across the room. “YOU JUST—YOU DID NOT—” you blink at your phone paige looks down at it then at you then back at the screen.

“…oh.”

there’s a half second where you both consider deleting it you don’t instead she shrugs, amused. “guess it’s official,” she says.

the internet spirals immediately. fan accounts zooming into screenshots. sports blogs picking it up. headlines forming before midnight but inside that room, no one is shocked. uconn isn’t shocked they’ve known they’ve watched it grow from rivalry to rehab to rings.

azzi raises her glass. “about time.” geno just shakes his head once, faint smile tucked under his composure. later that night, back at the hotel, makeup slightly smudged, dress draped carefully over a chair again, you sit cross-legged on the bed scrolling through reactions.

“we didn’t mean to hard launch with rings,” you mumble paige lies back against the pillows, hands behind her head. “i mean. we did have rings on.”

you laugh softly. “you regret it?” she asks.

you look at her at the girl who stood on an orange carpet and said she was your person without flinching. “no.”

a few weeks later you’re sitting in a podcast studio, headphones over your ears, mic adjusted just right. it’s one of those sports culture shows that blends basketball and life, the host smiling warmly as cameras roll.

“so,” he begins, “draft night was huge. but the internet really lost it over the instagram story.”

you laugh. “yeah.”

“are you engaged?”

“no,” you say, smiling. “they’re promise rings. we’ve had them for a while.”

“so the relationship was never new.”

“no,” you shake your head. “just newly visible.” he nods. “you two met in high school, rivalry, then college teammates. how did it actually shift?”

you lean back slightly, thinking. “honestly? freshman year. after a note she wrote me. we were competitive, stubborn. but somewhere in that we started choosing each other instead of competing with each other.”

“did the injury year affect the relationship?”

“it strengthened it,” you answer without hesitation. “you learn a lot about someone when you can’t offer them your best version physically. she stayed.”

another question. “is it hard being two high-profile athletes in the same relationship?” you glance off-camera where paige is sitting quietly, listening. “it’s only hard if you make it competitive,” you say. “we don’t. we’ve already done the rivalry part.”

the host smiles. “final question. where do you see this going?” you don’t rush the answer. “forward,” you say softly. “we’ve built everything step by step. we’re not in a hurry. we’re just intentional.”

when you step out of the studio, paige is waiting by the door, hands in her hoodie pocket like she was outside gampel that night years ago. “promise rings?” she teases lightly. you bump her shoulder. “you said ‘to us’ on my story.”

“and?”

you grin. “guess we’re consistent.” she reaches for your hand automatically no hiding now no half-answers. the draft was the beginning of your professional life the story post was the beginning of letting the world see what you already knew.

and walking down the street afterward, fingers laced, rings catching sunlight instead of camera flash, it doesn’t feel like a scandal, it feels like something steady, something built slowly, something that never needed an announcement—until it did.

a year before draft night, before orange carpets and flashbulbs and headlines zooming into your hands, there was a different kind of light, softer than arena lights, steadier than camera flashes, late-summer sun filtering through tall trees just outside storrs, the air warm but not heavy, cicadas humming somewhere distant like they understood this was important, like they were keeping time for something sacred.

you didn’t tell the world—you told the people who mattered.

the ceremony was small on purpose, tucked behind a private estate owned by a uconn alum, white chairs lined in two quiet rows, wildflowers woven loosely into the arch instead of extravagant arrangements, nothing dramatic, nothing staged, just intention laid carefully across grass that had seen plenty of celebrations before but none that felt like this.

upstairs, in a quiet room with gauzy curtains moving in the breeze, you stood at the window while your mom fixed the clasp of your earrings, her hands steadier than your breathing. your dress wasn’t loud, not layered with lace or sparkle, just ivory silk cut clean and sculpted, open back dipping low, fabric catching the light like it had been waiting for it. you studied your reflection longer than you expected to, not searching for perfection, just trying to memorize the girl who was about to step forward.

“you sure?” your dad asked gently from the doorway, not doubting, just checking, like he had before every big game. you smiled at him, softer than you felt. “yeah.”

downstairs, paige was pacing. kk told you later she looked like she was about to tip off in overtime, hands flexing at her sides, jaw set, pretending she wasn’t emotional. azzi hovered nearby holding a folded tissue she absolutely didn’t need yet, nika filming everything in quiet commentary mode, whispering, “historic footage, by the way,” into her phone like this was a documentary instead of a wedding.

geno arrived early, of course he did, standing near the front row with his hands folded, expression composed but eyes softer than usual, the kind of softness he saved for senior nights and final hugs. childhood friends from minnesota filled one side, uconn teammates filled the other, but no one separated into categories. no “basketball” side. no “family” side. it was all one circle, blurred together by years of shared airports, hardwood, and hospital rooms.

when the music started, it wasn’t dramatic, just piano, simple chords floating through the warm air, steady and unhurried. you stepped outside, heart pounding in your throat, and she turned.

paige wore white, tailored perfectly, hair pulled back, shoulders squared like she was bracing for impact, except the second she saw you something inside her loosened. her jaw tightened and her shoulders dropped at the same time, like gravity shifted and she let it.

you walked slowly, not because you were nervous, but because you wanted to feel every second, the grass beneath your heels, the warmth of the sun on your shoulders, the way the world narrowed to the space between you. when you reached her, you didn’t take her hand immediately. you just looked at her.

ten years condensed into one quiet glance. freshman rivalry, the note, the acl, the bench, the comeback, yet even senior night and the championships and every version of yourselves standing between you, layered and undeniable.

“hi,” she whispered, voice rougher than usual.

“hi.”

the officiant spoke about partnership, about building something before you label it, about choosing someone every day even when the season changes, but you barely heard the formal words. your attention stayed on the way paige’s thumb brushed lightly against the inside of your wrist, grounding you in something real.

when it was time for vows, she didn’t pull out paper. she just breathed in and spoke. “i’ve been choosing you since freshman year,” she said quietly, voice steady but thick around the edges. “even when i didn’t know how to say it, even when i was stubborn, even when we were rivals. i choose you when it’s loud and when it’s quiet, when you’re at your best and when you’re rebuilding, when you’re scoring thirty and when you’re relearning how to walk. i choose you for all of it.”

your throat tightened, tears blurring the edges of her face. you swallowed and let your own words come without rehearsal. “i didn’t think love would look like this,” you admitted softly. “i thought it would be dramatic or obvious, something loud and cinematic. but it was patience. it was rehab mornings. it was sitting on the bench and still feeling like we were playing together. you didn’t flinch when things got hard, you didn’t step back when i was scared. so i won’t either.”

kk was crying openly by then, not even pretending otherwise. azzi wiped her cheeks and laughed at herself. geno looked down at his shoes for a second longer than necessary, clearing his throat once.

the rings were simple gold bands, no diamonds, no spectacle, just something solid and warm. when you slid hers onto her finger your hands didn’t shake. when she slid yours on, she leaned forward before the officiant even finished speaking, pressing her forehead to yours like she needed to anchor herself.

the kiss wasn’t rushed, not desperate, not a performance. it was certain, steady, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for applause but received it anyway, soft clapping rising into warm cheers, someone whistling, someone laughing through tears.

later, under strings of fairy lights, the reception felt like a reunion more than a formal event. teammates crowded the dance floor, nika giving a speech that balanced chaos and sincerity, azzi talking about watching the shift from rivalry to something deeper, kk ending her toast with a dramatic, “finally,” that made everyone laugh. geno stood slowly when it was his turn.

“i’ve coached a lot of talent,” he said evenly, eyes moving between you. “but what matters isn’t talent. it’s character. and these two have more than enough of both.”

you danced barefoot before the night ended, black suit jacket discarded, ivory silk brushing against hardwood, laughter spilling into the warm air. no cameras except the ones your friends held. no headlines. no speculation.

just vows exchanged under open sky, hands laced together as you stepped into the dark, rings catching moonlight instead of flash it didn’t feel like an announcement, it felt like a foundation.

so a year later, when the world zoomed in on your fingers during an instagram story, when fans paused and replayed and headlines formed, you didn’t feel exposed.

because the promise had already been made, quietly, intentionally, in a circle of people who already knew, long before the draft, long before the orange carpet, long before anyone else was watching.

[dollhoonki]

✰ ── SERGEANT POLITENESS ⋆ LEE JENO。

⋮ ⌗ ┆概要 ⨾  yours and jeno's friends manage to snag a reservation at the fanciest restaurant in town. too bad they coincide with jeno's plans to wreak havoc.

李帝努 𝔁 𝒻 .ᐟ读者 ──2k    explicit content ⋆ smut (mdni)、 dom!jeno、 sub!reader、 semi public sex、 use of a toy、 spit kink、unprotected sex (don't do this)、 creampie、 dirty talk、praise、light degradation/humiliation、petnames (baby, good girl). let me know if any more are missing! ⌇ℳ.list

⋮ ⌗ ┆便条 ⨾ hellooooo! back again with another fic amidst bigger ones! i finally got my hands on a prompt list for kinktober and this (as well as other future fics) came into being. i hope you enjoy this. you've really amazed me with all the support on this blog and for my writing, it genuinely warms my heart 🥹 thank you so, so, so much! also (!!!) the title is based on the song by failure, which i felt matched the vibes of this fic (not the 2nd last line though 😐) anywho, let's dive in, shall we? much loveeeeeeee! <333

The cutlery is polished enough to magnify every pore on your twitching face. Nothing is out of place, no creases in the black and white of waiters’ garments, imported wines dating back generations and chandlers that shine so bright you clutched onto your humble jewelry with the sinking feeling of inferiority. It’s the perfect painting of opulence and sophistication and here you are, anything but.

Canines make a home in the flesh of your bottom lip, trembling in fear of what tortured sound could come out if you don’t gain some shred of control. Your knuckles rival the porcelain white of your pasta dish, hinged on your fork and knife so hard they’re bending. Conversations whizzes past you, words and ideas jumping at your dwindling attention but it’s a tedious task, thinking of anything else except for the silent whirr inside you, incessant and troublesome. So very troublesome.

Jeno doesn’t seem to mind. Hell, he may as well be ignoring you with the hard slopes of the side profile he gives you, sterling silver rings resting on the very slender fingers that were inside you not even thirty minutes ago. You stew at the memory, hating how putty in his hands you are despite its recurring consequences. Of course everything he does is a suggestion, something that always requires your agreement so maybe your annoyance should direct itself towards the foolish doll that agreed to this absolute mess of a plan, one that slowly unravels the longer this impossibly-long dinner takes.

“Should I turn it up?” he mutters, barely above the string quarter not far from your booth. He doesn’t bother with a glance, fork gathering his half-eaten truffle pasta. You’ve maybe managed to ingest a corner piece of your lasagna - it’s embarrassing. “Seems like you’ve gotten used to the speed.”

Only then he looks your way, nose strong with eyes behind frameless glasses that makes the room several degrees hotter than before. It’s his fault this happened really. For dinner plans amongst his friends and their partners, he cleans up in a way that weakens your buckling knees, pinstriped suit tailored to the muscles your hands long to run over. He’s everything out of your wildest dreams, so how could you stop yourself from making a move? A few throw-away minutes is all you needed, he could undo you in less and that he did, except before you pile into his car, he perches your high-heeled foot against his shoulder, sliding the toy in you with a kiss to your ankle. The kiss of death, your hindsight bitterly recaps. Your compliance aligns with a fantasy you revealed to him days before, a conversation you didn’t think would bare fruit this soon, but that’s not of any significance now.

“You okay?” Jaemin asks from across the table, intuitive as ever. You could really do without it now though. “You’ve barely touched your food.”

Panic straightens your sagged posture, wide eyes darting to Jeno in salvation as the buzz persists, blending your insides to molten hot burn.

“He’s got a point honey,” he feigns innocence with the knit of his eyebrows, having the audacity to envelope your hand with his. You are going to kill him. “Lasagna’s your favourite, no?”

It is, it really fucking is. If not for the brain fog-inducing toy between your quivering legs, you’d be licking the plate clean with classless demands for seconds, the only demon you’d have to fight being your appetite, not your own boyfriend.

In an attempt to compose yourself for a table focused on only you, you shift against your two-person velvet booth seat, making the grave mistake of pushing the toy against the place Jeno knows so well he smiles before you react. The yelp is instant, knee knocked against the table that jumps in your wake. What’s saving you is the fact nothing spills except for stray drops of your table’s water pitcher, what doesn’t is the concern crossing their faces as they exchange worried looks between themselves, then you.

“S-sorry,” you manage, voice small and shaky. If not for your poker face, they’d know something is up, embarrassment running your body hot. “Thought I, uhm…felt something against my leg,”

You pick up the draping tablecloth previously brushing against your calf as evidence. "Must've been this.”

“See? It wasn’t just me getting spooked,” Jisung argues, sucking off tomato paste against his thumb.

Beside him, Chenle rolls his eyes, slicing into his medium rare steak. “I refuse to support any notion of you being anything but a scaredy-cat.”

Jisung opens his mouth to speak, but Haechan beats him to it. “I’ve seen your head hit the ceiling when you caught sight of your own shadow. Let’s not even.”

“There was a spider! A big one!”

Haechan simply cannot help himself. “Big like this-”

“And here I thought we could have a nice meal,” Renjun interjects, staring daggers at the man beside him, Haechan cowering into a shell half his size.

Conversation continues like this - childish bickers, innuendos in the face of disappointment. It’s a comfortable rhythm you either playing along with or watch fondly, but you’re incapable of neither. All too soon, the buzz intensifies in speed and sound, your mouth falling open in a silent cry, Jeno’s arm being grabbed in rising desperation. Ecstasy scrambles your half-baked thoughts, your ankles crossing as if it’ll stop the inevitable. You couldn’t be any more thankful for the low candlelight of the establishment, doing you favours as your back falls against the plush of the booth, fingernails sinking into Jeno’s biceps.

“It’s like you want people to know,” his voice claws through your blurring vision, lights glossy and smudged. In the haze, his face draws closer, woody musk engulfing you. “Is that what you want? Our friends knowing how some dumb little toy melts that brain of yours?”

The pinch of your lips doesn’t do much to insinuate your whimper, head falling to his shoulder as your hips chase missing friction - the toy not enough and unbearable all in one.

“Turn it off,” you dim your voice to a whisper, scared of what’ll escape otherwise. You’re looking up at him with eyes half-lidded, a painting of pleasure and torture. “Please. I can’t - not here.”

He stares down at you, hypnotized by the tremble of your thighs, your low pants for his ears only.

“Why not, baby? Don’t you wanna come?” A lone lip corner lifts, his wolfish grin only adding to the damp of your underwear. “You’re so pretty when you do. You know I love dinner and a show.”

The room spins, thrown off its axis as you will your body to not show its tells - the sharp short breaths, the pinch of your brows, the part of your lips that echo moans unnoticed in polite chatter and classical string instruments. On the highest setting, your tolerance wanes, heart pounding against your bruised chest with sweet release so close you can taste it. You might not want to come, but your body isn’t getting the message, senses zeroing in on the buzz that pushes you closer to the end.

Jeno shifts against you, the toy turning off shortly afterwards. Air filters into your lungs again, vision clearing with the flutter of your eyelashes as your hold pries off Jeno, disappointment sinking your stomach, lose of friction too severe.

Warmth hovers your ear, tilting your head as your ears hear the message: “Bathroom. Now. I’ll go in after you.”

Your body moves before your brain can rationalise, on your feet with eyes on you yet again. A false look of discomfort crosses your face, hand on your stomach all you have to offer, mumbling some sham about needing the bathroom. Navigating your way through winding walkways, accented in marble and shine proves to be more uncomfortable than imagined, the drench of your underwear forcing your legs further apart, your head hung to hide the growing smile on your face.

No expense is spared in the restaurant, not even in the bathroom with its designer tiles and luxury soaps, your survey of the room cut short as the door flies open, a flash of silver hair all you see before his lips crash land on yours. It’s a mess of folded noses and impatience, Jeno's mouth swallowing your moans before his hands slide to the back of your thighs, exposing more skin as he inches your dress upwards, a whisper against your lips amidst hungry kisses.

“Jump.”

Your compliance makes him smile against you as your legs wrap around him, supporting you under your thighs as he settles you against the cold brass-coloured countertop, content humming from you who welcomes the brush of Jeno’s tongue, its glide wracking shivers down your spine.

A familiar hand rests under your chin, Jeno only distancing himself enough to give you what you need. “Open up.”

Jaw falling slack, your inside turn in anticipation, eyes peering up to watch his expression. It pulls tight as quick spit drops to your tongue, the keen in your throat audible as your mouth closes to swallow. You don’t miss the smirk on his face before lips overlap again, the circle his hands draw against your thighs pushing your dress up until it bunches up at your hips, underwear on full display.

Pity paints the pout on his swollen lips, its mocking undertone making your body shudder under his dark gaze. “Poor thing. You might’ve stained the booth with how drenched you are.”

You mewl, head lolled back enough for a thin string of spit connecting your lips to appear. Your tongue disconnects it with a run over your lips, hips lifting off the counter to help him peel your underwear off.

“Won’t be needing these,” Jeno tucks them into his trousers pockets, eyesmile so sweet despite the depravity of his actions. “They’re soaked through anyways.”

He pulls needy sounds out you, finger hooking into the string of vibrating egg tormenting you all night. Its buzz amplifies in the stark silence of the bathroom when turned on again, bouncing off the tiled walls that bear witness to your wildest fantasies and then some.

Against your clit, the vibrator hums to the buck of your hips, Jeno gliding into you with an ease that pulls sighs of relief out the two of you. He holds himself there, eyes falling closed as you adjust to the stretch of him, toes curling with all the want that spills over as your hand yanks his tie forwards, bringing his lips to yours. The pressure of him is so sweet against your lips, but nothing compares to the pressure of his hips smacking against you. He’s everywhere all at once and you can’t get enough of him, the messy exchange of breathy tongue kisses trailing drool down your chin, trickling down to where you meet.

You’re fucking on borrowed time, so close you’re clenching down on Jeno like a vice, swallow thrusts all he is afforded as you teeter at the edge, fingernails sinking into his back.

“How dirty are you to like this so much?” he mumbles into you, the taste of his smile on your tongue. “Gripping me so tight, baby. Might have fuck you in public more.”

You’re fraying at your edges, coming down tighter against Jeno who ruts against you, kissing you like it’s air. Even if he robs you off it, knocking against the spongy part that makes you whine, eyes rolling.

It’s too much - the buzz against your clit, the heavy glide of his cock touching you in the right places, kisses starved and sloppy. Your body folds into itself, preparing for the rush on the horizon.

“Make a mess of me, baby,” Jeno whispers in a gravel tone that has you seeing stars. “Soak my cock like a good girl.”

You come with his teeth biting into your bottom lip, body convulsing with the violent wash of an orgasm rendering you limp against the mirror behind you. Jeno follows soon after you, buried to the hilt as he spills inside you, ropes of come coating your walls. The same come that leaks between your thighs as you bid a lame goodbye to friends, citing a sore stomach for your early departure. While Jeno is not nice enough to tease you amongst company, he makes up for it by rearranging that 'sore stomach' later onwards, your cold lasagna abandoned for another day.

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