summary: you learn to love jaxson through screens and late night calls, until distance turns into silence and a single rumor threatens to take everything you thought was unbreakable.
word count: 6k words
a/n: this was a request, i hope you enjoyy!! thank you for reading!!!
⸻
You've learned to love him through screens, the glow of your phone screen late at night has become as familiar as his touch once was back when touch was something you could have without counting down days on a calendar, without calculating time zones, without wondering if the ache in your chest was longing or just the way you sleep now, curled around the absence of him.
Jaxson's face fills your screen, slightly pixelated, the camera angle that somehow makes him more real, more yours. His hair is still damp from the post game shower, and you can see the exhaustion pooling beneath his eyes. But he's smiling that soft, sweet smile he saves for these moments, for you and for now, for these moments of time where it's just your voice and his, the miles between you don't seem to matter at all.
"Tell me about your day," he says, and you do. You tell him about the place that got your order wrong, about the stray cat that's started appearing on your fire escape, about the way the sunset looked through your kitchen window, the small things and ordinary things. The kind of details that would bore anyone else but that he collects like treasures, his eyes tracking your face as if he's trying to memorize the way your expressions shift.
This is your normal now. This routine you've built together like a bridge across the distance fragile, necessary, held together by consistency and want. Good morning voice notes that you listen to three times before getting out of bed, just to hear the sleep rough warmth of his voice saying your name. Lunch break texts that arrive like clockwork, thinking about you with a photo of whatever he's eating, usually something beige and protein heavy that makes you tease him about his athlete diet. Late night facetimes that stretch past midnight, past the point where you're both too tired to make sense, but neither of you wants to be the first to hang up.
"Press play in three, two, one—" he counts down, and you both start the movie at the same time, your phones propped up so you can see each other's reactions in the corner of the screen. It's a comedy you've both seen before, but that's not the point. The point is the way he laughs at the same parts you do, the way you can say "this is the best scene" right before your favorite moment, the way it feels almost like being together, almost.
"I miss you," you whisper during a quiet scene, and the words taste like something you've said too many times, worn smooth with repetition.
"I know," he says, and his voice cracks just slightly. "Soon."
You've both been counting.
The season is brutal this year longer, more demanding. He tells you about practices that run until his legs shake, about game schedules that blur together, about the pressure that sits on his shoulders like a physical weight. You watch him carry it through the screen, watch the exhaustion settle deeper into his features with each passing week, and you want to reach through the distance and smooth the tension from his jaw, press your lips to his temple, tell him it's okay to rest. But all you can offer are words through a speaker, and sometimes words feel like such inadequate things.
"You should sleep," you tell him when his eyes start to drift closed. "You have practice early."
"Five more minutes," he always says. "Just five more minutes with you."
Those five minutes stretch into twenty, into thirty, until one of you finally, reluctantly, whispers goodnight. Until the screen goes dark and you're alone again with the silence of your apartment, with the phantom warmth of a connection that's already gone cold.
This is love in the age of distance, this is what you signed up for. This is enough you tell yourself, it has to be enough.
⸻
You call at your usual time after his evening routine, before you both settle in for the night. The phone rings once, twice, five times. It goes to voicemail, and his recorded voice feels like a poor substitute for the real thing. You tell yourself it's fine that he probably fell asleep early. He's been so tired lately, running on fumes and determination. You send a text instead.
hope you're getting some rest. love you. call me when you wake up.
The first crack appears, he doesn't call when he wakes up.
sorry, passed out. crazy day. talk later?
Later comes and goes. You eat dinner alone, your phone face up on the table, waiting for it to light up with his name. It doesn't. That night, you send another message.
hey, you okay?
yeah just exhausted. tomorrow for sure.
You try not to let it sit wrong in your chest, the missing punctuation, the absence of his usual endearments. He calls you "baby" or "sweetheart" in almost every text, signs off with heart emojis or inside jokes. This message feels like something sent to a colleague, not to the person he said he couldn't live without.
How was practice? you ask.
The calls become shorter when they do happen fifteen minutes instead of an hour, his responses distracted, his eyes drifting off screen. The good morning voice notes stop coming daily. Sometimes you wake up to silence, and you have to remind yourself not to check your phone obsessively, not to send a worried text that might come across as clingy.
fine he replies, three hours later.
I saw that article about the game. You played amazing.
thanks
The shift is subtle enough that you could convince yourself you're imagining it, but it's there a pulling away, like he's slowly turning down the volume on what you have together. The warmth that used to saturate every interaction has dimmed to, something that requires effort to maintain.
You lie awake at night, your phone clutched in your hand, and try to rationalize it. He's in the hardest part of the season. The pressure is immense, he's probably just exhausted, running on empty, with nothing left to give at the end of the day. It's not about you, it's not about what you have together. It's just circumstances, just timing, just the temporary difficulty of distance and stress.
But the bruise in your chest keeps spreading, a dull ache that pulses with every short text, every missed call, every time you reach for your phone and find nothing waiting for you. You've learned to love him in pixels, but what happens when even the pixels start to fade?
You don't let yourself answer that question, not yet. Instead, you send another text.
I love you. I'm here when you need me.
And you wait, hoping that the boy who used to stay on the phone until dawn just to hear you breathe is still there, somewhere beneath the exhaustion. What happens when the space between you starts to feel less like distance and more like absence?
Hoping that the bridge you've built hasn't already started to collapse.
⸻
You get a text in the middle of the night.
thought you'd want to see this babe 💔
You're not even supposed to be awake, but sleep has become something elusive lately, something that only comes in pieces. So you're scrolling mindlessly through your phone when the tag appears your username, buried in the replies of a fan account you don't follow.
Your thumb hovers over the link. There's a feeling in your stomach already, like your body knows before your brain does that whatever's on the other side of that click will hurt.
You click anyway.
The photo loads Jaxson's face first, that familiar jawline, the curve of his smile. Then her, blonde hair catching the streetlight, her hand not quite touching his arm but close enough. Close enough that there's no air between them, no space for doubt.
They're walking out of a restaurant, not just any restaurant.
Your restaurant, the italian place with the corner booth where he first told you he was falling for you, where the owner knows your order by heart, where the walls are brick and warm and covered in string lights that made everything feel like a dream. The place he promised was yours together, the place he said he'd never take anyone else because it meant something.
Your hands start shaking.
The caption sits below the photo. "Jaxson Dart spotted AGAIN with mystery girl 👀 same one from last week…is he moving on??"
You zoom in on the photo, hating yourself for it, but unable to stop. Her face is blurry but pretty you can tell that much, she's laughing. He's looking down at her, and even though the image is grainy, even though it could mean nothing, the angle of his body toward hers feels like a betrayal all on its own.
Again.
Last week.
"Omg who is she??"
The word "again" does something to your chest, cracks something open that you didn't know was already fracturing. You scroll down to the comments, your vision starting to blur at the edges.
"I thought he had a girlfriend?"
"He does lmaooo this is messy"
"She's prettier than his gf tbh"
"Twice in one week? Yeah he's definitely moved on"
Your phone buzzes in your hand, a text from your best friend.
please tell me you haven't seen twitter
Then another.
call me. right now.
Then another from a different friend.
are you okay? i'm so sorry babe
The messages keep coming, each one a confirmation that this isn't just in your head, isn't just paranoia or insecurity. Other people see it too that other people know. Strangers on the internet are discussing your relationship, dissecting it, declaring it over while you sit alone in your bed in the middle of the night with your heart trying to crawl out of your throat.
You click back to the photo and stare at it until your eyes burn. Try to find an innocent explanation maybe she's a friend, maybe it's a group dinner and everyone else is cropped out, maybe it's not even him, even though you know the shape of his shoulders like you know your own heartbeat.
Maybe he was going to tell you. Maybe this is why he's been distant. Maybe he's been trying to find the words.
⸻
Two days of staring at your phone, two days of his name lighting up your screen with texts that feel hollow now.
good morning baby, thinking about you, sorry i've been so busy
Like he doesn't know that half the internet has seen him with someone else, like he thinks you don't know. The not knowing is worse than knowing would be the silence where honesty should be is suffocating.
So on the third morning, when he sends miss your voice, you finally call.
He answers on the second ring. "Hey, baby." His voice is warm, a little surprised, genuinely happy, it makes your stomach turn. "I was just about to—"
"Who was she?"
The words come out quieter than you meant them to, almost a whisper.
Silence.
You hear him breathe a sharp inhale, then nothing. The pause stretches so long you almost think the call dropped.
"Jaxson."
"I—" He exhales, long and heavy, and you can picture him exactly running his hand over his face, jaw tight, eyes closed. "Baby, listen—"
"Who was she?" you ask again, and your voice cracks this time.
"It's not what it looks like." The words come fast, defensive. "I swear to god, it's not—"
"Then what is it?" You're gripping the phone so hard your hand aches. "Because it looks like you took someone else to our restaurant. Twice. It looks like you've been dodging my calls while you—"
"I wasn't dodging your calls."
"You missed three facetimes last week, Jaxson. Three. You've been texting me like everything's fine while apparently—"
"She's nobody." His voice rises slightly, frustration bleeding through. "She's just—it was just dinner, okay? It didn't mean anything."
Just dinner.
"You took her to marcello's." Your voice sounds far away, even to yourself. "That's our place. You said—you told me you were saving it, that we'd go back together when I visited, that it was—"
"I know." He sounds tired now. Worn down. "I know, and I should've told you, I just—"
"You should've told me?" The laugh that escapes you is sharp, bitter. "That's what you're going with? You should've told me that you were taking another girl out? Like it's just some small detail you forgot to mention?"
"It wasn't like that—"
"Then what was it like?" You're standing now, pacing, your free hand clenched into a fist. "Explain it to me, Jaxson. Make it make sense."
"She's—" He stops. Starts again. "She's a friend of one of the guys. She's new to the area, and everyone was going out, and I—fuck, I don't know, I just went. It wasn't planned, it wasn't—"
"Twice," you interrupt. "You went twice."
Another pause but longer this time.
"Yeah." His voice is barely audible. "Yeah, okay. Twice."
"And you didn't think to mention it? Not once? You couldn't send me a text that said 'hey, going to dinner with some people' or 'one of the guys brought a friend' or literally anything that would've—" Your voice breaks. You press your palm against your mouth, trying to hold it together.
"Baby, please—"
"I shouldn't have found out from strangers." The words come out thick, choked. "I shouldn't have woken up to screenshots from people I don't even know, asking me if we broke up, if you—" You can't finish the sentence.
"We didn't break up." He says it firm, almost angry. "Don't say that."
"Then what are we doing?" You're crying now, hot tears spilling down your cheeks. "Because it feels like I'm the only one still trying. It feels like you're already gone and you just haven't told me yet."
"That's not—" He makes a frustrated sound. "You don't understand what it's like here. The pressure, the schedule, everyone wanting something from me all the time. I can barely fucking breathe most days, and I—"
"So I'm just another thing suffocating you?" The question comes out sharp. "Is that what this is?"
"No. Jesus, no, that's not what I meant." He sounds desperate now, frantic. "You're the only good thing, okay? You're the only thing keeping me sane, but I—"
"But you what? You needed space? You needed to see what else was out there?"
"I never touched her." His voice cracks on the words. "I swear to god, I never—it was just dinner. Just talking. Nothing happened."
"Something happened, Jaxson." You're whispering again, exhausted. "Maybe not physically, but something happened. You pulled away. You stopped calling. You took someone else to our place and you didn't tell me, and now I—" You press your fingers against your eyes. "Now I don't know what's real anymore."
"This is real." He says your name like he's begging, like he's drowning. "Baby, please. This—us—that's the only real thing. I fucked up, okay? I should've told you, I should've been better about staying in touch, but I never—I would never—"
"You already did." The words fall flat, final. "You already did the thing you're saying you'd never do. You already made me feel like I don't matter."
"You matter." His voice breaks completely. "You're everything. You have to know that."
But you don't know that. Not anymore. The certainty you used to carry that he loved you, that distance was just temporary, that you were building toward something, it's gone. Replaced by the image of him with someone else, in your place, living a life that doesn't include you.
"I need—" You swallow hard. "I need some time."
"Time?" He sounds panicked. "What does that mean?"
"It means I can't do this right now. I can't—" Your voice splinters. "I can't keep waiting for you to choose me."
"I do choose you. I am choosing you."
"Then why does it feel like I'm losing you?"
Silence.
"Baby—"
"I have to go." You're sobbing now, can barely get the words out.
"Please don't—"
"I love you." You say it because it's true, because even now, even through all of this, it's still true. "But I can't—I just can't right now."
You end the call before he can respond. The phone falls from your hand onto the bed. You curl around yourself, arms wrapped tight across your stomach, and you let yourself break.
Your phone lights up immediately, his name. Then again and again.
You don't answer.
You don't know how to anymore.
⸻
You wake up with swollen eyes and his name on your lock screen, missed calls and too many texts. You don't open them, you can't. Instead, you turn your phone face down on the nightstand and force yourself out of bed.
The apartment feels too quiet. You put on music something loud, something that has nothing to do with him and you clean. You scrub the kitchen counter that's already clean, you reorganize the bookshelf. You do anything that keeps your hands busy and your mind blank.
His hoodie is draped over the back of your chair. The one he left last time he visited, the one that still smells like his cologne. You stare at it for a full minute before shoving it into the back of your closet where you can't see it.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.
You don't look.
⸻
Three hundred miles away, Jaxson sits in his truck in the parking lot of the practice facility. His phone is in his hand, your contact photo staring back at him you laughing at something he said, eyes bright, completely his.
I'm sorry.
He's typed and deleted the same message six times.
Please just talk to me.
I can't do this without you.
Nothing sounds right, nothing is enough.
He finally he decides on: Please.
Sends it.
Watches the screen.
Delivered.
Not read, just delivered.
He drops his head back against the seat and closes his eyes.
⸻
You've stopped checking your phone every five minutes, now it's every hour, then every few hours. You tell yourself you're getting better at this, at the distance, at the silence.
You're lying.
Your best friend takes you out for coffee. She doesn't ask about him directly, just keeps the conversation light, keeps you distracted. You're grateful, you smile and nod and pretend you're not thinking about him.
Your phone is in your purse, on silent.
You left it on read receipts off and wonder if he notices.
⸻
He notices.
Practice is a disaster. He overthrows an easy pass, misses a read he should've seen coming, snaps at a teammate who doesn't deserve it.
"Dart!" Coach's voice cuts across the field. "What the hell is going on with you?"
"Nothing, Coach. I'm good."
"You're not good. You haven't been good all week." Coach studies him, eyes narrowed. "This about a girl?"
Jaxson's jaw tightens. "I'm fine."
"You're not. Fix it or sit out."
That night, he texts you again: I miss you.
He can't fix it, doesn't know how.
Then, an hour later: Please talk to me.
Then, late into the night when he can't sleep: Tell me what to do.
All delivered, none read.
He stares at the ceiling of his apartment and tries to remember the last time he felt this empty.
⸻
You've developed a routine, wake up. Don't check your phone first thing, shower, coffee, work, lunch, more work, dinner, netflix, sleep, and repeat.
You're functioning but barely.
His contact photo keeps catching your eye when you do finally look at your phone. You should change it. You should change it to something neutral, something that doesn't make your chest ache every time you see it.
You don't change it.
I love you.
The texts keep coming, not as many now but still just as desperate.
⸻
You shouldn't be here.
That's all you can think as your best friend drags you through the parking lot toward the stadium. You shouldn't be here, you should've said no, you should've stayed home where it's safe and numb and you don't have to risk seeing him.
"You've been rotting in your apartment for too long," she'd said that morning, arms crossed, determined. "You're coming to the game. You don't have to talk to him. You don't even have to let him see you. But you need to get out."
So here you are, in the stadium where he plays. Where he lives and breathes and exists in a world that suddenly feels too small. Your heart hasn't stopped racing since you pulled into the parking lot.
The game ends with a win, you barely watched. Spent most of it staring at your hands, at the field, at anything except the players. Except him.
"I need to use the bathroom," you tell your friend as people start filtering out.
"Want me to come?"
"No. I'll meet you at the car."
You just need air. Need space. Need to get out of here before you round the corner near the family exit, and your heart stops.
He's there.
Twenty feet away, walking out of the corridor in joggers and a team hoodie, hair still damp from the shower, duffel bag over his shoulder. He's looking down at his phone, and you freeze, every muscle in your body locking up.
You should turn around and should run away before he sees you.
But then he looks up.
His eyes find yours, and the world narrows to just this the space between you, the way his entire body goes rigid, the way his lips part like he's been punched in the chest.
"Baby—"
You turn. You don't think, you just move, heading back the way you came, but his voice cuts through the noise of the crowd, sharp and desperate.
"Don't run away."
You stop and you don't know why. Your hands are shaking, your pulse is in your throat, and you can hear his footsteps closing the distance between you.
"Please," he says, and his voice cracks. "Please don't run."
You turn slowly, and he's right there. Close enough to touch, close enough that you can see the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way he looks like he hasn't slept in days.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, breathless.
"I didn't—" Your voice comes out thin. "I didn't know you'd be—"
"I'm always here after games." His eyes search yours, frantic, like he's trying to memorize you. "God, I—I've been losing my mind. You won't answer, you won't talk to me, I don't know how to fix this—"
"You can't just—" The words burst out of you, hot and jagged. "You can't just act like everything's fine, Jaxson. You can't just—"
"I know it's not fine." He steps closer, and you step back, your spine hitting the wall. "I know. I fucked up. I should've told you about her, I should've—"
"I felt stupid." Your voice breaks, and you hate it, hate the way your eyes are burning. "Everyone saw those pictures. Everyone knew before I did. My friends were texting me, asking if we broke up, if you were seeing someone else, and I didn't know what to say because you didn't tell me."
"I know—"
"You made me feel like I didn't matter." The words rip out of you, and his face crumbles. "Like I was just—just something you kept around when it was convenient. Like the distance was an excuse to—"
"No." He closes the space between you in one step, his hands coming up like he wants to touch you but doesn't dare. "No, baby, that's not—that's not what happened."
"Then what did happen?" Your voice is shaking now, your whole body trembling. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you moved on and didn't bother to tell me."
"I didn't move on." His voice is raw, wrecked. "I would never—I can't even think about anyone else. She's a friend from class, that's it. We got dinner because she was helping me with something, and I should've told you, I know I should've, but I didn't think—"
"You didn't think I'd find out?" You laugh, bitter. "You didn't think it would matter?"
"I didn't think it would look like that." His jaw clenches, and he drags a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I didn't think people would take pictures and post them and turn it into something it wasn't. I should've been smarter. I should've told you first. I fucked up."
"You did."
"I know." He steps closer again, and this time you don't move. "I know I did. And I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. But I never touched her. I never wanted to. I've only ever wanted you."
Your breath hitches.
"I'm losing my mind without you," he says, and his voice drops, quiet and desperate. "I can't sleep. I can't focus. I'm fucking up at practice because all I can think about is you not answering my calls. You shutting me out. I know I deserve it, but baby, please—"
"You hurt me." The words come out as a whisper.
"I know." His forehead drops, and he looks at you like you're the only thing holding him together. "I know I did. And I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you let me. But don't walk away. Don't give up on us. Please."
The silence stretches, heavy and aching.
You can see it in his eyes the fear, the desperation, the love that's been there all along, buried under the mess you've both made.
"I don't know how to trust you right now," you whisper.
"Then let me earn it back." His hand finally reaches for yours, tentative, shaking. "Let me prove it. I'll do whatever it takes."
Your fingers curl around his, and something in your chest cracks wide open. You're trying to protect yourself. Trying to build walls high enough that the hurt can't reach you anymore.
It's not working.
⸻
He steps closer.
Not asking permission this time, ot waiting for you to give him space or tell him it's okay. He just moves into you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough that his presence fills every inch of air between you and that you can't think straight.
Your back hits the wall behind you, you didn't even realize you'd been retreating and suddenly he's right there. His chest rising and falling hard, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with something that looks like anger and desperation and love all tangled together.
"Jaxson—"
"No." His voice is rough, wrecked. "No more running. No more silence. I can't—" He breaks off, and his hands come up, trembling as they frame your face. His palms are warm, calloused, achingly familiar. "I can't lose you."
You can feel the tension in his body, coiled tight like he's barely holding himself together.
"I don't want distance to feel like losing you," you whisper, and your voice cracks on the last word.
His forehead drops to yours. You can feel his breath against your lips, hot and unsteady. Can feel the way his hands are shaking against your face, like he's terrified you'll disappear if he lets go.
"You're mine." His voice drops, raw and possessive and desperate. "Distance or not. Rumors or not. You're mine. You've always been mine."
Something inside you breaks. You breathe for the first time in what feels like forever.
And then you kiss him or he kisses you. You don't know who moves first, just that suddenly his mouth is on yours and there's nothing gentle about it. It's frustration and fear and jealousy and all the silence all crashing together at once.
Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he makes a sound low in his throat that sends heat pooling in your stomach. His hands slide from your face into your hair, fingers tangling, gripping, holding you to him like he's afraid you'll vanish.
The kiss is angry and desperate. An accusation and an apology all at once but then something shifts.
His mouth softens against yours, and the kiss deepens into something that makes your knees weak. His tongue slides against yours and you gasp, and he swallows the sound, one hand moving to cup the back of your neck while the other slides down to your waist.
Every unsaid apology is in that kiss. Every "I'm sorry" and "I missed you" and "please don't leave me" spoken through touch instead of words.
Your fingers uncurl from his shirt and slide up into his hair, and when you tug slightly, he groans against your mouth. The sound does something to you makes you bold, makes you ache, makes you press closer until there's no space left between your bodies.
He's solid and warm and real, and you've missed him so much you could cry.
His hand tightens on your waist, fingers digging in through the fabric of your shirt, and then he's walking you backward until your back hits the wall again. The impact makes you gasp, and he takes advantage, kissing you deeper, harder, like he's trying to memorize the taste of you.
"I missed you," he breathes against your lips, and his voice is so wrecked it makes your chest ache. "I missed you so fucking much."
"Jaxson—"
He kisses you again, cutting off whatever you were going to say. His hands are everywhere your face, your neck, your waist, your hips like he can't decide where he wants to touch you most, like he needs to feel all of you at once to believe you're really here.
Your own hands slide down from his hair to his shoulders, his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt, the rapid beat of his heart. He's shaking slightly, or maybe you are, or maybe it's both of you trembling with the weight of everything you've been holding back. When he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are dark and intense and full of something that makes your stomach flip.
"Let me show you," he says, voice dropping low, rough with want. "Let me show you how much I missed you. How much I need you."
His hand slides from your waist to your hip, thumb brushing against bare skin where your shirt has ridden up, and the touch sends sparks through your entire body.
You kiss him again, and this time it's you claiming him. You pour everything into it all the hurt and the love and the desperate need to believe that you can survive this, that you're strong enough to weather the distance and the doubt and come out whole on the other side.
He responds immediately, kissing you back with a hunger that steals your breath. His hands grip your hips and pull you flush against him, and you can feel every inch of him, hard and wanting and yours.
"Baby," he breathes against your mouth, and the word is a plea.
You're both breathing hard now, hearts racing, bodies pressed so close you can't tell where you end and he begins. The air between you is charged with possibility and promise and the kind of need that makes rational thought impossible.
His lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, your neck, and when he finds that spot just below your ear that makes you gasp, he smiles against your skin.
"Come home with me," he murmurs, voice rough and low. "Please. Let me—"
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, and what you see there makes your decision for you.
"Yes."
The word is barely out of your mouth before he's kissing you again, deep and claiming and full of promise for everything that's about to happen next.
⸻
His apartment is exactly how you remember it.
The same throw blanket on the couch, the same framed photo of his family on the shelf. But walking into it now, with his hand wrapped around yours, feels different. New, like you're both different people than you were the last time you were here.
He locks the door behind you, and the click of the deadbolt feels significant somehow. Like he's locking the rest of the world out, keeping just the two of you in.
"You want something to drink? Water, or—"
"Jaxson." You turn to face him, and he stops mid-sentence. "I don't need anything. Just you."
Something in his expression cracks open. He crosses to you in two strides, pulling you against him like he's afraid you'll disappear if he doesn't hold on tight enough.
"I missed you," he breathes into your hair. "I missed you so much."
"I missed you too."
You stand there in his living room, wrapped up in each other, swaying slightly like you're dancing to music only the two of you can hear. His hand moves in slow circles on your back, soothing, grounding.
"Come here," he says softly, and leads you to his bedroom.
There's nothing frantic about it now, no desperate urgency. Just the quiet intimacy of him pulling back the covers, of you slipping off your shoes, of him wrapping himself around you.
His hand finds your waist, thumb tracing lazy patterns on your skin, then it moves to your hip, your thigh, like he needs to touch you to believe you're real. That you're here that you came back.
"We're okay?" he asks, and his voice is so quiet, so vulnerable, that it makes your chest ache.
You shift so you can look at him. His eyes are searching yours, uncertain in a way that Jaxson never is. This boy who commands a field, who leads a team, who carries the weight of expectations like it's nothing he's looking at you like you hold his entire world in your hands.
You nod, pressing your forehead to his. "We're okay."
The exhale that leaves him sounds like he's been holding his breath for days. Maybe he has been.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "For all of it. For not telling you, for making you feel like you didn't matter, for—"
"I know." You cup his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone. "I know you are."
"No more silence," he says, and it sounds like a vow. "I'll fight for us this time. I'll fight for you. Distance, rumors, whatever—I don't care. You're worth fighting for."
Your eyes burn, but this time it's not from hurt. "So are you."
He kisses you then, soft and slow and sweet. When he pulls back, he tucks you against his chest, your head fitting perfectly under his chin. His arm wraps around you, solid and sure, and his hand finds yours, fingers lacing together.
"Stay," he murmurs into your hair. "Don't leave in the morning. Just...stay."
"Okay," you whisper back. "I'll stay."
You feel him relax beneath you, the tension finally draining from his body. His breathing evens out, deepens. His thumb traces absent patterns on the back of your hand. For the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest is gone. The distance that's been sitting between you has finally, finally closed.
You're here, he's here, and you're together.
And as you drift off to sleep, tangled up in each other, you think that maybe this is what home is supposed to feel like. Not a place, but a person. Not perfection, but presence. Not the absence of struggle, but the promise to face it together.
His lips press against your forehead one last time, barely conscious.
"I love you," he mumbles, already half asleep.
"I love you too," you whisper back.
And for the first time in months, you both sleep through the night.
request: "I feel like Joe would always insist on calling you after every game even the late ones. Even if it’s just a sleepy, half-coherent conversation he refuses to go to bed without hearing your voice"
Joe's post-game ritual has always been the same: shake hands, hit the showers, face the press, and head home. But since the two of you started dating, he added a new step—one he never skips. No matter the hour, no matter how late the game runs or how exhausted he is from the rush of adrenaline and the strain of the field, he calls. Even if it’s the kind of late that makes your voice thick with sleep and your words slur together, he’ll still dial your number, waiting for the soft click of your sleepy “Hello?” on the other end.
You used to worry about his exhaustion, insisting he could wait until morning, but Joe’s stubbornness won out. It’s his way of winding down, he says, the easiest way to let the adrenaline taper off—to hear you, half-awake and warm under your blankets, murmuring about your day or teasing him for that one pass he wishes he’d thrown differently.
Tonight, the call comes later than usual, your phone buzzing on the nightstand as you squint at the clock—well past midnight. You know the routine by now, though. His name glows on the screen, and you don’t hesitate to answer, even if you’re barely awake yourself. Because somehow, even in those moments of barely-there conversation, there’s something grounding, something steady in the sound of his voice—low and sleepy and comfortable.
The phone buzzes again, and you let out a small sigh, rolling over in the sheets that are tangled around your legs. It’s late—way too late for anyone but him. You fumble for the phone, knocking your book off the nightstand in the process, and finally manage to answer on the last ring.
“Hey,” you say, voice thick with sleep, barely more than a mumble. Your eyes are still closed, and you can almost hear the smile in his voice before he even speaks.
“Hey,” he says, sounding tired but happy. There’s a warmth in his voice that makes you want to sink deeper into the blankets, your body relaxing even as you struggle to stay awake. You hear a faint rustling on his end of the line, the sound of him settling into whatever hotel bed or quiet corner he’s managed to find for this call.
“How’d it go?” you ask, even though you watched the whole game with half your attention, laptop open on your lap as you listened to the announcers shout his name. You already know he won. You can tell just by the way he’s breathing—steady and content, like the weight of the world isn’t pressing on his shoulders anymore.
“We got the win,” he says, and you can practically picture the satisfied grin tugging at his lips. “Defense pulled through. Felt good. Tired, though.” There’s a pause, just long enough for you to hear the creak of the bed as he stretches out, and you imagine him there, hair still damp from the shower, pillow propped against the headboard, eyes half-lidded and heavy.
“You sound tired,” you say, letting your own eyes drift shut again, his voice washing over you like a lullaby. He always sounds different after a game—softer, looser, the careful edges he keeps in place during the day falling away in the quiet of the night.
“Yeah,” he admits, a low chuckle humming in his throat. “Long night. But I’m good. Needed to call you first.” He says it like a fact, like calling you is as essential as breathing, and it makes something warm settle in your chest, even as you struggle to fight off sleep.
You know what he looks like right now—can see him so clearly it’s almost like you’re there. His face is flushed from the game, the last traces of exertion still lingering in his expression, and he’s got that soft, worn-out smile you only see when he’s alone with you. He’s probably half-reclined on some too-firm hotel bed, still wearing sweats and the hoodie he threw on over his jersey. You can picture the way his hand would brush over his face, rubbing at tired eyes, his fingers trailing down to the scruff along his jaw. He’s handsome in a way that doesn’t need effort, like he forgets sometimes that anyone’s looking.
“What’d you eat?” you ask, knowing he probably hasn’t had a proper meal yet. There’s a muffled sound, and you can almost see him shrug.
“Grabbed a sandwich at the stadium,” he says. “You know, the usual. But I’m not really hungry.” His voice is softer now, like he’s already sinking into the comfort of the call, the post-game rush fading away. There’s a beat of silence where neither of you say anything, just the quiet hum of the line connecting you, stretching across the miles.
His breathing evens out, and you know he’s lying back now, probably letting his eyes drift shut the way you are, letting the night pull him under. This is the quietest part of the day, the only time where everything seems to slow down, where it’s just you and him, your voices mingling in the spaces between words.
“Did you see the game?” he asks suddenly, and there’s a hint of teasing there, like he already knows the answer. He’s always known when you’re watching—can sense it in some unspoken way, even when you’re not at the stadium, cheering him on in person. You hum, the sound halfway between agreement and a sleepy sigh.
“Of course I did,” you say. “Saw that touchdown, too. You looked good out there.”
He chuckles, the sound low and deep, a bit self-conscious but pleased. “You think so?” he asks, his tone playful but with that slight, genuine curiosity you’ve come to love—like he still isn’t sure how you see him, even after all this time.
“Always,” you reply, and it’s true. Even when he’s a mess, jersey streaked with mud, hair wild from the helmet, he’s yours. There’s something honest about him on the field, something raw that you can’t help but admire. He doesn’t play with swagger—he plays with determination, with a kind of quiet, relentless grit that makes your chest tighten with pride.
“Wish you were here,” he murmurs, and there’s a softness to the words, a longing that cuts through the distance between you. You can hear the weight of it, the way he doesn’t mean for it to sound so heavy, but it does anyway.
“Me too,” you admit, turning onto your side, pressing the phone closer to your ear. You know he’s in some hotel room halfway across the country, the curtains drawn against the city lights, the room probably too cold for comfort.
And you’re here, in your own bed, miles apart but tethered by this line, by his voice, by the quiet spaces between breaths that are filled with the things neither of you say out loud.
It’s moments like this that make the distance feel bearable, moments where the miles don’t matter because it’s just you and him, lingering in the quiet of the night, holding on to the sound of each other’s voice like a promise.
“Get some sleep, Joey,” you say softly, knowing he won’t listen, that he’ll keep talking until he’s sure you’re drifting off, that he won’t hang up until he’s heard you yawn, heard the way your voice gets softer and softer until you can’t keep your eyes open any longer.
“Not yet,” he says, voice a bit firmer now, a smile tugging at the edges. “Just a few more minutes.”
You don’t argue, just let him fill the silence with the sound of his breath, the occasional murmur about a play or a moment you’d already forgotten, listening to the way his voice dips and slows, lulling you back to the edge of sleep. It’s the sound of home, you think, this quiet, late-night ritual that belongs only to the two of you—a secret shared in the dark, a comfort that’s become as essential as the game itself.
He keeps talking, his voice a low, steady hum, and you let yourself drift, knowing he’ll be there, knowing he won’t let you go until you’ve slipped back into the warmth of your dreams, his voice still echoing in the back of your mind long after you’ve hung up.
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if joe had a nickel for every time he was pantsed on national television… he’d have two nickels. which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice ❤️🩹
Summary: Colston may have just met the love of his life?
notes: you guys are LOVING the Colston fics!!
colston is going into his sophomore year of college !
and also this is short and sweet but it’s rlly cute to me
Colston rarely found time for himself, he spent most of his time training for the college football season, he was lucky to get a week off of practice. the county he stayed in in michigan was having their county fair, how exciting!! Colston went with some of his football friends, but they all quickly split off to do things colston had no interest in. He had one attraction on the brain. The ferris wheel.
Ever since he was a kid he loved a good ferris wheel. he practically skipped into the line, it was a long line with people filing in behind him still. Colston stood tall, rocking back and forth on his feet as he waited patiently. he scanned the area, a big “NO SINGLE RIDERS” sign right infront of his face. he groaned under his breath, he was so excited to ride this damn ferris wheel. Reluctantly, Colston turned to step out of the line “excuse me?” he jumped slightly at the voice
a girl stood infront of him, her hair framed her face so beautifully, her eyes sparkled under the sun. His heart skipped a beat when she spoke “are you alone?” she asked, “yeah, i wanted to ride it bad but,” he gestured to the sign, the girl smiled “do you mind if i ride with you?” he had to hold his tounge from yelling yes in her face, smiling at the girl. “sure!” he says, allowing her to stand next to him in the line. Colston was always the confident type, he didn’t know what it was about this girl that made him so nervous.
“my names y/n” she says, the line moves forward and so do they. “i’m colston” he says, flashing her a grin. “from around here?” he asks, trying to find a way to not make the interaction awkward. “no, i’m visiting some friends” she says, only then did he take a big long look at her outfit. she wore a white skirt, with a red and white crop top. the words “Go Buckeyes” drawn on the front, he gasped, a smirk painting his face “buckeyes?” she grinned, showing off her shirt proudly “well duh, in enemy territory i had to rep” she said with a snicker, he leaned closer “wanna know something?” his voice grew lower, she nodded “I play for the wolverines” he revealed. they stepped forward in the line and y/ns jaw dropped
“i can’t be seen with you” she jokes, hand moving to her chest in shock, her smile shining bright through her her banter. the line moves more and the two follow, finding themselves climbing into the next set of seats. crammed next to eachother colston laughs nervously, y/n is still smiling. “I go to ohio state, i’m from cincinnati” she says seriously, looking out over the fair. “what’s your major?” he asks, watching her look over the fair. “journalism” she said, looking back at him.
he studied her eyes like he’d never see them again, the sun setting at such a light her eyes sparkle more than they already did. The ferris wheel rounded the top, y/n takes a breath as she looks down at the ground, Colston watches her demeanor become less confident “are you afraid of heights?” he asked gently, placing his hand on her shoulder, she nods lightly, turning back to him. “i’m traveling before going back to school conquering some fears, numbers 8 and 9, hanging out with a stranger, and heights” she said with a giggle, as the ride comes to a rickety stop as they tried to move from the top, no budge.
Being stuck with a stranger in the middle of the air was not apart of the deal, y/n froze. “you okay?” colston asks, reaching for her as if he’d save her from the heights she was facing. “yeah i’m good” she breathed slowly. “tell me more about this bucket list?” he changed the subject, making her look into his eyes again. “i’ve always been a really anxious person, i’m done living my life in fear” a smile creeped back onto her face again, showing pride in her accomplishment “i respect that” he laughs, leaning back in in seat causing it to shake, y/n shutters.
“The fix is gonna take an hour!” some riders relayed from the worker at the bottom. y/n let out a frustrated sigh, colston continued the questions. “so what are some fears you’ve conquered” he loved how she would brighten up everytime he asked a question, how she turned to him and her eyes glistened when they met his. “Airplanes, driving to another state, calling for my own appointments, and go to a function alone are some” he smiled at her rambles, the way her hands met her hair instead of clenching the bar showed her comfort level, the way she relaxed as she spoke “that’s why your here alone? exploring the world and who you are, i like that” she had such a pure soul, he thought. “why are you here alone?”
colston scooted over closer to her, she followed in suit without a word said about it. Colston looked down at an attempt to spot his friends, slowly not caring if they left without him or not. “i wanted to ride the ferris wheel, but my friends thought it was stupid” she let out a gut filled laugh, “i think it’s cute, how humans are automatically attracted to the fun and whimsical, no matter the age” she observed, colston took a breath, “the way you see the world is, so pure and beautiful” her smile reflected his compliment as the seat rocked slowly, he kept up conversation to distract her
she giggled as he asked her about her life, her dreams, her passions. He watched her speak so highly and optimistic about the world, about her home, about her travels. her eyes glistened with hope and his melted with admiration. there was no fear in her heart being stuck in the air with colston loveland. like floating in the air was okay if he was there talking to her.
her sighs of relief came just an hour after they initially stopped, colston and y/ns cart rounded safely to the bottom and y/ns feet landed on the ground again. she sighs happily “i had an amazing time, but boy did i miss the ground” she laughed as he looked into her soul. he looked at her like he was still stuck on the ferris wheel. “thank you for riding it with me,” she said softly, “thank you for helping me face my fears” he was still speechless, coming up with words to keep her next to him. but he was losing her, she was turning to leave, he was too engrossed in her beautiful eyes to spit out his words until her eyes turned away from him.
“Y/n!” he called, her eyes met his once again. “we should face more of your fears together” he offered, she paused. a beautiful smile painted over her disappointed face. she hands her phone to him, unlocked on the contact page. he smirked, taking it gently and adding his number into a phone, shooting himself a little text. he hands her back her phone and she takes it thankfully. “shoot me a text, we’ll figure something out” she says, nodding to him with a final sweet smile.
colston watched her leave, hope filling his heart as he pulled his phone out to shoot her a text “go out with me tonight” it wrote, confidence rising into his chest. he watched her stop, read the message, and turn around. she nodded to him and he practically ran to her.
He had no idea what that tiny little moment with the ohio girl could do. he had no idea what simple moment with a rival of his college team could turn into. and boy did it spark into a beautiful flame.
