you try avoiding will but end up doing the complete opposite . . .
pairing: will smith x oldercollege!reader
summary: you’ve been avoiding will after you kissed. after establishing you’ll stop - you do it again for a different reason.
warnings. smut. cheating. kissing. fingering. squirting.
FRIDAY NIGHT finds you in the laundry room, shoving a week’s worth of clothes into a washing machine while half the campus gets ready for another party. you always do your laundry when there’s a party, because while everyone else is busy drinking, the laundry room is empty.
peaceful, predictable, no waiting around for 5000 years.
you toss a detergent pod into the drum and slam the door. your basket sits at the side while you take a seat on top of the spinning machine, untangling your earphones while the door opens. you don’t look up.
“huh,” they speak, “was starting to think you’d transferred.”
you freeze.
god, please no.
you look up.
will’s standing in the doorway with an overflowing laundry basket in his hands, looking almost surprised by your existence. the second your eyes meet, he grins.
you tuck a bit of your hair behind your ear, lowering your hands as you try to fight the blush. “i . . what? what are you talking about?” you play dumb, forcing a laugh.
ok, so what if you’ve subconsciously been going out of your way to avoid will after you kissed him? only by a little bit - it’s not like you’re taking massive repercussions just to avoid him.
did you cross the soaking, soggy, muddy grass in the middle of campus and ruin your sneakers because he was walking in your direction? maybe, but you were running late for practice anyway.
did you completely by coincidence, start switching up seats from your usual spot just for a change? yeah, ‘cause it seemed . . fun to do?
did you duck underneath the cheerleading table during the student involvement fair because you spotted his baseball cap weaving through the crowd? yeah, but you thought your earring had fell out at the same moment.
will has actually been . . an angel. he’s left you alone. he hasn’t pried. hasn’t seeked you out to hound you. it’s you — you think about him for even a second and you’re riddled with guilt, you hear him and your face flushes with embarrassment, you see him and your chest starts beating too fast and your stomach gets that weird tingly sensation like it did when his tong—
“you’re getting creative.”
he snaps you out of your daze. you blink, lost. “what . . what do you mean?”
“you’re avoiding me.”
his voice makes you straighten, although he’s smiling, gum smacking in his mouth. he has a navy hat on, some baseball team on it, matching his navy t-shirt. “i’m . . i’m not,” you try to play off. “i’ve been busy.”
“doing what?”
“just with classes and stuff . . cheerleading . . usual.”
“i haven’t seen you in class. i was looking for you.”
that makes your heart squeeze with guilt. you’re unfazed when he doesn’t show up to class, he’s missed a dozen classes due to hockey, whether college-related or some variant of international play - you get on with your day.
when you don’t show up one day, will’s brain is wracked wondering if everything’s ok.
“i’ve been every day,” you answer, and you have, you’re not lying . . . you’ve just been on the complete opposite side you usually sit on. “did you need something . . ? my file—”
he shakes his head while lowering his basket, placing it on the floor to opening a machine door. “i just . . wanted to make sure i hadn’t done something.”
you frown. “what?”
he shrugs one shoulder, slightly turning his back to you while he loads up his machine. “just figured i made you uncomfortable or somethin.”
the joking tone is gone.
it’s so matter-of-fact that it makes your chest tighten. “no,” the answer comes instantly as you shake your head. “no will, that’s not . . . no. you didn’t make me uncomfortable.”
he watches you closely, turning around to you. “you promise?”
“i promise,” you hold up your hands as if to prove you’ve got nothing crossed. you even uncross your legs. “you didn’t make me uncomfortable. i . . it’s me.” you confess.
you slump in your spot, like you can no longer carry the weight. “it’s just — every time i see you, i — i get embarrassed. i can’t believe i tried to kiss you and i’m so sorry for it. ‘n then i was scared in case you started telling people and if brad found out so i’ve had this god-awful anxiety all week, it makes me sick—”
will’s standing in front of you now, his brows furrowed as he moves his hands across like as if to cut you off. you do. “you’d think i’d tell people?”
you raise a shoulder. “. . well yeah, like i thought . . maybe you’d tell your friends.”
he just looks at you.
“and they’d joke about it . . .”
still nothing.
“and then someone would overhear . .”
he slowly shakes his head.
“or maybe you’d bring it up to brad.”
will’s brows furrow. “you think i’d tell brad?”
“—not in a cruel way,” you say quickly. “just . . because you two don’t like each other and . . i thought maybe you’d . . . rub it in or something?”
a long silence settles between you. will steps closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you’re no longer talking across the room. you can smell his signature scent better, cleanliness and something masculine. “i don’t really like brad.”
“i know.”
“but i like you a lot more than i don’t like him.”
you close your eyes and that, feeling like your heart could melt through your fingers.
he says it so casually, with no shame or embarrassment.
“why would i do something like that? at your cost?”
your throat tightens as he keeps going, and you have to lift your hand to get him to stop taking. “will—”
“—you really thought i’d use you to get at him?”
“n—no.” the word comes out small. “i don’t know what i thought i just . . was overthinking it every possibility,” you lower your head. “. hiding just makes the most sense.”
he smiles, but it’s smaller this time - softer. the one that kind of pulls at your heartstrings. “hey,” he says quietly, waiting until you meet his eyes. “you really don’t have to do all that.”
“what?”
“hide from me.”
the words aren’t teasing anymore, and his gaze holds yours in a comforting reassurance. “i hate to think you’ve spent a week changing where you sit or taking different routes, worrying every time you see me because you think i’m gonna make things weird.” he gives a tiny shake of his head. “i’m not.”
you look down at your hands.
“i haven’t told anybody,” he continues. “and i’m not going to. not my teammates. not my friends. definitely not brad. it’s nobody else’s business but ours, and if you don’t want anyone knowing, then that’s where it stays.”
ours.
it sounds weird coming from him and doesn’t something weird to your limbs.
“you don’t have to explain yourself to me, and you don’t have to spend every day trying to make sure we never end up in the same room,” his voice is warm now, almost comforting. “i’d rather you just be yourself . . ” he’s closer now, standing directly in front of you, your knees almost touch him. “i’d much rather get the version of you that argues with me that i’m not 6’1 in skates and tells me i’m annoying.”
you laugh a little, looking away from his blue eyes. “you are not 6’1 in skates.”
“‘course i am,” he inches closer, face full of fake arrogance although his voice is soft and teasing. it eases your nerves, loosens you a little.
“i . .” you laugh at yourself without any humour in it. “you’re right. i’m sorry, i’m just . . i’m a mess at the minute.” you place your head in your hands.
you don’t know why you assume will to be cruel like that. you know he’s not. maybe it’s a you thing: you have a hard time learning not every guy is brad. it’s instinct to assume they’re all the same.
will doesn’t hesitate to peel your hands from your face, standing almost between your legs if they had been spread apart a little more. “you’re not a mess, y/n.” his hand’s nonchalantly relax on your thighs, your bare thighs because it’s approaching 10PM and you’re dressed for bed in a plain oversized t-shirt while 90% of campus is at that 80s themed party tonight.
your gaze drops to his hands, how they blanket your thighs, the way fingers stretch farther than they seemed capable of around them. when you finally drag your eyes back to his face, he’s already looking at you.
“nobody knows. nobody will know,” his voice is low, like it’s meant only for you.
his hands shift again, slower this time, thumbs brushing absentmindedly against your skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “just you and me . . .”
you don’t mean to do it, you try to fight it - but you look anyway - you look at his mouth while he’s talking. pink lips moving, voice smooth like honey, soft in a way that doesn’t match how close he is standing. the sound settles under your skin, soft and slow, it warms every part of you until it feels like you’re physically melting.
your shoulders drop first, tension bleeding out of you in a way that makes you blink like you’ve just woken up.
it’s like the space between you starts shrinking on its own. “will,” you mutter, eyes dropping. “we—you’re too close.”
he huffs a quiet laugh at that. “too close?” his brow twitches, “after a week of not seeing me?”
you give him a look despite his teasing, but you still don’t move.
his lips tug in response, fingers sliding to the crease between your legs and torso, fingers curling around the back until he’s pulling you towards him. your breath catches before you can stop it, your eyes dropping eye-level with his neck. the smell of his aftershave hits you next, clean and sharp, drawing you closer to him.
“you’re telling me to move . . ” he murmurs, “but you keep coming closer.”
“’m not.”
“no?” his nose brushes yours, feather-light, enough to make your heart jump; your eyes close.
you don’t know what he’s saying anymore, your thoughts feel like they’ve been wrapped in cotton and you’re waiting for him to kiss you.
his nose grazes yours again as he leans in, slow enough to give you every chance to pull away, and when you don’t – he finally kisses you.
again.
the kiss is slow. unhurried, like neither of you has anywhere else to be.
somewhere between his hand finding your waist and your fingers curling instinctively into the front of his t-shirt, the noise you’ve been carrying around all week melts into silence, every anxious thought that had been ricocheting around moments ago simply fades.
will’s lips are soft. they’re gentle on yours. it’s so sweet it makes your ears ring.
when he pulls away, your eyes stay closed and you don’t dare move.
he kisses you again.
it deepens this time, his lips parting more gradually until his tongue slides against yours, warm and wet and tasting faintly of something minty. your arms come up to his neck in a mind of their own, tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. you can feel the smirk in his kiss.
he doesn’t let you breathe. it’s a kiss you’ve never experienced before; it sends tingles down your spine and makes your toes curl. you chase more.
will makes a breathy sound, lips pushing harder against yours as his hands tighten around your waist. he pulls your lower half closer to the edge of the machine until your knees bracket his hips and you grab his arm consciously. “will,” you hum breathlessly, his lips brushing yours. “we can’t—”
he cuts you off again, messily slotting his lips against yours.
the alarm bells in your mind silence with the the feel of his hands travelling back to your legs, caressing the top of your thighs, his thumb smoothing the inside of it. it makes your breath stutter; your brain short-circuit and thoughts turn to mush.
“will,” you say again between kisses, eyes closing with every stroke of his tongue massaging yours. it distracts you from the hand slowly making its way between your legs. “mmph—”
the sudden contact of will’s middle finger pressing against your clothed slit sends a jolt through your body; a high-pitched gasp past your lips. he continues to kiss you as you pull away, barely regaining consciousness as your hand snatches a hold of his wrist, stopping his hand from moving another inch. “will, will, will—” you whisper, trying to get him to stop.
he does. the second you whisper, he eases back, breaking the kiss gently between you. his eyes stay closed for a moment longer, forehead hovering yours, his lips glisten with saliva. his breathing is still uneven, his shoulders moving with each intake.
he doesn’t rush. he just lets you go, his nose brushing your cheek as if he’s giving himself a second before reality catches up.
“will . . .” your voice comes out embarrassingly small. you swallow. “i-i can’t.”
this time, he nods. slowly. like he’d already known that was coming.
it makes your chest hurt.
your eyes dart to the door, your heartbeat suddenly loud again.
you look back at him, eyes softening at the devastating sight: blond curls messily spread across his forehead, cheeks flushed pink from your intense makeout. “i’m sorry,” you blurt, gently easing his hand from your waist. he lets you. “i just—we shouldn’t’ve . . i shouldn’t have—”
he gives another small nod and takes half a step back. “i get it,” he says like he’s trying to spare you the conversation. “it’s cool.”
“no—” you trap him between your legs before he can step away anymore. “please wait.”
“it’s fine, y/n.” he unhooks your ankles over him.
“no will, wait, please,” you hop off the washing machine, ignoring the terrible ache down below as you try to get him to look at you. “it’s not you—”
“i know.”
“no but—”
he tries not to sigh. “y/n–”
“please don’t be weird with me.”
he pauses. he looks at you properly, confusion swirling in his eyes. “i won’t . . ?”
“don’t be mad.”
he looks back at you, brows knitting together. “i’m not.”
dismissive. matter-of-fact.
your chest only tightens. “no, but you are,” you insist quietly. “i can tell.”
“i’m not mad at you,” he establishes, furrowing his brows at the accusation.
“promise?”
he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, keeping his gaze on you. “yeah.”
you search his face for something, anything, that tells you he’s telling the truth. “i’m not going to avoid you,” the words spill out too fast, “not this time. i swear.”
his expression softens, eyes drifting to the floor, “you don’t have to promise me anything.”
“no but i do, i—” you don’t even know what to say. “can we just be the same? like, before?” your eyes are pleading as you look up to him. “i don’t want you to—” ditch me? leave me alone? ignore me? “i dunno, i’m — just—don’t change anything. we’re good.” you nod, smoothing the bottom of your shirt. “we’re good. you don’t need to—to disappear on me or—”
“disappear on you?” will perks an eyebrow at that, offended. “that’s you who does that.”
“i know, i know, i’m sorry. i won’t this time, i promise.” you cringe, cheeks flaming. “i’ll literally save you a seat on monday, i— we’re cool. we’re cool. this never happened.”
will raises his head in acknowledgment.
alright.
cool.
he nods. “yeah.”
it isn’t cold. it isn’t angry. if anything, that’s what makes your heart clench. he isn’t going to fight you on it or ask why, he isn’t going to make you feel worse than you already do.
he just accepts your response. “see you around.”
you take a step closer as he makes it to the door, basket scooped in his hand. “will—” you open your mouth, but nothing comes - because what are you even supposed to say?
you settle with a weak ‘i’m sorry’ and he gives another nod. “i know.”
and then he’s gone.
the second the door shuts, your chest caves. you drag a hand over your face.
idiot.
this never happened? why would you say that? that wasn’t what you meant. you feel even worse as you did before, and this time, you promised you wouldn’t avoid him.
-
the party buzzes around you.
people shout over the music, bottles clink somewhere in the kitchen, someone you’ve never met is laughing hard enough to fold in half. it’s chill for a saturday night. you stay tucked into brad’s side most of the night, fingers hooked loosely through his arm. you laugh when everyone else laughs, nod along to conversations you haven’t really heard.
you’re already moving when brad asks for you to get something for him.
you try to have a good time, you’ve had two seltzers to help you, but there’s a strange emptiness following you around all evening.
like something’s missing.
you don’t realize how often your eyes drift across the room until you catch yourself doing it again.
“babe, can you grab me another beer?”
“’course.” you grin, brushing a quick kiss against his cheek before disappearing into the kitchen.
it’s automatic, all of it - the way you lean against him when he pulls you in, play with the hair at the back of his neck while he’s talking to his friends - you’re attentive. sweet.
maybe a little too hard.
you weave through the crowd, muttering quiet apologies as shoulders knock yours from every direction. “sorry.”
“it’s fine.”
you step aside to let them through.
that’s when you see him.
will.
your heart stumbles so hard it almost feels painful.
he’s sunk into the corner of the sofa, one arm stretched lazily along the back of it. a girl sits tucked into his side, laughing at something he’s just said. another sits to his left, their knees touching.
your eyes stay fixed on them, unable to look away despite every part of you screaming to.
he says something that makes the one of the right laugh, and her fingers curl around the front of his t-shirt, collecting a firm grip – and your feet stop.
you watch him nod, lips pulled to the side in that smirk he does and you catch the way his eyes dip to her mouth.
your eyes could slice him.
don’t.
before your brain can make sense of what you’re looking at, will leans in, all confidence. she meets him halfway.
then it happens.
they kiss.
your brows raise and your mouth falls open before your brain has fully registered what’s going on.
he kisses her.
not accidentally.
not drunkenly.
deliberately.
for a second, all you can hear is the rush of blood flooding your head.
your entire body goes hot.
you watch like a complete weirdo, watching the way he slips his tongue in, the way his head moves to meets hers, the way his eyes remain closed and his hand rests on her leg.
something ugly flares inside you violently.
your whole body racks.
“babe?”
brad’s voice reaches you from somewhere behind.
you don’t answer.
you’re still staring.
still hoping, stupidly, that he’ll pull away.
“babe?”
you flinch at a hand brushing your elbow, so hard it almost startles you.
“what?” you bite.
brad blinks. “i just asked if you got my drink . .“
“well, i’m getting it, aren’t i?!”
his eyebrows raise, taken back by the tone. “alright . . .”
honestly, brad is at a loss these days. when he’s being an ass, you act a psycho, when he’s on his best behaviour and treating you good, you act a psycho.
“god!” you scoff, wrenching open the fridge harder than necessary.
“what’s wrong with you?”
“nothing.”
“doesn’t seem like nothing.”
“BRAD!” you shout this time, slamming the door closed with a flare in your eyes. “STOP talking to me.”
a couple of heads turn and brad raises his hands immediately. the look in your eyes is new.
“okay.”
guilt pricks at you for all of half a second when you hand him the can, because when you look up again—they’re still there.
heat surges through you all over again. you don’t even recognize the feeling.
“babe, chill out, alright? what happened?” brad’s voice is soft for once as he stands in front of you, blocking the view. he tries to be gentle. he says he’s been working on himself and you’ve noticed it.
you rip his hand from your side and storm off back to your spot, your whole body almost shaking with emotions you didn’t even know you possessed.
-
monday comes around when you’ve still got that furrow in your brow. the lecture theatre is already half full by the time you arrive, coffee in one hand, headphones still around your neck.
you scan the rows automatically whilst walking up the steps – and there he is.
will.
in your seat.
well, not your seat. your row.
he’s saved the chair beside him with his backpack, spotting you almost immediately. he lifts it onto his lap without a second thought.
“morning sunshine.” he says.
like friday never happened.
like saturday didn’t exist.
like two girls hadn’t practically climbed into his lap before midnight.
your jaw tightens.
“. . hi.”
you slide into the chair without looking at him.
the silence stretches. he doesn’t seem bothered by it.
“good weekend?”
is that a joke?
you just nod, keeping your head to the front. will lifts his in acknowledgment, sensing you’re not in a chatty mood.
“brad got asked to skate with us tomorrow,” he says after a while, looking over at you after he finishes taking notes off the slide.
that grabs your attention. you look up, barely meeting his eyes for a second, trying to sound interested. “he did?”
“yeah. jake’s got mono, leno’s concussed . . asked if he’d come by the rink tomorrow afternoon.”
you hum, typing on your laptop.
conversation = over.
he studies you for a second as you avoid his gaze, then shakes his head so subtly, you don’t see it.
something’s up.
you type while will scribbles notes. every now and then he fidgets in his seat, his elbow brushes yours, he stretches dramatically or readjusts his hat on his head and it slowly chips at your patience.
“will, quit smacking your gum.”
“will, your volume.”
“will,” you nudge his arm off your side of the desk. “your elbow.”
you try not to sound so quick with it, but you swear, he must be doing it on purpose. you’re laser-focused on the screen at the front of the room while he texts from next to you, and you can’t take it.
“oh my god, smitty! can you breathe through your nose?” your head cranks to him, unable to concentrate on anything other than the sound of his breathing next to you.
will pauses, mouth still open, glancing at you.
he shuts his mouth, not tearing his eyes from you.
ok.
five minutes later, after trying to be as mute as possible, he yawns.
you don’t even look up. “will.”
“huh?”
“why are you being so loud.”
he freezes. “ . . what?”
“seriously.” you grit your teeth.
will’s brows furrow. your attitude is clear as day to him now. “i . . yawned.”
“yeah. out loud. for everyone to hear.”
“i wasn’t aware there was another method?” he responds sarcastically, squinting his eyes at you.
“come up with one.”
his brow twitches. so that’s the mood you’re in today? he looks around theatrically. “anybody know how to yawn quietly?”
a couple of students glance over before returning to their conversations. will looks back at you. “you are in a mood.”
“i’m not.”
“could’ve fooled me,” he tilts his head, making your stomach flip. “seriously . .” he turns back to fix his notes, “tell brad to step his game up or something.”
you shoot him a look. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
he shrugs. “i don’t know. dude’s clearly slacking if this is what i’m dealing with on a monday morning.”
your jaw falls. “he’s not slacking in anything.”
“pfft. ok.”
“hey!” you snap, “what are you getting at?”
“nothing.”
“no say it.”
“i said nothing.”
“you’re implying something.”
“you’re hearing things,” he smiles at himself, tongue poking his cheek. it’s cute seeing you mad. it’s actually cute seeing you mad at him.
you don’t find it funny.
instead, you thump his arm with your fist.
“OW!”
“you’re an asshole.”
“that’s assault.”
“good.”
he rubs his bicep dramatically but smiles. “jesus.”
the professor begins wrapping up the lecture, peers already exiting the room while others are still packing their bag. you’re halfway through closing a document to get out of here when—
clap!
your laptop snaps shut, and you jump.
will’s already standing, one hand still resting on the top of it. “tell your boyfriend he owes the rest of us an apology,” he says, swinging his bag over his shoulder, and your brows furrow. “ . . he’s gotta be doing something wrong if this is the mood he’s sending you into class with.”
there he is again. picking at your relationship. acting like he knows everything.
you snatch your laptop back. “get off his back.”
will’s lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “you should try getting off mine.” he bargains, inching close to your face.
you open your mouth, but end up looking like a goldfish because you open and close your mouth ‘cause nothing comes out. too distracted by him getting too close in your face, the dimple on his cheek, how pink his lips are. he walks off, unbeknownst to the heat clawing at your body.
-
you spend the rest of the week going about your day as normal. you go to class, you go to practice, you’ve even been to the rink, watching brad who’s been filling in for defence. it’s surprisingly easy tuning out the annoying sound that is will.
or at least you pretend it is.
in group discussions, you pretend to write something super important in your notebook when he gives his input. you don’t look at him when he talks. if someone asks the group a question, you answer them all but him. you leave your earphones in through every lecture you share, even when nothing’s playing anymore. at the rink, you don’t even turn your head when he flies past on the ice a dozen times, barely allowing yourself to clap twice when he makes a good play because everyone around you does.
the anger starts to dull around the edges by midweek, as if being away from him has allowed you to cool down and realize it’s not that deep. that you’re overreacting and his little remarks are nothing out the ordinary from him. you almost ask him for his notes on a slide that went by too fast — almost.
until a girl in the row in front turns around and asks for a pencil.
will passes her one before you even comprehend what she says, and you watch the way they interact: the way she smiles up at him, how she says his name when she thanks him, the way he winks back in response.
suddenly, you’re staring at his side profile and you’re replaying the image of him slipping his tongue in some girl’s mouth.
“FUCK!” you unexpectedly say out loud, palms smacking your forehead.
people turn and look at you concerned, including will, who’s is more confused, but assumes, like everyone else, that it’s an answer you’ve answered incorrectly on your sheet as you look down at it.
it’s not. you’re just going insane. you swear. you swear, you’re going insane.
friday rolls around when you find yourself at the rink, running a little behind to meet brad after he pitched dinner and a movie at his place after you were both finished with practice. you texted him you’d be there in ten and he never answered, so made your way in to the arena anyway, only to be met with the sound of a single set of skates still cutting through the ice.
i already know who this is, you think to yourself, strutting over to the ledge.
will sees you when you come in, still shooting pucks in the net despite practice ending 10 minutes ago. he’s always the last off the ice. always putting in an extra shift.
he goes back to firing shot after shot, aiming for a different angle in the net until the person on the zamboni will have to force him off the ice. he doesn’t acknowledge you. you don’t acknowledge him.
you set your bag up on the ledge to dig through the clutter for your phone; a mess of makeup products, your sweaty uniform, a bra, loose change, hair clips, pom-pom strands and water bottles - it makes it harder then necessary.
by the time you pull it out, you don’t waste time in checking if brad got your message and call him instead - trying to block out the crack of each shot that echoes around the rink. “hello?”
“hey. what’s up?”
“where are you, i just got here. i’m standing in the box?” you glance around, trying to see if you can catch sight of him lingering in the tunnel.
“babe, i left like 5 minutes ago. i was gonna hang at jordan’s ‘til you were done practice?”
“i told you i finished the same time as you?”
crack.
your eyes follow the trail of the puck hitting the boards.
“i though you finished at 5:30? and by the time you get showered ‘n shit i was just gonna wait for you to call me . .”
“i finish at 5:00 and that’s including getting showered ‘n stuff.” you glance to the side in disbelief.
“oh.”
“oh?” you repeat. “will i meet you at your place or not?”
“look, just come to jordan’s. i’ll text you the address. i’ve already had a beer so you’ll have to come grab me anyway.”
“okay,” you huff, lowering your phone. “bye.”
“bye.”
you throw your phone in your bag, shoving the other things you had to take out back in when your favourite lipstick hits the ice with a ‘clack’ as it falls from the ledge and begins rolling further out.
past the blue line, past the face-off dot, until it finally comes to a stop almost dead centre of the rink.
you eyes immediately jump to will, the only one on the ice, who was watching it as well.
he’s smacking his gum (as always), and shrugs a shoulder while looking at you. “i’m not getting it.”
the bluntness makes you straighten.
you blink.
“you act like i don’t exist so,” he pulls a face like it’s something out of his control, turning back to his setup. “come get it yourself.” another crack of the boards deafens your ears.
you look back to the lipstick in the middle of the rink, then to the type of shoes on your feet.
ordinary sneakers. barely a grip on them with how long you’ve had them.
can you even walk on ice with regular shoes on?
you look at will to see if he’s being serious, but he’s too busy on stick work, not even sparing you a second glance.
you swallow nervously.
is he really gonna make you grab it yourself?
you contemplate how badly you really need it, considering you haven’t skated on the ice since you were 10 and at that, had a penguin skating aid to lean on.
you then consider the fact the zamboni will probably crush a perfectly good $25 lipstick into little tiny pieces if you do.
you also then consider the worst case scenario: what if it shoots out a tiny piece at somebody? and causes a total freak accident where blood is on your hands because you couldn’t be bothered to pick up after yourself? that gets you moving.
you set your bag down and tuck your hair back so it doesn’t block your view. you mutter something under your breath and step carefully through the open gate, goosebumps running along your legs.
the second the rubber mat disappears beneath your white nikes, your confidence goes with it.
your foot slides at least a foot.
you immediately grab the boards.
you hear him snort.
you ignore it.
with one hand clamped to the top of the boards, you shuffle forward awkwardly, feet barely leaving the ice.
god, how are you making it to the centre?
you make it a whole three steps before one foot shoots slightly ahead of the other when will sends another puck against the boards, making you jump and lose footing. “whoa!—” you catch yourself at the last second.
you quickly realize how terrifying and dangerous it is be on the ice during a game.
the boards rattle with you.
you continue inching forward, tiny steps at a time, looking no-where but the golden-like rectangle. it’s so slippy. the shooting has stopped so you assume will is watching you. you don’t wanna know how stupid you must look tight now.
stiff. jumpy. covered in goosebumps.
it’s so cold, your arms and legs suffering the most as they remain bare from the worn BC t-shirt and shorts you first got years ago. you’re convinced the shivering isn’t helping with your balance.
will watches, leaning lazily on his stick before setting it against the boards beside his helmet. then, with a couple of effortless strides, he’s gliding towards you, almost racing you without looking like he’s trying.
you refuse to look at him.
your eyes stay fixed on the lipstick.
just a little bit more . . .
you crouch carefully, every muscle in your body tensing as your fingertips hover inches away – when a pair of skates come into view and give a soft tap of the golden case, sending the thing gliding further on down to the right, a few more feet across the ice.
you freeze, mouth dropping as you look up to see will already drifting backwards.
“ . . . ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!”
“oh.” he looks theatrically around the empty rink. “you can see me?”
you stand in such a rush, stumbling, forgetting where you when his arm out stretches to catch you - and you hold on, closing the distance between you in two careful, clumsy steps, grabbing a fistful of the arms of his jersey. “you’re an asshole!”
“damn, i didn’t think you’d know it was me,” he continues with the joke, staring down at your face, “forgot my invisible cloak.”
“i’ve seen you all week, i’ve just been purposely ignoring you!” you snap, feeling smaller than usual as he towers inches above you in his skates.
“for no other reason than . . ?”
“for no other reason being you’re insufferable company and nothing but a pain in my ass.”
he rocks gently on his skates, taken aback but still finding it amusing. he loves when you swear. it’s surprisingly out of character. “gee . .” he tilts his head slightly, eyebrow twitching up, “guess brad’s still being a pussy and not eating yours.”
your face falls.
almost horror-like, as if you can’t believe he just said that.
you can’t believe he just said that.
your mouth hangs open.
nothing.
not a single comeback.
you just stare at him, heat rushing up your neck so fast it burns your cheeks. for once, your brain doesn’t have anything clever to throw back. just stunned, offended silence.
“you—” is all you manage, breathless with disbelief.
it isn’t even anger at first, it’s pure, stunned embarrassment.
you shove against his chest on instinct, creating space between you like distance might somehow undo what he’d just said. you can’t even bring yourself to meet his eyes. you just push him away, allowing him grin to himself while you twist on your heel to fetch your lipstick and go.
you make it just three steps in when your foot slips sideways and a squeak leaves you. “WHEUP!—”
your knees slam into the ice.
hard.
a cold thump echoes across the rink before your palms slap down after them, and the pain is immediate.
hot.
your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. you stay frozen on all fours, forehead bowed, your palms stinging against the freezing ice as your knees throb beneath you.
it hurts so bad.
the scrape of skate blades reaches you seconds later. “shit, hey—” a gloved hand appears in front of you. you bat it away without thinking. you can’t even tell him to leave you alone, a lump lodged too tightly in your throat.
he’s surprised. “y/n,” he says, his voice different. the teasing is totally gone.
instead, you turn your face away from him, swallowing hard, refusing to let him see the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes - whether from the pain or the embarrassment, you don’t know. you force yourself forward, practically crawling the first couple of feet before grabbing onto the boards with both hands. every movement sends another throb to your knees.
will watches, heart racing, the guilt pulling him down. he wants to throw himself down on the ice and break every one of his teeth if it would make you feel any better.
he stays where he is when you push through the gate without another glance, limping while picking up your bag.
he stands in the silence on his own, his eyes drifting to the abandoned gold tube sitting alone in the middle of the ice. he spots the little dots of blood from where you’ve cut your hands.
he throws his head back, sighing loudly.
why did he do that?
-
by saturday night, you’re exhausted. it’s ridiculous: the weekend’s barely started. your knees are still bruised, ugly shades of purple blooming beneath the skin. every time you kneel or bend them too far, they remind you exactly how hard you hit the ice.
you cried in the car. not because of will, because they hurt fucking bad – because the second the adrenaline wore off, every movement stung like a motherfucker. only for 2 minutes, because you had to go collect brad, and brad hated crying, or he hated dealing with it, rather.
date night hadn’t lasted long anyway. the first time you’d shifted in your place, you’d sucked in a sharp breath.
‘what’s wrong?’ he’d asked, giving you a weird look.
‘it’s nothing, just . . my knees’ you rolled your pyjamas up to show the violent bruising already coating them. brad’s brows furrowed. ‘what’d you do?’
that made you pause, because you didn’t know what to say. the instant will comes to mind, your immediate reaction is to deflect and deny when brad brings him up. ‘i don’t know.’
you knew it was the wrong answer the second you’d said it.
‘you don’t know?’ he repeated, staring at you.
‘well i . . i fell, what’d you think i did?” you chuckled nervously, settling on the lie you did it at practice. however, brad’s face hardens at your remark, and you don’t realize the damage you’re doing right now.
he squints his eyes. ‘you tell me — what were you doing?’
you can guess how it ended.
now, you’re catching up on laundry, again, because there’s a party and you offered to do katie’s now that she’s back at her boyfriend’s place. as always, it’s empty. chill vibes. you have one earphone in, listening to your 80s playlist you always play, thinking about the little bit of work you could catch up on when you get back.
you finish sorting another pile before setting your next basket down next you, opening the door to switch them out.
when you finish emptying the machine, you reach for the next basket - only to find the little glimmer of gold sitting on top.
your hand pauses.
your lipstick.
from the rink.
you stare at it for a second before turning around, met with will standing opposite side of the room at a machine.
he stands with his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants, his laundry basket next to him.
and all you can think is why — why does the sight of him tug at your heart?
you look back down at the lipstick.
it’s spotless, the scuffs are gone, there’s not a fingerprint on the metallic surface. he’s taken the time to make sure it wasn’t ruined before giving it back.
will’s loading up a machine when you look back at him, pressing buttons effortlessly before he turns around to lean against it, crossing his legs, his eyes focused on his phone.
you let out a quiet breath, turning back to your laundry.
you can’t seem to stay mad at him. you’re not mad at all when you block out saturday altogether, not when you know will is completely clueless to the situation - rightfully confused because he did, in fact, do nothing wrong.
you don’t even know what he did wrong. you just didn’t like seeing him with another girl, which is so strange to admit to yourself because you have a boyfriend . . . you like to think it’s because by seeing someone else look that excited to kiss someone made something uncomfortable shift in your own chest.
maybe it forced you to notice something your relationship had been missing for a while. that easy pull towards someone, that excitement, that thrill.
god, you don’t know. you still don’t know. it makes your head hurt when you think about it for too long. you just know it made you uncomfortable and you have to assume it’s somewhat an indication that your relationship is lacking in something. you want to feel what that girl felt. experience what she felt.
but you do know how she felt, you just don’t know what to do with the fact that it wasn’t with brad.
one thing is for certain is that it’s something for you to work on, not will. you’re mature enough to accept he did nothing wrong and he doesn’t deserve your cold shoulder while you try to figure out how to fix yourself.
you’re the fucked up one, not him.
will’s been nothing but sweet to you.
respectful.
familiar.
even though he had his tongue in another girl’s mouth.
FUCK!
why the fuck are you keep coming back to that, y/n?!
will glances up as you close your eyes and clench your jaw - and he immediately feels like he’s right back to square one.
stop thinking about it y/n. stop it. just focus on . . . laundry. you were doing laundry.
you steal a glance at him while picking up a shirt to fold, scanning him head to toe as if he’s gonna look any different from yesterday. he stays distracted on his phone, head dipped down. the only thing moving is his thumb, his fingers adjusting their grip every now and then around the phone. you swallow.
he’s so big.
tall! you mean tall. he’s still so tall even without skates.
he shifts, one leg holding most of him while the other relaxes, and you quickly look down, hoping you haven’t been caught studying him after ignoring him a whole week. he keeps one hand tucked under his armpit, the sleeves of his hoodie contracting against his forarms.
you divert your focus back to your dirty and clean clothes, the hum of the dryers being the only sound in the room. your music isn’t playing anymore, your earphones abandoned at the side.
he still hasn’t said anything.
ignore him. just ignore him, y/n, he literally can’t say anything without offending y—
“are you ignoring me now?”
the words leave before you can stop them . . and you can only own them once they leave, standing with a hand on your hip as your face frowns.
why did you just do that??
will looks at you confused, even glances around to see if you’re talking to anybody else.
“—‘cause i’m supposed to be ignoring you,” you continue, not knowing what you’re doing.
the fuck?
“i . . isn’t that what you want . . ?” will looks at you confused, tilting his head.
“i never said that?” you look at him like he’s not making any sense.
“oh, no i just . . assumed when you said . . i was insufferable company and you’d been purposefully ignoring me all week, that . . you wanted me to fuck off.”
oh yeah, you did say that.
still, it’s too late to back down now. “no . . ?”
will stares at you, mouth open, breathing without another thought in his head before shaking it off and turning his attention back to his phone.
you slouch, dropping your stance and backtrack. “ok ok, i’m sorry. i’m sorry, just — forget that. i’m sorry. i’m being annoying and . . gaslighting you to be honest. i don’t know what i’m saying.”
will slides his phone into his pocket then, giving you his full attention. “that’s the problem. if you don’t know, how am i supposed to know?” his tone pinches at your heart, because it’s gentle as always, despite your sense of frustration. “i’m doing what you asked, i gave you space and tried to keep things normal, and you . . wanted to rip my head off ‘cause i breathed too loud?”
“oh but will you always breathe loud! you’re a mouth breather,” your palm hits the washing machine like that’s an unfair reason to be mad.
he gives you a flat look.
you slump. “sorry.”
you do feel guilty, because he’s so right. the whole week, every stupid joke, every sarcastic comment, he’d been trying to get you back to normal – and you’d punished him for it.
“the rink yesterday, it was just me and you - i was messing with you ‘cause,” he shrugs awkwardly, “i don’t know. i thought it’d get you talking to me again.” then he pulls a face. “clearly misjudged that one.”
your eyes fall to the floor. “no, will—”
“—then you hit the ice and i can’t stop thinking about it. i felt like it was my fault. i shouldn’t have kicked it away again, i was just playing around, but . . i felt like an asshole after. it looked real sore. it looks real sore” his eyes dart to your purple knees.
“it is, but it wasn’t your fault,” you shake your head, “i probably would have fell anyway. i was storming off and forgot i wasn’t on normal ground.”
“did you cry?”
the question surprised you. you debate telling him, your face straight. “yes . . . but because it hurt, not ‘cause of you . . ”
that still makes will’s stomach sick with guilt. he lets out a soft sigh. “look y/n—”
no, no what happened to gorgeous?
“—i don’t know what i did to make you mad, if i crossed a line, just tell me—”
“—you didn’t.”
“—ok but are you saying that because it’s true?” he looks back up at you. “or are you just saying it because you don’t want me to feel bad?”
“no! no i promise.”
“so why? why the bad attitude? why have you spent the whole week mad at me? are you mad at everybody?”
to be honest, yeah — you have been mad at everybody, and it’s all because of him.
but there’s no way in hell you’re telling him that.
‘i saw you kissing another girl and it ruined my weekend. more than it did when i caught my boyfriend staring at our waitresses ass on my birthday.’
you’d rather launch yourself into traffic.
“i . . i don’t know,” you rub your arm. you’re not used to this amount of communication. you’re also not used to having to think like this. usually sorry’s enough and you deal with whatever consequences that follow after.
will deserves more than that. “i guess i’m mad . . at myself. maybe. i don’t know. i just don’t like . . how i can’t think straight anymore. my head is so messed up. i don’t even know anymore. i don’t know. i don’t know what i’m doing.” your head falls into your hands with stress.
will’s expression softens almost immediately. he lets out a slow breath through his nose. “hey.”
you look up.
“i don’t want that.”
you frown.
“whatever’s going on in your head,” he gestures vaguely towards you. “i don’t want you feeling like you’ve got to force yourself into anything because of me.”
your chest tightens.
“if you’re fighting yourself over this . . . that’s not something i want to add to.”
“i’m not—”
he sighs, eyes stuck on you. “y/n, listen - there’s no hard feelings. if things were simple . . you’d probably know what you wanted. i’m not saying that to make you choose, don’t take it that way,” he holds his hands up, “i just . . i think you are happy in you’re relationship and i need to stop trying to get your attention, because it’s my interference that’s messing with your head.”
your heart sinks.
what?
“if me doing that means you spend the next week feeling guilty . . or confused . . or taking it out on yourself . . ” he shakes his head, “. . i don’t want that.”
your face falls.
oh no.
he notices your expression and immediately backtracks. “that’s not me trying to make this a thing,” he says quickly. “honestly. i’m just saying . . . maybe the best thing i can do is stop,” he gives another small shrug, his face offering a small, playful smile. “i’ll cool it with the jokes. stop trying to steal your attention. give you space, divert my attention on someone else.”
“no,” it comes out far too quickly, your face falling completely as you shake your head. “no, no, no,” you slip off the machine.
will watches you, face pulling in confusion as you approach him. “i have to—”
“no! no i—” you rush to him, hands instinctively grabbing his forearms as you almost collide. “i want your attention. i want you to annoy me, i—” your hands are on his face before you can even think, pulling him down to you. the kiss cuts him off completely.
you don’t even know what you’re doing.
all you know is that he’s saying the complete wrong thing and you don’t even want him to leave you be.
you don’t want that.
your lips collide forcefully, enough that will can sense your desperation.
you kiss him slow, lips lingering before taking a short second to part, just to breathe, before kissing him again.
hungrier.
will reciprocates this time, kissing you back. he takes a second to switch his hat backward, before his hands carefully place themselves on your waist and dips his head to meet you. you hum, melting against him.
he’s warm and soft and just as you remember him.
you kiss him harder, longer, like you can’t get enough, and quickly quicken the pace. you open your mouth, missing his tongue, missing him being up all close on you. tingles dance down your spine when you feel it, butterflies shooting around your stomach. “don’t ignore me,” you plea breathlessly, speaking between kisses, “don’t stop with your jokes . . and your teasing . . and–“ kiss “–your annoying breathing.”
a laugh escapes him, swallowed immediately by another kiss. “no?” -kiss- “you don’t want that?”
“no,” you kiss him back, needing him to stop talking.
“why’s that?” he pulls away to look at you, smirk taking up his whole face. when you try to kiss him again, he pulls back
“because m—” you inch closer again, watching him look at you with amusemen, “my days would be boring without you,” you confess, trying to pull his neck back down to you.
will’s brow twitches cockily.
not that you can see, you’re too busy focused on his lips.
your whole body feels electric. that weird, foreign feeling back in your belly as you hands gravitate shyly down his torso, resting there, unable to look him in the eye.
“y’want me to keep annoying you?”
you nod.
“want me to keep calling you gorgeous?”
you look up at him at that, and nod again.
he perks a brow. “you think you’re gorgeous?”
you tighten your grip on the back of his neck and pull him back into another kiss before he can tease you again. “shut up will.”
will smiles, satisfied, and gives you what you want. he kisses you good, real good, so good you forget all about that disgusting, green jealousy that’s been following you about you all week.
his lips are soft but his hands are rough - dropping to your hips with a firm grip, he pulls you against him in a way that makes your nerves explode and brain short circuit.
“will,” you half-gasp when he instinctively picks you up, setting you down on a different machine. he steps in between your legs, your hands on his shoulders as your eyes widen as he settles in front of you. the pulse in your neck sky-rockets from the closeness, from the familiarity or his hands.
his eyes look dark, pupils blew out, but the familiar softness of blue still remains there comfortingly.
you smile into another kiss, melting against him as his tongue slowly crashing against yours. you don’t realize his hands brushing your legs, your knees that are battered - you don’t even flinch, that’s how gentle he is.
he places them flat on your thighs, large, paw-like palms soothing you with warmth and familiarity as they move up and down. your mind is already hazy when you move closer to him, inching forward in a rocking-like motion which brings will to a pause. his eyes look up from you legs, blue orbs boring into yours as his voices lowers.
“i need you to make a deal with me.”
“what is it?” you hook your arms around his neck, keeping him close.
“i need you to promise me you’re not going to go weird on me again,” his eyes scan your face, distracting you from his fingers slipping between your thighs.
“i—i won’t,” you stutter.
“y’promise?” his finger brushes your front again, making you jolt. “you promise me this is what you want?”
your mouth slowly falls open as will slowly begins to stroke you through your panties, his gaze locked on you.
you forget what he’s asking. “m—will.”
“tell me,” he looks down at you, standing tall and full of confidence. entire frame blocking you from anyone who could walk in.
“—i promise . . i promise this is what i want,” you moan embarrassingly, head dropping in shame.
fuck! what are you doing right now?
his fingers move slowly, feeling your hot slick begin to pool through the material, “want me to keep goin’?”
you bite your lip to conceal your noises, nodding frantically. “mhm.”
he pushes your knees further apart, spreading them while slowly lifting his hand to slide under the waistband on your underwear. when his hand comes into contact with your bare cunt, you flinch, legs closing from the touch, your eyes shooting to him for comfort.
he’s not looking at you though, soley focused on his hand buried in your shorts.
his middle finger slides through your folds, soaked immediately, your arousal no longer a secret. a sharp gasp escapes you, your mouth hanging open. he watches your face carefully while sliding his finger in, watching the way your lips part and your eyes blink in poor consciousness as you stretch around his finger.
fuck, feels so good already.
“oh my god,” you whine, legs trying to close. “will—”
“—shh,” he leans in and kisses you again, wasting no time in sliding a second finger, using his other hand to keep your legs open.
you moan loudly against his mouth, brows pinched together with unfamiliar pleasure while your focus slips. “hmmm—fuck.”
“this what you wanted?” he grins, pumping his digits into you at a steady pace. “this what you needed all week, gorgeous?”
you’re already clenching your thighs, trying to push them together again. “uh-uh—huh.”
he grins at your lack of speech, kissing your lips, endeared. “—and you’re not gonna ignore me after this, right?” his fingers work faster in you, moving them in coordination with how your body responds.
the moans and whimpers don’t stop flying from your lips.
“m—mhm!”
“tell me. tell me you’re not gonna ignore me.” he tries to hold your eyes.
“i—i—will!”
“you will?” he fakes concern, stopping his movements.
“NO! no i won’t! i’m not! please! please i’m not going to!” you cry, grabbing his wrist. “please! don’t stop.”
will’s smirk grows as he continues.
he watches you, the way your head tips back on the machine, the way your mouth hangs open the majority of the time. it’s like you don’t even know where you are right now, the idea of someone being able to walk in not even a concept in your mind.
you’re completely surrendered to him.
just him and his fingers shoved knuckle deep in you. “FUCK!”
you cry out, ears burning with the noise of your juices slicking.
your stomach clenches, your legs flinching as you feel an unfamiliar build grow more and more by the second. it scares you. “will, will, will—” you squeak, feeling his fingers curl at a particular spot that makes you feel like you need to pee. “will stop, stop—”
“what’s wrong, baby?” he breathes, trying to hide his confusion, the nickname going straight to your core. he knows your close - he can feel you clenching around him, it almost hurts. “you gonna cum for me?”
your eyes practically roll to the back of your head at his words, struggling to stay open with each dazed blink. “i—i-”
“it’s ok babe, just let go. that’s what i want you to do,” his voice is soft and gentle, contradicting the violation his hand is doing to your pussy.
he has you melted down to nothing.
your face pulls together as your whole body racks, your hand clutching his wrist for stability as you breathe frantically. “can’t i—i need, you need—”
“—you can, gorgeous. cum for me. cum right now,” his fingers speed up inside you, pumping frantically, squelching deafeningly. little weird stars dot your vision as your eyes lock on each other’s. those sweet, dark and dangerous baby blues.
the moment will’s thumb presses against your nerves, you’re a goner. your jaw goes slack, your eyes flutter and your legs thrash trying to pull away. a wet, gushing, drip-like sound rings in your ears as you cum. “WILL!” you sob, nails digging into his skin. will’s fingers don’t falter, not even as he drops his gaze to see the water-like liquid squirt out of you, dripping onto washing machine, splashing onto the floor.
“holy fuck.” he breathes, neck craning to the ground as you cry out. you try to cover your mouth with your arm, embarrassed by the noise leaving you.
your eyes find his, immediately giving you away.
he sees it - the surprise. the nerves.
the quiet panic of not understanding your own body. your own heart.
but he doesn’t laugh. doesn’t point it out.
doesn’t make you feel exposed.
instead, a gentle smile tugs at his lips, so warm it quiets every anxious thought in your head.
he grins at you like you just hung a medal around his neck. “good job, gorgeous.” he praises.
you can only look at him, face blooming, contorted as your body slowly finishes riding out it’s orgasm on his hand.
will’s fingers slow, remaining inside you.
your chest rises and falls as you look at will with an intensity he’s never seen before.
you refuse to look anywhere else but him.
for a moment, neither of you say anything.
it’s fine.
you’re just staring at each other, heavy breathing filling the silence.
partly because both of you can’t believe what just happened.
“i didn’t — done that before.”
will’s face falls into a soft amusement, his lips tugging at the sides. “you what?”
“i mean!—” you facepalm a second, eyes closing as you try to think of what you’re trying to say. “. . i’ve never done that before. i don’t even—was—was ‘at supposed to happen?” you gulp.
anxiety immediately begins to set in.
oh god, did you just pee?!
will’s chuckle drowns out any second-guessing as he inches close enough that your noses touch, his voice smooth like honey. “that’s the hottest thing that could have happened . . .” his hair tickles you, “can’t teach that.”
your face burns, chest still rising as you refuse to meet his gaze.
will slowly retreats his hand, apologising when he notices the furrow in your brows at the discomfort and emptiness. “sorry gorgeous.”
you wipe your sweaty palms on your thighs that even feel sensitive while your eyes find the door, a weird sinking filling your chest.
that was a really stupid thing to do.
you don’t regret it.
you look back to will, waiting for him to make a move while you wait for the embarrassment to rush in any second now. it always does.
instead, he holds out both his hands for you to take.
still catching your breath, you take them.
he smiles, steadying you as you slide carefully off the washing machine. your legs wobble, but his grip tightens instinctively around your hands.
your legs are like jelly.
once you’re steady, he lets go, but he stays where he is, in front of you, watching you tuck your hair behind your ear.
his eyes dart across your face, the soft glow to it whether from him or the heat of the small room. “you okay?” he tucks a strand you missed.
you nod, too embarrassed to speak. hardly able to look at him.
he senses it. “i hope you meant what you said.”
you freeze, head snapping to him. “what did i say?”
will lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his had with a little smile. “about you wanting me to keep annoying you . . paying you attention . .” he teases.
you give his shoulder a playful shove. he barely moves. “ok.”
“your days would be boring without me—”
“—ok will!” another pathetic shove, still feeling loose on your feet.
“alright, alright.” he’s laughing now, catching your wrist before you can push him again. “just making sure you remembered.”
“i do,” you say, pulling away. “and . . i meant it.”
he smiles. “good. i meant what i said too.”
“about what?”
“about how you better not be a weirdo and start hiding on me again,” he sways on his feet, hands shoved in his pockets. “i don’t want you feeling like you ever need to avoid me . .” your eyes soften, “. . or worry i’m gonna tell anyone. this stays between us. whatever it is we do . .”
your shoulders loosen without meaning to.
the knot that’s been sitting in your chest since the kiss finally begins to ease.
he notices the perk up. you smile. “okay . . cool.”
“cool.” he smiles back.
before either of you can say anything else, before you can stand any longer just looking at each other, the laundry room door swings open. “YO! will!”
it’s one of the guys from the hockey team.
he walks in carrying an overflowing basket, not a shirt on, a towel around his neck.
will steps back so naturally you’d almost think nothing had happened. “what’s up?”
“you here?” he nods towards the empty machine.
“nah, all yours.”
“sweet.” the guy glances between the two of you. “hey.”
“hey,” you answer, hoping your face isn’t still flaming. he bends down, beginning to sort his washing without another thought.
will reaches for his own basket, then looks at yours. “you heading back to your dorm?”
you nod.
“i’ll carry that for you.”
he says it as casually as asking what time it is, already lifting it before you’ve answered.
you can’t help the small smile that escapes. “thanks smitty . . ”
“don’t mention it,” he shoots you a wink. “just focus on getting up those stairs on your own.”
you give him a look, and somehow, with him carrying your laundry and teasing you exactly like before — it feels like nothing has changed.