Rose! I absolutely love your Timo fics and I was wondering if you would possibly write Timo and reader with a marriage of convenience trope with plans to divorce after 5 years but then they basically fall in love over the years forgoing the divorce plan, please anything with angst, fluff, and smut
Marriage of Convenience
A/N: This was requested by an Anon. I am so sorry for how long this took! Work has been crazy busy, and there were some personal things this week. But it's finally here!
Pairing: Timo Meier x Y/N
Words: 5k
Warning(s): angst, fluff
The first time Y/N met Timo Meier, he looked as miserable about the arrangement as she felt. It happened in a private room at a Manhattan steakhouse neither of them had chosen, seated across from each other while their parents discussed contracts, timelines, family reputations, and business mergers as though they were discussing weather patterns instead of two actual human lives. Outside the windows, the city glowed silver beneath winter rain, but inside the room, everything felt suffocatingly warm, thick with expectation and expensive cologne. Y/N sat stiffly with her hands folded in her lap while Timo leaned back in his chair, broad shoulders tense beneath a dark sweater, jaw locked so tightly she thought his teeth might crack.
Neither of them interrupted while their families spoke. The Meiers needed financial stability for a series of investments gone wrong. Y/N’s father needed connections and publicity tied to the sports world after a scandal threatened his company’s image. Somewhere in the middle of those selfish adult calculations, someone had suggested marriage. Temporary, discreet, beneficial. Five years. Long enough to satisfy appearances, secure contracts, and settle legal obligations. After that, a clean divorce. No drama. It should be simple, at least, that was the word everyone kept using.
Timo finally looked at her directly for the first time when her father slid the papers toward them.
“You don’t have to look that terrified,” he muttered quietly enough that only she could hear.
Y/N stared at him. “I’m not terrified.”
“You’re gripping the edge of the table hard enough to leave fingerprints.”
Only then did she realize he was right. A little embarrassed, she loosened her hands immediately, and for the briefest second, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. Not quite a smile. More like he found the entire situation absurd. Which, honestly, she appreciated.
The dinner dragged on forever after that. Discussions about living arrangements, public statements, and expectations. Timo barely spoke unless spoken to directly. Y/N spoke even less. But she noticed things despite herself, like the way he rubbed at the back of his neck when annoyed, the way his eyes drifted toward the window whenever their parents became particularly insufferable, and the controlled patience in his expression that looked practised. Like he’d spent years swallowing things he wanted to say.
At the end of the meeting, when both families finally stepped outside to take phone calls, silence settled heavily between them. Timo exhaled first.
“So,” he said flatly, “guess we’re getting married.”
The absurdity of it hit her so suddenly she nearly laughed. “Guess we are.”
He studied her for a moment, then leaned forward slightly. “Listen. I’m not going to make your life difficult if you don’t make mine difficult.”
“That’s romantic.”
His mouth actually curved this time, briefly and tired. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Another silence stretched between them, but it no longer felt sharp. Just strange. Finally, he nodded toward the contract sitting between them.
“Five years. Then we walk away.” Something about the certainty in his voice unsettled her more than if he’d sounded nervous.
“Right,” she whispered. “Five years.”
And that was how it began. There was no love, not even affection, just two exhausted strangers agreeing to survive each other.
The wedding happened three months later. It was beautiful in the coldest possible way. Magazines called it elegant. Online articles described it as glamorous and intimate, though there was nothing intimate about standing beneath cathedral lights while hundreds of people watched her promise forever to a man she barely knew. Cameras flashed constantly. Her dress weighed a thousand pounds. Timo’s hand around hers felt warm but unfamiliar. He looked devastatingly handsome standing at the altar, which honestly irritated her. Because if she was going to ruin her life for five years, the universe could at least have made him less attractive.
During the reception, they smiled for photographs until both their cheeks hurt. They danced because they were expected to. Timo’s hand rested carefully against the small of her back, respectful but distant, like he was afraid touching her too naturally would somehow violate the agreement.
“You okay?” he asked quietly while they swayed beneath crystal lights.
“No.”
A soft breath of laughter escaped him. “At least you’re honest.”
“You asked.”
His eyes flickered down toward her face then. Really looked at her for the first time all evening. Beneath the music and conversation surrounding them, she suddenly became aware of how close he stood. How steady his hand felt against her waist.
“You know,” he murmured, “everyone here thinks we’re in love.”
Y/N looked away immediately. “That’s the point.”
Something unreadable crossed his face before he nodded once. “Right.”
Later that night, after the guests left and the photographers disappeared and the performance finally ended, they arrived at the penthouse they were now supposed to share. The silence inside it felt enormous. Y/N kicked off her heels immediately and walked toward the windows overlooking the city, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She heard Timo set down bags behind her and heard the low sigh he let out.
Then he said, “There’s something we should probably establish immediately.” She turned cautiously.
Timo loosened his tie, exhaustion written across every inch of him. “I snore sometimes after road trips.”
She blinked. “That’s what you wanted to establish?”
“Well, yeah.” He shrugged slightly. “Feels relevant if we’re living together.”
To her horror, she laughed. Actually laughed. The sound surprised both of them. Timo stared at her for a second before smiling too, softer this time, less guarded. And suddenly the tension in the room shifted. It wasn’t gone, but it felt different, more manageable.
He cleared his throat awkwardly afterward and gestured toward the hallway. “Bedroom on the left is yours if you want it.”
Y/N frowned. “There are three bedrooms.”
“Yeah, but the left one has better sunlight in the mornings.”
Something warm and strange flickered briefly in her chest at the fact he’d noticed. “Thanks.”
He nodded once. “Goodnight, wife.”
The word should’ve sounded wrong. Instead, for reasons she didn’t understand yet, it lingered with her long after she closed the bedroom door.
Living together turned out to be far more intimate than marriage itself. The wedding had been a performance with polished smiles and staged affection beneath chandeliers, but domesticity was something quieter, something far more dangerous. It crept up on them slowly in the early mornings and late nights, in half-asleep conversations and routines that neither of them realised they were building until they already existed.
At first, they treated each other like polite roommates. Timo travelled constantly during the season, disappearing for away games and returning with duffel bags slung over one shoulder and exhaustion carved into the lines of his face. Y/N worked long hours herself, often coming home after midnight to find the penthouse dark except for the kitchen light he always seemed to leave on. For weeks, they moved around each other carefully and respectfully. Like they were both terrified of crossing invisible boundaries.
Then winter settled heavily over New Jersey, and somewhere along the way, things began to change. It started with coffee. Y/N didn’t even realise Timo had noticed her habit until one brutal January morning when she stumbled into the kitchen wrapped in a blanket, barely conscious, only to find a steaming mug already waiting beside the espresso machine. Exactly how she liked it. She stared at it suspiciously before looking toward him. Timo sat at the counter, scrolling through something on his phone, still wearing grey sweatpants and a Devils hoodie, his hair damp from the shower.
“You made me coffee?”
Without looking up, he shrugged. “You look homicidal before caffeine.”
“That’s not an answer.”
That finally earned her a glance. “Yes, I made you coffee.”
“Why?”
His brow furrowed slightly like the question itself confused him. “Because I was making mine anyway.”
The answer should not have affected her the way it did. It was just coffee. But nobody had ever done small things for her without wanting something in return. Her family operated on transactions disguised as affection. Every kindness came with strings attached somewhere down the line. Timo simply went back to his phone afterward like it was nothing. Like taking care of her in tiny, thoughtless ways was natural. That was the first crack in the wall she’d built between them.
The second came a month later. Timo got injured during a game against the Rangers. It wasn’t anything catastrophic, but enough to sideline him for several weeks with a shoulder injury that left him frustrated beyond belief. Y/N watched the game from home and knew immediately something was wrong from the way he disappeared down the tunnel without looking back. By the time he got home that night, tension rolled off him in waves. He barely said two words while dropping his bag near the door.
“You okay?” she asked cautiously.
“Fine.”
Which, obviously, meant absolutely not fine. Y/N watched him stalk toward the kitchen, movements sharp with irritation. He looked furious in the way injured athletes often did, they were angry at their own bodies, angry at helplessness, and angry at stillness.
She hesitated before following him. “Timo.”
“I said I’m fine.” His tone came out harsher than intended because he immediately shut his eyes afterward, exhaling sharply. “Sorry.”
Y/N leaned against the counter quietly. “You don’t have to apologize for being upset.”
He laughed once under his breath, humourless. “Easy for you to say.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Timo rubbed a hand over his face before answering. “Hockey’s the only thing I’ve ever really been good at.”
The honesty in his voice startled her. Because until then, Timo had always seemed so composed and controlled. Even during difficult moments, he kept parts of himself locked away behind dry humour and patience. But now exhaustion cracked something open inside him, and suddenly he looked less like a professional athlete and more like a man drowning quietly in pressure.
“You’re good at other things,” she said softly.
His eyes lifted toward hers. “Like what?”
The question shouldn’t have been difficult to answer, yet suddenly her heart began beating strangely hard against her ribs because she knew. She knew he always remembered how she took her coffee. Knew he texted her before every flight because he’d discovered she worried during storms. Knew he listened when she talked, even when exhausted. Knew he pretended not to notice when she fell asleep waiting for him on the couch after games, carrying a blanket over her anyway. Knew he was gentle in ways nobody expected from someone built like him. But saying those things aloud suddenly felt dangerous.
So instead she said quietly, “You’re good at making people feel safe.”
The room fell silent. Timo stared at her like she’d said something far bigger than she intended. Then, very softly he said, “No one’s ever said that to me before.”
Y/N’s chest tightened painfully. She looked away first.
After that night, things became softer between them, it wasn’t romantic, at least not yet, but it was coming undeniably closer. They started eating dinner together more often. Timo began stealing bites off her plate without asking, which annoyed her, mostly because she secretly liked it. She started attending more of his games, sitting in private suites where cameras occasionally caught her cheering after his goals. The internet loved them together. Articles called them unexpectedly charming. Fans obsessed over the way Timo always searched for her in the stands. Neither of them corrected the narrative, because pretending slowly became less like pretending, and that terrified them both. Especially when the first anniversary of their marriage arrived. The contract stated five years clearly. Only five years together, and then they’d have their freedom.
The night before their anniversary dinner, Y/N found Timo sitting alone on the balcony outside their bedroom floor, snow falling lightly beyond the city skyline. He looked thoughtful in a way that made her nervous.
“You’re brooding,” she observed quietly.
Timo glanced up before huffing a small laugh. “I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“Very.”
She sat beside him carefully, blanket wrapped around both her shoulders and knees. For a while neither spoke.
Before Timo suddenly asked, “Do you ever regret it?”
Her stomach tightened. “The marriage?”
He nodded once. Y/N looked out over the city lights. Thought about the life she almost had instead. Cold family dinners. Loneliness hidden beneath luxury. Relationships built entirely on appearances. Then she thought about coffee waiting for her every morning about late-night conversations in dark kitchens. About the way Timo smiled at her after games, like seeing her mattered.
“No,” she admitted quietly. The honesty seemed to hit him hard. When she looked back at him, his expression had gone strangely distant. “What?” she asked softly.
Timo stared at her for a long moment before speaking. “I think that might be the problem.”
After that conversation on the balcony, something shifted between them in ways neither of them knew how to stop. It wasn’t dramatic, and it didn’t happen all at one, it was worse than that because it was subtle. The kind of change that slips quietly beneath your skin until one day you wake up and realise someone has become essential to you without permission. Y/N tried not to think about the way her pulse stumbled every time Timo looked at her too long. Tried not to notice how naturally he reached for her now with his hand against her back in crowded rooms, his fingers brushing hers when passing something across the kitchen counter, absentminded touches that had started somewhere along the line and never stopped. She especially tried not to think about the fact that he kissed her differently now, with cameras around.
At the beginning of their marriage, public affection had been stiff and rehearsed. Quick kisses for photographs. Hands were placed carefully at waists and shoulders like actors blocking scenes. Now it felt frighteningly real. Too real.
After games, Timo would pull her against him automatically while reporters shouted questions nearby. Sometimes he kissed her temple while talking. Sometimes her forehead. Once, after an overtime win, he grabbed her face in both hands and kissed her so instinctively she forgot there were cameras surrounding them at all. The internet exploded afterward. Y/N spent an entire morning pretending not to read headlines about how in love they looked. Timo spent that same morning suspiciously quiet. Neither of them addressed it, which was becoming their biggest problem. Because they talked about everything except the one thing actually unravelling them both.
By year three of the marriage, the lines had blurred beyond recognition. Their families were thrilled, of course. The arrangement had become wildly successful. Timo’s public image softened beautifully with marriage. Y/N’s father recovered financially. They attended galas together, charity events, and vacations for appearances that slowly stopped feeling like obligations. Friends treated them like a real couple because, honestly, they acted like one. Even the staff at Timo’s arena knew her coffee order by heart now.
The terrifying part was that Y/N no longer remembered when pretending had ended. Maybe it happened during the flu she caught that winter. She’d gotten sick suddenly while Timo was away for a road trip in California. She told him not to come home early because she didn’t want to disrupt anything, but the second he heard how awful her voice sounded over the phone, he booked the first flight back anyway. Y/N woke sometime after midnight to find him kneeling beside the couch where she’d fallen asleep, one large hand brushing damp hair back from her forehead.
“You’re supposed to be in San Jose,” she mumbled weakly.
“You’re supposed to stop getting sick when I leave.”
Even half delirious with fever, she laughed softly. Timo looked exhausted himself. Travel-worn. Concern carved deeply into his expression.
“You flew home for a cold?”
“You had a fever of 103.”
“It was dramatic for attention.”
“Mm.” He adjusted the blanket around her carefully. “Still annoying.”
She watched him through heavy eyes as he moved around the apartment afterwards, making tea she probably wouldn’t drink and heating soup she definitely wouldn’t finish. The entire time he kept checking on her every few minutes like he physically could not help himself. And somewhere between midnight and dawn, lying half asleep against his chest because he insisted her fever felt worse alone, Y/N realised she was in catastrophic trouble because she loved him. The realisation struck with horrifying clarity. This wasn’t a high school crush, it wasn’t just attachment, it wasn’t even just his comfort. It was love, deep, irreversible, and terrifying. She loved her husband. The husband she was eventually supposed to divorce. Panic settled in immediately after.
Y/N spent the next several weeks avoiding him as subtly as possible. Which, unfortunately, was nearly impossible when living together. She started staying later at work. Started turning down invitations to his games. When he reached for her, she found excuses to pull away before her body betrayed her completely. Timo noticed immediately. Of course he did. He noticed everything about her. At first, he tried giving her space, though confusion lingered visibly in his expression every time she withdrew from him. Then his confusion turned into concern. Then it turned into hurt. And that part nearly destroyed her.
One night, after she declined attending another team event, Timo finally cornered her in the kitchen. “What is going on with you?”
Y/N kept her eyes fixed firmly on the cabinet she was pretending to organize. “Nothing.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Lie to me.” The quiet disappointment in his voice hurt worse than anger would have.
She shut the cabinet too hard. “I’m tired, Timo.”
“No.” He stepped closer. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks.”
“I have not.”
“You won’t even look at me." Her chest tightened painfully because he sounded genuinely upset now. Y/N forced herself to meet his eyes. That was a big mistake.
Timo stood only a few feet away wearing black sweats and a plain white t-shirt, hair messy from sleep, expression exhausted and wounded and achingly sincere. Three years ago, she could’ve survived looking at him like this. Now it felt lethal.
“You’re imagining things,” she whispered.
He stared at her for a long moment. Before very quietly saying, “Did I do something wrong?”
The question shattered something inside her, because no one who loved carelessly asked questions like that. No one who didn’t care looked at someone with that much fear in their eyes. And suddenly she realized Timo was terrified too.
Y/N looked away before he could see the emotion building in hers. “No,” she said softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then why does it feel like you’re leaving me?”
Silence crashed through the room. The words hit both of them hard. Timo seemed startled by his own phrasing immediately afterward, like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
Leaving me.
Not leaving us. Y/N’s heartbeat turned almost painful, because there it was. The truth neither of them had wanted to touch. She could feel it standing between them now, huge and fragile and dangerous. One wrong move and everything would change.
Timo took another step closer slowly, cautiously, like approaching something frightened. “Y/N…”
She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t stand there and hear him say things she desperately wanted while knowing the contract still existed like a countdown hanging over their heads. Five years that had always been the deal, and loving him now felt like stepping willingly toward heartbreak. She'd signed paperwork for herself.
So instead of answering, she whispered the cruellest thing she could think of. “We always knew this wasn’t forever.” The second the words left her mouth, regret hit instantly.
Timo went completely still, but not with anger. That would’ve been easier. No, he looked hurt in a way she had never seen before, like she’d physically struck him. For several unbearable seconds neither of them moved. Then Timo nodded once. It was a tiny movement, but somehow it felt devastating.
“Right,” he said quietly.
And for the first time since their marriage began, he walked away from her. The silence that followed was unbearable. It was nothing like the comfortable kind they had built together over the years or the easy quiet of shared mornings and late-night exhaustion and simply existing beside one another without needing words. This silence was sharp. Fragile. It followed them from room to room like a wound neither of them could stop reopening.
After the fight in the kitchen, Timo stopped reaching for her. That was the first thing Y/N noticed. No absentminded hand against her back when they crossed busy streets. No fingers brushing hers when they took the elevator. No pulling her close during public appearances out of instinct rather than obligation. He still treated her gently and still spoke kindly, which somehow made it worse. Because now there was distance threaded carefully through every interaction, and she had caused it.
The next few weeks passed like that. Timo buried himself in hockey. His practices ran later, his workouts got longer, and the interviews became more frequent because reporters loved him lately. They loved the softened version of him that existed beside marriage and stability and domestic happiness.
Domestic happiness.
The phrase almost made her sick now. At night she heard him moving around the apartment long after midnight while pretending to sleep in separate bedrooms for the first time in nearly a year. That part hurt more than she expected. The separate bedrooms had started as practicality in the beginning, strangers sharing space carefully, but somewhere over time they had stopped using them. Sometimes Timo fell asleep beside her after road trips because he was too exhausted to move. Sometimes she curled against him during thunderstorms without thinking about it. Eventually sharing a bed became natural enough neither questioned it. Until now. Now the empty space beside her felt enormous and entirely self-inflicted.
Y/N kept trying to convince herself she’d done the right thing. That this was only temporary. It had always been temporary. It was better to create distance now than let herself completely fall apart later when the five years ended and Timo would walk away exactly as they had planned. Except the logic stopped working every time she looked at him, because Timo looked tired now. Not physically, but emotionally. She saw it in the shadows beneath his eyes and the way his smiles no longer fully reached them. Saw it in how quiet he became around her, like he was constantly thinking too hard before speaking. Worst of all, he stopped looking at her the way he used to.
Before, his attention had always felt instinctive. Immediate. Like some invisible part of him tracked her automatically no matter where they were. Now he forced himself not to. And Y/N hated herself for noticing.
Three months later, Timo got selected for an NHL promotional trip in Europe during the offseason. Normally Y/N attended those events with him. However, this time he didn’t ask. And the realization hollowed her out unexpectedly.
She stood in the kitchen the morning he left while he packed the last of his things into a travel bag near the door. The apartment felt strangely cold despite the summer heat outside.
“You have your passport?” she asked quietly.
Timo nodded without looking up. “Yeah.”
A pause.
“Flight’s at eleven?”
“Mmhm.”
Another silence followed.
Once upon a time, they would’ve filled it easily. Teasing. Complaining. Coffee brewing while he kissed her forehead goodbye without thinking. Now every conversation felt cautious and measured, and Y/N hated it.
She watched him zip his bag shut before finally gathering the courage to ask, “How long are you gone?”
“About two weeks.”
Two weeks. The thought of this apartment without him suddenly felt unbearable. Timo straightened afterwards, finally looking at her properly for the first time all morning. For one dangerous second, something vulnerable flickered across his face, something that looked almost hopeful. Like he wanted her to stop him. Instead, she froze because fear still held her hostage. And the hope that was on Timo’s face disappeared immediately.
“Take care of yourself,” he said softly, and then he left. The door clicked shut behind him, and the apartment fell devastatingly silent.
The first three days without him were awful. By day five, Y/N realized she had built her entire life around someone she claimed she could eventually let go. Everything reminded her of him. His hoodie draped over the couch. Protein shakes in the fridge. The coffee beans he insisted tasted better than every other brand. Even the stupid kitchen drawer that stuck unless you pulled it exactly the way he showed her. The loneliness became unbearable quickly, which was humiliating considering this marriage had originally been built on emotional detachment.
One night, unable to sleep, Y/N made the mistake of scrolling social media. Photos from Timo’s trip flooded every platform immediately. The press events in Switzerland, the interviews, fan meet-and-greets and then pictures of him with other women. They were beautiful women. Models and influencers. Reporters were leaning close beside him in photographs while he smiled politely for cameras. An ugly feeling twisted painfully in her chest. Jealousy. Real, horrible jealousy.
Y/N shut her phone off immediately, but the damage was done. Because suddenly she couldn’t stop imagining what life would look like after their divorce. Timo would move on eventually. Of course, he would. Someone kind and beautiful would love him properly someday. Someone unafraid of commitment. Someone who wouldn’t push him away every time things became real, and he would forget this marriage eventually. And worst of all, he would forget her. The thought hit so hard it stole the breath from her lungs. Y/N sat awake until nearly four in the morning before finally admitting the truth she’d been avoiding for months. She didn’t want the divorce. She never wanted it. Well, not anymore, maybe not for a long time. And now she had possibly ruined everything by pretending otherwise.
Timo returned home four days earlier than expected. Y/N had just stepped out of the shower when she heard the front door open downstairs.
Her heart leapt instantly. “Timo?”
The footsteps paused.
And then she heard a “Yeah.”
The sound of his voice after nearly two weeks sent something emotional crashing through her chest so violently, she had to grip the bathroom counter. She hurried downstairs before she could overthink it. Timo stood near the kitchen with his suitcase beside him, baseball cap pulled low, exhaustion written across his face from travelling. But the second he saw her, something in his expression shifted immediately. Like coming home still meant her despite everything.
God, she loved him. The realization nearly overwhelmed her where she stood.
“You’re early,” she said quietly.
“Event got cut short.”
Neither moved for a second. The distance between them suddenly felt enormous.
Timo gave her a small, tired smile. “Missed the coffee here.”
Emotion clogged unexpectedly in her throat because she knew he wasn’t really talking about coffee. Before fear could stop her this time, Y/N crossed the room. She was fast. Timo barely had time to react before she threw her arms around him. For one startled heartbeat he froze completely before he held her back, like he’d been starving for it. His arms wrapped around her instantly, pulling her tight against his chest with a rough exhale that sounded painfully relieved. Y/N buried her face against his neck, emotion threatening to break loose completely at the familiar warmth of him.
“Timo,” she whispered shakily.
His hands tightened against her back. “What happened?” he murmured immediately, concern threading through his voice. “Are you okay?”
That almost destroyed her. Because even now, even after she hurt him, his first instinct was worry for her. Y/N pulled back just enough to look at him, tears already burning her eyes. And for the first time since this whole mess began, she stopped running from the truth.
“I don’t want five years,” she admitted softly. Timo went perfectly still. “I don’t want the divorce.” Her voice cracked completely now. “And I know that makes me a hypocrite because I’m the one who pushed you away and I was scared and—”
“Y/N.”
She shook her head helplessly, tears finally slipping free. “I love you, okay? I love you and I tried not to because this was supposed to end eventually and I thought maybe if I ruined things first it would hurt less later but—”
Timo kissed her before she could finish. It wasn’t a gentle or careful kiss, it was filled with desperation. Years of restraint and confusion and longing crashing into one devastating moment as he pulled her against him like he physically could not get close enough. Y/N made a broken sound against his mouth, gripping his shirt tightly while he kissed her with enough emotion to shatter her completely. When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Timo rested his forehead against hers.
“You really thought you were the only one in love here?” he whispered. Y/N stared at him through tears.
Timo gave a quiet, disbelieving laugh, thumb brushing beneath her eye carefully. “I’ve been in love with you for years.”
