Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader, established relationship, age gap
POV: Harry Styles, first person
Setting: February 2026, London, the day after the interview release (Sunday Times Magazine)
Warnings: heavy angst, relationship conflict, emotional hurt/comfort, miscommunication, arguments/escalation, raised voices/shouting, characters being intentionally hurtful, below-the-belt insults, insecurity, fear of abandonment, age gap dynamics, power imbalance (emotional/experience), emotional manipulation (unintentional), crying, unresolved tension (at times), partial reconciliation
A/N: This is actually just them fighting badly, idk how it ended up at 10k. I apologise in advance for any repetitions. 💕
⚠️ This one-shot contains intense emotional conflict and may be triggering for readers sensitive to relationship arguments or themes of insecurity and abandonment.
The key catches in the lock. It shouldn’t. It’s my lock, my key, my house. I’ve opened this door in Hampstead a thousand different ways—half-distracted, jet-lagged, laughing into my phone, balancing takeaway in one hand and a bag in the other. It’s the sort of action my body knows better than my mind does. But tonight, it resists me. I turn it again, harder this time, impatience flaring where nerves already sit raw, like the house itself has decided to take your side. The latch finally gives in with a reluctant click, and I shove the door open with my shoulder. Warmth immediately rolls over me. The smell hits first, coffee grounds, milk steamed a touch too long, that vanilla candle you’re obsessed with because you once said it makes the place feel “like a Pinterest board but, like, emotionally secure.” There are shoes left by the stairs instead of tucked away properly. Your tote bag is slumped on the hall table with your university logo facing out. My sunglasses are abandoned beside it like a casualty of some earlier moment. You’re here. Of course you are. This is your home too. I know that. I knew it when I left three weeks ago, and I knew it on the drive back from the airport, when I asked to be brought straight here because the thought of another night without seeing you felt unbearable.
Still, relief doesn’t come. The hallway is too still. Not peaceful still. Not the kind that belongs to a sleepy Sunday, to you curled up under a blanket while I pretend to read and really just watch the shape of your mouth when you dream. This quiet has teeth. I close the door softly behind me, because some foolish part of me still believes gentleness might save this. That if I move carefully enough, neither of us will splinter any further. My bag lands with a dull thud by the wall. I leave it there. My fingers stay looped around the strap for a second too long, because I don’t know what to do with my hands when they’re not reaching for you.
“Love?” I call, voice low and even and far too measured to be natural. Nothing. No bright little “Hi, baby.” No rushing steps in socks. No arms around my waist, no face tipped up toward mine for a kiss like it’s the most instinctive thing in the world. I swallow against the scrape in my throat. It feels rubbed raw, the way it does after rehearsing too long. I follow the scent of coffee to the living room. You’re on the couch. Not sprawled across it like gravity doesn’t apply to you. Not upside down, legs hanging over the armrest in that way that makes you look like a very expensive house cat. You’re sitting upright, posture neat, knees drawn in slightly, a mug held between both hands. Your hair is tied up. Your face is bare. Your phone lies face-down beside you on the cushion, deliberate as a slammed door. A lamp is on even though there’s still light outside. The glow softens your cheekbones, throws gold over your skin, makes you look younger than you are. Younger than me by enough that the gap feels like another body in the room—silent, watchful, cruel.
You look up when I step in. Your eyes land on me and stay there. They don’t warm. They don’t brighten. They don’t do that thing they always do, make something in me unclench, make the world narrow down to one manageable, beautiful thing. They just take me in carefully.
“Hey,” I say, and it comes out too cautious, like I’m trying not to startle something wild.
“Hey,” you answer. One syllable. Flat as glass. It lands harder than it should. I linger in the doorway for a beat too long, as if I need permission to enter my own living room. My pulse drums at the base of my throat. I drag in a slow breath and try to ease the stiffness out of my shoulders. “I—” I begin, and stop. Sorry? Missed you? Please don’t do this? Please don’t make me be the one to name what happened? My eyes flick to your phone. “You didn’t pick up,” I say instead. You lift the mug to your mouth and sip from it slowly, like you’re giving yourself time to decide how cruel you want to be. Or maybe how vulnerable.
“I know,” you say. Two words. Clean and cold. A small, ugly spark of irritation jumps in my ribs. Not righteous. Defensive.
“I called twice,” I say. I can hear the faint edge in my own voice now, the polished sharpness I use in meetings and interviews when I’m trying very hard not to sound as thrown as I am. “And then again after your shift.”
Your mouth tilts in that almost-smile you wear when you’re about to say something pointed. “I saw,” you say, “I was at work.” I stare at you. Your tone is mild. Polite, almost. It makes me want to grab hold of something and shake it. It makes me want to ask where my girl’s gone—my impossible, vivid, overdramatic girl who would’ve texted me something ridiculous and cruelly funny instead of sitting here like a stranger trying on your skin. This version of you unnerves me. “I know you were at work,” I say, trying to sand the roughness off the words before they reach you. “I wasn’t accusing you.”
You blink once. “Okay.”
The silence stretches so tightly it hums. I walk further into the room. I’m still wearing my shoes. I should take them off. I don’t. Every normal instinct has abandoned me. I set my keys down on the sideboard and the little metallic clink sounds obnoxiously loud. I keep my eyes on you as I move, as though looking away might make you disappear. When I reach the couch, I lower myself onto the opposite end, leaving too much space between us. It feels chosen. It probably is. I hate it immediately. My fingers twitch with the urge to close the distance, to touch you somewhere simple, your ankle, your wrist, the soft place behind your knee, as if my body can solve what my mouth keeps ruining. I don’t move.
“Are you alright?” I ask, and I hate the question as soon as it leaves me. It’s useless. Of course you aren’t alright. We wouldn’t be sitting in this airless quiet if you were. You glance past me, at the wall. One of our framed polaroids hangs there, the one from Rome, where you’re wearing my sunglasses and flipping off the camera, like there weren’t photographers across the street and the whole world waiting to make meaning out of us. “Yeah,” you say. “I’m fine.”
I let out a low breath through my nose. “You’re not.”
Your gaze cuts back to mine. “You don’t know.”
The retort lands sharper than it should. “I do know,” I say, my voice still even, but only just. “I know you. I know when you’re doing that thing where you act like everything’s—”
“Normal?” you cut in. Your brows lift. “Sorry. Is my coping mechanism not aesthetic enough?”
The words glance off me and then sink in. They ought to be funny. They aren’t. “Don’t,” I say quietly. “Please don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Your chin lifts a fraction. “Talk?”
I close my eyes for half a second. The instinct to rub at my face is nearly overwhelming. The instinct to cross the room and pull you into my lap is worse. “I came home early,” I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t because it sounds like I’m angling for points. Like I want to be congratulated for coming back to the house where my girlfriend is furious with me. “I finished everything and I… I didn’t want to wait.”
Your gaze drops to my hands, to the ring on my pinky, the one you picked out for me, to the restless flex of my fingers. “Okay,” you say. “You’re home.”
“Yes,” I say, more sharply than I mean to. I inhale, rein myself in. “Because I wanted to talk. In person. Like you asked.”
You didn’t ask, not outright. But I heard it anyway, in the silence after the texts, in the calls that went unanswered, in the finality of your last message. Your jaw hardens. “I didn’t ask,” you say.
I blink. “Alright. But you know what I mean.”
“I do,” you say, and there’s something maddening in how you say it, like you’re humouring me. Like I’m the one being difficult. Like somehow, in this room, I’m the immature one. Something in me reacts badly to that. Not because I need to be right, but because I’m already one step away from feeling like I’m losing you. I turn towards you properly, letting my knee angle in your direction like an offering. “I’m here,” I say. “I’m not— I’m not trying to avoid it.”
Your eyes flick briefly to the empty stretch of sofa between us. “You weren’t exactly trying to face it yesterday,” you say, voice light in a way that makes it worse.
“I tried to call,” I say.
You tilt your head. “After the damage was done.”
Damage. Like something has cracked down the centre and we’re both pretending not to hear it splitting. I draw in a slow breath and hold it for a count. Let it out. You’re angry. I’m allowed to stay calm. I’m meant to stay calm. That’s the role I occupy with you, isn’t it? The grounding one. The older one. The one who knows how to regulate and reassure and make things manageable. Except right now that steadiness feels paper-thin. A performance I’m one wrong word away from dropping. “I didn’t think it would be like this,” I admit.
Your eyes narrow. “Like what?”
I look at you, at the closed-off set of your mouth, at the way your hands tighten around the mug like you need something solid to hold. “Like you wouldn’t answer,” I say.
You place the mug onto the coffee table with deliberate care. The sound it makes is soft, but final. “I didn’t have anything nice to say,” you tell me.
The honesty of it lodges under my ribs. “You could’ve—”
“What?” you cut in, and there it is at last, that flash of you, not playful but alive with anger. “You wanted me to pick up the phone and go, ‘Hi baby, how was your day, also by the way I’m currently losing my mind because my famous boyfriend gave a beautiful little interview about how important his time off was and somehow I still managed not to exist in it at all’?”
I flinch. Not because you’re wrong. Because hearing it out loud makes it impossible to minimise. I still keep my voice level. “That’s not what I—”
“It’s exactly what you wanted,” you say, your eyes brightening now with something hot and volatile. “You wanted me to be fine. You wanted me to make a joke or send a meme or laugh it off so you didn’t have to sit with how uncomfortable it made me.”
“That’s not fair,” I say automatically, and I know as soon as I hear it that I’ve chosen the wrong thing.
You let out a short, cutting laugh. “Oh, so now we care about what’s fair?”
I swallow, the edge of the conversation sharpening. “Look,” I say, leaning forward, elbows braced on my knees like I’m negotiating a contract instead of trying not to lose the person I love. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
You look at me as if I’ve spoken in complete nonsense. “Okay,” you say. “But you did.”
The room feels smaller all at once. I nod because I can own that much. I have to. “I did,” I say quietly. “And I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
Your eyes drop to my mouth. For one brief second I see the flicker there, that softness in you, the reflex you’ve always had to forgive me before I’m even done apologising. Then it vanishes beneath whatever this last day has done to you. “I don’t want ‘sorry’,” you say. “I want you to get it.”
“I do get it,” I say too fast.
You lift your brows. “Do you?”
“Yes,” I insist, and I can hear myself slipping into that confident cadence I use when I’m being questioned publicly, when I need to sound composed whether I feel it or not. “I understand that you felt left out.”
You blink once. Your mouth presses into a thin line. “Felt left out,” you repeat, like I’ve just described a car crash as mildly inconvenient.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t—”
“You did,” you cut in. “You literally just did.”
I open my mouth. Close it again. My fingers curl into my palm before I force them loose. “Alright,” I say, quieter now. “Tell me. Help me understand it the way you understand it.”
You hold my gaze for a long moment, as if deciding whether I deserve that kind of honesty. Then you shift. Unfold your legs. Set both feet on the floor. Your whole posture changes. The frost in you doesn’t melt, but it fractures enough for heat to show through. “I read it,” you say. “Again.”
“Again?” I ask.
“I read it last night,” you say, looking directly at me now. “And then I read it this morning. And then I read it on my break. Like, I don’t know, Harry, maybe if I stared at it enough times my name would just appear in the margins.”
Sarcasm, sharp enough to wound. Underneath it, something much more fragile. I breathe out carefully. “You’re not— your name wasn’t going to be in it.”
“I know,” you say, and now your voice has bite. “That’s the point. That is literally the whole fucking point.”
“I don’t talk about my relationship in interviews,” I say, and I hear how familiar it sounds, even now, even trying to phrase it differently. It’s still a shield. “You know that.”
“I know you don’t do details,” you fire back. “I’m not asking for details. I’m not asking you to describe my coffee order or tell the world what I look like without makeup or what I sound like when you've got me bend over the kitchen counter at 2 am—”
“Then what are you asking?” I ask.
You stare at me like the answer is so obvious the question itself is insulting. “Acknowledgement,” you say, clipped and precise. “I’m asking for acknowledgement.”
My mind races around the word. “But—”
“And don’t do that,” you snap.
I blink. “Do what?”
“That.” You gesture vaguely at my face, irritated. “That instinct you have to argue with me instead of just listening.”
My mouth shuts. Immediately. I nod once. Fine. Listen. You pull in a breath, and for a moment I can see the real shape of your hurt, not this brittle, polished version of it, but the living thing underneath. You’ve never fought in halves. You feel with your whole body. That’s part of your terror. It’s also part of your charm. “You talked about your mum,” you say. “You talked about Gemma. You talked about your niece.” I swallow. I know. I’ve replayed those lines often enough to hate the exact wording of them. “You talked about your friends,” you continue. “You talked about your family. And about how important it was to have that time off and how meaningful it was and how it grounded you and made you feel like yourself again. And I’m reading it thinking, wow,” you say, voice beginning to fray. “That’s beautiful. That’s lovely. That’s so you.” You rub your own chest as if you have to physically hold yourself together. “And then I get to the end and realise—” Your voice catches. You swallow around it. “I realise you sound like you were doing all of that alone.”
I inhale, ready to say something, and force myself silent. You lean forward, eyes bright and furious. “You sounded single, Harry.” you say.
The sentence lands like a slap. Everything in me wants to move at once—defend, explain, soften, fix. “I didn’t—”
“Stop,” you snap, louder now. “Stop, because every time you do that it feels like you’re telling me I imagined it. Like I’m insane.”
“I’m not saying you’re—”
“You don’t have to say it,” you interrupt. “It’s in the tone. It’s in the vibe. It’s in the entire energy of this conversation. It’s giving ‘girl, relax.’”
Despite everything, disbelief flickers through me. “It’s giving— what?”
You throw your hands in the air. “See? That. That’s what I mean. You don’t even understand half the words that come out of my mouth, but somehow you understand exactly how to make me feel stupid.”
That hits somewhere deep and unpleasant. Because I have always loved the way your mind works, how fast you are, how bright, how your language spins jokes into knives into little bits of poetry. And I’ve also, more than once, used my confusion as a convenient way to slip sideways out of whatever you were trying to make me look at. I shift without thinking, moving a little closer, because my body’s first instinct is always you. Always touch. Always proximity. Always if I can just get you against me, this will become survivable. “Come here,” I murmur, reaching for your hand. You pull back. Not dramatically. Not with a flourish. Just enough. You lean away from me as if my touch is one more thing you don’t trust. My hand hangs uselessly in the air before I lower it. “Please,” I say quietly. “Don’t.”
You look at me. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t pull away like I’m—” I stop, because I don’t know how to finish it without making it worse. Like I’m a stranger? Like I’ve become something unsafe?
“Like you’re what?” you ask, and your calmness is worse than shouting. “Like you’re exactly what people say you are?”
The room seems to shift around me. Of course you bring it up. The public version of me is stepping into the room between us. The one I can never fully outrun. The one you’ve defended me from and resented and feared in equal measure. I keep my voice as steady as I can. “Is that what this is about?”
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Oh my God.”
“What?” I ask, irritation slipping in because suddenly I feel trapped, pinned. “What?”
“This is why I didn’t want to answer the phone,” you say, and now you’re standing. You rise so suddenly the mug on the table gives a little rattle. “Because you’re doing it. You’re doing the thing where you make it about wording and logic instead of the actual feeling.”
I get up too, reflexively. Mirror image. Now we’re standing opposite each other in the middle of the living room like we’ve stepped into a ring neither of us knows how to leave. I keep my hands open at my sides, as if that can make me harmless. “I’m trying to understand,” I say.
“No,” you say. “You’re trying to win.”
Now you're really getting under my skin. “I’m not trying to win,” I snap. “I’m trying to fix it.”
You pace once, then again, the movement restless and charged, like your body can’t contain the voltage of your anger. “Fix it,” you repeat. “Right. Because that’s what you do. You smooth everything over. You say the right thing. You do the sweet boyfriend thing. You kiss me, make me laugh, and then we both pretend nothing actually happened.”
Something in me recoils because you’re right. Because I do that a lot and it usually works. “Is that not what you want?” I ask, and there’s a hardness to the question I didn’t intend.
You stop pacing and look at me like I’ve said something obscene. “No,” you say slowly. “I want you to actually sit in it with me. I want you to understand that it hurt. That it wasn’t some tiny little awkward moment.”
“It was an interview,” I say, and the second the words leave me, I hear how dismissive they sound. How small I’ve made it. “It wasn’t… it wasn’t about you.”
Your eyes flash. “Exactly.”
I blink. “What?”
“It wasn’t about me,” you say, voice rising now. “It wasn’t about us. It was about you and your life and what matters to you. And you listed everything that matters to you and I wasn’t in it.”
I open my mouth, shut it again. My chest feels cinched tight, breath catching high and shallow. “You’re making it sound like—” I start.
“Like what?” you challenge.
“Like I deliberately—” I stop, because I can see it all over your face. That’s exactly what you think. If not deliberately, then carelessly. Thoughtlessly. Almost worse.
“You didn’t have to deliberately do it,” you say, reading me too easily. “That’s what’s so deranged about it. You didn’t have to wake up and decide to hurt me. You just didn’t think of me. And honestly, that’s actually worse.”
My jaw hardens. Heat creeps up my neck. “I did think of you,” I say.
You tilt your head. “When?”
“When—” I stop. Because if I say after, it proves your point. After the interview. After the article. After the ache had already landed. I press my tongue to the back of my teeth, trying to find some safe way through. “I’m thinking of you now,” I say.
You stare at me. “That’s not comforting.”
“What do you want from me?” I ask.
It comes out rougher than I mean it to. Tired. Frayed. I’ve been stretched thin since yesterday, since your final message, since I watched the typing bubble disappear, since I sat in a hotel room and stared at my phone knowing I couldn’t get on a plane until morning.
“I want to feel like I’m not a secret,” you say.
“You’re not a secret,” I say immediately. “Everyone knows we’re together.”
You scoff. “Yeah. Everyone knows. The internet knows. The tabloids know. My mum knows because people keep sending her essays about your ‘age-gap problem.’” I flinch at that. You barrel on. “But you talk like you don’t have anyone. You talk like you’re alone.”
“I talk like I’m private,” I counter, and I can hear myself falling fully into the argument now. The slide has happened involuntarily. “There’s a difference.”
You laugh, thin and cutting. “Private. Right.”
“Yes,” I say, more forcefully. “Private. Because I know what happens when people start poking at your relationship in public. They tear it apart.”
Your eyes burn. “And yet your sister was safe enough to mention.”
I lift a hand. “I didn’t—”
“You did,” you cut in. “You literally did. You said her name. You said your niece. You said your mum. You said your friends. You said everything except the person you’ve been with for three years.”
You're not wrong. Three years. Living together. Shared bills. Shared toothbrushes. Shared city. Shared vacations. Shared life. The ordinary intimacy of it makes the omission seem even uglier. I move towards you a fraction, palms half-lifted as though I can physically steady what’s unraveling. “Please, Angel.” I say, softer now. “You know I love you.”
Your face twists. Pain and fury pulling against each other. “Do I?” you ask, one eyebrow lifting, almost challenging me to say something out of line.
The question is quiet, but it goes through me like a blade. I feel it low in my stomach, a sudden drop, vertigo without movement. “Of course you do,” I say too quickly. “Of course you know.”
You step back from me, arms folding over yourself. “You love me,” you say slowly, as if weighing each word. “But do you take me seriously?”
The air changes around us, it suddenly feels certain degrees colder. This is no longer just about the interview. This is the wound underneath it. The old, familiar fault line: age, power, history, all the places where our differences stop being charming and start being sharp. My heart thuds once, hard. “What?” I ask, stupidly.
You look at me with eyes gone glassy, your voice trembling at the edges despite how hard you’re trying to keep it controlled. “Do you take me seriously, Harry?” you repeat. Louder now. “Or am I just… fun?”
Fun. The word slices. Makes you sound disposable. Temporary. Decorative. “Don’t,” I say, my voice roughening. “please, love.”
“What?” you fire back. “Am I not allowed to ask you a question you don’t like?”
“I do take you seriously,” I say, and the truth of it hurts in my throat.
You blink, and for one second it looks as though you might let that reach you. But then your expression hardens again. “Then why do you act like I don’t exist?” you demand.
“I don’t,” I say, frustration biting now. “I don’t. I just keep it out of interviews because it isn’t theirs. It isn’t for them.”
“And yet it was for them when it was your mum,” you say.
“That’s my family,” I snap before I can stop myself.
The second it’s out, it hangs there. The air goes still. Your eyes widen. Your face empties in that awful way it does when you’ve been hurt too precisely. “Oh,” you say quietly. “Right. Of course.”
The floor seems to tip under me. I move to take it back immediately, clumsy with urgency. “That’s not what I meant,” I say. “You know that’s not what—”
“You said it,” you cut in, and the pain in your voice is turning jagged already. “You literally said it. ‘That’s my family.’”
“You are my family too,” I say, desperate. “You are. That’s—”
You laugh, but it sounds broken. “No. No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” I insist, reaching for you again because my body is panicking and bodies only know their own language. “Please—”
You shove my hand away. It isn’t forceful. It barely moves me. It still feels brutal. “Don’t touch me,” you say, and your voice breaks on the last word.
I go very still. My hands drop to my sides. “Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. I won’t.”
You suck in a sharp breath, blinking hard as if you’re furious at the tears threatening to spill. “This is so humiliating,” you say, and the words come out so small.
“Don’t say that. It's not.”
“It is,” you insist, louder now. “It is humiliating to realise that I’m, like a footnote in your life. Something you can just leave out.”
“You’re not a footnote,” I say.
You swing back toward me, anger flaring hot and bright again. “Then what am I?”
My mouth opens. And I realise, with a sick jolt, that I don’t know how to answer in a way that can reach the version of you standing in front of me. Girlfriend? Partner? Love? Home? Future? All of them are true. None of them feel substantial enough for the rawness of this moment. “You’re my—” I start.
“Don’t you dare,” you cut in. “Don’t say ‘girlfriend’ like you’re doing me some massive favour.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” you fire back. “Because you’re Harry Styles. You’re thirty-two. You’ve been famous since before I could even write my own name properly. You’ve had, what, twenty girlfriends? More? You’ve been with everyone, done everything, and I’m—” You gesture at yourself in one sharp sweep. “I’m twenty-two,” you say, voice shaking now with anger. “I’m a barista with half a degree and an emotional support water bottle. I’m not in your league.”
The words hurt in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Because I know the world has said that to you in ten thousand different tones. Because I know you’ve read it, absorbed it, laughed it off, and carried it around anyway. “Don’t say that,” I say, low. “You’re—”
“And don’t you dare do the sweet thing,” you cut in. “Don’t you dare compliment me out of this.”
I flinch because, again, you know me too well. I would. I would tell you you’re brilliant and unbearable and beautiful and the only person who makes my life feel alive. I would hand you every tender truth I have if it meant this would stop. And right now, it would sound like manipulation. “I’m not manipulating you.”
“I didn’t say you were,” you throw back. “But you are very good at making people forgive you.”
“You think I’m trying to charm you into forgiving me?” I ask.
You look right at me. “Aren’t you?”
“No,” I snap. “I’m trying to make you understand that I didn’t— I didn’t do this to hurt you, for fucks sake.”
“But you did hurt me,” you shout. The force of it reverberates off the walls.
My own voice rises to meet it before I can stop myself. “I know I hurt you!”
“Then why are you arguing?” you yell back.
“Because you’re saying things that aren’t true!” I shout, and I hear myself now—loud, fraying, no longer playing at calm. Some part of me is appalled. Another part is almost grateful to stop pretending. “You’re acting like I don’t care about you. Like you’re some— some toy I keep around.”
Your face stills completely. And I see it happen, the split-second where you decide to aim for blood. “Oh,” you say, voice suddenly quiet and lethal. “So you know that’s what it looks like? You said it,” you continue, stepping closer now, gaze fixed on mine. “You said ‘toy.’”
I shake my head immediately. “That’s not— I didn’t mean—”
“But it is, isn’t it?” you push. “It’s exactly what people think. Exactly what everyone says. That you’re over thirty now and you need someone young enough to make you feel interesting. Young enough to keep you current. Young enough to laugh at your jokes and not question you too hard.”
“That’s not fair.”
You let out another ugly little laugh. “There it is again.”
“I’m not—” I begin, then stop. Because nothing I say is landing. Because every defence sounds like an excuse.
You don’t pause. The words pour out of you now, sharp with a full day’s worth of humiliation and fear. “And you know what?” you say. “Maybe that’s why you didn’t mention me. Because it would make you look bad.”
I go still. “What?” I ask.
Your eyes are shining now, tears collecting but not falling yet. “Maybe you didn’t mention me because you didn’t want to remind people that you’re dating someone ten years younger. Because you didn’t want the discourse. Because you didn’t want the questions. Because I’m not worth the inconvenience.”
Pain cuts through me clean and hard. “That’s not true,” I say, my voice low enough to feel dangerous. “That is not true.”
“Isn’t it?” you throw back, closing the distance further until I can feel the heat coming off you. “Because it’s very convenient, isn’t it? You get to have me in private, and then in public you get to be whatever version of yourself works best.”
“Fuck’s sake, y/n!” I hiss, turning away and dragging a hand through my hair because if I keep looking at you I’m going to say something ugly.
You don’t let me get away with retreat, though. “Oh, are you mad now?” you taunt. “Poor Harry. Your little inconvenience is having feelings too loudly today.”
That line lights up every exposed nerve. I spin back toward you. “Don’t,” I warn, voice low.
“Don’t what?” you shoot back. “Say it?”
I step towards you. Not threatening, not quite, but there’s heat in it. A charge. My hands flex uselessly, wanting to grab onto you and hold and shake and plead all at once. “You want to know what it is?” I say, and now my voice is too loud, too sharp. “It’s you spiralling and turning one interview into a full referendum on our relationship.”
Your eyes flare. “Oh my God.”
“It is,” I press, because anger is easier to steer than guilt. “It’s you taking something that wasn’t about you and making it—”
“It wasn’t about me,” you scream, the force of it splitting the room in two. “It was about your life, Harry. And I’m in your life. Aren’t I? Or am I just a phase?”
Phase? Temporary. Replaceable. Not built to last. My mouth opens. I want to say no. I want to say never. I want to tell you you’re the only thing that’s felt real to me in years. What comes out is crueler. “You don’t know what a phase is,” I spit. “You’re twenty-two.”
The silence after that is immediate and absolute. It crashes over the room. I can hear my own breathing. The hum of the fridge in the kitchen. The blood rushing in my ears. You stare at me as if I’ve struck you. I stare back, horror blooming too late, and underneath it the ugly recognition that the sentence came from somewhere real. Somewhere I’ve kept locked away because I know exactly how vile it is. Because yes—sometimes, when you’re making everything feel catastrophic, when your feelings fill up every corner of a room, I think it. I think how young you are. How fierce. How total. How impossible to talk down once you’ve decided you’re bleeding. I think it and never say it because I know it’s cheap and cruel and beneath me. And now I’ve said it.
You blink once. Slowly. Then you let out a short, breathless laugh that splinters into something close to a sob. “Wow,” you whisper.
My insides twist. “I didn’t—”
“No,” you cut in, frighteningly calm now. “No, that was great. Thank you. Super informative.”
I step forward on instinct. “I’m sorry.”
“Shut up,” you snap. “Shut the fuck up! Don’t apologise now like that somehow fixes it.”
I flinch. Your eyes spill over at last, tears sliding down your cheeks. You scrub them away angrily, like you resent the weakness of them. “You think I don’t know I’m young?” you demand. “You think I don’t know I’m inexperienced? You think I don’t know you’ve been in this industry longer than I can remember my own life?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Yes, it is,” you insist. “You just weaponised it. You literally just threw my age in my face like it makes my feelings less real.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, and even to me it sounds thin.
“Then how did you mean it?” you demand.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out again. Because the honest answer is ugly. Because the truth is that when you suggest I don’t take you seriously, it terrifies me. It makes me feel exposed and mean and exactly like the man you’re accusing me of being. And when I feel that cornered, I strike. You hold my gaze, shaking with rage.
“Okay,” you say slowly. “Okay. You want to talk about phases? Let’s talk about yours.” You move closer until you’re right in front of me, close enough that I can smell the coffee on your breath, close enough that my body aches with the need to pull you against me and erase this entire conversation. Your eyes are fierce through the tears. “You’ve had phases,” you say. “You’ve had eras. You’ve had girls for a night, a week, a month, a summer. You’ve had flings and little romances and headlines and whatever else. You’ve built an entire reputation on being charming and unattached and never staying.”
“Stop it,” I say, but the warning lacks force now. Because I know exactly where you’re going. Because you’ve found the soft part.
“You don’t get to call me young like it’s an insult when you’re the one who’s been acting like a teenage boy for sixteen years,” you spit.
My jaw locks. Shame and fury flare together, indistinguishable. “That’s not fair,” I snap.
You laugh, vicious. “Oh my God, there it is again. You should get that tattooed.”
“STOP,” I say, louder.
“NO,” you shout back. “Because you’re acting like I’m insane for being scared, but why wouldn’t I be? You’re fucking Harry Styles. You’re literally famous for— for—” You falter for half a beat, searching. And then I see the decision harden in you. The choice to go lower. To hurt because you’re hurting, too. “For not being able to keep it in your pants,” you say.
The room seems to freeze around the sentence. It’s not just what you’re accusing me of. It’s the bluntness. The ugliness. The complete absence of tenderness. You’ve taken the worst version of me—the one I’ve spent years trying not to be—and thrown it at my feet like proof. My voice comes out low and cold. “Don’t talk to me like that.”
Your chin tips up. “Why? Because it’s true?”
“You don’t know what’s true,” I roar, and the sound startles even me—too loud for this room, too loud for the walls that have watched us love each other so gently. “You don’t know anything about my life beyond what you’ve read and what you’ve decided to believe when you’re angry.”
Your eyes widen with fury. “Oh, so now I’m just some stupid little girl who reads gossip online?”
“I didn’t say that,” I snap.
“You did,” you scream. “You basically did. You just said I don’t know anything about you.”
“I said you don’t know what you’re talking about,” I shout back, because now we’re both too loud, both well past restraint.
Your chest heaves. Tears keep sliding down your face and you wipe them away like they offend you. “I know what it feels like,” you yell, voice splintering. “I know what it feels like to be with someone who has options. Infinite options. And I’m just— I’m just one of them.”
“You’re not,” I say at once, raw and desperate. “You’re not.”
“Then prove it,” you spit.
I stare at you. “What?”
“Prove it,” you say again. “Because right now it feels like I’m just some pretty little thing you keep around to make your life feel normal.”
Pretty little thing. My breath catches in my throat. The inside of my chest burns. “That’s what you think I’m doing?” I ask, low and wounded. “You think I’m using you?”
Your eyes flash, and behind the anger there’s fear, raw, young fear, the kind that dares someone to say the nightmare out loud so at least it can stop being uncertainty. “I don’t know,” you say, and your voice breaks around it. “That’s the problem. I don’t know. Because you make it so easy to feel like I’m not… not real in your world.”
I look at you in disbelief. “That’s not what I want,” I say, barely above a whisper.
You let out a bitter laugh. “What do you want then?”
I step towards you before I can stop myself. My body is starving for contact, for some proof that there’s still a bridge between us. “I want you,” I say. “I want— I want us.”
You flinch at the word like it hurts. “Do you?” you ask, voice small but sharp. “Or do you want the idea of me?”
I stare at you. I don’t answer quickly enough. And that tiny hesitation, less than a second, a stutter in my breathing, really becomes everything. You see it. Of course you do. Your face gives way. “Oh,” you whisper.
“No,” I say at once. “No, that’s not—”
But you’re already backing up, shaking your head like if you move fast enough you can outrun the humiliation of having noticed. “This is so stupid,” you mutter, voice trembling. “This is so— I feel so—”
“Please,” I say, because I can see the spiral opening in front of you, the way your thoughts multiply when you’re scared until they become their own reality.
You look at me with eyes gone wild and bright. “I feel like a fucking idiot,” you spit.
My whole body aches at the sound of it. “You’re not an idiot.”
“Yes, I am,” you scream, tears pouring freely now. “Because I did the stupid thing. I believed you. I believed I was different.”
“You are different,” I insist, my own voice breaking now under the strain.
You shake your head hard. “No. No, I’m not. I’m just the current one. The current girlfriend. The one right now.”
“That’s not true,” I say, stepping towards you again with my hands half-raised, palms open in surrender.
You point at me like the gesture itself can keep me away. “You didn’t mention me because you don’t want to admit you have someone. Because it ruins the fantasy.”
“That’s not—”
“It does,” you shout over me. “You know it does. Your fans want you alone. Your brand wants you alone. Your image wants you alone.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It is what you’re doing,” you insist. “Even if you don’t mean to.”
I draw in a sharp breath, frustration curdling mean again. “You think you’re the first person to accuse me of that?” I snap.
You just stare at me. And I hate myself instantly. Because it sounds exactly like: you’re not special. You’re not different. You’re one in a line of women saying the same thing. Your voice, when it comes, is very quiet. “No,” you say. “But I thought I’d be the last.”
For a moment, there’s nothing in me but impact. A clean hit. Breathlessness. My throat closes. My eyes sting. And because I can’t bear the feeling of being that exposed, that guilty, that close to deserving your worst fear— “You don’t get to talk to me like I’m some caricature,” I spit, my own voice shaking with anger and hurt. “Some tabloid version of myself. You live with me. You know me!”
You let out a weak, watery laugh. “Do I?”
“Yes,” I say. “You do.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m constantly auditioning?” you demand. “Why do I feel like I always have to prove that I’m mature enough, chill enough, not too much, not too dramatic, not too—” You cut yourself off.
Something twists in me. Because I know that feeling. I’ve watched you carry it into rooms full of people older than you, wealthier than you, more polished than you. I’ve watched you make yourself smaller around my friends, my world, my orbit, in ways I pretended not to see because it was easier. And I hate the part of me that let that happen. “You’re not auditioning,” I say, softer now.
You look at me, trembling. “Yes I am,” you whisper. “Because you’re thirty-two and you’ve already had a whole life. And you can say I’m ‘family’ all you want, but you said it. You said it like it meant something. Like I’m not.”
I wince. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“But you did it,” you say, voice small and devastating. “Even if you didn’t mean to.”
The room feels wrecked. Like there’s debris everywhere and we’re just standing in the middle of it barefoot. I take one slow step towards you. “You are my family,” I say again, voice rough from overuse. “You are.”
You shake your head. “If I was, you wouldn’t have hesitated.”
I swallow. “That hesitation—” I start, then stop, because how do I explain that sometimes loving you feels so huge it frightens me into silence? That fear often looks like distance from the outside.
“You hurt me,” you whisper.
“I know,” I say, the admission tearing on the way out. “And you hurt me too.”
You blink as though the idea had not occurred to you. As though my pain was not part of the script. For a second guilt flickers through your face. Then it hardens. Because guilt is too tender and you’re still armed. “You’ll be fine,” you say bitterly. “You always are.”
That stills me. “Is that what you think?” I ask quietly.
You shrug, shaky. “You always land on your feet. You always get to move on.”
The implication sits between us. Replace. Rotate. Continue. I take a slow breath and try to ignore how my hands have started to shake. “You think I can just move on from you?” I ask, voice low.
You don’t answer. But the silence says enough. Underneath all of this—the shouting, the accusations, the theatrics—is the one thing you can’t quite bear to say plainly: Please don’t leave me.
I move closer, carefully now, as if I’m approaching something broken and skittish. “Look at me,” I say. You don’t. At first your eyes stay fixed somewhere over my shoulder, as though looking directly at me will make whatever this is final. “Please,” I say again. Eventually, you lift your gaze. Your eyes are red-rimmed and wet and furious and impossibly young and my heart me aches so violently it nearly doubles me over.
“I’m here,” I say, voice gone hoarse. “I came home because I’m here. Because I want to be here.”
You laugh once through your nose, weak and hurt. “Yeah. Until you don’t.”
The pettiness of it stings. The fear behind it devastates. “That’s not—” I begin.
You cut across me, voice sharpening again because softness never lasts long with you when you feel unsafe. “Can you just admit it? Can you just admit you didn’t mention me because you didn’t want to deal with it? Because I’m inconvenient?”
I shake my head. “No,” I say firmly. “No. That isn’t why.”
“Then why?” you demand.
I look at you, chest rising and falling too fast, throat raw. Because I’m scared. Because I don’t trust the world with you. Because I don’t trust myself to keep you safe from that world. Because naming you out loud sometimes feels like handing you over to be picked apart. But all of that sounds too beautiful. Too polished. Too much like I’m trying to win you back with sentiment. So I choose the ugliest truth I have. “Because I’m selfish,” I say. The words taste bitter. “Because I wanted that interview to be mine. I wanted to talk about my break and my family and where my head was at without… without the world turning you into the story again. And I thought,” I continue, my voice roughening as I go, “I thought you’d understand that. Because you usually do. You’re always so supportive. You’re always so… you make things easier.”
The second I say easier, I know I’ve done it again. Your expression changes instantly. You recoil as if I’ve just slapped you. “Easier,” you repeat, faint and incredulous. “Wow.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” you whisper. “You meant it. You want me to be easy.”
“No,” I say at once, stepping toward you. “No, that’s not—”
You retreat a step again, shaking your head, and anger rushes back in to shield the hurt. “This is why I hate this,” you shout. “This is why I hate the age-gap thing, because you say things like that and you don’t even hear yourself. Like I’m some accessory.”
“I’m not saying you are,” I shout back, panic beginning to edge everything. “I’m saying I— I was trying to protect you.”
You laugh sharply through tears. “From what? Being acknowledged? I'm your girlfriend, Harry!”
I can feel my control fraying all over again. I can feel the urge to go cold, to go defensive, to stop bleeding and start wounding. And then I do the worst possible thing. I let my frustration speak instead of my love. “Sometimes you just don’t make it easy,” I say, voice hard.
Silence. Your eyes go wide. I want the sentence back immediately, but it’s already hanging there between us. “You don’t make it easy,” you repeat, barely above a whisper.
“That’s not—” I begin, and falter. Because it is true in a way. Because you are dramatic and intense and impossible and young and wild and feel everything like it’s life or death. Because loving you is sometimes difficult. Because loving anyone properly is. Because I adore that unruly, oversized heart of yours and sometimes I still don’t know what to do with it. None of that changes how cruel the sentence sounded.
You step away from me again like you need distance just to stay upright. “Okay,” you say, voice trembling. “Okay. Cool. So I’m hard work.”
“No,” I say, desperate now. “No, that’s not what I meant.”
“You said it,” you whisper.
I move towards you, hands lifting again in useless surrender. “Please. Please, I’m not saying you’re—”
“You are,” you cut in, voice cracking as it rises. “You’re saying I’m too much. You’re saying I’m dramatic. You’re saying I’m immature. You’re saying you’re mature and I’m not and I’m exhausting.”
“I didn’t say exhausting,” I snap.
You let out this hysterical little laugh that sounds like it might break apart into another sob. “You didn’t have to.”
The words carve straight through me. For a beat, all I can do is stand there and feel the damage of my own mouth. The fight has a taste now. Bitter, metallic, inescapable. I can feel it under my skin. And I hate it. Hate what I’ve said. Hate what you’ve said. Hate that the whole world feels like it’s in this room with us even though it’s only us, only our own histories and fears wearing louder voices. You scrub at your cheeks again, angry at the evidence of how much this is getting to you. “I can’t do this,” you say. “I can’t— I can’t be with someone who makes me feel like I’m optional and too much.”
“You’re not optional or too much,” I say, voice sanded raw.
You look at me with eyes gone wild and wounded, and when you speak again your voice is almost quiet. “Then say it,” you whisper. “Not in an interview. Not to the world. To me. Say that I matter. Say that I’m not just a phase.”
I step towards you, slow and careful, as though any sudden movement might shatter what little of us remains. “You matter,” I say, and the words crack as they leave me. “You fucking matter,” I say again. “You’re not a phase. You’re not anything temporary. You’re—” I stop. Because the next words are too large. Too naked. And I am suddenly afraid that if I say them like this, with everything in flames, you’ll run. You catch the hesitation again. Of course you do. Your face folds inward. “See?” you whisper. The pain of that is almost physical.
“I’m scared,” I blurt. The confession tears out of me before I can dress it up or take it back. “I’m scared of how much this— how much you—” You stare at me, startled into stillness. “I’m scared I’ll ruin it,” I say, voice shaking now. “I’m scared the world will. I’m scared you’ll wake up one day and realise you’re still young and you don’t want to spend your twenties dealing with me and my life and what comes with it.”
You blink, stunned. The fury in your face falters. For a moment you look like yourself again—soft under all the sharpness, eyes too full, mouth trembling, your heart visible from ten feet away. Then vulnerability seems to alarm you, and you flinch back into yourself. “So you just… leave me out instead?” you whisper.
I shake my head quickly. “No. I didn’t mean to leave you out. I just didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think,” you echo, bitterness returning. “Right.”
I force myself not to retreat from that. “I didn’t,” I admit. “And that’s on me.”
You hold my gaze, breathing hard. “You know what it felt like?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
“What?” I ask.
“It felt like you were building this beautiful little narrative,” you say, and your voice quivers. “And I wasn’t in it. Like you were proud of everything except us.”
My breath snags. “That’s not true.”
“It felt true,” you say, tears slipping again. “And feelings are, like, disgustingly real, Harry. Even when they don’t make sense.”
A broken laugh almost escapes me. Even now, the phrasing is so you. Overdramatic and clever and impossible not to love. “I do care about your feelings,” I say quietly. “Even when they’re—”
“Too loud?” you cut in, bitter.
I wince. “No.” You just look at me. Waiting. I take another breath. “Even when they scare me,” I say instead. “Even when I don’t know how to hold them properly.”
Your lips part slightly. Your eyes shine. The room is still wreckage. We’re still bruised. But something shifts, just a little, like the fire has burned itself down to glowing coals. You swallow, shoulders trembling. “I don’t need to be public,” you whisper. “I don’t need you to announce me. I don’t need to be a headline.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“I just—” Your voice breaks. You press your fingers to your mouth like you can physically keep yourself together that way. “I just need to feel like you’re not ashamed of me.”
“Ashamed?” I repeat, horrified. “No. No, never.”
You look at me, tears spilling fast now. “Then why does it feel like you hide me?”
“I don’t hide you,” I say, stepping towards you. “I hide from them. I hide from the world,” I continue. “Because it takes and it takes and it takes, and the only thing that has ever felt like mine, really mine, is you. I didn’t want them touching you,” I whisper. “I didn’t want them pulling you apart. And I didn’t realise,” I say, voice thinning with shame, “that trying to keep you safe was making you feel erased.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. A sob slips free. Everything in me strains towards you. I stop myself. You told me not to touch you. I don’t know whether that still stands. When you open your eyes again, they’re bright and wrecked and looking at me like you’re one breath away from falling apart. “Can I touch you?” I ask, barely audible.
You nod once. That nod feels like permission and mercy and the first crack of light after a storm. I step into you and gather you in carefully, slowly, like you might fracture. The second your body meets mine, you make this awful little sound, like you’ve been holding yourself rigid for twenty-four hours and can finally stop. You hold on to my jumper, fists knotting in the fabric, face buried against my chest. And I hold you. Like I can still communicate something true through skin when words have failed us all evening. Because right now, it’s the only language I trust. Even so, I can feel the bruise of everything we’ve said still throbbing between us. Those words aren’t gone. They’re simply quieter for the moment. Your voice comes muffled against me. “I hate fighting with you.”
“I hate it too,” I say, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “I’m sorry.”
You pull back just enough to look up at me. Your eyes are red, lashes stuck together, mouth still trembling. “You said I don’t know anything about your life,” you whisper.
Shame washes through me so quickly it leaves me cold. “I did,” I say. “And it was cruel.”
You blink. “Why would you say that?”
I swallow. My hands stay on your waist, grounding and restrained. “Because I was hurt,” I admit. “Because you made me feel like I was only what people say I am. And I panicked. And I wanted you to hurt too.”
Pain flickers across your face. “And you called me a toy,” you whisper.
“I didn’t call you a toy,” I say automatically, then stop because that isn’t honest enough. “I used the word. And you didn’t deserve that.” You keep staring at me. “And you didn’t deserve,” I continue, voice softer now, “to feel like you’re not part of my life. You are. You’re woven through everything.”
You scoff weakly through tears. “You literally made me feel like I was just an option.”
“I know,” I whisper. “And I’m sorry.”
You look down, jaw tight, as if anger is the only thing keeping you upright and you can’t quite afford to let it go. “I don’t want to be the girl you date to feel young,” you whisper.
My whole chest aches at that. “You’re not.”
You look up at me, fierce even now. “Then don’t treat me like I am.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“How?” you ask at once, voice shaking. “Because I can’t keep doing this, Harry. I can’t keep feeling like I’m auditioning for a role in your life and never get it.”
I inhale slowly, trying to stay open, trying not to protect myself from what you’re saying. “Tell me what you need,” I say, and this time I mean it without any defensive shape around it. No strategy. No spin.
You search my face for a moment, then swallow hard. “I need you to stop deciding for me,” you say. “Stop deciding what I can handle. Stop deciding what counts as ‘protecting me’ when really it’s just you avoiding something uncomfortable.”
I wince because it’s true enough to sting. Still, I nod. “Okay.”
“And I need you,” you continue, voice trembling, “to stop making me feel childish when I’m upset. Because I’m allowed to be upset. Even if it’s uncomfortable.”
A hot line of shame drags through me. “I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re right.”
You blink, tears gathering again. “And I need you to… I don’t know. Just—” You squeeze your eyes shut, frustrated with yourself. “I want to feel chosen,” you say finally. “Not in a headline. In the small stuff. In the way you talk about your life. In the way you include me when you talk about what matters to you.”
I look at you, heartbeat heavy and strange in my chest. Because that’s something I can do. And because the fact that I didn’t—because the fact that I missed something that basic—makes me feel sick. “I can do that,” I say. “I will.”
You look at me like promises aren’t worth much to you just now. Like words have already been too slippery tonight. “So what,” you whisper, “you’re gonna go do another interview and suddenly I exist?”
A pained little laugh escapes me. “Not like that.”
“Then how?” you ask.
I think before I answer, because this matters. Because I can’t afford another careless sentence. “I can’t give you public in the way you’re imagining,” I say carefully, “because I don’t think either of us actually wants that. But I can make sure you’re not erased. I can say ‘we,’ when I talk about my life. I can acknowledge that I don’t move through the world alone. I can stop speaking like I live in a vacuum. And in private,” I say, “I can stop trying to solve your feelings instead of sitting in them with you.”
You blink at me. A tear slips down your cheek. “That sounds like therapy,” you whisper, shaky and half-serious.
A broken smile builds at the corner of my mouth. “It probably is.”
A weak laugh slips out of you then—the first sound all day that feels recognisably yours, even if it’s frayed to threads. Then your face goes solemn again. “And what about your history?” you ask.
The question is small. The fear behind it is enormous. “That’s fair,” I say quietly. “That’s fair to be scared of, I understand that.”
You swallow. “You’re… you’re not gonna—”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, and the certainty in my own voice surprises me. “Not like that. Not again.” The word again hangs there, acknowledging everything without getting dragged into all of it. Honest enough to matter. You watch me, still trembling. “And if you ever feel like you’re not chosen,” I add, voice unsteady, “I need you to tell me before it turns into this.”
Your eyes drop, shame flickering there now. “I did tell you,” you whisper.
“Not like this,” I say gently, brushing my thumb under your cheek to catch another tear. “Not once you’re already bleeding.”
You close your eyes at the touch, leaning into it just a little. For a moment, the room quiets. Not the awful, listening quiet from before. Just the sound of two people who’ve exhausted themselves. The ache is still there. The damage too. But it’s quieter now. Less jagged. When you open your eyes again, your voice is almost timid. “I don’t know how to not be dramatic,” you whisper, and there’s the smallest thread of self-awareness in it. “It’s kind of my whole thing.”
A strained laugh leaves me. I press my forehead to yours. “I don’t want you to be less you,” I murmur. “I just… I don’t want you feeling like you have to shrink to fit into my life.”
You breathe shakily. “Then make space,” you whisper.
I nod once. “I will.”
You look at me then, and for one suspended second the anger is gone. What’s left is something softer, and wrecked, and painful. “Okay,” you whisper. It isn’t neat. It isn’t fully repaired. It doesn’t undo any of the things we said to each other. But it’s something. A hairline crack of light through all this damage. And right now, with your hands still holding me like you’re afraid I might just disappear, it’s enough to keep me standing.
I pull you closer, as if I can press the promise into you through sheer proximity. “I’m here,” I whisper again, because it’s the truest thing I know how to say.
You nod against me, exhausted. “Yeah,” you murmur. “For now.”
The words still carry a little edge. Still carry fear. I close my eyes, swallow around the sting of that, and kiss your temple anyway, like a vow. “For always,” I say.
I don’t know if you believe me yet. But I know I mean it.
You became his sugar baby to survive, but Harry’s possessiveness soon turns into something softer. The black card pays the bills, but it’s the unexpected love that threatens to ruin you both.
A/N: so so so sorry, I know it is late but today was somewhat crazy. hope you enjoy!
Rating: Explicit. 🔞 content. reader discretion is advised.
The alarm on Y/N’s phone was set to a generic, jarring radar sound. It was the kind of noise designed to wake you up for a 6 AM shift at a café, not to rouse you from 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets in a multi-million pound townhouse.
But at 9:55 AM exactly, it blared through the silence of the master bedroom.
Harry groaned, shifting in the bed. His arm, heavy and warm, was draped over Y/N’s waist, pinning her to the mattress. His face was buried in the crook of her neck, his breathing deep and even. For a moment, just a split second, Y/N allowed herself to lean back into him. To feel the solid wall of his chest. To smell the cedarwood and sleep that clung to his skin.
Then, she remembered.
Friday, 8 PM to Saturday, 10 AM. No Sundays. No dinners. No lingering.
She reached out and silenced the alarm.
"What is that?" Harry rumbled against her skin, his voice thick with sleep. He tightened his grip, trying to pull her closer, his nose nuzzling the sensitive spot behind her ear. "Turn it off. Come back here."
In February, she would have. She would have turned it off, rolled over, and spent another hour in his arms while he told her about the markets or kissed her until she was breathless.
But it wasn't February. It was March. And she was following the rules.
"I can't," Y/N said. Her voice was clear. Awake. Detached.
She took his heavy arm and lifted it off her waist, placing it gently back onto the mattress. The loss of contact made the air in the room feel instantly colder.
Harry blinked his eyes open, confusion clouding his gaze. He looked at her as she sat up and swung her legs out of bed.
"Where are you going?" he rasped, squinting against the morning light filtering through the curtains.
"It's 9:56, Harry," she said, not looking back at him. She stood up, reaching for his discarded t-shirt on the floor. No, not his. She didn't wear his clothes anymore. She reached for her own silk robe that she had brought in her overnight bag. "My shift ends in four minutes."
Harry pushed himself up on his elbows. The sleep vanished from his face, replaced by a flicker of irritation.
"Don't be dramatic," he muttered. "It's Saturday morning. I was... comfortable."
"I'm sure you were," she said. She walked to the chair in the corner where she had neatly folded her clothes the night before. Jeans. A sweater. Efficient.
Harry watched her. He hated this part. For the last three weeks, ever since he had handed her that envelope, she had been a ghost. She arrived at 8:00 PM on the dot. She let him fuck her and God, the sex was intense, fueled by a desperate, angry energy he couldn't name and then she slept. And then she left.
No cooking. No typewriter. No arguments about toilet paper.
"I ordered coffee," Harry said, trying to soften his tone. He sat up fully, the sheet falling to his waist, exposing his chest. He looked devastatingly handsome, and he knew it. "It should be downstairs. Stay. Have a cup."
Y/N pulled her jeans on. She zipped them up with a sound that seemed incredibly loud in the quiet room.
"I can't," she repeated. "I have to get to the library."
"Y/N," Harry said, his voice dropping to a warning growl. "Sit down."
She paused, holding her sweater. She turned to look at him finally. Her face was calm. Her eyes were dry. There was none of the fire he was used to.
"Is there something else you require, Harry?" she asked politely. "Technically, I have three minutes left. If you want a quick... service, I suppose we could fit it in. But I'll need to shower after."
Harry flinched.
Whatever reaction he had expected, this wasn't it. He had expected her to cry. He had expected her to beg him to change the rules back. He had expected the passionate, fiery girl who fought with Olivia at the art gallery.
He hadn't expected to be looked at like he was a dental appointment she was trying to get over with.
"I don't want a 'service'," he snapped, offended. "I wanted to have coffee with you."
"Coffee isn't in the schedule," she reminded him gently. She pulled the sweater over her head, smoothing her hair back. "You said 'no hanging out'. I'm just respecting your boundaries, Harry."
She picked up her bag. She checked her phone.
"10:00 AM," she announced.
She looked at him sitting in the messy bed, surrounded by the luxury he valued so much. He looked lonely.
Good.
"The allowance hit my account yesterday," she said. "Thank you. I'll see you next Friday at 8."
"Y/N—"
She didn't wait. She turned and walked out the door.
Harry sat in the silence of the master bedroom. He heard her footsteps on the stairs. He heard the click of the front door opening. He heard the heavy thud of it closing.
He looked at the empty spot beside him. The sheets were still warm, but the room felt freezing.
"Fuck," he whispered to the empty room.
He snatched the pillow she had been sleeping on and threw it violently across the room. It hit the wall with a dull thud, knocking over a stack of books on the side table.
They tumbled to the floor. Among them was a small, cloth-bound volume in faded blue.
Persuasion. First Edition. 1818.
He had bought it months ago. He had meant to give it to her for Christmas, but he’d panicked and bought the typewriter instead something practical, something that supported her career rather than her heart. The book felt too intimate. Too romantic. It was a book about second chances, and Harry didn't believe in them.
So he had kept it. He had kept it on his nightstand, intending to give it to her... eventually. Maybe for graduation. Maybe when he finally figured out how to say what he felt without choking.
Now, it lay face down on the rug, its spine bent at an awkward angle.
He stared at it. He didn't get up to pick it up.
The routine had set in like concrete. Four weeks of this. Four weeks of Fridays that felt like funerals and Saturdays that felt like escapades.
Harry was waiting in the study when the doorbell didn't ring.
The keypad beeped. The door opened and closed.
He checked his watch. 8:00 PM precisely.
He waited for her to come to the study, as she used to. He waited for her to lean against the doorframe, looking wet from the rain and beautiful, teasing him about working too late.
He waited. And waited.
Silence.
He frowned. He stood up, abandoning the merger documents on his screens, and walked out into the hallway.
The hallway was empty. Her boots were lined up by the door neat, military precision. Her keys were in the bowl.
"Y/N?" he called out.
"Upstairs," her voice drifted down.
He walked up the stairs, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach. He found her in the bedroom. She was already undressed, wearing only the silk robe. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting.
She looked up when he entered.
"You're early," she noted. "Usually you finish work at 8:30."
"I finished early," he said, loosening his tie. He felt awkward. In his own house. With the woman he had been sleeping with for months. "I thought we could... I don't know. Talk? I saw that you got a First on your mid-term."
He had been checking her university portal. He had the login from when he paid the tuition. It was the only way he knew anything about her life anymore.
Y/N’s expression didn't change. "I did."
"That's impressive," he said, stepping closer. "Especially with the dissertation workload. What was the paper on?"
"Modernist poetry," she said. Short. clipped.
"And?" He prodded, desperate for a crumb of her personality. "Did you argue that Eliot was a fraud? You usually hate Eliot."
"It doesn't matter," she said, standing up and untying the belt of her robe. It slid off her shoulders, pooling at her feet.
She stood before him, beautiful and golden and completely closed off.
"Do you want to talk about poetry, Harry?" she asked, tilting her head. "Or do you want to get what you paid for?"
The words were a slap in the face.
Harry stopped moving. He looked at her naked body, and for the first time in his life, his desire warred with a crushing sense of shame.
"Don't say it like that," he said roughly.
"Like what?" She stepped closer, placing a hand on his chest. Her palm was warm, but her touch felt mechanical. She began to undo his buttons. "You were very clear, Harry. You pay for my time. You pay for my company. I'm just trying to be... efficient."
She pushed his shirt open and leaned in to kiss his neck. It was a practiced move. A move a courtesan would make.
"Y/N, stop," he said, grabbing her wrists.
She looked up, her eyes wide and innocent. "Stop? Is something wrong? Do you want me to do something else?"
"I want you to stop acting like an employee!" he shouted, the frustration finally boiling over.
Y/N didn't flinch. She just looked at him, and a small, sad smile touched her lips.
"But I am an employee, Harry," she whispered. "You fired the girlfriend. Remember?"
Harry stared at her, his chest heaving. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to scream that he hadn't fired the girlfriend, he had just panicked. He wanted to drag her downstairs and make her pasta and dance in the kitchen.
But the ghost of his own words hung between them. I am not your boyfriend.
He couldn't take them back. Not without admitting he was wrong. And Harry Styles did not admit he was wrong.
He let go of her wrists. He stepped back, his face hardening into the mask again.
"Fine," he said coldly. "If that’s how you want to play it."
He stripped off his shirt and threw it on the chair.
"Get on the bed."
She did. She didn't argue. She didn't tease. She just obeyed.
And when he entered her, looking down at her beautiful, blank face, he realized with a terrifying clarity:
He was fucking a stranger. And it was entirely his fault.
The boardroom on the 40th floor of the shard offered a panoramic view of London, but Harry wasn't looking at it. He was looking at his phone under the table.
"As you can see from the Q1 projections," the Junior Analyst was droning on, pointing at a graph that Harry could have interpreted in his sleep, "volatility is expected to stabilize by mid-May."
Harry didn't care about volatility. He cared about the fact that he hadn't spoken to Y/N in four days.
Since implementing the "Friday to Saturday" rule, his weeks had become interminable stretches of grey. He found himself checking his phone constantly, hoping she would slip up. Hoping she would text him to say she missed him, or that she needed money, or even just to send him a meme about bad coffee.
But she never did. She was following his instructions to the letter.
He unlocked his phone. He opened their chat history.
Harry: Allowance cleared? (Sent: April 1st)
Y/N: Yes. Thank you. (Sent: April 1st)
That was it.
He felt a sudden, irrational spike of anger. Was she not missing him? Was she just going about her life, studying, laughing with roommates, working at that sticky-floored café, without a second thought for him?
His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He shouldn't do this. It was weak. It showed a lack of discipline.
He typed anyway.
Harry: It’s pouring. Did you take a car to the library?
He hit send before he could regret it.
He put the phone face down on the mahogany table and tried to pay attention to the analyst.
Buzz.
Harry flipped the phone over instantly.
Y/N: I walked. It’s only ten minutes.
Harry frowned. He hated that. He hated thinking of her cold and wet and him not being there to run a bath for her.
Harry: Use the account. That’s what it’s there for. I don't want you getting sick.
He watched the three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Y/N: I have an umbrella, Harry. I'm fine.
Y/N: My phone is on silent while I work. I’ll see you Friday.
Harry stared at the screen. She was dismissing him. She was effectively telling him to stop bothering her while she worked.
"Mr. Styles?"
Harry’s head snapped up. The entire boardroom was looking at him. The analyst looked terrified.
"Sir?" the analyst repeated. "I asked for your thoughts on the merger timeline."
Harry looked at the graph. He looked at the terrified kid in the cheap suit. He felt a wave of exhaustion crash over him.
"It's ambitious," Harry said, his voice flat. "But acceptable. Proceed."
He looked back down at his phone.
Harry: Friday. I’m taking you to dinner. I made a reservation at Nobu.
He waited. He needed her to say yes. He needed to break the routine. He needed to sit across from her and force her to look at him, really look at him, not just through the lens of a transaction.
Buzz.
Y/N: I'm afraid that’s not possible.
Harry’s blood ran cold.
Harry: Why?
Y/N: The agreement stipulates 8 PM arrival at the residence. I have a shift at the café until 7:30. I won't have time to change for Nobu. I will see you at the house at 8.
Harry gripped the phone so hard the case creaked. She was quoting the agreement back to him. She was using the cage he built to lock him out.
Harry: Skip the shift. I'll cover the wages.
Y/N: I can't. I'm the shift lead. I have responsibilities.
Y/N: I will see you at 8, Harry. Please let me get back to work.
Harry didn't reply. He couldn't.
He shoved the phone into his pocket and stood up abruptly. The chair legs scraped loudly against the floor.
"Meeting adjourned," he announced to the room of stunned executives.
"But sir," the VP stammered, "we haven't discussed the risk assessment."
"The risk is manageable," Harry snapped, walking toward the door. "Figure it out."
He stormed out of the boardroom, loosening his tie as he walked down the corridor. He needed air. He needed a drink.
He needed Friday to come, so he could shake her until the mask fell off.
London was finally blooming. The grey sleet had given way to tentative sunshine.
Harry was walking through Soho. He usually avoided this area on weekends, too many tourists, too much noise, but he had a meeting with a creative director for the bank's rebranding, and the man insisted on meeting at a "trendy" members club on Dean Street.
Harry was in a foul mood. Friday night had been straining. Y/N had arrived, they had sex, and she had gone to sleep. When he tried to wake her up at midnight to talk, she had mumbled something about being tired from her shift and rolled over.
He felt like he was living with a ghost.
He turned the corner onto Dean Street, checking his watch.
Laughter.
It was a bright, loud, uninhibited sound that stopped him in his tracks.
He looked across the street.
There was a pub with tables spilling out onto the pavement. It was crowded, noisy, and full of young people drinking pints in the sun.
And there she was.
Y/N was sitting at a wobbly wooden table, surrounded by three other people. Two girls and a boy. She was wearing a denim jacket he had never seen and sunglasses pushed up into her messy hair. She was holding a cider.
She threw her head back and laughed at something the boy said.
Harry stood frozen on the opposite pavement.
He hadn't seen her laugh in two months. Not really. Not like that.
He watched as the boy, a scruffy thing with bleached hair and a nose ring, leaned over and stole a chip from her plate. Y/N slapped his hand away playfully, grinning. She looked radiant. She looked alive.
She looked happy.
Without him.
The realization hit Harry like a physical blow to the gut. He had convinced himself that she was miserable too. He had told himself that she was just enduring the "Cold War" until he cracked.
But looking at her now, he saw the truth. She wasn't miserable. She had compartmentalized him. He was just a Friday night appointment. The rest of her life, her real life, was happening right here, in the sunshine, with people who probably didn't know his name.
He felt a surge of jealousy so potent it tasted like bile. He wanted to cross the street. He wanted to walk up to that table, pull her out of that chair, and kiss her until she forgot the boy with the nose ring existed. He wanted to remind her that she belonged to him.
But he couldn't.
Because it was Saturday. It was 2:00 PM. And according to the rules he wrote, she didn't belong to him right now.
Y/N turned her head slightly. For a second, he thought she saw him.
Harry panicked. The Great Harry Styles, who stared down CEOs for breakfast, panicked.
He turned on his heel and ducked into the nearest shop doorway, hiding in the shadows like a stalker.
He watched her for another minute, his heart hammering against his ribs. Then, unable to bear the sight of her happiness any longer, he turned and walked away.
He cancelled the meeting with the creative director. He went home, sat in his dark study, and drank a glass of whiskey that cost more than that entire pub, feeling poorer than he ever had in his life.
The air in the townhouse was heavy, pressing against the windows like a physical weight. It was late May, and the humidity had arrived early, turning London into a sticky, grey soup.
Harry sat on the velvet sofa in the living room. He wasn't working. The monitors in his study were dark for the first time on a Friday in years.
On the coffee table in front of him sat a bottle of Pinot Noir, opened, breathing, and two crystal glasses. Next to them was a silver tray with a selection of cheeses and figs. It was a pathetic offering, really. A peace offering disguised as an appetizer.
He checked his watch. 7:48 PM.
He smoothed his hands over his knees. He had changed his clothes three times. He had started in a suit, then changed into sweatpants (too casual, too presumptuous), and finally settled on dark jeans and a navy cashmere sweater. He wanted to look approachable. He wanted to look like the man she had danced with in the kitchen three months ago.
He was nervous. The realization made his stomach turn. He was Harry Styles, a man who moved millions of pounds with a phone call, and he was terrified of a twenty-one-year-old student walking through his front door.
But he had a plan. Tonight, he wouldn't let her march upstairs. Tonight, he would stop her in the hall. He would pour her a drink. He would ask her about the dissertation, really ask, not just check the box. He would force the warmth back into the room, by sheer will if necessary.
7:59 PM.
He stared at the front door.
8:00 PM.
The keypad beeped. The electronic chirp echoed through the silent house like a gunshot. Then came the mechanical clunk of the lock disengaging.
The door swung open.
Y/N stepped inside. She looked exhausted. That was the first thing Harry noticed. The dark purple smudges beneath her eyes, the way her shoulders slumped under the weight of her backpack. Her hair was pulled back in a messy, functional bun, stray strands sticking to her neck in the humidity.
She didn't look at the living room. She turned automatically toward the console table to drop her keys.
Clink.
She began to toe off her sneakers.
"Hello," Harry said.
Y/N jumped. She spun around, her hand flying to her chest. She hadn't expected him to be there. For the last six weeks, he had been in the study or the bedroom.
"Harry," she breathed, her eyes widening. "You startled me."
"I'm sorry," he said, standing up slowly. He kept his hands open, non-threatening. "I didn't mean to lurk."
She stared at him, taking in the jeans, the sweater, the lack of a phone in his hand. Her gaze flicked to the wine and cheese on the table, then back to his face. Her expression didn't soften. If anything, it became more guarded.
"Is everything okay?" she asked cautiously. "Did the schedule change?"
"No," Harry said quickly. "No change. I just... I finished early. I thought we could have a drink. Unwind a bit before... before going upstairs."
He gestured to the sofa. "I opened the Pinot you liked. The 2015. And I got those rosemary crackers.”
Y/N looked at the wine. She looked at the crackers. She looked at the comfortable spot on the sofa where they used to sit for hours, her legs thrown over his lap while they debated literature.
She tightened her grip on her backpack strap.
"I can't," she said softly.
Harry felt a crack in his chest. "You can't have a glass of wine?"
"I'm on antibiotics," she lied. Or maybe she wasn't. He didn't know. He didn't know anything about her health anymore. "And I'm exhausted, Harry. It was a long day."
"Then just sit," he pressed, sounding desperate to his own ears. He took a step forward. "You don't have to drink. Just sit down for five minutes, Y/N. Tell me about... tell me about your roommates. How is Josh?”
He remembered the name. He had made a point to remember it.
Y/N looked at him with genuine confusion. "Josh? You want to know about Josh?"
"I want to know about you," he corrected. "I feel like I haven't spoken to you in months."
"You speak to me every Friday," she pointed out, her voice devoid of emotion.
"I speak to an employee," he said, the bitterness leaking into his tone despite his best efforts. "I want to speak to you."
Y/N let out a short, tired sigh. She shifted the weight of her bag.
"Harry, please. I've been studying since 6 AM. I walked here in the humidity. I feel gross, and I'm tired, and I really just want to take a shower."
She looked at him, pleading not for affection, but for space.
"Can we just do the usual?" she asked. "Please?"
The rejection was total. She wasn't just rejecting the wine. She was rejecting the intimacy. She preferred the cold, transactional routine to his attempt at connection.
Harry let his hand drop. The hope that had been buoyancy in his chest turned into a lead weight.
"Fine," he said quietly. "Go shower."
She walked past him. She walked right past the wine, the cheese, and the man who was practically begging for her attention.
Harry stood there, watching her ascend the stairs. He listened to the heavy tread of her tired feet.
He looked down at the two empty glasses.
He picked up the bottle and took a long swig straight from the neck, the expensive vintage tasting like vinegar in his mouth. Then he followed her.
By the time he entered the bedroom, the shower was already running.
Harry sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't undress. He sat in the dark, listening to the water running in the bathroom, waiting for his "appointment" to be ready.
Ten minutes later, the water stopped. The door opened. A cloud of steam billowed out, carrying the scent of his eucalyptus body wash—the only thing they still shared.
Y/N walked out, wrapped in a towel. Her skin was pink from the heat, her hair damp and curling around her face. She looked soft. Vulnerable.
She dropped the towel and reached for her silk robe.
"Don't," Harry said.
His voice was rough. He hadn't meant to say it.
Y/N froze, her hand hovering over the silk. She looked at him in the dim light.
"Don't what?"
"Don't put the robe on," he whispered. "Just... come here."
She hesitated. For a long, agonizing moment, she just stood there. Then, she walked toward the bed. She didn't crawl over to him. She didn't smile. She laid down on top of the covers, staring up at the ceiling.
"I'm ready," she said.
The words were a bucket of ice water.
Harry moved over her. He braced his arms on either side of her head, caging her in. He looked down into her eyes. They were open, but they were empty. She wasn't looking at him; she was looking through him.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice shaking.
She focused her eyes on his. "I'm looking, Harry."
"Where are you?" he demanded, searching her face for a spark, a flicker of the girl who had called him a 'grump' and made fun of his triple-ply toilet paper. "You're right here, but you're not here."
"I'm tired," she said simply. "Do you want to do this or not? It's getting late."
Harry made a sound of frustration, a low growl in his throat. He lowered his head and captured her lips.
He kissed her hard. He kissed her with a desperate, bruising intensity, trying to force a reaction out of her. He used his tongue, he bit her lip, he tangled his hands in her damp hair and angled her head back.
She let him. She opened her mouth. She moved her lips against his.
But she didn't kiss him back.
She was a mirror, reflecting his actions but generating no heat of her own. Her hands didn't come up to grip his hair. They rested limp on the duvet.
Harry pulled back, gasping, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Kiss me back," he pleaded, his forehead resting against hers. "Please. Y/N. Kiss me back."
"I am," she whispered.
"No, you're not. You're just... enduring it."
She didn't deny it. She just closed her eyes.
"Can we just get on with it?" she asked. "I really need to sleep."
Harry stared at her closed eyelids. He felt a wave of nausea. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to cry.
But he was a man who had demanded a transaction. And she was honoring the contract.
"Fine," he spat out.
He stripped off his clothes with angry, jerky movements. He positioned himself between her legs. He entered her without fanfare, without foreplay, without love.
It was mechanical. It was friction. It was exactly what he had asked for, and it felt like dying.
He finished quickly, chasing the release just to make the feeling stop. He collapsed onto the mattress beside her, his breathing ragged, sweat cooling on his skin.
Usually, this was the moment she would curl into him. Usually, she would rest her head on his chest and he would wrap his arm around her, and they would lie in the afterglow.
Harry turned his head, waiting for her.
Y/N was already moving away.
She rolled onto her side, facing the window, putting her back to him. She pulled the duvet up to her chin, creating a wall of white cotton between them.
"Goodnight, Harry," she mumbled into her pillow.
Harry reached out. His hand hovered over her shoulder. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to pull her back against his chest and hold her so tight she couldn't breathe.
But he looked at the rigid line of her spine. The tension in her shoulders. She was repelling him without even touching him.
He let his hand drop to the mattress.
He lay on his back in the darkness, listening to the rain pick up outside, staring at the ceiling of the house he owned, in the bed he had paid for, next to the woman he was paying to be there.
He had never been more alone in his entire life.
The text arrived at 3:00 PM on a Friday afternoon.
Harry was at his desk at the bank. He saw the notification pop up on his private phone—the one only five people had the number for.
It was the first time she had texted him first in two months.
His heart leaped. A genuine, physical jump in his chest. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to share the news. This was it. The crack in the ice.
He typed back immediately, his fingers flying.
Harry: Congratulations. That is a massive achievement. I knew you would crush it.
He paused. He waited.
Harry: Let's celebrate tonight. No cooking. No ordering in. I'm picking you up. We're going to that Italian place you love in Shoreditch. The one with the paper tablecloths.
It was a peace offering. It was a surrender. He was offering to go to her world, to a place he hated, just to see her smile.
He watched the bubbles appear.
Y/N: I can't.
Harry closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against his expensive leather chair.
Harry: Why?
Y/N: I'm going out with my roommates. They planned a pub crawl. It's a student thing.
Harry: Cancel it. Spend it with me.
Y/N: I can't cancel. They've been planning it for weeks. And besides...
The bubbles paused for a long time. Harry held his breath.
Y/N: It's Friday, but it's only 3 PM. My contract doesn't start until 8. I'll see you then.
Harry: You're going to a pub crawl before coming to see me? You'll be drunk.
Y/N: I'll be sober by 8. Don't worry, I won't be late.
Harry stared at the phone.
She chose the sticky floors. She chose the cheap beer and the roommates and the noise over a private celebration with him.
He slowly lowered the phone to the desk.
He felt a strange calm wash over him. It wasn't peace. It was the clarity of a man who realizes he is watching a car crash in slow motion, and he is the one behind the wheel.
She was leaving him. Not physically—she would still show up at 8 PM because she needed the tuition money for graduation. But emotionally? She had checked out weeks ago.
He picked up the phone again. He opened his calendar.
June 20th. Graduation.
He stared at the date.
He had told her he wouldn't go. He had yelled at her for even asking.
But as he sat there in his glass tower, looking at the grey London skyline, Harry Styles made a decision.
He was going to that graduation. And he wasn't just going to sit in the audience. He was going to win her back.
It was a bright, blindingly sunny day. The kind of June day that made London feel like a completely different city—alive, golden, and optimistic.
Harry sat in the back of his black Range Rover, parked on a double yellow line on a side street near the Barbican. The engine was idling, a low, powerful purr that vibrated through the chassis. The air conditioning was blasting, keeping the interior at a sterile sixty-eight degrees, sealing him off from the heat and the noise of the world outside.
He was wearing a baseball cap pulled low and dark sunglasses. He felt ridiculous. He felt like a spy. Or worse, a criminal returning to the scene of a crime.
"Sir?" his driver, Paul, asked from the front seat, eyeing him in the rearview mirror. "We’ve been here for twenty minutes. Traffic enforcement is circling."
"Let them circle," Harry murmured, not looking away from the window. "I’ll pay the ticket."
He stared through the tinted glass.
The Barbican’s brutalist concrete courtyard was swarming with life. Students in black robes and mortarboards were spilling out of the main hall, a sea of fabric and excitement. They were clutching scrolls, laughing, screaming, throwing their caps into the air for photos.
Harry scanned the crowd. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that made his palms sweat.
Where is she?
He saw a hundred girls who looked like her from behind. He saw a hundred smiles. But none of them were her.
Then—there.
She walked out of the main glass doors.
Harry’s breath hitched.
She looked... radiant. That was the only word for it. She wasn't wearing the expensive clothes he had bought her. She was wearing a simple white dress under her open robe, and the gown was slightly too big for her, billowing in the wind. Her hair was loose, blowing across her face.
She was laughing. Her head was thrown back, her eyes crinkled shut, looking up at the sky as if thanking the universe.
She wasn't alone.
An older couple flanked her.
The man was wearing a grey suit that looked a little tight in the shoulders, probably pulled out of the back of a wardrobe for the special occasion. He had a kind, weathered face. Her father.
The woman was wearing a floral dress and holding a bouquet of flowers. Not roses. Not the terrifyingly expensive arrangements Harry ordered from his florist. They were bright, chaotic, colorful flowers wrapped in clear cellophane. Supermarket flowers.
Harry watched as Y/N’s father pulled her into a crushing hug. He watched her mother wipe tears from her eyes with a tissue. He watched Y/N beam at them, looking lighter and happier than he had seen her in six months.
She looked loved. Not "possessed." Not "kept." Loved.
Harry’s hand moved to the door handle.
Go, a voice in his head urged. A desperate, reckless voice.
Get out.
Walk over there.
Introduce yourself.
Shake her father’s hand.
Tell them you’re the one who bought the typewriter.
Tell them you’re the one who knows how she takes her coffee.
Tell them you’re the one who loves her.
He gripped the silver handle. His knuckles turned white.
He imagined it. He imagined stepping out of the £100,000 car in his bespoke suit. He imagined the silence that would fall. The confusion on her parents' faces. The look of panic in Y/N’s eyes as her two worlds collided—the wholesome reality of her family, and the dark, transactional secret of him.
I am not the man you bring home to meet Daddy, he had told her.
He had said it to hurt her. He realized now, with a crushing weight, that he had simply been stating a fact.
If he stepped out of this car, he wouldn't be adding to her joy. He would be ruining it. He would be the stain on the photograph.
Just then, a group of students ran over.
Harry recognized them instantly. The boy with the nose ring. The girls from the pub. The "sticky floor" crew.
They tackled Y/N in a group hug, nearly knocking her over. They were loud, messy, and young. They were cheering, taking selfies, lifting her up.
They belonged together. They were the reality.
And Harry... Harry was just the luxury. And luxuries didn't belong on the pavement; they belonged behind glass.
"Sir?" Paul asked again, softer this time. "Do you want to get out?"
Harry stared at Y/N one last time. She was posing for a photo with her dad, holding her diploma high, her smile blinding. She didn't look like she was missing anything. She didn't look like she was waiting for anyone.
Harry let go of the door handle. He sat back in the leather seat, the air leaving his lungs in a rush, leaving him hollow.
"No," Harry whispered, his voice cracking.
He looked at the scene one last time—a perfect tableau of a life he couldn't buy.
"No," he repeated, closing his eyes behind his sunglasses. "Take me home."
Harry stood at the wet bar, the heavy crystal decanter cool against his palm. The only light in the penthouse came from the under-cabinet LEDs, casting a sterile, amber glow over the marble.
He poured two fingers of scotch. The liquid hit the glass with a sharp splashed sound that seemed too loud in the dead silence of the room. He didn't drink it. He just gripped the glass, watching the condensation form, counting the seconds in his head.
It was Friday. 8:00 PM.
His body knew the time before his watch did. It was a physical reaction—a tightening in his chest, a dryness in his throat. The Pavlovian response of a man waiting for his fix.
In a moment, the front door would open. She would walk in. She would move with that terrifying, cold efficiency she had perfected over the last three months. She would walk past him without a word, go up the stairs, and lie down on the bed.
She would wait for the appointment.
And he would go to her. He would touch her because the contract said he could, and he would hate himself for it because he knew her mind was miles away. But he needed it. He needed the physical proof that she was still here, still safe, still under his protection.
Click.
The lock disengaged.
Harry froze. He didn't turn around. He took a quick, bracing sip of the scotch, the burn settling in his stomach. He stared at the rows of bottles in front of him, waiting for the familiar pattern: door opens, door closes, footsteps on the stairs.
The door opened. The door closed.
But the footsteps didn't go to the stairs.
They clicked against the hardwood floor. Click, click, click. Slow. Deliberate. Coming toward the living room.
Harry frowned. She never came in here. The living room was for talking, and they didn't talk.
He slowly turned around, arranging his features into the mask of the bored, detached billionaire. He leaned back against the bar, crossing his ankles, preparing to make a cutting remark about her deviation from the routine.
But when he saw her, the air left his lungs.
Y/N was standing in the archway.
She wasn't wearing her usual library clothes. She wasn't wearing the comfortable things she usually stripped off efficiently.
She was dressed to go out.
She was wearing a black slip dress that clung to her frame, stopping high on her thigh—a tiny, devastating thing meant for crowded clubs and loud music. Her hair was done, blown out in soft waves. She looked stunning. She looked like the kind of girl who was about to spend all night dancing with people who weren't him.
But then he looked at her face.
The contrast was jarring. Beneath the perfect hair and the party dress, she looked shattered. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and there were dark, heavy shadows beneath them that spoke of sleepless nights. She looked like a porcelain doll that had been dropped and glued back together wrong.
Harry checked his watch, a reflex to hide his shock. "You’re late."
Y/N didn't flinch. She just looked at him with dull, tired eyes.
"I didn't know we still had a schedule," she said.
Harry lowered his wrist. "It’s Friday. The contract stipulates 8:00 PM. Unless you’ve decided to take a holiday."
"I graduated," she said.
"I know."
"So the contract is done."
Harry swirled his drink, the ice clinking softly. "Is it?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm. "I don't recall seeing an expiration date on the paperwork."
He wasn't bluffing. He genuinely believed it. The lack of an end date hadn't been an oversight; originally, it was a practical choice, a way to ensure flexibility so neither of them felt the pressure of a ticking clock. It was meant to keep things simple. But over the last few months, that open-ended clause had morphed from a convenience into a lifeline. He was clinging to the technicality now because he was terrified of the reality: that without this paper binding her to him, he had absolutely no reason to ask her to stay.
"I’m terminating it," she said.
She didn't shout. She didn't cry. She just said it with the flat resignation of a soldier surrendering.
She walked over to the glass coffee table. She didn't sit down. She opened her small clutch bag and pulled out the folded document. She tossed it onto the table.
"I can't do this anymore, Harry. I’m out."
Harry stared at the papers. A cold, sharp spike of adrenaline pierced his chest. She couldn't leave. He hadn't prepared for her to actually leave.
He looked at her, standing there in that short dress, ready to disappear into the night. He felt a surge of defensive anger rise up to cover the panic clawing at his throat.
"Of course you are," he spat, pushing off the bar and walking toward her. "You got what you came for, didn't you?"
She blinked, confused. "What?"
"The money," Harry said cruelly. "The tuition. The degree. You stuck it out, you played the part, you let the old man pay the bills, and now that you have the diploma in your hand, you're cutting the cord. It’s very efficient, Y/N. I’m impressed."
"You think this is about the money?" she whispered.
"It’s always about the money," Harry lied. "That’s why you stayed, isn't it? For four months, you walked in here, laid down, and let me use you because the check cleared on the first of the month. Don't pretend it was anything else. You never felt anything."
"I stayed because I hoped!" she cried, her voice cracking.
"Hoped for what? A bonus?"
"I hoped you would come back!" she yelled, the exhaustion finally breaking into anger. "I hoped that one day, you would stop treating me like an employee and start treating me like a person again! I stayed because I wanted you, you idiot!"
Harry flinched. The raw honesty in her voice struck him harder than a slap.
"Don't," he warned, his voice dropping. "Don't rewrite history to make yourself feel better about leaving. You're leaving because you're happy. You're leaving because you have a life out there that is better than this."
He gestured to her dress, to her hair. "Look at you. You look incredible. You're going out, aren't you? To continue the celebration? You have your friends, you have your degree. You're happy without me."
"Happy?" she choked out a laugh, a wet, broken sound. "You think I'm happy?"
"I know you are."
"I have been in hell," she said, stepping toward him. "I haven't slept a full night in weeks. I'm wearing this dress because my friends dragged me out tonight. They wanted to keep celebrating. They think I should be happy."
She wiped a tear from her cheek, ruining her perfect makeup.
"But I couldn't do it. I couldn't fake it for one more second. I had to leave them. I had to come here because I haven't eaten in three days, Harry. Does this look like happiness to you?"
She took a breath, shaking her head.
"I walked across that stage four days ago," she said. "And everyone was cheering. My parents were crying. And all I could do was scan the crowd. Looking for one face. Looking for you."
She looked at him with profound disappointment.
"I thought you would come. I thought, 'He's Harry. He makes grand gestures.' But you weren't there. You didn't care. You just let the contract run out."
"I was there!"
The shout tore out of Harry’s throat before he could stop it. It was a roar of pain, raw and jagged.
The room went dead silent.
Y/N froze. She stared at him, her hand half-raised. "What?"
Harry breathed heavily, his chest heaving beneath the silk shirt. He turned away from her, unable to look at the shock in her eyes. He paced toward the window, looking out at the city lights he hated.
"I was there," he admitted, his voice rough. "On the 20th. At the Barbican."
"You... you were inside?"
"No," Harry whispered. "I was outside. I sat in the Range Rover. I parked on the double yellows. I sat there for two hours."
He turned back to face her.
"I saw you come out," he said. "I saw you with your parents."
"Then why..." Her voice trembled. "Why didn't you get out? Why didn't you come find me?"
"Because I couldn't!" Harry shouted. "I sat there with my hand on the door handle, watching you laugh with your father. And I realized I couldn't do it."
"You couldn't do what? Say hello?"
"I couldn't ruin it!" Harry roared. "Don't you get it? If I had opened that car door... if I had walked up to you and your parents... I would have destroyed everything."
He gestured to himself, to the tattoos, to the heavy rings, to the exhaustion in his own face.
"I am twenty-four years older than you, Y/N. Think about that. I am old enough to be your father's friend. I come with baggage that fills cargo planes. I have enemies. I have scandals. I have a reputation that is stained with ink and whiskey."
He took a step toward her, his eyes wild.
"If I stood next to you on that sidewalk, your parents would have looked at me with disgust. They would have looked at their daughter standing next to a man pushing fifty and they would have been sick. The press would have swarmed. They would call you a gold digger. They would say I was having a midlife crisis. It would have become the 'Harry Styles Show,' and your achievement would have been forgotten."
He gripped the back of the leather chair, his knuckles white.
"I stayed in the car because I realized that the best thing I could do for you—the only good thing I could do—was to stay away. To let you have the light. To keep my darkness away from you."
Y/N stared at him. She looked at the man who had convinced himself he was a monster.
"You arrogant idiot," she whispered.
Harry blinked. "What?"
"Since when are you worried about hearsay?" she demanded, her voice gaining strength. "Since when do you care what the neighbors think? Or what the papers say? You built an entire career on not giving a damn!"
"This is different! This is about you!"
"It is about you!" she screamed back. "It’s about your fear! It’s about your self-loathing! You didn't stay in the car to protect me. You stayed in the car because you were afraid to be seen trying! You were afraid my parents wouldn't like you!"
"I am trying to protect you!" Harry argued. "I am trying to give you a chance at a normal life!"
"I don't want a normal life!" she yelled. "I want you!"
The words hung in the air.
"I don't care about the age gap," she said, stepping closer, her eyes fierce. "I don't give a fuck about the twenty-four years. I don't give a fuck about the press. I care about the man who sat in a hot car for two hours just to make sure I was okay."
She reached out and grabbed the front of his shirt, shaking him.
"I am choosing you, Harry. Why can't you let me choose?"
Harry stared down at her. Her face was open, raw, beautiful in that tight dress he hadn't bought for her. She was offering him everything. She was offering to take on the burden of him.
And he was too terrified to let her.
He couldn't be the reason she stopped laughing. He couldn't be the reason her life got complicated and dark. He loved her too much to let her ruin her life for him.
He slowly reached up and peeled her fingers off his shirt.
He stepped back. He put the barrier of distance between them.
"You don't know what you're choosing," he said, his voice dead. "You're young. You'll wake up in five years and realize you wasted your youth on a man who was too tired to keep up. You'll resent me."
"I won't," she sobbed.
"You will," Harry said. "And I won't let that happen. The contract is done. You're right. You graduated. You're free."
He turned his back on her. He stared at the fireplace. "Go home, Y/N. Go live your life."
He heard her intake of breath. He heard the sound of her heart breaking.
"No," she said softly.
He heard movement behind him.
"Y/N, go," he commanded, closing his eyes.
"I'm not doing this anymore," she said. "I'm not going to beg you to see me."
She walked to the coffee table.
"I'm terminating the contract," she said. "Not because I have my degree. But because I can't save you."
She reached into her clutch.
"Don't," Harry whispered. He knew what was coming.
She pulled out the heavy brass key. The key to the penthouse. The key to the cage.
She dropped it.
Clink.
The sound was tiny, insignificant against the glass table, yet it echoed louder than any scream. It lay there next to the paperwork.
"Goodbye, Harry," she whispered.
She turned and walked away.
Harry stood frozen. He listened to her heels clicking on the marble. the sound of her leaving him. He listened to the front door open. He listened to it close.
Thud.
She was gone.
The silence rushed back in, violent and suffocating. It pressed against his eardrums.
Harry slowly turned around. The room was empty. The scent of her, vanilla and expensive perfume still lingered in the air, mocking him.
He walked to the table. He looked at the key. It sat there, shiny and cold.
She had left. She had actually left. He had driven her away. He had won. He had protected her.
And it felt like dying.
A roar built up in his chest, a primal, animalistic sound of grief and rage and self-hatred.
"FUCK!"
He lashed out. He swept his arm across the table, sending the contract flying, the key skittering across the floor under the sofa.
But it wasn't enough. The pain was too big. It was consuming him.
He turned to the sideboard. There, resting on the runner, was the antique crystal bowl. It was heavy. It was expensive. It was perfect. Just like the life he had built.
He grabbed it with both hands.
He didn't think. He just felt.
With a scream that tore his throat raw, he hurled the bowl across the room.
CRASH.
It hit the far wall with the force of a bomb. The crystal exploded into a thousand glittering shards, showering the hardwood floor in jagged diamonds. The sound was catastrophic, a symphony of destruction that echoed through the empty, million-pound penthouse.
Harry stood amidst the wreckage, his chest heaving, his hands shaking violently. He looked at the shattered glass. He looked at the empty room.
He didn't make another sound. He just stood there, a solitary figure in a broken room, staring blankly at the ruin he had created.
You became his sugar baby to survive, but Harry’s possessiveness soon turns into something softer. The black card pays the bills, but it’s the unexpected love that threatens to ruin you both.
A/N: Welcome to Chapter Two! The tension is officially building, and things are just starting to get interesting. Just a quick heads-up for anyone who hates waiting on cliffhangers: all 10 parts of this series are already completed and fully available on my Patreon! nervous for all of you to read it! enjoy!
Rating: Explicit. 🔞 content. reader discretion is advised.
Four weeks ago, Y/N had stood on the front step of the black townhouse, shivering in a cheap trench coat, terrified to touch the brass knocker.
Tonight, she didn't knock.
She punched the code into the discreet keypad on the wall—0-1-2-9—and waited for the satisfying, heavy thunk of the deadlock disengaging.
She pushed the door open and stepped out of the biting November wind, sealing the world out behind her.
The hallway was exactly the same: the cavernous ceilings, the monochrome marble floor, the scent of cedarwood and expensive silence. But the feeling was different. It didn't feel like entering a fortress anymore. It felt, alarmingly, like exhaling.
"Harry?" she called out softly, dropping her keys into the small crystal bowl on the console table.
"Study," his voice came back. Deep. Distracted.
Y/N kicked off her boots, lining them up neatly against the wall. She walked down the hallway in her socks, passing the kitchen where the lights were dimmed low.
She found him in the study at the back of the house. It was a room lined with dark bookshelves and lit by a single amber desk lamp. Harry was sitting behind a massive desk, surrounded by monitors glowing with market data.
He was wearing his glasses. He had a pen in his mouth. His tie was undone, hanging loosely around his neck, and his hair was ruffled as if he’d been running his hands through it for hours.
He looked exhausted.
But the moment she stepped into the doorway, his head snapped up.
He pulled the pen from his lips. His eyes, usually so cold and analytical when he was working, softened instantly. He took a deep breath, as if her arrival had just pumped oxygen back into the room.
"You're here," he stated.
"8 PM," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "Per the contract."
Harry checked the Patek Philippe on his wrist. "8:01, actually. You lingered in the hallway."
He dropped the pen onto the desk and stood up.
"Punctuality is a virtue, Y/N. We discussed this."
"I was taking off my boots," she defended with a small smile, knowing he wasn't actually mad.
Harry rounded the desk. He didn't rush, but his stride was purposeful. He stopped in front of her, blocking out the light. He didn't hug her. Instead, he reached out, the back of his hand grazing her cheek.
"You're freezing," he observed, his brow furrowing with displeasure. "Did you walk?"
"It's only ten minutes."
"It's raining. And it's forty degrees," he countered sharply. "I pay for a car service account so you don't arrive at my house looking like a drowned rat. It’s a matter of presentation."
His words were cold, critical. But his hands contradicted him completely. They moved from her face to her arms, rubbing briskly to generate heat, pulling her closer into his orbit until she was pressed against his warm shirt.
"Go upstairs," he commanded, his thumbs digging into the tension in her shoulders. "I drew a bath. It’s ready."
Y/N blinked. "You... drew a bath?"
"I had ten minutes between calls. It was an efficient use of time," he dismissed, refusing to take credit for the kindness. "Go. I’ll finish here."
The tub was massive, filled with milky water that smelled of eucalyptus. Y/N sank into it, groaning as the heat seeped into her frozen bones.
She closed her eyes, floating.
A few minutes later, the door opened.
"Sancerre," Harry’s voice cut through the steam. "2019."
Y/N opened her eyes. Harry stood there, minus the jacket. He held a glass of wine out to her.
"Thank you." She took it, sipping the cold wine.
Harry didn't leave. He pulled a wooden stool up to the edge of the tub and sat down, elbows on his knees, watching her. He looked tired. The lines around his eyes were deeper this week.
"You look like you had a worse week than I did," Y/N noted softly.
"Market volatility," Harry murmured, his eyes tracking a droplet of water on her neck. "Stressful. Inefficient."
He reached out, his hand dipping into the water to wrap around her ankle. He squeezed.
"Harry," she said, an idea forming. "Get in."
Harry scoffed, a dry, incredulous sound. "I'm dressed, Y/N. And I have emails to clear."
"The emails can wait. You look exhausted." She moved her leg, her toes brushing against his chest through his dampening shirt. "Come on. There's plenty of room."
"The contract doesn't stipulate shared bathing," he said stiffly, staring at her toes.
"The contract says I'm yours for the weekend," she countered, her voice dropping. "If I'm yours... then you should be close to me. Right?"
Harry looked at her. He looked at the warm water. He looked at the invitation in her eyes.
He let out a long, defeated sigh.
"Fine."
He stood up. He unbuckled his belt. He stripped with that efficient, confident grace he always had, trousers, shirt, boxer briefs. Leaving them in a neat pile.
He stepped into the tub. The water rose dangerously high. He settled behind her, his large frame dwarfing hers. He pulled her back until her spine was pressed flush against his chest.
"Better?" she whispered, leaning her head back on his shoulder.
"Acceptable," he grumbled, though his arms came around her waist instantly, locking her in.
He picked up the sponge. "Lean forward. I need to wash your hair."
"I can do it."
"No," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I do it."
He began to wash her, his movements methodical and possessive. He massaged her scalp, his chest rumbling against her back as he breathed.
"I hate the café," he said suddenly, out of nowhere.
Y/N stiffened slightly. "Harry, we talked about this."
"I know. But I saw your hands when you came in. Chapped skin." He ran his thumb over her knuckle under the water. "It devalues the asset."
"I'm not an asset, Harry. I'm a person."
"You are both," he corrected, rinsing the suds from her hair. "And I protect my investments."
He dropped the sponge. His hands slid down her slippery body, over her stomach, resting flat and heavy. He buried his face in the wet crook of her neck, inhaling deeply.
"My focus was off all week," he admitted into her skin, his voice rough. "I was distracted."
"By the market?"
"No," Harry whispered, his teeth grazing her shoulder. "By you. It was... irritating."
He tightened his arms around her.
"I require a reset. Turn around."
The peace of the townhouse was shattered by a sound Y/N hadn’t made since she was a teenager.
"No, no, no! Please, you piece of junk!"
She was sitting at the kitchen island, surrounded by books on Greek tragedies. Her fingers were hovering frantically over her laptop keyboard. The screen was frozen, a jagged line of static cutting through her half-finished essay on Oedipus Rex.
She tapped the trackpad. Nothing. She hit the power button. Nothing.
"Fuck," she whispered, putting her head in her hands. "I hadn't saved it."
"Language," Harry’s voice came from the doorway.
He walked in, wearing a fresh cashmere sweater and trousers. He held a glass of water. He looked calm, collected, and rich. A stark contrast to her panic.
"It died," Y/N moaned, looking up at him. "My laptop. It just... seized. I lost three pages, Harry. And the fan has been making this sound like a dying helicopter all morning."
Harry walked over to the island. He set his water down and looked at her laptop with genuine distaste. It was a bulky, battered Dell she’d bought refurbished three years ago. The hinge was taped. The keys were worn shiny.
"That machine is an antique," he observed dryly. "I'm surprised it connects to the internet at all."
"It’s all I have," she snapped, stress making her sharp. "And now I have to go to the library to finish this, which means I can't stay for dinner, which means I'm breaching the contract, but I have a deadline—"
"Stop," Harry said. He held up a hand.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He dialed a number and put it to his ear.
"Paul. I need a MacBook Pro. The 16-inch. Highest specs you can find in stock. Yes. And an iPad Pro with the pencil. Bring them to the house. Now."
He hung up before the person on the other end could answer.
Y/N stared at him. "Harry, what are you doing?"
"Solving the problem," he said simply. He reached out and closed the lid of her broken laptop. "This is distracting you. Distractions are inefficient."
"I can't accept a MacBook, Harry. That’s... that’s thousands of pounds."
"It's a business expense," he countered, walking over to the fridge to inspect the contents. "I am investing in your education. You cannot produce a First-class degree on third-class equipment."
"It's too much," she insisted, standing up. "The tuition is already too much. The allowance... Harry, I'm serious. I can't take it."
Harry turned slowly. He leaned back against the stainless steel fridge, crossing his arms. His expression went cool.
"Why?"
"Because!" She threw her hands up. "Because where does it stop? You pay for my school, my clothes, my food... if you buy me a computer, I literally own nothing. Everything I use belongs to you."
Harry’s eyes darkened. A shadow of a smirk played on his lips.
"And that is a problem because...?"
"Because I need to be my own person!" Y/N argued, though her voice wavered under his gaze. "I need to know that if this ends tomorrow, I can still function. I need... liability."
Harry pushed off the fridge. He walked toward her, invading her space again. He stopped when his thighs brushed against the island, trapping her between the marble and his body.
"If this ends," he said low and dangerous, "you keep the assets. I don't ask for refunds."
He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"But while you are here, I don't want you struggling with broken tools. It offends me. It reflects poorly on my management."
"Your management?" she laughed incredulously. "I'm not a hedge fund, Harry."
"No," he agreed, his thumb grazing her jawline. "You're much more volatile."
The doorbell rang.
Harry checked his watch. "That will be Paul. Twenty minutes. Acceptable."
He pulled away from her and walked toward the hall.
"Harry!" she called after him.
He stopped and looked back.
"I'm keeping the job at the café," she said firmly. It was the only boundary she had left.
Harry’s jaw tightened. The warmth vanished from his eyes.
"We'll discuss the café later," he said tightly. "Set up the computer. Recover your essay. I expect you to be finished by six. I'm taking you out."
Y/N froze. "Out? Like... a date?"
"Dinner," Harry corrected, avoiding the word. "I have a reservation. Wear the dress I had sent over on Tuesday. And wear the coat I bought you. No trench coats."
He turned and walked away, leaving Y/N alone in the kitchen with a dead laptop and a sinking realization.
He wasn't just fixing her computer. He was upgrading her entire existence. And every time she accepted a gift, the door back to her old life got a little harder to open.
The car ride was electric.
Y/N sat in the back of the Mercedes, smoothing the velvet of the emerald green dress Harry had ordered for her. It was breathtaking—fitted to her waist with a slit that climbed dangerously high.
Harry sat next to her, checking emails, but his hand was resting firmly on her thigh, his thumb tracing the exposed skin.
"Stop fidgeting," he murmured without looking up.
"I feel like a Bond girl," Y/N admitted, watching the rainy streets blur by. "Or a spy. Like I’m about to infiltrate a casino."
Harry locked his phone and slid it away. He turned to her, his expression unreadable in the shadows.
"You look like trouble," he corrected, his eyes sweeping over her. "Which is exactly the point."
The car pulled up to Isabel. Harry guided her past the shivering line of people, his hand heavy and possessive on the small of her back. The maitre d’ greeted him by name, and they were whisked to a semi-circular booth in the back, shielded by velvet curtains.
It was intimate. Dark. Expensive.
Harry helped her off with her coat, his hands lingering on her bare shoulders for a second longer than necessary before he sat down opposite her.
"Relax," he said, picking up the wine list. "You look like you're waiting for the police to raid the place."
"I'm just not used to this," Y/N said, looking around at the gold-leaf decor. "Usually, my Saturday nights involve cheap vodka and arguing with my roommates about whose turn it is to buy toilet paper."
Harry peered at her over the top of his reading glasses (which he had just put on, looking devastatingly handsome).
"Toilet paper arguments," he mused. "How bohemian."
"It's visceral," she teased. "You wouldn't understand. Your toilet paper probably feels like cashmere."
Harry cracked a smile. It was rare, and it transformed his face. "It is triple-ply. I'm not a savage."
He ordered for them without asking, oysters, sea bass, and a bottle of white burgundy that cost more than her laptop. When the waiter left, he leaned back, crossing his arms.
"So," he said. "The laptop. Paul set it up?"
"Yes. It's amazing. Thank you, Harry."
"Good." He took a sip of his water. "Now, tell me. What does a twenty-one-year-old do for fun when she isn't arguing about toilet paper?"
Y/N rested her chin on her hand, looking at him playfully. "Are you doing market research? Trying to understand the youth demographic?"
"I'm trying to understand you," he countered smoothly.
"We go dancing," she said. "Places with sticky floors and music so loud you can't think. We eat kebabs at 3 AM. We make bad decisions."
Harry grimaced, looking genuinely pained. "Sticky floors. Kebabs. It sounds like purgatory."
"It's fun!" she laughed. "You should try it. When was the last time you made a bad decision, Harry?"
Harry looked at her. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. The air between them thickened.
"Four weeks ago," he murmured. "When I signed a contract with a student who asks too many questions."
Y/N’s breath hitched. "Was that a bad decision?"
"Financially? No. You're a depreciating asset, technically," he teased, his eyes dancing. "But for my blood pressure? Absolutely."
Y/N laughed, grabbing a breadstick. "I think you like the chaos. You're bored, Harry. You sit in your glass tower all day moving money around. You need a little... mess."
"I do not like mess," he insisted, though he was smiling. "I like order. Precision. Clean lines."
"Is that why you bought me this dress?" She gestured to the sleek cut. "To tidy me up?"
"I bought you that dress because I wanted to see if my imagination was accurate," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
"And?"
"It underestimated the reality."
Y/N felt a flush rise up her neck that had nothing to do with the wine. She looked away, pretending to watch the room.
"Look at them," she whispered, nodding toward a couple three tables away. An older man and a woman who looked bored. "What's their story?"
Harry glanced over, taking a sip of his wine. "Married twenty years. He's cheating on her with his secretary. She knows, but she won't leave because she likes the house in the Hamptons."
"Dark," Y/N laughed. "I was going to say they're arguing about what to watch on Netflix."
"My version is more accurate," Harry said cynically.
"You're such a snob."
"I'm a realist."
"You're a grump," she corrected, grinning. "A rich, handsome grump."
Harry paused. He swirled his wine. "Handsome, hmm?"
"Don't let it go to your head. It's mostly the suit."
"I can take the suit off," he challenged softly. "If you prefer."
"Harry!" she hissed, looking around. "We're in public."
"I don't care," he shrugged. "Let them look."
They fell into a rhythm. It was easy. He was witty, sharp, and surprisingly willing to be the butt of her jokes. Y/N forgot about the money. She forgot about the age gap. She just felt... connected.
But connection felt safe. And looking at Harry, so composed, so in control, sipping his wine like he owned the entire borough of Mayfair, she suddenly felt a reckless urge to see if she could shake him. To see if there was any fire behind that cool, corporate ice.
The waiter returned to the table, holding a bottle of sparkling water wrapped in a white napkin.
He was young, maybe twenty-five, with messy dark curls and a bright, eager smile that was the complete opposite of Harry’s dark intensity.
"More water for the table?" he asked, his voice pitching low. He didn't look at Harry. His eyes were fixed entirely on Y/N.
Y/N felt Harry’s gaze snap to her. She didn't look at him. Instead, she turned her full, glowing attention to the boy.
"Please," she hummed, shifting in her seat to face the waiter more fully. She leaned forward slightly, letting the candlelight catch the curve of her neck and the velvet strap of her dress.
The waiter poured the water, his hand lingering near her glass.
"And how is the sea bass?" he asked, stepping a fraction closer than necessary. "I told the chef to take special care with it."
"You did?" Y/N asked, widening her eyes playfully. "Well, you'll have to thank him for me. It’s incredible. The best I’ve ever had."
"I'm glad," the waiter grinned, leaning an elbow on the back of the empty chair next to their table, a casual, familiar gesture. "Though I think the company makes the meal, doesn't it?"
It was a cheesy line, the kind that usually made her roll her eyes. But tonight, with Harry watching her every move, she laughed. It was a warm, bright laugh that she usually reserved for her friends.
"You might be right," she teased, tilting her head. "Do you work here every weekend?"
"Every weekend," the waiter confirmed, his eyes dropping to her lips for a second. "Though it’s usually not this interesting."
Harry was dead silent across from her. Y/N could feel the tension radiating off him like heat from a furnace, but she ignored it, intoxicated by the game.
"Well, I'm glad we could provide some entertainment," she said, looking up at the waiter through her lashes.
"Definitely," the waiter beamed, clearly emboldened by the attention of the most beautiful woman in the room. "If you have room for dessert, the chocolate fondant is—"
"Check," Harry said.
The word was a gunshot.
The waiter froze mid-sentence. Y/N’s smile faltered.
Harry wasn't playing. The playful banter was vaporized. He was staring at the waiter with cold, dead eyes, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered violently in his cheek. He looked like he was deciding exactly how to dismantle the boy's life, piece by piece.
"Sir?" the waiter stammered, the blood draining from his face as he finally looked at the man in the suit. "You... you didn't want to see the dessert menu?"
"We're leaving," Harry said, his voice low and vibrating with a terrifying threat. "Bring the bill. Now."
The waiter swallowed hard, looked between the furious man and the stunned woman, and nodded quickly. "Right away, sir."
He scrambled away, looking like he’d just walked into a lion's den.
Y/N turned to Harry, stunned by the sudden violence of the shift. "Harry? What are you doing? I was asking about dessert."
"Dinner is over," Harry said coldly. He threw his linen napkin onto the table, not even looking at her. His gaze was fixed on the kitchen door where the waiter had disappeared.
"Because he talked to me?" she whispered, incredulous, though a thrill of fear spiked through her. "Harry, come on. He's just a kid. I was just having a little fun."
Harry’s head snapped toward her. The green in his eyes was gone, swallowed by black pupils.
"Fun?" he repeated, the word sounding like a curse. "You call that fun?"
"I was just being nice! We were chatting."
"You weren't chatting," Harry snapped, his voice rising just enough to be dangerous. "You were flirting. You were inviting him in. You ignored me for two minutes to laugh at his bad jokes."
"I'm not a nun, Harry! I can be friendly."
"Not when you are with me," he hissed, leaning across the table until he was invading her space, his voice dropping to a velvet growl. "Tonight, you are mine. You are wearing the dress I bought. Eating the food I paid for. Drinking my wine. And I do not pay to watch you make eyes at teenage waiters while I sit right here like a ghost."
"You're jealous," she realized, her voice hushed. She felt a twisted sense of victory that she had shaken him, but it was quickly overshadowed by the intensity of his rage.
"I am protective of my assets," he corrected icily, pulling his wallet out and throwing his Black Amex onto the table with a clatter. "There is a difference."
He grabbed her hand across the tablecloth. His grip was tight. Too tight. It wasn't gentle anymore.
"We are going home," he growled, standing up and pulling her up with him, leaving the signed receipt and a stunned dining room behind them. "And I am going to remind you exactly who you belong to."
The car ride back was suffocating.
Harry didn't speak. He stared out the rain-streaked window, his jaw set in a hard line, his hand gripping his knee so tightly that his knuckles were stark white. He radiated a cold, furious energy that seemed to suck the oxygen right out of the leather interior.
When the car pulled up to the curb, Harry didn't wait for the driver to open the door. He pushed it open himself and stepped out into the drizzle.
Y/N scrambled to follow him.
He was already at the front door, punching in the code with aggressive, jerky movements. The lock clicked, and he shoved the heavy black door open.
They stepped into the cavernous hallway. The moment the door slammed shut behind them, sealing them into the expensive silence of the house, the atmosphere shifted. It wasn't just quiet; it was heavy.
Harry didn't look at her. He walked to the console table and dropped his keys into the bowl with a loud clatter. He began to undo his cufflinks, his movements precise but agitated.
"Harry," Y/N started, her voice sounding small in the large space. "Can we just talk about—"
"No," he cut her off. The word was a sharp crack.
He turned to face her properly for the first time since the restaurant. His eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide, swallowing the green. He looked wrecked, angry, jealous, and dangerously unraveled.
He looked at her standing there in the emerald coat and the velvet dress, his gaze sweeping over her body like a physical touch.
"I don't want to talk," he rasped, stepping closer. He stopped just out of reaching distance. "I need... I need a minute."
He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect style, looking at the ceiling as if asking for patience. Then he looked back at her, his expression hardening into a command.
"Go upstairs," he ordered, his voice dropping to that low, vibrating timber that went straight to her core.
"Harry—"
"Go to my room," he continued, ignoring her protest. "Take the dress off. Take everything off."
Y/N’s breath hitched. "Everything?"
"Everything," Harry confirmed, his eyes darkening further. "Get on the bed. Lie on top of the covers. I want you waiting for me."
He unbuttoned his collar, loosening his tie and pulling it free, tossing it onto the table.
"Don't turn the lights off," he added, his gaze locking onto hers. "I want to see you the second I walk in."
Y/N climbed the stairs, her legs feeling heavy. The house was dead silent.
Inside the master bedroom, the lights were blazing. Usually, Harry preferred the lamps low, creating a warm, golden atmosphere. Tonight, the overhead lights were on, casting stark, clinical shadows across the pristine white duvet.
It felt like an operating theatre. Or an interrogation room.
She didn't hesitate. She knew better than to make him wait when he was in this mood.
She dropped the coat onto the floor. She reached back and unzipped the emerald dress, letting it pool around her ankles. She stepped out of it. Off came the bra, then the black panties.
She stood there for a second, shivering in the cool air, completely exposed.
She climbed onto the massive bed. The duvet was cool against her back. She lay down right in the center, on top of the covers as he had ordered. She rested her hands by her sides, resisting the urge to cover herself.
She waited.
One minute passed. Then two.
She heard his footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate.
The door handle turned.
Harry walked in.
He had abandoned his jacket and tie downstairs. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing the dusting of dark hair and the sheen of sweat on his skin. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms.
He stopped at the foot of the bed.
He didn't say a word. He just looked at her.
His eyes raked over her body, starting at her toes and moving slowly, agonizingly up to her face. It wasn't a look of adoration. It was an inspection. He was looking at her like she was a piece of property he had misplaced and just recovered.
Y/N felt her skin heat up under his gaze, a flush spreading across her chest. Her breathing hitched.
Harry walked around to the side of the bed. He loomed over her, blocking out the harsh overhead light.
"You look pretty," he said, his voice void of any warmth. "Lying there. Waiting."
Y/N swallowed hard. "Harry..."
"Quiet," he snapped.
He reached for his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle echoed in the room. He unzipped his trousers and shoved them and his boxer briefs down in one rough motion.
He was fully hard. Thick, heavy, and twitching with anticipation.
He moved closer, his thighs pressing against the side of the mattress.
"Sit up," he commanded.
Y/N pushed herself up onto her elbows, then to a sitting position, looking up at him. She reached out, her hand instinctively going toward him, wanting to touch him.
Harry caught her wrist in mid-air. His grip was firm. He pushed her hand back down to the mattress.
"No," he said coldly. "You don't get to touch. You don't get to play."
He stepped in between her spread knees. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating off him.
"You enjoyed yourself tonight," he murmured, looking down at her. "Smiling at him. Letting him look at you. You think because I buy you pretty dresses and take you to dinner that you can forget who owns you?"
"No," she whispered.
"You forgot," he corrected. "And now you want me to fuck you? You want me to make you feel good?"
Y/N nodded, her eyes fixed on him. "Yes."
Harry let out a dark, cruel chuckle.
"That’s too bad."
He stepped closer, closing the gap. He took his cock in his hand, gripping the base.
"This isn't a reward, Y/N," he growled. "This is a punishment."
He leaned forward and swung his heavy length up. He pressed the head of his cock against her cheek.
It was hot. Shockingly hot against her cool skin.
Y/N gasped, her eyes fluttering shut at the contact. The scent of him, filled her nose.
Harry dragged the head slowly across her cheekbone, down to her jawline, leaving a wet trail on her skin. Then, with a sudden flick of his hips, he slapped his cock lightly against her face.
Thwack.
It wasn't painful, but it was degrading. It was a statement.
"Open your eyes," he ordered.
She opened them. His cock was right there, inches from her vision, demanding her total attention.
He grabbed a handful of her hair at the back of her head, tightening his grip to hold her steady.
"Now take it."
Y/N parted her lips, her breath hitching, and Harry didn't hesitate. He stepped in, his hips snapping forward to drive his length past her teeth and over her tongue.
He filled her completely.
Y/N let out a muffled, choked sound as he hit the back of her throat. Her eyes watered instantly, the sensation of him stretching her jaw almost painful.
Harry groaned, a deep, vibrating sound that rumbled through his chest. He tightened his grip on her hair, angling her head back to straighten her throat, forcing her to accommodate him.
"That's it," he hissed, looking down at her. "Take all of it."
He didn't let her set the pace. He began to move his hips, dragging himself out until just the head remained behind her lips, then thrusting back in deep.
It was a slow, arrogant rhythm. He was fucking her face with the same possessive intensity he had used to drag her out of the restaurant.
"You were so chatty at dinner," Harry taunted, his voice rough and breathless. "You had so much to say to him."
He thrust deep, making her gag slightly.
"Now look at you," he growled. "Can't speak. Can't smile. You're just taking what I give you."
Y/N’s hands flew up to grip his thighs, her nails digging into his skin as she tried to stabilize herself against the onslaught.
"Open your throat," he commanded. "Don't you dare clamp down. Relax."
He picked up the pace. The wet, sloppy sounds of her mouth on him filled the quiet room. He watched her face with a terrifying intensity—the way her eyes glazed over, the way tears gathered in her lashes, the way she was utterly submissive to him.
"This is reality, Y/N," he told her, punctuating the words with sharp hips snaps. "Not the wine. Not the tablecloths. This."
He looked down at her, his expression dark and possessive.
"You don't get to act like a single girl when you belong to me," he snarled. "You don't get to bat your eyelashes at boys when you have a man who does this to you."
He fucked into her mouth for another minute, hard and unforgiving, until his breathing became ragged. He was close, the pleasure building to a breaking point.
He pulled out with a wet pop, leaving her gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting her bruised lips to his hardening cock.
He didn't give her a second to recover. He needed to be deeper.
"Turn around," he ordered, his voice brooking no argument.
Y/N scrambled to obey, her limbs shaking. She moved to her hands and knees.
"No," Harry corrected sharply. He placed a heavy hand between her shoulder blades and shoved downwards. "Down. Chest to the mattress."
She lowered herself, pressing her cheek against the cool white sheets, her arms splayed out.
"Ass up," he commanded. "Higher."
She arched her back, lifting her hips until she was presenting herself to him completely. It was a position of total submission—head bowed, body open, waiting for him.
Harry stood behind her, breathing hard. The sight of her like that, vulnerable, exposed, and waiting for him, did something to his already frayed control.
"Good," he praised darkly. "Look at you. Ready for me."
He reached down and gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh to anchor her. He didn't warn her. He didn't tease. He lined himself up with her slick entrance.
"You wanted to play games tonight?" he growled. "Well, game over."
He thrust into her in one long, brutal slide.
Y/N cried out, the sound muffled by the mattress, as he filled her completely. He was huge, stretching her, hitting that deep, sensitive spot instantly.
Harry let out a ragged groan, his head falling back as the heat of her clamped around him.
"Mine," he gritted out, holding himself deep inside her for a moment to let her adjust to the intrusion. "You feel that? That’s me. Not him. Me."
He began to move. It wasn't the slow, sensual rhythm of their usual weekends. He snapped his hips forward, slamming against her buttocks, driving himself as deep as he could go.
"Tell me who you belong to," he demanded, grabbing a handful of her hair and pulling her head back so she had to look at the wall, gasping.
"You," she sobbed, her body rocking with the force of his thrusts. "Harry."
"Say it louder."
"I belong to you!"
"That’s right," he snarled, increasing the pace, fucking her with a desperate, possessive fury. "And don't you ever forget it."
He drove into her harder, his hips snapping with a violence that shook the bedframe. The friction was unbearable, a perfect, blinding heat that had them both gasping for air.
"I'm close," Harry groaned, his voice wrecked. "God, Y/N, I'm close."
He didn't slow down. He sped up, chasing the release, needing to pour his frustration and his obsession out of his body.
"Take it," he snarled. "Take everything."
He pounded into her three more times. Deep, bruising thrusts that made her see stars and then, with a guttural roar, he ripped himself out.
He didn't give her a second to miss him.
He gripped his cock, aiming carefully. He released, spilling all over the curve of her ass and her lower back.
Y/N lay panting, her chest heaving against the mattress, feeling the hot pulses of him landing on her skin.
The room went quiet, save for their harsh, ragged breathing.
Harry stood there for a moment, chest heaving, staring down at the white fluid painting her golden skin. It was a stark, visual claim. Evidence.
"Come here.” he rasped.
Y/N pushed herself up on shaking arms, turning on the mattress to face him. She was a mess, hair wild, lips swollen from his earlier attention, eyes wide and glassy.
Harry didn't wait. He stepped closer to the edge of the bed. He cupped her jaw with his hand, his thumb stroking over her cheekbone, staring into her eyes with an intensity that made her weak.
"Kiss me," he demanded softly.
Y/N leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.
It wasn't a hard kiss. It was deep and desperate. Harry made a noise of relief against her mouth, his other hand coming up to tangle in her hair, holding her close. He kissed her like he was trying to breathe her in, erasing the rest of the night, erasing the jealousy, until the only thing left in the world was the two of them.
In the corner of the living room stood a massive, ten-foot Nordmann Fir tree.
Harry was standing on a step ladder, wearing grey sweatpants and a t-shirt, struggling with the star for the top.
"Left a bit," Y/N directed from the sofa, holding a glass of mulled wine. "No, your other left."
Harry sighed, a dramatic, suffering sound. "This is a fire hazard. And the needles are going to ruin the Persian rug."
"Stop complaining, Scrooge," she teased. "You love it."
"I tolerate it," he corrected, finally jamming the star onto the top branch. He climbed down, dusting his hands off. "I tolerate it because you looked at me with those sad, big eyes when I said I didn't ‘do’ Christmas."
He walked over to the sofa. He didn't sit on the other end. He sat right next to her, pulling her legs into his lap seamlessly. His hand rested on her shin, his thumb rubbing the bone.
"It looks beautiful, Harry," she said softly, looking at the twinkling lights reflecting in the dark window.
It did. And the terrifying thing was, Harry wasn't looking at the tree. He was looking at her looking at the tree. He looked content. He looked settled.
"I have something for you," he said suddenly.
Y/N froze. "Harry, we said no gifts. You pay for my tuition. You bought me the laptop. That’s enough."
"Those are practicalities," he dismissed. "Tools for school. This is... different."
He reached behind a cushion and pulled out a heavy case. It was a dusty, pale mint green color. He set it on the coffee table and popped the latches.
Inside sat a typewriter.
It was beautiful—an Olivetti Lettera 22 from the fifties. It was pristine, the keys gleaming with chrome rims, the mint paint flawless.
"Harry..." she breathed, sitting up.
"You said looking at the screen was giving you migraines," he murmured, watching her face closely. "And you said you felt like you weren't writing, you were just 'processing data'. I found this at a dealer in Notting Hill. He restored the ribbon."
Y/N reached out, pressing down on the 'A' key. It made a satisfying, sharp clack.
"It's perfect," she whispered. "My God, Harry. It’s absolutely perfect."
She looked at him. This wasn't a gift you gave an employee. This wasn't a gift you gave a temporary asset. This was a gift you gave someone whose dreams you wanted to protect.
"Thank you," she said, her voice thick with emotion.
"Write something good," he said gruffly, uncomfortable with the gratitude. "Something that isn't about tragic heroes."
Y/N leaned forward and kissed him. It was soft, tasting of wine and spices.
"I thought you were supposed to be in Aspen this week?" she asked, pulling back just enough to look at him. "Your flight was yesterday."
Harry stiffened slightly. He looked at the tree he hated. He looked at the fire he had lit for her. He looked at the girl wearing his jumper, playing with the typewriter keys.
He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I cancelled it," he admitted.
Y/N’s eyes widened. "What? Harry, you never miss your ski trip. You said it was non-negotiable."
"Plans change," he shrugged, trying to play it cool. "The market is volatile. I needed to stay close to the terminal."
"Liar," she smiled, seeing right through him. "You stayed for me."
Harry didn't deny it this time. He just captured her hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips for a lingering kiss.
"I decided I preferred the view here," he murmured against her skin.
He wasn't just staying for the weekend. He was skipping his entire holiday routine to stay in grey, rainy London just to wake up next to her on Christmas morning.
"Merry Christmas, Y/N."
It was late friday night. They were at the national portrait gallery. It was a risk, and they both knew it. But Harry had been in a good mood for weeks. He had rented out a private viewing room at the National Portrait Gallery for a charity event, but they had arrived early to walk the main halls.
Y/N felt beautiful. She was wearing a floor-length black silk slip dress and diamond drop earrings which Harry insisted that they were just a loan.
They were standing in front of a massive oil painting of a Tudor king.
"He looks miserable," Y/N observed, sipping her champagne.
"He was powerful," Harry corrected, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back. "Heavy lies the crown, etcetera."
"I think he just needed a nap. And maybe a hug."
Harry chuckled—a low, genuine sound that vibrated against her side. "You think a hug solves everything."
"It solves a lot of things, Harry."
She turned to look at him, smiling. He looked devastating in his tuxedo. For a moment, standing there among the history and the wealth, she felt like she fit. Like they were just a normal couple out on a date.
"Harry?"
The voice was cool, elegant, and instantly shattered the bubble.
Harry went rigid against her. His hand on her back didn't drop, but his fingers tightened, almost painfully.
He turned slowly.
Standing a few feet away was a woman. She was stunning, tall, with sharp cheekbones, honey-blonde hair swept into a chignon, and wearing a cream pantsuit that screamed 'old money'. She looked to be about Harry’s age, perhaps a few years younger. She radiated a kind of icy perfection that made Y/N suddenly feel very young and very messy.
"Olivia," Harry said. His voice was polite, but dead. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"I’m on the board, Harry," she said, her eyes drifting over him with a familiarity that made Y/N’s stomach twist. "You’d know that if you ever opened the newsletters."
Her gaze slid from Harry to Y/N. It wasn't a glare. It was an appraisal. She looked at the dress, the earrings, the fresh face, the age.
A small, knowing smile touched her lips. It was patronizing.
"And who is this?" Olivia asked.
"This is Y/N," Harry said. He didn't introduce her as his girlfriend. He didn't introduce her as an employee. He just said her name. "Y/N, this is Olivia."
"Hi," Y/N said, extending her hand.
Olivia took it. Her grip was weak, social, dismissive. "Charmed. Are you... interning at the company?"
The insult was wrapped in silk.
“I am not” Y/N corrected calmly, stepping forward before Harry could speak.
Olivia didn't take the extended hand. She just tilted her head, looking back at Harry with a raised eyebrow.
"Harry, honestly," she drawled, her voice loud enough for the nearby security guard to hear. "Who are you with? She looks straight out of high school. Do I need to check her ID ?”
Harry’s jaw clenched, his body radiating tension. "Olivia—"
"I’m twenty-one," Y/N interrupted, her voice sweet but sharp. "But thank you. I suppose when you reach a certain vintage, youth starts to look like childhood. It must be confusing for you."
Olivia’s smile didn't falter, but her eyes narrowed. The air between them crackled.
"Vintage," Olivia repeated, tasting the word. "Charming. I suppose he likes them feisty. It makes the transaction feel more like a courtship, doesn't it?"
"I wouldn't know," Y/N smiled back, mirroring Olivia's cool demeanor. "I've never treated people like transactions. But I hear that was a problem in your marriage."
Harry choked on his own breath next to her.
Olivia finally turned fully toward Y/N, dropping the bored socialite act. She looked impressed, in a cold, reptilian way.
"You're sharp," Olivia conceded “For a short-term investment.”
Y/N didn't flinch. She took a step closer, matching Olivia’s height with pure attitude.
"I'd rather be a short-term investment with high returns," Y/N countered smoothly, "than a sunk cost he's still trying to write off.”
Olivia’s mask slipped. For a second, she looked genuinely stunned. She stared at Y/N, then glanced at Harry, who was looking at Y/N with an expression of absolute shock and disguised pride.
"My God," Olivia breathed, dropping the bored socialite act. "She speaks finance. You must be so proud, Harry. Did you teach her that, or did she pick it up while counting your change?”
"I picked it up," Y/N smiled, "by paying attention. You should try it sometime.”
"Careful," Olivia warned, her voice dropping to a cool whisper. "You're showing your claws. Harry hates it when the pets bite.”
"I'm not a pet," Y/N said, her voice hard. "And unlike you, I don't need his net worth to make me interesting."
"No," Olivia murmured, glancing at Harry. "You have something much more dangerous than net worth. You have novelty."
She stepped back, smoothing her cream suit.
"But darling, novelty wears off. Leases expire. And Harry... well, Harry gets bored of everything eventually. Even the things that talk back."
"She's not a thing," Harry said, his voice low and dangerous, finally stepping in. "Walk away, Liv."
"I'm going," Olivia sighed, checking her diamond watch. She looked at Y/N one last time. "Good luck. Just a word of advice? Don't fall in love with the checkbook. It doesn't hug back."
"I'm not in love with the checkbook," Y/N said quietly.
"Then God help you," Olivia whispered. "Because that’s the only part of him that’s reliable."
She walked away, the click of her heels echoing on the hardwood floor.
If the restaurant in Mayfair was about control, and the bedroom was about possession, the kitchen in February was about something much more dangerous: intimacy.
It was raining again. A relentless London drizzle that battered the windows, but inside, the kitchen smelled of garlic, basil, and expensive red wine.
Harry was standing at the stove. He wasn't wearing a suit. He wasn't even wearing the crisp button-down. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a vintage band t-shirt that was soft with age. He was barefoot.
"You're doing it wrong," Y/N laughed from the island, where she was perched with a glass of Chianti.
"I am a master of finance," Harry retorted, stirring the tomato sauce with intense concentration. "I think I can manage a pasta sauce."
"You're burning the garlic, Styles. Turn the heat down."
Harry sighed, a dramatic, long-suffering sound, but he reached out and turned the dial down. He picked up his own wine glass and turned to lean against the counter, facing her.
His hair was messy, falling into his eyes. His face was relaxed, the lines of stress that usually bracketed his mouth completely smoothed out. He didn't look like a Managing Director. He looked like... a boyfriend.
"Better?" he asked, taking a sip.
"Much," she smiled.
Harry walked over to where she was sitting. He stepped between her knees—a movement that had become second nature to them now. He rested his forearms on her thighs, leaning in close.
"You know," he murmured, his eyes scanning her face. "I could have hired a private chef for tonight. We could be eating lobster thermidor right now."
"Too fussy," Y/N dismissed, reaching out to play with the hem of his t-shirt. "I prefer this. It’s... real."
Harry went still for a second. The word real usually made him flinch, made him retreat into his shell of contracts and assets. But tonight, fueled by wine and three months of having her in his life, he didn't pull away.
"It is," he admitted softly.
He leaned forward and kissed her. It wasn't hungry or rough like it had been in November. It was slow. It was a lazy, syrupy kiss that tasted of wine and comfort.
"Play some music," she whispered against his lips.
Harry pulled his phone from his pocket. a moment later, the soft, melancholic chords of Fleetwood Mac filled the kitchen.
He didn't go back to the stove. He pulled her off the stool.
"Harry, the sauce—"
"It can simmer," he murmured, pulling her flush against his body.
They swayed in the middle of the kitchen, under the dim recessed lighting. Y/N rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart. Harry’s chin rested on the top of her head, his arms wrapped securely around her waist, holding her like she was the most precious thing in the house—worth more than the art, more than the furniture.
"I used to hate this house," Harry said quietly, his voice rumbling through his chest into hers. "It was too big. Too quiet."
Y/N looked up at him. "And now?"
Harry looked down at her. His green eyes were wide open, unguarded. He looked terrified and happy all at once.
"Now," he whispered, brushing a thumb over her cheekbone, "I don't like leaving it."
It was the closest he had ever come to saying I love you.
For a moment, the air was suspended. Y/N felt a surge of hope so bright it almost hurt. This was it. They had crossed the line. The contract was just a piece of paper in a drawer. This, the dancing, the cooking, the confession was the truth.
"Then don't leave," she whispered. "Stay here. With me."
Harry tightened his hold on her. He closed his eyes, burying his face in her neck, inhaling her scent.
"Okay," he breathed. "Okay."
They stood there for the rest of the song, swaying in the warmth of the kitchen, unaware that this was the high water mark. Unaware that this perfect, domestic Saturday was the very thing that would terrify Harry enough to burn it all down the following week.
The weeks following were the most dangerous kind of happy.
For the next two months, the "Arrangement" ceased to feel like a contract. It felt like a life.
They stopped going out to restaurants to avoid prying eyes (and jealous outbursts). Instead, they built a world inside. They developed a rhythm that felt terrifyingly permanent. Y/N would type on her mint-green machine in the library while Harry took conference calls, his eyes following her whenever she moved. They cooked dinner together on Saturdays or rather, Y/N cooked while Harry critiqued her chopping technique and kept her wine glass full.
The money still appeared in her account on the first of the month, but they stopped talking about it. The NDA sat in a drawer, gathering dust. The boundaries they had set in October had dissolved into lazy Sunday mornings and shared jokes.
Y/N let herself believe that the "transaction" had evolved into a "relationship." She let herself believe that the man who cancelled his ski trip to be with her was ready to be with her in the real world.
She was wrong.
Outside, London was gray and sleeting, but inside the master bedroom, it was warm.
The Sunday routine had become sacred. Harry read the Financial Times (paper copy, because he was old-fashioned), and Y/N lay across his legs, scrolling through her phone or reading.
Harry’s hand was resting idly on the curve of her waist, his thumb rubbing circles into the cotton of his t-shirt she was wearing. It was mindless, affectionate contact.
"You're humming," Harry murmured, not looking up from an article about interest rates.
"Am I?" Y/N smiled, looking up from her phone. "Sorry. I'm just looking at the calendar."
"Busy social schedule?"
"No. It’s the university dates. They just released the final schedule for the summer term." She sat up slightly, turning to face him. "My dissertation is due May 15th. And the graduation ceremony is June 20th."
Harry turned the page of his newspaper. "Congratulations. You’ll be finished."
"Yeah," she breathed, a mix of excitement and nerves. "I get four tickets for the ceremony at the Barbican. obviously my Mom and Dad are coming..."
She hesitated. She bit her lip, looking at Harry. He looked so domestic with his reading glasses and his messy hair. Over the last few months, the lines had blurred so much she had almost forgotten they were there. He wasn't just the man who paid her tuition anymore. He was the man who held her when she was stressed, who made her coffee, who knew exactly how she liked to be touched.
"I have two extra tickets," she said softly.
Harry hummed, still reading. "You should invite your roommates."
"I was thinking," Y/N said, her heart starting to beat faster. "I was thinking you could come."
Harry’s hand on her waist went still.
The rustle of the newspaper stopped.
For a long, agonizing silence, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he lowered the paper. He took off his reading glasses and placed them on the nightstand.
When he looked at her, the warmth was gone. The "Sunday Harry" had vanished, replaced instantly by the "Interview Harry" from months ago.
"Come?" he repeated, his voice devoid of inflection. "To your graduation?"
"Yes," Y/N said, her confidence wavering. "It’s a big day. I’d... I’d like you to be there."
"And the dinner afterward?" Harry asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. "With your parents?"
"Well, yes. They’d love to meet you. I’ve told them I’m seeing someone, I just haven't said who—"
"You told them you are seeing someone?"
The air in the room dropped ten degrees. Harry sat up, shifting his legs so she was no longer resting on him. He swung his feet to the floor and stood up, putting distance between them.
"Y/N," he said, turning to look at her with a look of genuine confusion mixed with cold annoyance. "What exactly do you think this is?"
Y/N felt a cold knot form in her stomach. She pulled her knees to her chest. "I think... I don't know. We're together, aren't we? It's been months. We spend every weekend together."
"We have an arrangement," Harry corrected sharply. "A contract."
"I know that!" she snapped, defensive now. "But it’s not just that anymore. You know it’s not."
"Do I?"
He walked over to the window, staring out at the sleet. He crossed his arms. A defensive posture.
"You want me to come to your graduation," he said, speaking to the glass. "You want me to shake your father’s hand. You want to introduce me as... what? Your boyfriend? Your partner?"
"Why not?"
Harry spun around. He laughed, but it was a dry, humorless sound.
"Because I am forty-five years old, Y/N. Because I am a Managing Director at a company who is currently paying for the degree you are graduating from. Do you have any idea how that looks?"
"I don't care how it looks!"
"I do!" he roared.
The volume made her jump. Harry breathed hard through his nose, reining himself in. He walked back toward the bed, leaning down, his hands bracing on the mattress on either side of her.
"You are confusing the luxury with the reality," he said, his voice low and cutting. "I pay for your time. I pay for your company. I enjoy it. Immensely. But I am not your boyfriend. I am not the man you bring home to meet Daddy."
Tears pricked Y/N’s eyes. "So that's it? I'm just... a transaction? After everything?"
Harry looked at her. For a split second, she saw a flicker of pain in his eyes. A crack in the armor. He looked like he wanted to reach out and wipe the tear that was falling down her cheek.
But then he remembered who he was. He remembered the Hubris. He remembered that allowing feelings was a liability.
He stood up straight, closing the distance between them emotionally, if not physically.
"We have strict terms for a reason," he said coldly. "To prevent exactly this kind of misunderstanding."
He turned and walked toward the bathroom.
"Get dressed," he said over his shoulder. "I'm calling the car. You should go home."
"Harry, it's Sunday," she whispered. "We have until noon."
"Not today," he said, not breaking stride. "The arrangement is terminated for the weekend. I think we both need to review the terms."
He slammed the bathroom door shut.
Y/N sat alone in the middle of the massive King bed, wearing his t-shirt, listening to the sound of the shower turning on to drown her out.
The breach was open. And it looked impossible to cross.
Y/N hadn’t heard a word from him all week. No texts. No check-ins. Just a notification from her bank on the 1st of the month that the allowance had cleared—plus an extra £2,000.
Hush money? Apology money? Or just a reminder of what she was?
She stood on the front step of the Kensington townhouse at 7:59 PM. It was raining again.
She felt sick. She was convinced he was going to open the door and hand her an NDA termination form. She had spent the whole week crying, preparing to lose him.
She punched the code. 0-1-2-9. The door clicked open.
She stepped inside. The house was silent. The smell of cedarwood hit her, making her chest ache.
"Harry?" she called out, her voice trembling.
He wasn't in the study. He wasn't in the kitchen.
She walked to the bottom of the stairs. "Harry?"
"Bedroom," his voice floated down. It wasn't warm. It wasn't angry. It was flat.
Y/N walked up the stairs. She found him in the master bedroom. He was standing by the window, looking out at the street. He was dressed in his suit trousers and a crisp white shirt, cuffs buttoned. He looked impeccable. Armored.
He turned when she entered. His face was a mask of indifference. The "Christmas Harry" who bought her a typewriter was gone. The "Jealous Harry" who fucked her against the mattress was gone.
This was the CEO.
"You're here," he said.
"Harry, I..." She stepped forward, her hands twisting together. "I wanted to talk about last Sunday. I'm sorry if I pushed you. I just thought—"
"There's nothing to talk about," he interrupted smoothly. He walked over to the nightstand. "I reviewed the terms of our agreement. It appears we allowed some... scope creep. Lines were blurred."
"Scope creep?" she repeated, hurt flashing in her eyes. "Is that what you call the last two months?"
"I call it a lapse in judgment," he corrected coldly. "On both our parts. It won't happen again."
He picked up an envelope from the nightstand and held it out to her.
"What is this?" she whispered.
"Your schedule for the rest of the term," he said. "Fridays, 8 PM to Saturdays, 10 AM. No Sundays. No dinners out. No 'hanging out'. You arrive, we fulfill the terms of the arrangement, and you leave."
Y/N stared at him. "You want to turn me into a prostitute?"
Harry didn't flinch. "I want to return to the arrangement we signed. It was efficient. It worked. Do you want the allowance or not?"
It was a test. A cruel, horrible test. He was daring her to walk away, while simultaneously praying she wouldn't.
Y/N looked at him. She saw the tension in his jaw. She saw the way his hand was clenching the envelope. She knew, deep down, that he was doing this because he was terrified of how much he loved her.
She could leave. She could throw the envelope in his face and walk out.
But she remembered the typewriter. She remembered the way he held her when she cried. She remembered the letter 'H' traced on her skin as he cuddled her while they dozed off.
She wasn't ready to let go. Not yet.
She took a deep breath, swallowing her pride. She walked forward and took the envelope from his hand.
"Fine," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Friday to Saturday."
Harry let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for a week. His eyes flashed with a mix of relief and self-loathing.
He reached out, his hand grasping her chin, tilting her face up. He didn't kiss her. He just looked at her, his thumb tracing her bottom lip.
"Good girl," he murmured, the praise hollow and sharp. "Now take off your clothes".
i feel so bad for her.
everytime i read it.
I just want to give her a huge hug.
let me know what you think.
author's note - second chance romance...😜 this came to me in a dream. my inbox is open if you want to talk about any of my aus, chat, or send requests!
fc: pdm.clara on ig
figure skater!reader masterlist
ONE YEAR EARLIER
VOICEMAIL FROM CONNOR TO YOU:
“Hey, baby. I know I shouldn't even be leaving you this voicemail right now, but I can't let you leave without getting an apology from me. This isn't how things were supposed to go, and I am so sorry for that. If this were up to me, we would still be together. But somehow that's out of my control and I wish it weren’t. I love you, Y/N. Please believe me when I say that. I wouldn’t blame you if you never spoke to me again, or if you hated me for the rest of your life, because this situation is fucked and you don’t deserve any of this. I know you're on your way back to Montreal, and you probably won't get this until you're off the plane. But, you deserve better than what I have to offer, so I'm sorry for wasting your time. But the selfish part of me isn't sorry because I got to spend the best 7 months with you. I should go now. But…um…I’m sorry things ended this way, and I love you. I think I always will."
ONE YEAR LATER
yourusername
sexy to someone • clairo
liked by amberglennskates, maddieschizas and 231,459 others
yourusername ni plus, ni moins (posted from my ipad)
view all 2,947 comments
user1 generational fumble by connor bedard 🙂↔️
⤷ user2 he can’t handle allat
⤷ user2 sending him subliminal messages
maddieschizas the best teammate 🩷
⤷ yourusername you are also the best teammate 🫶🏼
⤷ stephen_g__ what about me?
⤷ yourusername you too i guess
user3 I need her and connor to get back together
⤷ user4 like that’s mama y papa
ilia_quadg0d_malinin working on those quads?
⤷ yourusername not everyone can be you ilia 😐
user5 not my favorite figure skater admitting to be and ipad kid
⤷ user6 do you think she plays roblox?
⤷ yourusername she does
⤷ user7 favorite game diva?
⤷ yourusername dti 😜
user8 shes not even pretty
this comment was deleted by creator
user9 all she did was distract connor
this comment was deleted by creator
yourusername posted to their story
liked by alysaxliu, franknazar14 and 3,256 others
yourfriend replied to your story
baddest bitches in chi-town
hothockeygossip
chicago, illinois
liked by user8, user9, and 3,457 others
hothockeygossip connor bedard's ex-girlfriend y/n l/n seen with another man at dinner last night in downtown chicago
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user10 DONT EVEN PLAY WITH ME RN
user11 NOOOOOOOOOO
user12 my connory/n prayer circle didn't work
user13 good riddance connor needs to focus on hockey
user14 do i look like i care?
user15 she's not even that pretty anyways
yourusername
all my love • noah kahan
liked by yoursister, fraserminten, and 345,682 others
yourusername you got all my love
comments are disabled
author's note: trying something new...this might be lowk ahh
summary: Clark is the perfect boyfriend. He sends your work flowers, is always on time, and genuinely listens to whatever you have to say. Until he's late by forty-five minutes and cracks begin to show.
word count: 17.4k+
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
notes: my man on willpower might be my favorite song off of man's best friend... okay i lied, i can't pick my favorite song. anyways, it got me thinking, clark would obviously be the best boyfriend, but at some point things would start to crack because he can't possibly be the bestest boyfriend ever AND superman
*edit* - this has been in the drafts since like... september? october? i hope people are still reading this lovely goofball :)
warnings/tags: fluff, angst, clark is a little secretive, but he's trying his best guys, implied smut (but it's a fade to black scene, nothing explicit), it's also implied that clark has a big dick lol, drinking alcohol, getting drunk, clark isn't the greatest liar, you don't know clark is superman
Your desk was already crowded with half-finished drafts, a stack of sticky notes you swore you’d sort later, and the empty coffee cup you’d been nursing since nine a.m. So when the delivery guy stopped at your cubicle holding a glass vase filled with a ridiculously perfect bouquet of pink lilies and yellow roses, you almost thought he’d gotten the wrong floor.
“Delivery for… you,” the man said, squinting at the tag before pronouncing your name. He placed the vase down amid your mess of papers, the flowers instantly outshining everything else on your desk. Around you, the newsroom erupted into a mix of whistles and knowing laughter. A few of your coworkers leaned over their monitors to get a better look.
“Wow,” someone muttered. “Somebody’s got a keeper.”
You could feel the heat creep up your cheeks as you plucked the little card tucked into the blooms. Sorry I couldn’t walk them over myself. Don’t work too hard today. —C.
Clark.
The silly grin broke across your face before you could stop it. You slid the card back into the arrangement and tried to refocus on your monitor, but the words blurred. A coworker nudged your shoulder. “Is this, like, the third time this month? Flowers at the office? You sure he’s real and not, like, some romance novel you manifested?”
You laughed softly, ducking your head. “He’s real. Trust me.”
And he was. Clark Kent. Sweet, impossibly polite Clark, who had held the door open for you the first day you’d met, who walked you home after dinner even though his apartment was in the opposite direction, who never forgot to ask about your day and actually listened to the answer.
He was the kind of guy who remembered that you liked sugar in your coffee but hated cream, who called his mom once a week without fail, who looked you in the eyes like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.
It felt absurdly… easy with him. No guessing games, no disappearing acts, none of the constant anxiety you’d carried from relationships past. Just Clark, steady and warm as the Kansas summer he came from.
That night, he showed up at your apartment door holding a bag that smelled like takeout pad thai. “Dinner,” he said with a sheepish grin, adjusting his glasses with one hand. “I thought maybe you hadn’t eaten yet.”
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Flowers at my office and pad thai at my door? You know you’re setting the bar way too high, right?”
Clark tilted his head, his smile spreading slow and easy. “Then I’ll just have to keep meeting it.”
It wasn’t the grand words that melted you. It was the way he said them, simple and honest, as though they were the most obvious thing in the world. You let him in, taking the bag from his hands as he shrugged off his coat. “One day, my coworkers are going to make a betting pool about you,” you teased, placing the food on the counter. “Half of them are convinced you’re secretly a model.”
Clark actually laughed at that, low and warm. “A model? That’s new. Usually people just assume I’ve got hay stuck to my boots.”
“Don’t tempt me, Kent. I’d pay to see you in a cowboy hat.”
He shot you a mock-stern look over his glasses, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward anyway.
You were used to sweet gestures from Clark now—flowers, food, the way he carried your groceries as though they weighed nothing. But it wasn’t just that. It was how he never seemed to be playing a part, never doing it for show. His kindness wasn’t performative. It was him.
And that, more than the lilies and roses sitting on your desk, terrified you in the best possible way. Because for the first time in a long time, you believed you’d found someone who really was too good to be true.
---
The rain had started sometime around eight, soft at first and then pounding against the windows in steady sheets. You were curled on the couch with a blanket draped over your lap, the faint glow of the TV screen painting the living room in flickering light. The scent of popcorn filled the air, warm and buttery, though you hadn’t touched it yet because Clark had insisted on being the one to make it.
You watched him in the kitchen as he moved about with an almost comical level of focus, peering down at the stovetop pan like it held the secrets of the universe. The sound of kernels popping filled the silence, punctuated every so often by his quiet hum—something you had noticed he did when he was comfortable. A little tune, off-key but charming, that made the apartment feel more like home than it ever had before. “Clark,” you called, smiling when he glanced over his shoulder at you with that earnest look that always knocked the air right out of your lungs. “You know we could’ve just microwaved a bag, right?”
He blinked, adjusting his glasses with the back of his wrist. “But this way’s better.”
“Better, or just an excuse to hover over a pan like a mad scientist?”
His grin broke through, bright and boyish. “Maybe both.”
By the time he brought the bowl over, full to the brim, you’d already queued up the movie. He sat down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed, the couch dipping under his weight. You pulled the blanket over both of your laps, and his hand slipped under it almost instantly, warm and calloused against your own. He gave your fingers a gentle squeeze without even looking, eyes fixed on the opening credits. “You always do that,” you said softly, leaning your head against his shoulder.
“Do what?”
“Hold my hand like you’ve been waiting all day just to do it.”
Clark was quiet for a moment, then angled his head to glance at you. His blue eyes caught the light of the TV, clear and startling even in shadow. “Maybe I have been.”
You rolled your eyes, though your chest tightened in the best way. “Dangerously close to cheesy, Kent.”
“Mm. But you like cheesy.”
You couldn’t argue with that, so you only smiled, turning back to the movie as you dug a handful of popcorn out of the bowl. Clark let you, though you noticed he hadn’t touched any yet.
Half an hour in, you caught yourself watching him more than the screen. He was invested in the film, brows furrowed slightly, mouth parted just enough to show he was completely drawn in. You’d seen that expression before—whether you were talking about your day, whether he was leafing through a book at your apartment, whether he was holding a conversation with a stranger on the subway. He paid attention. Real attention. The kind that was so rare it felt almost like a miracle. When he caught you staring, his lips curved into a small, crooked smile. “What?” he whispered, the word almost swallowed by the movie’s dialogue.
“Nothing.” You shook your head, settling back against him. “Just… you’re kind of perfect, you know that?”
He chuckled under his breath, pressing a kiss to your temple like it was second nature. “I don’t know about perfect.”
“Well, I do,” you murmured, and you meant it. Every silly, sappy word. You stayed like that for the rest of the night, tangled under the blanket, Clark’s arm warm around you. The rain kept on against the windows, the popcorn slowly dwindled, and you thought—not for the first time—that if this was all there ever was, it would be enough.
---
Saturday mornings with Clark had become something of a tradition, though you couldn’t remember when exactly it started. Maybe it was the first time he’d shown up outside your building with two coffees in hand and said, “come on, there’s a farmer’s market a few blocks over,” like it was the most obvious idea in the world. Since then, it had become your ritual: wake up late, wander through the market together, buy things you didn’t really need, and eat pastries that were too sweet for breakfast but somehow perfect anyway.
That morning was no different, except that the sun was shining in the kind of way that made the city look alive—golden light glancing off windows, air already warm but softened by a breeze that carried with it the smell of bread, flowers, and fruit.
Clark walked beside you with the easy confidence of someone who seemed made for sidewalks and crowded streets, though he still had that Kansas farm-boy way of greeting everyone. A smile here, a nod there, the occasional “good morning” to a vendor who looked half-asleep. You carried a tote bag slung over your shoulder, already heavy with apples and a jar of honey Clark had insisted you try because “the bees here are different, you can taste it.”
He reached over to lightly brush the back of your neck as you stopped at a stall bursting with sunflowers. “These look like you,” he said, just as casually as if he’d said these are yellow.
You raised a brow, half teasing, half flustered. “Tall and prone to wilting in the heat?”
Clark laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and shook his head. “Bright. You make people stop and smile.”
You didn’t have a good comeback for that, so you busied yourself pretending to examine the flowers. The vendor, an older woman with silver hair pulled into a bun, caught the exchange and grinned knowingly. “You’ve got yourself a sweet one,” she said to you, as though Clark wasn’t standing right there.
“He’s alright,” you replied, fighting your smile as you glanced up at him. Clark ducked his head, clearly embarrassed, and you felt a rush of affection for the way his ears turned pink when someone complimented him.
Eventually, you moved on, weaving through stalls filled with homemade jams and colorful scarves. Clark stopped to taste every sample offered to him—bits of cheese on toothpicks, slices of peach, small cups of cider—and made thoughtful little comments to each vendor. You teased him for it, whispering, “you know you don’t have to write a review for every single one, right?”
“I just think they should know their work’s appreciated,” he said earnestly, handing a few dollars over for a small loaf of bread you weren’t sure you needed. “It’s not easy, making something with your own hands and putting it out here for people to judge.”
The sincerity in his voice made your heart twist in that way it always did when you realized, again, that this was who he was. Not an act. Not something he put on to impress you. Just Clark—kind in ways that were almost disarming. At one point, you both stopped at a stand selling handmade candles. The vendor had arranged them in neat little rows: lavender, vanilla, cinnamon, pine. Clark picked one up and held it under your nose, his hand brushing against your cheek as he said, “this one smells like Christmas.”
You inhaled, smiling. “You’re right. We should get it.”
“You sure? You already have three candles on your coffee table.”
“And now I’ll have four.”
He chuckled and set the jar in your tote bag without further argument. As you made your way back toward the end of the market, your bag now heavier with bread, fruit, honey, and candles, Clark reached over and laced his fingers through yours. It wasn’t a dramatic gesture; he just did it in that simple, steady way of his, like holding your hand was as natural as breathing.
And you thought about how easy it was, walking with him. How different it felt from every other relationship you’d had—no guessing, no waiting for the other shoe to drop. Just warmth, laughter, little touches, and the steady certainty that he wanted to be there, with you, exactly in that moment. You let yourself believe, just for a little longer, that maybe he really was too good to be true.
---
You checked your watch for the third time in ten minutes, the ticking second hand making you more aware of the quiet hum of the restaurant around you. The host had already come by twice, asking gently if you were still waiting on someone. You’d smiled politely, insisting your date would be there any minute. But you couldn’t ignore the way the waiter glanced at your empty water glass, or the way a couple at the next table whispered, eyes darting in your direction.
Clark was late. Not a little late, either—forty-five minutes.
You shifted in your seat, trying not to let the disappointment settle too heavily in your chest. Up until now, Clark had been impeccable. The kind of boyfriend who texted if he thought he’d be five minutes behind, who apologized for sneezing too loudly during a movie. It wasn’t like him to leave you sitting alone at a table while the evening dimmed outside and strangers quietly wondered if you’d been stood up.
Finally, just when you were considering asking for the check and slipping out before you embarrassed yourself further, the front door swung open. Clark stumbled in with his hair windblown and his tie loosened like he’d sprinted the last few blocks. His glasses slid slightly down his nose, and he looked both breathless and guilty as his gaze found you immediately.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, hurrying over to the table. His large frame seemed awkward as he tried to shrink into the small space, sliding into the seat across from you. “I—Perry kept me late. He wanted edits on an article and I couldn’t leave until I turned it in.”
You raised an eyebrow, masking the sting with practiced calm. “An hour late?”
Clark winced, pushing his glasses up with one finger. “I know. I should’ve called. I didn’t mean to leave you waiting.”
You studied him across the table. He looked tired, yes, but not in the way you’d seen him before after a long day at the Planet. There was something else in his eyes—something sharp, like adrenaline fading, like he’d just been somewhere else entirely. Still, you told yourself not to overanalyze. You weren’t going to be that person, the one who jumped on the first misstep. “It’s fine,” you said finally, your voice softer than you felt. “Just… next time, a text would be nice.”
Relief washed across his face, his shoulders sagging as though you’d lifted a weight off of them. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. It won’t happen again.”
The waiter came by to take your order, and you tried to settle back into the rhythm of the evening. Clark smiled, made jokes, asked about your day. He reached across the table and brushed his thumb over your knuckles, that warm, steady touch that usually melted every trace of frustration from you.
But even as you laughed at one of his self-deprecating stories, you couldn’t shake the image of him rushing in with his hair askew, looking like he’d just stepped out of a storm. Perry White might have been demanding, sure—but you’d never seen editing an article leave someone looking like they’d run through a war zone.
You pushed the thought aside. One late night didn’t erase the flowers, the movie nights, the mornings at the farmer’s market. Everyone slipped up eventually. Everyone had flaws. Still, as you lifted your wine glass and forced another smile, a whisper curled in the back of your mind.
Maybe he isn’t as perfect as I thought.
---
By Tuesday afternoon, you had almost managed to let the sting of Friday’s date fade. Almost. The office was loud enough to distract you—phones ringing, printers whining, keyboards clattering—but every now and then, your mind circled back to that long hour you’d spent alone at the restaurant table, pretending you weren’t being pitied by strangers.
That was when one of the interns appeared at your desk, a little nervous and balancing a cardboard tray in both hands. “Uh—delivery for you,” he said, carefully setting it down beside your computer.
You blinked, surprised. Nestled in the tray was a perfectly iced cup from your favorite café across town. Not just your favorite café, but your favorite order—the one so specific and overly complicated you barely asked for it unless you were in a mood brave enough to risk the barista’s side-eye. And next to the drink, a small paper bag with the café’s logo stamped on the front. You opened it to find a sandwich wrapped neatly in parchment, exactly the way you liked it.
A folded napkin slipped out, and tucked into it was a note, written in Clark’s careful handwriting: Sorry for Friday. Thought lunch might buy me forgiveness. —C
You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your mouth, even as you tried to shake your head at the audacity of him. He hadn’t just sent flowers this time. He’d remembered the drink you always rambled about, the sandwich you’d ordered once when you dragged him across town, swearing it was worth the hike. He hadn’t teased you for your oddly specific preferences, hadn’t forgotten. He’d remembered.
“Wow,” one of your coworkers muttered, leaning against your cubicle wall. “The flower guy’s leveling up.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t deny the warm flutter in your chest. “It’s just lunch.”
“Mm-hm.” The coworker raised a brow. “He’s spoiling you. Admit it.”
You didn’t answer, instead sipping your drink and savoring how perfectly made it was. Later that evening, Clark showed up at your apartment, looking sheepish as he shifted from one foot to the other in your doorway. He carried a small, battered notebook in his hand, though he quickly tucked it into his coat pocket when he saw your curious glance. “Did the bribe work?” he asked lightly, but there was an edge to his tone—a carefulness, like he wasn’t sure if he’d been forgiven yet.
You crossed your arms, pretending to deliberate. “Well, the sandwich was a strong move. And the drink didn’t hurt.”
His smile softened, relief flickering across his face. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
You stepped aside to let him in. He shrugged out of his coat, but instead of settling onto the couch like he usually did, he came right up to you and cupped your cheek with one broad, warm hand. The earnestness in his expression made it hard to hold onto even a thread of irritation. “I really am sorry,” he said quietly. “Leaving you waiting like that—there’s no excuse.”
You wanted to ask again about Perry, about why exactly editing an article had left him looking like he’d run a marathon, but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you let yourself lean into his touch, the steady strength of him grounding you. “You could’ve just texted me,” you murmured. “That’s all I needed.”
“I know,” he admitted, thumb brushing gently across your skin. “I’ll do better.”
And maybe it was the way he said it—soft but so utterly sure—that made you believe him. Clark wasn’t like the others. He didn’t forget birthdays, didn’t leave you guessing, didn’t brush things off with half-hearted excuses. When he said he’d do better, you thought maybe he actually would.
The two of you ended up eating takeout on your couch that night, watching a rerun of a show neither of you particularly liked, just because it was background noise to your laughter. Clark insisted on carrying your empty cartons to the trash, then washed the few dishes in your sink like he lived there. And as you watched him hum off-key while rinsing a mug, you wondered how anyone could ever doubt he was everything he seemed.
But later, when he kissed you goodnight at your door and left just before midnight, you found yourself lingering in the quiet, staring at the empty hallway. The sandwich, the drink, the apology—they’d smoothed over the rough patch. For now. And yet, a small, nagging thought twisted at the back of your mind: Why does he always leave before midnight?
---
By Wednesday afternoon, the office was thick with the smell of burnt coffee and too many spreadsheets. You sat hunched over your keyboard, trying to make sense of your notes, but your brain kept circling back to one thought: Clark always left before midnight. Always.
It wasn’t just the restaurant, or the way he’d duck out of your apartment after movie nights. Even on weekends, when neither of you had to be up early, he’d kiss you softly, make some excuse about getting rest, and disappear into the night like Cinderella running from a ball.
“Alright,” your friend and coworker Marcy said, sliding into the chair beside your desk with her second coffee of the day, “spill it. You’ve had that scrunched-up forehead look for an hour. And don’t even try to tell me it’s about your work. You get that look when it’s about a guy.”
You gave her a flat look, but she only smirked. She wasn’t wrong. “It’s nothing,” you tried.
“Mm-hm. Nothing. Which is why you’re staring at your monitor like it insulted your mother.” She took a loud sip of her coffee. “It’s Clark, isn’t it?”
You sighed, setting your pen down. “It’s just… he’s perfect. Like, actually perfect. Which is why this is starting to drive me crazy.”
Marcy perked up immediately. “Go on.”
“He always leaves before midnight,” you admitted in a low voice, glancing around as though confessing a crime. “No matter what we’re doing, no matter how late the night is already, he’ll kiss me, say goodnight, and go. Like clockwork.”
Marcy leaned back, considering. “And you’ve asked him about it?”
“Not directly.” You fiddled with your pen, spinning it between your fingers. “I don’t want to be clingy. I just… I don’t get it. It’s like he turns into a pumpkin if he stays past twelve.”
Marcy snorted. “Maybe he’s got some weird sleep schedule. Or maybe—” she lowered her voice dramatically “—he’s secretly Batman.”
You laughed, tension easing for a moment. “Clark? Please. He apologizes when he bumps into strangers on the subway. He’d last two seconds in Gotham.”
“Fair point.” She tilted her head, smirking again. “So, what are you gonna do about it?”
“I don’t know,” you muttered. “Part of me thinks I should just let it go. The other part wants to… I don’t know. Test him.”
Marcy’s grin widened like she’d been waiting for that. “Oh, I have ideas.”
You groaned. “Why do I feel like I’m not gonna like this?”
“Because you’re a coward when it comes to confrontation, and I’m not.” She tapped her nails against her cup. “Okay. Scenario one, you straight-up ask him why he keeps bailing before midnight. Direct, efficient, no games.”
You raised a brow. “And scenario two?”
She leaned in, eyes glinting mischievously. “You lure him into staying. Cute pajamas. Or better yet—slutty pajamas. Make it hard for him to walk away.”
Your face went hot instantly. “Marcy!”
“What? I’m just saying! If he still bolts after that, then something’s definitely up.”
You buried your face in your hands. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, I’m brilliant.” She patted your shoulder before standing, her coffee already half gone. “Think about it. Cute pajamas or straight-up honesty. Either way, you’ll get your answer.”
As she walked off, you sat staring at your blank screen, trying not to imagine Clark’s face if you ever actually tried Marcy’s suggestion. Still, the thought of him leaving you at your door again, just before midnight, with that soft smile and some vague excuse—
It made your stomach twist. You didn’t want to lose him. But you couldn’t help wondering: was there something he wasn’t telling you?
---
It was a Thursday night, nothing special. Clark had shown up at your door with his usual soft smile and a grocery bag in hand. Inside were the makings of pasta—fresh basil, tomatoes, a loaf of bread from the corner bakery. He’d insisted on cooking, which really meant you sat on the counter with a glass of wine while he did most of the work, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened but not quite discarded.
Dinner was easy, the kind of rhythm you’d slipped into months ago. You teased him for chopping garlic too slowly, he teased you for drinking more wine than you ate pasta. Afterwards, he helped you wash the dishes, humming under his breath as he scrubbed a pot, bubbles clinging to his forearms. The domesticity of it all made your chest ache in the best possible way.
But the entire time, a thought lingered in the back of your mind—Marcy’s voice echoing, sing-song and mischievous: Cute pajamas. Or slutty pajamas.
By the time the two of you moved into the living room, the weight of it was almost unbearable. You sat with him on the couch, his arm slung around you, the low murmur of a late-night talk show filling the space. It was perfect, comfortable… but you knew what would happen soon. He’d check his watch, give you that apologetic look, and head out into the night before the clock hit midnight.
Not tonight, you told yourself. Tonight, you were going to see if he’d stay. You stretched, feigning a yawn, and stood. “I’m gonna go change. These jeans are killing me.”
Clark looked up at you with that gentle concern that was so him. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said quickly, heart hammering a little too fast. “Just… more comfortable clothes.”
You slipped into your bedroom, closing the door behind you. Your pulse roared in your ears as you opened your dresser drawer and pulled out the pajamas Marcy had planted in your head all week. Not quite slutty—but close enough. The soft silk clung in ways your usual oversized t-shirt didn’t, the hem riding a little higher on your thighs than you were used to. You checked yourself in the mirror, cheeks warm. This was either going to work spectacularly… or blow up in your face.
When you opened the door, Clark was standing in the hallway, one hand tugging at his tie like he’d been debating loosening it further. His other hand held the hem of his button-up, as if he’d been considering changing into something more relaxed. He froze when he saw you. “Oh,” he said, his voice catching just slightly. His eyes widened, and for once, he didn’t immediately mask his reaction.
You bit your lip, pretending nonchalance as you crossed the short distance between you. “Thought I’d get comfortable,” you said, fingers brushing against the knot of his tie.
Clark swallowed hard. “You look… uh—” His voice trailed off, his usual eloquence deserting him. His gaze flickered away, then back again, like he couldn’t quite decide where to rest his eyes.
The corner of your mouth curved as you caught the edge of his tie and gave it a playful tug, guiding him a step closer. “Cat got your tongue, Kent?”
His laugh was nervous, breathless. “Just wasn’t expecting—”
“Me?” you teased, leaning up slightly so your faces were closer.
Clark’s hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should. You tugged lightly on his tie again, coaxing him toward the bed. “You can change later,” you murmured.
That did it. His ears turned bright red, and the tips of them peeked through his dark hair. His flustered expression was so achingly adorable you almost laughed. But he didn’t pull away. Not this time.
Instead, he let you guide him, his tie slipping through your fingers as he leaned down. His lips brushed against yours, tentative at first, then with a hunger he usually kept tightly reined in. His hand came up to your waist, steady and warm, the other bracing against the doorframe as though he needed something solid to keep himself grounded.
You smiled against his mouth, relief and satisfaction curling through you. For once, he wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t glancing at the clock, wasn’t making excuses. He was here—with you.
And when you tugged him down to the bed, his flustered laugh turned into something deeper, something that made your pulse skip. Whatever midnight rule he’d been living by, it didn’t matter tonight. Because tonight, Clark stayed.
---
The first thing you registered was warmth. The second was weight—the solid, steady press of an arm curled around your waist, pulling you against a chest that rose and fell in the slow rhythm of sleep. Your sheets smelled faintly of detergent and basil, a reminder of last night’s pasta dinner. And underneath it all, the more distinct, grounding scent of Clark.
Your eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the thin morning light spilling through your curtains. It took you a moment to realize the full reality: your bare skin against his, tangled legs, the soft mess of clothes scattered across the floor.
You turned your head slightly. Clark was still asleep, or something close to it. His face was relaxed, mouth parted slightly, hair mussed in a way you’d never seen before—wild and unpolished, no trace of the neat reporter who always seemed so put-together. His glasses, of course, weren’t on. They lay folded on your nightstand, lenses glinting faintly in the sun.
Without them, there was something startling about his face. You couldn’t put your finger on it—just that the edges of him looked… sharper. His eyes, though closed, seemed framed differently, as though the glasses softened more than just his appearance. For a strange, fleeting second, you almost didn’t recognize him. Then he shifted, tightening his arm around you, his breath brushing against the back of your neck. And he was Clark again—your Clark, warm and steady and achingly gentle even in sleep.
You smiled into the pillow, letting yourself melt into the moment. For weeks you’d watched him slip away at the stroke of midnight, offering excuses that never quite added up. But last night had been different. Last night he stayed. Not just for dinner, not just for movies and laughter—he stayed all the way through. Stayed long enough that now you were wrapped in his arms, your heartbeat syncing with his.
“Mm,” he hummed softly, the vibration in his chest making you shiver. “You awake?”
You turned slightly, enough to catch the half-lidded way he looked at you. His voice was rough with sleep, lower than you’d ever heard it. “Yeah,” you whispered.
His mouth curved, slow and drowsy. “Morning.”
You couldn’t help laughing. “That’s all you’ve got? Just morning?”
He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder for a moment, then pressed a lazy kiss to your skin. “Sorry. Not exactly awake yet. You… you’re distracting.”
Your cheeks flushed, though you tried to keep your tone light. “Pretty sure you’re the distracting one, Kent.”
He chuckled, but his hand skimmed softly across your side, drawing absent patterns against your skin. The tenderness of it made your throat tighten. It was almost unfair, how he could make something so casual feel so intimate.
For a long while, you lay there like that—no rush, no ticking clock, no excuse waiting at the edge of his tongue. Just him, his heartbeat under your palm, his breath warm against your hair. At last, Clark shifted, reaching blindly toward the nightstand. His hand brushed the edge of his glasses, and in a practiced motion, he slid them back onto his face.
The change was subtle but immediate. It was as if the air between you shifted slightly. The Clark without glasses—the one who looked like a stranger and yet more himself than ever—was gone. In his place was the Clark you knew, mild and unassuming, the gentle reporter who said sorry when he sneezed too loud. “Better,” he said softly, like the glasses anchored him somehow.
You tilted your head, curious. “You don’t need those in bed, you know.”
He hesitated just a fraction too long before chuckling. “Force of habit.”
You hummed, letting it slide, though the little pause tucked itself away in the back of your mind. Instead, you pressed a kiss to his jaw and smiled. “Well, I’m glad you stayed.”
His arms tightened around you, his voice low and steady in your ear. “So am I.”
And maybe he meant it. Maybe he wanted to mean it. But as you felt him hold you, you couldn’t shake the faint, lingering thought: what was it, exactly, that had kept him away every other night until now?
You fell asleep again until the smell of coffee coaxed you out of bed more than the alarm on your phone ever could. You padded into the kitchen barefoot, tugging his button-up shirt—the one that had landed on your floor the night before—over your shoulders like a robe. The sleeves were too long, brushing your wrists, and the fabric still held the faint warmth of his skin.
Clark was already there, moving quietly as though he belonged in your space. His tie was draped over a chair, his white undershirt soft and clinging, his glasses fogged slightly from leaning over the steaming coffee pot. He hummed under his breath, the same little tune you’d noticed he always carried when he was content. When he noticed you, his face lit up, boyish and unguarded. “Morning again,” he said, like he’d been waiting for you.
“Morning,” you echoed, fighting back a smile as you leaned against the counter. “You’re entirely too chipper for someone who didn’t get much sleep.”
His ears went pink immediately, and he turned back to the mugs. “I, uh—sleep better here.”
That pulled a laugh out of you, soft and genuine. “You’re such a terrible liar.”
“I’m serious,” he said, handing you a mug. His big hands dwarfed the ceramic, and you noticed the way his thumb lingered against the rim as he passed it to you. “You don’t believe me?”
You took a slow sip, watching him over the edge. “I believe you slept well. I just don’t think it had much to do with the bed.” Clark coughed into his own cup, so flustered you almost felt bad for him. Almost.
You sat together at your small kitchen table, the morning light spilling through the blinds in golden stripes across his face. He buttered a piece of toast like it was the most important task in the world, then slid it onto your plate before making another for himself. That was Clark in a nutshell: always making sure you were fed first.
As you ate, you realized how easy it felt. No clock watching, no excuses lined up in his throat. Just breakfast, quiet conversation, and the clink of silverware against mismatched plates. It was so normal you almost forgot last night had been the first time he’d ever stayed. “You’re going to work today, right?” you asked between bites.
He nodded, sipping his coffee. “Perry’s probably got three assignments waiting for me already.”
“Does he always ride you that hard?”
Clark shrugged, unbothered. “That’s just Perry. He pushes because he knows we can handle it. And I… I don’t mind. I like the work.”
You studied him for a moment, the curve of his mouth around the rim of his mug, the way his tie still sat neglected on the chair instead of knotted neatly at his throat. There was something softer about him this morning—unguarded in a way you didn’t see often. Maybe it was the fact that he’d stayed, or maybe it was just the quiet light of a weekday morning shared over burnt toast and coffee. Either way, you liked it. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” you said suddenly.
Clark frowned, startled. “Dangerous?”
“Yeah.” You nudged his foot under the table. “You make this look way too easy. Breakfast, coffee, staying the night… it’s like you’ve been doing this with me for years.”
His expression softened, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Maybe I’ve been waiting years to do this.”
Heat crept into your cheeks at the honesty in his tone. He wasn’t teasing, wasn’t joking. He meant it. And that—that was more dangerous than anything. You stood finally, setting your mug in the sink. “We’re going to be late if we don’t get moving.”
Clark followed suit, slipping his tie back over his neck and knotting it with practiced ease. You watched him, amused at how he went from flustered and boyish to polished reporter in the span of a few minutes. Glasses in place, tie tightened, hair smoothed back—your Clark, the one the world saw, stood in your kitchen. But when he looked at you, his gaze softened again, as though none of the armor mattered here. He stepped close, kissed your forehead, then your lips. “Thank you,” he murmured.
“For what?”
“For last night. For this morning. For… all of it.”
Your chest squeezed, and you touched his tie lightly, smoothing it against his chest. “You don’t have to thank me for staying, Clark.”
“I know,” he said softly, eyes searching yours. “But I want to.”
And as you walked out the door together, hand in hand, you thought maybe Marcy had been wrong. Maybe there wasn’t a mystery to solve, no midnight secret pulling him away. Maybe it had just been nerves, bad timing, work stress. Because for the first time, he’d stayed. And that had to mean something.
By the time you made it into the office, the elevator ride up had already convinced you of two things: one, coffee was the only thing keeping you upright, and two, walking in heels after last night was not your smartest decision. Every step carried just the faintest reminder of Clark’s strength, a dull ache hidden in your thighs that no amount of stretching on the commute had shaken off.
You slid into your cubicle as quietly as possible, hoping to disappear behind your monitor. But of course, Marcy had radar for these things. She popped up in your doorway like a jack-in-the-box, her coffee in hand, one brow raised. “Well, well, well,” she said, drawing the words out as though savoring them. “Look who’s late and walking funny.”
You froze mid-shuffle with your bag, glaring at her. “I’m not walking funny.”
She leaned on the frame of your cubicle, smirk widening. “Sweetheart, I could spot that limp from the elevator. Guess it worked.”
Heat rushed to your face immediately. “Marcy—”
“I told you,” she interrupted gleefully, wagging her coffee cup at you like it was proof. “Slutty pajamas. Works every time.”
You buried your face in your hands, muffling a groan. “You are the worst.”
“The worst, but right.” She perched on the edge of your desk like she owned it. “So? Spill. Did our boy wonder finally stay past midnight?”
You dropped your hands and glared, though you couldn’t quite wipe the reluctant smile off your lips. “Maybe.”
“That’s a yes.” She grinned like the cat that got the cream. “And?”
“And what?”
Marcy tilted her head. “And how was it? Come on, you can’t dangle that limp around the office and not share at least one detail.”
You picked up the nearest stack of papers and swatted lightly at her knee. “Get out of my cubicle.”
She laughed, unbothered, sipping her coffee as though she had all the time in the world. “Fine, fine. You don’t have to give me details. But let me just say, I’m very proud. About time Mr. Perfect dropped the Cinderella act.”
Her words hit a little closer than she realized. You forced a light smile, hoping she wouldn’t notice the hesitation. “Yeah. About time.”
Marcy hopped off your desk, smoothing her skirt. “See you at lunch. And don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone about the limp. Your secret’s safe with me.”
You rolled your eyes, but as she sauntered away, you exhaled slowly. Yes, Clark had stayed. Yes, it had been everything you didn’t realize you’d been craving. But the whisper lingered in your mind even as you logged into your computer: what had changed? What made last night different from every other night before it? And more importantly—would he stay again?
By the time work let out, the city was drenched in that golden hour glow that made everything softer—warm light spilling between buildings, the sidewalks humming with people headed home. You were halfway through debating if you had the energy to cook or if you’d end up with takeout again when your phone buzzed. Clark: Dinner? My treat. Don’t make other plans.
You couldn’t help but smile, typing back a quick bossy before slipping the phone into your bag.
When he knocked on your door later, he was balancing a pizza box in one hand and a paper bag in the other. “Figured we’d save the fancy restaurants for when I’m not keeping you waiting,” he said sheepishly, lifting the box like an offering.
The sight of him—tie loosened, hair slightly mussed from the breeze, that impossibly earnest smile—made your heart skip the way it always did. “You’re forgiven,” you said, stepping aside to let him in.
Dinner was simple, pizza, a salad he insisted on making because “we can’t live on bread and cheese alone,” and the bottle of wine you’d been saving for some hypothetical occasion. Clark poured carefully, like the stemware might shatter under his touch, and you teased him for being overcautious until he laughed and handed you your glass.
You ate cross-legged on the couch, the box open between you, your knees brushing every time you reached for a slice. Clark told you about the chaos at the Planet that day—how Perry barked at poor Jimmy until his ears turned pink, how Lois had nearly thrown her coffee at a malfunctioning printer. You laughed, picturing it, though you knew you’d never quite see the world the way he did.
At some point, the conversation shifted into softer things. He asked about your day, not just the broad strokes but the details—the coworker who’d stolen your stapler, the headline you’d been proud of writing, the way you’d stopped to buy a pretzel from the vendor outside your building. He listened to every word, nodding, eyes fixed on you like you were the only person in the world worth paying attention to.
By the time the pizza box was nearly empty, you had your legs tucked against his, the warmth of him seeping into you. You swirled the last of your wine in your glass and leaned your head against his shoulder. “You know, I could get used to this,” you murmured.
Clark glanced down at you, his expression unreadable for a beat before softening into that small, crooked smile you loved. “Me too.”
You set your glass aside and turned slightly, catching the end of his tie between your fingers. “Not running off tonight?”
The question hung in the air, casual on the surface but heavier underneath. Clark’s eyes flickered, something you couldn’t quite name passing through them, but then he shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said, voice low, steady.
Relief washed through you. You tugged lightly on his tie, pulling him down for a kiss that started slow but deepened quickly, his hand finding its way to your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. He kissed you like he’d been waiting all day for it, like he’d been holding his breath until this exact moment.
Later, when the two of you ended up stretched out together on the couch, your head on his chest and his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm, you realized the clock had already ticked past midnight. And he was still there. No excuses, no half-smile apologies. Just Clark, warm and solid and exactly where you wanted him.
For once, you let yourself believe that maybe the cracks you’d seen weren’t cracks at all—just shadows you’d mistaken for flaws. Maybe this was who he was, who he’d always be: steady, kind, and here. And as you drifted half-asleep against him, the hum of his heartbeat under your ear, you let yourself forget every question you’d been carrying. Because for tonight, at least, Clark stayed.
---
It started as an offhand suggestion, tossed out near the end of the day when the office was finally quieting down. One of your coworkers—Janine, the type who wore three-inch heels like they were sneakers—popped her head over your cubicle wall and said, “Drinks after work? Come on, it’s been a week.”
A few of the others perked up, including Marcy, who swiveled her chair toward you with a grin. “You in?”
Normally, you would have hesitated, mentally juggling the idea of a late night out with your usual plans with Clark. But something in you wanted to prove, if only to yourself, that you didn’t have to orbit your life entirely around him. He was wonderful—perfect, even—but you still had your own friends, your own world. “Yeah,” you said finally, surprising even yourself. “Count me in.”
The group cheered, already gathering purses and coats. On the walk to the bar, neon signs flickering against the dusky sky, you pulled out your phone. Your thumb hovered over Clark’s name for a moment. With guys before, this was always the part that made your stomach twist—the texts that came after you said I’m going out with friends, passive-aggressive replies, thinly veiled jealousy, endless check-ins like you were sneaking around instead of living your life.
You typed quickly: Going out for drinks with the girls from work. Don’t wait up tonight. Your finger hovered before hitting send, the tiniest tremor of nerves sparking. And then you sent it.
The reply came faster than you expected, the little typing dots barely lasting three seconds. Clark: That sounds great. Hope you have fun. Be safe.
That was it. No follow-up questions, no “who’s going?” No guilt, no tugging on a leash you weren’t wearing. Just have fun. You stared at the screen for a moment, warmth blooming in your chest. It was such a simple thing, but the kind of simple you weren’t used to.
Marcy peeked over your shoulder as you slipped the phone back into your bag. “That from Clark?” You nodded, trying not to smile too hard. “What’d he say? ‘Don’t get too drunk’? ‘Remember you’ve got a boyfriend’?”
“No,” you said softly. “He said have fun.”
Marcy slowed her stride for a second, blinking at you. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
A slow grin spread across her face. “Damn. Keep him. Seriously. If a man can handle his girlfriend having her own life without making it about his ego? That’s rare, babe. Hold onto that one.”
By the time you slid into a booth at the bar with the other girls, the dim lights catching on glasses of wine and cocktails, you couldn’t stop thinking about that little text. About how easy he made it to breathe. How different it felt not to brace yourself for a fight over something as harmless as a night out. Your friends laughed and gossiped, trading stories about bosses and boyfriends, but every so often you caught yourself smiling down at your phone, rereading his simple message. Hope you have fun. Four words. And yet, they felt like a promise, he trusted you. He respected you.
And for someone like you—someone who had spent too long with people who made affection feel like a trap—that was more intoxicating than anything in your glass.
The bar was louder than you realized. It wasn’t until you slipped off your stool and nearly tipped into Marcy’s shoulder that it hit you just how much you’d had to drink. Two glasses of wine had somehow become three… then a shared round of shots you’d been peer-pressured into. Now everything had that soft, slightly tilting glow to it, like the world was wrapped in cotton.
“Okay, lightweight,” Marcy teased, steadying you with a hand. “Time to get you a cab.”
You waved her off, fumbling for your bag. “I’m fine. Totally fine.”
“You’re weaving like a sailor,” she said flatly. “You want me to call Clark?”
Your head snapped up, indignation rising even through the haze. “No! I don’t need—” But your tongue tangled itself, and the protest dissolved into a laugh. “Okay, maybe. Just don’t tell him about the shots.”
Marcy rolled her eyes but pulled out her phone anyway. “You’re lucky he’s cute and clearly obsessed with you.”
Fifteen minutes later, the bar door swung open, and there he was—tie gone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, glasses catching the glow of the neon beer sign. Clark scanned the room, found you instantly, and the crease in his brow softened with relief. “Hey,” he murmured as he reached you, his voice low and warm like you might spook if he spoke too loudly. “Rough night?”
“Fun night,” you corrected, though your words slurred just enough to make Marcy snort.
Clark slipped an arm around your waist like it was second nature, guiding you upright. “Thanks,” he said to Marcy, his smile polite but grateful.
“She’s all yours,” Marcy said, giving you a wink before gathering her things. “Text me tomorrow, babe.”
You leaned heavily into Clark as he steered you outside. The night air was cool against your flushed skin, and you shivered instinctively. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders, tucking it close like he was wrapping you in something more solid than fabric. “You didn’t have to come get me,” you mumbled, the words half-buried against his chest.
“Of course I did,” he said simply. “I’d come anywhere for you.”
The sincerity in his voice, even filtered through the fog in your head, made your chest ache. You tilted your face up at him, squinting like you could see straight through him. “You’re too good to be true, you know that?”
His mouth quirked in that small, self-conscious smile you adored. “Or maybe you’re just too hard on the guys you dated before me.”
“You don’t leave when I go out,” you said suddenly, the thought bubbling up unfiltered. “They used to. They’d get mad. But you’re not mad.”
“I’d never be mad at you for having friends.” He guided you to his car, opening the door carefully before helping you in. His hand lingered at your elbow, steadying you until you were settled. “You deserve to have fun. You deserve everything.”
Your vision blurred for a moment—not from the alcohol, but from the sheer, overwhelming tenderness of him. By the time he pulled up outside your apartment, your head was lolling against the window. Clark circled to your side and scooped you up effortlessly, as though you weighed nothing. You gasped, looping your arms around his neck. “Clark!” you hissed, though you couldn’t stop laughing. “What if someone sees?”
He smiled down at you, utterly unbothered. “Then they’ll just think I didn’t want you to trip on the stairs.”
He carried you all the way up, setting you gently on the edge of your bed before kneeling to slip off your shoes. The care in every movement undid you completely. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, too drowsy to form anything sharper.
“Maybe,” he agreed softly, tugging the blanket over you once you’d curled on your side. “But you’re safe. That’s all I care about.”
As he brushed your cheek lightly, you caught his wrist weakly, blinking up at him. “Stay?”
His expression softened, the faintest crack of something unspoken in his eyes. Then he nodded. “Yeah. I’ll stay.” And when you drifted off, his arm was around you, steady as ever—no excuses, no vanishing. Just Clark.
---
The first thing you felt when you opened your eyes was regret. Your head throbbed, your mouth was dry, and the sunlight streaming through the blinds was at least three shades too bright. You groaned and rolled onto your stomach, dragging the blanket over your head in a futile attempt to block out the world.
Unfortunately, the world smelled like coffee. Fresh, rich, dark coffee. And—was that bacon?
You froze, brain sluggishly catching up. Clark. Sure enough, when you dared to peek out from under the blanket, there he was in your kitchen. Shirt sleeves rolled up, tie nowhere in sight, his hair an adorably messy halo. He moved with quiet purpose, flipping pancakes on your stovetop while humming under his breath. The sight was so painfully domestic it made your heart ache even through the pounding in your skull.
Of course, he noticed you before you could duck back under the covers. His head turned, that impossibly soft smile spreading across his face. “Morning,” he said gently, as though his voice might shatter you if he wasn’t careful. “How’re you feeling?”
You buried your face back in the pillow with a muffled groan. “Like I fought a truck.”
He chuckled, low and warm. “No truck. Just tequila, apparently.”
Heat crept up your neck even as you hid. “You weren’t supposed to see me like that.”
“Like what?” His voice was teasing but not unkind. “Having fun with your friends? Laughing? Smiling so much your cheeks hurt?”
You peeked at him again, narrowing your eyes. “Like a mess.”
Clark shook his head, flipping a pancake with ease. “You weren’t a mess. You were—” he paused, searching for the word, “—adorable.”
You groaned louder this time, shoving the pillow over your face. “Don’t call drunk-me adorable. She’s chaos.”
He laughed outright now, that deep, earnest sound that always made your chest loosen. “Chaos, maybe. But still adorable.”
A few minutes later, he set a tray down on the edge of the bed: coffee, pancakes stacked high, bacon crisped just the way you liked. You blinked at it, then up at him, suspicion warring with gratitude. “You did all this while I looked like death?”
“Seemed like a fair trade,” he said with a shrug, sitting down beside you. “You had your fun last night, and I get to make sure you don’t regret it too much today.”
You sipped the coffee cautiously, sighing as the warmth slid through you. “You’re too nice. Most guys would’ve teased me mercilessly.”
“Oh, I plan to tease you,” he said, eyes twinkling. “But not until you’ve had at least two cups of coffee.”
You laughed, even though it made your head throb, and nudged his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “But I like taking care of you.”
You froze for half a second at the honesty in his voice. No games, no performative chivalry—he just meant it. And somehow, that was more dangerous than any hangover. You sighed, sinking against him with your plate balanced in your lap. “You know, Clark, you’re making it very hard for me to remember you’re human. People aren’t supposed to be this perfect.”
For the briefest flicker of a second, something unreadable passed across his face. Then he smiled again, soft and sure. “I’m not perfect. But I promise, I’ll always try to be good to you.”
And as you sat there eating pancakes in his shirt, head pounding and cheeks hot, you thought maybe you’d never felt so cared for in your life.
---
The cramps had hit mid-afternoon, the kind that made you curl up under a blanket and declare war on your own body. By the time Clark arrived, you were a blanket burrito on the couch with zero intention of moving for the rest of the night.
He took one look at you, eyebrows knitting with concern, and immediately shifted into caretaker mode. Within minutes he’d dug your heating pad out of the closet, plugged it in, and settled it across your stomach with the same care he used for handling glassware. Then he adjusted your pillows, made you tea, and queued up your comfort show—the one you’d seen a hundred times but always came back to when you were feeling low.
Now, you were half-curled against him, your head on his shoulder, his arm looped around you. His tie was gone, his shirt rolled at the sleeves, and the warm, steady weight of him made everything ache a little less. “I hate this week,” you muttered into his chest.
“I know,” he said softly, rubbing slow circles against your back. “But I’ve got you. Heating pad, tea, bad sitcom reruns… we’ll survive.”
You managed a small smile, keeping your eyes on the flickering TV. A character tripped over a sofa in an over-the-top gag, and normally you’d laugh, but right now all you could think about was how badly you wanted—no, needed—something sweet. “God, I’d kill for a pint of cookie dough ice cream right now,” you murmured without thinking, snuggling deeper under the blanket. “Or those pretzel bites from the vendor down the street. Or both.”
It was meant to be idle complaining, not a request. You didn’t even glance away from the TV. But Clark, who had been quiet beside you, shifted slightly. His head tilted toward the window, like he’d heard something outside you couldn’t. Then, just as quickly, he was on his feet. You blinked, sitting up a little. “Clark?”
He smiled, smoothing his shirt like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I’ll be right back.”
Confused, you frowned. “Where are you going?”
“Just… don’t move.” His grin widened—adorable, boyish, but with that same cryptic glint you’d started to notice sometimes when he thought you weren’t paying attention. “I’ll be back before the commercial break.”
And with that, he slipped out your door, leaving you on the couch in your blanket cocoon, heating pad humming softly.
You shook your head, baffled, turning back to the TV. He was probably running down to the corner store. Still, the way he’d said before the commercial break stuck with you. Because Clark might’ve been perfect, but no one was that fast.
You kept your eyes on the TV, half-expecting to hear the familiar creak of the hallway stairs or the low rumble of the elevator. Instead, there was silence—except for the laugh track blaring from your comfort show.
You adjusted the heating pad against your stomach, cocooned deeper in your blanket, and told yourself not to overthink it. Clark was just… thoughtful. Probably sprinted to the bodega on the corner because he couldn’t stand to see you suffer through a craving. That was all.
Still, when the first commercial break hit only five minutes later, you frowned. No way. Not even with the fastest cashier alive could anyone make it down, grab ice cream and pretzels, pay, and get back up the stairs in that time.
The front door clicked open just as you were starting to sit up. Clark stepped inside, balancing a paper bag in one hand and a sweating pint of ice cream in the other. His smile was sheepish but triumphant. “Got both,” he said, a little out of breath, holding up the bag like a prize.
You blinked at him. His dark hair—usually neat even after a full day at the Planet—was tousled, like he’d been caught in a wind tunnel. And his shirt… your eyes narrowed. His buttons were misaligned, the fabric tugging unevenly across his chest. “You…” You tilted your head, suspicion stirring even through the dull ache of cramps. “You were gone for five minutes.”
He froze for a fraction of a second before flashing that disarming smile, the one that usually made your heart somersault. “Guess I got lucky with the line.”
“And your shirt?” you pressed, pointing with a lazy wave of your hand. “It’s buttoned wrong.”
Clark glanced down, startled, then chuckled, fumbling to undo the buttons and redo them correctly. “I must’ve rushed. Sorry. Didn’t think you’d notice.”
“I notice everything,” you mumbled, though you couldn’t help smiling as he set the ice cream and bag down on the coffee table. Inside were still-warm pretzel bites, the exact ones you’d mentioned offhand. The smell of butter and salt filled the room, making your stomach grumble despite the discomfort.
Clark handed you the pint first, already armed with a spoon. “Cookie dough,” he said softly, as if the name alone might soothe you. “Your favorite.”
You looked at the ice cream, then up at him. He was sitting beside you again, calmer now, his hair still slightly wild but his hand steady as it rested over yours. “Clark,” you said carefully, “you didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to.” His expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing. “If you’re hurting, and I can make it even a little better… why wouldn’t I?”
Your chest squeezed at the sincerity in his voice. You scooped a bite of ice cream, shoving down the dozen little questions buzzing in your head. He’d been gone five minutes. His hair looked like he’d flown through a storm. His shirt had been wrong. None of it made sense.
But then he reached over, breaking a pretzel bite in half and offering you the bigger piece without a second thought, and your doubts slipped under the weight of his sweetness. You took the bite from his hand, chewing slowly as your show returned from commercials. He wrapped his arm around you again, settling you against his chest like nothing was unusual at all.
And for now, you let yourself melt into him, the mystery pushed aside by the taste of butter and cookie dough on your tongue. Because if Clark wanted to be the man who brought you ice cream and pretzels in five minutes flat, who were you to complain?
---
You’d picked out your outfit hours ago, set your hair the way you liked it, even spritzed that perfume you saved for special occasions. Tonight was supposed to be date night—just you and Clark, dinner reservations at that little Italian place you’d been dying to try. But the clock kept ticking. First fifteen minutes. Then thirty. Then forty-five.
Your wineglass sat untouched on the counter. You checked your phone every couple of minutes, the empty notification bar mocking you. Not even a running late text. By the time your apartment clock chimed the hour, disappointment curled into your chest, heavy and sour. You tried to keep the doubts at bay—maybe he was stuck at work, maybe Perry was being impossible again. But a small voice whispered the same fear you’d carried for weeks: Maybe he’s pulling away. Maybe he’s not who you thought he was.
Just when you were ready to blow out the candle you’d lit on the table, there was a hurried knock at the door. You opened it to find Clark standing there, chest rising and falling like he’d jogged all the way over. His shirt sleeves were rolled, his tie askew, and a scrape marred the corner of his jaw. His glasses sat crooked on his face, and in his hand—cracked down the middle—was his phone. “Clark,” you breathed, all your irritation collapsing into worry.
“I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, voice low and earnest. “I should’ve called—I wanted to call—but…” He held up the phone, its screen a spiderweb of cracks, completely dead. “It’s useless.”
Your eyes widened. “What happened?”
“There was an attack downtown,” he said, running a hand through his messy hair. “Some kind of—well, I don’t even know what they were. But Superman showed up, and the whole street went into chaos. Cars overturned, glass everywhere. I got caught in the middle of it trying to get out, and my phone—” He gestured helplessly. “Smashed. I barely made it through without worse.”
The frustration you’d been nursing all evening evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold rush of fear. You grabbed his wrist, tugging him inside, eyes scanning him up and down. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”
“Just the scrape,” he said softly, touched by your urgency. “I swear, I’m fine.”
You reached up, fingertips brushing the bruise forming along his jaw. He didn’t flinch, but something in his eyes shifted—like he was both grateful and guilty under your touch.
“God, Clark,” you whispered, throat tight. “You scared me. I thought you’d just… forgotten. Or—” You shook your head. “I don’t know. I was worried.”
His big hand closed gently over yours, grounding. “I’d never forget you,” he said firmly. “Never.”
You swallowed, meeting his eyes. Blue, steady, so full of sincerity it almost hurt. “Promise me,” you said quietly. “If something like that happens again, if you’re ever caught in the middle of something dangerous—you’ll tell me. Just so I don’t sit here imagining the worst.”
“I promise,” he murmured, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ll always come back to you.”
And you believed him. Still, as you rested your forehead against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, another thought pressed at the edge of your mind: How did Clark always seem to walk away from disasters barely touched, when others weren’t so lucky?
The server returned with menus, giving Clark a once-over that said she, too, had noticed the rumpled hair and the broken phone on the table. But she didn’t comment—just refilled your water glasses and left you to settle back into the night.
You expected the awkward silence to linger, for the ruined start to sour everything. Instead, Clark leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, and looked at you like you were the only person in the room. “I really am sorry,” he said again, his voice steadier now. “You shouldn’t have been sitting here, wondering if I was going to show up.”
The sincerity in his tone unraveled some of the tightness in your chest. You sighed softly. “Just… next time, Clark, please. Even if it’s two words—I’m alive. I need that.”
He winced, guilt flickering across his features, and nodded. “You’re right. I’ll figure out something—even if my phone’s in pieces. I promise.”
And then, almost like he’d flipped a switch, he set himself to making you smile again. He cracked self-deprecating jokes about being the guy who could ruin two phones in as many months. He teased you for picking the salad section first when he knew you’d end up ordering pasta. He even convinced the server to bring you a complimentary glass of wine, telling her—loud enough for you to hear—that you deserved it for putting up with a boyfriend who ran late.
Slowly, the tension melted. Dinner was… normal. Almost idyllic. He listened, asked questions, leaned in with that intent expression he wore when you spoke, like every word mattered. When you told him a story about Marcy’s latest antics at the office, he laughed so hard his glasses slid down his nose, and you reached across the table to push them back up, both of you smiling too wide.
By the time dessert arrived—two spoons and one slice of cheesecake you hadn’t planned on ordering—your earlier panic felt like it belonged to another night. He fed you a bite across the table, eyes warm with affection, and you thought, not for the first time, that maybe this was the man you’d been waiting for without even realizing it.
Later, when he walked you home, the city was quieter, the chaos of earlier contained to distant sirens. His hand was steady in yours, his thumb brushing the back of your knuckles every few steps like he couldn’t help reminding himself you were there. At your door, he hesitated, the broken phone still in his pocket, his shirt still slightly creased from whatever he’d run through. “Thank you,” he said quietly, “for not giving up on me tonight.”
Your throat tightened. You reached up, cupping his jaw, feeling the faint scrape of stubble under your palm. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”
He kissed you then—gentle, lingering, like the whole world outside the two of you could collapse and he’d still be rooted right there. And as you pulled him inside, the broken phone and the strange details of his night faded to the background, drowned out by the way his arms wrapped around you like you were the only thing he’d been fighting for.
---
It was the kind of sleep you only ever fell into when Clark was beside you—deep, warm, cocooned. His arm had been wrapped firmly around your waist when you drifted off, the weight of him at your back like an anchor against the rest of the world. You remembered mumbling something incoherent, felt him kiss your shoulder, and then nothing.
When you woke again, it was to cool sheets. Your hand stretched automatically across the bed, expecting the familiar slope of his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing. Instead, your fingers met rumpled fabric and empty space.
Blinking against the dim glow of the streetlights seeping through your curtains, you pushed yourself up on one elbow. The apartment was quiet—eerily so. No humming, no clatter in the kitchen, no off-key singing from the bathroom while he brushed his teeth. Just silence. “Clark?” you whispered, voice hoarse with sleep. Nothing.
You sat up fully, pulling the blanket around you as if it could soften the strange pang forming in your chest. His glasses weren’t on the nightstand. Neither was his tie or his watch. Even his shoes, which he’d left by the door hours earlier, were gone.
The ache sharpened into something that felt an awful lot like déjà vu. How many times had he slipped away before midnight, murmuring excuses about early mornings, work, needing to get back? And now, after a night that had felt whole—after cheesecake and laughter and whispered promises in the dark—you were alone again.
Your phone sat on the nightstand. You reached for it, thumb hovering over his contact. But what would you even write? Where are you? Why did you leave? Why do you keep doing this?
Instead, you set it back down and curled into the sheets, pressing your face into the pillow where his scent still lingered. It shouldn’t have hurt this much. You weren’t naïve—you knew couples didn’t spend every night tangled together. But the emptiness of that bed, the silence of your apartment, made it feel less like space and more like abandonment.
As sleep threatened to pull you under again, one thought echoed, heavier than the rest: What is it you’re not telling me, Clark?
---
The morning sunlight pulled you awake, sharp and insistent. You blinked blearily, half-expecting to find Clark in the kitchen again—hair mussed, glasses perched on his nose, humming while he made coffee like last time.
But the apartment was silent. The bed was still empty. You sat up slowly, the ache of disappointment settling in your chest. His absence felt sharper today, maybe because last night had been so good—because you’d thought, for once, he’d let himself stay. The knock on your door startled you. For a wild second, you thought maybe it was him. You pulled on your robe and padded across the floor, heart thumping as you opened the door. It was Clark.
He stood there with two coffees balanced in a cardboard tray and a small paper bag tucked under his arm. His hair was neatly combed again, though you could see it had been wet recently, like he’d showered elsewhere. His shirt was fresh, his glasses polished, and his smile—soft, apologetic—hit you right in the chest. “Morning,” he said gently. “Thought you might need fuel before work.”
You stepped back automatically, letting him in even as you searched his face. “Clark… you left.”
His smile faltered. He set the coffees down on your table, careful, precise, like stalling for time. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I, uh… couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d go grab coffee, maybe breakfast.” He held up the paper bag—bagels from that little shop two blocks away. “Your favorite.”
It was a good excuse. Believable, even. But you knew the truth of his rhythms by now—the way he slipped away in the middle of the night, the way his shirts came back rumpled, his hair windblown. Something in your gut whispered that he hadn’t just gone for bagels. You crossed your arms. “You could’ve left a note. Or texted. I woke up and—” You swallowed, voice thinner than you meant. “I didn’t know where you were.”
His face softened, guilt pooling in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You’re right. I should’ve left something. I wasn’t thinking.”
The sincerity in his voice made it hard to hold onto your frustration. He looked so… earnest, standing there with bagels and coffee, like all he wanted was to take care of you. Still, the question pressed against your chest: Where were you, Clark?
Instead, you sank onto the couch, pulling a bagel from the bag. “One of these days, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”
He sat beside you, his thigh warm against yours, and passed you your coffee. “Then I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
You shot him a look over the rim of your cup. “Big words for a guy who disappears in the middle of the night.”
He chuckled softly, leaning down to kiss your temple. “Fair. I’ll try harder. Promise.” The heat of his lips lingered, but so did the empty space you’d woken to.
And as you bit into your bagel, chewing slowly, you couldn’t help wondering if you’d ever get the real answer about where Clark Kent went when he left you behind.
By lunchtime, you’d almost convinced yourself not to mention it. Almost. But then Marcy slid into the booth across from you at your favorite café, setting her latte down with a thud, and gave you that look—the one that said she knew you were holding something back. “You’ve got that face,” she said before you could even unwrap your sandwich.
“What face?” you asked, feigning innocence.
“The one that says, ‘my perfect boyfriend did something less-than-perfect, and now I don’t know if I should be worried or if I’m just being neurotic.’” She sipped her drink. “So. Out with it.”
You sighed, picking at the corner of your napkin. “He left. Again.”
Marcy leaned forward instantly, eyes sharp. “Left? As in, middle of the night left?”
“Yeah. I woke up and he was gone. No note, no text, nothing. Just—” You shook your head. “Empty bed.”
“Okay, that’s strike… what, three? Four?”
You bit your lip. “He came back in the morning. With coffee. And bagels.”
Marcy rolled her eyes so hard you swore she saw the inside of her skull. “Classic male deflection. Disappear mysteriously, then show up with food. Works every time.”
“It’s not like that,” you protested quickly, though your voice wavered. “He looked guilty. He said he couldn’t sleep and went out. And he remembered my exact order.”
“Sweetheart, remembering your bagel order doesn’t erase the fact that he Houdini’d out of your apartment while you were asleep.”
You pressed your hands around your cup, warmth seeping into your palms. “I don’t think he’s… cheating or anything. That’s not him. But…” You hesitated, the words tasting heavy on your tongue. “I feel like he’s hiding something.”
Marcy tilted her head, considering you. “Do you want to know what it is?”
“Of course I do,” you said, frustration bubbling in your chest. “But every time I get close to asking, he looks at me like—like he’s carrying the weight of the world, and I can’t bring myself to pile more on him.”
Marcy reached across the table, resting her hand over yours. Her usual sarcasm softened for once. “Listen. Maybe he is hiding something big. Maybe it’s not even about you. But you deserve honesty. You can’t keep waking up to an empty bed, wondering if he’s coming back.” You nodded slowly, her words hitting deeper than you wanted to admit. Marcy pulled her hand back, smirking again to cut the tension. “Also, for the record? If he’s sneaking out to do something boring like karaoke practice, I expect full disclosure when you find out.”
You laughed weakly, though the sound didn’t quite reach your chest. “Yeah. Deal.”
But as you sipped your coffee, the unease lingered. Because no matter how sweet Clark was—no matter how many bagels or bouquets or apologies he offered—the truth was still there, just out of reach.
And sooner or later, you were going to need to know it.
---
Saturday mornings with Clark had become something you looked forward to all week. You’d woken early without even needing your alarm, already planning which stalls you’d drag him to first—the bakery for croissants, the honey vendor who always slipped you a free sample, the flower stand where Clark always insisted on buying something “because you look like you belong in a field of sunflowers.”
The tote bag was already folded in your purse when you left your apartment, humming with quiet anticipation. You got there ten minutes early, half-expecting him to already be waiting. That was his thing—early, with two coffees, one exactly the way you liked it. But when the clock hit the top of the hour, there was no sign of him. You lingered near the entrance, checking your phone. No texts. You typed a quick one—Here! Where are you?—and waited. The bubbles never appeared.
Minutes stretched. Ten. Fifteen. You pretended to browse a stand of homemade candles, pretending not to notice couples walking hand in hand past you, laughing and carrying bags of produce. You tried calling. Straight to voicemail. By the half-hour mark, your stomach wasn’t just empty—it was twisted.
You sat down on a bench at the edge of the market, clutching your tote bag like it might anchor you. The sun was warm, the air smelled like bread and basil, but all you could feel was the pit forming in your chest. He hadn’t just texted. He hadn’t said I’m late or I’ll be there soon. He was just… gone.
You tried not to think about the last time. The broken phone. The story about being caught up in the chaos while Superman fought whoever it was off. You tried not to wonder what excuse he would bring this time, what little gesture he’d use to smooth over the sharp edge of your worry. But more than anything, you tried not to wonder if this was the beginning of the end.
Because sitting there, alone in a crowd of people bustling through their weekend routines, you realized something painful, Clark made you feel safer than anyone ever had… until the moments when he didn’t show up at all. And those moments were starting to come more often.
You held out for almost an hour. Long enough that the croissant stand sold out. Long enough that the flowers wilted a little in the heat. Long enough that the ache of disappointment settled bone-deep. Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. You folded your empty tote back into your bag, stood from the bench, and walked home with your phone silent in your pocket.
By the time you got back to your apartment, your chest felt tight in a way that no heating pad or Clark Kent smile could soften. You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes, and sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.
It wasn’t just that he’d missed the date. It was that he hadn’t told you. Not a text, not a call. Just… silence. The knock on your door didn’t come until late afternoon. When you opened it, there he was, hair windblown, shirt wrinkled, glasses smudged again. He had that look—guilty, apologetic, sheepish. In one hand he held a paper bag, the familiar bakery logo printed on the side. “I’m so sorry,” he said immediately, words tumbling out before you could even decide if you wanted to let him in. “I got caught up—there was this fire on 8th, and the street was shut down, and it all got so—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I should’ve called. I know.”
You crossed your arms, the sting of waiting in the sun still sharp. “Clark, we were supposed to meet at ten. You didn’t text. You didn’t pick up when I called. I just… I sat there.”
He winced, stepping closer, holding the bag out like a peace offering. “I know. I hate that I left you waiting like that. I grabbed croissants—they had some left at the bakery, somehow.”
You took the bag automatically, though it felt heavier than just pastries. “That’s not the point.”
“I know,” he said again, softer this time. His eyes were earnest, wide behind his crooked glasses. “You matter more than anything, I swear. I just—” He faltered, his jaw tightening, something unspoken hanging there. “Sometimes things happen and I can’t… I can’t explain them right away.”
Your heart squeezed, anger and worry warring inside you. “I don’t need you to be perfect, Clark. I just need you to show up. Or at least let me know why you can’t.”
He nodded quickly, stepping closer until his hands hovered near your arms, not quite touching. “You’re right. I’ll do better. I will. Please don’t think this means I don’t want to be there. Because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.”
And God help you, you believed him. Even as your doubt gnawed, even as the silence between texts stretched longer each time, the way he said it—raw, pleading—made you want to forgive him. You let him pull you into his arms, let him tuck his chin over your head like he could shield you from the very pain he’d caused. But later, as you sat together on the couch sharing croissants gone a little stale, you couldn’t stop the thought from circling back: What keeps pulling you away from me, Clark?
Clark stayed. Not just through dinner—which he insisted on cooking from whatever was in your fridge, humming off-key while he stirred pasta sauce—but through the soft, quiet hours afterwards, when the city’s glow seeped in through the curtains and the apartment settled into stillness.
He was attentive, almost overly so. He poured your wine before you asked, fetched your blanket before you reached for it, queued up your comfort show without needing a reminder. Every small gesture felt like a peace offering, like he was trying to stitch over the morning’s absence with warmth and familiarity.
You sat curled against him on the couch, your legs draped over his, your cheek against his chest. The steady beat of his heart filled your ear, grounding you. And yet, you couldn’t shake the memory of waiting at the market, of the empty bench, of your phone silent in your hand.
Clark shifted slightly, pressing a kiss into your hair. “You’re quiet,” he murmured.
“Just tired,” you lied.
He hummed, like he half-believed you. His hand rubbed slow circles over your arm, his touch gentle, patient. The kind of touch that usually melted every sharp edge inside you. Tonight, though, it made your throat tighten. You tilted your head up, studying him in the low light. His glasses caught a glint from the TV, hiding his eyes, but the rest of his face was open, soft, like he belonged nowhere else but here. “I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate you,” you said quietly.
He blinked, surprised. “I never think that.”
“I just…” Your words tangled, heavy with the truth you weren’t ready to spill. I just need to know where you go. Why you leave. Why I can’t always count on you. Instead, you swallowed it back. “I don’t want us to end up resenting each other.”
His hand stilled for a beat before he cupped your face, turning you gently so you were looking right at him. “I could never resent you. Not for anything.” His voice was low, steady, full of something that felt too big for the space between you.
The sincerity in his eyes broke down whatever was left of your defenses. You leaned into his hand, closing your eyes as his thumb brushed your cheek. “Stay tonight,” you whispered. “Don’t leave.”
“I won’t,” he promised without hesitation. And this time, he didn’t. He stayed through the credits, through the late-night reruns, through the drift of your eyelids. You fell asleep with him holding you, his chin resting lightly on the crown of your head. When you woke in the middle of the night, just for a moment, you reached across the bed—and he was still there. Warm, solid, his arm heavy around your waist.
Relief flooded you, soft and fragile. For now, at least, he’d kept his word. But even as you closed your eyes again, drifting back into sleep, you knew one night couldn’t erase the questions piling up inside you. Soon, you’d have to ask.
---
Sunlight warmed the edges of the curtains, spilling across the floor in slow gold. You blinked awake slowly, the kind of waking where your body resisted because it was too comfortable, too cocooned. Clark was still there.
For a beat you didn’t move, just listened to his breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. His arm was still around your waist, heavy but secure, anchoring you in place. He always held you like he thought you might slip away if he loosened his grip.
You turned your head slightly, watching him in the half-light. His glasses sat on the nightstand, forgotten, and without them his features looked sharper, somehow more striking. There was something in the lines of his face that always seemed just a little… different when he wasn’t wearing them. You shook the thought away, tucking it back where all your other quiet questions about him lived.
Clark stirred, eyelids fluttering, and a lazy smile curved across his mouth when he saw you awake. “Morning,” he rumbled, his voice rough with sleep.
“Morning,” you echoed, unable to stop the small smile tugging at your own lips.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then sat up slightly, stretching one arm. “Don’t move. I’ll get breakfast.”
You propped yourself on your elbow, watching as he padded into the kitchen in his undershirt, the lines of his back broad and solid. It should’ve felt strange, this kind of domesticity. It was still new, still fragile. But instead it felt inevitable—like waking up to Clark in your kitchen was how mornings were supposed to be. By the time you wandered in, he had eggs sizzling in the pan and coffee brewing. He turned at the sound of your steps, his smile soft. “Perfect timing. Sit.”
You obeyed, sliding into a chair as he set a plate in front of you. Toast, eggs, and coffee fixed exactly the way you liked it. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, though your heart wasn’t in it.
“Ridiculously good at breakfast,” he countered, sliding into the chair across from you with his own plate.
You ate in easy silence for a while, the clink of silverware filling the space. But as you sipped your coffee, your eyes kept straying to him—his neatness, the way his glasses were back on, the way he smiled at you like you were the best part of his day.
And under it all, the memory of yesterday tugged at you. The empty market bench. The broken promises. The cracks he kept smoothing over with bagels, with croissants, with coffee and warmth.
You set your mug down, the words on the tip of your tongue. Clark, where do you go? Why do you leave? What aren’t you telling me?
But then he reached across the table, his large hand curling over yours, his thumb brushing gently against your knuckles. “I like this,” he said quietly. “Just us. Starting the day together.”
Your chest tightened. You wanted to ask, wanted to demand answers. Instead, you let his warmth soften you again, let yourself smile back even as the questions burrowed deeper. Because for now, Clark was here. And you weren’t ready to risk losing that—not yet.
---
The night had started like any other. Takeout cartons stacked on the coffee table, an old movie playing in the background, Clark sprawled comfortably beside you with his long legs taking up half the couch. He’d stayed late all week—he’d made you breakfast, walked you to work twice, even surprised you at your office with your favorite drink. For a moment, you’d started to believe the cracks were sealing themselves.
But belief wasn’t the same as certainty. And certainty was what you needed. So when the movie ended and you excused yourself to change, you didn’t reach for your oversized T-shirt or soft flannel pants. You reached for the pajamas—the silk ones Marcy had teased you about, the ones that had made Clark’s ears turn scarlet the first time you’d worn them.
You checked your reflection once in the mirror, nerves buzzing in your stomach. It wasn’t about seduction—not really. It was about proof. If he stayed tonight, maybe you could stop worrying. Maybe you could stop imagining all the shadows in the spaces he left behind. You stepped back into the living room, heart hammering.
Clark was loosening his tie, standing near the couch. He turned when he heard you, and just like before, his reaction was immediate. His eyes widened, his breath caught, and his hands stilled on the knot of fabric at his throat. “Oh.”
You leaned casually against the doorframe, forcing a smile. “Thought I’d get comfortable.”
He swallowed hard, his ears already pink. “You… you look—” His voice faltered, and he cleared his throat, tugging at his collar like the air had gone thin.
You crossed the room slowly, fingers brushing the tie still loose at his chest. “Stay tonight,” you said softly, tilting your head up at him. “With me.”
For a moment, you thought it had worked. His hands twitched at his sides, his gaze flickering down to your mouth, every line of his body taut with want. You tugged lightly on his tie, urging him closer, and his breath stuttered.
Then his head snapped toward the window. You barely had time to register the sudden change in his posture before he stepped back, stumbling slightly, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug. His expression shifted—alarm, urgency—something you’d never seen cut so sharply across his face. “Clark?” you asked, your stomach dropping.
“I—I have to go,” he blurted, already reaching for his coat. His voice was rushed, uneven, almost panicked. “I’m sorry, I—”
“What? Why?” You took a step after him, confusion and hurt rising in your throat.
“I just—” He glanced at you, eyes wide, torn, like he wanted to explain but couldn’t. “I’ll call you. I promise.”
And then he was gone—half-stumbling into his shoes, out the door before you could take another step. The echo of it rattled through the apartment, leaving you standing barefoot in silk, the air still humming with the ghost of his almost-touch.
You stared at the closed door, your pulse pounding in your ears. This time, there had been no excuse. No broken phone, no croissants, no story about Superman. Just raw urgency in his eyes, the kind that left you cold. And for the first time, you couldn’t convince yourself it didn’t mean something.
By the time you made it into the office the next morning, you’d barely slept. You’d lain awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, Clark’s hurried exit replaying again and again in your head—the way his eyes had darted toward the window, the almost-panicked way he’d stumbled over himself getting out the door. So when Marcy appeared at your cubicle, steaming latte in hand, you didn’t even bother with small talk. “He left again,” you said flatly, before she could open her mouth.
Her eyes went wide, and she perched herself on the edge of your desk like she was settling in for a story. “Again? When?”
“Last night.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “He was there. He was staying. And then… I don’t know, he just—heard something? Looked out the window? And bolted. Like I didn’t even exist.”
Marcy whistled low. “Oof. Not good.” She sipped her latte thoughtfully. “Okay, let’s brainstorm worst-case scenarios. Cheating. Secret family. Double life. Serial killer.”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Marcy—”
“No, think about it!” She ticked off her fingers. “Cheater? Bad, but common. Secret family? Messy, but at least he’s not wasting all his emotional energy on you. Serial killer? Well…” She tilted her head dramatically. “What’s worse, a cheater or a serial killer?”
Despite yourself, you barked out a laugh, muffled behind your palms. “That is not funny.”
“Oh, it’s hilarious,” she countered, smug. “I’d take a serial killer over a cheater any day. At least with a killer, you’re not competing with Susan from accounting.”
You dropped your hands, glaring at her through the exhaustion. “You’re insane.”
“I’m realistic,” she shot back, grinning. Then, softer, “but seriously, babe. If he’s running out like that? If he can’t even give you a reason? That’s not nothing.”
You sighed, slumping in your chair. “I know. But it doesn’t feel like cheating. When he looks at me—Marcy, it’s like I’m the only person in the world. I can’t explain it. But then he vanishes, and I’m left wondering if I imagined it all.”
Her expression softened, the teasing edge fading. “Then maybe he’s not a cheater. Maybe he’s not even a serial killer.”
“Thanks for that.”
“I’m just saying.” She nudged your shoulder. “Maybe he’s hiding something else. Something big. You’ve got to decide if you want to push him on it—or if you’re okay being in the dark.”
The words sat heavy in your chest. Because deep down, you already knew the answer: you weren’t okay in the dark. Not anymore. But the thought of shining a light on whatever Clark was hiding scared you more than you wanted to admit.
---
The knock came just after sunset. You weren’t surprised—it was almost a pattern now, Clark showing up late, carrying the weight of an apology in his posture. When you opened the door, there he was, hair neat but glasses slightly askew, a paper bag dangling from one hand and a bouquet of sunflowers in the other. He smiled, soft and tentative, like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him in. “I brought dinner,” he said gently. “And flowers. To say I’m sorry.”
You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him enter. He set the bag on the table, laid the flowers carefully in a vase like they were something fragile. Then he turned back to you, his expression earnest, pleading. “I shouldn’t have left like that,” he said, voice low. “I know it hurt you. I don’t ever want to hurt you.”
Your throat tightened. “Then why do you keep doing it?”
He flinched, just slightly, but recovered with that same soft steadiness. “Sometimes… things come up. Things I can’t explain right away. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be here. With you.”
You pressed your hands into your arms, trying to hold yourself together. “Clark, I waited for you. At the farmer’s market. At dinner. In bed. Over and over again, I wait. And you leave.”
He took a step closer, desperation bleeding into his voice. “I come back. Every time, I come back.”
“But I don’t know if you will!” The words burst out, sharper than you intended. Your chest ached, eyes burning as you forced yourself to look at him. “I can’t keep doing this—wondering where you are, why you left, if you’re okay. I can’t keep waking up to an empty bed and convincing myself it doesn’t mean anything.”
His face crumpled, like the ground had shifted under him. “Don’t say that.”
“Clark…” Your voice broke, tears slipping free. “You’re everything I want. You’re kind, and sweet, and you make me feel like I matter. But then you vanish, and it’s like I don’t know you at all. And I can’t—” You shook your head, sobbing quietly. “I can’t do this anymore. Not like this.”
He stared at you, stricken, words caught in his throat. His hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure he had the right. “I wish I could tell you,” he whispered finally, voice rough. “I wish I could tell you everything. You don’t know how much I want to. But—” He stopped himself, biting the words back. His chest rose and fell with a shudder.
You swallowed hard, wiping at your cheeks. “Then tell me. Please. Because if you can’t… I don’t know how we’re supposed to keep going.”
The silence between you stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. And for the first time since you’d met him, you weren’t sure if his sweetness, his apologies, his flowers, could make this right. Clark stood there, chest rising and falling, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as though even they were weary of carrying this lie. His hand flexed at his side, and then, with a shaky breath, he spoke. “Close your eyes,” he said softly.
You blinked at him, stunned. “Clark, this isn’t—”
“Please.” His voice was raw, desperate. “Just… if you trust me, close your eyes.” The tremor in his tone stilled your protests. Your heart pounded, but slowly—hesitantly—you let your eyes fall shut. “Do you trust me?” he asked, closer now.
You swallowed hard. “Yes.”
For a moment, there was only the silence of your apartment—the hum of the fridge, the faint city noise beyond the window. Then Clark’s hands were at your waist, warm and steady, and he drew you gently against him. “Hold on to me,” he murmured.
Before you could ask why, the ground shifted. Your stomach swooped, your hair lifted in a rush of wind. Instinctively, you clung to him, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt. Air whipped around you, cool and rushing, and a gasp tore from your throat. “Clark!”
“Shh,” he soothed, his voice steady even through the roar of wind. “I’ve got you.”
You cracked your eyes open—and your breath caught. The city stretched out below you in a wash of lights and motion, sprawling farther than you’d ever seen it. Streets glimmered like veins of gold, buildings pierced the sky around you, and the river shone silver in the moonlight. You weren’t in your apartment anymore. You were flying.
And Clark—Clark was the one holding you. Your gaze snapped to him, the wind tousling his hair, his glasses gone, his eyes impossibly blue, sharp and unhidden in the night. The face you knew, but different—clearer, bolder, his. Realization crashed into you like a tidal wave. “You…” Your voice shook. “You’re—”
“Superman.” He said it quietly, the word almost reverent, as if he were confessing a sin instead of revealing himself. “It’s me.”
Your chest tightened, tears stinging your eyes. All the absences, the broken phones, the midnight disappearances—suddenly they made sense. Not cheating. Not lies. Not betrayal. He hadn’t been leaving you for someone else. He’d been leaving you for everyone else.
“I should have told you sooner,” he continued, guilt threading every word. “But I was scared. Scared of what it would mean for you. For us. I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
You shook your head, still clutching him tightly as the city rushed below. “Clark, I—God, I thought you were cheating, or hiding some secret family, or—I don’t even know.” Your voice cracked. “But this? You were out saving people while I was sitting at home wondering why you didn’t text me back.”
His expression broke, raw and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before. “I wanted to protect you. I thought keeping you in the dark would keep you safe. But it hurt you, and I hate that. I never wanted to hurt you.”
You stared at him, at the impossible truth in front of you, at the man who was both the sweetest, gentlest soul you’d ever known and the most powerful being on Earth. And against all reason, you laughed, shaky and breathless. “Marcy’s gonna lose her mind when she finds out I was worried you were a serial killer.”
Clark blinked, startled, then let out a stunned, nervous laugh of his own. Relief softened his features, even as his arms tightened protectively around you. “I don’t care if you’re Superman,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the tears on your cheeks. “I just need you to be honest with me. I just need you.”
He looked at you like you’d hung the stars yourself. “You have me. Always.” The descent was so smooth you barely felt it, the city tilting back into place as Clark slowed, wind softening against your skin until your feet touched down on your balcony. His arms didn’t leave you right away; instead, he held you steady, like he wasn’t sure if your legs would trust the ground again.
You weren’t sure they would either. Heart still hammering, you clutched at his shirt for a moment before finally forcing yourself to loosen your grip. The apartment behind you looked painfully ordinary—blanket draped over the couch, empty mug still on the table. And yet, everything had shifted.
Clark set you down fully, then stepped back just enough to give you space. Without his glasses, he looked both impossibly familiar and startlingly new. His eyes, unshielded, searched your face with something raw in them—hope tangled with fear.
You let out a shaky laugh, pressing a hand to your forehead. “You’re Superman. My boyfriend is Superman.”
His mouth curved into a small, almost self-conscious smile. “That’s… yeah. That’s me.”
You dropped your hand, meeting his gaze again. “All those nights you left. The phone. The farmer’s market. You were—”
“Saving people,” he finished softly. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’d always come back. I just… couldn’t tell you where I was going.”
A lump rose in your throat. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? Sitting alone, thinking I wasn’t enough? That you didn’t want me?”
His face broke, guilt carved deep in every line. He closed the space between you, carefully, his hands hovering near your arms like he wanted to hold you but was waiting for permission. “I hated it. Every time I left you, I hated it. But I thought if I told you the truth… you’d look at me like the rest of the world does. Like a symbol. Not a man.”
You shook your head, tears threatening again. “Clark, I’ve never wanted Superman. I’ve always wanted you. The guy who brings me bagels, who sings off-key while he cooks, who worries if I’ve had enough coffee before work. That’s the man I’m in love with.”
His breath hitched, and this time he didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it stole the air from your lungs. “I love you too,” he whispered into your hair. “God, I love you.”
You melted against him, arms circling his waist, your cheek pressed to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, the tension that had lived in your chest eased. The cracks weren’t cracks at all—they were pieces of a puzzle you hadn’t been allowed to see. When you finally pulled back, you caught his face in your hands, studying him with a small, breathless laugh. “You’re really Superman. And all this time, I thought you were sneaking off to… I don’t know, karaoke night or a secret family.”
His cheeks flushed, sheepish even now. “No secret family. And I’m terrible at karaoke.”
The laugh bubbled out of you, unstoppable. You leaned up and kissed him, slow and certain, feeling him smile against your mouth. When you finally parted, you rested your forehead against his. “Next time, don’t let me sit in the dark, okay? If you have to go, just… tell me. Even if it’s just a look. I can live with Superman. I can’t live with silence.”
His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with infinite care. “No more silence. I promise.”
You leaned into the kiss fully, your arms wrapping around his neck, and for a few precious seconds there was no Superman, no danger, no lies—just Clark, just you, just the steady warmth of him choosing to stay.
Summary: You bring a guy out for drinks with the team, it’s safe to say your boss is very clearly jealous. He decides to ruin the night for everyone.
Warnings: the team is working a gross case, attack, choking, near death, angst
Word Count: 4.2 K
you guys… jealous!hotch and angry!reader but i lowkey love it lol
-
The bullpen was watching you and it wasn’t for the first time this week. The past few weeks you have been determined to get back out on the dating scene. You’ve spent months hung up on your boss. Months of reading into certain looks and touches that convinced you he felt the same.
Last month you stood in Aaron’s office with your arms crossed and your heart pounding.
“You don’t get to look at me like that and pretend it’s nothing.”
Hotch didn’t even flinch, “You’re reading into something that isn’t there.”
It stung even more than you thought it would, even though you knew he was lying. He simply stares back, his face void of anything you can read.
You nod once, “Fine. Then I’m done waiting for something that doesn’t exist.”
You meant it, and you walked out of his office without looking back. The team knew something had changed, but neither of you talked about it. Typically you and Hotch partnered up for most cases, but the following one you spent at opposite sides of the conference room and never alone in the same car. It went on like that for weeks.
“Second one this week,” Morgan mutters, leaning back in his chair watching you change out your shoes at your desk. He lets out a low whistle.
“Third.” Emily corrects.
You only look up so you can give them both a glare and they smirk back. You stand up and grab your purse, turning to face the audience you’ve gained since changing out of your work clothes.
“I will see you all tomorrow,” You smirk, finally tossing over your shoulder, “Enjoy your paperwork, everybody.”
Morgan offers a round of applause and you laugh all the way to the elevator. Rossi steps out of his office, having witnessed the entire exchange through his window. He has no doubt that Aaron did the same.
“Kid’s poking the bear.” He comments, looking over to the half-closed blinds.
The team looks over, making it obvious their subject had switched to their boss. Hotch forces himself to focus on the report in front of him, not the fact that you’ve left at five everyday for weeks, you used to stay almost as late as him.
The next day, you’re getting grilled while trying to make your morning coffee.
“Okay,” Garcia cheers, “I need details on this one!”
You roll your eyes, “His name is Ethan, he’s a lawyer.”
Morgan perks up, “A lawyer?”
“Mhm.” You stir your coffee, “Cute. Smart. Little arrogant. Thinks he’s the smartest person in every room he walks into.”
He was also charming and able to keep up with you better than most men could.
Rossi huffs a laugh, walking in for the day and straight for his office, “You got a type, kid.”
You roll your eyes even though he can’t see you.
“Alright!” Emily walks up to join, “Who’s in for drinks tonight?”
“I’m in.” Morgan nods.
“Me too!” Garcia agrees.
“I already have plans.” You bite your lip, ready for this to start all over again.
“Of course she does!” Emily laughs.
“Bring him!” Garcia insists, “Is it dinner? Just come find us after! We’ll still be out.”
You give her a skeptical look, “I’ll think about it.”
It’s truly a terrible idea. You can’t think of a worse one, but you also know it’ll be entertaining at the very least.
You didn’t know it but later that night, the second Garcia squealed and said you and Ethan were on your way, Aaron decided he wouldn’t be driving home tonight. He accepted scotch from Rossi instead of his typical beer.
You had fully warned Ethan before coming that he was walking into the lion’s den. You knew it would happen, but his ego would never allow him to bow out from that. A table full of profilers after a few drinks? A cake walk.
You walk into the bar, Ethan’s hand carefully latched to your waist. When Aaron spots the two of you weaving over to them he nearly drops his glass. You went home to change before this date, you’re wearing a little more makeup than usual and you did your hair. You always look beautiful, but tonight you’ve highlighted it even more.
“There she is.” Emily grins.
“Y/n!” Garcia cheers, she gets up to pull you in for a big hug.
You laugh and hug her back tightly, your shirt riding up in the process. Ethan’s thumb traces over the newly exposed skin, Hotch slams his glass down on the table. Morgan and Rossi look at him, but it goes mostly unnoticed by the rest of the group.
You introduce Ethan to the group and tell him names as you go.
“So, you must like our girl Y/n here?” Derek smirks.
“Oh yeah.” Ethan smiles, “She had that whole ‘I can read you in thirty seconds’ thing. There are not a lot of people who have left me speechless.”
Laughter and smiles circle the table, you want to hide the slight blush growing on your cheeks but you know there’s no point. You can feel the daggers coming from Aaron from the other side of the table.
It started small. Little comments, subtle enough that anyone else might’ve missed them. Sadly, not a team of behavioral profilers.
He raises his glass up to get a refill, something he knows tomorrow morning he will deeply regret.
Ethan doesn’t miss how sharp his tone comes off, “It has its moments. Not everyone needs a gun to feel important.”
Morgan goes completely still and Garcia covers up her wide open mouth with her hand. JJ pinches the bridge of her nose.
You sigh under your breath, “Okay-”
Hotch leans forward, “No. Some of us prefer work that actually matters.”
The table falls completely silent at the dig. It doesn’t even feel like a Friday night at a crowded bar anymore, you just feel your heart thudding against your chest.
Ethan smiles, “And some of us prefer not to build our entire identity around a badge.”
“Oh, this is fun.” Rossi mutters into his glass.
“Guys,” You try again, “We’re not doing this.”
Neither of them are listening, they just continue to glare at each other. Eventually Ethan leans back, his gaze flicking between you and Hotch.
“Okay, I get it now.” He says slowly.
“What?” Hotch asks.
Ethan huffs a soft laugh that lacks real humor, “You don’t like me.”
Aaron simply raises his brows to challenge.
“But it’s not because of what I do.”
Your stomach drops, “Ethan-”
He doesn’t look at you, “It’s because of her.”
He nods in your direction and Aaron’s grip on his glass tightens.
“Careful.” Morgan murmurs a warning.
Ethan presses on, “So let me ask you something, are you just her boss?”
“That’s enough.” You snap.
“Did you miss your chance?” Ethan is playing with fire now.
It was already too late, you could see something in Hotch’s eyes snap.
“Hotch.” You warn.
He leans forward, “She’s still single to me.”
Aaron’s words hit the table like a gunshot went off. Ethan is quick to his feet, his chair scraping behind him.Ethan lets out another laugh, “That’s your angle? She’s ‘available’ so it’s fair game?”
“I’m stating a fact.” He manages to keep it controlled, but you can hear the real anger hiding under the surface.
“No,” Ethan shakes his head, “You’re staking a claim.”
Aaron’s chair scraps loudly when he bursts up, he’s on his feet and right in front of Ethan. Hotch has a couple inches on him, but not by much.
“Oh, absolutely not.” You stand between them, “You two are fucking ridiculous.”
Neither of them move a muscle.
“Hotch!” You yell, “Ethan, back off.”
Neither of them move still, you look back at the table and Emily is biting her straw with a smile. It’s clear none of them will be any help in breaking this up.
“Aaron.” You try again, pleading. His eyes flick to yours, they soften and he takes a few steps back.
Ethan runs a hand through his hair, “You know what? This-this is insane.”
“Yeah,” You mutter, “It is.”
“You didn’t tell me you had…this.”
Your throat tightens, “This is nothing.”
Ethan looks over your shoulder at Hotch and the rest of the group. Nobody verbally argued anything different, but the silence was saying everything you refused.
“Right,” Ethan leans down and presses a kiss to your hairline, “Call me when you figure that out.”
He walks toward the bar door and disappears before you can even process what just happened. You look back at Aaron, waiting for him to say something. Anything. He opens his mouth to start but hesitates.
“What?” You spit, grabbing your coat, “Now, you’ve got nothing to say?”
His jaw simply tenses and he shifts his weight to the other foot. You brush past him faster than the team has ever seen you move off the clock. The second the door slams shut, Hotch can move again. He goes straight after you.
“Hotch-” JJ starts but he’s already gone.
He calls your name the second he’s out the door. You don’t stop, your heels hit the pavement in sharp fast beats. You dig your phone out of your purse, trying to focus on anything else right now.
“Y/n.” He’s closer now, you spin around so fast that he almost runs into you.
“What?” You snap.
He lets out a few heavy breaths, buying him a couple seconds.
“You shouldn’t be walking alone this upset.”
You stare at him, “That’s what you went with?”
His jaw tightens, “That’s not what I-”
“No, go ahead.” You cut him off, throwing your hands up in the air, “Profile me. Tell me how I’m feeling, since you clearly have me all figured out.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to!” Your voice cracks from the volume you’re reaching, “You just sat there like you had any right to say something like that.”
He takes a step closer, “He was pushing boundaries.”
“So were you!”
You take a half step back and he notices.
It’s your turn to laugh humorlessly now, “God, I mean you couldn’t even admit it when I gave you the chance. I stood in your office and practically spelled it out for you, and you shut me down like I was imagining things.”
“I was trying to protect-”
“Don’t you dare say you were trying to protect me or the team.” You pull your jacket tighter around your body, “Look at us right now? How is this better? You don’t get to deny it exists and then turn around and act like you have some kind of claim when someone else shows up. You were so out of line.”
His brows soften, “I never said I had a claim.
“You didn’t have to,” You shoot back, “You practically announced it.”
“She’s still single to me.” He echoes his words from earlier, it finally hitting him with everything that he said. In front of the team. In front of you. He was too busy seeing red to realize how far he was going.
You point at him, “That. That right there. You can’t say stuff like that and then hide behind protocol and professionalism like this means nothing.”
“It doesn’t mean nothing.” He blurts.
Your breath hitches, and just for a second its feels like the two of you could be on the brink of something great.
“Then what does it mean, Aaron?” You ask, softer now but somehow it makes Aaron feel worse, “Because from where I’m standing, it means you only care when it’s convenient for you or because you don’t like the person I’m seeing.”
That hits him hard, he doesn’t even try to hide the regret and pain.
“That’s not true.”
“Then prove it.”
Silence. He spent years building control and boundaries for this job. You nod once like you had expected it.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
You take another step away.
“I meant what I said, Hotch. I’m done waiting.”
“Y/n-” He tries.
You’re already turning and walking away.
“Don’t follow. I’ll text Rossi when I make it home.”
Ouch.
The weekend was quiet and passed far too slowly for Aaron. He called. Once first thing Saturday morning, and then twice that afternoon. He attempted once on Sunday, but that one went straight to voicemail so he didn’t try after that. He never left a message, he didn’t even know what he’d say if you picked up.
Monday morning felt wrong.
You walked in right on time, professional and composed. You don’t lift your head in the direction of Hotch’s office once and it doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Morning.” JJ says gently as you pass.
You smile, “Morning.”
Morgan leans back in his chair while you set down your bag and get settled at your desk.
“You good?”
You look up, “I’m great.”
Spencer frowns, “Your tone suggests-
“Reid.” You warn, taking on a whole new tone that doesn’t need explanation.
Hotch steps out of his office and all eyes go to him aside from yours. You don’t flinch, you don’t even look up. Rossi watches from the doorway to his office.
“Well,” he mutters just loud enough for Morgan, “somebody’s in the doghouse.”
Hotch waits for full attention but it doesn’t come.
“Conference room. Now.” His voice is steady, back to his usual command.
The team moves quickly, files in hand as they all move to the conference room. You slide into your seat without hesitation and accept the new file being passed out by Garcia.
Hotch starts the briefing, “We have three victims-”
He dives into the details and you flip open the file in front of you. You can feel him watching you, the team is guilty of looking between you both as well but you don’t look up from the pages ahead of you.
“The geographic profile suggests the unsub is a local.” You comment.
Hotch somehow doesn’t miss a beat, “Agreed. The dump sites indicate familiarity with the area.”
Rossi hums, a small smile on his face.
“What clear, direct communication.”
“Dave.” Hotch warns with a sharp tone.
He holds up his hands, “What? I’m just saying, when things go unspoken, people tend to fill in the blanks. That can get messy.”
You pen stills from writing notes to look up at him. Rossi knows that you’ve ignored all of Hotch’s calls and had no plans on talking about this with him during the case. Rossi is trying to force your hand, or rather Aaron’s. You made yourself very clear last Friday.
“Noted.” He says cooly, “Now, if we’re done here-”
“We’re done.” He settles back easily with a smile.
Aaron gave him a look that was far from kind, “Wheels up in thirty.”
-
The jet was too quiet. The usual rhythm was off, no easy banter or teasing. None of the typical energy the team brings to each other that helps lighten the dark cases you usually face. You sit by the window, the file open but you have to fight to focus on each word. Hotch sits by himself towards the front of the plane.
Hotch holds onto his file with an iron grip, but his gaze is out the window. This is exactly what he’d tried to avoid. The entire team was feeling a fracture in team dynamic because of him.
The first day on the ground didn’t turn up much. Three different fields used as dump sites with symbols carved into old wood that didn’t quite make a pattern. Mutilated animal remains with each of the human remains.
Reid theorized ritual escalation. Rossi suggested an intense need for control and strong staging. You knew the unsub would be sharp, insightful, and detached. Ready to kill on sight.
Day two was worse. A new body was discovered, or at least what was left of one. JJ had to step away for a minute and you honestly wish you had joined her. Hotch steps up behind you.
“What do you see?” He asks carefully.
“Precision.” You reply evenly, “He’s not rushing. He’s comfortable and he’s got the time with them to do this.”
A beat.
“He thinks no one is going to stop him.” You add.
Hotch finally looks at you directly, “We will.”
You nod once, still not looking at him.
Day three, everything broke open. Garcia called the team just after noon.
“I found something,” Her voice tight, “The property records. I used the parameters you guys gave me looking through abandoned farmland just outside of the kill zone. There’s a spot of overlap between all of the dumpsites.”
Hotch was already moving, everyone else jumping up as well.
“Send the coordinates.”
“Already did.” She continues, “Uh, guys? The satellite image shows a structure.”
“A house?” JJ asks.
“Worse, a barn.”
The closer you got, the worse the smell became. It was heavy and rotting and sadly because of visiting all of the other dumpsites, it was now familiar.
“Stay sharp.” Hotch orders, the team fans out. Everyone surrounds the barn and Hotch gestures for everyone to circle the barn to get the back door covered as well before entering. You go down one side while Derek takes the other. You’re nearly around to the other side when your ankle gets snatched from underneath you. You hit the ground, hard.
You feel a large hand wrapped around your ankle. You look down to see a tall big man, he pulls you down a small set of stairs that are covered in old leaves and dirt. It looks like he’s pulling you down to the basement of the barn. You reach behind you trying to hold onto anything, your gun gone somewhere when he dropped you.
“Let go!” You kick hard enough to force him to let go.
Before you can stand fully he slams you hard into a wooden beam, the impact rattling you. He was big, and a hell of a lot stronger than you expected. You drive your elbow into his ribs, and then again, forcing a grunt out of him.
But he doesn’t stop, he only slows for a moment. He swings and you duck, he barely connects with your shoulder but it’s enough to send you stumbling. He lunges toward you and you manage to connect your fist with his jaw with your weight behind it. He stops all together, spitting blood on the ground.
“Bitch.”
“Hotch!” You scream, wherever the team is, it hopefully is still within earshot. You’re under exactly where they should be looking.
The man slams you into a wall again, but this time his hand grips your throat. Your ribs ache and your lungs start to scream. You reach out with everything you have to claw at the man. His grip remains steady and he tries to stay just out of reach.
A shot rings out, deafening in the small space.
The hand on your throat lessens, and the man in front of you drops to the ground. You’re close after, fighting to pull air back into your lungs on your hands and knees. Aaron is at your side in an instant, a hand on your back and the other on your face. He forces you to focus on him.
“Breathe.”
“I’m okay-”
“Y/n.” He warns.
You honestly shouldn’t have even tried that.
A few more moments pass, your breathing slowly returning closer to normal. The unsub still lays motionless on the floor a few feet away. You’re vaguely aware that Morgan is down here too, he stands in the doorway with his flashlight to illuminate the pit of a room you’ve been dragged into.
“Call an ambulance.” Hotch calls over his shoulder.
“No,” Your head snaps over to Morgan, “I’m fine!”
“You’re hurt.” Hotch demands, “Where?”
“My throat and ribs, but I can wait to be treated when we get back to town.”
Hotch makes a face that is clear he doesn’t like this idea.
You force yourself up, “Derek, can you give us a second?”
He nods and puts his phone back in his pocket.
With Derek gone, you’re forced to return Aaron’s stare. Concern and fear clear all over his face.
“I’m okay.” You repeat.
“You could’ve been seriously hurt.”
“Well, I wasn’t.” You shrug, “I’ve been worse off than this. You know it.”
“What if I didn’t come down here? What if I didn’t hear you?”
“I don’t know!” You shout back, “We’ll never know because you were. That’s the job, we’re a team. We rely on each other.”
Something in him broke.
“Don’t act like that didn’t just happen,” he shakes his head, “I thought I lost you.”
Your breath catches.
“I thought I was too late.”
You stare back, softer now “You weren’t.”
“No, but I could’ve been.”
You let the moment pass, you don’t really know what you can say to that.
“I was wrong.” He admits.
“About what?”
“Everything.” He clears his throat, “I never should’ve denied it, I never should have told you it wasn’t real. It wasn’t the truth.”
You still at the confession.
“I care about you,” he continues, “More than I should. More than what is appropriate, and I tried to bury it. I thought it would protect you and the team, but all I did was hurt you.”
Morgan is at the top of the stairs, pretending he can’t still hear everything. He sees the ambulance pull up, thankfully no sirens so you won’t know he called anyway.
“So all it took was a near death experience for you to say how you feel? Suddenly we’re doing emotional honesty?”
He doesn’t argue or deflect.
“I was wrong.” he repeats.
You blink, expecting more pushback or excuses. You study him for a second, waiting for the rest that never comes.
“Okay…” You say slowly.
You suddenly smirk, “So you really went with ‘she’s still single to me’ that was your big move?”
His jaw tightens while you laugh and immediately wince clutching your rib. Hotch is on you in an instant.
“That didn’t go how I wanted it to.” He admits.
“Oh no please,” you gesture, “Explain it to me, I’d love to hear the professional breakdown on that one.”
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, you can’t tell if it’s annoyance or amusement. You hope it's the latter.
“Not my finest moment,” He laughs dryly, “Somehow I always screw it up with you when I’m trying the hardest.”
“A tragedy.” You bite.
“Tell me about it.”
You snort and he gives you a rare smile.
“We’re not done talking about this.” You point at him, “I’m gonna make you work for it.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Okay.” You pause, “You’re being really sweet, but can we get the fuck out of here?”
“Yeah, absolutely.”
The jet was completely different on the flight back. The case was closed and the unsub was dead. The small town would sleep better tonight than they had in weeks.
Everyone settled into seats, everyone noticing Hotch take the seat next to yours.
Morgan’s eyebrows shoot up, “Oh, this is gonna be good.”
Rossi leans back with a satisfied sigh, “Finally.”
The jet took off and it was maybe thirty seconds before anyone said anything.
“So,” Emily starts, “are you two okay now, or?”
“Emily.” JJ warms.
“What? She’s asking a valid question.” Morgan defends.
You don’t even look up, “We’re working on it.”
“Mm,” Garcia hums on speaker, “That sounds promising.”
Hotch kept glancing at you, unable to stop noticing small things. He was not subtle in his gaze. After a minute, you lean your head back against the seat and look over at him.
“If you look at me like that one more time, I’m going to assume you think I’m concussed.”
His eyes shine warmly, “You might be.”
“Oh my god,” You roll your eyes, “I take it back, I preferred when you were emotionally repressed.”
A couple quiet laughs ripple across the cabin and you get your second smile from Hotch today. He reaches into his bag and pulls out your prescription, turns out they’ll give you hell of a drug if you go hand to hand with a human tank.
“You were slammed into a wall.” He reminds, shaking the bottle in front of you.
“Twice.” You stick your tongue out for good measure, taking the meds from him.
Across the cabin, the rest of the team is watching every movement. The way Hotch’s arm wraps around your shoulder carefully so you can lean against him. The conversation between you two has turned to whispers they can’t hear.
“They’re gonna be unbearable.” Emily shakes her head.
“He’ll keep it professional.” Rossi defends.
Morgan smirks, “And she’s going to make it impossible.”
JJ just smiles looking over at you both again.
“Yeah, I think they’ll figure it out.”
an// awe what a lil cutie!
of course, please let me know what you think!
the one where y/n laurier and will smith spoke back in college. it was a constant on and off, a constant back and fourth of feelings neither wanted to admit out of pure fear. eventually, the two couldn’t handle their feelings, and will said he was too focused on hockey to be with her. y/n blew up as pop musics new it girl, and will is the san jose sharks golden boy. and now? now she has a way of subtweeting the shark through her music.
chapters ⋆.𐙚 ̊
backstory, part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six
playlists ݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆
hurt my feelings soundtrack, hurt my feelings, the album
— you and lando have been together since you were in high school. you've never seen the need to tell people, to have to deal with the publicity that it'd get you. people think you're some kind of family member—a cousin, maybe, or just a really good family friend. one interview, one little slip up, and lando accidental reveals that you're a lot more than just that.
INCL. fem!reader, smau, marriage, pregnancy, lots of fluffy stuff! reader has a mini daschund called gigi, magui corceiro pics used, hard launch, lando's SO in love
RADIO CHECK: based on this req! ugh this was the cutest ever!!! loved this plot, hope you enjoy reading <3
liked by lando, flo_norris_showjumping and others
ynln some of the latest <3
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lando hi gigi
ynln she misses you!
lando i'll come see her soon :))
flo_norris_showjumping too cute!
liked by creator
username1 you're gorgeous
liked by creator
username2 awh her and lando's friendship!! so cute.
username3 GIGI!! the cutest dog i've ever seen
username4 are you and lando dating?
username5 she's just a really close family friend there's pics of them together when they were rlly young
username6 she's already got a boyfriend/husband'm pretty sure!
liked by ynln, oscarpiastri and others
lando mega week + gigi
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ynln awwww my baby
lando she loves me
ynln 🙄
username7 OSCAR CAMEOOO
username8 YESS AUSTRIA WIN
username9 landgoat
username10 WHOS DOG IS THAT
username11 @/ynln ‘s. she’s a family friend! really close w lando and his family
username12 oh she's gorg
username13 would've shipped them if not for the fact she's taken already. maybe even married? apparently a ring on her finger the last time she came to the paddock but she's so private no one knows anything
username14 good for her actually!!
view all story replies:
to @/ynln:
lando sneaky
ynln but you look so good
username15 you're so lucky you get to go to races!! ugh i wanna be childhood friends with an f1 driver
username16 WHERE'S GIGI!!
ynln had to leave her at home 😔
to @/f1updates
username17 is she with lando's family?
f1updates looks like it!
username18 do we know who she's dating?? heard rumors she's married
f1updates she's very private! no one knows anything other than she's with someone
username19 she's SOO gorg ugh
f1updates shame she isn't a wag…would've been one of the most popular there is
username20 rlly curious why no one's ever suspected the two of them dating. i mean i don't either but usually any other girl associated with a driver is automatically ‘dating’ them.
f1updates i think it's cause she's so close with his family it seems like she's more of a family member herself. if they were dating it'd be a different kinda vibe ig…
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ynln back home!
view comments
lilyzneimer 😍
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username21 THAT RINGGG
username22 her husband must be rich asf
username23 HUSBAND REVEAL THIRD PIC???
username24 omg finally hinting at your relationship
username25 GIVE US MOREEE
username26 no gigi pic </3
ynln she's spending the day with her ‘other parent’ lol
username27 missed you at the paddock last race :(
ynln unfortunately don't think i'll be at any races for a long while 😔 very veryyy busy
liked by ynln, mclaren and others
lando monster, gigi and kinder can life get any better
view comments
ynln is she my dog or yours?
lando both!
mclaren can't get better than that!!
liked by creator
username28 mr worldwideeee
username29 AWWW THE DOG
username30 not the kinder
username31 someone ship lando monster to me pls
username32 LANDO WDC THIS YEAR
[transcript: lando norris post-race interview, british grand prix]
int: lando! congratulations on your win today. how're you feeling?
norris: yeah—thanks, it's pretty amazing, of course, winning my home race. really thankful to the team, and everyone who's here to support me tonight. would be better if my wi—um. yeah, nevermind.
int: awh, c'mon. don't be shy.
norris: nah, it's fine. just wish someone was here right now, would've made it even better. i know she's watching though, so…
int: oh? are you hinting at—
norris: anyways. yeah, that's it. thank you.
view comments
username33 OMG?? IS HE NOT SINGLE?
username34 WAS HE ABT TO SAY GIRLFRIEND?
username35 NO SOUNDED LIKE A W. LIKE A NAME OR SOMETHING
username36 wife? perhaps??
username37 SURELY LANDO NORRIS CAN'T HAVE A WIFE THAT NO ONE KNOWS ABT?!??!
username38 omg surely not? who could it even be??
username39 ‘i know SHE'S watching' guys. lando norris isn't single omg
username40 WHO'S THE GIRLLL
username41 HARD LAUNCH NOW
liked by lando, f1 and others
ynln @/lando
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lando ❤️
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f1 CONGRATULATIONS!
mclarenf1 Incredibly exciting!! Congrats you two 🧡
max_fewtrell just about given the entire world a heart attack revealing it like this
ynln oops…
lando my fault!
oscarpiastri congrats!
carlossainz55 what a way to hard launch
alexandramalenaleclerc awh too cute!!
username42 WHAT.
username43 HELLO WTAF? GOOD MORNING??? HELLO
username44 okay so not only is lando norris TAKEN, he's got a wife and a baby?!
username45 WITH THE GIRL WE THOUGHT WAS JUST A FAMILY FRIEND
username46 oh my gosh it was so obvious looking back on it. we knew she had a ring why didn't we think it was lando???
username47 HOW DID YOU MANAGE TO HIDE THIS FOR SO LONG?
username48 all of you are talking abt the baby i wanna see the wedding pics
username49 WHO KNEW ABOUT THIS?? I SURE AS HELL DIDN'T.
username50 there's gonna be a mini lando running around the paddock in few years omg </3
lando a mini version of my wife you mean
[transcript: lando norris hungarian grand prix, media day interview]
int: lando! so great to have you back, especially considering the recent news. home race and the birth of your daughter. how are you?
norris: speechless, honestly. words cant describe it. i want nothing more than to be with her—my wife, and my daughter, of course. i would if time let me.
int: speaking of your wife, how long has it been? what's the story?
norris: we've been dating since high school. got married a year and a half ago, in may. never really needed to tell anyone, i guess.
int: who knew?
norris: only family, really. my close friends. some of the drivers like oscar.
int: well, we're estatic you decided to reveal it now. will we be seeing your wife and daughter in the paddock?
norris: not anytime soon. maybe abu dhabi? i don't want to push her—my wife, or my daughter. might be a little loud for her.
int: that's sweet. again, congratulations, and best of luck for this race weekend. any messages for those back home?
norris: i love you. so much. you and gigi and our little girl. i wish you were here as always, and i'm winning this one for you.
a/n: i know i said that this au is going in order but this blurb has been sitting in my half done folder for a week and it brought my mood up today so here ya go!
it starts with a suspicious kind of quiet.
the kind you don’t trust.
you’re in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, scrolling on your phone through client inspo pictures while something warms in the microwave.
will’s in the living room, half-watching a game, half-not paying attention.
and sienna?
too quiet.
you glance toward the living room, “will.”
“yeah?” he calls back.
“…where’s your daughter?”
there’s a pause.
“why is she my daughter when something’s wrong?” he shoots back.
you narrow your eyes, “will.”
he sits up a little, “…she was just here.”
“mmhm.”
you both listen.
nothing.
not a single sound.
“…okay,” he says slowly, “yeah, i don’t like that.”
you push off the counter immediately. “sienna?”
no answer.
will’s already standing now, “bug?”
still nothing.
you walk into the living room - empty.
toys scattered. blanket on the floor. cartoon still playing.
no sienna.
you and will make eye contact.
“…split up,” he says.
“oh my god,” you laugh nervously, already turning, “she’s two and a half, not a fugitive.”
“you say that, but -”
“sienna!” you call again, heading down the hallway.
and then -
a noise.
a weird noise.
you stop.
“…do you hear that?”
will tilts his head, “is that coming from -”
“the bathroom,” you both say at the same time.
you walk over slowly, hand on the door.
“…sienna?” you try.
a tiny voice answers -
“busy!”
you freeze.
will looks at you.
you look at him.
“…why is she busy?” he whispers.
“i don’t know,” you whisper back.
you push the door open.
and immediately -
regret it.
“oh my -”
will loses it first. a fit of full-on, can’t-breathe laughter.
because sienna is standing on a stool.
in front of the sink.
completely covered in soap.
hands, arms, shirt, cheeks - there are literal bubbles sliding down her face.
the sink is running.
overflowing.
foam everywhere.
“hi!” she says happily.
you blink, “what… are you doing?”
she looks down at herself, then back up at you, “wash.”
will is gone, doubled over, one hand on the counter. “she’s - she’s sanitizing -”
“will.”
you snap, trying not to laugh, “this is not funny.”
he points at sienna, wheezing, “she’s cleaner than the whole house -”
“WILL.”
you step forward quickly, turning off the water before it floods the counter completely.
“baby, what did you do?” you ask, trying to keep your voice calm.
she proudly holds up the soap bottle.
empty.
completely empty.
“…oh my god.”
“clean,” she says again.
will is still laughing behind you. “she used the entire thing -”
“i can see that!”
you grab a towel, trying to wipe her hands, but it just… spreads.
“why is it making more bubbles?” you mutter.
“science,” will says immediately, "remember high school -"
you glare at him.
he raises his hands. “i’m not helping, i know.”
sienna reaches for him suddenly, “dada!”
big mistake.
he steps closer -
and she grabs his hoodie.
with soapy hands.
leaving massive streaks of bubbles all over him.
there’s a pause.
you look at him.
he looks at his hoodie.
“…no way,” he says.
you try to hold it in.
you really do.
but then -
you start laughing.
a full giggle fit, you can’t-stop laughing.
“don’t you dare -” he starts.
“you told me it was funny!” you shoot back.
“not when it’s on me!”
sienna giggles, clapping her hands -
which just makes more bubbles fly everywhere.
“okay,” you say, trying to regain control, wiping your eyes, “bath. immediately. both of you.”
“both of us?” will repeats.
you point at his hoodie, “you’re involved now.”
he sighs dramatically, “this is unbelievable.”
“you encouraged her,” you say.
“i did not -”
sienna pokes his cheek.
more bubbles.
you lose it again.
and even he can’t hold it together after that, shaking his head, laughing under his breath as he picks her up - careful, but already accepting defeat.
“c’mon, bug,” he says, adjusting her on his hip, “let’s go get un…clean.”
“clean!” she corrects.
“yeah,” he mutters, glancing at you with a grin, “clean.”
you follow them down the hall, still smiling, still shaking your head.
L.O.M.L - OP81 (Sequel to The Great Papaya Meltdown)
Summary: After you found out that Oscar had met with his ex-girlfriend and forced you to expose your family to the world and everyone else in the paddock, the aftermath had only gotten worse. From sleeping in separate bedrooms, to sleeping in separate houses, will either of you be able to salvage what’s left of your marriage? When Nicole comes to your doorstep with a lasagne and an idea, this could be the only way to find your way back to each other.
A/N: The people, they yearn for part 2! Get snacks, it’s a long one!
First part
You stand beside him, rigid, your arm loosely threaded through his, wearing a smile as artificial as half the teeth in the room. You hold yourself together with whatever scraps of dignity you have left.
You chose the dress deliberately, a sleek black gown that skims your bump perfectly.
The baby kicked again, harder this time, and you pressed both hands to your stomach. Closer to your due date now, growing a life whilst Oscar was keeping secrets from you.
The FIA awards night was held in a grand ballroom in Monaco, all glittering chandeliers and champagne flutes that cost more than your first car. You’d never actually been to one of these events before. Five years of marriage and this was your first paddock event that wasn’t born of crisis management and damage control.
Oscar’s hand found the small of your back, warm through the silk of your dress. An automatic gesture. One that used to make you feel safe.
Now it just reminded you that he’d touched Lily the same way too. And maybe still wanted to.
“Smile,” he murmured under this breath, so quietly only you could hear. “Lewis is walking over.”
You did. Feeling your cheeks ache with the effort of it. Wondered how long you could keep performing before something inside you finally snapped.
Lewis approached with the easy confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times before.
“Hey man,” Lewis said warmly, clapping his back as he walked toward you both. Then his eyes found you. “And here’s the famous wife that blew up the paddock!”
“Infamous, maybe,” you replied, and the laugh that came out sounded almost genuine. Almost.
Lewis smiled, something kind in his expression. “Congrats on the baby. When is the little one due?”
“Six weeks,” you replied, and felt Oscar’s fingers flex against your spine. You ignored it.
“That’s exciting, you must be thrilled,” he murmured.
The words stuck in your throat. Thrilled. As if you weren’t standing here holding your marriage together with spit and willpower. As if your husband hadn’t spent the last three weeks sleeping in the guest bedroom while Oscar tried to prove that he was trustworthy. As if you didn’t lie awake at night wondering what else he hadn’t told you.
“We are,” Oscar answered for you, and you felt something twist in your chest. We. As if you were still a unit. As if trust hadn’t splintered between you like a broken branch.
The conversation blurred, you nodded and smiled and said all the right things while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely. The baby was restless tonight, moving constantly, and you couldn’t tell if it was picking up on your stress or just running out of room.
When Lewis moved on, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
“You okay?” Oscar asked quietly.
“Fine,” you lied. The same lie you’d been telling for three weeks. I’m fine. We’re fine. Everything is absolutely fine.
He didn’t believe you, you could see it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes lingered on your face like he was searching for cracks in your armour.
“We don’t have to stay long,” he offered. “If you’re tired, we can–”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” The words came out sharper than intended. “I’m here, playing my part, that's what you needed, right? The devoted wife at your side.”
His face crumpled for just a second before he caught himself. Smoothed it back into something neutral. But you’d seen it, the hurt and guilt he was carrying.
Good. You thought, but the vindictive thought startled you. You weren’t a cruel person, but grief did strange things to people, and that’s exactly what this was, wasn’t it? Grief for the marriage you thought you had. For the man you thought he was.
“I’m going to find the bathroom,” you announced, pulling away from him.
“Do you want me to–”
“No.” The word came out too fast, too harsh. You soften your face slightly. “I’m fine, just–just wait here.”
You didn’t wait for his response, just turned and wove through the crowd, feeling his eyes on your back the entire way before you slipped out of view.
The bathroom was blessedly empty. You locked the cubical door behind you and pressed your head against the cool wood, desperately trying to breathe through the tightness in your chest.
The baby kicked again, you splayed your hand across the bump, feeling the push of a tiny foot against your palm.
“I know,” you whispered. “Mummy’s really sorry.”
The bathroom door opened, voices filtered in, high and laughing. You recognised one of them instantly.
“–honestly, we all had bets that Oscar was a virgin,” someone said, and you froze. “And suddenly, the wife is turning up at events, looking like she’s about to burst. It’s insane.”
“I know,” another voice agreed. “Lily must be absolutely gutted.”
Your blood ran cold.
“Well, she had her chance didn’t she,” the first voice continued, smacking their lips together after applying gloss. “Can’t blame a man for moving on after a break-up.”
They laughed, cold. “Except he didn’t move on that far, I heard through the grapevine that he met up with Lily and got caught,”
“Well apparently, she reached out to him first.”
You couldn’t breathe, felt like your limbs were slowly sinking into the floor. You just stood there and listened to strangers dissect your marriage like it was for their entertainment.
They continued talking but you stopped listening. Your hands were shaking, visions blurred at the edges. The baby was twisting frantically now, probably responding to your elevated heart rate. You pressed your palms against your curve, trying to calm yourself.
The voices finally faded, the door swinging shut behind them and the bathroom returned to silence.
You emerged from the stall on unsteady legs. Your reflection in the mirror was a stranger, pale and hollow-eyed. You’d lost weight everywhere except your bump, couldn’t sleep and had eaten the equivalent to a small bird since you found out.
You looked haunted.
You fixed your lipstick with trembling fingers, smoothed down your dress and put on your invisible mask again. Pretending to be someone who could stand beside her husband and smile like her world wasn’t slowly, yet loudly imploding.
When you made your way back into the ballroom, Oscar was exactly where you left him. He spotted your immediately, relief flooding his features, and started walking toward you.
“Hey,” he said softly when he reached you. “You were gone a while, I was starting to get worried.”
“Just needed some air,” Another lie you added to the cluster growing quickly.
His hand rose gently, like he was contemplating touching your face, but he stopped himself. He’d been doing that a lot lately, reaching for you in the ways he has done for the last five years, but quietly remembering he didn’t have the right to do that anymore.
“I should let you know,” he trembled, fiddling with the cuff of his shirt. “There’s someone here tonight.”
You followed his gaze across the room, and your stomach dropped.
Because there she was, standing near the bar in a dress that sculpted her figure perfectly, laughing at something Carlos had said, Lily Zneimer.
You didn’t find the words to say before Lily had clocked you both standing there and made her way over. They had locked eyes, something passing between them both and whatever it was, it made you feel like you were drowning.
“I need to leave,” you demanded.
“Wait, please–” Oscar’s hand caught your wrist, gentle but desperate. “She doesn’t matter, she’s nothing to me, I swear–”
“Then why the fuck is she here?” The question came out in broken breaths. “Why is she at an FIA event? Why is it that every time I turn my back she appears, Oscar?”
“I don’t know,” he replied helplessly. “I swear I didn’t know she would be here!”
“You never know, do you?” You pulled your wrist free, “You didn’t know the photos were taken, you didn’t know Rebecca would call me, you didn’t know the entire grid would find out about your secret family, you just stumbled through life and expected your wife to pick up the pieces.”
“That’s–that’s not fair,”
“None of this is fair!” Your voice had risen slightly, enough that people had started to look. But you had gone past the point of caring. “I’m eight months pregnant, Osc. I can barely sleep because the baby won’t stop kicking and I can’t stop thinking about what happened between you both that night. I’m standing amongst people who think they know more about our marriage than we do. And now, I have to share another special moment with the girl that came before me.”
He looked shattered. “I’m sorry, let me go and get the car, okay? We’ll go right now.”
“No,” you took a step back. “You stay. Do whatever obligations you have to do. I’ll get a cab back to the hotel.”
“I’m not letting my pregnant wife get into a cab alone.”
“You’re not letting me do anything,” you repeated back quietly this time. “Not anymore.”
The words hung between you like a death sentence. You watched something break in his eyes, watched him realise that maybe this wasn’t something that could be fixed with an apology and time. Maybe your marriage had been broken past the point of repair the moment he sat down across from Lily and didn’t tell you.
You turned and walked away. Made it three steps before his voice stopped you.
“I love you,” he called out, and you heard the desperation in it. The cry for help.
You didn’t turn around, “I know you do.” you said over your shoulder. “That’s what makes this harder.”
Then you walked out into the crisp Monaco air, leaving your husband standing alone in a ballroom full of people, and finally let yourself cry.
–
The doorbell rang at 2pm on a Tuesday, which meant it wouldn’t be Oscar. He had a key anyway. But lately, he’d been using it less and less. Staying the odd few nights at Lando’s. Leaving you to parent your toddler by yourself.
You heaved yourself off the sofa, one hand supporting your lower back, the other cradling your back. Nine months pregnant now, so close to your due date that every twinge made you wonder if this was it. If you’d be bringing a baby into a broken home.
Alex was taking his nap upstairs, finally, after fighting it for the last hour with a tantrum that would frighten Satan himself. You’d spent that hour trying to read him his favourite book on repeat until the words blurred together and your voice grew hoarse.
You opened the door, and Nicole stood on your doorstep with a glass tray with tinfoil scrunched on top in her hands, and concern woven into every line on her face.
“Uhm, Nicole,” you breathed, “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I didn’t tell Oscar,” she said simply. “Can I come in?”
You stepped aside, and she swept past you into the house she’d visited dozens of times over the years. The house that had always felt warm and lived-in and full of love. Now, it just felt hollow and lonely.
She sat the dish on the kitchen counter and turned to face you. For a moment, she just looked at you, really looked at you, and you watched as her expression crumbled.
“Oh my sweetheart,” she whispered.
That was all it took. You burst into tears.
She crossed the kitchen in three small strides and pulled you into her arms as much as your bump would allow. You sobbed into her shoulder, months of holding yourself together finally breaking apart in the safety of someone who had always loved you unconditionally.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped between sobs. “I’m really sorry–”
“Don’t you dare apologise,” she said firmly, rubbing circles on your back. “Don’t you even dare.”
She guided you to the sofa, helped you sit down despite your bump, and settled in beside you. Producing a packet of tissues from her handbag like she’d known exactly what kind of visit this would be.
You cried until you couldn’t cry anymore. Until your eyes were red raw and swollen, and your throat was sore and you felt emptied out in a way that was almost revealing.
“I am so disappointed in him,” she said quietly when you finally calmed down. “I didn’t raise him like this.”
“I know he didn’t cheat,” you said automatically, defending him, even now. “Like he didn’t–they didn’t–”
“Being physical with someone isn’t the only way to betray someone.” Nicole replied, her voice sharp. “He met with his ex-girlfriend without telling you. He let you expose your family without telling you why.” She shook her head. “That is betrayal my darling. That’s breaking built trust in the worst possible way.”
The words hit you like they slapped you. Because she was right. You’d been so focused on the technicality of whether he’d physically cheated that you’d almost convinced yourself the emotional betrayal didn’t actually count.
“I don’t know how to forgive him,” you admitted. “I want to. Like I really want to forgive him. But every time I look at him, I just see–”
“Her,” Nicole finished gently.
You just nodded.
Nicole was quiet for a moment, her hand finding yours and gently squeezing.”I did speak to him last night,” she started. “I called him after he hadn’t messaged me for a few days and do you know what he said to me?”
You shook your head, bringing your eyebrows together.
“He said he destroyed the best thing in his life. That he would give up racing tomorrow if it meant you’d forgive him.” Nicole's voice wavered. “I’ve never heard my son so broken,”
“I would never ask him to give up racing!” you said tiredly. “I never wanted that, I just wanted him to be honest with me.”
“I know sweetheart, and he knows that too.” She paused for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,”
“Do you still love him?”
The question hung heavy, you thought about lying and protecting yourself but this was Nicole. She’d been a mother to you more than your own had ever been.
“Yes,” you whispered. “I hate that I do, but yes.”
“Then there’s still something to fight for.” Nicole said firmly. “Love isn’t always enough on its own, but it’s a start, a foundation. And right now, you two need to remember what you’re fighting for.”
You looked down at your swollen belly, feeling the baby shift and lodge a tiny hand in your ribs. “I’m about to have his baby, we don’t have time–”
“Which is why you need to do this now my love,” she interrupted. “Before the baby comes and you're both exhausted and running on fumes.” She squeezed your hand. "I'm not saying you have to forgive him tomorrow. I'm not even saying you have to forgive him next month. But you need to talk. Really talk. Not with Alex upstairs or cameras watching or him terrified you're going to leave."
"I don't know what to say to him anymore," you admitted. "Every conversation ends with him apologising and me not knowing how to respond."
“Then maybe you need to go somewhere neither of you can escape from the conversation,” Nicole twitched her nose in thought. “Maybe somewhere you can both just…breathe.”
You stared at her. “Nicole, I’m about to drop, I can’t exactly go on some romantic getaway–”
“Take our beach house!” She said, as if she’d already thought it all through. “Something about the ocean…it just makes things all a little easier.”
“I can’t ask you to–”
“You’re not asking dear, I’m offering!” Her voice was gentle but firm. “And before you worry about Alex, I’ll take him. He can help me bake some Lamingtons and make all the mess he wants in my kitchen.”
The offering was tempting, just to get away before the baby comes. An easy excuse to try and salvage whatever was left of your marriage.
“What if we go there and realise we can’t fix this?” The question came out small, a little scared. “What if when we’re there it just proves that it’s a broken cause?”
“Then, sweetheart, at least you’ll know.” Nicole said quietly. “And you can make a decision from there. But right now, you’re both living in this unknown state, and it’s clearly not helping anyone.” She placed a gentle hand over your bump. “This baby isn’t going to wait until you two sort things out.
You closed your eyes, feeling tears slip down your cheeks again. “I know,”
“It’s perfectly normal to feel like this, darling.” Nicole pulled you close again. “But you are one of the strongest girls I know.”
The baby kicked then, as if he was agreeing with his grandmother.
“When would we go?” you asked finally, wiping a stray tear from your cheek.
“What about this weekend,” Nicole answered, gently clapping her hands together. “I’ll take Alex on Friday morning, you and Oscar can drive up when you’re ready. Just take the two days for yourselves.”
“Does Oscar know about all this?”
“Well, not yet.” She admitted. “I thought I would suggest it to you first and then tell him if he wants to keep the best thing that’s ever happened to him, he’ll pull his head out of his arse.”
You let yourself smile at that, only the corner of your mouth raising. You thought about how you’d been living for the last few weeks – sleeping in different beds, sometimes even separate houses, and how you'd thought about how you’d raise two children by yourself when he left.
“Yeah,” you heard yourself say. “Okay, I’ll go.”
You watched as Nicole’s face flooded with relief. “Oh darling!”
“–But if we go there and I realise that I can’t do this anymore–”
“Then you come home, and we’ll support you.”
The Piastri’s had always given you unconditional support, you looked at the same woman who placed the veil onto your perfectly curled hair five years ago, sat across from you, rubbing circles into your back after watching your marriage fall apart.
“Now, when was the last time you ate? You're as thin as a rake!”
“I haven’t really been that hungry,” you shyly admitted.
“Well, this lasagne won’t eat itself. That baby needs to eat as well!”
You watched her bustle around your kitchen like she owned it, pulling out plates from the cupboard and cutlery from the drawer.
“Nicole?” you called.
She turned, spatula in her hand still.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
Her smile was soft and warm, but still had a hint of sadness behind it all. “You’re my daughter,” she murmured softly.
–
Your car pulled into the stoned driveway of the beach house just as the sun was starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that it might’ve been romantic in another life.
The silence in the journey over here was deafening. You’d barely spoken for the last two hours; you just sat there with your hands folded over your bump, watching the world blur past whilst Oscar white knuckled the steering wheel and pretended to be focused on the road.
It was exactly how you remembered it. Back before you had Alex, the pair of you would visit here often. The white cladding was still weathered but tidy, the blue shutters over the windows, and the decking that overlooked the ocean. It used to feel peaceful, a home away from home. But now, it felt like a trap.
Oscar grabbed both suitcases from the boot of the car, dragging them over the stones and into the porch. You watched as he unlocked the door, his movements awkward and careful around you. It was like he was afraid of doing the wrong thing and setting you off.
Inside, the house still smelt the same. Like lavender potpourri and slight musk from not being used all winter. The furniture was covered in white sheets, covering the sofas and tables across the house.
“I’ll get those sheets off,” Oscar said, already pulling one off the sofa.
“I, uhm, just need to use the bathroom.”
You waddled down the hallway to the bathroom, and locked the door behind you. The sink was cold against your palms as you pressed against it, staring at the reflection in the mirror.
What did you possibly think two days alone with the man who cheated would accomplish?
The baby was now low, pressing on your bladder at every chance they had. You rubbed circles over the swell.
“I know,” you whispered. “This is utterly stupid.”
Once you came out of the bathroom, trying to gently turn the lock without making too much of a sound, Oscar had uncovered all of the furniture and was standing in the kitchen, staring at the fridge like it was going to solve all of his problems.
“Looks like Mum has stocked the fridge for us,” he said without turning around, the fridge light framing his features. “There’s plenty for dinner, if you’re hungry?”
“I’m not.”
You had become good at lying now. You were absolutely lying. But the thought of sitting at a table with him, desperately trying to make awkward small talk while you both avoided the real conversation, made you feel sick.
“Yeah, that’s okay,” he said, closing the fridge door. “If you change your mind, I can make you anything you fancy.”
The politeness and kindness was worse than fighting. At least when you were fighting you were still something to each other. Whatever this was, was making you feel like strangers.
You moved to the bench that was placed by the window, overlooking the ocean beyond the decking. You wrapped your arms around yourself and watched the waves crash into the sand.
“I’m just going to take a shower,” Oscar announced behind you. “Do you want anything before I hop in?”
“No, I’m fine.”
You heard him stutter, like he wanted to say something else. But he didn’t. He padded down the hallway to the bathroom, and a few seconds later the water started to run.
You sank into the pillows, suddenly exhausted from pretending. And probably because of the baby. Because of everything.
For a moment, you let yourself exist in the moment. Listening to the ocean waves, the peaceful sounds of running water, before your phone vibrated. Nicole had sent you a message, a photo of Alex covered in flour and coconut, grinning at the camera with the same smile as his dad.
Nicole: Making Lamingtons is going well! He’s eaten several fistfuls of coconut flakes and most of the melted chocolate… Love you both x
You stared at the photo until your vision blurred. Your son looked so happy, blissfully unaware that his parents were falling apart.
Oscar made his way back into the living room in a pair of cotton shorts and a t-shirt, hair still damp from towel-drying it.
“We might have a slight problem,” he said quietly.
You lifted your head from where it was resting against the window, turning slowly to face him.
“The other bedroom looks like it’s under some sort of redecorating. There’s no mattress on the bedframe.”
You took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a brief second.
“Well, the sofa’s too small for you,” you mumbled. “I’m sure we can be adults and share a bed for the next two nights.”
He looked taken back, “are you sure? Because I don’t want you to be uncomfortable–”
“Oscar, we’ve been married for the last five years, and if you haven’t noticed I’m carrying your child. I think we can manage to not make this weird.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah, yeah of course.”
The silence stretched again. You could feel him watching you, feeling the weight of everything that’s been ignored and unsaid, pressing down on both of you.
“I think I’m gonna go to bed,” you announced, pushing yourself up with a small grunt. “It was a long drive and I’m tired.”
“It’s barely even eight–”
“I’m nine months pregnant Osc. I’m constantly exhausted.”
You brushed past him toward the bedroom, feeling his eyes following you as you made your way down the hall.
The bedroom was exactly how you remembered it, the crisp white linen that held the most peaceful night sleep. You sat on the end of it, feeling the weight of your bump ease slightly. You tried to bend over to wiggle off your shoes, but your bump made it almost near impossible to reach your feet.
“Can I?” Oscar said from the doorway.
“I can do it myself.”
“I know you can,” he crossed the room anyway, kneeling in front of you. “But you don’t have to.”
His hands were gentle as he unlaced them, slipping them off one at a time. Then his thumbs pressed into the arch of your foot, and you couldn’t stop the small sound of relief that escaped.
“Your feet are really swollen,” he observed quietly, continuing to knead at the muscles.
“Comes with the territory,” you pointed at your bump, smiling into a straight line. You hated how good it felt, how your body was responding to his touch like muscle memory.
“Does it hurt?”
“Everything hurts,” you laughed, “my back, my hips, my feet. I think they’re running out of room in there and have decided my ribs are a great place to practice football.”
A small smile appeared across his face, “takes after their dad then.”
You pulled your foot away. “Please don’t.”
The smile vanished when he saw the look on your face. “Yeah, sorry.”
He stood, backing away like you physically scolded him. He went over to his bag, pulling out his toiletries, arranging them neatly on the dressing table. He was buying time, avoiding making any eye contact with you.
You changed into your pyjamas– an oversized t-shirt you took from Oscar and a pair of green striped shorts, that was the last pair that would comfortably fit on your bump. The sheets were cool and crisp against your bare legs, smelling faintly of washing powder and slight musk.
Oscar had brushed his teeth and got into the bed beside you, approaching the bed like he was trying not to set off a grenade. He lifted the covers on his side with extreme caution and slipped in, maintaining a careful distance. The gap felt like miles.
You both laid there in the darkness, listening to the waves gently crashing outside the window. The baby shifted restlessly, and you placed a hand on your bump, trying to soothe them. Trying to soothe yourself, more like.
“Can I?” Oscar’s voice was barely a whisper, timid and unsure.
You knew what he was asking. “Fine.”
He placed his hand over yours, warm against your bump. The baby kicked immediately, as if they recognised their father’s touch, and you felt Oscar take a deep inhale of breath.
“Wow, they’re a proper little athlete,” he murmured.
“They never sleep, I think they’re training for a marathon or something.”
You saw his face falter slightly. “I’m sorry I haven’t been there for all of this,” he said quietly. “I hate that you’ve been dealing with all of this on your own,”
“Well, you’ve been here,” you cut him off. “I just haven’t exactly made you welcome, really.”
His hand stayed on your bump, feeling every kick and roll the baby did. “I miss this,” he whispered. “I really miss you.”
“Yeah, well you didn’t miss me enough to have dinner with her.”
The words came out before you could stop them, your tongue sharp. Oscar’s hand froze, his face following.
“Wow, you had to ruin it,”
“Me ruin it?!” You shouted, turning to face him in the darkness, and even though you couldn’t see his expression clearly, you could feel his pain radiating across the space between you. “You keep saying you’re sorry, you keep saying it didn’t mean anything, but you still did it!”
“I know.” His voice cracked. “I know, and I hate myself for it. Every single day I wake up and hate what I’ve done to us, to our family.”
“Then why did you do it?” The question that had been eating at you both for weeks finally burst out. “Why, Oscar? What was so important that you had to see her and risk your marriage?”
He was quiet for so long you thought he wouldn’t answer your question. “Closure, I think. I don’t know. Maybe I needed to prove to myself that what we had was real. That I chose right.”
You felt something crack open in your chest, your lungs losing all the air in them. “Let me get this straight, you needed to see your ex-girlfriend to know if you chose the right woman? The woman you married? The mother of your children?”
“Well when you say it like that, it sounds–”
“It sounds like exactly what it was,” your voice was hoarse, tears threatening to fall. “You had doubts about your life, about me, your children.”
“No–” he rose from the bed abruptly, “no, that’s not–I didn’t have doubts about you, I had serious doubts about myself. Whether I deserved you or not.”
“Oh that’s bullshit,” you replied flatly, pushing yourself up despite the sheer effort it took to do so. “You don’t get to make this about your insecurity.”
“I’m not trying to,” he ran both hands through his hair, frustrated. “I’m just trying to be honest with you.”
“Okay then, tell me the real reason.” you shifted to face him fully, placing the hands on the small of your back to hold yourself up. “I don’t want the bullshit version, I want the truth.”
The moonlight was filtering through the curtains and cast dark shadows across his face. You watched him struggle to find the words.
“She was my first love,” he said finally, “She was my first everything, really. And when we broke up, I told myself it was the right decision because we wanted different things in life.” He took a shaky breath. “But then she called me, and she said she’d made a mistake and she regretted things…and I–”
“You wanted to know if you made a mistake too,” you finished for him.
“No.” He looked at you, his eyes desperate. “It wasn’t like that at all. I knew the second that I met you that you were it for me. But she was sat across from me, asking questions if I was happy or not and I just–I couldn’t find the words to tell her about my life now.”
The admission felt like a physical slap. “So you thought keeping us a secret from her would be acceptable?”
“I’m sorry–”
“Oh stop saying you’re fucking sorry!” You were shouting now, tears streaming down your face. “Just stop apologising and just admit you regret marrying me. Tell me you wish you had chosen little miss perfect instead.”
“I don’t wish that,” he said fiercely. “I don’t think that at all, I swear to God, I don’t regret a second of our marriage. You’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”
“Then why wouldn’t you tell her?” your voice was completely broken, cracking as you spoke. “What did you talk about Oscar? What did you sit across from her and say?”
He couldn’t look at you. “I don’t know, we spoke about the past. About what could’ve been different.”
“I’m gonna be sick.” You pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes. “You had a 'what could’ve been’ conversation with your ex-girlfriend while I was sat at home, pregnant and tucking your son into bed.”
“I know, I know, I was wrong–”
“Wrong doesn’t even cover it.” You lowered your hands, staring at him. “Did you kiss her?”
“What! No!”
“Well did you want to?”
The hesitation was only a fraction of a second, but it was enough.
“Oh my fucking god,” you breathed. “You wanted to.”
“No, I didn’t I swear–”
“I watched you just now, you hesitated. You fucking hesitated.” You scrambled, pacing across the room. Needing the distance from the man you had spent the last 5 years calling your husband.
“Only for a second!” He lunged toward you, but you stepped back. “For one stupid, idiotic second I wondered what it would be like. But I didn’t do it, I wouldn’t.”
“But you thought about it. You sat across from her and you thought about kissing her and then you came home to me, your family and pretended like everything was fine.”
“Because none of it meant anything,” he pleaded. “It was just a momentary weakness.”
He stood there, tears streaming down his face, looking more broken than you’d ever seen him. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he whispered. “Tell me how to fix this, I’ll do absolutely anything. Please.”
“I don’t know if we can.” You watched something die behind his eyes. “How are we supposed to come back from something like this? How am I supposed to trust you again?”
He had no answer. He just stood there crying, and for once you didn’t run to comfort him. The baby had kicked hard, lodging a tiny foot in your ribcage, making you wince.
“Are you okay?” He moved toward you again.
“I’m fine,” you held up your hand as a warning to stop him from moving any closer. “Just–just leave me alone for a bit.”
“I don’t want you walking around out there on your own.”
“Oh shh, I’m going to sit out the porch,” you said tiredly. “I’m not running away, I can’t exactly run very far.”
You left him standing there and made your way through the house and out the sliding doors to the porch. The night air hit you, the tears drying on your cheeks.
You sank into the porch swing, tilted your head back, and stared up at the stars through the slats.
You had been sitting out there long enough that the baby had started to settle, the gentle swing swiftly sending them to sleep. The sliding doors opened up behind you.
“I thought you’d like a tea.” Oscar said quietly.
He sat the mug down on the glass table in front of you and retreated, but didn’t go back inside. Just leaned against the wooden fence a few feet away.
You picked up the mug and the smell of peppermint greeted your nose.
“My dad cheated on my mum,” you said suddenly.
Oscar went still.
“When I was fourteen, I came home to my mum crying on the kitchen floor, screaming about my dad cheating on her.”
“I didn’t know that,” Oscar replied softly.
“Because I never told you.” You didn’t look at him, just kept focus on the view out in front of you. “I’ve not really told anyone, it’s not something you can exactly openly speak about.”
“I’m not your father.” His face had gone pale.
“No,” you agreed. “You’re not. You still betrayed me though. I don’t want to spend the rest of our marriage waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
You could clearly see he was crying again. “I don’t want you to live like that.”
“Then what do you want?” The question came out tired and defeated. “Because I don’t think I can continue doing this. I don’t think I can live in limbo.”
Oscar was quiet for a long moment. But when he finally spoke, his voice was rough. “I want to be better. A better husband, a better dad.” He took another breath. “Do you want a divorce?”
The thought had crossed your mind plenty of times over the last few weeks. “No,” you said finally. “I don’t want a divorce.”
“Then what do you want?”
You took a shaky breath. “I want you to fight for this. Really fight. Not just apologize and hope I’ll get over it. I want you to prove to me that we’re worth the work.”
“How?” He looked up at you desperately. “Tell me how and I’ll do it.”
“Honesty, for starters.”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I swear.”
“But it’s not like I’m going to wake up tomorrow and forgive you. It doesn’t exactly happen overnight.”
“I know,” he hung his head, staring down at his feet. “I understand.”
–
You woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen.
For a moment, a brief moment, you had forgotten about the betrayal, the argument last night and just registered the domestic bliss you had known for years past.
But then you remembered.
You found him in the kitchen, standing at the hob with his back to you. Two plates sat at the table, scrambled eggs placed over avocado on toast and a bowl of fruit arranged next to it.
“Morning,” he said softly when he heard you. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry or not–”
“Thank you,” you interrupted, surprising yourself. The anger from last night had dimmed into something more manageable. Or just that you were too pregnant and too tired to maintain that level of anger.
You sat at the small table, and he brought over both plates. For a few minutes, you ate in silence.
“The baby’s been really active this morning,” you announced, filling the silence.
Oscar’s eyes lit up. “Yeah?”
You nodded, piling a fork full of food into your mouth. “They’re proper strong.” You pulled his hand over and placed it on your belly.
His face transformed when he felt a kick. “Bloody hell, they are strong.”
“Takes after their dad,” you said without thinking, then froze.
Oscar smiled anyway, soft and grateful. After you’d both finished breakfast, you’d collectively decided to go for a walk along the beach.
The sand was warm beneath your feet, the morning air crisp enough still to scatter goosebumps across your skin. Oscar walked beside you, hands shoved deep into his pockets, keeping up with your slow, waddling gate.
Waves crashed at your feet as you both treaded through the sand. The tide was just creeping in enough to kiss your toes before slipping back out again. The gentle rhythm of it filled the silence between you both.
He stayed close, his shoulder brushing yours every few steps.
“You alright?” he asked after a while, his voice careful.
You nodded, eyes fixed on the horizon. “Hmm, yeah. Just tired.”
It wasn’t a lie, coming to the end of your pregnancy you were carrying all this extra weight, the pain constantly in your lower back, your body was no longer just your own, lugging around an extra tenant. But there was something underlying too, heavier than just the weight of your unborn child.
Oscar hummed softly, glancing down at you. For a second, his hand twitched at his side, like instinct was trying to take over, like he used to, lacing his fingers with yours without a second thought but he stopped himself.
A breeze rolled between you, tugging at your hair, cooling the warmth off your skin. You wrapped your arms around your body, like a habit.
“Here,” Oscar said, already shrugging off his hoodie. He stepped closer, draping it carefully over your shoulders, his hand lingering on your shoulder a little longer.
And you let him.
For a brief moment, neither of you moved. It almost felt normal.
“Do you remember,” he started, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “When we came here the first time? You refused to go into the water because it was ‘absolutely freezing.’”
You huffed a quiet laugh as the memory passed your mind. “That’s because it was freezing!”
“It was summer, babe!”
“Yeah, in England,” you pointed out, glancing at him.
That earned a proper smile, one that reached his eyes this time. For a fleeting second, he looked like himself again.
“I had to drag you in the water!” he laughed.
“Erm, I remember, I almost drowned.”
“You did not!”
A small smile started to tug at your lips now. “If I remember correctly, you dove into the water and acted like a hero when you pulled me out.”
He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “I was a hero.”
You rolled your eyes, but the tension in your chest loosened a bit.
The two of you slowed to a stop, standing where the water lapped gently at the shore. Oscar looked out at sea, then back at you, something unreadable flickering across his face.
You looked down at your hands, then took a deep breath, filling your lungs with the sea air.
“I’ve missed you, Osc.”
The words sat between you both for a moment, he was shocked, unsure what to say, or how to answer.
“Me too,” he finally responded.
“I don’t want us to argue, I do want us to fix this. I don’t want our children to grow up without having their dad by their side and all three of us cheering you on from the pit wall.” You took another breath. “I want to learn to forgive you. I know you didn’t physically cheat, and that does make it a little easier for me to digest but I need you to let me take my time.”
He turned to you then, taking both of your hands in his. “Of course, anything you want I'll do it. I promise.”
You smiled at him, finally seeing the real him appear after weeks of seeing red rimmed eyes.
–
When night finally fell, you were both tucked into bed, the tv humming in the background, the smell of suncream and sea salt still stuck to your skin. Your head rested on Oscar’s shoulder, his arm protectively curled around your back, fingers tracing absent circles on your bare thigh. The large swell of your stomach pressed warm and firm between you both, the baby shifting lazily every few minutes like a gentle reminder that everything was about to change again.
“You’re beautiful like this,” Oscar murmured, voice low. His free hand slid down, palm spreading wide over the tight bump. “I still can’t believe we get to do this again.”
You smiled, tilting your head to look at him. “You’re just saying that because I’m basically a giant beach ball right now.”
He let out a breathy laugh, but there was no teasing in it. Instead, he shifted himself closer, propping himself up on one elbow. “No, actually. It’s because I’ve missed laying like this with my beautiful wife and my beautiful baby.” His thumb brushed slow circles over your skin, right where the baby kicked gently against his touch.
“I want to show you how much I’ve missed you.”
The air between you had thickened. His hand moved slowly under your top, calloused fingers skimming the overly sensitive nipples, your breasts fuller and aching from pregnancy. You let out a shaky breath, watching Oscar’s eyes darken, pupils widening.
“Can I show you?”
You nodded, heart hammering, and he didn’t hesitate. He pushed the covers down slowly, exposing you to the cool night air, he then leaned in and kissed you, deep and unhurried. It was like he was pouring every apology and promise into the kiss. When he pulled back, his mouth trailed lower, first to neck, then down the swell of your chest and after tugged your top off with gentle hands, careful of how tender you were, and groaned softly at the sight of you.
“God, look at you,” he whispered. His lips closed around one nipple, sucking slow and warm while his tongue circled, drawing a soft moan from you. His other hand cupped your other breast, his thumb brushing over your skin. He worshipped every inch of you, kissing the stretch marks that mapped your body now.
He eased your shorts down your thighs, helping you lift your hips even though the baby weight made it awkward, and settled between your legs like he had all the time in the world. His hands parted your thighs gently, thumbs stroking the soft skin there before he leaned in and pressed a slow, open kiss right where you needed him most.
You gasped, fingers threading into his messy brown hair as his tongue dragged hot and deliberate through your folds, like he was proving something with every lick. He hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine, and his hands slid up to cradle your belly, holding it steady while he worked you open with his mouth. Two fingers joined soon after, curling just right inside of you, stroking that spot that made your toes curl and your breath hitch.
“Oscar–” you moaned, hips rocking as much as the baby would allow.
He looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes blazing with pure love and hunger. You looked at him, and remembered exactly how you got into this pregnancy in the first place. His mouth returned, flicking faster now, fingers pumping a steady rhythm while his free hand rubbed soothing circles over your belly.
You came with his name on your lips, thighs trembling around his shoulders, and he stayed right there for a moment longer, licking you through it, gentle and devoted, until you were glowing.
He slowly crawled back up, kissing a trail up your body again, pausing to worship your stomach one more time. He settled back beside you, pulling the covers back up and resting them against your shoulders and bringing you back into his arms once again. You could feel his hard length pressed against your thigh.
“I love you,” he breathed against your hair, one hand still stroking your belly like he couldn’t stop touching you. “I love you, only you, baby.”
You turned to face him, smiling as the baby kicked softly between you both, and for the first time in a long while, you actually believed him.
–
The next morning you woke to the birds chirping and your husband’s arm lazily slung across your chest, pulling you in tight to his body.
You took the morning to be slow together, breakfast on the porch, a warm shower, taking your time to get ready, Remembering the rhythm of what it was like to be together again.
Suitcases lay open across the bed, half-zipped and spilling clothes like neither of you had the energy to do it properly. The room still smelt slightly musky from being untouched for so long, but the air filled with Oscar’s chocolate deodorant and strong aftershave.
Oscar moved around you quietly, folding shirts with a focus that felt almost forced. There was a carefulness to him now, like if he just did everything right, everything might just stay together.
“Still okay to leave at ten?” He asked, glancing over at you as you brushed your hair. “Mum said she would have Alex ready for twelve.”
You nodded, tucking a few strands of hairs into a clip. The baby kept shifting in your stomach, a dull pressure reminding you that baby was ready to make an appearance any day now.
Oscar’s phone buzzed on the bedside table.
He didn’t look up. “Can you check that?” he asked, zipping up his suitcase. “It’s probably mum asking if we’ve left. Can you tell her we’re leaving in a mo?”
“Yeah, no worries babe.” you murmured, reaching over for it.
The screen lit up under the touch of your thumb. Except the name didn’t read mum.
It read, Lily.
Your thumb stilled for half a second before you swiped the message open, like your body already knew something your mind wasn’t quite understanding yet.
Lily: Call me later baby x
There were endless, recent conversations above it. Too many.
You didn’t want to scroll, but you did anyway. Dragging the conversation upward, each message unraveling something inside your chest with quiet precision.
But you saw it. The night after the awards it started again. The night you left him there, with her.
Your grip tightened around the phone, but your face stayed poker still.
Behind you, Oscar was oblivious to your findings. “Everything okay, babe?”
You locked the screen.
“Yep, all good.” You replied, voice steady but your heart pounding. “Alex is looking forward to seeing us.”
You set the phone back down exactly where it had been, like if you put it back where you found it, you could reverse what you had seen.
“Ready?”
You picked up your bag, forcing a smile. “Yep.”
The drive was quiet, he reached over to you once, resting his hand on your thigh. But you didn’t react, didn’t pull away, just let it rest there.
When you finally arrived, Nicole opened the door before you’d even knocked, Alex already running down the path to greet you both.
“Mummy!” he beamed, launching himself into you and kissing your belly, saying hello to their sibling.
“Hello, my gorgeous boy!” you whispered, holding him a little tighter than usual.
Nicole’s eyes flickered between the both of you, then to Oscar, reading something your expression compared to his.
“How was it?” She leant in, saying it so only you could hear.
You pulled back, just enough to look at her and shook your head.
Her eyes squeezed shut, pursing her lips together like she was holding back the tears.
–
You could feel how nervous he was, lifting the veil from your face in the small registry office. He was smiling though, that goofy ear to ear grin that always made you smile despite everything. “You’re stuck with me now, baby.” he whispered, and you laughed, nodding. “Death do us part.”
–
“Mummy, look!” Alex yelled, holding up his toy car.
You smiled softly, brushing your fingers through his hair. “That’s amazing sweetheart,”
The house had been quiet for weeks now. Just the sounds of your newborn baby, Harper, cooing in your arms as she sucked on her dummy. Her tiny fingers clenched in a fist under her scratch mittens.
On the table in front of you, your solicitor passed the papers over to you – tiny tabs pointing to where you needed to sign.
You adjusted Harper in your arms, careful not to wake her before reaching for the pen.
You signed your name, no longer a Piastri, back to your maiden name. But you told yourself, at least you didn’t have to live with a man and a name that meant you’d live second best to someone your entire life. At least now, you wouldn’t have to sit wondering if he was loyal to you or sleeping with someone else. At least you would know your children would have respect for starting over and giving them a life and parents they deserve.
summary: you knew there were cracks in your relationship with George before you got pregnant, but tried your best to stick it out for your little girl. it doesn’t take long after she’s born to realize there’s no saving what once was. you’re fully ready to take on life as a single mom, but then an unexpected friendship with your ex’s rival blossoms into more, and it’s through max that you realize love and family is so much more than what you thought it was.
pairings: george russell x reader, eventual max verstappen x reader
warnings: angst • time skips • eventual fluff • not george russell friendly • don’t like, don’t read!
fc: greta onieogou
status: ongoing
taglist: no
vicious speaks: hello, my loves! i was working on other fics when the idea for this series popped into my head and simply wouldn’t leave 🙃 i’m having a lot of fun with this verse and i really hope you guys enjoy reading it!! 🩵
One, because you were 97% sure that you were the other woman.
And two, you didn’t care.
You know how bad it sounds, and never in a million years would you have imagined that this would be your situation. You had always prided yourself on having a strong moral compass. Yet, here you were, its needle spinning wildly and hopelessly lost in the magnetic field of Clark Kent.
You ran into him for the first time while you were working.
The cute little flower shop on the corner near the Daily Planet.
He had come in a rush, looking annoyingly handsome, even as he ran in, tuxedo large and twisted, glasses half falling off his face the bell above the door signalled his entrance.
And you were stupidly, hopelessly enamored from that very first moment.
“Hi,” you managed, your voice coming out softer than you intended.
He blinked, still taking in the explosion of color around him as if he'd stumbled into another dimension. “Hey,” he said, dazed.
“Anything I can help you with?”
“Yeah.” He ran a hand through dark, disheveled hair, making it worse. “Can I get your prettiest bouquet of flowers?” He added quickly, almost desperately, “But not roses.”
You nodded, emerging from behind the counter while internally cursing the thick canvas apron stamped with your shop's logo. It completely covered your carefully chosen outfit—a polka-dot skirt and matching top that you'd thought was so cute this morning. Now he'd never see it.
“Of course, follow me,” you said, leading him through the narrow aisles. You could feel his large presence behind you, filling the small space in a way that made your skin tingle.
“We have tons of options. These over here have lilies and baby's breath—very classic,” You gestured to buckets of poppies. “These are poppies, which are in season right now.” You stopped at your favorite display. “And these… These are my personal favorites. Peonies.”
He didn't respond. You glanced back to find him not looking at the flowers at all, but at you, with an expression you couldn’t quite read but made your breath catch all the same.
You cleared your throat. “Are you shopping for a specific someone, by chance?”
That seemed to snap him out of it. He blinked, color rising along his neck.
“Yeah,” he said, and your heart—stupid, traitorous thing—sank before he even finished. “For my girlfriend. Or, not yet, but hopefully tonight. With flowers. I just know she isn't a fan of roses.”
Of course, you thought, plastering on a smile while something small and hopeful curled up and died inside you.
Of course a man like this is taken. Why wouldn't he be?
You sucked in your teeth, refusing to let the disappointment show. “I think she'll love these.” You reached for an assortment of peonies in deep burgundy and soft peach, arranging them with practiced hands. “An assorted ray of peonies, and I'll throw some tulips and baby breath in there as well.”
He watched your hands work, that intense focus returned. “Yeah,” he said softly. “These are perfect actually. Thank you,” He reached for his wallet. “How much?”
“Don't worry about it,” you heard yourself say, stupidly, recklessly. “It's on the house.”
He blinked. “What? No, I can't—”
“Consider it a good luck charm." You thrust the bouquet toward him before you could take it back. “I hope things go well with your soon-to-be girlfriend.”
He took the flowers carefully, reverently, as if they were made of glass. That crooked smile returned.
“Thank you,” he said again, and his voice was so warm, so genuine, that it hurt. “Really. I'm Clark, by the way.”
You offered your name and he repeated it back to himself, like he was tasting it, like he wanted to remember it. “I'll be back.”
And then he was gone, the bell chiming his exit, leaving you alone with the scent of flowers and the echo of your own foolishness.
He came back exactly one month later.
The bell chimed and there he was, no tuxedo this time, just a simple button-down and those same kind eyes behind those same glasses. He looked just as handsome as you remembered. More, maybe. The memory hadn't done him justice.
“You're back,” you said dumbly, because apparently your brain stopped functioning in his presence.
He grinned, that crooked masterpiece. “Yeah. Your flowers were perfect.” He leaned against the counter, easy and warm.
“She said yes. Well. She said yes months ago, technically, but your flowers helped with the date part. Now I have a girlfriend. Officially. For a month, anyway." He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy and rambling. “I was hoping you could help me find something for our one-month?”
You ignored the tiny, vicious twist in your chest. “Of course,” you said brightly. “One-month anniversary. That's exciting. Let's see. Maybe garden roses—” You caught yourself. “Right, no roses. Peonies again?”
He laughed, a low, warm sound. “She loved the peonies. Let's do peonies.”
So you wrapped peonies for his one-month anniversary.
And for his two-month, you helped him choose a mix of dahlias and snapdragons.
For three months, you suggested sunflowers, because they were bold and bright and perfectly bloomed in season.
By six months, you were starting to feel genuinely pathetic. You still looked forward to his visits with an eagerness that bordered on embarrassing. You still dressed a little cuter on days you suspected he might come, around that monthly anniversary mark. You still replayed every conversation after he left, searching for hidden meanings in throwaway comments.
He had a girlfriend. A real one. A six month-and-counting, anniversary-celebrating, flowers-deserving girlfriend. You had no right to hope for anything.
But that didn't mean you couldn't be as delusional as you pleased in the privacy of your own heart.
Especially around nine months, when seemingly something shifted.
Clark started coming in more often. Not just for anniversaries anymore, but for “apology flowers”—he'd been working late, he explained, missing dinners, being distracted. He needed something that said “I'm sorry” without saying “I'll keep doing this.”
You helped him choose white tulips for sincerity, then lavender for devotion, delicate sprays of baby's breath to soften the message.
He started lingering after the purchases, you noticed. Leaning against your counter, asking about your day. About the books you were reading, the music you were listening to, the small ordinary details of your life that he seemed genuinely interested in.
At ten months, he stayed for forty-five minutes after buying a single stem of orchid for his desk. You talked about everything and nothing—his job at the Daily Planet, your dream of opening a second shop, the way the light hit the buildings at golden hour.
Clark started mentioning her less.
At first you barely noticed. Then you realized, with a jolt, that you couldn't remember the last time he'd said her name. Clark talked about work, about his parents in Smallville, about a story he was chasing involving corrupt contractors and substandard building materials.
But the girlfriend who had once been the reason for every visit had faded into the background, an absence you were too afraid to question.
So you didn't. You selfishly, desperately, let yourself hope.
And as 12 months rolled around, after a year of knowing him—a year of flower purchases and lingering conversations and a connection that felt, to your starving heart, like something real—you could wholeheartedly say that Clark Kent was your friend.
He came in very often now. Sometimes not even to buy flowers. He'd appear in your doorway with two cups of coffee from the vendor outside the Daily Planet, claiming he had a spare, and he'd sit on the little stool behind your counter while you arranged stems and wrapped bouquets and tried not to stare at the way his smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.
He talked to you about everything. His fears about his career. Which made no sense sometimes, especially when we would start talking about saving others. You didn’t think journalists saved that many people?
But, hey, what did you know?
He went on the occasional tangent about his childhood, the weight of expectations he carried without ever quite explaining what those expectations were.
You talked to him about your own dreams and doubts. About the loneliness of running a small business, the ache of watching friends marry and move away, the secret fear that you'd end up alone with nothing but flowers for company.
He listened. God, he listened. With his whole body, his whole attention, as if nothing in the world mattered more than whatever small thing you were saying.
You were in love with him. Deeply, hopelessly, irreversibly in love with him.
And you still didn't know if he was truly available.
Clark never said explicitly they'd broken up. In your lovesick, desperate mind, you'd convinced yourself that reading between the lines was appropriate. That the absence of her name meant the absence of her. That the way he looked at you meant something more than friendship.
But he never said it. And you were too afraid to ask.
So when he'd shown up at your shop near closing time with that familiar tentative smile, asking if you'd eaten yet, and you hadn't, you let yourself believe that this was it. This was finally it, after the longest year of your life.
Clark suggested a place around the corner, a small Italian restaurant with red-checkered tablecloths and candles in wine bottles.
The entire walk over you felt the tension in the air. Your hands would brush occasionally as you bumped into each other, you would giggle when you made eye contact at the same time.
There was no possible way his girlfriend was still in the picture. No way that this was just a casual friend's outing.
Even the conversation flowed easier than it ever had, fueled by cheap red wine and pasta and the intimacy of dim lighting. When the check came, he reached for it before you could, his fingers brushing yours in a way that lingered just a heartbeat too long.
“I've got it,” he said, his voice low.
“You always get it.”
“And I always will.”
That phrase echoed in your head for the rest of the night. The weight of it pressed against your ribs, warm and dangerous and exactly what you'd been starving for.
He walked you back to your apartment, the city buzzing softly around you, streetlights casting long shadows that made him look taller somehow. Broader. Like he was taking up more space in your world than he had any right to.
You stopped outside your building, fumbling with your keys, suddenly nervous in a way you hadn't been with him in months.
“Tonight was nice,” you said, aiming for casual, landing somewhere around breathless.
“Yeah.” He stepped closer. Close enough that you could smell whatever clean, simple soap he used and his intoxicating cologne. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his irises, the way his glasses had slid slightly down his nose. “Really nice.”
Your heart was a caged animal in your chest.
Maybe you weren't as delusional as you thought...
He reached up, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips grazed your cheek, your jaw, your—
“Clark,” you whispered, and it came out like a question you were afraid to finish.
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Can I—”
You kissed him first.
It was clumsy and desperate and perfect. His hands found your waist, pulling you against him like he'd been waiting to do it for months. Maybe he had. Maybe you both had. His lips were soft, insistent, and when you parted for air, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard.
“I've wanted to do that for a while,” he admitted, and something in your chest cracked open, spilling light through all the dark corners you'd been keeping it in.
You laughed, a wet, shaky thing. You felt the adrenaline and dopamine coursing through your veins and you wondered briefly if you were dreaming.
“Then why didn't you?”
He was quiet for a moment, thumb tracing absent patterns on your hip. “I wasn't sure if you— I just didn't want to make things complicated.”
“Complicated,” you repeated, and the word tasted strange in your mouth. But you swallowed it down, because he was here, holding you, looking at you like you were something precious. “It doesn't have to be complicated.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was memorizing the shape of you.
You invited him up.
Somehow, some way, clothes were discarded haphazardly as you made your way to the bedroom, leaving a trail of fabric and anticipation in your wake. His shirt hit the hallway floor, your top draped over the doorknob.
By the time your knees hit the edge of the mattress, you were both down to bare skin and pulsing desire.
Clark paused above you, one arm braced against the headboard, the other pressed flat beside your hip. He was all broad shoulders and warm planes, the dim streetlight filtering through your curtains catching on the hard lines of his chest, the soft give of his stomach, the way his breath came shallow and uneven.
“You're sure?” he asked, and his voice was wrecked, rough at the edges.
You reached up, pulled him down by the back of his neck, and kissed him instead of answering.
You were never more sure of anything in your life. You absolutely wanted Clark Kent.
He came willingly, his body covering yours, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress in a way that made your mind go blissfully blank. His skin was hot against yours, his hands mapping the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the soft skin of your inner thigh where his fingers trailed slow and teasing.
You gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound like he was starving for it.
“Clark,” you breathed, and his name had never sounded like this before—so desperate and hot.
He kissed down your throat, your collarbone, the place where your pulse beat wild and frantic. His lips were soft, his stubble rough, the contrast sending shivers across your skin. When his mouth found the swell of your breast, you arched into him, fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer, needing him closer.
“You have no idea,” he murmured against your skin, “How long I've wanted this.”
“Then show me.”
He lifted his head, eyes dark behind his glasses—he'd forgotten to take them off, you realized, and something about that, about the way they sat crooked on his face while the rest of him was undone, made the heat between your legs ache.
Clark kissed you again, deeper this time, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, closer, until there was nothing between you but the space where your breath mingled and the quiet sounds you were both trying and failing to contain.
When he finally thrust inside you, it was slow. Deliberate. Like he was trying to make it last, trying to memorize every second, every sound, every way your body responded to his.
Your nails dug into his shoulders, your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs, and you let yourself feel it—all of it. The stretch from his large dick, the burn, the way he filled you so completely that for a moment, just a moment, nothing else existed.
Just him. Just this.
He moved with a rhythm that was equal parts careful and hungry, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, holding you open for him. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath hot and uneven against your mouth, and when you opened your eyes, he was watching you.
Like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing. You almost came on the spot.
“You feel—” he started, but the words broke apart, swallowed by a groan when you clenched around him. His hips stuttered, just for a second, and the control he'd been holding so carefully started to slip.
You reached up, cupped his face, felt the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble rough against your palm, the way his lips parted when you pulled him down for a kiss.
Clark moaned into your mouth, and then he was moving faster, harder, driving into you with a purpose that made the headboard knock against the wall and your vision go hazy at the edges.
You met him thrust for thrust, your bodies finding a perfect rhythm. His hand slid from your thigh to your hip to the space between your legs, his thumb finding the spot that made you cry out, and the sound seemed to undo something in him.
“That's it,” he breathed, voice ragged. “There she is,”
You bit your lip, tried to muffle the sounds climbing up your throat, but he pulled your bottom lip free with his thumb, shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving yours.
“Don't. I want to hear you.”
And maybe it was the way he said it, soft and commanding all at once. Maybe it was the way he was looking at you, or maybe it was just that you'd been wanting this, wanting him for so long that had you finally coming undone.
The sound that came out of you was raw, unfiltered, and it seemed to unleash something in him too. He dropped his forehead to yours, breathing hard, hips driving into you with a urgency that built and built until the world narrowed to just the slide of skin, the press of his mouth against your throat, the way he said your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
You came first, the orgasm crashing through you without warning, your body clenching around him, your hands gripping his shoulders like he was the only solid thing in the world.
He followed moments later, burying his face in your neck, a low groan vibrating against your skin as he shuddered through it, spilling into you with a desperation that made your chest ache.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
His weight pressed you into the mattress, warm and solid and real. His breathing was still uneven, matching yours, and you could feel his heartbeat against your chest, fast and hard, slowing gradually into something steadier.
You stared at the ceiling, your fingers tracing absent patterns on his back, and tried not to think.
That was the first time.
And the weeks that followed after that were a blur of the best and most confusing moments of your life.
Clark came to your apartment more nights than he didn't. He left clothes in your closet, a toothbrush in your bathroom, a copy of the Daily Planet on your coffee table with his byline circled in red pen. He cooked breakfast on weekends, pancakes from a recipe his Ma had taught him and you'd sit on the counter watching him, legs swinging, feeling like maybe, finally, you'd landed somewhere safe.
With him, with Clark.
But there were cracks in it. Things you noticed and smoothed over because looking too closely meant seeing what was underneath.
Clark never stayed the whole night. He'd kiss your forehead at 5 AM, murmur something about a deadline or early shift, and slip out before the sun fully rose.
He never took you out on ‘real dates,’ never brought you to his fancy work events, never invited you to meet the friends he sometimes mentioned. You only ever saw Clark when you were at work or when he was in your bed.
He called you at odd hours, too, his voice tight and distracted, asking if you were alone, if he could come over, if you needed anything from the store on his way. And he usually brought it, no questions asked.
Clark never brought you flowers though.
It was a random observation you made one day.
And maybe you were reading too much into it, but he did get his other girlfriend flowers when he was trying to get her to be his officially. And you literally worked at a flower shop, so of course he knew that you liked them. And you knew for a fact that he knew what your favorite flowers were too with how much you mentioned them.
So why hadn’t he bought you any? Why wasn’t he trying to make you his girl, officially? What was this arrangement you had gotten yourself into?
A part of you knew why. Deep down at least. You told yourself it was fine anyways. Clark was a person. He'd needed to take things slow, you convinced yourself.
Two months of this passed.
Two months of his body tangled with yours, his voice in your ear, his heart—you thought—slowly opening to you.
But you never asked where he went when he left your bed at dawn. You never asked why his phone screen faced down when he set it on your nightstand. You never asked about her. The girlfriend who had once been the reason for every flower purchase, whose name you hadn't heard in so long you'd convinced yourself she'd been a ghost this whole time.
You took what you could get. And you told yourself that was enough.
Month three of this confusing situationship arrived sooner than you expected.
Clark had texted earlier saying he'd come by after work, that he had something he wanted to talk about. You'd spent the afternoon cleaning, changing the sheets, arranging a bouquet for your living room table, even cooking a light meal.
He showed up later than usual. His hair was a mess, his tie loose, and there was a tightness around his eyes that you'd learned to recognize as stress.
You kissed him hello. He kissed you back, but his mouth was distracted.
“What's going on?” you asked, leading him to the couch. “You said you wanted to talk.”
He sat down heavily, running both hands through his hair. For a long moment, he just stared at your table, the flowers you'd arranged, at the newspaper with his article on page four, at the small stack of mail you had out.
“I should have told you sooner,” he said finally. “I've been… I've been a coward.”
The word landed in your chest like a stone dropped in still water. Rippling. Spreading.
“Clark.”
He looked at you then, and there was something in his expression you'd never seen before. Not guilt. Something deeper. Shame.
“Remember when we first met? The flowers I bought?”
You nodded slowly, though your throat had started to tighten and your hands were getting sweaty.
“They were for my girlfriend. I told you that. You knew that,” He paused. “Well, she's still my girlfriend.”
The words didn't make sense at first. They bounced off your brain like stones off glass, refusing to penetrate.
“What?”
“She's been abroad. For work. In London. She was supposed to come back earlier but it kept getting extended, and I—” He broke off, jaw working. “I didn't mean for this to happen. Any of it. I just kept telling myself it was temporary. That when she came back, I'd… but I couldn't. I couldn't stop coming to you.”
Your hands were cold. Your whole body was cold, like someone had opened a window in the middle of winter and let all the heat out.
“She's coming back,” you said. Not a question.
“Next week.”
You stared at him. At this man you'd given a year of your life to, who'd slept in your bed, cooked you pancakes, kissed you like you were the only woman in the world.
He was in a temporary long distance relationship the whole time.
“Next week,” you repeated, and your voice sounded strange, even to yourself. Distant. Like it was coming from somewhere outside your body.
“I'm so sorry.” He reached for your hand. You let him take it, numb, watching his fingers wrap around yours. “I should have told you. I should have been honest from the start. I just— I didn't want to lose you.”
You pulled your hand back. Gently, maybe too gently, because he looked almost relieved, like he thought this was going to be easier than he'd braced for.
“I need you to leave,” you said.
“Please, just let me explain—”
“You just did.” You stood up, arms wrapped around yourself, suddenly desperate to be alone. “You explained. She's coming back. You're her boyfriend. I'm— I don't know what I am. But I need you to leave so I can figure that out.”
He stood too, towering over you, and for a moment you thought he might argue. Instead, his face crumpled. “I care about you,” he said, low and rough. “That's not nothing. What we have—”
“What do we have, Clark?” Your voice cracked. “What exactly would you call it?”
He didn't answer. Couldn't answer. And somehow that was worse than anything he could have said.
When the door closed behind him, you stood in the middle of your apartment for a long time, not moving, not crying, just… waiting. For what, you didn't know. For the numbness to wear off. For the anger to come. For some version of yourself to emerge who knew what to do with the wreckage he'd left behind.
But nothing happened. At least not until 3 AM, when you were curled on your bathroom floor, the cold tile pressing against your cheek, and you couldn't remember exactly how you'd gotten there. The sobs came in waves, ugly and animal, tearing out of you with a force that left you gasping.
You thought about every time you'd told yourself it was fine. Every time you'd ignored the voice in your head that said ask, ask, ask. Every piece of yourself you'd handed over without ever once asking for the truth.
You were the other woman.
You had been for months. And before that, you'd been something worse—a friend who'd let herself fall in love with someone else's boyfriend.
The worst part, you realized as the sobs finally quieted, was that you'd known. Some part of you had always known. And you'd chosen this anyway.
You were an awful person.
You didn't text him. Didn't call. For three days, you went to work, came home, stared at the ceiling, and tried to remember who you were before Clark Kent walked into your shop with his crooked smile and his impossible eyes.
On the fourth day, he showed up.
The bell above the door chimed and there he was, looking wrecked in a way that made something vicious and satisfied curl in your chest. Dark circles under his eyes. Unshaven. His shirt wrinkled like he'd slept in it.
“I know you don't want to see me,” he said before you could speak. “I just needed to—” He stopped, swallowed. “I needed to see if you were okay.”
You should have been angry. You were angry, somewhere deep down. And you hated Clark, without a doubt.
But you hated yourself even more. Because whatever guilt and shame he felt, you felt it too, probably even more than him. And yet, looking at him now, standing in your doorway like a man coming home to a house that wasn't his anymore, you felt something else too. Something that had been there since the first moment you saw him, stubborn and so, so stupid and apparently indestructible.
“I'm okay,” you said. It wasn't entirely a lie. You had started to believe it anyway.
He exhaled, a shaky release of breath. “I'm so sorry.”
“You said that already.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.” You did. You'd always known he meant it, and somehow that made it worse. A man who didn't care would have been easier to hate. “She's back?”
Clark nodded slowly. “She got in yesterday.”
You waited for the sharp edge of that, the jealousy or grief or fury. Instead, you just felt tired. Hollowed out, maybe.
“Clark.” You stepped out from behind the counter, closing the distance between you. “I'm not going to pretend it's okay. What you did, what we did, for months, that wasn't fair to anyone. Her, me, you.”
He flinched. “I know.”
“But I also know,” you continued, and the words came easier than you thought they would, like they'd been waiting in your chest for days, arranging themselves into something true, “that I don't want to lose you either.”
His head snapped up.
“Not like that.” You held up a hand before he could move toward you. “Not— not that. I can't do that. You have a girlfriend. I can't be the person you come to when you're not with her. I can't.”
“Then what?” His voice cracked. “What are you saying?”
You took a breath. “I'm saying I want you in my life. As my friend. The way we were before. Before the—” You gestured vaguely, unable to say it out loud. “I miss that. I miss you. And I think maybe you miss that too.”
He stared at you for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes. Grief, maybe. Or relief. It was hard to tell. You were giving him a way in, a way to keep each other in your lives.
“I miss it,” he said quietly, taking his chance. “I miss you.”
“Then be my friend, Clark.” You stepped back, putting distance between you, giving the words room to breathe. “Be honest with me. Tell me about your day. Bring me coffee. Sit on my counter while I arrange flowers. But don't—” Your voice caught, just for a second. “Don't come to my bed. Don't kiss me. Don't make me complicit in something I can't live with.”
He was quiet for a long time. The bell above the door was silent. The whole street seemed to hold its breath.
“Okay,” he said finally. The word was heavy, weighted with everything he was giving up, but underneath it, something else. Gratitude, maybe. Or hope. “Okay.”
Unfortunately for everyone, that didn’t last long.
Six months had passed since that conversation.
Clark still came to the shop most days, coffee in hand, and sat on his stool behind the counter. He mentioned her sometimes—Lois, her name was Lois—in ways that were careful and deliberate, never hiding her but never lingering on her either.
You listened. You laughed at his jokes, teased him about his tendency to disappear mid-conversation when he got a call from work, watched him eat the sandwiches you guys would get when he forgot lunch again.
It hurt, sometimes.
When he'd glance at his phone and smile at a text you knew wasn't from you. When he'd leave a little early because he had dinner plans. When you'd catch yourself wondering what it would be like if things had been different.
But mostly, it was good. Better than you'd expected. Because you'd meant what you said.
You missed him. And having him as a friend, flawed and complicated and yours in a way that didn't require you to be someone's secret, was better than not having him at all.
One afternoon in early autumn, Clark came in later than usual. The light was golden, slanting through the windows and setting the flower displays ablaze with color. He looked tired but happy, his tie undone, his shirtsleeves rolled up.
“You're late,” you said, not looking up from the arrangement you were working on.
“I know. Busy day.” He slid onto his stool, watching your hands move through the stems. “How was yours?”
“Good. Got a new shipment of peonies. They're beautiful.” You paused, something occurring to you. “Wait, weren't you supposed to be at some award ceremony tonight? You mentioned it last week.”
He shrugged, but there was a softness around his mouth that made you look closer. “I didn't go.”
“Why not?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, “Lois won. Some big journalism award. She wanted me there, but I…” He trailed off, looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. “I wanted to be here.”
Your hands stilled. The flowers hung between you, half-arranged, the stems dripping water onto the counter.
“Clark.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know. We said— I'm not asking for anything. I just…” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “You're my friend. You're my best friend, actually. And I didn't want to spend tonight pretending I wasn't thinking about you.”
Your heart, that stubborn, stupid thing, clenched in your chest again.
“You shouldn't say things like that,” you said quietly.
“I know.”
“You have a girlfriend.”
“I know.”
“And I'm not—” You stopped, swallowed. “I can't be that person again.”
“I'm not asking you to.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and when he looked at you, there was nothing in his expression but honesty. “I'm just telling you the truth. Because you asked me to be honest with you. And the truth is, I think about you all the time. I come here every day because I want to be where you are. And I know that's not fair. I know I don't have the right to feel this way. But I can't stop.”
You stared at him. At this impossible, infuriating, wonderful man who had walked into your life and never really left.
“You're an idiot,” you said finally.
He laughed, surprised. “What?”
“You're an idiot, Clark Kent.” You set down the flowers, wiping your hands on your apron. “You have a girlfriend who won some big journalism award, who's probably incredible, who's been with you for years. And you're here. Telling me you think about me all the time.” You shook your head, but there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion. Just love, stubborn and foolish. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
He opened his mouth, closed it. “I don't know.”
“Me neither.”
The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable, but present nonetheless. The way silence could be when two people knew each other well enough not to fill it with noise.
His eyes flickered down to your mouth.
“I know,” he said again, finally breaking the silence, and his voice had gone low, rough, like the words were being pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. “I know I shouldn't be here. I know I don't get to do this. I know I'm not— I'm not asking for anything. I just—”
He stopped. His hands were at his sides, clenched into fists, like he was physically holding himself back as his body got closer to yours.
You should have stepped away. Should have put the counter between you, should have told him to leave, should have been the person you kept telling yourself and him you wanted to be.
Instead, you set the peonies down.
Clark exhaled, shaky. Taking that motion as a sign to keep going. “Every time I'm with her, I'm thinking about coming here. Because I lied to myself for months that I could be your friend and just— just be only your friend, and I can't. I can't.”
Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.
“You said you weren't asking for anything.”
“I'm not.” He stepped even closer. Close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him, smell that clean soap and delicious cologne. “I'm not asking. I'm just— I'm telling you. Because I promised I'd be honest. And I can't keep showing up here pretending I don't want to—”
He didn't finish. Couldn't. Because you'd already closed the distance.
The kiss was nothing like the first one.
That one had been softer, more tentative. This one was desperate. Messy. Full of pent up desire. His hands came up to your face, cupping your jaw like you were something precious, something he was terrified of breaking, and then his fingers slid into your hair and he was pulling you closer, closer, until your back hit the counter and there was no space left between you.
He kissed like a man starving. Like he'd been holding himself back for months and the dam had finally cracked. His mouth was hot and insistent, slanting over yours, and when you gasped against his lips, he made a sound, low, broken, that sent heat straight through your chest.
Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him down, pulling him in, and he came willingly, one hand sliding down to your waist, the other still tangled in your hair. He kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he was trying to make up for every moment for the past months he'd spent pretending he didn't want this.
You broke apart for air, foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing hard.
“Clark,” you whispered, and his name tasted different now. Heavier. More dangerous.
“I know,” he said, and his voice was wrecked. “I know.”
But he didn't stop. He kissed you again, softer this time. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. He was memorizing you. Committing you to memory.
“I can't—” you started, but the words died when his lips found the spot just below your ear.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against your skin. “Tell me to go. I will. If that's what you want, I'll go.”
You closed your eyes. Your hands were still tangled in his shirt, holding him there, holding him close.
“Is that what you want?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look at you.
You looked at him. At this man who had walked into your shop with a crooked smile and an impossible request, who had spent a year becoming your friend, your confidant, your everything, who had held you and kissed you and then told you he belonged to someone else.
You should want him to go.
“No,” you said.
Something in his expression shifted. Cracked open. And then he was kissing you again, and you were kissing him back, and somewhere in the back of your mind a voice was screaming that this was wrong, that you'd made a promise, that she was waiting for him somewhere and he was here, with you, hands shaking as they pressed against your skin.
But the voice was quiet. Smaller than it should have been. And when he lifted you onto the counter and stepped between your legs, you let him. When he pulled back, breathing hard, pupils blown wide, you pulled him back in.
“I can't be your friend,” he said against your lips. “I tried. I tried so hard.”
“I know.”
“This isn't— I'm not asking you to be okay with this. I'm not asking you to be something you're not. I'm just—” He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut. “I'm not strong enough to stay away from you. I've tried. And I keep coming back. I keep— I can't—”
You kissed him quietly. Because you understood. Because you'd been telling yourself for months that you could be his friend, that you could watch him leave early for dinner with her, that you could smile when his phone lit up with her name. And you'd been lying.
“I know,” you said. “I know.”
He kissed you again, savoring something he knew he shouldn't have. His hands slid to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to leave marks you'd find later, and you let him, because you wanted the proof. You wanted to know this was real.
“Stay,” you said, and it wasn't a question.
Clark looked at you for a long moment. There was something in his eyes, that shame, maybe, or the ghost of it, buried under something he didn't have a name for.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice was rough. “Okay.”
You closed the shop that night earlier than you should’ve.
You didn't think about the fact that he was supposed to be somewhere else, with someone else, that he'd chosen to come here instead. And you definitely didn't think about how this wouldn't be the last time.
Instead, you let him lead you upstairs, let him press you against the door of your apartment the second it closed behind you, let him kiss you like you were the only thing in the world that made sense.
And when Clark pulled back, just for a second, to look at you, hair mussed, chest heaving, you saw something in his expression that you'd been waiting for since the first moment he walked into your shop.
Not love. You weren't sure he was capable of giving you that, not the way you wanted it, not with her still in the picture.
But want. Desperate, undeniable want.
It wasn't enough. You knew it wasn't enough. But you took it anyway.
Because you were an awful person, and you knew this for two reasons.
One, because you were 100% sure that you were the other woman.
oh i fear i've been inspired by your work wife fanfic... in the movie, you can see that clark had written lois' name in the sky... i'd like to request another type of angst (it can either end in fluff or not, up to you!) one. clark wrote reader's name in the sky, and somehow, comes across the framed photo of lois' one. maybe she sees it stashed somewhere in clark's apartment, or lois', or maybe it got mentioned between conversations! im leaving the imagination up to you!!!!
Your love life was simply a graveyard of ‘almosts and not-quite-enoughs.’
It was a fact of your life, as simple and as disappointing as that.
You’d been the rebound after a bad breakup, the comfortable placeholder until someone “better” came along. The most crushing heartbreak had been by a college boyfriend who’d drunkenly confessed, “You’re amazing. But you’ll never be anyone’s one true love, you know? Everyone has that one person they never get over. You’re just after you know. Nothing special.”
The words had stuck to your ribs, a permanent, shard of insecurity.
You’d built a good life. You were successful, had great friends, and you loved yourself. But that specific fear—of being the second choice, the consolation prize, the one who was loved but never first loved or loved enough—lingered in the quiet corners of your heart.
Until Clark, of course.
Kind, gentle, impossibly good Clark.
He dismantled your defenses with frustrating ease. He remembered your coffee order, he listened to your stories, and he looked at you like you’d hung the moon and stars yourself. For the first time, you dared to hope. Maybe, just maybe, you could be someone’s first choice.
Two months into your relationship after he revealed his secret, he took you on a picnic to the hills outside Metropolis. The city lights glittered below. You were lying on a blanket, his arm a warm weight around you, talking about nothing and everything.
Suddenly, Clark became uncharacteristically nervous, his fingers fiddling anxiously.
“Clark? What’s wrong?” you asked, taking his nervous hands and placing soft kisses into them.
Clark sat up straight and smiled into your hands, “I uh— I have a surprise planned out that I wanted to show you.”
You straightened up too, excited now. No one has ever planned surprises for you before.
“Oh! What is it?”
Clark stood up from his place beside you on the blanket, as if he was ready to fly away from you (he was). “You have to close your eyes. And count to fifteen before you open them again.”
“Clark…”
“Trust me, you’ll love it.”
“Okay,” you agreed, shutting your eyes, trying not to smile too big, “Only because I love you.”
At that, you felt a soft kiss to your lips, then his voice, “I love you too. Now keep them shut and start counting.”
You did as told, and the second the number 'one' left your lips, you heard a ‘whoosh’ sound and air rushing over your face.
Did he just leave you here? You had to fight hard to trust that this was all part of his surprise and not open your eyes immediately.
When you finally reached fifteen, you slowly peeked your eyes open to find Clark. But he was nowhere to be found. Everything was the same as it was before you shut your eyes. Where was the surprise?
Your eyes scanned the area of where you were sitting, trying to find where Clark flew off to but found nothing. It was only when you managed to look up that you saw it.
Your breath caught in your throat as the sky was filled with your name.
It looked as though it was written by a sky writer or someone who could fly very fast in the sky. It hung there for a glorious, impossible moment, a declaration written in super-speed and love, before gently dissipating into the atmosphere.
You were speechless, tears instantly pricking your eyes. You fumbled for your phone, your hands shaking, and managed to snap a picture just before the last traces faded.
A gentle whoosh of air signaled Clark’s return. He was suddenly just there, kneeling back on the blanket beside you, his face hopeful and a little nervous. “Well?” he asked, his voice soft. “What do you think?”
“Clark…” you breathed, your voice thick with emotion. You threw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder. “It’s the most incredible thing anyone has ever done for me.”
He held you tightly, his relief palpable. “I wanted you to see what I see,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re my entire universe.”
It almost felt like an exorcism, the way those words changed you.
The old, icy fear that you were never enough, that you were always second-best, was just evicted under the warmth of that grand, impossible gesture.
See? your heart sang. You are first. You are the one.
The next day, you had the photo printed and framed in simple silver. You placed it on your bedside table, a constant, glowing reminder. You were Clark Kent’s one true love. He had written it in the sky for the whole world to see after all.
For months, you lived in the warm, golden light of that certainty. The photo was your talisman. When the old, familiar insecurities would whisper—he’s too good to be true or you’re nothing special so don’t get used to it—you would look at it and feel calm again.
The proof you didn’t want arrived on a lazy Sunday spring afternoon.
Clark was gone, saving the world per usual, so you had decided that you wanted to get some spring cleaning done, hoping to rearrange your and Clark’s shared place.
You had gone into the storage closet, pulling out boxes of his old things he’d brought from Smallville, things that never quite found a place in your shared home. You were humming, content when you found it. A stack of old photos wrapped in a flimsy rubberband, tucked at the bottom of a box labeled “Clark's Stuff” in Martha Kent's neat handwriting.
Curious, you opened it. The first few were filled with adorable pictures of a young, gawky Clark with Ma and Pa Kent. You smiled, your heart aching with affection for the boy he was. Then you kept flipping through.
And the world shattered.
It was a photo, slightly faded, taken from the exact same vantage point as yours. The hills outside Metropolis, the city lights below. But scrawled across the night sky, in that same familiar script, wasn’t your name.
It was LOIS.
The icy shard of insecurity in your ribcage, the one you thought Clark had evicted, twisted violently, embedding itself deeper than ever before. Your hands began to tremble so badly the photo almost slipped from your grasp.
No. No, no, no.
It was the same gesture. The same grand, romantic, once-in-a-lifetime declaration. The one that had made you feel chosen. Special. First.
Only it hadn’t been for you first. It had been for her.
Because you weren’t the first.
You were never the first.
The framed photo on your bedside table, your most prized possession, now felt like a cheap replica. A consolation prize.
Your old boyfriend’s voice echoed in your skull, not as a memory, but as a prophecy finally fulfilled. You’ll never be anyone’s one true love. You're just the after. Nothing special.
You felt a sickening sense of déjà vu that stole the air from your lungs. Your entire romantic history was repeating itself. You were living the same story just with a different character.
The rebound. The placeholder. The one who gets the recycled romance, the repeated gestures. The love that was once so passionate and new for someone else, now offered to you as a gentle, second-hand comfort.
Tears blurred your vision. You shoved the photos back into the box, burying it under old sweaters and textbooks, as if you could hide the truth from yourself.
You kept the one of ‘Lois’ written in the sky out though and gripped it firmly in your hand. You stumbled back, your heart hammering a frantic, panicked rhythm against your ribs.
You thought of the way he and Lois worked together, their effortless compatibility, the history that hung between them in every glance, every shared smile.
You thought he’d looked at you like you hung the moon. But had he looked at her like that first? Had he whispered promises to her that he now whispered to you?
You started to rethink your whole relationship.
That time he played you that old, scratchy record—the Billy Joel one he said his Pa loved. ‘Uptown Girl.’ He’d sung along, off-key and laughing, pulling you into a clumsy dance in the living room. You’d thought it was your song. A stupid, perfect, private joke.
Now you wondered. Had he played it for her first? Did he tell Lois he loved her in between the chorus and the verse, too?
Then there were the picnics. The way he’d always bring those little cups of strawberry ice cream because you’d once said it was your favorite, but conveniently forgot an extra spoon so you were forced to share. Did they share spoons of ice cream as well?
And what about the flannel shirt of his you’d always steal?
He’d pretend to complain, but he always left it out on the chair for you. You would wear it, the shirt fitting like a dress on your body and he would try and fit into your small jacket that never went past his shoulders. Somehow it always ended in a fit of giggles, laughing about how small it looked on him.
Every beautiful, loving moment you thought was special to your story suddenly felt staged. Recycled. Reused.
The question wasn’t just in your mind; it was crushing your lungs. Did he hold her hand and remember another hand fitting there just the same? Did he kiss her and feel the ghost of a past kiss on his lips?
How many women had stood where you once were, heart full of wonder at the sky painted with their name, believing they were the one?
Behind you, you heard Clark’s voice ring out as he came back from saving the world. He was still in his Superman suit, and took note of all the boxes and cleaning that was taking place.
“Hey you. Find anything embarrassing?” His tone was playful, but it turned heavy when he walked in and saw you frozen there. His gaze dropped to the photo gripped shakily in your hand.
His expression faltered.
Your throat ached, but the words clawed their way out. “You did it before.”
Clark opened his mouth, closed it again. He looked like he wanted to take the picture from you, to make it disappear. “That was… a long time ago.”
You laughed bitterly, though it came out broken. “So I wasn’t special. Not really. I thought—God, Clark, I thought that moment was ours.”
“It was ours,” he said quickly, stepping closer, voice low and desperate. “It still is. What I did for Lois back then—it doesn’t mean what it means with you. What I feel for you, it’s everything.”
But the words, meant to soothe, only poured salt in the wound. They were the same words you figured. The same speech. You could all but hear him saying them to her, years ago, his voice just as earnest, his eyes just as pleading.
So you said, “Do you get deja vu when I’m with you, Clark?”
The question was a blade wrapped in cotton, soft enough to slip free, sharp enough to cut.
He froze.
“I—” He searched for words, then admitted, “Well, sometimes. But it doesn’t mean what you think. It’s not… it’s not the same.”
The admission was worse than a lie. It was the truth, and it shattered everything. Your previous insecurities swelled again. A broken, hollow sound escaped you, something between a laugh and a sob.
“Of course.” You looked at the photo now dropped on the floor, then back at him, the hero in his bright blue suit.
You wanted nothing more than to curl up and cry.
Cry for the girl who was never first, cry for the girl who was foolish enough to believe, just this once, that a love written in the sky could possibly be meant for her.
“It was supposed to be mine,” you whispered to yourself, the words raw and fractured. “That was supposed to be the one thing that was just for me. Proof that I was finally worth being first for.”
You looked at him, your vision blurred by tears. “But you’d already given it away. You just reused it. Was this even…?”
You trailed off, you couldn’t even bear to say it out loud. Clark seemed to read your mind though.
“Of course this was real,” Clark pleaded, surging forward, but stopping short when you flinched away from his outstretched hand. He looked like you’d struck him.
“You know me. You know my heart, it only beats for you.”
“I thought I did,” you said, your voice breaking. “But I don’t think I know you at all.”
“Stop it,” he begged, his own eyes shining with unshed tears. “Please, just… let me make this right. I’ll do anything. I’ll—I’ll take you anywhere. I’ll—”
“Stop!” you cried, the sound tearing from your throat. “Just stop, Clark! Don’t you get it? I don’t want a bigger gesture! I just wanted something that was mine and only mine. Something you hadn’t already practiced on someone else. And you couldn’t even give me that, just like the rest of them.”
You hugged your arms around yourself, feeling small and shattered in the middle of the room he shared with the ghost of another woman.
“I don't think I can do this,” you admitted meekly.
Clark's heart broke. This couldn't be happening.
“Every time you touch me, I’ll wonder if you’re remembering how she felt. Every time I smile at you, I’ll wonder if you’re comparing it to her smile. I’ll spend my whole life feeling like I’m living in her shadow, and I’ve already spent too long in the dark.”
You didn't know it then, but you think that was the moment you fully gave up on love.
If a man like Clark Kent, a man who absolutely adored you, couldn’t love you without pieces of someone else tangled in the devotion, then certainly no one ever could.
You turned and walked toward the door, each step feeling like you were walking on broken glass.
“Wait!” His voice was choked, desperate. “Don’t go. Please. I love you. Only you.”
You paused at the door, your hand on the knob, but you didn’t turn around. You couldn’t bear to see his heartbroken face.
“I believe you love me, Clark,” you said softly, the fight gone out of you, leaving only a hollow, aching certainty. “I just don’t believe I’m the only one you’ve ever loved like this. And I’m so tired of trying to compete with those who came before me.”
You opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, closing it softly behind you on the man who loved you, on the life you thought you had, on the sky that had never been yours to begin with.
The silence that followed was the loudest sound you’d ever heard.
━━━━━━━
author's note: ntm on reader, she just traumatized and insecure! i also hate writing fluff after angst so this is just gonna be a sad up-to-your interpretation ending! thanks again for the request.
as always, my requests are always open if you want to send me a message about a story you'd like for clark or lowk any other character, im happy to write it for you. thanks for all the love and check out my other work<33
Summary: you don’t realize how much you’ve been shrinking yourself to fit into someone else’s life until you’re forced to look at the pieces. It starts with an Olympic gold medal and a boyfriend who laughs when your entire sport is treated like a political punchline. But it shifts with Sidney Crosby in the Milan cold, pointing out the devastating difference between a boy you have to make excuses for and a man who actually respects you. Sometimes, moving on isn’t just a breakup … it’s an absolute upgrade
Divided into five parts because this is 56k words long and tumblr text box limits hate me
→ Masterlist
The buzzer sounds. The Sirens have won.
You drop to your knees on the ice, stick clattering beside you. Around you, your teammates are screaming, piling on top of each other. Kristýna tackles you from behind, nearly knocking you over.
“WE DID IT!” She shouts in your ear. “WE FUCKING DID IT!”
The Walter Cup is being wheeled onto the ice. You’re crying, laughing, unable to process that this is real.
Sidney is in the stands. You find him immediately, and he’s on his feet, clapping, beaming with pride. He mouths I love you and you mouth it back.
When they call your name as playoff MVP, you can barely skate forward to accept the trophy. Your hands are shaking.
“This is for every girl who was told hockey wasn’t for her,” you say into the microphone, voice cracking. “For every player who fought for this league to exist. For my teammates who believed we could do this. And for my husband-” You look at Sidney. “-who supports my dreams as much as his own. Thank you.”
The arena erupts.
***
You’re throwing up again.
It’s the third morning in a row, and you can’t ignore it anymore. At first you thought it was food poisoning. Then the flu. But now-
“Are you okay?” Sidney calls from the bedroom.
“Fine!” You call back, voice rough. “Just give me a minute!”
You rinse your mouth, staring at yourself in the mirror. Your face is pale, eyes shadowed. And your breasts have been sore for days. And you’re exhausted despite getting plenty of sleep.
Oh.
You grab your phone, checking your calendar. Your period is late. Three weeks late.
“Sidney!” You call, voice higher than usual.
He appears in the bathroom doorway. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
“I need you to go to the pharmacy.”
“Okay. What do you need?”
You meet his eyes in the mirror. “A pregnancy test.”
Sidney goes very still. “You think-”
“I’m late. I’m nauseous. I’m tired. I think … I might be.”
“I’ll go right now.” He’s already moving, grabbing his wallet and keys. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“Sidney-”
“Yeah?”
“Get multiple tests. Different brands.”
“Multiple tests. Got it.”
He’s back in eight minutes with a bag from CVS. You lock yourself in the bathroom while he paces outside.
The first test is positive.
So is the second.
And the third.
You open the bathroom door, holding all three tests. Sidney looks at them, then at you, then back at the tests.
“Is that-”
“I’m pregnant,” you whisper.
Sidney’s face breaks into the biggest smile you’ve ever seen. He pulls you into his arms, lifting you off the ground and spinning you.
“We’re having a baby,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “We’re actually having a baby.”
“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, and then you’re both crying and laughing and kissing.
***
“Congratulations,” Dr. Liu says, smiling at the ultrasound screen. “You’re about seven weeks along. Due date is approximately late February.”
Late February. Middle of the season.
“Everything looks good?” Sidney asks, holding your hand.
“Everything looks perfect. Strong heartbeat. Good positioning. You’re young and healthy. I don’t anticipate any complications.” Dr. Liu pauses. “But I do need to talk to you about your career.”
You tense. “What about it?”
“You’re a professional athlete. High-impact sport. And while exercise is good during pregnancy, hockey specifically poses some risks. The checking, the falls, the potential for injury-”
“I can’t play,” you finish quietly.
“I would strongly advise against it, yes. At least once you start showing, the risk becomes too high. Even before that, the nausea and fatigue might make it difficult.”
You look at Sidney. He squeezes your hand.
“Okay,” you say. “I’ll step away.”
“There are other ways to stay involved,” Dr. Liu suggests. “And after the baby comes, depending on your recovery, you can return to playing.”
“How long after?”
“That depends on many factors. Your delivery, your healing, your body’s response. Some athletes are back in six months. Some take a year. There’s no right timeline.”
You nod, trying to absorb this.
Sidney speaks up. “And I’ll be home. Taking care of the baby. So she can focus on recovery and getting back to playing when she’s ready.”
Dr. Liu smiles. “That helps tremendously. Having support makes all the difference.”
***
The Sirens’ PR team has set up a press conference. You’re sitting behind a table with the team’s GM, trying not to throw up from nerves.
“Thank you all for coming,” the GM begins. “We have an announcement regarding Y/N Y/L/N’s status for the upcoming season.”
You lean forward to the microphone. “I’ll be taking a leave of absence from hockey for personal reasons. This was not an easy decision, but it’s the right one for me and my family right now. I’m grateful to the Sirens organization for their support, and I look forward to returning when the time is right.”
The questions come immediately.
“How long will you be gone?”
“I’m not sure yet. It’s open-ended.”
“Is this related to your health?”
“I’m perfectly healthy. This is a personal decision.”
“Does this have anything to do with Sidney Crosby’s retirement?”
You keep your face neutral. “My husband supports my career completely. This decision is mine and mine alone.”
“Will you return next season?”
“That’s the plan. But we’ll see how things develop.”
You don’t give them anything else. The speculation will be rampant, but you and Sidney agreed to wait until the second trimester to announce the pregnancy. Just to be safe.
***
Quinn is on the boat with Jack and Luke when he sees the news alert on his phone.
BREAKING: Y/N Y/L/N taking leave of absence from PWHL for personal reasons
He reads the article once. Then again.
“What the fuck?” He mutters.
“What?” Jack asks from the driver’s seat.
“Y/N is leaving hockey. Taking a leave of absence.”
Jack and Luke exchange a glance.
“For how long?” Luke asks carefully.
“They don’t say. Personal reasons. Open-ended.” Quinn is scrolling through Twitter now, reading reactions. “Everyone’s freaking out. Some people think she’s sick. Some think-” He stops.
“Think what?” Jack prompts.
“Some think Crosby is making her quit now that he’s retired. That he wants a traditional wife who stays home.”
Luke snorts. “That’s ridiculous. Crosby would never-”
“How do you know?” Quinn demands. “You don’t know what happens behind closed doors. Maybe he’s—maybe he convinced her that she should stop playing. That she should just be his wife.”
Jack and Luke look at each other again. They’re definitely communicating something silently.
“What?” Quinn snaps. “Why are you guys looking at each other like that?”
“We’re not-”
“Yes, you are. You’re doing that thing where you have a whole conversation without talking. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Quinn,” Luke says slowly. “Have you considered an obvious explanation for why she’d take a leave of absence that’s open-ended and for personal reasons?”
“She’s sick. Something’s wrong with her.”
“Or,” Jack says pointedly, “she’s pregnant.”
Quinn stares at them. “What?”
“Think about it. Sidney just retired. They’ve been married over a year. She’s taking time off for personal reasons that’s open-ended. It’s pretty obvious, dude.”
“She wouldn’t—she loves hockey. She wouldn’t give it up for a baby.”
“She’s not giving it up,” Luke corrects. “She’s taking a break. That’s different. Lots of athletes have kids and come back.”
“But-” Quinn is struggling to process this. “But she’s at the peak of her career. She just won the Walter Cup. Why would she-”
“Because she wants a family?” Jack suggests. “Because maybe hockey isn’t the only thing that matters to her anymore?”
“Sidney is probably going to be a stay-at-home dad,” Luke adds. “So she can come back to playing after the baby’s born. It actually makes sense. He retires, they have a kid, he takes care of it while she keeps playing.”
“That’s-” Quinn can’t finish the sentence. The image is too much. Sidney at home with your baby. You going back to hockey. The perfect modern family.
“You okay?” Jack asks.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I said I’m fine!” Quinn stands up abruptly, making the boat rock. “Can we just—can we not talk about this?”
“Quinn-”
“I don’t want to hear about Y/N being pregnant with Sidney Crosby’s baby, okay? I don’t want to think about them having this perfect life while I’m-” He stops.
“While you’re what?” Luke asks gently.
“While I’m alone,” Quinn finishes quietly. “While I’m still stuck on someone who’s completely moved on. Who’s building a whole family with someone else.”
Jack cuts the engine, letting the boat drift. “Maybe it’s time to really move on. Not just say it, but actually do it.”
“I’ve tried.”
“Try harder. Go to therapy. Date someone seriously. Do something other than wallowing.”
“I’m not wallowing-”
“You are,” Luke says. “And we love you, but dude. It’s been almost two years. You have to let her go.”
Quinn sits back down, head in his hands. “What if I can’t?”
“Then you’re going to spend the rest of your life miserable,” Jack says bluntly. “Watching her be happy. Watching her have kids. Watching her live a life that could have been yours if you’d just made different choices.”
“Thanks. That’s really helpful.”
“It’s true. And you know it.”
Quinn does know it. But knowing and accepting are different things.
***
The post is a carousel. The first photo is you and Sidney on the couch, Sidney’s hand on your visible baby bump. The second is an ultrasound photo. The third is a pair of tiny hockey skates.
The caption reads Baby Crosby coming February 2029. We couldn’t be more excited ❤️
Within minutes, it’s everywhere.
Twitter explodes. Instagram comments flood in. Sports networks interrupt their programming to announce it.
ESPN: BREAKING: Sidney Crosby and Y/N Y/L/N expecting first child
People Magazine: Hockey’s Power Couple Expecting Baby
The Athletic: Y/N Y/L/N’s leave of absence explained: PWHL star pregnant with Sidney Crosby’s child
The responses are overwhelmingly positive:
CONGRATULATIONS!!!
They’re going to be the best parents
A baby Crosby AND Y/L/N? That kid is going to be unstoppable
This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen
Sidney is going to be such a great dad
Can’t wait to see her back on the ice
***
Quinn sees the announcement and throws his phone.
It hits the couch and bounces onto the floor, unharmed.
Jack was right. You’re pregnant. Having Sidney’s baby.
Quinn imagines it — a little human with your eyes and Sidney’s smile. Growing up with two parents who love them. Learning to skate before they can walk. Being raised to believe they can do anything.
The family you and Quinn could have had if he hadn’t fucked everything up.
His phone is ringing. Mom, probably. Or Jack. Or someone else wanting to make sure he’s okay.
He doesn’t answer.
He sits in his empty house and thinks about the life that could have been his.
And he finally, truly understands that it’s over.
You’re not just moved on. You’re building an entire new life. A family. A future that doesn’t include him in any way.
And he has no one to blame but himself.
***
Labor is hell.
You’ve played through injuries. You’ve pushed your body to its absolute limits. Nothing prepared you for this.
“You’re doing great,” Sidney says, holding your hand. You’re pretty sure you’ve broken several of his fingers.
“I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying.”
“I’m definitely dying.”
“You’re bringing our daughter into the world,” he corrects. “You’re incredible.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“Right now I hate you.”
Sidney kisses your forehead. “That’s fair. This is my fault.”
“Very much your fault.”
The contractions are getting closer together. The doctor checks you again.
“You’re fully dilated,” she announces. “Ready to push?”
“No.”
“That’s okay. Your body is ready, so let’s do this.”
The next hour is a blur of pain and pressure and Sidney’s voice in your ear, steady and encouraging.
“You can do this. You’re so strong. I love you. You’re amazing.”
And then-
A cry. High and strong and perfect.
“She’s here,” the doctor says, holding up a tiny, screaming baby. “Congratulations. You have a daughter.”
They place her on your chest, and the entire world stops.
She’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. Dark hair, pink skin, tiny fingers that immediately wrap around yours.
“Hi, baby girl,” you whisper, crying. “Hi, Mila. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Sidney is crying too, his hand on Mila’s back. “She’s beautiful. She’s absolutely beautiful.”
“She looks like you,” you say.
“She looks like you.”
“She’s perfect.”
“Just like her mom.”
The nurses take Mila to clean her up, and Sidney helps you through the delivery of the placenta and the stitches. When they bring Mila back, wrapped in a pink blanket with a tiny hat, you can’t stop staring at her.
“Mila Taylor Crosby,” Sidney says softly. “Welcome to the world.”
***
You’re on the couch, Mila sleeping on your chest. Sidney is in the kitchen making you lunch — doctor’s orders to rest and recover.
“She’s so tiny,” you murmur. “How is something this tiny real?”
“She’s perfect,” Sidney says, bringing over a plate. “Just like I knew she would be.”
“I can’t believe we made her.”
“Best thing I’ve ever done.”
You look up at him. “Better than winning the Stanley Cup?”
“Way better.” He sits beside you carefully, hand on Mila’s back. “I’d give back all three Cups for this moment right here.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I absolutely mean it. The Cups were incredible. But this? Our daughter? Our family? This is everything.”
Mila makes a small sound in her sleep, her face scrunching up. You both freeze, watching her.
“Do you think she’s okay?” You ask.
“She’s perfect. Babies make faces.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. The nurses told us. She’s just dreaming.”
“What do babies dream about?”
“Milk, probably. And warmth. And her parents who love her.”
You rest your head on Sidney’s shoulder. “I can’t believe I have to go back to hockey eventually.”
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“I want to. But leaving her-”
“Will be hard. I know. But I’ll be here. Taking care of her. Sending you updates constantly. And you’ll FaceTime between periods.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“It won’t be easy. But we’ll figure it out. Together.”
Mila shifts on your chest, her tiny hand curling against your collarbone.
“I love her so much it’s scary,” you whisper. “I didn’t know I could love someone this much.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” Sidney kisses your temple. “You’re an amazing mom.”
“I’ve been a mom for three days.”
“And you’re already amazing at it.”
Your phone buzzes. The Sirens group chat with photos from the team’s latest game.
Kristýna: We miss you! But we understand why you’re not here 🫶
Sarah: Seriously, take all the time you need. We’ve got things covered.
Casey: GIVE MILA KISSES FROM AUNTIE CASEY
Kristin: Can we come visit yet or is it too soon?
You smile, texting back. You can visit this weekend. But you have to be quiet. She’s sleeping.
Kristýna: We’ll be SO QUIET
Sarah: (we absolutely will not be quiet)
Anne: I’m bringing so many baby clothes
Taylor: I’m bringing so much food
You show Sidney the texts. He’s grinning.
“Your team loves you.”
“They love Mila. I’m just the vessel.”
“You’re more than that.” He touches your face gently. “You’re her mom. My wife. The woman who just brought our daughter into the world. You’re everything.”
“Stop making me cry. I’m hormonal.”
“Can’t help it. You’re easy to compliment.”
Mila starts to fuss. You shift her, offering to nurse. She latches on immediately, and the sensation is still strange but becoming more familiar.
Sidney watches with that same awed expression he’s had since she was born.
“What?” You ask.
“Nothing. Just you’re feeding our daughter. With your body. It’s incredible.”
“It’s biology.”
“It’s a miracle.”
“You’re such a sap.”
“Your sap.”
“My sap,” you agree.
Later, after Mila is fed and changed and back to sleep, Sidney takes a photo. You’re both on the couch, Mila between you, all three of you looking at the camera.
“Should we post it?” He asks.
“Not yet. Let’s keep her to ourselves for a little while longer.”
“Okay. Just us for now.”
“Just us.”
You look at your family — your husband, your daughter, your life — and feel overwhelmed with gratitude.
This is what you almost missed. What you almost didn’t have because you were with the wrong person.
But you’re here now. With Sidney. With Mila. With everything you didn’t know you needed.
“I love you,” you tell Sidney. “Thank you for this. For her. For everything.”
“I love you too.” He kisses you softly. “Thank you for choosing me. For building this life with me. For giving me her.”
Mila yawns, her tiny mouth opening wide. You both laugh, the sound quiet in the peaceful room.
“We’re parents,” you say, still not quite believing it.
“We’re parents,” Sidney confirms. “And we’re going to be great at it.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
And looking at Mila, sleeping peacefully between you, you believe him.
You’re going to be great at this.
All of it.
Together.
***
“Are you sure about this?” You ask for the third time, adjusting your bag on your shoulder.
Sidney is buckling Mila into her car seat, making faces at her that make her giggle. “I’m positive. We’ve talked about this.”
“I know, but what if she gets fussy? What if it’s too loud? What if-”
“Then we’ll leave,” Sidney says calmly, kissing Mila’s nose before securing the last strap. “But she’s going to be fine. She loves watching hockey on TV. This is just louder and more exciting.”
“She’s nine months old.”
“And she’s going to watch her mom play hockey.” He straightens up, pulling you into a hug. “Stop worrying. We’ve got this. I’ve got her. You just focus on playing.”
“What if I’m terrible? I haven’t played in over a year-”
“You won’t be terrible. You’ve been training for three months. Your coach says you’re ready.”
“Coach has to say that.”
“Coach doesn’t lie.” Sidney cups your face. “You’re going to be amazing. You’re going to score a goal and Mila is going to see her mom being a badass. It’s going to be perfect.”
You take a breath. “Okay. Okay, you’re right.”
“I’m always right.”
“Don’t push it.”
Mila makes a noise from her car seat — something between a squeal and a babble that you’ve both decided means “hurry up.”
“See?” Sidney says. “Even she’s telling you to relax.”
***
You’re in the locker room, gearing up for the first time in what feels like forever. Your body is different now — softer in some places, stronger in others. You’re still getting used to it.
“You good?” Kristýna asks, sitting down next to you.
“Nervous.”
“You’re going to be great.”
“What if I’m not? What if I can’t keep up anymore?”
Kristýna grabs your shoulders. “Listen to me. You’re Y/N fucking Y/L/N. Olympic gold medalist. Walter Cup champion. You scored the goal of the decade. You had a baby and came back. You’re a warrior.”
“I threw up twice this morning from nerves.”
“Warriors throw up. It’s a thing.” She grins. “Plus, Sidney and Mila are here. You’re going to want to show off for them.”
“Mila’s too young to remember this.”
“But Sidney will take a million photos, and one day she’ll see them and know her mom is a legend.”
You laugh despite your nerves. “Okay. Okay, I can do this.”
“That’s our girl.”
***
Sidney is standing at the glass with Mila in his arms. She’s wearing a tiny Sirens jersey — custom-made, with “MOMMY” and your number on the back. Her dark hair is in two little pigtails (Sidney’s been watching YouTube tutorials), and she’s wearing noise-canceling headphones designed for babies.
“Okay, Mi,” Sidney says, adjusting her so she’s facing the ice. “See? That’s Mommy. Can you wave to Mommy?”
Mila is fascinated by the players skating, her eyes wide. She doesn’t wave — she’s too busy staring — but she makes happy noises.
Sidney sees you emerge from the tunnel onto the ice. You’re slower than usual, taking your time to adjust. He watches you do a lap, testing your edges, getting comfortable.
And then you see them.
Your face lights up. You skate over to the glass, right in front of where Sidney is holding Mila.
Sidney lifts Mila higher so you can see her better through the glass. “Look, Mi! It’s Mommy!”
You press your hand against the glass. Mila reaches out, her tiny hand spreading against the glass from her side, almost matching yours.
“Hi, baby girl,” you say, voice muffled through the glass but audible. “Mommy’s going to play hockey. Are you going to watch?”
Mila babbles something that sounds excited.
“That’s right. I’m going to score a goal for you.”
Sidney is grinning. “You look good out there.”
“I’m rusty.”
“You look perfect.”
You blow them both a kiss, and Sidney pretends to catch it, pressing it to Mila’s cheek. She squeals, delighted.
“I love you both,” you mouth.
“We love you too,” Sidney mouths back.
You skate away to continue warm-ups, but you keep glancing back at them. At your husband and your daughter, both wearing your number, both here to support you.
***
What Sidney doesn’t know is that the PWHL’s social media team is recording everything.
The moment you skated over. The hand press against the glass. Mila’s little hand reaching out. Sidney lifting her up so she could see better. The kiss being blown and caught.
They post it to TikTok within minutes.
@PWHL When Mom comes back to work 🥹❤️ Welcome back to the ice, @yourusername!
The video is 30 seconds long. It opens with you skating into frame, stopping at the glass. The camera zooms in on Mila in her “MOMMY” jersey, Sidney holding her up. The hand press. The exchange of I love yous that you can’t hear but can clearly see.
It ends with you skating away, looking back once more with the biggest smile.
The comments start immediately.
I’M CRYING AT WORK
This is the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen
Sidney Crosby as a stay-at-home dad is my new favorite thing
That baby is going to grow up knowing her mom is a legend
THE WAY SHE LOOKED BACK AT THEM
Relationship goals. Family goals. LIFE goals.
Everyone shut up I’m emotional
Within an hour, it has a million views.
***
You’re out for the opening faceoff. The crowd is loud — louder than you remember. Or maybe you’re just more aware of it now.
The puck drops. You lose it immediately, your timing off.
“Shake it off!” Your coach calls from the bench.
You try. The first period is rough. You’re half a step slow, second-guessing yourself. You get one shot on net, but it’s weak, easy save.
Between periods, you sit in the locker room with your head in your hands.
“Stop overthinking,” your coach says. “You’re putting too much pressure on yourself. Just play. Remember why you love this game.”
You think about Mila’s face pressed against the glass. About Sidney’s proud smile. About the fact that you’re doing this — balancing motherhood and hockey — and proving it’s possible.
Second period is better. You’re finding your rhythm, making better passes, getting into the right positions.
Third period, with the game tied 2-2, you get the puck at the blue line. You see an opening.
You take it.
You’re flying down the ice, stick-handling around one defender, then another. You can hear the crowd getting louder. You wind up, shoot-
Goal.
The lamp lights up. The siren sounds. Your teammates mob you.
“THAT’S MY CAPTAIN!” Kristýna screams.
You look at the glass. Sidney is on his feet, holding Mila, pointing at the ice. “That’s Mommy! Mommy scored a goal!”
Mila is clapping her little hands together, even though she has no idea what’s happening.
You blow them a kiss. Sidney catches it again, and this time he helps Mila blow one back.
The PWHL cameras catch that too.
***
You win 3-2. Your goal ends up being the game-winner.
In the tunnel, you’re stopped by a reporter.
“Y/N, welcome back! How does it feel to be playing again?”
“Incredible. Nerve-wracking, but incredible.”
“Your husband and daughter were here tonight. Was it emotional having them watch?”
“Very emotional. This is Mila’s first game. And Sidney-” Your voice cracks slightly. “Sidney has been so supportive. He retired so I could keep playing. He’s at home with her every day so I can do this. I wouldn’t be here without him.”
“What’s it like balancing motherhood and professional hockey?”
“Hard. Really hard. But also worth it. I hope young girls watching see that you don’t have to choose. You can be a mom and an athlete. You can have a family and a career. It’s not easy, but it’s possible.”
“Any message for your daughter?”
You look directly at the camera. “Mila, I love you. Mommy’s doing this for you. To show you that you can do anything you want in life. And Daddy and I will always support you, no matter what you choose.”
***
The TikTok from warm-ups has 5 million views by the end of the game.
The post-game interview is clipped and shared everywhere.
Twitter is losing it.
Y/N Y/L/N scoring a goal in her first game back after having a baby while Sidney Crosby stay-at-home-dads. THIS IS THE FUTURE.
The way she looked at them. The way they looked at her. I’M NOT OKAY.
Mila’s MOMMY jersey I cannot handle this
Sidney pointing at the ice telling Mila “that’s Mommy” I need a minute
This family is everything I didn’t know I needed
From Quinn Hughes to THIS. The upgrade is astronomical.
ESPN does a segment. People Magazine writes an article. The PWHL’s Instagram account gains 150k followers overnight.
Everyone wants to talk about the hockey mom who came back and scored. About the stay-at-home dad who gave up his legendary career. About the baby in the “MOMMY” jersey.
You’re trending worldwide by midnight.
***
Quinn sees the TikTok because it’s literally everywhere.
He watches it once. Then again. Then a third time.
You skating to the glass. Sidney holding up your daughter so she can see you. The obvious love between all three of you.
He reads the comments. The overwhelming positivity. The support. The celebration of this modern family dynamic.
Then he watches the post-game interview.
“Sidney has been so supportive. He retired so I could keep playing.”
“I wouldn’t be here without him.”
“I hope young girls watching see that you don’t have to choose.”
Sidney Crosby really said “my wife’s career is just as important as mine was” and became a stay-at-home dad. KING BEHAVIOR.
Y/N scoring in her first game back after having a baby. With her husband and daughter watching. This is what true partnership looks like.
Remember when Quinn Hughes couldn’t even defend her at the Olympics? And now she’s married to someone who gave up hockey FOR her?
Jack is calling. Quinn ignores it.
Luke texts. Stop looking at social media. Please.
Quinn ignores that too.
He watches the goal replay. You skating through defenders, taking the shot, celebrating with your team. Then looking at Sidney and Mila, blowing a kiss.
Sidney catching it, helping Mila blow one back.
The intimacy of it. The family of it. The everything of it.
Quinn opens his contacts. Scrolls to your name still saved as “Y/N ❤️” even though he should have changed it years ago.
He thinks about texting. About saying congratulations. About trying to be mature and kind and okay with all of this.
But what would he even say?
Congrats on the goal and the baby and the perfect life with the perfect husband?
Sorry I fucked everything up?
I think about you every day and it’s killing me?
He closes his contacts without texting.
Instead, he watches the TikTok one more time.
Mila is so small. So perfect. Dark hair like Sidney, but he can see you in her expressions.
That could have been his daughter. If he’d just been better. Done better. Been the man you deserved.
But he wasn’t.
And now someone else is living the life that should have been his.
His phone rings again. Ellen this time.
He answers because she’ll just keep calling.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Did you see-”
“Yes.”
“Oh, honey.” Her voice is gentle. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“What do you want me to say? That it kills me to watch her be happy? That I can’t stop thinking about how that should be me with her? That I fucked up so badly that I lost the best thing that ever happened to me?”
Silence.
“I think you should talk to someone. A therapist. Someone who can help you process this.”
“I don’t need therapy.”
“Quinn-”
“I need to go. I’ll call you later.”
He hangs up before she can respond.
The TikTok is up to 8 million views now.
The top comment, with 17k likes and counting, says This is what choosing the right partner looks like. This is what real love looks like. This is what support looks like. Take notes, gentlemen.
Quinn throws his phone across the room.
It hits the wall this time. The screen cracks.
Good.
Maybe now he’ll stop looking at social media.
(He won’t.)
***
Mila is asleep in her crib, worn out from the excitement of the game. You’re in bed, scrolling through your phone, still in disbelief at the response.
“Eight million views,” you say. “The TikTok has eight million views.”
Sidney emerges from the bathroom, getting ready for bed. “People love a good family story.”
“It’s insane. I thought maybe a few thousand people would see it. But this-”
“You’re inspiring people. That matters.”
“I just wanted to play hockey.”
“And you did. Beautifully.” He climbs into bed beside you. “How do you feel? Physically?”
“Sore. Really sore. But good. Like I did it, you know? I came back. I played. I scored.”
“You did more than that. You showed everyone that you can be a mom and an athlete. That women don’t have to choose.”
“We showed everyone,” you correct. “This only works because of you. Because you’re willing to be home with her. Because you support me.”
“Of course I support you. You’re incredible.”
You set your phone aside, cuddling into his chest. “Do you miss it? Playing?”
“Sometimes. But-” He’s quiet for a moment. “Today, standing at that glass with Mila, watching you play, I didn’t miss it at all. I was exactly where I wanted to be.”
“Really?”
“Really. I got to watch my wife score a game-winning goal. I got to hold our daughter and tell her ‘that’s Mommy.’ I got to see you doing what you love, what you’re brilliant at. That’s better than any goal I ever scored.”
You’re crying now. “How are you so perfect?”
“I’m not perfect. I just love you. It’s easy to support someone you love.”
“I love you too. So much.”
“I know.” He kisses your forehead. “Now get some sleep. You have practice tomorrow. And Mila will be up at six demanding breakfast.”
“It’s your turn for the early morning.”
“I’m aware.”
You fall asleep in his arms, feeling grateful and exhausted and happier than you ever thought possible.
***
The attention doesn’t die down.
You’re on the cover of ESPN Magazine: The New Face of Hockey: Y/N Crosby Returns
People Magazine does a feature: Inside Sidney and Y/N Crosby’s Modern Family
The PWHL’s Instagram following doubles. Attendance at your games increases by 30%.
Brands start reaching out — endorsement deals, sponsorships, partnerships. Everyone wants a piece of the hockey mom who came back.
But more importantly, you start getting messages.
From young girls saying they want to play hockey because of you.
From mothers saying you inspired them to keep pursuing their dreams.
From women saying they didn’t know they could have both a family and a career until they saw you do it.
Those messages matter more than anything else.
***
Mila’s first birthday party is at your house in Pittsburgh. Family, close friends, Mila’s favorite people.
She’s wearing a little party dress, cake smashed all over her face, laughing hysterically as Sidney tries to clean her up.
“She’s never going to sleep tonight,” you say, taking photos.
“Worth it,” Sidney says, managing to wipe frosting off her nose. “She’s only going to turn one once.”
It’s loud and chaotic and perfect.
“Speech!” Geno calls out.
“No speeches,” you protest.
“Speech! Speech! Speech!”
Sidney hands Mila to his mom and pulls you to the center of the room.
“Fine,” you say, laughing. “One year ago, we became parents. And it’s been-” You look at Mila, at Sidney. “It’s been the best year of my life. Hard, exhausting, terrifying at times. But perfect. Thank you all for supporting us, for loving Mila, for being part of our family.”
Sidney adds, “And thank you to my wife, who is somehow an incredible mother and an incredible athlete and makes it look easy even though I know it’s not.”
“It’s really not,” you agree, and everyone laughs.
Later, after everyone leaves and Mila is finally asleep, you and Sidney collapse on the couch.
“We survived her first birthday,” you say.
“Barely.”
“She had fun though.”
“She had the best time.” Sidney pulls you close. “We’re doing okay, right? This whole parenting thing?”
“I think we’re doing great.”
“Even with your schedule? The travel?”
“Even with all of it. Because we’re doing it together.”
“Together,” he agrees.
***
Quinn adjusts his collar for the third time, trying not to look as nervous as he feels.
“You okay?” His date asks.
Her name is Sophie. She’s a marketing executive, originally from Chicago, relocated to Minneapolis for work. They matched on Raya three weeks ago. This is their second date.
“Yeah, sorry. Just-” He forces a smile. “I’m good.”
The restaurant is nice. Upscale but not pretentious, with exposed brick and warm lighting. Kirill Kaprizov recommended it, said it was a good spot for dates. Romantic but not too intimate.
Sophie is telling a story about her coworker, and Quinn is trying to pay attention. He really is. She’s smart, funny, attractive. Everything he should be looking for.
But he can’t stop thinking about the fact that he’s only here because his therapist — yes, he finally started going to therapy — told him he needed to “re-enter the dating pool” and “create new experiences.”
So here he is. Re-entering. Creating.
And then he hears it.
A laugh. Familiar, bright, the kind that makes other people smile just hearing it.
His stomach drops.
No. It can’t be.
He turns his head slowly, scanning the restaurant.
And there you are.
At a table across the room, maybe thirty feet away. You’re wearing a dark green dress, hair longer than he remembers, pulled back in a low bun. You’re laughing at something Sidney is saying, your hand covering your mouth the way you always do when you’re really amused.
Sidney is across from you, leaning forward, looking at you like you hung the moon.
Quinn’s throat closes up.
“-don’t you think?” Sophie is saying.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said the new campaign strategy. It’s risky but could pay off. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah. Definitely.” He has no idea what she’s talking about.
He can’t stop looking at you. You’re so close. In his city. At a restaurant he’s at, on a date, trying to move on with his life.
The universe has a cruel sense of humor.
“Do you know them?” Sophie asks, following his gaze.
“Who?”
“That couple you keep staring at.”
Quinn turns back to his date, face heating. “No. Sorry. I thought they were someone else.”
But Sophie is looking at you and Sidney now, her eyes widening. “Oh my god. Is that Sidney Crosby?”
“I don’t-”
“It is! And that’s his wife. The hockey player. Y/N something. I saw them on the news last year when she came back after having their baby.” Sophie looks excited now. “They’re like, couple goals. Should we say hi?”
“No,” Quinn says too quickly. “Let’s just—let’s eat.”
But Sophie is already standing. “I’m just going to say hello really quick. I’ll be right back.”
“Sophie, wait-”
She’s already walking over to your table.
Quinn watches in horror as Sophie approaches, sees your expression shift from surprised to polite. Sidney stands, shaking Sophie’s hand. She’s talking, gesturing enthusiastically. You’re nodding, smiling graciously.
And then Sophie gestures back toward Quinn’s table.
Your eyes follow. Land on Quinn.
The smile falters for just a second. Then it’s back, but different. More careful.
Sophie returns to their table, beaming. “They’re so nice! I told them we were on a date and you’re with the Wild. Sidney said he played against you a few times. Small world!”
“Small world,” Quinn echoes faintly.
He chances another glance. You’re not looking at him anymore, attention back on Sidney. But Sidney is looking at Quinn, his expression unreadable.
***
Quinn makes it through dinner somehow. The food tastes like cardboard. He can’t focus on anything Sophie is saying. Every few minutes, he glances at your table, watching you and Sidney laugh, talk, exist in your perfect bubble.
When the check comes, he pays quickly, eager to leave.
“Do you want to get drinks somewhere else?” Sophie asks as they stand to leave.
“I actually—I’m not feeling great. Rain check?”
She looks disappointed but nods. “Sure. Text me?”
“I will.”
He won’t.
Quinn is heading toward the exit when he hears his name.
“Quinn.”
He turns. You’re standing a few feet away, Sidney beside you.
“Hey,” Quinn says, and his voice sounds strange to his own ears.
“Hi.” You look uncertain. “I didn’t know you’d be here. Obviously. I’m in town with the team. We play the Frost tomorrow.”
“Right. Yeah.”
An awkward silence.
Sidney speaks up. “I’ll wait outside. Give you two a minute.” He squeezes your hand and leaves, throwing Quinn a look that’s not unfriendly but definitely protective.
Quinn and you stand there, in the middle of the restaurant, for a long moment.
“Your date seemed nice,” you say finally.
“She’s—yeah. Second date.”
“That’s good. That you’re dating.”
“Trying to.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “You look good. Happy.”
“I am.” You smile, genuine. “Really happy.”
“Mila must be … what, almost two now?”
“Twenty months. She’s with Sidney’s parents this week. We FaceTime every night.” Your face lights up when you talk about her. “She’s starting to talk more.”
“That’s great.” Quinn swallows hard. “I saw the videos. Online. Of you and Sidney at your games. With her.”
“The media loves it.” You laugh softly. “Sometimes too much. But it’s good. For women’s hockey. Showing that you can have both.”
“You’re inspiring a lot of people.”
“Trying to.”
Another silence. This one heavier.
“I’m sorry,” Quinn says suddenly. “For everything. For not being who you needed me to be. For choosing wrong. For all of it.”
You look at him for a long moment. “I know. And I’ve forgiven you. A long time ago, actually. Not for you, but for me. Because I couldn’t keep being angry.”
“I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”
“Maybe not. But I gave it anyway.” You take a breath. “Quinn, we were never going to work. Even if the Olympics hadn’t happened, even if you’d made different choices — we weren’t right for each other. I see that now.”
“Because of Sidney.”
“Not just because of Sidney. Because I know what the right relationship feels like now. What real partnership looks like. What it means to be with someone who sees you as an equal. Who supports your dreams as much as their own. Who-” You stop. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“I know. And you’re right. I didn’t do those things.”
“No. You didn’t.” Your voice is gentle but honest. “And I’m not saying that to be cruel. I’m saying it because I think you need to hear it. That it wasn’t just the Olympics. It was everything. The way you needed validation from everyone else. The way you made me feel small sometimes without meaning to. The way you cared more about what other people thought than what I needed.”
Quinn nods, throat tight. “I’ve been in therapy. Working on that.”
“That’s good. Really good. You deserve to be happy too, Quinn. With someone who’s right for you. Who you’re right for.”
“What if no one is right for me the way Sidney is right for you?”
You smile sadly. “Then you keep looking. Keep growing. Keep working on yourself. It took me twenty-four years to find Sidney. And I only found him after I learned to stand up for myself. To demand better. You’ll find your person. But you have to be ready for them.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”
“You will. One day you’ll meet someone and realize that everything that happened — all the pain, all the growth — was leading you to them. That’s what happened with me and Sidney. I had to go through what I went through to become the person who could be with him. Who could build this life with him.”
Quinn looks at you. At the confidence in your posture. The peace in your expression. The joy that radiates from you.
You’re not his anymore. You were never really his to begin with.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” he says, and means it. Finally, truly means it.
“Thank you.” You reach out, squeezing his arm briefly. “I’m glad you’re working on yourself. You made mistakes. But you’re not defined by them. You can be better.”
“I’m trying.”
“That’s all any of us can do.”
Sidney appears in the doorway, catching your eye. You nod at him.
“I should go,” you say. “But thank you. For this. For letting me say all that.”
“Thank you for saying it. For being kind about it.”
“Of course.” You start to turn, then look back. “Take care of yourself, Quinn. Really.”
“You too.”
You walk toward Sidney, who wraps his arm around your waist immediately. He says something that makes you laugh, and you lean into him as you both head outside.
Quinn follows at a distance, not ready to go home yet, needing air.
Outside the restaurant, you and Sidney are standing by a car. Sidney has his phone out, FaceTime call connecting.
Quinn should leave. He should get in his car and drive away and not torture himself.
But he can’t move.
The call connects. Even from fifteen feet away, Quinn can hear the squeal of delight.
“MAMA!”
You hold the phone so you and Sidney are both in frame. “Hi, baby girl! We miss you!”
“Miss you!” Mila’s voice is high and sweet. “Granpa say dada come home?”
“Daddy and Mommy are coming home in two days,” Sidney says. “We have to play one more hockey game.”
“Hockey!” Mila says excitedly. “Mama hockey!”
“That’s right, Mama plays hockey,” you say, and your voice is so full of love Quinn feels it like a physical ache.
“Me hockey too?”
“When you’re bigger, you can play hockey if you want,” Sidney tells her. “Or soccer. Or dance. Or anything you want.”
“Want hockey. Like Mama. Like Dada.”
You and Sidney both laugh. “Okay, baby. You can play hockey.”
Sidney’s dad appears in the frame, reaching for the phone. “Alright, Mila, time for bath. Say goodnight to Mommy and Daddy.”
“No! Talk more!”
“We’ll call again tomorrow,” you promise. “Be good for Grandpa and Grandma, okay?”
“Okay. Love you, Mama. Love you, Dada.”
“We love you too, sweetheart,” you both say.
The call ends. You and Sidney stand there for a moment, just holding each other.
“Two more days,” you murmur.
“Two more days,” Sidney agrees. “Then we go home to our girl.”
“I miss her so much.”
“I know. Me too.” He kisses your temple. “But she’s having fun with my parents. And we needed this. Date night. Time just us.”
“You’re right.” You look up at him. “Thank you. For suggesting this trip. For coming with me. For being you.”
“Always.” He opens the car door for you. “Ready to go back to the hotel?”
“Very ready.” You slide into the passenger seat, and Sidney closes the door.
Before getting in the driver’s side, Sidney glances back at the restaurant. His eyes land on Quinn, still standing there, still watching.
For a moment, they just look at each other. Then Sidney nods once — not unfriendly, just acknowledgment. Man to man.
I know what I have. I know what you lost. I’m sorry, but I’m also not sorry.
Quinn nods back.
I know. Take care of her. Take care of them.
Sidney gets in the car. They drive away.
And Quinn stands there, watching the taillights disappear, feeling something shift in his chest.
***
He sits in his car for a long time.
He thinks about Mila’s voice. “Mama hockey. Like Mama. Like Dada.”
She’ll grow up knowing both her parents as athletes. Knowing her dad chose to stay home with her so her mom could keep playing. Knowing she can do anything.
She’ll never doubt that she’s loved, supported, valued.
That could have been his daughter. If he’d been better. Done better. Been the man you deserved.
But she’s not. She’s Sidney’s daughter. Sidney and yours.
And that’s okay.
It has to be okay.
Because you’re right — you were never going to work. Even without the Olympics, even without the White House, even without all of it — you needed someone who could match you. Who could stand beside you as an equal. Who would sacrifice for you the way you’d sacrifice for them.
Quinn wasn’t that person then.
Maybe he could be that person for someone else someday.
But not for you. Never for you again.
He pulls out his phone. Opens his texts with Sophie.
Quinn: Hey, I’m sorry about tonight. I wasn’t great company. Some unexpected stuff came up. Rain check for real this time?
Her response comes quickly.
Sophie: No worries! Everything okay?
Quinn: Getting there. Can I call you tomorrow?
Sophie: Sure! Talk then.
He puts his phone away. Starts the car.
As he drives home, he thinks about therapy. About the work he’s been doing. About learning to be okay alone so he can eventually be good with someone else.
It’s a long process. He’s not there yet.
But tonight, for the first time, he feels like he might get there.
***
You’re lying in bed, Sidney beside you, both scrolling through photos of Mila on your phones.
“I can’t believe how big she’s getting,” you murmur.
“She’s going to be tall.”
“God help us when she’s a teenager.”
Sidney laughs. “We have time before that.”
You set your phone down, turning to face him. “Are you okay? After Quinn?”
“I’m fine. Are you?”
“Yeah. It was good, actually. To talk to him. To get closure.”
“Did you get closure?”
“I think so. I think we both did.” You trace patterns on Sidney’s chest. “I don’t hate him. I don’t even dislike him. I just—I feel nothing. And that’s okay.”
“From thinking hockey is the most important thing in my life.” He pulls you closer. “Because it’s not. You are. Mila is. This family we built. Everything else is just extra.”
“Even your three Cups?”
“Even those.” He kisses you softly. “You and Mila are my legacy now. Not hockey. Everything I do, everything I am — it’s for you two. To make sure Mila grows up knowing she’s loved. Knowing she can do anything. To make sure you can keep playing as long as you want. To support your dreams. That’s what matters.”
Your eyes are burning. “How did I get so lucky?”
“I’m the lucky one. I get to watch you be an incredible mother and an incredible athlete. I get to be part of this life. This family. That’s everything.”
You kiss him, deep and sweet. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Your phone buzzes. A text from Kristýna. Team breakfast at 9am. Coach’s orders. Don’t be late!
“Back to reality,” you say, showing Sidney the text.
“Reality is pretty good.”
“Reality is perfect.”
You fall asleep tangled together, dreaming of Mila, of home, of the life you built together.
***
You’re waiting for your flight back to New York, scrolling through your phone while Sidney gets coffee.
Your Instagram has a new post from last night — a photo Sidney took of you after the game. You’re sweaty, hair a mess, but grinning. The caption reads 3 goals, 5 assists, and we’re heading home to our girl. Best roadtrip 💙
The comments are full of support:
LEGEND
Best mom in hockey
You’re showing the world how it’s done
Mila is so lucky to have you both as parents
One comment catches your eye.
@_quinnhughes Great game. Congrats.
You stare at it for a long moment. Then you tap, type a response. Thank you. Good luck this season.
It’s simple. Polite. Closure.
You don’t expect a response and don’t get one.
Sidney returns with two coffees, handing you one. “Boarding soon?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Can’t wait to get home.”
“Me neither.”
On the plane, you FaceTime Mila one more time.
“MAMA! DADA!” She’s bouncing with excitement. “Home soon?”
“So soon, baby. We land in a few hours and we’ll come straight to get you.”
“Can’t wait!” She presses her face close to the camera, making you both laugh.
“We can’t wait either,” Sidney says. “We missed you so much.”
“Miss you more!”
“Impossible,” you say. “We missed you most.”
When you land in New York, you drive straight to your house. Mila runs to the door when she hears the car, Sidney’s mom trying to keep up with her.
“MAMA! DADA!”
You scoop her up, breathing in her baby shampoo smell, feeling complete again. “Hi, my sweet girl. We’re home.”
“Home,” she agrees, wrapping her arms around your neck.
Sidney puts his arms around both of you. “There’s my girls.”
His parents watch from the doorway, his mom wiping tears.
“This never gets old,” she says to her husband.
“Never,” he agrees.
***
Mila is finally asleep after fighting bedtime for an hour, convinced you and Sidney might disappear again if she closed her eyes.
You’re back on the couch, in your favorite spot, Sidney beside you.
“Long week,” he says.
“Long week,” you agree. “But good.”
“The game tomorrow-”
“I know. Back to it.”
“You’re ready?”
“I’m ready.” You look at him. “Thank you. For coming with me. For being there. For everything.”
“That’s what partners do.”
“Not all partners.”
“Well, I’m not all partners. I’m your partner. And I take that seriously.”
“I know you do.” You kiss his cheek. “I love our life.”
“Me too.”
“Do you ever regret it? Retiring? Missing hockey?”
“Honestly?” Sidney considers this. “Sometimes I miss the game. The competition. The team. But then I wake up and Mila climbs into bed asking for pancakes. Or I get to watch you score a game-winning goal. Or we have a night like this, just the three of us. And I don’t regret anything. This is exactly where I want to be.”
“Even when Mila has a tantrum in the grocery store?”
“Even then.” He grins. “Okay, maybe not then. But most of the time.”
You laugh, settling deeper into his embrace.
Tomorrow you’ll go back to practice. Back to hockey. Back to balancing motherhood and career and all of it.
But tonight, you’re just here. With Sidney. With Mila sleeping upstairs.
With the family you built from ashes and second chances.
With the life you fought for.
With everything you never knew you needed until you had it.
And it’s perfect.
Not perfect in the fairy tale way. Perfect in the real, messy, beautiful way.
The way that matters.
“Hey,” Sidney says softly.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For choosing me. For building this life with me. For being exactly who you are.”
“Sidney-”
“I mean it. I know it hasn’t always been easy. The scrutiny, the pressure, the balance. But you’ve never wavered. Never given up. Never stopped being incredible. And I just—I want you to know I see it. All of it. And I’m grateful.”
You’re crying now, happy tears. “I love you. So much.”
“I love you too.” He wipes your tears with his thumb. “And I can’t wait for the rest of our lives together. Watching Mila grow. Supporting your career. Building this family. All of it.”
Summary: in which Macklin asks you out seventeen times, makes a bet, and scores a hat trick (in that order)
Series Masterlist
The first time Macklin sees you, he’s pretty sure his heart actually stops.
It’s a Monday morning in early October, and he’s walking through the administrative hallway at SAP Center with Will Smith, both of them still in their workout gear, when you round the corner with an armful of file folders and a coffee cup balanced precariously on top.
“Whoa, careful-” Macklin starts, reaching out instinctively.
You sidestep him smoothly, not spilling a drop. “I’ve got it, thanks.”
And then you’re past him, heels clicking efficiently down the hallway, and Macklin is standing there like an idiot, watching you go.
“Dude,” Will says. “You good?”
“Who was that?”
Will glances back. “Oh, that’s the new legal intern. Started last week, I think? Why?”
“No reason,” Macklin lies, but he’s already calculating how quickly he can manufacture a reason to visit the legal department.
***
He finds out your name is Y/N Y/L/N. You’re twenty-three, which makes you four years older than him — a fact that Will points out is “not that much, bro” when Macklin mentions it, which Macklin definitely wasn’t asking about. You went to Stanford for undergrad, you’re doing your law degree at Santa Clara, and you’re apparently the most organized person the Sharks’ legal team has ever seen.
Macklin thinks you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen, but he keeps that part to himself.
For about three days.
“So,” he says, catching up to you in the hallway on Thursday afternoon. “Y/N, right?”
You don’t slow down. “Right.”
“I’m Macklin. Macklin Celebrini.”
“I know who you are.” You shift the folders in your arms. “You’re kind of hard to miss.”
His heart does a stupid little flip. “Yeah? I mean—cool. That’s cool. So, I was thinking-”
“I’m not interested.”
He blinks. “I didn’t even-”
“You were going to ask me out.” You finally stop walking, turning to face him with a look that’s equal parts amused and exasperated. “The answer is no, but I appreciate the interest.”
“How did you-”
“You’ve been staring at me for three days straight, Macklin. You’re not exactly subtle.” But you’re smiling a little, and it gives him hope.
“Okay, fair,” he admits. “But hear me out-”
“No.”
“Just coffee-”
“No.”
“Lunch?”
“No.”
“Breakfast?”
“Still no.”
He grins, undeterred. “What about second breakfast?”
You actually laugh at that, short and surprised. “Did you just make a Lord of the Rings reference?”
“Is it working?”
“No.” But you’re still smiling as you walk away, and Macklin counts it as a win.
***
Will thinks he’s lost his mind.
“She’s said no, like, fifteen times,” he points out a week later, watching Macklin check his hair in his phone camera before heading to a “random” stop by the legal department.
“She laughs at my jokes, dude. That’s a good sign.”
“Or she thinks you’re funny-looking.”
Macklin flips him off and heads out.
He finds you in the break room, heating up leftovers in the microwave. You see him coming and immediately shake your head.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You were thinking it.” The microwave beeps, and you pull out your container. “The answer is still no, Macklin.”
He leans against the counter, watching you stir your pasta. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“Let me guess.” You cap your container, turning to face him. “Coffee, lunch, dinner, or some creative variation thereof. Am I close?”
“I was actually going to ask if you wanted to come to the game on Saturday,” he says. “We’re playing Vegas. Should be a good one.”
“I have season tickets,” you say. “Section 107.”
“Oh.” He brightens. “So you’ll be there anyway?”
“With my dad, yes.”
“Cool, cool. So after the game-”
“No.”
“Come on.” He’s smiling because he can’t help it, because you’re standing there in your perfect blazer and your hair is coming loose from its bun and you’ve got a tiny bit of sauce on your chin. “One date. That’s all I’m asking.”
You grab a napkin, wiping your chin like you can read his mind. “Macklin, you’re nineteen.”
“So?”
“So I’m twenty-three. That’s-”
“Four years. Which is nothing.”
“It’s not nothing when you’re nineteen.” But your voice is gentler now. “You’re a baby.”
“I’m not a baby,” he protests. “I’m in the NHL. I have a 401k.”
That gets another laugh out of you. “Oh, well, a 401k. That changes everything.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No.” You pick up your lunch, heading toward the door. “You’re very sweet, Macklin. But the answer is no.”
“For now,” he calls after you.
You don’t disagree, and he takes that as progress.
***
By mid-November, the rejections have become routine. He asks, you say no, you both smile about it, and life goes on. It’s become a thing, he realizes. Your thing.
“This is sad,” William Eklund tells him after watching Macklin’s latest attempt get shot down in the parking lot. “Like, genuinely sad.”
“She’s going to say yes eventually,” Macklin insists.
“Based on what evidence?”
“She hasn’t told me to stop asking.”
“Maybe she’s just being polite.”
Macklin shakes his head. “You don’t know her like I do.”
“You don’t know her at all, dude. You’ve had, what, maybe five actual conversations?”
“Fourteen,” Macklin corrects. “And a half.”
“What’s half a conversation?”
“She said good morning to me once.”
Ekky stares at him. “You need help.”
But the thing is, Macklin does know you. He knows you take your coffee black with exactly one sugar. He knows you’re always exactly seven minutes early to everything. He knows you chew on your pen cap when you’re thinking and that you organize your folders by color and date. He knows you’re funny and sharp and kind, and that you always stop to talk to the arena staff, asking about their kids and remembering their names.
He knows that when you smile — really smile, not the polite professional one — your whole face lights up.
And he knows that you’re not entirely unaffected by him, even if you pretend to be. He catches you watching him sometimes, quickly looking away when he notices. You always know his stats from the previous game. You laugh at his jokes even when they’re terrible.
There’s something there. He’s sure of it.
***
The breakthrough comes in early December, before a game against Utah.
You’re walking past the locker room — which you normally avoid like the plague — when Macklin spots you and jogs over, still in his suit.
“Y/N, hey.”
You sigh, but you’re smiling. “Macklin.”
“Big game tonight.”
“I’m aware.”
“You coming?”
“Section 107, same as always.”
He takes a breath. This is it. His last shot. “What if I made you a deal?”
You raise an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
“If I score a hat trick tonight-”
“You’re playing Utah,” you interrupt. “No offense to them, but come on.”
“Okay, fair point.” He thinks for a second. “If I score a hat trick, and we win, you go out with me. One date.”
You cross your arms, considering. “And if you don’t?”
“Then I’ll stop asking.” The words hurt coming out, but he means them. “Completely. You’ll never have to say no again.”
You study him for a long moment. He can see you weighing it, calculating the odds. Three goals plus a win is a tall order against any team.
“You’ll really stop?” You ask quietly.
“If that’s what you want, yeah.”
Something flickers across your face, too quick to read. “Okay,” you say finally. “Deal.”
His heart jumps. “Yeah?”
“But Macklin?” You step closer, and he can smell your perfume. “I’m not saying yes because I think you’ll do it. I’m saying yes because I think you won’t, and maybe this way you’ll finally move on.”
It should sting, but he’s too busy grinning. “We’ll see.”
“Yes,” you say, already walking away. “We will.”
***
In the locker room, Macklin is vibrating with energy.
“You good?” Tyler Toffoli asks, watching him bounce on his toes.
“I need a hat trick.”
“Okay …”
“Tonight. I need a hat trick tonight.”
Ryan Reaves looks up from taping his stick. “Why?”
“Because if I get one, Y/N finally has to go out with me.”
The room goes quiet. Then everyone starts talking at once.
“Wait, the legal intern?”
“You bet a date on a hat trick?”
“Dude, that’s actually kind of smooth.”
“He’s been chasing her for months-”
“Two months,” Macklin corrects. “And one week.”
Will throws a tape roll at him. “You’re insane.”
“I prefer determined.”
“What happens if you don’t get it?” Will asks.
Macklin swallows. “I have to stop asking her out. Forever.”
The room goes quiet again.
“Well,” Ryan says finally, “better make it count then.”
***
The game starts badly.
Utah scores first, a garbage goal that somehow squeaks past the goalie. Then they score again midway through the first period, and Macklin can feel the opportunity slipping away.
He can see you in Section 107, sitting with an older man who must be your dad. You’re wearing a Sharks jersey — his number, he notices with a jolt — and you’re watching the ice intently.
Focus, he tells himself. Focus.
He gets his first goal with three minutes left in the first period. A quick wrist shot from the slot that goes top shelf. He doesn’t celebrate much, just taps his gloves and gets back to the bench.
“One down,” Will says, bumping his shoulder.
“Two to go.”
The second period is a grind. Utah’s defense tightens up, and Macklin can’t find any space. He takes a penalty for holding, spends two minutes in the box hating himself, and comes out determined to make up for it.
With six minutes left in the second, he gets his chance. A beautiful feed from Dmitry Orlov, and Macklin one-times it past the goalie.
2-2.
And more importantly: two goals.
The arena erupts, and Macklin lets himself look up at Section 107. You’re on your feet, clapping, and even from here he can see that you’re smiling.
One more, he thinks. Just one more.
***
The third period is agony.
Utah scores again, making it 3-2. Then Will ties it up with eight minutes left, and the game becomes a desperate scramble. Both teams are exhausted, sloppy. The ice is choppy.
Macklin gets chance after chance, but nothing falls. He hits the post twice. Once, he has an open net and somehow puts it wide.
“It’s okay,” Ekky tells him during a TV timeout. “We’re going to OT. You’ll get another chance.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t. But you’re not giving up now.”
Regulation ends 3-3. Overtime.
***
Three-on-three hockey is chaos at the best of times. Tonight, it’s absolute mayhem.
Utah nearly ends it thirty seconds in. Then the Sharks almost score. Back and forth, both goalies standing on their heads.
Macklin is exhausted. His legs are burning, his lungs are screaming, and all he can think about is you in Section 107, watching.
Two minutes left in OT.
Macklin gets the puck at center ice. He sees Ekky streaking down the right side, Tyler driving the middle. The Utah defenseman commits to Will, leaving a gap.
Macklin takes it.
He’s never skated faster in his life. The Utah goalie is sliding across, trying to cover the angle. Macklin fakes the pass to Tyler, pulling the goalie even further-
And then he shoots.
Time slows down. He can see the puck spinning, can see the goalie reaching, can see the tiny space between the glove and the post-
The puck goes in.
The horn sounds.
The arena explodes.
Macklin’s teammates mob him, screaming and laughing, but all he can think about is looking up at Section 107. You’re standing, hands over your mouth, and even from the ice he can see that you’re shaking your head.
But you’re smiling.
***
After the game, after the media and the showers and the endless chirping from his teammates, Macklin finds you waiting outside the locker room.
“Hi,” he says, suddenly nervous.
“Hi.” You’re still in his jersey, and it does something to his heart. “That was-”
“A hat trick?”
“Show-off.”
He grins. “A deal’s a deal.”
You sigh, but there’s no heat in it. “I can’t believe you actually did it.”
“Did you watch the whole game?”
“Of course I did.” You say it like it’s obvious. “I had to see if I was going to owe you a date.”
“And?”
“And apparently I do.” You’re trying to sound annoyed, but you’re failing. “When?”
“Now?”
You laugh. “You just played almost seventy minutes of hockey. You’re exhausted.”
“I’m not tired at all,” he lies. He’s pretty sure he could fall asleep standing up.
“Macklin.” You step closer, and his breath catches. “I know you’re not tired. But I am. And I’d rather our first date not be at eleven PM when we’re both dead on our feet.”
“Our first date,” he repeats, grinning like an idiot. “So there’s going to be a second one?”
“Let’s see how the first one goes.”
“When?”
You consider. “Friday? After work?”
“Done. Yes. Perfect.”
“There’s a Thai place near my apartment-”
“I’ll eat anything,” he says quickly. “Whatever you want.”
You smile that real smile, the one that lights up your whole face. “Okay. Friday.”
“Friday,” he agrees.
You turn to leave, then pause. “Macklin?”
“Yeah?”
“That was a really good game.” Your voice is soft. “Really good.”
“I had motivation.”
“Apparently.” You shake your head, still smiling. “Get some rest. I’ll see you Friday.”
“Wait-” He catches your hand without thinking, then immediately lets go, embarrassed. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Did you actually think I couldn’t do it? Or were you hoping I would?”
You’re quiet for a moment, and when you speak, your voice is honest. “I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe both? I told myself you wouldn’t do it, that it was impossible. But then you kept getting chances, and I kept thinking-” You break off, laughing a little. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Were you cheering for me?”
“I was cheering for the Sharks.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You bite your lip, and he’s never wanted to kiss someone more in his life. “Maybe a little,” you confess. “When you scored the third goal, I-” You shake your head. “Never mind.”
“Tell me.”
“I thought, ‘Oh no.’” You’re smiling now, embarrassed. “Because I realized that some part of me wanted you to do it. Wanted an excuse to say yes.”
His heart is going to explode. “You could have just said yes.”
“I know.” You meet his eyes. “But where’s the fun in that?”
“You made me work for it.”
“You needed to work for it.” Your voice is gentle. “You’re nineteen, Macklin. You’ve had everything come easy to you your whole life. Hockey, school, girls probably-”
“Not this girl.”
“No,” you agree. “Not this girl. And maybe that’s good. Maybe you needed to want something you couldn’t just have.”
“And now?”
“Now you can have it.” You reach out, squeezing his hand quickly. “One date. Friday. Don’t be late.”
“I’ll be early.”
“I know you will.” You’re already walking away. “Goodnight, Macklin.”
“Night, Y/N.”
He watches you go, and this time when you reach the end of the hallway, you look back. You catch him staring and shake your head, but you’re smiling.
He’s smiling too.
***
Friday takes forever to arrive.
Macklin changes his outfit four times, shows up twenty minutes early, and has to walk around the block three times to avoid looking desperate. When he finally knocks on your apartment door at exactly 6:30, his palms are sweating.
You answer in jeans and a soft sweater, your hair down for the first time he’s ever seen, and he forgets how to speak.
“Hi,” you say, amused.
“Hi. You look-” He clears his throat. “Really pretty.”
“Thanks.” You grab your jacket. “You clean up nice yourself.”
The Thai restaurant is small and warm, tucked into a strip mall. You clearly come here often — the owner greets you by name and gives Macklin an appraising look that makes him sit up straighter.
“So,” you say once you’ve ordered. “Tell me about yourself.”
“You know about me.”
“I know you’re a hockey player. I don’t know you.”
So he tells you. About growing up in Vancouver, about his family, about the pressure of being first overall and the weight of expectations. He tells you about his teammates, about learning to do his own laundry for the first time, about how sometimes he still feels like a kid playing dress-up in an adult’s life.
You listen like everything he says matters, asking questions, laughing in the right places. And when he asks about you, you tell him about law school, about wanting to work in sports law, about your dad who brought you to Sharks games since you were six.
“He was pretty excited about the hat trick,” you admit. “He might be more invested in you asking me out than you were.”
“Impossible.”
You laugh. “He said any guy who works that hard for a date probably deserves one.”
“Smart man.”
“He has his moments.”
The food comes, and you steal bites off his plate without asking. He pretends to be annoyed but immediately offers you more. You argue about the best Sharks players of all time, about whether the 2000s or 2010s had better rom-coms, about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.
“It absolutely does not,” you insist.
“It’s fruit! It’s healthy!”
“It’s an abomination.”
“You’re an abomination.”
You throw a napkin at him, and he catches it, grinning.
Somewhere between the pad thai and the mango sticky rice, he realizes he’s never been this happy. Not after winning games, not after scoring goals. Just sitting here, watching you laugh at his stupid jokes, arguing about pizza toppings.
This. This is what he wanted.
***
After dinner, you walk slowly back toward your apartment. It’s cold, and you huddle into your jacket. Without thinking, Macklin puts his arm around you.
You don’t pull away.
“So,” you say as you reach your building. “Verdict?”
“Best date of my life.”
“You’re nineteen. How many dates have you been on?”
“Enough to know this was the best one.”
You smile, looking down. “It was pretty good.”
“Just pretty good?”
“Okay, really good.” You look up at him. “You’re not what I expected, Macklin Celebrini.”
“Better or worse?”
“Better,” you admit. “A lot better. You’re-” You pause, searching for words. “You’re genuine. And funny. And you actually listen when people talk. That’s rare.”
“Especially for a nineteen-year-old?”
“Especially for anyone.” You lean against your door. “I’m sorry I made you wait so long.”
“I’m not.” He steps closer. “You were right. I needed to work for it. And now-” He doesn’t finish the sentence.
“Now?”
“Now I appreciate it more.” He’s looking at your lips. “Can I kiss you?”
You pretend to think about it. “I don’t know. Maybe you should score a hat trick for that too.”
“If I need to, I will.”
You laugh, and then you’re kissing him, and it’s better than scoring any goal, better than anything he’s ever felt. You taste like mango and you’re smiling against his mouth and his hands are in your hair and-
You pull back, breathless. “Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“So,” you say, still in his arms. “About that second date …”
He grins. “I thought we had to see how the first one went?”
“It went pretty well.”
“Just pretty well?”
You kiss him again, slower this time. “Really, really well.”
“Tomorrow?”
“You have a game tomorrow.”
“Sunday, then.”
“Pushy.”
“Determined,” he corrects.
You laugh against his neck. “Sunday. But only if you promise to actually focus on the game, not just stand around thinking about kissing me.”
“I can multitask.”
“Macklin.”
“Fine, fine. Hockey first, kissing second.”
“Good boy.”
He groans. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it does things to me.”
You pull back, grinning wickedly. “Good boy?”
“You’re evil.”
“And you’re nineteen and adorable and way too into me.”
“Guilty on all counts.” He kisses your forehead. “But you like it.”
“Unfortunately,” you say, but you’re smiling. “I really do.”
***
Later, after he’s left (and texted you goodnight, and good morning, and a meme he thought you’d like), Macklin lies in bed staring at his ceiling.
Joe Thornton pokes his head in. “So? How’d it go?”
“She kissed me.”
“I gathered, from the stupid grin you haven’t stopped doing.”
“I’m going to marry her.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’ve been on one date.”
“Best date of my life,” Macklin says dreamily.
Joe heaves a heavy sigh. “You’re hopeless.”
“Hopelessly in love.”
“Oh my god, I’m leaving.”
But Macklin doesn’t care. He’s already planning Sunday’s date, already thinking about how to make you laugh, already counting down the hours until he sees you again.
He thinks about you saying he worked for this, that he needed to. And maybe you were right. Maybe that’s why it feels so good now — because he earned it. Because you made him prove that he wasn’t just some kid with a crush, but someone who could be patient and persistent and worth your time.
His phone buzzes. A text from you: Stop smiling at your ceiling and go to sleep. You have practice tomorrow.
He laughs out loud. How did you know?
Because I’m doing the same thing.
His heart soars. He types back: Goodnight, Y/N. Thanks for saying yes.
Thanks for scoring a hat trick.
Thanks for wearing my jersey.
Goodnight, Macklin.
He falls asleep smiling, dreaming of Thai food and arguments about pizza and the way you look when you laugh.
Tomorrow, he’ll go to practice. He’ll take the chirping from his teammates about being whipped. He’ll count down the hours until Sunday.
But tonight, he’s just a nineteen-year-old kid who worked his ass off for one date with the most amazing girl he’s ever met.
And it was worth every single rejection, every single no, every single moment of doubt.
Because in the end, he got his hat trick.
And he got the girl.
***
On Sunday, you wear his jersey again. And when he scores (just one goal this time, but it’s enough), he points up at Section 107.
You’re already smiling.
After the game, he takes you for ice cream even though it’s December and not nearly warm enough. You get chocolate, he gets vanilla, and you share like you’ve been doing this forever.
“So,” you say, stealing his cone. “Three dates in one week. That’s pretty serious.”
“Is it?”
“For a nineteen-year-old and a sophisticated twenty-three-year-old? Absolutely.”
He steals your cone back. “What about for just two people who really like each other?”
You soften. “Then I guess it’s just right.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You lean into him, and he wraps his arm around you, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. “You know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“I knew you were going to get that hat trick.” You look up at him. “The whole game, I kept thinking, ‘He’s going to do it. He’s actually going to do it.’”
“And?”
“And I was terrified.” You laugh. “Because I knew that if you did, I’d have to admit I wanted you to. That I’d been wanting to say yes for weeks. That maybe you weren’t just some kid with a crush, but-” You break off.
“But what?”
“But someone I could actually fall for.” Your voice is quiet. “If I let myself.”
He stops walking, turning to face you. “So let yourself.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re nineteen, and I’m twenty-three, and you’re an NHL player, and I’m just-”
“You’re not just anything.” He cups your face in his hands. “You’re brilliant and beautiful and funny and kind. And yeah, I’m nineteen. But I know what I want. And I want this. I want you.”
Your eyes are shining. “Macklin-”
“You don’t have to say it back. Not yet. Just-” He swallows. “Just don’t count me out because of a number, okay? Give me a chance to prove I’m not just some kid.”
You’re quiet for a long moment. Then you smile, slow and sweet. “You already have.”
And when you kiss him this time, right there on the sidewalk with ice cream melting in your hands and the December wind biting at your faces, he knows.
This is it. This is everything.
Four years, four months, four decades — it doesn’t matter. When you know, you know.
And Macklin has never been more sure of anything in his life.
Summary: Kimi Antonelli and YN Wolff have been friends forever and dating for just as long - nothing changes when he makes it to F1.
Requested: Yes / @n1kissingincarslover - maybe for kimi it’s x toto’s daughter and they’ve known eachother since they where 12 obvi since he’s known mercedes since then
Old Posts:
Instagram /
Posted 424 weeks ago:
liked by: lewishamilton, mercedesamgf1, kimi.antonelli and 92,901 others
yn.wolff: Kimi won!!!
username: seeing this after kimi signed for Mercedes is insane btw
username: they were babies😭
kimi.antonelli: I won!! *424 weeks ago
username: look at them omg
username: Nobody was rooting harder for Kimi than YN
Instagram /
Posted 392 weeks ago:
liked by: yn.wolff, olliebearman and 92,901 others
kimi.antonelli: YN and Kimi take on Italy
username: LOOK AT THEM
username: they were two apples tall 😭
-> username: They're still two apples tall
yn.wolff: Had the best day ever with you!! *392 weeks ago
username: SCREAMING!!!
Instagram /
Posted 215 weeks ago:
liked by: kimi.antonelli, georgerussell63, lewishamilton and 102,901 others
yn.wolff: It's my birthday !!!
username: happy birthday!! *215 weeks ago
username: Their old posts keep coming up on my tl and I'm sobbing
username: omg the set up, your mum and dad love you *215 weeks ago
-> username: They do but this was all Kimi actually!! *215 weeks ago
-> username: sorry he did all that and they're NOT together?? *215 weeks ago
username: my favs 😭
kimi.antonelli: Buon compleanno caro!! *215 weeks ago
-> yn.wolff: Love you!!! *215 weeks ago
-> username: BABY YN AND BABY KIMI WERE SO CUTE OMG!!
Instagram /
Posted 205 weeks ago:
liked by: kimi.antonelli, yn.wolff and 4,792,901 others
totowolffofficial: A successful weekend
username: Did anyone see Toto telling yn and kimi off bc they snuck off😭 *205 weeks ago
username: This coming up on my fyp just before the 2025 season
username: YN jumping onto Kimi's back when he won 😭 They're gonna be iconic when he makes it to f1 *205 weeks ago
username: I love seeing this in 2025 and reading the lore on kimiyn growing up
Instagram /
Posted 77 weeks ago:
liked by: lewishamilton, kimi.antonelli, nicorosberg and 192,901 others
yn.wolff: Happy Birthday to my most favourite person in the world!! I love you!!
username: HAPPY BDAY KIMI *77 weeks ago
username: stop they were so cute
username: THE CAKE??? *77 weeks ago
username: Oh so they've just always been in love
kimi.antonelli: Grazie, amore mio, non vedo l'ora di festeggiare con te! *77 weeks ago
-> username: STOP 😭 he said he can't wait to celebrate with her!! they were adorable back then *77 weeks ago
-> username: pls never pr train my fav couple *77 weeks ago
username: THEY DO KIMI FUNKOS?? *77 weeks ago
-> yn.wolff: lol no I got it custom made *77 weeks ago
username: obsessed with the fact they go all out for each others bday
2025 Season:
Instagram /
liked by: georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli, yn.wolff and 4,792,901 others
mercedesamgf1: Breaking: Andrea Kimi Antonelli to race for Mercedes from 2025
username: as if some kid is replacing the GOAT
-> yn.wolff: 'sOmE kId' stfu
-> mercedesamgf1: YN, please, we've spoken about this
-> username: OH F1 IS NOT READY FOR THIS
-> username: who is she??
-> username: she's toto's kid and Kimi's best friend and she will fight everyone that talks shit about Kimi
username: im not hating yet
-> yn.wolff: Better never start hating
username: Stupid ass decision
-> yn.wolff: Shut up
-> username: I LOVE HER
username: YN fighting every hate comment im acc obsessed
yn.wolff: YES THERE IS THE FUTURE WDC!!
-> kimi.antonelli: In the comments but won't text me back
-> yn.wolff: I'm busy hyping you up omg
-> kimi.antonelli: Grazie 😐 Now text me back.
-> username: Mercedes I'm begging you don't media train them !!
username: the next post is gonna be merc releasing an apology statement for yn
Instagram /
liked by: kimi.antonelli, nicorosberg, georgerussell63 and 792,901 others
yn.wolff: Race weekends just got even better because KIMI ANTONELLI IS AN F1 DRIVER!!!
username: When I show up to a 'who's kimi Antonelli's biggest fan' competition and YN's already there 🚶🏼♀️🚶🏼♀️🚶🏼♀️ *liked by yn.wolff
username: people that only watch f1 and haven't watched kimi advance through the ranks aren't ready for the carnage that is kimiyn
kimi.antonelli: let's goooooo!!
username: as somebody who has been here since they were 15 I have been waiting SO LONG for this!!
Twitter /
Instagram /
liked by: yn.wolff, georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli and 4,792,901 others
mercedesamgf1: Solid weekend from the team, bring on the next race where we will be doubling the size of our photography team.
username: sorry how many team photographers do they have and she used him💀
username: he was nearly late because he can't say no to her
-> mercedesamgf1: We really wish he would
-> username: kimiyn: a pr headache
username: Honestly I thought that f1gossip was just lying but ummmmm apparently not 😭😭
Instagram Story /
Instagram /
liked by: kimi.antonelli, lando, georgerussell63 and 1,092,901 others
yn.wolff: Who needs a professional photographer when you've been training your own personal one since you were twelve 🤷🏻♀️
username: I’m actually in love with how she has no shame
username: i mean they got told off but damn she looks good
username: Jesus she really has trained him I wish my bf took pictures this good of me
-> username: wait until you find out they’re not dating
-> username: WHAT
-> username: YOUTE LYING OMG
-> username: wtf do you mean they’re not dating??
-> username: I can’t tell you how much I love breaking this news to the new kimiyn fans 😭 so basically her and Kimi have been friends since they were like 12 cos obvs Kimi was in the junior program and Toto wanted him, blah blah blah since they met KIMIYN have been joined at the hip and have given Toto and the media team a headache ever since
-> username; I’m sorry I actually can’t believe this like ??? They post each other in pretty much every post, I don’t even post my own bf this much and then every time he was shown on sky sports this weekend she was there😭😭
-> username: you think you’re suffering?? Some of us have been here since they were 15 😭😭
kimi.antonelli: f1 driver ❌ yn's personal photographer ✔️
-> yn.wolff: We both know which gig you prefer
-> mercedesamgf1: Yes we do YN, the one were he represents his team to the highest standard
-> username: i know their pr team hates them
kimi.antonelli: Easy to be good at photography when the model is as beautiful as you
-> yn.wolff: You weren’t saying that after my dad shouted at us
-> username: what did he say
-> yn.wolff: he started ranting in Italian about how my instagram account is not the most important thing, i disagreed but stayed quiet bc he gets VERY Italian when he’s stressed
-> username: WTF DO YOU MEAN THEYRE BOT DATING??
-> username: listen man I love my friends but wtf did I just read
Twitter /
Instagram Story /
Instagram /
liked by: yn.wolff, georgerussell63 and 2,792,901 others
kimi.antonelli: P7 in the sprint, P6 in the race! Brilliant weekend in China, ready for more!
username: sorry??? He got points and two out of four of the posts have yn in it
-> username: actually obsessed with them omg
username: I hate these two wtf
username: KIMI GOT POINTS AGAIN!!!
-> yn.wolff: KIMI GOT POINTS AGAIN!!!
-> username: HELLO??
username: not dating my arse
mercedesamgf1: That’s our rookie 🤩
-> yn.wolff: More importantly that’s MY rookie 😍
-> username: admin just sighed so hard
-> mercedesamgf1: So hard.
username: matching outfits and they’re not together????
yn.wolff: 6TH IN THE WDC, THAT’S MY CHAMPION RIGHT THERE
-> username: obsessed with her
-> kimi.antonelli: Grazie tesoro mio
-> username: MY DARLING?????
Texts /
Instagram /
liked by: kimi.antonelli, lewishamilton and 1,792,901 others
yn.wolff: They're trying to media train your favourite driver and your favourite wag
username: don’t media train them !!
username: SORRY DID SHE JUST SAY SHE IS A WAG
username: they’re not dating surely
username: WAG???? AS IN KIMI’S WAG?? AS IN KIMI’S GIRLFIREND?!?!?
username: this is not how she tells us
username: guys calm down, it’s just cos we call her a wag all the time
username: this is the most yn way to go public I hate her so so much
kimi.antonelli: And who’s fault is it that we need media training?
-> yn.wolff: I’m going to be the bigger person and say it’s both of our faults
-> kimi.antonelli: 🙄
-> username: she has a point, if I know anything about these two it’s that he is incapable of saying no to her
-> yn.wolff: @/username: the people get it 😌
-> kimi.antonelli: Please do not encourage her
username: kimi really said 🧍🏻♂️🧍🏻♂️
Instagram /
liked by: kimi.antonelli, maxverstappen1 and 1,792,901 others
yn.wolff: Welcome to Miami
username: her posting the most couple ass looking post despite them not being together is crazy work
kimi.antonelli: Best day with you
username: obsessed with them omg
username: WHAT DO YOU MEAN THYERE NOT DATING
mercedesamgf1: YN, please bring our driver back
-> yn.wolff: He was mine first
-> mercedesamgf1: Actually he joined the Mercedes junior program before he was yours, so bring him back
-> yn.wolff: Fine 😤
-> username: mercedes confirming kimi is hers wtf
Instagram /
liked by: maxverstappen1, kimi.antonelli, georgerussell63 and 2,092,901 others
yn.wolff: KIMI ANTONELLI IS ON THE PODIUM!! THAT'S MY GUY!!
username: nobody is happier for kimis p3 than yn
username: the least deserving driver
-> yn.wolff: Just cause your fav can’t get on the podium
-> username: I love her
-> username: yes she can fight when it comes to kimi
-> mercedesamgf1: YN, we are all exceptionally proud of kimi but let’s tone it down a bit please
-> yn.wolff: No.
-> mercedesamgf1: Thursday, 8am, media training
-> yn.wolff: Free me from this hell
-> georgerussell63: Ah, this explains the text I just got.
-> yn.wolff: What text🤨
-> georgerussell63: You’re watching the race from my side of the garage next week.
-> yn.wolff: @/mercedesamgf1 seriously!!!???
-> mercedesamgf1: It’s for the good of everyone
-> yn.wolff: Not to play THAT card but do you know who I am? I'm texting my dad rn
-> mercedesamgf1: Hate to break it to you but the orders came from Toto
-> yn.wolff: Betrayed by my own dad😔
-> username: wtf is this whole exchange
kimi.antonelli: Grazie, amore mio!
-> username: he calls her my love and we’re just supposed to believe they’re childhood friends 🙄
username: kimi podium and a date post, what a weekend
Instagram /
liked by: kimi.antonelli, georgerussell63, lando and 2,792,901 others
yn.wolff: My guy DNF'ed
username: LMAOOOO
username: im dead yn have some sympathy please
kimi.antonelli: I would be lost without your support 🙄
-> yn.wolff: I got you ice cream
-> kimi.antonelli: you spent an hour crying over how proud you were off Lando
-> yn.wolff: Yes?
-> lando: thats my girl *liked by yn.wolff
username: poor kimi:((
username: Silverstone was brutal this year but damn did she look good
-> kimi.antonelli: The only highlight
-> mercedesamgf1: Tuesday. 8 am.
username: awww kimi:((
username: I know the captions is jokes but you just know she looked after him so good
username: NOT THAT PICTURE YN
Texts /
Instagram /
liked by: lando, lewishamilton, georgerussell63 and 4,792,901 others
kimi.antonelli: My favourite place is wherever she is 🤍
username: OMG
username: WAIT IT’S FINALLY HAPPENED OMG
username: crazy that it’s 6am and he posts this like it’s normal
-> yn.wolff: @/username: Imagine my surprise waking up at 7am and seeing this like its normal 😧
-> kimi.antonelli: Me posting my girl? Check my instagram, seems pretty normal to me
-> username: the way he’s not even wrong, yn is in more of his post than she’s not 💀
yn.wolff: ‘mY fAvoUriTe pLacE iS WhErEveR sHe Is?’ Yeah then why did I wake up alone this morning
-> username: ohhhhh I love this
-> username: we thought they were unhinged before, I can already hear Mercedes pr team crying
-> kimi.antonelli: I was getting you breakfast 🙄
yn.ln: Oh ok
-> yn.wolff: we’re doing this then
-> yn.wolff: I want it noted this was entirely kimi’s doing for when we’re inevitably dragged into my dads office
-> username: obsessed with all of this btw
-> username: I well had all my bets on yn being the one to hard launch them wtf
username: I MEAN WE KNEW THEY WERE TOGETHER BUT HOLY SHIT WHAT IS HAPPENING
lewishamilton: Happy for you two kids!
-> yn.wolff: Love you, Lew!!
-> username: I always forget lewis has known yn since she was a kid
mercedesamgf1: We’ll see you in the media training meeting on Monday.
-> yn.wolff: don’t be a hater admin:((
-> username: never media train the best couple in f1
yn.wolff: I love you so much, you’re my most favourite person ever 🥰
-> kimi.antonelli: ti amo, bella
Instagram /
liked by: kimi.antonelli, lando, nicorosberg and 4,792,901 others
yn.wolff: Then & Now...my best friend, the man I've loved since we were fourteen, I love you more than anything
username: iM CRYING
mercedesamgf1: You know what? We’re just gonna pretend we didn’t see this one.
-> username: kimiyn is a pr nightmare, you just know they run nothing past the team
username: wait stop that’s so cute, they’ve been together since they were 14 😭
-> username: they’re the reason I believe in love omg
kimi.antonelli: Mia bellissima ragazza, sei la luce della mia vita. Ti amerò per sempre. (*see translation: ‘My beautiful girl, you are the light of my life. I will love you forever.)
-> yn.wolff: 🥰🥰
username: im screaming omg this is everything
maxverstappen1: Happy for you both
username: quick every one pretend to be shocked
georgerussell63: It’s about time
Instagram /
liked by: kimi.antonelli, olliebearman, lando and 4,792,901 others
yn.wolff: Meet Oliver Bearman, my boyfriend's boyfriend.
username: iconic I love them
olliebearman: stay jealous
-> yn.wolff: hope your car stops working xoxo
-> mercedesamgf1: YN….
-> yn.wolff: Yeah yeah I know the drill
-> kimi.antonelli: Don’t worry amore, you’re still my favourite
-> olliebearman: thank you Kimi☺️
-> yn.wolff: @/olliebearman Crash
-> mercedesamgf1: YN!
-> yn.wolff: Worth it
-> username: wtf just happened??
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liked by: kimi.antonelli, yn.wolff, lando and 7,792,901 others
georgerussell63: Do you really want to talk about third wheeling, @/yn.wolff?
username: didn’t expect George to get involved
username: obsessed with the fact that they just hang out with George
-> username: I always forget that YN’s just been with the grid since she was a kid
username: HELLO??
username: George is sick of them
username: them flipping George off😭
yn.wolff: You’re not third wheeling, you’re just our chaperone
-> kimi.antonelli: Toto said we ‘can’t be trusted to get to our obligations on our own’
-> georgerussell63: I did not sign up for unpaid childcare
-> yn.wolff: Perks of the job 👍🏻
-> georgerussell63: Can’t wait for contract negotiations I’m making you two stay far away from me
-> mercedesamgf1: They’re your problem now 😌
username: SCREAMING
username: George might do the swap with red bull just to get away from kimiyn😭😭
the love hypothesis @thelovehypothesis - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
