Tu Esperanza

theatre kid • honorary bennet sister • 23

[tueresmiesperanza]

my biggest flex in life is and will always be seeing this is in person, close.

i had the time of my life on Sunday seeing my two favorite artists, I can’t even believe it actually happened like wtf

i screamed so loud and the atmosphere was incredible, I’ve never experienced that and never will again

thankful and so proud of hobi, god I adore him

* he also fine as fuckkk like his damnnn, my ult really did the damn thing

* when hangsang came on I was screaminggg then Becky g came on and my Latina ass lost it :) Viva Mexico

[angry-nightwing]

In 2012 they hired Aaron tveit to play Enjolras, put him in a slutty little curly blond wig, and I have not known peace since

[revolutionnaire-farouche]

the results came back: the doctor says the beating of my heart echoes the beating of the drums

[tueresmiesperanza]

happy barricade day to all those who celebrate 🇫🇷🥖

[colonel-clucker]

9.30.24 | New York Mets vs. Atlanta Braves : Game 2

[maxfriedss]

squirrelgate

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

borrowed boyfriend

summary: when a last minute favor lands yankees pitcher max fried as your fake date to your cousin’s wedding, the act is flawless until you start wishing it wasn’t one.

word count: 6.4k words

a/n: ahhhh finally a reason to use this pic!!!!!! i missed our booktok boyfriend so here! i hope you guys enjoy!!! i love you!!!!!

⸻

You’ve been pretending the date’s not creeping up on you, shoving the RSVP card into a drawer weeks ago and telling yourself you’d deal with it later. Later has officially arrived. The week is here, and your phone calendar keeps flashing Ashley’s Wedding in bright, unhelpful letters like it’s personally mocking you.

It’s not that you hate weddings. You like free food, champagne towers, and the occasional bad DJ as much as the next person. It’s just, this one. This one comes with the added joy of your ex smug smile, new girlfriend, and the kind of coordinated, look how happy we are pda that will absolutely be a performance for your benefit. You can already picture the slow motion hair flip, the hand squeeze, the whispered inside jokes they’ll make sure you “accidentally” overhear.

Your family isn’t making it any easier. Every group chat ping for the past month has been some variation of can’t wait to see you! are you bringing anyone? followed by a winky face emoji you can practically hear through the screen.

And because they apparently feed on your discomfort like it’s a delicacy, they don’t stop there. Phone calls from your mom somehow always start off about something normal, weather, whether you’ve paid your car insurance and end up swerving into your “dating prospects” like you’re on a reality show she’s producing.

You’d decided to go alone. Wear something killer, hold your champagne glass like a shield, and remind yourself that being unattached means you don’t have to worry about your date making bad small talk with your extended family. It was a solid plan, right up until your phone lit up mid lunch with Mom, and muscle memory betrayed you into answering.

“I was just talking to your aunt,” she starts, voice bright and breezy in that way that always means she’s about to ruin your afternoon. “We can’t wait to see you this weekend! Oh, and—” a pause, casual but not casual at all,“maybe bring someone nice, for once.”

You nearly choke on your water. “Excuse me?”

“Just someone. Anyone. You’ve been single forever, honey. It wouldn’t kill you to have a little fun. And maybe, you know…” her tone shifts into the matchmaking hum you know too well, “prove certain people wrong.”

The call ends before you can formulate a defense. You’re left staring at your phone like it might offer a solution, but it just sits there, black screen and all, smug in its uselessness.

Your stomach twists, that tight coil of dread that comes with knowing exactly how this will go if you don’t do something. Three days. That’s all you’ve got to find a date or resign yourself to being the main topic at the gossip table, dissected between the bread rolls and the cake cutting.

Suddenly, the “going alone” plan doesn’t feel so bulletproof.

⸻

By the time you get home that night, you’ve already cycled through every possible solution short of hiring an actual actor to survive this wedding. You even opened your dating apps for thirty seconds before the parade of shirtless mirror selfies made you want to delete your phone entirely.

So when you facetime your best friend, you’re still mid rant, half sprawled on your couch with one leg dangling over the armrest, a glass of wine cradled like it’s your emotional support beverage. The tv is on some mindless reality show in the background, but you’re too wound up to notice.

“Three days,” you tell her the second she answers, pointing the glass at the camera like you’re presenting exhibit a. “Three days to magically find a boyfriend. You know how long it took me to get a date for prom? Eight months. And I still ended up with the guy who thought wearing a tux with converse made him a visionary.”

She snorts into her drink, not even pretending to hide her grin. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I am being realistic,” you correct, dragging out the syllables. “Which is worse.” You take a sip, slump deeper into the cushions, and sigh like the weight of the world has personally chosen you as its carrier. “It’s fine. I’ll just show up alone, drink my body weight in champagne, and pray the photographer catches my good side for once. That’s a plan.”

She tilts her head in that way that means she’s thinking something over, the corner of her mouth twitching. “What if,” she says slowly, “you didn’t go alone?”

You give her a flat look. “Wow. Revolutionary.”

“No, seriously.” She props her chin in her hand and leans closer to the screen. “I might be able to help.”

“With what? Handing me a guy out of thin air?”

Her grin sharpens, the same one she gets when she knows she’s about to win an argument. “Well, I do work for the Yankees.”

It takes a full beat for the implication to click, and when it does, you nearly spill your wine. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? I’m not saying marry the guy. Just as a date. One night. Smile for the photos. Make your ex regret every life choice he’s ever made.”

You shake your head, but you can already feel the tiniest flicker of curiosity slipping through the cracks. “This is ridiculous.”

“You’re welcome to keep panicking,” she says with a smirk, “or you could let me make a call.”

You wave her off with a laugh, lifting your glass again. “Sure. Go ahead. Bring me Aaron Judge while you’re at it.”

⸻

The next afternoon, your phone buzzes with her name.

You answer without thinking, and she skips the hello entirely. “So, Max Fried said yes.”

You sit up a little too fast. “Max—what?”

“As in, tall, plays for the Yankees, could absolutely pull off the fake, boyfriend thing without breaking a sweat. That Max Fried.”

You stare at the far wall, brain tripping over itself to process the words said yes. “I was joking.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t. You’re welcome. He’ll pick you up Friday at six.”

And then she hangs up, just like that, leaving you alone with your phone, your spiraling thoughts, and the sudden, vivid image of walking into your cousin’s wedding on the arm of an actual Yankee.

The mental picture is so sharp you can practically hear your relatives gasping already.

⸻

You almost talk yourself out of it three times before Friday night. Each time, you picture your ex’s smug, self satisfied grin when he sees you alone or worse your mother’s look of delighted I told you so if her latest matchmaking crusade gets even a whiff of success. Those images are enough to keep you from texting your friend and bailing.

Even so, you spend the afternoon in a restless loop changing your dress twice, debating whether heels are worth the pain, touching up your makeup only to decide it looks the same as before. By the time the knock finally comes, your heart jumps so sharply it almost hurts. You freeze halfway across the living room, suddenly aware you’re in bare feet, hair only mostly tamed, and there’s no chance for a last minute mirror check. Too late now.

You pull the door open, and your brain momentarily forgets how to function.

Max Fried is standing in your doorway, and the first thing that hits you is how unfairly good he looks in a suit. Deep charcoal, perfectly tailored so it skims over broad shoulders and a lean frame without a wrinkle in sight. The crisp white shirt is open at the collar just enough to take the edge off the formality, and his tie navy, not quite matching his eyes hangs loose like he wanted to look put together, but not stiff. One hand is slipped into a pocket, the other holding his car keys, and the polished leather of his shoes catches the light from the hallway.

He’s so at ease in it all that it’s almost infuriating.

“Hi,” he says, voice low and warm, like the word is a secret only meant for you. The corner of his mouth tips upward in the quickest flicker of a smile. “I’m not lost, right?”

You shake your head, stepping back automatically to let him in. “You’re definitely in the right place.”

It’s strange seeing him here instead of on a pitcher’s mound, no roaring crowd, no stadium lights bouncing off his cap. Just you, him, and the faint, clean scent of his cologne, threaded with something warm and grounding cedar, maybe, or sandalwood that you catch when he steps past you.

The first few minutes are polite but stiff, like you’re both aware of the unusual circumstances. You hand him a glass of water you’re not sure he even wanted, and he accepts it like it’s a truce offering. His eyes move around the apartment not nosy, but deliberate lingering on the books stacked near your couch, the framed photo on the side table. He files away details quietly, like they might come in handy later.

“So,” he says at last, breaking the silence, “your friend told me the basics, but I figured I should make sure you’re comfortable with this whole pretending to be your boyfriend thing.”

You laugh lightly, a nervous little exhale. “I mean, I can’t imagine you’ve done this before.”

His mouth curves, just enough to make you suspicious he’s enjoying this. “Not exactly. But I like to get the details right.”

He shifts, leaning a shoulder against the counter, posture relaxed but his gaze still anchored to you. “Okay, let’s start simple favorite color?”

“Blue,” you say, without thinking. Then you add, “But not bright blue. More  navy.”

“Good. Matches my tie.” He says it like it’s already been ticked off on some internal list. “Pet peeves?”

You tilt your head. “For the wedding?”

“For pretending we’ve been dating for months,” he says, completely straight faced. “Can’t have me ‘accidentally’ doing something that’d get me dumped before dessert.”

You bite back a smile. “Fine. I hate when people talk with their mouth full, or cut in line. Oh, and I hate slow walkers.”

“Noted.” His tone is clipped, like he’s logging it in a mental scouting report. “How’d we meet?”

You pause. “I don’t know, mutual friends?”

“Too vague,” he says immediately. “Let’s make it something you won’t blank on when someone’s had three glasses of wine and asks you for the whole story.” His eyes find yours, steady but not pushy. “I’ll let you pick. But it should be something you actually like saying.”

You can’t help the way your mouth curves. “Fine. I’ll think of something.”

The conversation flows easier after that short questions, easy answers, him tossing in little suggestions to make the story feel natural. Somewhere between “what’s your coffee order” and “tell me one embarrassing fact I can use if I need to get you out of talking to someone,” the awkward edges between you start to smooth out.

By the time you’re locking the door behind you and heading toward his car, it doesn’t feel like you’re walking to a wedding with a stranger. It feels like the start of a plan you’re not entirely sure you’ll want to end.

⸻

The drive to the venue feels shorter than it should, probably because you spend most of it silently running through a mental checklist details you think you should know, things you should remember to say, the made up timeline you’re supposed to stick to. You’re so deep in your head you barely notice the turns.

Max, on the other hand, looks like he could be heading to brunch instead of straight into the epicenter of your family’s gossip network. One hand draped over the wheel, the other resting lazily on the console between you, his thumb tapping an easy rhythm against the leather. He’s humming along, almost under his breath, to whatever’s playing on the radio. The calm rolling off him is irritatingly contagious.

“You’re awfully quiet over there,” he says at one point, glancing your way briefly before turning back to the road.

“Just making sure I don’t accidentally tell my aunt we met in a grocery store produce aisle.”

His mouth curves faintly. “That wouldn’t be the worst story.”

The venue comes into view before you can answer a picture perfect lakeside setup straight out of a wedding magazine. White tents stretch along the shoreline, fairy lights already winking between the branches overhead. The lake is glassy and still, catching the fading light of late afternoon like it’s been staged for photographs. Somewhere off to the right, a string quartet is warming up, the notes carrying on the breeze.

You barely get two steps past the valet before it happens.

Your name is called in that drawn out, singsong tone only family members seem to master, and there they are three of your aunts, lined up like a handpicked welcome committee. They take you in, eyes bright, smiles wide and then they see Max.

“Ohhh,” one of them breathes, drawing out the word as if she’s stumbled upon a celebrity sighting. “And who is this?”

“This” has already slipped into character before you can form a single syllable. Max’s smile arrives effortlessly warm, easy, practiced in the way that doesn’t feel practiced at all. He moves his hand to the small of your back like its instinct, his palm steady and warm against the thin fabric of your dress.

“Max,” he says, with a voice that makes it sound like he’s genuinely happy to be meeting them. “Nice to meet you all. I’ve heard a lot about this wedding.”

One of your aunts actually clasps her hands together, eyes flicking between you two like she’s watching the end of a Hallmark movie. “Well, aren’t you handsome. How’d you two meet?”

You dart a sideways glance at him, ready to stumble through the vaguely sketched story you’d half agreed on, but Max doesn’t hesitate. He launches right into the version you’d mentioned in passing during the drive mutual friend, charity event and delivers it with the kind of small, precise details that make it sound impossible to fake.

“She was wearing this ridiculous hat,” he adds smoothly, “and I knew I had to find out who could pull that off.”

Your aunt practically swoons.

“And when’s the wedding for you two?” another pipes up, her grin pure mischief.

You nearly choke on nothing, but Max only chuckles, low and unhurried. He glances down at you, and there’s something in his expression too quick, too warm that doesn’t feel entirely rehearsed. “We’re taking it one step at a time,” he says, thumb sweeping an absent, reassuring arc along the small of your back. “But I think she’s worth the wait.”

The aunts melt instantly, exchanging knowing looks and not so subtle winks, and you manage a tight smile, trying not to reveal that your pulse has picked up in a way it definitely shouldn’t have.

You’re not sure what’s more dangerous how easily your family is falling for it, or how much you’re starting to wonder if you are, too.

⸻

You make it through the first round of small talk and introductions without tripping over the fake dating story, which you count as a win. Every time you start to fumble, Max picks up the thread so seamlessly you almost forget you didn’t actually rehearse this together. He’s been smooth in every conversation his hand brushing yours just often enough to look natural, his palm occasionally finding the back of your chair like it’s the most instinctive thing in the world.

You’re halfway across the patio toward the bar, weaving between clusters of guests, when it happens.

It’s the laugh you hear first too loud, too familiar. Your stomach drops a fraction of a second before your eyes find him. Your ex. Standing just off to the side with a drink in hand and his new girlfriend tucked against his arm, wearing a dress so strategically chosen it might as well be a calculated strike.

The smile on his face falters the instant he sees you. For the briefest second, his expression flashes with something you’ve never seen from him before genuine surprise before smoothing into something cooler.

“Hey,” he says, recovering quickly, but his tone carries a faint, pointed edge, like he’s bracing for you to be alone. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Your lips part, a retort forming, but Max moves first.

“Hi,” he says, voice warm enough to make it clear he’s not here to start trouble. “Max.” He extends his hand steady, confident and waits. There’s no aggressive squeeze, no puffed up posture, just an unshakable ease that somehow tilts the entire interaction in your favor without him saying much at all.

Your ex takes the handshake, his polite smile not quite reaching his eyes. And then Max’s arm slides around your waist loose but sure, his fingertips brushing against your side like they belong there. It’s not possessive. It’s certain. The kind of gesture that says he’s not going anywhere.

“Nice to meet you,” your ex says, though the tone suggests it’s more obligation than sincerity.

“Likewise,” Max replies, still wearing that easy smile. But there’s something in his eyes subtle, deliberate that’s sharp enough to be felt if you’re on the receiving end. “We’ve been looking forward to today.”

You catch the faintest shift in your ex’s posture, the way his jaw ticks before he masks it. You can practically hear the gears in his head grinding as he recalibrates whatever mental script he had for this moment.

A few more seconds of thinly polite conversation, and then you’re excusing yourselves. Max’s hand remains at your back, light but steady, steering you through the crowd toward the bar.

When you’re clear of earshot, he leans down just enough for the warmth of his breath to hit your temple. His voice is low, threaded with amusement.

“That guy’s face when he saw you?” A pause, like he’s letting the memory play again. “Worth it already.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself, the sound breaking through the tension you didn’t realize you’d been holding in your shoulders. And the worst part? Somewhere deep down, you have the sinking feeling he isn’t talking about just the act.

⸻

Dinner goes better than you could’ve hoped. The conversation flows easily, the food is good, and somehow Max has managed to insert himself into your family’s orbit like he’s been here for years. By the time dessert is served, he’s made the rounds without even leaving his seat leaning in to talk baseball with your uncle like they’ve been swapping stats for decades, politely answering questions about the season while sidestepping anything too personal with a skill that feels almost professional.

When your little cousins come barreling over and start tugging at his sleeve, asking if he’ll dance with them, he doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course,” he says, already pushing back from the table. He ties his napkin in a loose knot on the table, shoots you a quick wink, and lets himself be pulled toward the dance floor like he’s just been recruited for the most important job of the night.

You watch from your seat as he spins one of them around, her giggles carrying over the music, then bends to let another climb onto his back before flipping him over into his arms like it’s nothing. He twirls the boy high into the air, and the entire table of relatives lets out a collective aww. He’s in his element completely unbothered by the curious glances your family keeps sneaking your way, his easy laugh slipping between the beat of the music.

When he finally makes his way back, there’s a light flush creeping up from his collar and a spark in his eyes that wasn’t there at the start of the evening.

“Your cousins are relentless,” he says, sliding into the seat beside you. His knee brushes yours under the table, casual but close.

“They’re also very persuasive,” you reply, smiling despite yourself.

The next song starts slower, softer, the kind of melody that turns the dance floor into something out of a postcard. Strings hum low under the swell of a piano, and couples start drifting toward the center. Max tilts his head toward the music, then back to you, one brow raised.

“Come on.”

You start to protest something about not being much of a dancer but he’s already standing, holding out his hand. The moment your fingers touch, his close around yours warm, certain and you’re moving toward the soft spill of light at the center of the floor.

His other hand finds your waist easily, like it’s been there a hundred times before. You rest yours lightly on his shoulder, testing the space between you, but it narrows almost immediately as the music pulls you into a slow, steady sway.

It’s easy at first two people moving in time to the music but then he shifts, just slightly, enough that his cheek brushes yours. It’s not an accident. The faint rasp of stubble grazes your skin, and you can feel the warmth of his breath as he exhales near your ear.

“You’re a better dancer than you let on,” you murmur, the words barely above the music.

He hums in quiet amusement, the sound low and deep in his chest. “Don’t tell anyone. Ruins my image.”

You laugh softly, but the sound catches in your throat because you’re suddenly, acutely aware of how solid he feels under your hands, how steady his palm is against your back, how the air between you has shifted into something charged.

You’re supposed to be acting. You’re supposed to be selling this to everyone watching. But right now, with the lights low, the music curling around you, and his cheek still brushing yours, you can’t tell if either of you remembers that.

For the rest of the song, you let yourself lean into him just a little and wonder when exactly “pretending” stopped feeling like pretending at all.

⸻

The song fades into applause and chatter, and you step back from Max, a little too aware of the way your pulse hasn’t quite steadied. Your palms feel warm where they’d rested on him, your skin still humming faintly with the rhythm of the last few minutes.

The room suddenly feels warmer, louder like every laugh, every clink of glass, every too loud conversation is pressing in at once. You draw in a breath and it’s not quite enough.

“Air?” he asks, voice pitched low, like he’s reading the thought straight off your face.

You nod, and his hand settles at the small of your back again light, steady guiding you through the maze of chairs and clusters of people. He moves like it’s second nature, keeping you close without crowding, and somehow, without speaking, you fall into step with him.

The side doors give way to the night, and cool air rushes over your skin like a relief you didn’t realize you needed.

The balcony stretches out over the lake, the wooden planks creaking faintly under your steps. String lights loop along the railing, their soft glow casting gold across the dark water. Each tiny bulb has its own reflection shimmering on the lake’s surface, shifting gently with the ripples. Somewhere inside, the band has moved to a new song slow, almost wistful and the melody drifts out to meet you, mingling with the distant hum of conversation and the faint buzz of crickets in the trees.

You lean against the railing, letting your elbows rest on the smooth wood. The night air brushes against your bare arms, cool enough to raise goosebumps, carrying with it the scent of pine from the surrounding trees and something sweet wafting from the dessert table inside.

Max stands beside you, angled just slightly in your direction. He’s close enough that the warmth coming off him feels like a quiet anchor against the night’s chill, but not so close that it feels staged. The proximity is easy, natural.

“Thanks for doing this,” you say after a beat, your voice softer than you intended. “You didn’t have to.”

He glances at you, the corner of his mouth curving upward. “Sure I did. I said yes, didn’t I?”

You roll your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “I mean it. You’ve been amazing tonight. I owe you.”

He shakes his head, eyes flicking back out to the water. “You don’t owe me anything.”  “I’m actually having a really good time.”

That makes you blink. “Really?”

He chuckles under his breath, the sound low and genuine. “Yeah. Your family’s great. And watching your ex’s face?” He gives a small shake of his head, clearly savoring the memory. “Definitely the highlight so far.”

The laugh that escapes you is unguarded, and it hangs in the space between you for a few seconds warm, unhurried, carrying with it the comfort of someone who seems to want to be exactly where he is.

Then the quiet settles in. Not awkward, just heavier somehow. You can feel it in the space between heartbeats, in the way the cool air grazes your cheek while the solid heat of him lingers at your side.

You glance over and find him already watching you. The string lights catch across his features, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the soft pull of his mouth, the faint crease near his eyes from the smile he hasn’t quite lost.

For a moment, it feels like the only thing between you is distance that could be closed in a single breath. If you leaned in just slightly you’re almost certain something would happen.

But neither of you moves, not yet.

⸻

You’re weaving your way back from the dessert table, careful not to spill the dangerously overloaded plate in your hands. It’s stacked with something chocolate and glossy and a tart you grabbed on impulse because it looked too pretty not to. You’re halfway to your table when you feel a gentle tug at your arm light but deliberate, enough to make you stop.

Your grandma.

She draws you out of the flow of people drifting toward the dance floor, steering you to a small pocket of space near the corner. Her hand is warm and familiar against your forearm, and her eyes are doing that twinkling thing they always do right before she says something you won’t be able to forget, no matter how much you might want to.

“That boy,” she says, chin tilting toward the far side of the room.

You follow her gaze and find Max still in that perfectly cut suit, hair slightly mussed now from the evening. He’s standing beside your uncle, his broad frame angled attentively, head dipping in a way that says he’s listening as much as he’s talking.

“Looks at you like you’re the only person in the room,” she finishes.

You almost fumble the plate. “Grandma—”

“I’m serious,” she cuts in gently, voice low but certain, like she’s imparting a truth she’s had decades to learn. “I’ve been around a long time, sweetheart. That’s not pretend.”

You laugh, because it feels easier than letting the weight of her words sink in, but the sound comes out thinner than you’d like. “We’ve only known each other a short time. Don’t read into it.”

She pats your hand, her thumb brushing over your knuckles. Her expression gives away nothing but the smallest, most knowing smile. “Mmhmm. You keep telling yourself that.”

When you glance back toward Max, he’s leaning forward slightly, his forearm braced against the back of a chair, eyes locked on your uncle like every word is worth catching. It’s the kind of focus that would make anyone feel like the most interesting person in the world.

And then like it’s some unspoken reflex, his gaze finds yours across the room. That easy, crowd appropriate smile shifts in an instant into something smaller. Something private. It lingers for just a moment, but it’s enough to send your heart stumbling a beat behind.

Your grandma’s words wedge themselves somewhere you can’t quite push away. Because the thing is, you’ve been careful really careful to keep the story straight. To keep it light.

But Max hasn’t corrected anyone who’s called him your boyfriend. Not when your aunt introduced him that way, beaming like she’d just solved the family’s favorite mystery. Not when your cousin asked how long you’d been together over appetizers. And definitely not now, as he throws his head back in a laugh at something your uncle said, his hand resting easy on the back of a chair like this all of this is exactly where he wants to be.

And for the first time all night, you’re not entirely sure he’s acting.

⸻

The elevator ride is steeped in a quiet kind of exhaustion the kind that seeps into your bones after hours of smiling, nodding, and making conversation with people you haven’t seen in years. It’s not unpleasant, though just full. The comfortable silence between you hums softly over the faint strains of music still drifting up from the reception below, muffled by floors and distance.

When the doors slide open, the hallway greets you with a hush so complete it feels like you’ve stepped into another world. Plush carpet swallows the sound of your footsteps, but your heels still make the faintest click in a steady rhythm beside the softer tread of his dress shoes.

You’re walking shoulder to shoulder, close enough that your sleeve brushes his once, twice. And the quiet gives your mind room to replay the night in little bursts your grandma’s hand squeezing yours, her voice saying that’s not pretend, the slow dance and the way his cheek had grazed yours, every time someone had said “boyfriend” and Max had just smiled and gone along with it, not a correction in sight.

He stops with you at your door, his hands sliding into his pockets like he’s trying to keep them there on purpose. His tie is loosened now, the first button of his shirt undone, the crisp lines of his suit slightly softened by the hours he’s worn it. The hallway light, warm and low, casts a faint gold over the sharp line of his jaw and the curve of his mouth when he looks at you.

“So,” The word comes out low, filling the space between you without pushing it. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

You nod, fingers curling around your key card, its plastic edge digging lightly into your palm. “Yeah, in the morning.”

The pause that follows isn’t awkward. It’s heavier than that, weighted with something unspoken, the kind of quiet where you both seem to be waiting for the other to move first.

And then he does.

It’s a small shift just enough for the faint scent of his cologne to reach you, warm and clean with that subtle, grounding note you’ve been catching all night. He leans in, slow, and his lips brush your cheek. Light. Almost casual. But they linger a fraction longer than they should, the heat of them seeping into your skin before he pulls back.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Goodnight,” he says, his voice softer now, almost reluctant to break the moment.

You manage a quiet, “Night,” but it feels like your pulse is still trying to catch up, thrumming in your ears as you watch him walk away, broad shoulders framed in the dim light until he disappears into his own room.

When your door clicks shut behind you, you just stand there for a beat, the air in the room somehow cooler than the hallway. Your hand drifts up almost without thinking, fingertips pressing lightly to the spot where his lips had been.

And for the first time, you let yourself wonder if maybe, just maybe this was never just an act.

⸻

You half expect him to be gone when you wake up. Maybe already on the road back to the city, maybe sleeping in his own room with a polite see you around text waiting on your phone. That’s the safe way this ends, isn’t it? With distance and clean lines.

Instead, the smell of coffee drifts down the hallway, warm and rich, threading through the faint scent of maple syrup and toasted bread. You follow it barefoot, still tugging at the sleeve of your sweater, hair pulled into a half hearted knot that tells the world you definitely didn’t plan on seeing anyone yet.

The low murmur of voices reaches you first, punctuated by bursts of laughter that ripple down the corridor. You slow your steps without meaning to, your ears straining toward the sound.

When you step into the dining area, the sight that greets you makes you falter.

Max is seated at the end of the long table like he’s been there for years, like he’s been part of every family breakfast you’ve ever had. One arm is draped casually along the back of his chair, the other cradling a steaming mug of coffee, fingers curled around the ceramic like it’s something he’s done a hundred mornings before. His tie and jacket are long gone, replaced by an open collared white shirt rolled neatly at the sleeves, the fabric softening just enough to look lived in. The plate in front of him is already half cleared scrambled eggs, toast, and what looks like the remains of one of your aunt’s infamous cinnamon rolls.

Your uncle is mid way through telling that story again the one about the fishing trip gone wrong and Max is laughing. Not the polite, low chuckle you’ve heard him give strangers. A real laugh. Full bodied, head tipped slightly back, eyes warm and creased at the corners. It rolls over the table in a way that makes your relatives lean in, smiling like they’ve just pulled off some victory.

You hover for a second in the doorway, unsure if you’re intruding on something, until he glances up.

He catches you over the rim of his mug, and the smile that spreads across his face isn’t the polished, camera ready one from last night. It’s smaller. Softer. Meant just for you.

“Morning,” he says, his voice pitched low but somehow still reaching you through the hum of conversation.

You return the smile before you can stop yourself, making your way to the empty chair beside him. The second you sit, he shifts just enough that your knees brush under the table. It’s nothing, really, just a casual overlap of space. But the warmth of it seeps in like it’s been there all along.

Someone passes you a plate, conversation picking up around you again, and you watch as Max accepts a refill of coffee from your aunt like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He thanks her with an easy grin, then turns back to your uncle without missing a beat.

It’s in the way he fits so seamlessly into this how he listens, how he adds to the rhythm without changing it that something settles low in your chest. Because somewhere between his ease with your family, the way your cousins clearly adore him, and that unshakable warmth in his smile when he looks your way, you realize you’re in trouble.

Big trouble.

Because sitting here, watching him fit into your life so effortlessly, it’s getting harder dangerously harder to remember that this was only supposed to be pretend.

⸻

The drive back is quieter than the trip to the wedding, but not in a way that feels empty. It’s the kind of quiet that comes after a day lived fully, when the rush is gone and all that’s left is the low hum of the world outside. Afternoon light slants through the windshield in soft golden streaks, warming the dashboard and catching in his hair. The steady vibration of the road beneath the tires is almost hypnotic, lulling you into a space that feels suspended from real life.

You’re curled slightly toward him in your seat, one knee tucked up, hands wrapped around the travel mug of coffee your aunt insisted you take. It’s still hot enough that the steam blows past your face, carrying the faint sweetness of whatever creamer she poured in. Outside, the scenery passes in blur fields fading into stretches of highway, roadside trees casting quick shadows across the car. For a while, you’re content just to watch the world go by. But then the gratitude that’s been building in your chest nudges its way out.

“Hey,” you say, your voice breaking the comfortable silence. “Thank you. Again. For all of it. You really didn’t have to go this hard for me.”

Max glances over, the sunlight catching in the curve of his smile something halfway between playful and unexpectedly warm. “Sure I did. It was a wedding. I had fun.”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve set an unrealistically high bar for fake boyfriends. I’m never going to live up to this on my own.”

His eyes flick toward you again, a glint of amusement there. “Good thing you’re not on your own,” he says easily, his voice unhurried, one hand loose on the wheel like there’s nowhere else in the world he needs to be.

You look out the window, but the smile pulls at your mouth anyway. “Still. I owe you big.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and the pause makes you glance back at him. His gaze meets yours for just long enough to feel deliberate before it slides back to the road. “Guess you can start by letting me take you to dinner,” he says, casual but with something heavier threaded through it. “For real this time.”

Your heart does a small, traitorous flip. “For real?” you ask, aiming for lightness, but your pulse betrays you.

“For real,” he confirms, and this time his smile isn’t teasing it’s a little softer, a little steadier. Like he’s already decided how this will go, and he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

You hesitate, the words catching on the edge of your tongue. Then you nod. “Okay. Dinner.”

He doesn’t push further, doesn’t fill the space with anything else, but you notice the way his fingers start tapping against the steering wheel light, rhythmic, like he’s carrying a song only he knows.

It makes you think he’s smiling for reasons that have nothing to do with the road ahead. And as the miles tick down and the sun dips lower behind the horizon, you realize with startling clarity that you’re no longer wondering if the line between pretend and real will blur.

You’re wondering when.

⸻

MASTERLIST

[benarroz]

caught myself doing The Max Fried Hat Position ™ today and i can confirm it was quite comfortable i get it now

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

in the frame

summary: you’re filming a yankees docuseries and max fried keeps flirting when the cameras aren’t rolling until one day, he dares you to leave it all in the final cut.

word count: 2.8k words

—

You didn’t expect the locker room to feel so loud.

Not in sound there was no shouting, no music blaring from someone’s speaker. The volume wasn’t audible. It was energetic. It vibrated in the walls, pulsed in the air. A pressure. The kind of tension that lives in pregame rituals and postgame silence. The kind that buzzes beneath the surface of every clipped conversation and every scuffed cleat scraping against the tile.

There was a hum to it. A current. Like static building just beneath your skin. Waiting for something someone to touch the ground and release it.

The team was still adjusting to the cameras. They’d been told to act normal, to pretend the crew wasn’t there, to ignore the boom mics and the blinking red lights that meant “on the record.” Some players smiled easily. The polished ones, the media trained ones they leaned into it like second nature. Others kept their heads down, kept their language clean, and tried not to look directly into the lens. They were getting used to you. But even with their acceptance, you felt it every day the edge.

The unspoken, you don’t belong here.

And you didn’t. Not really.

But that was fine by you.

Your job wasn’t to belong. It wasn’t even to participate.

Your job was to observe. To collect moments and stitch them into something that made sense. To fade into the background. To frame other people’s stories without letting your own show.

You liked being behind the lens. You preferred the shadows. You were the quiet one with the press badge and the camera bag slung over one shoulder. The fly on the wall. The girl with the eyes but never the voice.

You liked boundaries. Clean lines. Defined roles.

Camera on. Camera off.

Do the work. Go home.

You liked that.

At least, you did.

Until Max Fried happened.

It started so small you barely noticed.

A glance across the dugout while you were adjusting your focus ring. A subtle nod as he passed your monitor, like he knew you’d been looking for him. A soft, almost shy “hey” in passing low and casual, like he wasn’t sure if you’d answer, but also like he didn’t mind either way.

You told yourself it was nothing. That he was just being polite. That he was one of those reserved types composed, a little aloof, head down, quietly confident.

And Max? Max wasn’t even supposed to be the focus. The storylines had already been mapped out. Rookies with something to prove. Veterans with legacies. Big personalities. Front-page drama.

Max Fried was background.

Until he wasn’t.

Because every time you lifted your camera, he was there.

Not front and center. Not trying to steal the scene.

But always in frame.

Leaning against the dugout wall like he lived there. Sitting at the edge of the bench, head bowed over a glove as he tightened the laces. Stretching his shoulder slowly in the tunnel, long fingers brushing through his curls like he didn’t notice you even though you knew he did.

Once, while you were crouched behind your rig, he passed behind you and murmured, “Make sure you get my good side.”

You froze.

He kept walking like he hadn’t said anything.

And you didn’t respond.

You just adjusted your frame too quickly and aimed the lens away from him entirely.

But your pulse didn’t slow for minutes.

Still, you told yourself it was fine. Harmless. A pitcher being funny. Loose. Teasing.

But then it kept happening.

He started showing up more. Not in the lineup, not in meetings. In your space.

He’d linger behind interviews he had no reason to watch. Wander into shots like he was waiting for a cue. Offer to mic up guys he barely talked to always with that soft smirk tugging at his lips, like he knew exactly how far to push.

Like he knew exactly where the line was and how to hover just on the edge of it.

You tried to tell yourself it meant nothing.

But one day, during a post game scrum, your camera was fixed on a group of players giving soundbites and Max was supposed to be on the other side of the clubhouse. Instead, he was a few feet away. Watching. Not the players. Not the media.

You.

Eyes on you. Focused. Calm.

Your fingers tightened on the grip instinctively, suddenly aware of everything of your breath, your stance, the low hum of your mic levels. You shifted focus just to have something to do.

Later, you asked one of the other guys for a quick locker room hit to cap the night.

But it wasn’t him who stepped into frame.

It was Max.

Still half dressed, shirt clinging to his chest, the damp curve of his collarbone visible under the fluorescents. His hair was still wet. His jaw still flushed. He looked straight into your camera at you and smiled.

“Is this gonna make the cut?” he asked, his voice quiet and clear, carrying over the low noise behind him. “Or should I say something deeper?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t even nod.

You just blinked once and pressed stop on the camera.

You didn’t include the clip in the edit.

You didn’t even mention it in the team notes.

But you didn’t delete it either.

You saved it in a folder that didn’t have a label. Tucked it behind highlight reels and time lapse shots of sunrise over the field.

Just in case.

In case it turned into something.

In case you needed to prove to yourself, later, that the look in his eyes wasn’t imagined.

That there had been something there.

Or maybe worse in case nothing ever came of it.

And you needed to remember what almost did.

⸻

Week Two.

Max started talking between takes.

Not in a flashy, trying to get your number kind of way. Not flirtatious. Not even particularly loud. Just there.

Quiet little observations. Dropped into the air like pebbles into still water.

“You ever get tired of watching us warm up?”

It was during stretch drills. He wasn’t even looking at you just tugging at the sleeve of his compression shirt, eyes fixed on the turf like the question had occurred to him out of nowhere.

Later, during bullpen footage, “Do you actually like baseball? Or are you just here for the storytelling?”

And the next morning, early call time, the air still gray and sleep stained, “What kind of coffee keeps you standing through all this?”

You barely looked up from your lens. Gave clipped, neutral replies. You told yourself he was just killing time. Filling the dead space between reps, between drills, between cuts. That was all.

But then it kept happening.

It wasn’t just casual anymore.

It was intentional.

He started appearing earlier to pre-roll check ins. Lingering later after wrap-ups. Always with a coffee in hand. Always with yours right behind it. He never made a show of it never asked if you wanted one. He just started showing up with it.

Sometimes it was in a cardboard tray with extras for your crew. But yours? Always came last. Passed to you with a brief pause. A brush of fingers. A glance. Never more than a few seconds but enough to spark something quiet and persistent in your chest. Something you pretended not to feel.

Your hands would warm around the cup. Stay there too long. Sometimes you’d sip it an hour later and realize it had gone cold in your grip because you’d spent the morning thinking about him instead of drinking it.

You told yourself it was nothing. You were just tired. The long hours. The late nights. The rotating city backdrops and endless schedule. Anyone would start to project meaning onto small things when they were running on caffeine and adrenaline.

But still, he kept appearing.

Like gravity.

One afternoon, after a brutal shoot under a stubbornly clouded sky, you were crouched by a bounce card, adjusting its angle to fight the lack of light. You didn’t hear him step up behind you just felt the subtle shift in air pressure, the faint heat of him close by.

Then, his voice low, right near your ear:

“That light makes me look like I slept.”

You startled. Not enough to show it. Just a small intake of breath. But it was enough that he noticed.

He chuckled quiet, genuine and stepped back without another word.

You stared at the bounce card for a full minute before remembering what you were supposed to be doing with it.

You told yourself you were reading too much into it. That he was just being funny. Kind. Maybe he did this with everyone. Maybe you just weren’t used to being noticed.

But then came the footage.

Not the scripted shots. Not the structured interviews.

The in-between moments.

B-roll you hadn’t meant to capture. Wide shots where he wasn’t the subject but still found the lens. Practice drills where he’d glance not at his teammates or his coach but just slightly off camera. At you.

Always near. Always aware. Always looking.

And every time you saw it, your finger hovered over the keyboard.

Then you cut it.

Not because it didn’t fit. Not because it wasn’t clean or professional.

But because leaving it in felt like admitting something.

Like framing your own distraction.

So you sliced it out.

Again. And again.

You told yourself you were protecting the story.

But deep down, you knew what you were really doing.

You were editing your own feelings out of the timeline. Scrubbing your heartbeat out of the frame.

But still there they were.

In the empty spaces.

The pauses that lingered too long. The looks you couldn’t unsee. The soft question in his eyes that hadn’t quite made its way into words yet.

You tried to pretend it was all noise.

But the silence said more than you wanted it to.

And it was getting harder to cut.

⸻

Week Three.

You didn’t hear the door open.

The edit bay was quiet, save for the low hum of your laptop and the occasional clack of your keyboard. Headphones dangled loose around your neck, one speaker still buzzing faintly with interview audio you’d heard a dozen times already. Your eyes stung from staring at the timeline for too long cutting, trimming, undoing. Doing it all again.

You were buried in it. The work. The rhythm of control.

So when he spoke, his voice low and unhurried, it felt like a ripple across still water.

“Late night?”

You turned, startled.

Max stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame like he had all the time in the world. Hoodie slung low on his shoulders, curls damp like he’d just come from the shower. A half-drunk protein shake dangled loosely in one hand. The other held the strap of his duffel, like maybe he hadn’t planned to stop just got pulled in.

He looked good. Too good. Soft and undone and completely out of place in the clinical glow of your editing bay.

You blinked, trying to remember if you’d locked the door. Trying to remember how to breathe.

He didn’t wait for you to answer. Just took a step further in, eyes scanning the flickering cut on your screen.

“I’ve seen the edits,” he said, voice casual but not careless. “You cut me. Every time I look at you.”

Your heart jolted. You straightened, tried to play it cool. “You’re not the subject.”

He tilted his head. “I could be.”

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

“That’s not how this works,” you said, keeping your voice even.

There was a pause.

Then: “You don’t like me,” he said, softer this time. “Got it.”

Your head snapped up. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you twist it around. Like I’m pushing you away.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Max.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, taking another quiet step into the room. “You’re making this into something it’s not.”

You scoffed, tension flaring in your chest. “I’m not the one doing that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

Silence pulsed between you, thick and uncomfortable. The kind that made you hyper aware of every breath, every inch of space between you.

He wasn’t smiling now.

No teasing. No smirk.

Just that steady, unreadable expression he wore on the mound. Calm. Collected. Watching you like you were something he was trying to figure out.

“You should leave it in,” he said, nodding toward your screen.

You swallowed. “Leave what in?”

“All of it.” His voice was low but certain. “The moments you cut. When I look at you. When I talk to you. When I show up on your frame even when I’m not supposed to.”

You laughed nervous, brittle. “You think people care about the camera girl?”

“I think people care about what’s real.”

He took another step forward, motioning between the two of you.

“And this?” he said. “Whatever this is, it’s real.”

You shook your head, trying to find footing. “There’s no us, Max.”

He didn’t flinch.

“Not yet.”

His words settled into the room like dust.

You stared at him, chest tight, fingers curled around the edge of your desk like they might keep you grounded.

He didn’t move. Didn’t press.

Just let the silence stretch.

Then he turned.

Started to walk away like he wasn’t waiting for anything.

Like he knew what came next wasn’t up to him.

But just before he reached the door, hand on the knob, back still to you

He looked over his shoulder.

Eyes soft. Voice even softer.

“I dare you.”

And then he was gone.

Leaving behind a room too quiet, a timeline blinking on your screen, and a single clip you hadn’t deleted yet.

The one where he looked at you like he saw something worth keeping.

⸻

Week Four.

You stared at the clip.

Watched it three times.

Then dragged it onto the timeline.

And you didn’t cut it.

For once, you let it breathe.

Let the truth stay in the frame.

—

Week Five.

He didn’t flirt anymore.

Didn’t crack quiet jokes on the sidelines or sneak up behind your camera rig just to ask if the lens made him look tall. He didn’t hang around after interviews or show up early with coffee in hand and that crooked smile that made your stomach twist.

He didn’t hover.

He just watched.

Quiet. Still. Patient.

Like something had shifted.

Like he was waiting but not for the right moment to tease you again. For something else entirely. Something deeper. Something he didn’t want to force.

It wasn’t a game anymore.

The tension had changed.

Where once it had felt like banter, like a dare with a smile stitched to the end of it, now it felt heavier. Unspoken. Like everything between you had dropped an octave. Slowed down. Grown teeth.

And it was everywhere.

In the way your breath hitched when you heard his name over the clubhouse speakers. In the way your shoulders tightened when you saw his figure out of the corner of your eye. In the way your hands froze on your camera controls when he passed by, and your brain short-circuited for a second, like maybe if you just stayed still, it would pass.

But it didn’t.

Because the weight of him lingered.

Even when he didn’t say a word.

You started catching him in moments when he wasn’t supposed to be looking when someone else had the floor, when the focus was elsewhere. And yet there he was. On the periphery. Watching you with a gaze that was no longer curious or teasing.

It was quiet now. Unflinching. Unreadable.

Like he was waiting to be chosen, not chasing.

Like he had handed you the next move and was willing to wait no matter how long it took for you to take it.

And maybe that’s what scared you the most.

That he had stopped trying to prove it.

Because it meant he didn’t need to anymore.

Your assistant, Liv, picked up on it quickly. She had a gift for sniffing out tension. A sixth sense for drama that hadn’t yet made it on screen.

“You and Fried,” she said casually one night, coiling cables after a dugout shoot. “Should I be prepping a soundbite?”

You barely looked up. “There’s nothing.”

She didn’t push. Just smirked and raised an eyebrow like she’d already written the subplot in her head.

But you felt it then your stomach tightening, your breath catching. Because the words came too fast. Too smooth. Like a rehearsed line.

And maybe that was the most telling part.

Because there was something.

In the silence. In the tension. In the invisible current that pulsed whenever he walked into the room and your body noticed before your mind could catch up.

In the way his presence steadied you and rattled you at the same time.

In the way his gaze didn’t waver anymore and yours did.

It had grown too big to ignore. Too loud to cut.

You could remove him from the footage. You could keep cropping him out, keep telling yourself he didn’t matter to the story you were here to tell.

But your pulse said otherwise.

Your edits were cleaner now, but colder. Less heart. Less truth.

Because he had become the truth.

And you couldn’t edit around it forever.

Not when the quiet between you started saying everything you wouldn’t.

⸻

Week Six.

The docuseries premiere buzzed with energy.

The screening room pulsed with anticipation, lit by the glow of the giant projection screen and the hum of players, staff, and media chattering in scattered groups. Some leaned back with arms folded, half-joking about how they’d be portrayed. Others leaned forward, waiting to see if their best soundbites made the cut. There were beers in plastic cups, pizza boxes stacked in the corner, and the soft click of someone nervously tapping their pen against a notebook.

It was loud. Distracted. Warm with victory and ego and adrenaline.

And yet all you could hear was your own heartbeat.

You stood in the back of the room, tucked near the A/V table, pretending to fiddle with your volume monitor. Your fingers moved automatically, adjusting dials that didn’t need touching. You kept your gaze glued to the screen, but your thoughts were somewhere else.

Waiting.

Waiting for the moment you almost deleted. The one you almost buried.

The one that changed everything.

And then there it was.

The lighting shifted. The clip played.

No intro. No fanfare. Just Max.

Still damp from practice. Shirt sticking to his collarbone. Hair curled at the ends from sweat. Breath still shallow from the workout. He glanced toward the camera not cocky, not performative just aware. Calm.

And then, “Is this gonna make the cut?”

He smirked, voice soft, like he already knew the answer.

“Or should I say something deeper?”

Laughter broke out across the room. Someone whooped. Another guy elbowed him from the second row. Teasing. Ribbing. Typical.

But Max didn’t laugh.

He didn’t nudge back. Didn’t react.

He just watched.

Watched himself on screen. Watched the version of him that had looked directly into your lens at you with something softer in his eyes. Something quieter. Something real.

And then, finally, he smiled.

Not wide. Not for show.

Just a small, slow pull at the corners of his mouth. Private. Sure. Like a confirmation. Like something he’d waited to see for weeks and was finally allowed to believe.

Your breath caught.

You didn’t wait for the credits.

Before the outro music even started, before the guys could start tossing popcorn and teasing each other for who got the most screentime, you were moving. Quietly, quickly. Slipping out the side door with your camera bag in tow and your heart pounding in your ears.

You didn’t know where you were going.

You just needed air.

You found yourself in the dimly lit hallway behind the clubhouse quiet, echoing, sterile. The kind of place meant for staff and utility carts and brief, unspectacular moments.

It felt fitting.

You pressed your back to the cool concrete wall, exhaling shakily, eyes fixed on the floor like maybe it held the answers you were still too afraid to speak.

You didn’t expect him to follow.

But you should have.

His voice broke the silence behind you, soft but certain.

“You left it in.”

You turned slowly.

Max stood just a few feet away, still in his hoodie, hands in his pockets. His curls were a little messy, like he’d run a hand through them once or a hundred times since the clip aired. His expression was open, careful. Like he didn’t want to spook you. Like he was ready, but only if you were.

“Yeah,” you said quietly.

He took a step closer. “Why?”

You hesitated.

Swallowed.

Because this wasn’t the edit bay. This wasn’t a keyboard or a timeline or a screen you could hide behind.

This was real.

Because he was real.

And he was still waiting.

So you told the truth.

“Because I’m tired of pretending.”

His jaw tensed for a second, like he hadn’t expected you to say it out loud. Like he needed a beat to let it settle.

And then he stepped forward.

Closer. Not too close.

Just enough.

“You’re real,” you whispered, almost to yourself. “This is real.”

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for a month.

“You have no idea,” he said, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

And then you reached for him.

No more edits. No more lines. No more masking your reactions behind the lens or hiding your feelings in a folder labeled B-roll.

Just you. Just him.

No boundaries. No roles. No distance.

His hands found your jaw like he’d imagined this a hundred times but was still afraid to mess it up. Your fingertips curled into the sleeves of his hoodie. And then he kissed you.

Not urgent.

Not dramatic.

Just real.

It was the kind of kiss that felt like an answer. Like an unspoken confession finding its shape. Like something honest blooming in the silence where doubt used to live.

It wasn’t a moment built for the highlight reel.

It wasn’t for show.

It was for you.

And for him.

Finally in the story.

At last.

—

a/n: i hope you enjoy!! thank you for reading

[hauntedforsport]

max fried you have bewitched me body and soul

[hannahstanwald]

I’ll just be going about my day and then I’ll suddenly think of Mikkel. Poor Mikkel, who was one of the only completely innocent and pure characters. Poor Mikkel who loved his family and gave his life to preserve it. Poor Mikkel who loved his son enough to sacrifice himself, even though said son was the cause of all his suffering. Poor Mikkel who went through hell only to be erased from existence. Poor Mikkel who was always doomed to die. I think of Mikkel and I just

[stevenkodalys]

finally a good christian replacement 😭

[tueresmiesperanza]

no way he’s coming to Broadway the day I leave NYC 😭 it’s okay I saw him front row when he toured

[inlovewithhearts]

the bond between a girl and her room is stronger than the gravitational force of the earth

[forza55]

if i were a bee in seb's buzzin corner, expect a sequel to the bee movie

[ashleyslorens]

[lizzysbrain]

I Need all 5 hunger games movies injected I to my bloodstream

[risingoftime]

one thing about the casting directors for the hunger games series is that they’ll hire some fine ass white men