synopsis — Jaxson Dart, the man from Ole Miss. He got drafted to the New York Giants, breaking off your relationship the night he found out.. He packed up his things, moved on, living a life he once dreamed of. After only two months, he came back to visit, hoping to run into you a patch up your relationship. His plan was ruined by the news that you transferred back to LSU and now lived with your parents.
warnings — angst. So much angst, also sorry this is so long, my fingers just kept going. also based off of stay by ty myers. also inaccurate timelines
requested — nope
Jaxson's draft night was supposed to be beautiful. Everything was supposed to fall into place. Jaxson was going to be drafted into the NFL, you were going to finish your degree at Ole Miss online, and you were going to be by his side through everything. You were so painfully unaware of how the night would end.
You sat on the couch in Jaxson's living room, the draft pulled up on the television. Jaxson sat in the middle, you on one side and his mother on the other. Jaxson was surrounded by his family and friends, everyone patiently waiting for the phone call. The daunting phone call.
You were oblivious. Jaxson had practically ignored you all night, but you just swept it off as nerves. You ignored the looks of guilt from his closest friends - the ones who knew of Jaxson's plans. You didn't notice a difference.
You kept a soft smile on your face, sitting awkwardly on the couch as Jaxson sat still. His focus was on the ground, elbows resting on his knees. You could tell his nerves were starting to get worked up. As his completely oblivious girlfriend, you rested your hand on his thigh, leaning over to whisper words of encouragement. Jaxson pushed your hand off, shaking his head.
"Not right now." That was all he could mutter.
You quickly retreated, hands going to rest in your lap. Jaxson's college friends noticed the conversation. They felt so guilty. When Caden Prieskorn found out about the situation, he told Jaxson that he'd regret it. Jaxson just ignored his friend's words, his excuse being that his focus needed to be on football.
Then the phone call came, no one dared to speak as Jaxson answered the phone. You completely blacked out, hearing only small moments of the conversation. Your head whipped up to the screen, hearing the familiar chime as a correspondent went up for the Giants. New York, that's where you'd be.
That would be tough, considering you've become so accustomed to the Mississippi environment. Jaxson's name rang across the screen, and everyone jumped up and cheered. Jaxson hugged his family first, and you respected that. But as Jaxson went across the room, you started to become less respectful to the fact that Jaxson didn't care about your presence.
You sucked in a deep breath as Jaxson gave you a half-hug. The kind of hug that comes across as I don't want to deal with you. You told him congratulations, and Jaxson just completely blew you off. The group all cheered, moving to the kitchen to continue the celebration.
Instead of joining them, you retreated to Jaxson's bedroom. There was some kind of ache gnawing at your heart. This is where your anxiety started to rise. The growing feeling of something being wrong plagued your mind. You noticed the signs around the room, making big deals out of things that were small.
A picture frame was haphazardly tossed into a box, not wrapped with any protective wrap. Any sign of your relationship was gone from the room. Maybe they were packed into a box, but none of the boxes were labeled with anything that could be considered memorabilia.
You sat on the edge of the bed, your lungs sucking in air faster as things started to click in your head.
The door swung open, then clicked shut. Your head shot up, watching as Jaxson froze in his spot. Jaxson pursed his lips as he sighed, already drawing the conclusion that you knew. You were smart like that, you could take in things and draw correct conclusions from the littlest thing.
You opened your mouth to speak, but shut it again. You couldn't find the words to define the thoughts that were rioting in your head. You wanted to yell, you wanted to argue with him. You wanted to fight and defend your relationship. But, it wouldn't do anything.
"I'm sorry." Jaxson spoke, his voice quiet.
You narrowed your eyes at him, and tears started to burn your eyes. You let out a scoff, shaking your head. With your bottom lip trembling, you finally opened your mouth to speak. "When were you going to tell me?"
Jaxson sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I was going to talk to you before I left," Jaxson replied. He held his voice with such strength, such confidence. There was no fighting over this decision. He knew what he wanted; there was nothing you could do.
"So, you were going to let you celebrate this with you, be around everyone, then just leave me in the dust? That was your plan?" You spoke, disbelief lacing your tone. You rolled your eyes at Jaxson, lips pursing as you nodded in acceptance.
"I'm just going to leave." You spoke.
You quickly got up from the bed, watching as Jaxson showed no want to try to hold you back. Grabbing your things from his desk, you stifled a sob. Once you were out of his room, you swiftly went down the stairs.
Kara, Jaxson's mom, stood at the end. A bright smile adorned her face. She looked at your appearance, the smile dropping for a moment. "Are you leaving already?" Kara asked, her wide eyes littered with confusion.
"Um-" You stuttered, sucking in a deep breath. "He doesn't want me here, so I'm just - I'm leaving." You spoke, your voice shuttered as the sobs threatened to escape your mouth.
"I'm sorry? What? Jaxson definitely wants you here." Kara's voice was filled with disbelief. You could see the confusion on her face. So, you gathered whatever strength was left in your body.
"He broke up with me." You stated simply, trying to fight the waves of sadness that raged through your body.
Kara's eyes widened more than they were before. She was taken aback by the revelation, scratching her neck as she tried to find the words to say. Kara loved you, treated you like one of her own daughters. "I'm so sorry, honey. I didn't know he felt that way."
You sighed, putting a small smile on your face. "It's okay, he probably just needs space." You replied, shuffling your body past her to exit out the front door.
The moment you were in your car, feeling the privacy from the tinted windows, you broke. Your wails filled the silent car, sobs racking your body. You didn't know what you were going to do. How could you even possibly move forward?
It was the last dead week Jaxson got before the NFL season started. As part of a collab with some random YouTuber, Jaxson found himself walking through the doors of the Vaught-Hemingway stadium. He toured the guy around, answering whatever questions the guy has to ask.
Adam asked Jaxson questions about football, his family, and his routines. Jaxson was able to answer every question smoothly, without hesitation. Until Adam spoke one final question.
"Do you have any regrets?" Adam spoke, and his camera captured the exact moment that Jaxson's face dropped. Jaxson took a deep breath, humming as if he was actually pondering the answer to the question. Jaxson's only regret was pushing you out of his life.
It was the only reason Jaxson agreed to let Adam do this interview. Jaxson was back at Ole Miss, hoping that there was a chance he could find you again. Jaxson wanted to apologize; he wanted to grovel his way back into your life. Jaxson needed you.
"I have one regret in life, and that's losing my number one fan. No comment." Jaxson nonchalantly replied, trying to act like it wasn't that huge of a regret.
After the interview concluded, Jaxson went straight to the coffee shop you went to every day. You and your roommates would meet here and talk about everything under the sun.
Your roommates saw the red Ford first. Hailey grimaced, sighing. "He doesn't know, does he?" Hailey spoke, gesturing to the tall man heading for the entrance.
"He's going to freak out when he finds out. He told Dawson the only reason he's here is for Y/N." Keeley mumbled, taking a sip of her Matcha latte.
Jaxson's eyes lay on your roommates, but he quickly noticed how you weren't there. You were probably in the bathroom. You never missed the brunch date, under any circumstances. If you were sick, you went. If it were the only time you had to study, you would still go. Jaxson walked over, standing in front of the girls.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in." Rylee, your absolute best friend, spoke first. She eyed Jaxson up and down, eyes narrowing at the boy. "Mr. Dart's back on his old stomping grounds." Hailey snickered.
"Look, I know you guys feel some type of way about me, which is valid. I just want to talk to Y/N." Jaxson sighed, shaking his head. He noticed the looks between the girls, eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. "What?"
"She moved back in with her parents, transferred to LSU. She couldn't stand to be here anymore, because of you." Hailey spoke, her tone laced with venom.
Jaxson's eyes widened, his jaw falling slack at the revelation. "Deadass?" Jaxson breathed out, his fists clenching by his sides.
Rylee let out a sarcastic laugh, shaking her head. "Consequences of your own actions, Jaxson. Plus, last time we heard, she was messing with some guy from LSU."
Jaxson shook his head, turning on his heels to leave the coffee shop. He stomped to his truck, slamming the door as he sat in the driver's seat with a huff.
"Fuck!" Jaxson shouted, his hands slamming onto the steering wheel. His hands moved quick to find his phone. He plugged in your parents' address. In any other situation, Jaxson would be shocked he still remembered.
Jaxson started the five-hour drive, his brain racking at what he would say to you when he shows up to your family's home unexpectedly.
You were grateful.
Your parents were gone on some vacation they take yearly, so you had the entire family home to yourself. You could sit on the couch and binge-watch a television show without the judgment from your father when he left for work at six in the morning.
It had only been two months since Jaxson and you broke up. Slowly, but surely, you were able to go through the days without thinking about him. You spent many nights wondering about what he was doing, how he was doing. Now you could completely push him away from your mind.
You had just finished cleaning up the pasta dish you made for dinner when a loud knock sounded at your front door. You weren't expecting anyone, but it wouldn't be surprising for one of your new friends to just show up unexpectedly.
You waltzed over to the front door, whipping it open. The sight in front of you was enough to make your eyes go wide. Your jaw fell slack as you rolled your eyes.
"No, no, no. You can't be here - you shouldn't be here." You quickly spoke, defensively standing in the doorway. The tears immediately rushed to your eyes, causing you to bite the inside of your cheek.
"Please, just listen-"
"No! I'm not listening to whatever you have to say! Jaxson, this is what you wanted. I've picked up and moved, and I'm able to move on, and you just - you can't do this. You don't get to do this to me." You ranted, hands clenching into fists as you spoke.
"Just listen!" Jaxson raised his voice slightly, causing your lips to shut close. "Just please, let me talk."
You ran a hand down your face, pursing your lips into a tight line. You leaned against the door frame, eyes turning doe-like as the tears welled up. "Then talk."
"I accepted a stupid interview just to go back to Mississippi to find you. I wanted to - I had this whole speech plan of what I would say to you if I ever saw you again. Then I went to the one coffee shop you and your friends always went to and they told me." You were about to interrupt Jaxson's words, but he put his hands up to stop you.
"Y/N, I thought - I thought I'd be able to focus better if you weren't there. I thought I wouldn't be able to handle our relationship and being in the NFL. I didn't want you to pick up and relocate; I didn't want you to feel like you were going to come second to my career. I thought I would just end up hurting you." Jaxson ranted, his eyes looking down at his feet as he spoke.
You sighed, rolling your eyes as you shifted your weight. "You did that anyway. You hurt me, you hurt me so bad that I had to come back to Louisiana because I couldn't stand being on that campus." You quickly shot back. "I'm not mad that you did it, and I guess I understand why you did it."
Jaxson's head shot up, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
You quickly shook your head, shutting it down immediately. "I'm mad that you broke up with me the way you did. You packed any remnants of us and shoved them in a box in your closet. You told all your friends, you let me show up to your stupid draft celebration and made me look like a fool."
Jaxson put his hands into the air, defensively trying to hold his ground. "That wasn't how I planned you would find out."
"Jaxson!" You fired back, your withheld anger finally starting to poke through your voice. "It doesn't matter how you planned it to happen. It matters because you weren't honest and straightforward."
"I need you. Y/N, I need you so bad in New York. I need you back in my life. I'm not who I am without you." Jaxson pleaded, his emotions fueling every word that fell from his lips.
Tears finally started to fall down your shocked face. Your lips parted, a breath falling from the gap between them. "Did you think this would be easy? Did you think I'd just pick right back up and move to New York with you?"
Jaxson let out an exhausted groan. "I didn't think it was going to be easy. Fuck - I drove all the way from New York to Mississippi, then here to Louisiana because I wanted to fix things. I know it won't be easy, I just need you to know how I feel."
You clenched your teeth, hand resting under your chin. "Jaxson I-" Jaxson quickly cut you off. "I'm not asking you to say yes or do anything crazy. I just want to try again. I want to spend however long it takes to fix things."
You pondered. It felt like hours that you stood there and stared at Jaxson. You didn't know what to believe, you didn't know if you could trust him. Jaxson fucked you up badly, but you knew deep down there was still that small part of you that loved him.
"We can try. But, the moment you do anything, anything at all that isn't right, I'm done." You whispered, your eyes looking back up to look at Jaxson. "I mean that."
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.
