manchester girl

[yutofia]

Hate Sex - RD

summary: the reader is ruben’s new next-door neighbor, and confront him after two nights of hearing him have loud sex through the thin walls. the heated argument escalates...

You’d only been in the building three weeks, and somehow you’d already crossed paths with ruben dias more times than felt normal.

First it was the elevator. You’d stepped in with a bag of groceries and there he was, tall, dark hair, sharp jaw, wearing a simple black t-shirt that did nothing to hide the build underneath. He nodded once.

“New neighbour?”

“Yeah. Just moved in next door.”

His eyes flicked over you, quick but not subtle. “Welcome to the building. Try not to play loud music after midnight. The walls are thin.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The second time was in the hallway. You were locking your door; he was coming back from a run, slightly sweaty, earbuds still in. He pulled one out.

“You’re up early.”

“Could say the same about you.”

He smirked. “Some of us have to stay in shape.”

“Some of us don’t need to announce it.”

He laughed under his breath and kept walking. The tension was already there, quiet, charged, the kind that made the short walk to the elevator feel longer than it should.

It kept happening. Little comments. Lingering looks. One evening in the elevator he asked if you’d settled in okay, and when you said the walls really were thin he just hummed and said, “You’ll get used to it.”

You should have known.

The first night it happened you were already in bed. At first it was just muffled voices. Then a woman’s sharp moan cut through the wall, followed by the unmistakable rhythmic thump of a headboard. You stared at the ceiling, jaw tight, while the sounds only got louder. She was vocal. Extremely vocal. And the bed kept hitting the wall in a steady, relentless beat.

You barely slept.

The next night it started again, later this time, around one in the morning. Same loud moans. Same aggressive banging. You lay there furious, sleep-deprived, and somehow still weirdly aware of the fact that it was him on the other side of that wall.

By morning you’d had enough.

You didn’t even change. You stormed out in your little sleep set, thin pink camisole and the matching shorts that barely covered anything, and banged hard on his door.

It took a few seconds. Then it opened.

Ruben stood there in nothing but a pair of dark briefs, hair messy, chest bare, looking like he’d only just woken up. His eyes dropped over you once, slow, before coming back to your face.

“Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “Can I help you?”

You crossed your arms. “Are you serious right now?”

He leaned against the doorframe, completely unbothered by how little he was wearing. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The noise. Both nights. The screaming, the bed hitting the wall...I haven’t slept properly in two days because of you.”

His mouth twitched. “Ah. That.”

“Yes, that. Some of us actually need to function in the morning.”

He tilted his head, eyes drifting briefly to the thin fabric of your camisole. “You’re very loud when you’re angry. Interesting.”

“Don’t try to change the subject.”

“I’m not trying.” He scratched absently at his stomach, still watching you. “You could’ve just texted. Or knocked last night.”

“I was busy trying to block out the sound of you rearranging someone’s spine.”

He actually laughed, low and shameless. “She wasn’t complaining.”

You glared. “I was.”

“Noted.” He stepped back a little, holding the door open wider. “You want to come in and finish yelling at me, or are we doing this in the hallway where everyone can hear?”

You hesitated for half a second, then walked past him into the apartment. The door clicked shut behind you.

His place was neat, masculine, still carrying the faint scent of cologne and whatever had happened the night before. You turned to face him, still furious and somehow more aware of how little both of you were wearing.

“You’re unbelievable” you said. “No apology, nothing. Just standing there in your underwear looking pleased with yourself.”

He glanced down at himself, then back at you. “You’re standing in my living room in those tiny pyjamas looking like you want to keep arguing. I’m matching the energy.”

“I want you to keep it down.”

“Or what?”

The question hung there, charged.

You stepped closer. “Or next time I’ll bang on the door until you stop.”

His eyes darkened just a fraction. “You sure that’s the threat you want to go with? Because if you start banging on my door while I’m in the middle of something, I might just open the door and invite you to join instead of stopping.”

Your breath caught. He noticed.

“There it is,” he murmured. “You’re not just angry. You’re wound up.”

“I’m sleep-deprived.”

“You’re both.” He took a slow step toward you. “You’ve been looking at me like that since the elevator. Don’t think I didn’t notice. And now you’re here, half-dressed, raising your voice at me after listening to me fuck someone else for two nights straight.”

You swallowed. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re still here.” His voice dropped. “So either keep yelling… or admit you didn’t only come over to complain.”

The air between you felt thick. Your heart was beating too fast. He was close enough now that you could see the faint marks on his collarbone from the night before.

“I came over because you’re an inconsiderate asshole,” you said, but it came out weaker than intended.

He smiled, slow and knowing. “Say that again closer.”

You didn’t move back when he closed the last bit of space. His hand came up, not quite touching you yet.

“Last chance to walk out,” he said quietly. “Because if you stay, I’m done pretending I haven’t wanted to get my hands on you since the day you moved in.”

You looked up at him, pulse loud in your ears, not saying anything.

His eyes flicked to your mouth. “Good.”

The second the word left his lips he kissed you, hard, hungry, no more teasing. One of his hands slid into your hair while the other gripped your waist and pulled you flush against him. You could feel every inch of him through those thin briefs, already half-hard and getting harder.

You kissed back just as fiercely, still annoyed, still wound up, fingers digging into his bare shoulders. He walked you backward until your legs hit the arm of his couch, then lifted you onto it like you weighed nothing.

“Still mad?” he asked against your mouth, voice rough.

“Yes.”

“Good. Stay mad.” He tugged the thin strap of your camisole down and closed his mouth over your breast, sucking hard enough to make you gasp. “You sound better like this than she did.”

“You’re such a dick.”

“And you’re already wet. I can feel it through these tiny shorts.” His hand slipped between your legs, palm pressing against you. “Fuck. Soaked. All that listening got to you, didn’t it?”

You bit his shoulder instead of answering. He groaned and shoved the shorts aside, two thick fingers sliding through your folds before pushing inside.

“Jesus...” you choked out.

“That’s it. Get loud for me now.” He curled his fingers, thumb finding your clit. “You’ve been hearing me for two nights. Time I hear you.”

You were already rocking against his hand, the argument completely forgotten. He pulled his fingers out, shoved his briefs down, and hooked your knees over his arms. The thick head of his cock pressed against you for only a second before he thrust in deep.

The stretch punched a broken sound out of you.

“Fuck,” he growled, forehead dropping to yours. “Even better than I imagined. Tight. Hot. Taking me so well.”

He started fucking you in long, hard strokes, the couch creaking under the force of it. Every thrust dragged against that perfect spot inside you. You clung to him, nails in his back, moaning without any care for how thin the walls were now.

“Still want me to keep it down?” he asked, voice strained, hips snapping harder.

“Shut up and fuck me.”

He laughed once, dark and breathless, and did exactly that, deeper, filthier, one hand pressing down on your lower belly so you felt every thick inch of him. He didn’t slow down.

Ruben kept your knees hooked over his arms, folding you open as he drove into you with deep, relentless thrusts. The couch protested under every snap of his hips. You could barely catch your breath between the sounds leaving your mouth, high, broken little moans that turned sharper every time he bottomed out.

“Listen to you,” he panted, shameless. “Two nights complaining about the noise and now you’re the one being loud.”

“Shut-aaah-up-”

“No.” He leaned down and bit the side of your neck, still fucking you hard. “I want to hear it. Every single sound. You’ve been holding this in since the elevator, haven’t you?”

A needy, shaky moan ripped out of you when he angled his hips and dragged over that spot inside you again. Your fingers dug into his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “That one. Do it again.”

He fucked into the same place on purpose, and the sound that left you was higher, almost a whimper, your pussy clenching hard around his thick cock.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me.” His voice was rough, amused, completely filthy. “So tight. So wet. All that anger and you’re still dripping down my cock.”

“I hate you,” you gasped, but your legs only tightened around him.

“No you don’t.” He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in deep enough to punch another loud moan from your throat. “You hate how much you like this but you don't hate this cock.”

He shifted his grip, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other slid down to rub tight circles over your clit. The dual sensation made your back arch off the couch. A string of breathless, high-pitched moans spilled out of you, the kind you couldn’t control even if you tried.

“There she is,” he muttered, watching your face with dark eyes. “That’s the sound I wanted. Louder than her. Wetter than her. Taking me better than her.”

“You’re such an asshole-”

“And you’re about to come on this asshole's cock after storming over here to yell at him.” He thrust harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. “Say it. Tell me how it feels.”

You could barely form words. Every deep stroke dragged another shaky moan out of you.

“It- fuck- it feels so good-”

“Specific.” His thumb pressed firmer on your clit. “Tell me exactly.”

“You’re so thick- you’re so deep- I can feel you everywhere-”

He growled in approval and fucked you through it, the couch now banging against the wall in the exact same rhythm that had kept you awake. The irony wasn’t lost on either of you.

“Anyone next door can hear this,” he said, almost cheerful. “They’re going to know exactly what I’m doing to you. That bother you?”

A helpless, throaty moan was your only answer as your orgasm started building fast and hot at the base of your spine.

“Didn’t think so.” He released your wrists so he could grip your hips properly and really drive into you. “Come on. Let go. I want to feel this angry little pussy come all over me.”

The first wave hit hard. Your moan cracked into a full, broken cry as your walls clamped down around him, pulsing and fluttering. He kept thrusting through it, shamelessly watching every expression on your face.

“That’s it...fuck... just like that,” he groaned. “Milk my cock. Take every bit of it.”

He lasted only a few more deep strokes before his hips stuttered. With a low, guttural sound he slid it out with a wet pop sound, stroking fast as he came all over your stomach in thick white ropes as his cock jerked in his hand.

For a moment the only sounds were both of you breathing heavily, the occasional soft aftershock moan slipping from your lips.

Ruben collapsed on top of you, forehead resting against yours, still shamelessly pleased with himself.

“So,” he said after a second, voice rough but clearly amused. “Still want me to keep it down?”

You gave a weak, breathless laugh and shoved half-heartedly at his chest. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet.” He rolled his hips once, slow, letting you feel how he was still half-hard against your stomach. “You’re not moving.”

(This smut will have a part2)

[yutofia]

Hate Sex (pt.2) - RD

sumarry: a day after your first encounter, you deliberately use a vibrator and moan loudly so ruben can hear through the wall, prompting him to storm over. what starts as another charged argument quickly escalates...

You waited until it was properly late.

The building was quiet. The vibrator was already buzzing low between your legs when you started. Soft at first. Then louder. You didn’t hold back the sounds, long, shameless moans that rose every time you pressed the toy harder against your clit. You made sure they carried through the wall.

It took less than a minute.

Heavy footsteps in the hallway. Then a sharp knock on your door.

You took your time getting up, switched the vibrator off, and pulled on the thin robe that barely reached mid-thigh. When you opened the door, Ruben was standing there in grey sweatpants and nothing else, jaw tight, eyes dark.

“Really?” was the first thing he said.

You leaned against the doorframe, completely unbothered. “Can I help you?”

“You know exactly what you’re doing.” His voice was low. “I can hear that fucking thing from my side.”

“And?” You tilted your head. “I’m allowed to do whatever I want in my own apartment. Or did the rules change overnight?”

He stepped closer. “You’re being petty.”

“I’m being thorough. You kept me up for two nights. I’m simply returning the favour.”

His eyes dropped over the robe, the way it gaped slightly at the chest, the bare legs, the fact that it was obvious you had nothing underneath. “You’re not just returning the favour. You’re trying to make me jealous of a piece of plastic.”

You smiled, slow and mean. “Is it working?”

He didn’t answer with words. He walked straight past you into the apartment and shut the door hard behind him. You turned to face him, still holding the front of the robe closed with one hand.

“You can’t just walk in-”

“You knew what you were doing, moaning like that. Don’t act surprised.” He looked around once, then back at you. “Where is it?”

“What?”

“The vibrator. The one you were using to try and get under my skin.”

You lifted your chin. “In the bedroom. Still warm and wet, actually.”

Something flashed in his eyes. He closed the distance between you until you had to tip your head back to keep looking at him.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered. “Storm over to my place yesterday because I was too loud, fuck me like you hated me, and now you’re in here edging yourself with a toy just so I’ll come running.”

“I didn’t ask you to come running.”

“You didn’t have to.” His voice dropped. “You knew I would.”

The air between you was thick again, that same lowkey hate mixed with heat from the day before. You could still feel where he’d gripped your hips. He could probably still remember how you sounded when you came on his cock.

“I’m allowed to get myself off,” you said. “You’re not the only one who lives here.”

“No. But I’m the only one in this building who’s already been inside you.” He reached down without looking away and pushed his sweatpants lower. His cock sprang free, thick, heavy, already half-hard. He wrapped a hand around it once, slow. “You don’t need a vibrator when you can have this.”

Your mouth went dry. You still didn’t step back.

“Put it away.”

“Make me.” He stroked himself again, shameless, eyes locked on yours. “Or admit you started this because one night wasn’t enough and you wanted me back over here.”

You swallowed. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re still staring at my cock.” He took another step. “Robe’s doing a terrible job of hiding how hard your nipples are, by the way.”

You tightened the belt out of pure spite. “Get out.”

“No.” He nodded toward the hallway that led to your bedroom. “Go get the vibrator. I want to see what you were using while you thought about me.”

“I wasn’t thinking about you.”

“Liar.” His voice was almost soft. “You were. That’s why you were so loud. That’s why you’re standing here in that tiny robe instead of slamming the door in my face.”

You hated how right he was. You hated how hot it made you.

“You’re an asshole" you said.

“And you’re wet again.” He glanced down between your legs like he could already tell. “I bet if I slid my hand under that robe right now you’d soak my fingers.”

You didn’t deny it.

He stroked his cock one more time, slower, letting you watch. “Last chance to keep pretending this is about noise. Or you can drop the robe and show me how you were touching yourself while you moaned my name through the wall.”

Your fingers tightened on the belt.

He waited.

You untied the robe.

It fell open, then slipped off your shoulders entirely and pooled at your feet. You were completely bare underneath. Ruben’s eyes dragged over you without any shame, tits, stomach, the obvious slickness already coating your inner thighs.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Look at you.”

“Happy now?”

“Not yet.” He nodded toward the bedroom again. “Vibrator. Now.”

You turned and walked ahead of him, fully aware of how his eyes were on your ass. He followed close. When you reached the bed he stopped you with a hand on your hip, spun you around, and backed you onto the mattress.

The vibrator was still lying where you’d left it. He picked it up, turned it on once to feel the strength of the buzz, then switched it off again.

“This little thing?” he asked, almost mocking. “This is what you thought could compete?”

“It was doing a pretty good job before you interrupted.”

He dropped it on the bed and shoved his sweatpants the rest of the way down. His cock looked even thicker up close, the head already shiny. He wrapped a hand around the base and stepped between your knees.

“Scoot back.”

You did. He climbed onto the bed after you, kneeling between your spread thighs, and dragged the head of his cock through your wetness once, slow, deliberate, coating himself.

Then he reached for the vibrator.

You watched as he brought the slick tip up to his mouth, eyes locked on yours the entire time, and dragged his tongue over it in one long, filthy lick. He hummed low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he muttered, still looking straight at you. “You taste even better than I expected. Sweet. Messy. Exactly how you sounded through the wall.”

Heat flooded your face. He did it again, slower this time, cleaning every bit of your wetness off the toy with his tongue before tossing it onto the sheets beside you.

“Still think that little thing was enough?” he asked, voice rough.

Before you could answer he took his cock in hand and slapped it against your pussy, once, twice, the heavy wet sound loud in the room. The blunt head smacked your clit and made you jolt.

“Ah!”

“There it is.” He slapped it against you again, harder, watching the way your folds clung to him for a second each time. “Look how wet you’re getting just from this. Dripping down my cock already and I’m not even inside you yet.”

He lined up and pushed in with one thick, continuous thrust. The stretch forced a broken, high moan out of you.

“Mmmmh- fuck-”

“That’s it. Take it.” He bottomed out and stayed there for a second, letting you feel every inch. “So fucking tight. Still trying to act like you only wanted the vibrator?”

He reached for the toy again, switched it on, and the low buzz filled the room. Without pulling out he pressed the vibrating head straight against your clit.

The dual sensation ripped a loud, shaky cry from your throat.

“Oh my god! ah- ah-”

“There we go.” He started thrusting in deep, steady strokes while keeping the vibrator locked on your clit. “Louder. I want the whole floor to hear what I’m doing to you.”

Your moans turned higher and more desperate almost immediately, short, punched-out sounds every time he drove in.

“Ah..fuck...Ruben! It’s too much-"

“No it’s not.” He pressed the vibrator harder against you and fucked into you with longer strokes. “You’re going to come on my cock with this thing buzzing on your clit and you’re going to do it more than once. Understand?”

The first orgasm hit fast and violent. Your back arched, a long broken moan tearing out of you as your pussy clamped down around him in tight, rhythmic pulses.

“Fuuuuck! ah- ah- ah-”

“Good girl. That’s one.” He didn’t stop. He kept the vibrator right where it was and kept thrusting through the aftershocks, dragging another wave out of you almost immediately. “Listen to how wet you are. Fucking filthy. Que jeitoso!"

You couldn’t form words, only high, continuous moans that cracked every time the head of his cock dragged over that spot inside you while the vibrator tormented your oversensitive clit.

“I- I can’t- ah- Ruben-”

“Yes you can.” His voice was shameless, almost proud. “Give me another one. Squeeze my cock again. Let me feel it.”

The second orgasm crashed over you harder than the first. Your thighs shook, a raw, sobbing moan spilling out as you came around him again, walls fluttering and gushing.

He groaned deep in his chest at the feeling.

“Fuck yes. Just like that. One more. I know you’ve got one more.”

He adjusted the angle, pounding into you with short, brutal thrusts while the vibrator stayed merciless against your clit. Your third orgasm was almost silent at first, mouth open, breath punched out of you, before a long, trembling cry finally escaped as your body locked up around him.

Only then did he toss the vibrator aside, grip your hips hard, and fuck you through the aftershocks until he buried himself to the hilt with a low, guttural groan and came deep inside you.

He stayed there, breathing heavily, still buried to the root while your pussy kept twitching around him, your ears ringing.

“So,” he said after a moment breathless, voice rough and completely shameless. “Still want the vibrator tomorrow night… or are you done pretending it was ever better than this?”

[yutofia]

the thought of him giving me a massage does somethng to me

The massage he gives - RD

You’re face-down on the bed in just your underwear, cheek pressed into the pillow, when Ruben climbs over the backs of your thighs and clicks the oil bottle open.

“Alright,” he says, pouring a slow stream down your spine. “Try not to make it weird when I start touching you.”

You snort. “You’ve had your hands all over me for months. Bit late for that.”

“Yeah but this is different. This is professional.” His big palms spread the oil in long strokes from your shoulders to your lower back. “I’m a very serious masseur right now.”

“You’re already hard. I can feel it against my ass.”

He pauses for half a second, then keeps going. “That’s just… structural support. Ignore it.”

You laugh into the pillow. “Structural support. Okay.”

His thumbs dig into the tight muscle along your shoulder blades and you let out a quiet, involuntary moan. "Mmmmm..."

“There it is,” he says immediately, voice smug. “Knew it wouldn’t take long.”

“Shut up. It just feels nice.”

“Nice?” He works deeper, slow circles. “That little noise didn’t sound like ‘nice.’ That sounded like ‘please keep going and maybe take my underwear off.’”

You turn your head just enough to side-eye him. “You’re so full of shit.”

“And you’re already melting. Interesting combination.” He slides his hands lower, oiling the small of your back, then further, cupping both cheeks of your ass through the thin fabric. He squeezes firmly. “These are tense too, by the way. Very medical.”

“Ruben.”

“What? I’m just saying. They need attention.” He spreads them slightly with both hands, thumbs pressing in. “You gonna keep pretending this is still a normal massage or are you gonna admit you put this tiny underwear on on purpose?”

You push back against his hands just to be annoying. “Maybe I did. What are you gonna do about it?”

“I’m gonna keep squeezing them while I talk shit to you, clearly.” He gives one cheek a light slap, then soothes it with more oil. “You’ve got the most fuckable ass I’ve ever seen. It’s distracting.”

“You’re supposed to be helping with tension.”

“I am. Mine’s just getting worse.”

You laugh again. He moves down to your thighs, kneading the muscle with strong fingers, then back up to your ass like he can’t help himself.

“Turn over" he says eventually.

You roll onto your back. His eyes drop straight to your bare tits and stay there for a long second.

“Hi" he greets them.

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re unbelievable.”

“They’re looking at me first.” He pours more oil into his hands and starts at your collarbones, working down until both palms cover your breasts completely. He squeezes them slowly, thumbs brushing your nipples. “Fuck. Soft. Mine. Perfect. You're not usually this quiet when I play with them.”

“I’m not quiet.”

“You are. You’re biting your lip instead and everything.” He pinches one nipple lightly, then the other. “Look at these reacting for me already. Little traitors.”

You reach up and poke his stomach. “You’re talking like you’ve never seen them before.”

“I’ve seen them. I’ve sucked them. I’ve come on them. Still not over it.” He keeps massaging, rolling your breasts in slow circles, oil making everything slick. “Every time I touch them I remember how you sound when I bite right here..." he squeezes the soft underside “...and you get all whiny."

You try not to arch into his hands and fail a little. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Obviously.” He leans down and kisses the top of one breast, still working the other with his hand. “You started it by moaning like that earlier. I’m just matching energy.”

“That was one moan.”

“It was a very telling moan.” His thumbs keep circling your nipples. “You want me to stop talking and just feel you up in silence? Because I can. I’ll be very mature about it.”

You look up at him, cheeks warm as you let out a laugh.

He grins, slow and dirty. “That’s what I thought.”

He keeps going, hands never leaving your tits for long, sometimes sliding down to your stomach and back up again, always with more shameless commentary.

“You’re getting wet, by the way. I can smell it.”

“Ruben!"

“What? I’m just observing. Very professional of me.” He leans closer, voice dropping. “If I slid my hand between your legs right now, how soaked would my fingers get? On a scale of one to ten”

You hold his gaze. “Find out.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes dark. “Dangerous answer. Keep talking to me like that and this massage is over.”

You smile up at him, completely shameless. “Maybe that’s the goal.”

[yutofia]

the thought of him giving me a massage does somethng to me

The massage he gives - RD

You’re face-down on the bed in just your underwear, cheek pressed into the pillow, when Ruben climbs over the backs of your thighs and clicks the oil bottle open.

“Alright,” he says, pouring a slow stream down your spine. “Try not to make it weird when I start touching you.”

You snort. “You’ve had your hands all over me for months. Bit late for that.”

“Yeah but this is different. This is professional.” His big palms spread the oil in long strokes from your shoulders to your lower back. “I’m a very serious masseur right now.”

“You’re already hard. I can feel it against my ass.”

He pauses for half a second, then keeps going. “That’s just… structural support. Ignore it.”

You laugh into the pillow. “Structural support. Okay.”

His thumbs dig into the tight muscle along your shoulder blades and you let out a quiet, involuntary moan. "Mmmmm..."

“There it is,” he says immediately, voice smug. “Knew it wouldn’t take long.”

“Shut up. It just feels nice.”

“Nice?” He works deeper, slow circles. “That little noise didn’t sound like ‘nice.’ That sounded like ‘please keep going and maybe take my underwear off.’”

You turn your head just enough to side-eye him. “You’re so full of shit.”

“And you’re already melting. Interesting combination.” He slides his hands lower, oiling the small of your back, then further, cupping both cheeks of your ass through the thin fabric. He squeezes firmly. “These are tense too, by the way. Very medical.”

“Ruben.”

“What? I’m just saying. They need attention.” He spreads them slightly with both hands, thumbs pressing in. “You gonna keep pretending this is still a normal massage or are you gonna admit you put this tiny underwear on on purpose?”

You push back against his hands just to be annoying. “Maybe I did. What are you gonna do about it?”

“I’m gonna keep squeezing them while I talk shit to you, clearly.” He gives one cheek a light slap, then soothes it with more oil. “You’ve got the most fuckable ass I’ve ever seen. It’s distracting.”

“You’re supposed to be helping with tension.”

“I am. Mine’s just getting worse.”

You laugh again. He moves down to your thighs, kneading the muscle with strong fingers, then back up to your ass like he can’t help himself.

“Turn over" he says eventually.

You roll onto your back. His eyes drop straight to your bare tits and stay there for a long second.

“Hi" he greets them.

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re unbelievable.”

“They’re looking at me first.” He pours more oil into his hands and starts at your collarbones, working down until both palms cover your breasts completely. He squeezes them slowly, thumbs brushing your nipples. “Fuck. Soft. Mine. Perfect. You're not usually this quiet when I play with them.”

“I’m not quiet.”

“You are. You’re biting your lip instead and everything.” He pinches one nipple lightly, then the other. “Look at these reacting for me already. Little traitors.”

You reach up and poke his stomach. “You’re talking like you’ve never seen them before.”

“I’ve seen them. I’ve sucked them. I’ve come on them. Still not over it.” He keeps massaging, rolling your breasts in slow circles, oil making everything slick. “Every time I touch them I remember how you sound when I bite right here..." he squeezes the soft underside “...and you get all whiny."

You try not to arch into his hands and fail a little. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Obviously.” He leans down and kisses the top of one breast, still working the other with his hand. “You started it by moaning like that earlier. I’m just matching energy.”

“That was one moan.”

“It was a very telling moan.” His thumbs keep circling your nipples. “You want me to stop talking and just feel you up in silence? Because I can. I’ll be very mature about it.”

You look up at him, cheeks warm as you let out a laugh.

He grins, slow and dirty. “That’s what I thought.”

He keeps going, hands never leaving your tits for long, sometimes sliding down to your stomach and back up again, always with more shameless commentary.

“You’re getting wet, by the way. I can smell it.”

“Ruben!"

“What? I’m just observing. Very professional of me.” He leans closer, voice dropping. “If I slid my hand between your legs right now, how soaked would my fingers get? On a scale of one to ten”

You hold his gaze. “Find out.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes dark. “Dangerous answer. Keep talking to me like that and this massage is over.”

You smile up at him, completely shameless. “Maybe that’s the goal.”

[harveysbabydoll]

✧₊˚౨ৎ i wrote another stoned clingy harvey fic... 🤍 needed him as a vulnerable little mess of a husband asking, "do you love me?" every five seconds.

You don't look up from your phone when you hear the apartment door open, but you do smile. Harvey's home earlier than expected, it's barely nine on a Friday night, which means drinks with Mike must have wrapped up fast.

"Hey," he calls out, his voice just a touch too casual.

That makes you look up.

Harvey Specter doesn't do casual. Harvey Specter does calculated, controlled, and devastatingly precise. But right now, he's standing in the doorway to the living room with his hands in his pockets, tie loosened, and an expression that's trying very hard to look normal.

"Hey yourself," you say slowly, dog-earing your page. "You're home early."

"Mike had to get back to Rachel." He crosses to the bar cart, movements just slightly more deliberate than usual. "Wanted a drink anyway. You want one?"

"I'm good." You watch him pour a scotch with the focused concentration of a man defusing a bomb. "How was your night?"

"Fine. Good. Mike's...Mike's good." He takes a sip, then another. Then he turns to face you, and there's something in his eyes that makes you bite back a smile.

"Harvey."

"What?"

"Are you high?"

The pause is infinitesimal, but it's there. Then that million-dollar smile slides into place. "Define high."

"Oh my God." You laugh, setting your phone aside. "You smoked with Mike?"

"Mike had...there was a thing. A joint. I had some." He waves his hand vaguely. "It's legal now."

"I know it's legal. I'm just trying to picture you and Mike passing a joint back and forth like college kids."

"We're very mature about our recreational drug use," Harvey says with dignity, then ruins it by missing the coffee table when he tries to set his glass down. He catches it before it falls, but you're already grinning.

"Oh, this is going to be fun."

"I'm fine." He sits down next to you, closer than he normally would, you notice. Harvey's not big on casual touching. He shows affection through actions, through protection, through the way he remembers how you take your coffee. Physical proximity is something he has to work up to, even after two years of marriage.

But right now, he's pressed against your side like a cat seeking warmth.

"Uh huh." You pick up your phone again, mostly to see what he'll do.

What he does is make a small, disgruntled sound.

You open TikTok

"Are you really going to keep scrolling?"

"Depends... what are you offering?"

"I'm here now."

You glance at him. He's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before, something open and almost uncertain. "Yes, you are. Do you need something?"

"No." Pause. "Are you mad I got high?"

"Why would I be mad?"

"I don't know. You seem mad."

"I'm on TikTok, Harvey. That's not the same as being mad."

"You're ignoring me."

This time you set the book down completely and turn to face him. "I'm not ignoring you. You're sitting right here. We're talking."

"But you were scrolling."

"…Yes?"

He shifts closer, and now he's definitely in your space, his thigh pressed against yours, his arm along the back of the couch behind you. "Do you love me?"

You blink. "What?"

"Do you love me?" He's looking at you with those intense brown eyes, but there's something vulnerable in them that makes your heart squeeze.

"Of course I love you. Harvey, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I just... "He reaches out and takes your hand, threading his fingers through yours. His palm is warm, slightly damp. "I wanted to make sure."

"Make sure of what?"

"That you love me." He says it simply, like it's the most reasonable question in the world.

Oh. Oh, this is going to be interesting.

"Harvey." You squeeze his hand. "I married you. I love you."

"But like, right now? You love me right now?"

"Yes, right now."

"What about now?"

You can't help it, you laugh. "Yes, still. It's been five seconds."

"Okay." He nods, seemingly satisfied, then immediately asks, "But why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you love me?" He's studying your face like he's cross-examining a witness. "I'm not...I'm not good at this. The relationship thing. I don't know how to do the emotional stuff. I work too much. I'm not—" He gestures vaguely at himself. "I'm not easy."

Your amusement fades into something softer. "No, you're not easy."

His face falls, and you realize your mistake immediately.

"But I don't want easy," you continue quickly, cupping his face with your free hand. "I want you. The brilliant, complicated, emotionally unavailable you."

"I'm not emotionally unavailable."

"Harvey, last week I asked you how you were feeling and you said 'efficiently.'"

"That's..." He stops. "Okay, that's fair." Then, quieter: "You really want me?"

"Yes, you idiot. I really want you."

He leans into your touch, actually nuzzles into your palm like he's trying to crawl inside your affection. "Promise?"

"I promise."

"Because I don't..." He swallows hard. "I don't know what I'd do if you left. You're the only..." He stops, looking frustrated with himself. "I'm not saying this right."

"You're doing fine."

"No, I'm not. I'm never...I can't..." He makes an aggravated sound. "In court, I always know what to say. Every word is perfect. But with you, I don't know how to tell you that you're the only thing I have that actually matters. The firm, the cases, the winning, it's all just noise. You're the only real thing."

Your throat tightens. "Harvey."

"I'm terrified," he admits, the words tumbling out now like a dam has broken. "All the time. That I'm going to fuck this up. That you're going to wake up one day and realize you married someone who doesn't know how to be a person, let alone a husband. That I'm going to lose you because I don't know how to...how to—"

You kiss him, cutting off the spiral of anxiety. He makes a small, desperate sound and kisses you back, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head like he's afraid you'll pull away.

When you finally break apart, his eyes are a little glassy.

"You're not going to lose me," you tell him firmly. "Yes, you're emotionally stunted. Yes, you work too much. Yes, you show affection by threatening people who are rude to me instead of just saying 'I love you' like a normal person."

"I say I love you."

"You said it on our wedding day and then not again for six months."

"I say it with actions."

"I know you do." You stroke your thumb across his cheekbone. "And I love that about you. I love all of it. Even the parts that drive me crazy."

He's quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "Can we go to bed?"

"It's nine-thirty."

"I don't want to sleep. I just want..." He stands up, pulling you with him. "I need to be close to you. Please?"

The please does you in. Harvey Specter doesn't say please. Harvey Specter doesn't ask for things, he takes them, earns them, demands them. But right now, he's looking at you like you're the only solid thing in a tilting world.

"Okay," you say softly. "Let's go to bed."

He practically drags you to the bedroom, his hand tight around yours. Once you're there, he pulls you down onto the mattress and immediately wraps himself around you, face buried in your neck.

"Harvey, I need to change."

"No. Stay."

"I'm wearing a corset dress."

"Don't give a shit." His arms tighten. "Just stay."

You sigh and settle in, running your fingers through his hair. He makes a sound of contentment that's almost a purr.

"This is nice," he mumbles against your skin. "Why don't we do this more?"

"Because you're usually working until midnight and then you come to bed and pass out."

"That's stupid. This is better." He presses a kiss to your neck, then another. "You're so soft. And you smell good. Have I told you that you smell good?"

"Not recently."

"You smell really good. Like—like—" He inhales deeply. "Like vanilla and sugar."

Your heart softens completely. "You're very sweet when you're high."

"I'm always sweet."

"You threatened to destroy opposing counsel's career yesterday because he called me 'honey.'"

"That's sweet. I was defending your honor."

"You made him cry."

"He shouldn't have been condescending to my wife." Harvey pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression serious despite the glassiness in his eyes. "You know I'd do anything for you, right? Anything. If someone hurt you, I'd—"

"I know." You kiss his forehead. "My fierce protector."

"Damn right." He settles back against you, one hand sliding beneath the fabric of your dress. Not sexual, just touching. "Is this okay?"

"Yes."

"Good. Because I need...I need to touch you. To know you're real." His thumb strokes your skin. "Sometimes I think I dreamed you. That I'm going to wake up and still be alone in that empty apartment, married to my career, and you'll have been just...just something I wanted so badly I imagined you."

"I'm real," you whisper. "I'm right here."

"Promise you'll stay." His voice cracks slightly. "Promise you won't leave me when I'm back to normal tomorrow and being emotionally constipated again."

"I promise."

"Even when I work late?"

"Even then."

"Even when I forget to tell you I love you?"

"Even then. Though you could work on that."

"I love you," he says immediately. "I love you so much it scares me. I love you so much I don't know what to do with it. It's like...it's like having a closing argument but all the words are feelings and I don't know how to organize them."

You laugh softly, still playing with his hair. "That might be the most Harvey Specter thing you've ever said."

"I'm serious." He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with startling intensity. "You're everything. You're the verdict I didn't know I was waiting for. The case I didn't know I needed to win. The—"

"Okay, we need to retire the legal metaphors."

"But they're good metaphors."

"They're very you." You pull him back down. "Now stop talking and just be here with me."

"I can do that." He settles against you again, his breathing starting to even out. "This is nice. Being close. We should do this every night."

"We can try."

"I'm going to be so embarrassed tomorrow," he mumbles.

"Probably."

"Are you going to tell anyone about this?"

"Oh, absolutely. Mike needs to know what he's created."

Harvey groans. "He's never going to let me live this down."

"Nope." You kiss the top of his head. "But it's worth it. I like clingy Harvey."

"There's no such thing as clingy Harvey."

"There is right now."

He's quiet for a moment, then: "Do you still love me?"

"Yes, Harvey."

"What about now?"

You smile into the darkness. "Yes. Still. Always."

"Good," he whispers, and finally, finally relaxes completely against you. "That's good."

Within minutes, he's asleep, dead weight in your arms, his face peaceful in a way it never is when he's awake and armored.

You hold him close and think that maybe, just maybe, you should encourage Mike to share his recreational activities with Harvey more often.

Just once in a while.

When you can handle the clinginess.

---

UGH I love him so much ♡ I don't think any of you understand

[bobskysworld]

Can you write something for Ferran pls? All the talking we were doing about him, is turning me on!

Switch- Ferran Torres

pairing: husband!Ferran x wife!reader

summary: you flip a switch in Ferran’s mind be never thought he had

note: i’m just CHEATING on my husband here

you’d been married for a year, life was a world wind, nothing you weren’t used to of course. From league games to Champions League nights to his World Cup call ups, you’d never moved from Ferran’s side even managing to squeeze your wedding into all that madness everything felt more than worth it as you watched the trophy your husbands goal had secured pass between him and his teammates.

“tia” a small voice pulled you from your daze

you look down to find Keyne tugging at the scarf tied around your waist, eyes glistening with unshed tears as he held his finger out

“oh Keyne” you coo kneeling to his level

the boy all but buries his face in your shoulder, injury long forgotten as you search for his brother, your husband doing the same on the other end of the pitch.

Ferran’s breath catches as he watches you hold Keyne, hand naturally keeping him secured and rubbing his back before you stop in front of Lamine, attempting to hand him off but the 3 year old keeps your shirt firmly fisted

“i’ll be back” Ferran mumbles, trophy long forgotten, legs carrying him at insane pace toward you “bebé”

“hi handsome” you smile

“come here” Ferran says dropping your smile

“what’s wrong?” you ask examining your husband

“you’ll see”

your palm slams against the locker, bracing yourself as Ferran shoves you against it his front glued to your back, his boner nestled between your ass.

“seeing you with Keyne” Ferran breathes against your neck “gonna make you a mommy”

“couldn’t wait until later” you taunt your husband

“feel that” Ferran bucks up, digging his boner into you “that’s not waiting cariño”

your jeans are shoved around your ankles, the air of the conditioning makes you shiver slightly as Ferran shoves your underwear to the side and slides into you, one swift stroke buries him to the hilt and fills you.

“holy shit” you moan

“need to be quiet bebé” Ferran says

“shut me up then tiburon” you challenge

Ferran scoffs, thrusting into you “let them hear me make you a mommy”

his thrusts pick up a rhythm that almost slams you into the lockers, burying him into you, keeping you deliciously full and stretched by his cock that has you seeing stars, blurring the corners of your vision, biting your lip

“no no” Ferran says bringing his hand down to your clit “let the whole stadium hear you”

“Fer-

“i want them to know mi nino is coming” he almost growls thumbing roughly at your clit

“i’m gonna cum mi amor” you announce digging your nails into his arm

“then cum princesa” he whispers

your eyes nearly roll into your head as the pleasure rolls over you, Ferran’s own following shortly after

“fuck” you breathe out

“did well mama” Ferran presses a kiss into your hair

“i swear if my wigs sliding off i’m fighting you” you elbow your husband

“still looking good” Ferran laughs slowly pulling out and putting your underwear back in place

“gotta make sure it sticks” he teases tapping your pussy

“get off me” you shove him dressing yourself “that’s the celebration sex done”

“we’ll see” Ferran smirks walking toward the door “also might wanna cover that hickey”

your eyes widen as you run to the mirror that confirms the large bruise on your neck

“you bastard” you yell

“i love you too mi amor”

[harveysbabydoll]

Harvey x wife reader who forces him to do Pilates with her after he quips that her routine must be so easy. He then gets humbled pretty quickly and is sore for days after 😭😭 his only solace was seeing her in her workout sets and her smug expressions even though he’d been beaten

harvey forgive me. your ego needed character development. 😭🤍

𐙚 ⋆ 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝑮𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑾𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝑾𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒍 ⋆ 𐙚

Harvey Specter had argued billion-dollar mergers, stared down federal prosecutors, and won cases everyone else considered unwinnable.

So naturally, he assumed Pilates would be easy.

"That's your workout?" he asked one Saturday morning, looking up from his coffee. "I thought workouts were supposed to involve, you know... effort."

You slowly lowered your iced coffee, turning your attention toward him.

The look on your face alone told him he had made a mistake.

"Effort?"

Harvey shrugged, entirely too smug for a man who'd just signed his own death warrant.

"I'm just saying..." He gestured vaguely with his mug. "I've seen your classes. It looks relaxing."

A slow smile spread across your face.

"Relaxing."

"Mhm."

"You think you could do it?"

"I know I could."

Donna, who happened to be walking through the apartment with a garment bag she'd dropped off for Harvey, paused just long enough to glance between the two of you.

"...I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that."

She was gone before Harvey could ask why.

—

Sunday morning found Harvey following you into one of Manhattan's most exclusive Pilates studios.

His confidence hadn't wavered once.

He walked in wearing a fitted black T-shirt, expensive joggers, and the unmistakable expression of a man convinced he was about to prove a point.

Then you walked out of the changing room.

For the first time that morning, Harvey forgot what he was about to say.

There was an effortless, head-turning confidence about you as you crossed the studio floor. Your long brunette hair was gathered into a flawless, sky-high ponytail that cascaded down your back in a glossy stream, swaying softly with every step. Your charcoal Chanel workout set hugged your petite frame like it had been made exclusively for you, sculpting your tiny waist and graceful silhouette without sacrificing an ounce of elegance. A delicate pair of gold hoops caught the morning light when you turned your head, a fine gold necklace rested against your collarbone, and a sparkling tennis bracelet glimmered around your wrist as you adjusted your grip on your iced coffee.

Fresh-faced with barely-there makeup, you somehow looked even prettier than you did dressed for one of Harvey's firm galas. Your perfectly manicured nails curled around your coffee cup with practiced elegance, and you carried yourself with the kind of easy confidence that made people look twice without even realizing they had. Every glance seemed to linger a second longer than intended.

Harvey stared.

"...Babydoll."

"Hm?"

"If this is a trap, you look incredible while setting it."

You grinned.

"Oh, Harvey."

You reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt before patting his chest.

"You haven't even gotten on the reformer yet."

Forty-five minutes later...

"I hate this machine."

Your instructor smiled sweetly.

"We've only finished the warm-up."

Harvey blinked.

"...The what?"

Across the room, you were gliding through every movement with infuriating ease, barely breaking a sweat.

Meanwhile Harvey's legs were shaking violently.

His arms trembled through what looked like the world's easiest plank. His core burned. His shoulders screamed. Muscles he was fairly certain had never existed before suddenly announced themselves all at once.

"You still think it's not effort?" you asked, unable to hide your smile.

Harvey shot you a look somewhere between betrayal and admiration.

"I've made a terrible mistake."

"Oh?"

"You were right."

You gasped dramatically.

"Say that again?"

"Don't push your luck."

By the time class ended, Harvey had accepted two things.

First...

Pilates was absolutely a real workout.

Second...

Watching his ridiculously beautiful wife glide through every exercise in Chanel while wearing that unbearably smug smile was somehow worth every second of his suffering.

He'd never admit it aloud.

But he'd absolutely be coming back next week.

...After he recovered enough to walk up the stairs.

---

By Monday morning, Harvey Specter had successfully convinced himself that no one would notice.

That was his first mistake.

The second was believing he could walk into the firm with the same confidence he carried into every room.

Usually, Harvey entered Pearson Specter like he owned the building—which, depending on who you asked, he practically did. His stride was effortless, his suit immaculate, his expression unreadable.

Today?

Today he looked like a man personally betrayed by a set of muscles.

Donna noticed immediately.

She looked up from her desk as Harvey approached, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watched him lower himself into his chair with suspicious caution.

"Interesting."

Harvey glanced at her.

"What?"

"You."

"I'm always interesting."

"No." Donna tilted her head. "This is different."

Harvey picked up a file, pretending not to hear her.

Donna's eyes dropped briefly to the way he was sitting.

"...Are you sore?"

Harvey's jaw tightened.

"No."

The answer came far too quickly.

Donna smiled.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"You did something embarrassing."

"I don't get embarrassed."

"Harvey."

"I'm fine."

She crossed her arms.

"Did your wife finally convince you to do something normal?"

Harvey said nothing.

And that silence told Donna everything.

A slow grin spread across her face.

"Pilates."

Harvey looked up.

"How do you know?"

"Because you have the exact posture of a man who got outsmarted by a woman in designer activewear."

First of all, she is my wife."

Donna nodded. "I know."

"Second, she didn't outsmart me."

"She manipulated the circumstances."

Donna raised an eyebrow. "Harvey."

"What?"

"You voluntarily walked into a Pilates class after saying it looked easy. Didn't you?"

Harvey leaned back in his chair, refusing to admit defeat.

"I was gathering information."

Donna smiled. "You were humbled."

—

By the time Harvey made it to the conference room, Mike already knew.

Mostly because Donna had told him.

Mostly because Donna enjoyed watching Harvey get humbled.

Mike looked up from the files in front of him.

"So..."

Harvey stopped.

"So what?"

Mike tried—and failed—not to smile.

"Pilates?"

Harvey stared.

"Don't."

"I'm not saying anything."

"Your face is saying enough."

Mike leaned back in his chair.

"I just never thought I'd see the day someone beat Harvey Specter."

"It was one class."

"One class that made you walk like you lost a fight with a staircase."

Harvey glared at him.

Mike held up his hands.

"I'm just impressed. Your wife might be the only person in Manhattan who can actually make you admit you're wrong."

"I did not admit I was wrong."

"You told her she was right."

"Under extremely specific circumstances."

—

Unfortunately for Harvey, Louis Litt was the last person on Earth who would let this go.

He walked into Harvey's office, took one look at him, and immediately frowned.

"Are you injured?"

"No."

"Because you're moving like you pulled something."

Harvey didn't look up from his paperwork.

"I'm fine."

Louis studied him.

Then his eyes widened.

"Oh."

Harvey looked up slowly.

"What?"

Louis lowered his voice.

"Did you hurt yourself during...sex?"

Harvey's eyes narrowed.

"Louis."

"I'm just asking!"

Louis gestured vaguely.

"Because, you know, given your reputation—"

"Finish that sentence and you won't have one."

Louis immediately stopped.

"Right. Fair."

Then—

"Was it the Pilates?"

Harvey sighed.

"Get out."

Louis grinned.

"I knew it."

—

That evening, when Harvey finally got home, he found you curled up on the couch, waiting for him with the most satisfied expression he'd ever seen.

"How was your day, honey?"

He loosened his tie.

"Everyone at the firm is annoying."

You smiled innocently.

"Everyone?"

"Yes."

"Interesting."

He walked over and kissed your forehead.

"You enjoyed this."

"Maybe."

"You set me up."

"You challenged me."

Harvey paused.

"...Fair."

Your smile widened.

There it was.

The second time in two days he'd admitted you were right.

You leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with yourself.

"Same time next week?"

[harveysbabydoll]

Aye sweets

harvey x wife reader!

SEXY TIMES WITH DA WIFE and lilly interrupts lmao thank you QUEEN

SHE SAID TIME TO CLOCK OUT LOVER BOY 🤍

⋆𐙚₊˚ 18+ ⟡ 𝑴𝑫𝑵𝑰 ⟡

The click of Lilly's bedroom door closing was the sweetest sound Harvey had heard all week.

He turned to find you leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, wearing those goddamn tiny shorts that made it damn near impossible for him to think straight, paired with a crop top that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Your hair was swept into an effortless updo... and you had that look on your face—the one that said you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

"She's finally asleep," you said, your voice low and teasing. "Think it'll last?"

Harvey walked towards you. "It better. I told Donna not to bother me for anything short of the building burning down. And if Mike texts?" He caged you against the wall with his arms, his mouth hovering just above yours. "I'm firing him."

You laughed, breathless already. "You can't fire Mike for texting you."

"Watch me." His hand slid up your bare thigh, fingers teasing the edge of your shorts. "I've been thinking about getting you alone all day. Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

"I might have some idea." Your hands found his tie, loosening it with practiced ease. "You've been looking at me like you want to devour me since dinner."

"That's because I do." He captured your mouth in a kiss that was all heat and promise, his tongue sliding against yours as his hands gripped your hips. You melted into him, and he could feel your pulse racing beneath his fingertips. "Bedroom. Now."

You stumbled down the hallway, a tangle of desperate hands and hungry mouths. Harvey's suit jacket hit the floor first, followed by his tie. Your fingers worked the buttons of his shirt while he walked you backward, his mouth never leaving yours.

"Harvey," you breathed against his lips as you crossed the threshold into your bedroom.

His hands slid beneath your crop top. No bra. Jesus Christ. "You've been walking around like this all night?"

"Maybe I was hoping you'd notice."

"Oh, I noticed." He pulled the crop top over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. "I've been hard since you bent over to pick up Lilly's toys."

You laughed, working his belt buckle open. "That was three hours ago."

"Three hours too long." He guided you toward the edge of the bed, his hands making quick work of your shorts. You stepped out of them, standing before him in nothing but a scrap of lace that barely qualified as anything.

Harvey took a moment to just look at you—his wife, the mother of his child, the woman who could bring him to his knees with a single glance. You were fucking perfect.

"See something you like, counselor?" you teased, reaching for his belt.

"I see everything I like." He caught your wrists as he backed you onto the bed. "And I'm going to take my time with it."

You squirmed beneath him, your breath coming faster. "I thought you said you'd been waiting three hours."

"I have. Which means I'm going to make every second count." He released your wrists to finish undressing, shrugging out of his shirt and the remainder of his clothes.

Your eyes darkened with want.

"Come here," you breathed, reaching for him.

"Not yet." He knelt between your legs, hooking his fingers in the useless scrap of lace, dragging it down your thighs. "I want to taste you first."

"Harvey—"

"That wasn't a request." He spread your thighs wider, settling between them. "I've been thinking about this all day too. About making you come on my tongue until you can't remember your own name."

He didn't wait for a response. His mouth found your center, tongue sliding through your folds in one long, deliberate stroke. You gasped, your hips bucking off the bed, and he gripped your thighs to hold you in place.

"Stay still," he commanded against your skin. "Let me work."

And work he did. Harvey ate you out like it was his job—methodical, thorough, devastating. He knew exactly what you liked, exactly how to make you fall apart. His tongue circled your clit in slow, teasing strokes before sucking it between his lips. Your hands fisted in his hair, and he groaned against you, the vibration making you cry out.

"Harvey, please—"

"Please what?" He slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right. "Tell me what you want."

"You. Inside me. Now."

"Not yet." He pumped his fingers slowly, torturously, while his tongue continued its assault on your clit. "I want you dripping for me first. I want you so desperate you can't think straight."

"I'm already—oh God—" Your words dissolved into a moan as he added a third finger, stretching you, preparing you.

He could feel you tightening around his fingers, your thighs trembling. You were close. So fucking close.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice dark with satisfaction. "Come for me. Let me feel it."

You shattered with a cry that you barely managed to muffle against your hand, your body arching off the bed as you came hard around his fingers. Harvey worked you through it, his tongue gentling as you came down, your breathing ragged.

He pressed a kiss to your thigh and crawled up your body, settling between your legs. His cock pressed against your entrance, and you whimpered, still sensitive from the orgasm.

He pushed inside in one slow, deliberate thrust, and you both groaned at the sensation. You were tight and wet and perfect, and it took every ounce of his control not to lose it right then.

"Fuck," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. "You feel incredible."

"Move," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Please."

He pulled out almost completely before slamming back in, setting a rhythm that was hard and deep and exactly what they both needed. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he braced himself on his forearms, his hips pistoning with precision.

"Is this what you wanted?" He growled against your ear. "Me fucking you until you can't walk straight tomorrow?"

"Yes," you moaned, your head thrown back. "God, yes."

"Good." He shifted the angle, hitting that spot inside you that unraveled you completely. "Because I'm not stopping until you come again. I want to feel you fall apart on my cock."

You were already close—he could tell by the way your inner walls were fluttering around him, by the desperate little sounds you were making. He reached between you, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles.

"Harvey—I'm—"

"I know. Let go. Come for me."

Your second orgasm hit like a freight train, your body clenching around him so tight he nearly lost it. He fucked you through it, his rhythm faltering as his own release built.

"Where?" he gritted out, his control hanging by a thread.

"Inside," you gasped. "I want to feel you—"

The bedroom door burst open.

"DADDY!"

Harvey freezes with absolute horror.

For a split second, neither of you move. You're both completely naked, tangled together, caught in the most compromising position possible.

Then Harvey's lawyer kicks into overdrive.

"Jesus—Lilly—" He pulls out quickly and practically throws himself off you, grabbing the comforter and yanking it over both of you in one frantic motion. "Baby, what—" His voice cracks. He clears his throat, trying again. "What are you doing up?"

Lilly stands in the doorway in her princess pajamas, clutching her rabbit, tears streaming down her face. "I had a nightmare."

Completely oblivious to what she just walked in on.

[harveysbabydoll]

Lovely lady 💕 Could you please write Harvey picking up his drunk wife after girls' night with Donna and Rachel? She's all giggly and trying so hard to seduce him the entire ride home, but Harvey refuses because she's drunk and he would never take advantage of her. She gets pouty and heartbroken, convinced he doesn't want her. Thank you so much!!

protective, patient harvey. I'm in love with this 🤍 harvey's desire will be obvious, but his ethics and respect for you are stronger. he won't give in. period.

༺♡༻ 𝓝𝓸𝓽 𝓣𝓸𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 ༺♡༻

The text comes through at 11:47 PM.

Harvey: Outside.

You stare at your phone, the letters swimming slightly. When did it get so late? When did you have that fourth—no, fifth—glass of wine?

"Your husband's here," Donna announces, glancing at her own phone. She's significantly more sober than you, which makes sense because Donna has self-control and you apparently don't.

"Already?" You stand, and the room tilts pleasantly. "We were having fun."

"We were," Rachel agrees, also more sober than you. "But it's midnight, and Harvey's been texting Donna for the last hour asking when you'd be ready."

"He worries too much." You grab your clutch, nearly dropping it. "I'm fine."

Donna and Rachel exchange a look that you definitely notice but choose to ignore.

"You promised him you'd only have two drinks," Donna says carefully.

"I had two." You pause. "And then three more. But who's counting?"

"Harvey's going to be counting," Rachel mutters.

You wave them off, heading for the door. The cool night air hits you as you step outside, and you spot the Ferrari immediately. Harvey's leaning against the driver's side door, arms crossed, still in his work clothes—dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, no tie, looking like every fantasy you've had about your husband.

And you've had a lot of fantasies.

"Hi, baby," you say, your voice coming out lower, sultrier than intended. Or maybe exactly as intended.

Harvey's eyes narrow as you approach. "You're drunk."

"I'm tipsy." You reach him, your hands immediately going to his chest. God, he's solid. "There's a difference."

"How many did you have?"

"Does it matter?" You lean in, pressing yourself against him. "I missed you."

His jaw tightens. "Get in the car."

"So commanding." You trail your finger down his chest. "I love when you use that voice."

"Car. Now." He opens the passenger door, and you slide in, very aware of how your dress rides up your thighs. Harvey notices—his eyes track the movement before he forcibly looks away, closing your door with more force than necessary.

He rounds the car and gets in, starting the engine without a word. The Ferrari purrs to life, and you sink back into the leather seat, watching him.

God, he's beautiful when he's tense.

"You're mad," you observe.

"I'm not mad."

"You're definitely mad." You reach over, placing your hand on his thigh. "I can make it better."

His hand immediately covers yours, stopping its upward movement. "Don't."

"Why not?" You lean closer, your voice dropping. "We're alone. It's dark. No one can see us."

"You're drunk," he repeats, his voice tight.

"I'm aware of my body." Your hand flexes under his. "Very aware. And I know what I want."

"What you want is to sober up." He removes your hand from his thigh, placing it firmly back in your own lap. "We'll talk about this tomorrow."

"I don't want to talk tomorrow." You shift in your seat, angling toward him. "I want you. Right now."

Harvey's knuckles are white on the steering wheel. "Stop."

"Make me." You slide your hand up your own thigh this time, watching his reaction. His eyes flick to you, then back to the road, his jaw clenching tight. "You know what I was thinking about all night?"

"I don't want to know."

"You. In that suit. The way you looked this morning before you left for work." Your hand slides higher. "The way you kissed me goodbye. How I wanted to pull you back to bed."

"Jesus Christ." His voice is strained. "Stop talking."

"Why? Does it bother you?" You lean closer, your mouth near his ear. "Does it bother you knowing how wet I am right now? How much I want you inside me?"

"You think you're playing a game you can win," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, rough and laced with a heat he can't entirely hide. "Sit still before you cause a fucking accident."

"Then pull over."

"No."

"Harvey." You place your hand on his thigh again, higher this time. "Please."

He grabs your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "I said no."

"You don't want me?" Your voice comes out smaller than intended, the alcohol making you more vulnerable than you'd like.

His head whips toward you, eyes blazing. "Don't. Don't you dare think that's what this is."

"Then what is it?"

"You're drunk," he says for the third time, each word deliberate. "You've had too much to drink, and I'm not going to take advantage of that."

"It's not taking advantage if I'm asking for it."

"Yes, it is." His voice is hard now, the lawyer voice that brooks no argument. "You can't consent when you're like this. You know that. I know that. So we're going home, you're going to drink water and take aspirin, and we're going to sleep."

"I don't want to sleep." You're aware you sound petulant, but you don't care. "I want you."

"Tomorrow."

"Now."

"No." Final. Absolute.

You pull your hand back, crossing your arms. "You really don't want me."

He exhales sharply. "I want you so much right now I can barely think straight. But I'm not doing this. Not like this."

"Why not?"

"Because you promised me you'd only have two drinks." His voice shifts, anger bleeding through. "You looked me in the eye before you left and promised me you wouldn't overdo it. And then you did anyway."

Guilt flashes through the pleasant wine haze. "I was having fun."

"I don't care. You made me a promise, and you broke it. And Donna and Rachel let you. They were supposed to make sure you didn't drink too much, and they failed."

"Don't blame them—"

"I'm absolutely blaming them." He takes a turn faster than necessary. "Donna knows better. Rachel knows better. They both know you can't handle more than three glasses without getting like this."

"Like what?"

"Reckless." He glances at you. "Uninhibited. Making decisions you'll regret tomorrow."

"I won't regret wanting my husband."

"You'll regret how you went about it." His voice softens slightly. "And I'll regret taking advantage of you when you weren't in a state to make that decision clearly."

You slump back in your seat, frustration and hurt warring in your chest. "So what, you're just going to ignore me all night?"

"I'm going to take care of you." He pulls into your building's garage. "Like I always do."

The car stops, and he's out and around to your side before you can process it. He opens your door, offering his hand.

You ignore it, climbing out yourself. Your heel catches, and you stumble. Harvey's arm is around your waist immediately, steadying you.

"Careful."

"I'm fine," you snap, but you don't pull away from him.

He guides you to the elevator, his hand firm on your waist. The ride up is silent, tension thick between you. When you reach your floor, he unlocks the door and ushers you inside.

"Bedroom," he says.

"Is that an invitation?"

"It's an instruction." He follows you down the hall. "You need to sleep this off."

In the bedroom, you turn to face him, your hands going to the zipper of your dress. "Help me?"

His eyes darken, but he doesn't move. "You can do it yourself."

"Harvey." You step closer. "Please. I need you."

"What you need is sleep." But his voice is rougher now, his control clearly fraying.

You close the distance between you, pressing yourself against him. "I need you to touch me. To make me feel good. To—"

His hands grip your shoulders, holding you at arm's length. "Stop."

"Why?" Tears prick your eyes, alcohol making you emotional. "Why don't you want me?"

"I want you so fucking much right now I can barely breathe." His voice is raw. "I want to push you onto that bed and make you scream my name. I want to remind you exactly who you belong to. But I won't. Because you're drunk, and you can't consent, and I love you too much to cross that line."

"I'm consenting—"

"You're intoxicated." He releases you, stepping back. "And tomorrow, when you're sober, you'll understand why I said no. You'll thank me for it."

"I won't."

"You will." He moves to the dresser, pulling out one of his t-shirts. "Here. Change. I'll get you water and Tylenol."

You take the shirt, tears spilling over. "You really won't?"

His expression softens, and he cups your face gently. "Baby, I want nothing more than to give you what you're asking for. But not like this. Never like this." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I love you too much to disrespect you that way."

"It's not disrespect if I want it."

"It is when you're not in a state to make that decision clearly." He pulls back. "Change. I'll be right back."

He leaves, and you're alone with your frustration and hurt and the spinning room. You change into his shirt mechanically, your body still humming with unfulfilled need.

Harvey returns with water and two Tylenol. "Take these."

You do, silently.

"Get in bed."

You climb under the covers, and he sits on the edge of the mattress, his hand smoothing your hair back from your face.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

"I know." His voice is gentle now. "But we're going to talk about this tomorrow. About you breaking your promise. About Donna and Rachel letting you drink that much when they knew better."

"Don't be mad at them."

"I'm furious with them." His jaw tightens. "They'll both hear about it. Trust me."

"Harvey."

"Sleep." He leans down, kissing your forehead. "We'll deal with everything tomorrow."

"Will you stay?"

"I'm not going anywhere." He stands, moving to his side of the bed. "But we're sleeping. That's it."

You watch him undress, your body still aching for him despite everything. He swaps the bespoke layers for a high-end, fitted black T-shirt that hugs his chest and shoulders perfectly, pairing it with heavy, dark designer sweatpants that sit low on his hips. He climbs into bed beside you, looking effortlessly elite even in loungewear, and you immediately curl into him, seeking his warmth.

His arm comes around you automatically, holding you close. "Sleep, sweetheart."

You drift off to the sound of his heartbeat, frustrated and embarrassed but safe in his arms.

[mrsbarnesblog]

˖˚⊹ lucky charm

➤ summary: Ferran is obsessed with you wearing his jersey while you celebrate their win ➤ w/c: 1.5k ➤ warnings: smut, unprotected p in v, doggy style, possibly my inaccurate Spanish🥲 ➤a/n: experimental fic for my shark, so I honestly don't expect much interaction/likes. just had to get some stuff off my chest + i changed the plot a bit for it to fit with their recent win. happy Ferran day to everyone who celebrates 🦈❤️ masterlist

The roar of the crowd still echoed in your ears even after you stepped into the hotel room you stayed at during the World Cup and closed the door, separating you and your boyfriend from the rest of the world. Another Spain game, another step towards the win, and another stressful evening for you as you sat in the middle of the thousand fans and were mainly rooting for one particular person. 

Ferran was close behind you, his hands steady on your waist the whole time from the car, but that smile is what made your heart swell—the big, bright, and almost cocky one. He assisted the last goal, ensuring a win for the team after a long streak of missing, and now you could finally see some of the weight dropped off of his shoulders. He was supposed to be with the team now, probably resting and recovering after the match. Hell, he even might get in trouble for sneaking out and following you to your own hotel room instead of following the schedule, but he truly didn’t care about any of it.

“You were incredible out there.” You smiled, looking back at him while you kicked off your shoes, finally alone and away from anyone who could disturb you. Ferran’s hair was still damp from the shower, thick and dark strands of hair curling wildly and looking perfectly fluffy for you to run your fingers through it. He flashed a smile back at you, brown eyes briefly darting towards your, or his, jersey that you were wearing. 

His name. His number. On his girl. After you were rooting for him and then hugging and kissing him after the game as if he scored a damn hat trick. Could it be any more perfect? 

“And you’re incredible right now.” He mumbled, following you instantly, pulling you flush against his chest while his lips found the side of your neck. Ferran nipped at your skin, then kissed the same spot softly, while his hands sneaked under your jersey impatiently. He didn’t care that his body felt a bit sore after the game or that you barely even got inside of your hotel suite—he wanted you now. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me when you’re wearing my kit.”

You laughed softly, the sound bubbling up as he nuzzled into your neck, kissing and nipping playfully again. “You’re so happy tonight.”

“I am happy.” He grinned against your skin, cocky and bright all at once, pushing his hips forward and nudging you to walk. “I wanted to win for you. My lucky charm.” He suddenly turned you around, not letting you move even an inch away from his body, catching your lips in a kiss. Your hands wrapped round his neck instantly, melting under so much affection and attention.

You giggled as he walked you both towards the bedroom, both of you struggling a little, way too consumed by the messy and smiling kisses, hands wandering over each other’s bodies. Ferran kept one hand under your jersey, brushing the side of your bra with his thumb, while the other one cupped your face softly while his lips moved hungrily against yours. When you finally felt the side of the bed with your legs, he pulled back, looking as hot as ever—lips puffy, cheeks boyishly flushed, and eyes sparkling with emotions and pure hunger. 

“I’m so proud of you.” You whispered, reaching for his lips again, finally threading your fingers through his hair and softly tugging at the roots. 

“Yeah?” His voice dropped, playful but now sounding a bit deeper with undeniable heat and intensity. “Then show me, princesa. Keep the jersey on.”

Ferran spun you around gently again, slightly pushing you forward until you bent over, palms flat against the bed. He pulled down your jeans along with your underwear, leaving you bare and heated in front of him, his warm hands greedily palming your ass as if he had been impatient this whole time.

You looked back at him over your shoulder, taking in the disheveled look, his slightly open mouth—everything that never failed to turn you on even more. You pushed your ass back at him, arching your back and falling forward and face down on the bed as if presenting yourself for him. Ferran groaned loudly, adjusting your position with firm yet gentle hands, while the prominent bulge visible through the blue tracksuit bottoms was already pressing against your bare thighs. 

“Joder… look at you.” He breathed with a laugh, brushing his hair back in that signature gesture, then not wasting any more time to pull down his sweats and boxers. 

His hard and leaking cock pressed against your entrance impatiently, you both groaning at the familiar feeling. You couldn’t help but moan when he rubbed the thick head along your slick folds, fingers digging deeper into the plush of your ass. 

“Ferran…” You whispered, pushing back again, ready and aching to take him in. 

“Sì, princesa, I've got you.” The accent alone made you clench helplessly, but when he finally, fucking finally, guided his cock with one hand, your eyes instantly rolled back in pleasure, your mouth open in a silent moan. 

The stretch and fullness felt delicious. He steadied you with one hand on your lower back, another one gripping your hip when he started moving slowly but steadily. His hips met your ass with each deep and slow thrust, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling your bedroom. Ferran’s eyes were glued to your back, to the way you were wearing his name so proudly—the sign that you were his and with him no matter the shit he was going through. 

“Te sientes tan bien.” He murmured, the Spanish slipping out naturally in his pleasure. 

Every thrust made his name in bold red letters bounce on your back, the oversized jersey rolling up your spine to reveal more of your already damp and warm skin. Ferran slid one hand to your chest, blindly tugging at the cups of your bra and palming your tits in his large hands, thumbs softly circling hardened peaks.  

You couldn’t stop moaning, couldn’t stop saying his name, and a smile spread on your face every time he said some sweet or dirty nonsense in Spanish. He leaned slightly forward, now close enough for him to bend forward and kiss your neck, changing angle and fucking you deeper, pushing your body further into the mattress, while all you could do was take it. 

“P-please, Ferran—“ You gasped, gripping the sheets tighter, moving yourself back on him as much as you could under the weight. 

“You like taking me like this?” He sounded so proud, so cocky—just exactly like you liked him, but the soft and affectionate touches and feather-light kisses against your neck made your stomach flutter. “Te quiero tanto, fuck—“

Ferran straightened up again, gripping your hips with both hands now, fucking you harder, faster, getting a weird fix again from the moment his eyes landed on the jersey you wore to all of his games. The angle had you seeing stars, every thrust of his cock hitting the exact spot you needed to come undone under him. Your legs started shaking from the position, knees slightly sliding down the silky sheets, while pleasure kept coiling in your belly. 

“Come for me. Let me feel you.” His voice behind you sounded more like an order, even though you could tell he was holding himself back to let you finish first. Ferran kept fucking into your heat again and again, leaving you and your body no other chance to comply when your pussy started spasming around him. 

“Ferran!” You whined his name again, face down into the bed to muffle how desperately you sounded, tugging at the sheets harder and wishing it was his back you could scratch and mark. He cursed again, you felt the way his cock twitched inside of you as he came with a deep groan, spilling inside of you. The soft and rocking thrusts still shook your body while he prolonged your orgasm, not ready to let you go or leave the warmth of you wrapped around him. 

Only when he was finally spent, satisfied enough to let you go for a second, did he pull out, letting your fluids leak down your thighs in a complete mess. You fell on your side, and not even a second later he followed you. Ferran was facing you on the bed, wrapping his hands around your waist to pull you even closer.

Your eyes met again, and you both grinned at each other. 

“Best celebration I’ve ever had.” He whispered, voice almost sappy, while his eyes twinkled with warmth and leftover joy. 

You arched a brow playfully. “Yeah? I’m sure we’ve already had plenty of those?” You reached for his face, running your fingers over the slight stubble. Ferran’s lips found your wrist to leave there a soft kiss, not answering back to your comment because you both knew you were right, and you took a deep, contented breath. “I love you.”

 “I love you.” He replied back simply. “Thank you for being here. For wearing this… for everything.”

You smiled, still a little dazed, and pulled him forward into a slow, sweet kiss. “You earned it, my shark.”

Ferran grinned against your lips, already tugging your leg over his thigh, as impatient as always. “Round two after a shower, mi amor?”

[hockeygirlyyyy]

Andrei svechinkov story please. Maybe about them being first time parents or him finding out shes pregnant. And a little long please. Thnakss

Pairing: Andrei Svechnikov x Fem!reader

Warnings: fluff, suggestive, Andrei spends most of the fic being a horny fuck.

"Okay I don't know why I decided to film this but I think I'm pregnant so I'm going to take a couple tests" you tell the camera, "these are the ones I bought" you show the camera the clearblue box. You take a deep breath, "I'm filming this so I can show Andrei if I am in fact pregnant."

You move out of the camera shot and take the tests, once your done you set them on the counter and set a timer, "Okay now we wait." When the timer goes off you jump, "Shit that scared me."

You take a deep breath before flipping them over, you gasp in shock as all the pregnancy tests say positive, "Oh my gosh." You pick the camera up and show the camera all the positive tests.

A couple days later Andrei is back from his road trip and he's been noticing something different about you, you seem like your glowing and not from the mind blowing sex you two have had since he got back.

"Baby" he asks one night as you two catch your breaths.

"Yes?" You ask looking up at him.

"Are you okay? You seem like your glowing?" He asks

"I'm great, I actually have a surprise for you" you say.

"More lingerie? Baby your killing me here" Andrei says with a groan.

You giggle, "No you horny fuck."

You get out of the bed and can feel Andrei's eyes on your bare ass as you get the gift and hand it to him. Andrei eyes you suspiciously before opening the gift. He pulls out a onesie and a baby Svechnikov jersey, "I'm lost."

You giggle as he stares at it confused before you see the realization dawn on his face, "Your pregnant?"

"Yeah I am" you say.

Andrei grabs you and pulls you into a hug, "This is so exciting baby." He pulls away from the hug just to kiss you, "We have to tell our parents and family and friends."

"Andrei breathe we don't have to tell them all right now" you say, "I scheduled an appointment for next week and we can confirm and then tell them."

Andrei takes a deep breath, "Your right, I got excited."

"I could tell" you say.

Andrei kisses you slowly, "I've been trying to knock you up since I got back and your already pregnant" he says dramatically.

You giggle, "Baby."

"What?" He says also laughing

"No inappropriate talk infront of the baby" you say.

"Not gonna happen" he says.

You giggle before laying your head back on his chest. "So round 3?" Andrei asks

You roll your eyes before straddling him, "sure why not."

[tosotd-nhl]

i used to feel the rush

mat barzal x reader

pt 2 of 'i know i should be running'

warnings: angst, fluff, mat actually being a good guy!, makeups and makeouts (not proofread)

wc: 2k

It has been two weeks since the "come back" text. Two weeks since you walked out, thinking you were taking the high road. While it seemed to have been the right thing, you couldn't stop thinking about him. As stupid as it sounds, you couldn't move on from that night.

Was it a mistake?

Did he really want it to work?

All of these questions were running through your head, while Mat was no different.

The Islanders have been on a losing streak. A draught of wins and celebrations, but instead a high of fights and disappointment. You thought Mat had a temper on the ice earlier, but watching the games from home have been intense. Everything was more. Fights were rougher. Penalties were more common. He provoked non stop on the ice as if he found pleasure in the violence.

Tonight was no different for the team.

What should have been a home advantage was a horrible loss.

The clips of Mat throwing hands in the second period were all over social media. Every time you refreshed the screen a new angle was out. Gloves off, fists to face. His cheek broke open amongst the many hits he took, but his stupid, sadistic smirk never faded. His eyes were empty, but his mouth never lied. He was enjoying the pain.

You shouldn't even be interested in watching the games. You knew the only reason you did was to see him on screen even though you swore you were going to stop.

Just as you put your phone on the bedside table, it went off.

| Mat i'm here

You haven't replied to any of his texts since that night, but this one piqued your interest. He's here?

| You what do you mean?

| Mat open the door

| Mat please

It's embarrassing how fast you got out of bed and threw on a random hoodie from the floor.

When you get to the door, the sight you saw was definitely not what you were expecting. You were expecting him, but not what you actually saw.

His cheek, clearly cleaned after the game, was split open once again, causing blood to stream down his face. The rain washed the saturation away from the thick substance, but compared to his pale skin it was noticeable.

"Mat," You start, letting out a small sigh as you took in the rest of him. He looked rough. He looked beautiful, but also like a mess. A beautiful mess.

"Ba- Y/n please. Let me talk." He cut off your words and tilted his head to the side as he spoke. His words were soft and his tone was filled with yearning. You could see it in his hooded eyes that he has wanted this since the night you left.

You also noticed the "baby" that almost slipped from his mouth. Your heart sunk when he didn't say the whole word.

"I'm a fucking mess." He shrugs his shoulders up the way he usually did when he was frustrated. "I need you."

You shut your eyes, preparing for the consequences that could come with your actions, but you move out of the way from the door and let him step in.

"Why are you doing this?" You cross your arms over your abdomen and shake your head in confusion.

"I waited for weeks. I deleted every message I had typed out. I left you alone for two weeks knowing it was what you wanted." A crack came from his throat. "I can't do it anymore. I tried to stay away, but I can't."

Your eyes lock from the few inches apart you were standing, and your mouth hung open slightly. What were you supposed to say to that? Blood was dripping onto his white shirt and he didn't care. He didn't break eye contact once.

He cared.

"Mat,"

"Come on, I know you've seen the shit online. The games." He interrupts one more time.

"Mat!" Your tone was scolding and your eyebrows raise in slight annoyance. The feeling of his rough, calloused hands sends sparks up your body as you guide him to your bathroom. "Just sit."

"I don't need you to,"

"You're bleeding on my carpet." You push him down onto the toilet seat by his shoulders, this time being the one to cut his words off. He doesn't resist.

For a moment it is silent. His breathing was deep and stuffy, which made you more and more away of his presence. For some reason, it felt like a fever dream.

Or maybe you didn't want to believe you were giving in again so easily.

When you go in to clean the cut up, you couldn't help but make eye contact and notice the way his yearning eyes looked up at you. He looked like a puppy with a hurt paw. Pathetically hot.

"I'm sorry." He hisses out slightly as you dab the blood around the split skin.

You stay quiet, pretending you had no words to say back to him.

"I know I'm a dick, okay? I know I fucked it up, but I need you." His words are begging and his hand catches the wrist of yours cleaning him.

"You don't. You've never needed me, Mat." You shake your head, but pause your movements when you feel his touch.

"That's bullshit. I can't even make it through a game without you."

Right. So him sitting you on the opposite side of the stadium and not taking you home was his way of saying he needed you at his games.

"I may have been a shit boyfriend keeping it private, but you also never told me anything." He shakes his head as if he was trying to make you understand him. "I didn't know you wanted more."

"Didn't know?"

"I want to give you more." He whispers. "One more shot. That's it. I promise I'll give you what you need."

"How can you promise that? It has only been two weeks. And now you've changed?" You tilt your head to the side.

"Yeah. I've gone crazy without you." He wets his bottom lip with his tongue. "I took it for granted."

No shit he has gone crazy.

"I don't know."

"Come on. You're telling me you don't hate the change?" His tone is now laced with a slight annoyance. He was prying and you weren't letting up.

"I've been fine." You say bluntly.

"Then what's that?" His head nods out of the bathroom door to your bedroom. Your eyes follow where he nodded only to see a shirt on the floor. Okay, not a shirt. His fucking jersey you wore tonight whilst watching the game.

"I haven't cleaned in a while." You try to hide the guilty smile. Fuck, he's breaking you.

"Right." He smirks and nods slowly. "So you didn't wear it tonight? You didn't watch the game?"

"No."

"You're a shit liar." He laughs gently. "Your cheeks are red."

"They're not." Except the mirror you glanced into after hearing those words only proved him right.

"Come to the next game." His tone is back to serious.

"Mat, I'm not going through that again."

"I know." He drops your wrist and now places his hands on your hips. His hands slip under the sweatshirt, causing another spark to shoot through your body. "Same seats, but I'll meet you after."

"We're supposed to move on." Your teeth bite on your bottom lip as you debate the offer.

You wanted to. Life has been hell since leaving. You missed everything about him. Even though he wasn't good, he was fun. You missed the fun. The way he smiled into his kisses and the way he laughed at your bedhead.

"Neither of us really want that." A hand comes up to your cheek.

Shit.

"Fine." You sigh and look down at him. "One game."

"I want it to be us." His voice is low and breathy.

Your finger comes up to his lips, pushing him away slightly.

"You're not staying here." You smile at the way his eyebrows furrow when you block his kiss. This time can't be so easy. He needs to work for it.

"Then I'll see you at the game." He bites his cheek while trying to hold back his disappointment.

The next game day felt too familiar. The excitement bubbled in your stomach even though you told yourself to play it cool. He could be lying. What if he doesn't change and now you look like an idiot for showing up?

section 111, row 20, seat 6

The seat brings you a sense of fear rather than relief. Everything could go wrong and you'd be the fool.

But this time things are different. The Islanders are flooding the ice for warm ups and instantly number thirteen comes skating to your side of the ice. He tries to not make it look obvious, occasionally glancing at signs pressed against the glass, but he was searching for you. He slowed when he caught your eye. Something stirred in him when he saw you in his jersey. He didn't do anything obnoxious, only a subtle head nod and a smile.

It was enough to make you melt.

But that was the bare minimum.

The game itself: less fights, more goals, and a winning celebration.

You couldn't help but feel like it was because you were there. Was it a coincidence they've been losing every time you weren't in attendance and the first time you're back they win? No. Well, in your head that's why.

Mat felt it too. He knew it. The two weeks of playing without you around was hell. The first game after, he quickly realized knowing you were there in the audience brought him good luck and comfort. He realized there was no one else that would fill your spot. The random people sitting in your seat could never truly replace you.

| Mat come down

| You to the ice?

| Mat i'll be out in five.

Your stomach fluttered and you instantly walked down the steps of the arena.

Where were you supposed to go?

You noticed, near where the wags usually sit, a group of a few girls standing together by the ice. That must have been where you were supposed to go. Why weren't they in the family locker room? It almost made you insecure walking over to these girls. They were dressed in cute outfits and cool boots, while you were in a jersey and sneakers.

Keeping your distance, you took a seat in one of the chairs and looked out to the ice. It was much cooler without the crowd filling the stands. It was cool to see it so empty.

Your eyes snap over to a group of guys coming through a small gate with smiles on their faces. They looked nervous? Behind the few players was him. Mat. Of course, he had a stupid smirk on his face. He wasn't in a jersey anymore, just a black shirt and sweatpants.

"What is this?" You furrow your eyebrows as he walks over.

"A few guys meeting their girls." He shrugged but never got rid of the smirk.

"No. What is this?" You exaggerate the sentence.

"This is me winning you back." His head dips down and he captures your lips in his.

They were cold, contradicting to the warm ones you were used to him giving. You've never kissed him fresh off a game, much less fresh off a win. Even though his lips were chilled, the feeling inside was warmer than it's ever been.

You pull away slightly, feeling eyes on you. Right, no one knew Barzal had something going on with a girl. That didn't even matter anymore because he just kissed you in front of people. For the first time.

"One more shot?" He asks quietly, his thumb caressing your cheek softly.

"One more shot."

[bitchinbarzal]

Wedding Dress | M Barzal

summary: you don’t want to miss him in a wedding dress.

inspired by megan maroney’s “wedding dress”

—

You don’t cry the first time you try on the dress.

Everyone expects you to.

Your mom presses her fingers to her lips. Your best friend whispers, “Oh my God.” The consultant says something about how it was made for you.

You just stare at yourself.

White silk. Fitted waist. Soft straps resting against your shoulders. The kind of dress you used to screenshot at two in the morning when you were twenty two and in love with Mat.

You smooth your hands over the fabric.

You look like a bride.

You don’t feel like one.

Because when you close your eyes, it isn’t your fiancé you see waiting at the end of the aisle.

It’s him.

Mat in a black tux, hair slightly messy because he never could get it to sit right. His hands clasped in front of him. That nervous little bounce in his knees he’d never admit to.

You can almost hear him.

“Don’t trip, okay?” he’d tease.

You swallow.

The mirror only shows you.

Not him.

Not the version of your life you thought was guaranteed.

Just a dress.

The breakup wasn’t loud.

Sometimes you wish it had been.

No cheating. No slammed doors. No screaming in parking lots.

Just exhaustion.

Missed calls after overtime losses. You falling asleep alone while he rewatched game footage. Headlines. Pressure. The way the season never really ended.

“I don’t want you to hate this life,” he said quietly the night he packed his last bag.

You stood in the doorway of your apartment, arms wrapped around yourself. “I don’t.”

“But you’re starting to,” he replied.

You wanted to argue.

You didn’t.

He kissed your forehead instead of your mouth. Like you were already something fragile.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I know,” you said, because if you’d said it back you would’ve begged him to stay.

You both thought maybe love would be enough.

It wasn’t.

Years pass whether you’re ready or not.

You meet someone else.

Someone steady. Someone kind. Someone who texts when he says he will and doesn’t cancel dinner because of practice running late. Someone who talks about the future like it’s something you can actually hold.

When he proposes, you say yes.

You mean it.

You love him.

You just don’t love him the way you loved Mat.

That kind of love was a wildfire.

This one is a hearth.

Safe. Warm. Predictable.

You choose safe.

You tell yourself that’s what grown women do.

The wedding is in July.

Hot, golden, perfect.

The venue overlooks the water, which you absolutely didn’t pick because of him. You won’t let yourself admit that.

Your fiancé squeezes your hands before the ceremony.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just nervous.”

He smiles. “You can’t back out now.”

You laugh. “I wouldn’t.”

The music starts.

The doors open.

You step into the aisle and everyone stands.

For a split second, your chest caves in.

Because in your mind, it’s not your fiancé waiting for you.

It’s Mat.

Eyes already glassy. That stupid soft smile he’d get when he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room.

You almost miss a step.

Your dad steadies you. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

You focus.

You walk.

You reach the altar.

Your fiancé’s eyes are shining.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispers.

You smile.

You want to mean it fully.

The vows blur together.

“I promise,” you repeat. “For better or worse. For richer or poorer.”

Your voice doesn’t shake.

You slide the ring onto his finger.

He slides one onto yours.

Everyone cheers when he kisses you.

Your husband.

The word feels foreign in your chest.

At the reception, you perform happiness perfectly.

You laugh for pictures. You hug relatives. You dance with your friends.

It isn’t until the first slow song that it hits.

Your husband pulls you close, his hand resting at your lower back.

“You’re my wife,” he murmurs into your hair.

You close your eyes.

And your mind betrays you.

You remember a different dance.

A tiny kitchen. Music playing off Mat’s phone. Him spinning you too fast.

“You’d look insane in a wedding dress,” he laughed once, dipping you low. “Like unfairly hot.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you told him.

“I’m serious,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “One day I’m gonna see you in white and I won’t be able to breathe.”

Your throat tightens now.

“You okay?” your husband asks.

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just overwhelmed.”

He kisses your temple.

You don’t deserve how good he is.

Later, you slip into the bathroom to breathe.

You lock the door.

You stare at yourself again.

Same girl.

Different ending.

Your hands grip the sink.

“I shouldn’t still feel this,” you whisper to your reflection. “I shouldn’t.”

Your phone buzzes in your clutch.

Unknown number:

Congratulations. You deserve every good thing.

Your heart stops.

You know that tone.

You type before you can stop yourself.

Thank you.

Three dots appear immediately.

You look beautiful.

Your breath stutters.

How do you know?

Because he’s here.

You don’t think. You just move.

Out of the bathroom. Back into the reception.

And then you see him.

Near the back of the room.

Mat.

Not in a tux. Just a simple suit. Hands in his pockets. Watching.

He looks older. Broader. A little more tired.

But it’s him.

Your heart reacts before your brain can catch up.

You don’t walk toward him.

You can’t.

He holds your gaze.

There’s no accusation in it. No anger.

Just something soft. Something unfinished.

He gives you the smallest nod.

Like he understands.

Like he won’t ruin this for you.

You take a hesitant step in his direction.

He shakes his head slightly.

Don’t.

Your eyes burn.

He mouths something.

You look happy.

Then he turns.

And he leaves.

No scene. No interruption. No grand confession.

Just the quiet ache of two people who loved each other at the wrong time.

You stand there in your wedding dress, surrounded by music and laughter, and you realize something terrifying.

You’re not afraid you won’t get over him.

You’re afraid you already know you won’t.

Not fully.

Not in the way that erases the ghost of him from your biggest moments.

You make it through the night.

You toss the bouquet.

You cut the cake.

You kiss your husband for the cameras.

When you finally collapse into bed hours later, he pulls you close.

“I’m so lucky,” he whispers sleepily.

You stare at the ceiling.

You chose this.

You chose stability. You chose safety. You chose a man who shows up.

You won’t ruin that.

You won’t let the past steal what you have now.

[thewintersoldierdisaster]

a/n: talk about a labor of love! i’ve been plotting/outlining/talking about this fic for like a year and a half and i’m so excited to finally share it with you all!! the title for this one comes from the song that colton sings in the way home on hallmark and i love that show so much and the song just makes me think of mat and squeaks. 🥹thank you for being along for the ride and i can’t wait to hear your thoughts ☺️

word count: 34.4k

tw: fingering (f recieving), pregnancy and all that entails, premature birth, traumatic birth, post partum hemorrhage, panic attacks, negative self-talk, nausea, postpartum anxiety and depression, writer is not a doctor and did her best but there are definitely medical inaccuracies

summary: baby barzal can’t wait to make their appearance and you go into early labor while mat’s away. the next three weeks are a whirlwind of emotion for your family

“Do you have to leave?” You ask, poking your lower lip out in a childish pout. Your fingers hook into the belt loop of Mat’s dress pants, as if you could keep him in the house just by touching him. 

Mat laughs and wraps his hand around your wrist, “yeah. Or are you going to be the one to tell Lou I missed the game because you wouldn’t let go of my belt loop? Or am I?” 

His fingers stroke absently at the soft skin on the underside of your wrist, tickling you slightly. 

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Obviously we’d come up with a better excuse. The Prudential Center is like less than two hours away, I don’t see why you can’t leave tomorrow morning.” 

The whine in your voice is obnoxious even to your own ears and you hate how it makes you sound. But you’ve been so needy and clingy with Mat lately, a consequence of being in the third trimester and nesting. You just want him around all the time and honestly, as insane as it sounds, if you could unzip his skin and live inside of him, you would. 

When you’d mumbled that to Mat a few weeks ago, he’d laughed and stretched out the hem of his sweatshirt so you could crawl up underneath and rest your cheek against his heart. You’d nearly overheated and suffocated, but the gesture was nice. 

“League rules, Squeaks,” Mat replies now, fingers still rubbing at your wrist. “I’d change it if I could. But I’ll be home tomorrow night.” 

“That’s too long,” you grumble, tugging at the belt loop between your fingers. A flush of embarrassment makes your cheeks hot. “I’m sorry I’m being so needy,” you sigh, feeling your eyes well with tears. “I can’t control it.” 

Mat squats down in front of the couch, dislodging your hand from his belt loop. “Hey,” he gives you a reassuring smile, cupping your cheek in one warm hand, “I know it’s all the crazy hormones, but I don’t mind. I like being the guy you rely on.” 

Your breath hitches, a precursor to the crying lately, and the baby kicks just to remind you that you’re not alone even when Mat leaves for a game. 

You press your fingers to the spot where the baby kicked and Mat’s gaze flickers down to the rounded swell of your stomach. His eyes crinkle softly at the corners and lets his other hand drift to covers yours.  The baby kicks again and you both smile at each other. 

“Looks like the bug is going to be awake and keep you company,” Mat teases, flexing his fingers over yours. 

“Looks like it,” you reply, voice a little watery. You swipe at your eyes with your free hand, sniffling. “Have I told you lately that you’re the best?” 

Mat cackles and you grin. His stupid ass laugh is your favorite sound in the world. 

“No,” he says through another burst of laughter, “you haven’t! Last night I was berated for bringing you water that was too cold.” 

“It hurt my teeth!” You yelp in protest, holding a scowl for half a second before giggling. “This morning’s water was much better.”

Your husband rolls his eyes, mouth curled up in a smirk. “I’m glad to know I got it right,” he deadpans. “I gotta go now though. I’ll text you when I get to Jersey, okay?”

You nod, reluctantly, and when Mat stands up,  you reach for his hand to keep him in place just a little bit longer. He smiles down at your iron grip on his fingers and leans in to kiss the pout off your face. 

“Can you get my Stanley before you go?” You ask, when the kiss ends and Mat tugs at your hand to release his. 

“Sure, baby,” he agrees and snorts a laugh when you still refuse to let go of his hand. “Squeaks, c’mon, you gotta let go or I can’t get your water.”

You release his hand reluctantly, with a grumble. It’s getting ridiculous, how clingy you are, and apparently it will only get worse the later in pregnancy you are. 

Mat disappears into the kitchen and you shift on the couch, stretching out the twinge of pain in your lower back. Your belly gets in the way as you try and twist to crack your back, the baby kicking away. You’d been sitting normally on the couch, legs down, but now you try and bring your legs up to sit cross legged, to open up your hips a bit. It sort of helps, the swell of your belly resting in the cradle of your legs until you prop a pillow up under the bump to lift it a little. 

A sigh of relief slips past your lips when that works to help relieve some of the pressure. Unfortunately it means you’ll have to stay in this position as long as possible or until it becomes uncomfortable too. 

“Water and I brought you a snack too,” Mat announces as he comes back into the den, the crinkle of a bag drawing your attention like a dog spotting a squirrel. 

“Snack?” You repeat, reaching out your hands and making a grabbing motion. “Best husband ever, I stand by it.” 

He laughs and deposits the Stanley, clinking with ice, on the coffee table in front of you, along with the Costco-sized bag of Stacy’s pita chips and tub of tzatziki. Your current craving is definitely going to give you heartburn at bedtime, but it’s so worth it. 

“Keep that energy for when I put too many ice cubes in your drink again,” Mat brushes a kiss to the top of your head. He uncrinkles the top of the pita chip bag and snags a few to snack on in the car. “Love you.” 

“Love you,” you reply, blinking wide eyes up at him. “Can you please just rub my back before you go?”

It sounds like you’re trying to keep him in the house longer, and you are, but you also need your lower back rubbed. There’s been a persistent little pain the past few days and nothing helps but Mat’s hands working at the muscles. 

“Of course,” he nods and sits next to you, nudging you forward with one hand and pressing the other to the spot he knows is causing you trouble. His fingers dig in and you groan happily, bent over your stomach. The baby kicks and you press your fingers to the spot, rewarded with another kick that makes you smile. You love feeling baby move around. 

Mat’s hand slides under the hem of your shirt, the calloused pads of his fingers rasping against your skin. His thumb digs into the dimple above your ass and you whine, feeling the knotted muscle shift and release slightly. 

He laughs and rests his chin on your shoulder, “making some pretty satisfied noises there, Squeaks.” 

“It feels so good,” you reply plainly, arching your back slightly and pressing into his touch. “I feel like I slept wrong or something.” 

“You’ve slept like a rock with that fuckass pregnancy pillow,” Mat grumbles, his beef with your favorite pregnancy purchase always at the forefront of his mind. You’ve definitely woken up more than once with the u-shaped pillow tossed to the floor and your leg thrown over Mat’s thigh. When asked, Mat always plays dumb, but you know he’d rather have you wrapped around him than some pillow. 

Your breath hitches when Mat finds a particularly sore spot and digs his thumb in, loosening it. “The pillow,” you sigh happily, “is the only constant I have, with you leaving all the time.”

Mat’s hand slides down and pinches gently at your ass, making you yelp and laugh. “How’s your back?” He asks, pressing the heel of his palm against the side of your spine. 

“Better,” you lean back against the couch when Mat shifts and stops rubbing at your back. “It feels a little looser, I guess?” 

“Try and walk around,” Mat kisses your temple and gets off the couch, ready to head out. “That should probably help loosen the muscles too.” 

You nod and lift your face for a good-bye kiss, a silent request that Mat happily obliges. You wrap your fingers around the lapel of his jacket and he grunts into your mouth, sounding suspiciously like a laugh. You force your fingers to uncurl and release him, watching Mat retreat to the front door where his overnight bag is waiting. 

“Hey, Mat?” You wait until he’s got the strap of his bag on his shoulder, keys jingling in his hand. 

“Yeah?” He turns back, an amused look on his face as he waits for your request. 

You let your lips curl into a wicked smirk, “can I get an orgasm before you go?” 

Mat’s eyebrows lift on his forehead and he barks a laugh. “Horny little freak,” he mutters affectionately, shaking his head. 

Around a delighted giggle, you reply, “but I’m your horny little freak and it’s why you love me.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Mat waves you off, laughing. “You know, you’re greedy too. You’ve had so many orgasms lately.” He’s trying to say it with a straight face, but can’t manage it, eyes crinkled up in amusement, laugher at the edges of his words. 

You beam at him, always proud when you make him laugh. Rubbing your hand over the swell of your stomach, you shrug, “I haven’t heard you complain before. I thought you liked burying your head between my legs and playing with me until I come all over your face.” 

Your clit throbs a little, ready for attention even though you’d mostly been joking before. 

Mat’s cheeks flush and the tips of his ears turn a little pink. He shakes his head and you can see him swallow. 

“Greedy little thing,” Mat mumbles, mostly to himself. 

“You still haven’t said no,” you point out, shifting on the couch, leaning back into the cushions. The hem of your oversized sweatshirt rides up a little on your thighs and you’re barely embarrassed by the full coverage panties you’re wearing, knowing Mat doesn’t give a shit about that. 

He laughs and strides back across the hall into the living room, dropping to his knees in front of you. He smirks at you, eyes twinkling. “No,” he says, “I didn’t.” 

A fresh rush of arousal floods between your legs and your heart kicks in your chest. Mat’s hands are warm on your legs as he tugs them off the couch, readjusting you so he can have easy access. Your clit throbs and you reach out to tangle a hand in his hair, tugging lightly. He grins at you, a wicked flash of white teeth, and presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. 

“Mat,” you whimper his name on a breathy sigh and he kisses higher up on your thigh, nipping gently. 

“I know,” he coos, tone bordering the edge to condescending. “I have literally ten minutes before I’m going to be late. Is that going to be enough for you?” 

You nod, eyes falling shut as Mat’s fingers glide up your inner thigh and under the loose hem of your shorts. “Yes, yeah,” you groan, fingers tightening in his hair. “I’m so wet, Mat. Please.” 

His fingers find the edge of your panties and slip under the elastic, finding your soaked entrance and pressing two fingers inside of you immediately. A whine claws out of your throat, cunt clenching around the tips of his fingers. 

It takes next to nothing to get you off these days, the increased blood flow making Mat’s job incredibly easy. You’re practically always aching for him. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, burying his fingers deeper and holding onto your thigh with the other hand. “Might be able to give you two with how keyed up you are.”

He thumbs at your clit and you wail, liquid heat in your veins and an electric spark coiling in your belly. The baby kicks and you hiccup, chasing his hand with your hips as best as you can. Everything is so swollen and sensitive and you’re pretty sure you’re already hovering at the edge of your release. 

Mat leans his cheek against your knee, watching his fingers work you open. His brow furrows with concentration and you squirm against the pressure of the third finger he slides inside of you, curling them against your inner walls and pressing firmly against your g-spot. 

“Mat, Mat, oh my god,” you pant. His fingers move faster and arousal drips over his wrist and down the curve of your ass, your chest heaving when your orgasm hits hard, exploding through your veins and prolonged with Mat’s fingers circling your clit. 

“There you go,” he talks you through it, “so fucking gorgeous when you come for me. Wish I had time to bury my cock in your sweet pussy like you deserve, baby. When I come home, I promise. Gonna give my girl all the attention she deserves.” 

You whine and try to press your thighs together, but Mat’s shoulders block any movement. His fingers are slick on your clit and you’re a mess between the legs, so wet there’s barely any friction from his touch. Mat keeps working at your clit and you’re not sure if it’s a second orgasm that’s bubbling in your lower stomach or the continuation of the first, but either way, you bite down on your lower lip and clench around Mat’s fingers, hiccuping a sob as he makes you come again. 

His laugh floats up from between your legs and you’re too spent to even lift your head. Your fingers are limp in his hair. 

“That might’ve been a record, Squeaks,” he teases, pulling his fingers from your cunt and holding them up for you to see the way your come drips down his palm. 

You wrinkle your nose at him and weakly tap at his side with your foot. “Unfair advantage,” you yawn, exhaustion suddenly worming its way into your limbs. “I’m always like 75% of the way to an orgasm with all the extra blood flow.” 

Mat sticks his fingers in his mouth and sucks them clean around a smirk. With a wet pop, he releases them and replies, “I’ll take any advantage I can get. I like when you’re all clingy after an orgasm.” 

“Yeah, well, now you’re leaving me and I only have my fuckass pregnancy pillow to cling to,” you reply snottily, almost immediately breaking into laughter. Mat stands up and nudges your knees with his, scowling at you. 

“As long as you remember who your original body pillow was,” he raises an eyebrow and gestures to his torso with one hand. “There was a time when you clung to me like a koala.” 

His lips fall into a pout and you mimic the expression, cooing at him, “don’t you worry, Mr. Barzal. I’ll be back clinging to you in my sleep in no time. Let’s see if you even want me, or if I’ll get turned aside for baby cuddles.” 

“There’s plenty of me to go around,” Mat jokes. His phone vibrates in his pocket and he frowns, checking his watch. “Fuck, okay, I really do have to go now. If I’m late for the bus, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Go, go,” you wave him off with a flick of your fingers, dramatically slumped against the couch, still wet and a little achy between the legs. “I’ll clean myself up.” 

Mat snorts a laugh and cups your cheek when he leans in to give you a good-bye kiss. “Trust me,” he mutters against your lips, “I wish I was the one cleaning you up. Get some rest while I’m gone, ‘cause when I come home…” He trails off with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows and you beam at him. 

“I’m gonna take you up on that promise,” you lean in for one more quick kiss and then ask him to help you to your feet so you can shower and change. Mat happily obliges, following you up the stairs. 

“I thought you were going to be late,” you toss the words over your shoulder, one hand on the railing and the other holding the bottom curve of your stomach. You already feel huge at 34 weeks, you’re not sure how you’re going to be able to get anything done when you’re full term. It feels insane that your stomach is going to get even bigger and heavier. 

Mat shrugs and braces his hands on your lower back as you climb the steps. “I didn’t want you going up the stairs without help. Not after those mind blowing orgasms,” his voice lifts with the tease. 

You scoff, “hardly mind blowing. I’ll give you extremely satisfying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when I get home,” Mat replies dryly. His hands are still on your lower back, even though you’re safely off the stairs now, and you lean back into his touch. “Still sore?” 

“Mhm,” you hum and sigh when Mat digs his thumbs into the same spots as before. “I was sitting for a while though. The shower should help.” 

It already feels better with Mat’s hands working at the knots and you lean back so you’re resting against his chest. He slides his hands over your sides and brings them to rest under the bump, lifting gently until the pressure is off of your hips and you exhale loudly. 

The baby nudges against Mat’s hands and you can feel his body shift and you know he’s smiling. Every time he feels the baby move, his face predictably splits in a huge, cheesy grin. 

Mat’s lips ghost your temple in a kiss and he lets you lean on him for a few beats of comfortable silence. His phone vibrates in his pocket twice and you reluctantly push forward and away from his touch. 

“You’re really going to be late,” you murmur. “Blame the pregnant wife, I don’t mind.” 

“I mind,” Mat frowns. “I’m not going to blame you when it was my decision to hang around.” 

A rush of love for Mat makes you teary eyed and you sniffle a little. “Don’t be so sweet,” you complain, “you know I can’t handle that lately.” 

Mat smiles an apology and with one last kiss, he tells you he’ll text when they’re on the road and when they get to Jersey. You lean against the wall and listen to him thunder down the stairs and then the front door is opened and closed and you’re alone for the next two days. 

“Me and you, kiddo,” you pat the side of your stomach, getting a kick in return. “How about a little self care while Daddy’s gone?” 

The baby kicks again and you take that as agreement - not that you need much encouragement. Half the time Mat’s away, you treat it as your own personal spa time. The other half is spent with Holly or Syd and the kids, getting used to the rhythms of parenting and having a little one around. 

It’s early in the day though, so you don’t want to get too comfortable and lazy. After your shower, which involved shaving your legs before your belly gets really too big to work around and giving yourself another orgasm, you towel off, lotion up, and change into your new uniform of bike shorts and an oversized t-shirt. This one is a vintage Budweiser shirt that you’d thrifted in a men’s xl, making it your new go-to as the bump expands. It also sometimes makes you look like a drunk with a beer belly instead of a baby belly. 

But it’s comfortable and that’s all that matters. 

The shower loosened up some of the soreness in your muscles and you feel good. Loose and relaxed from the three orgasms and motivated to run some errands. 

You pick up Mat’s dry cleaning and get the car washed, ending up at the mall to check out the new arrivals at Janie and Jack. You leave with a bag full of gender neutral clothes - the only time you regret your choice not to find out the gender of the baby is when you’re confronted with the cutest little pink dresses. You spend plenty of time cooing over them though. 

By the time you get back home, your feet are starting to hurt and the baby’s kicking up a storm. You’ve done more than enough and as far as you’re concerned, you’ve earned some couch time. 

Mat’s safely in Jersey and texting to make sure you’re okay. You send back a selfie of you curled up on the couch, shooting the camera a thumbs up. 

With the TV playing a marathon of Mom, you relax into the cushions, thick knitted blanket wrapped around your body. You cricket your tube-socked feet and cradle your belly with one hand, tapping lightly in response to every little kick. A faint smile plays on your face. 

“Six weeks, bug,” you murmur, tracing your fingers over the curve and stopping at the peak. “I can’t wait to find out who you are.” 

You hope the baby looks like Mat, you wouldn’t mind having a little mini version of him around when he’s on the road. A tiny replica of your favorite person in the world. 

Mat’s dark hair and hazel eyes, his smile. Maybe your nose, especially if it’s a girl. 

You can’t help but picture what the baby might look like, imagining a sweet, chunky little thing to cuddle. 

“I just hope you like terrible jokes and hockey,” you laugh quietly, “because that’s all that we talk about around here.” 

You shift when you get kicked in the ribs and prop another pillow behind your back for support. The baby stretches and you push back the blanket to watch the shape of your stomach change with the movement, endlessly fascinated and also extremely creeped out since it looks a little Alien-esque. 

The late afternoon passes in a lazy blur, you nap on and off, and by the time you get hungry, your back has stiffened up again and you’re not in the mood to move. But your stomach growls and you force yourself off the couch, grumbling as you go. 

Since Mat’s not home to make sure you eat a vegetable, or a well-balanced meal at all, you air fry a couple of chicken tenders and mozzarella sticks. The carbs sound good and they smell even better. 

You’re mid bite, melted cheese burning your tongue, when Mat FaceTimes. 

“Ah, ow, ow, hot,” you whine, tongue sticking out of your mouth as you swipe to answer your husband’s call. “Hi!” 

Mat’s face is too close to the camera and you laugh around the mouthful of hot cheese. “What are you doing?” He asks, eyebrows drawing together. “Are you okay?” 

“Mhm,” you hum, tongue throbbing from the minor burn. “Just eating dinner. How’s Jersey?” 

“Same as ever,” Mat rolls his eyes and the image bounces as he moves and then you can see that he’s sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, dressed more casually. You know the guys will probably be getting together for dinner soon. “Are you eating a vegetable at least? Getting some kind of protein?” 

“I have chicken,” you reply, a half-truth since you know Mat won’t consider the frozen Perdue strips healthy enough. “And I’ll find a carrot or something in the fridge.” 

Mat frowns at you and you smile your best charming smile at him. He shakes his head, unaffected. “Eat a variety. There’s green peppers in the drawer and leftover sweet potatoes from my meal prep that I didn’t get to.”

You pout at him, propping your phone up against a stack of cookbooks on the counter and cradle your chin in your palm. “Yes, Daddy,” you drawl, knowing exactly what you’re doing. 

“You should be spanked,” Mat barks a delighted laugh, his free hand moving enough that you know he’s adjusting himself in his pants. 

“Add it to the list of activities for when you get home,” you reply on a laugh, taking a sip from your Stanley. “Where are you guys going for dinner?” 

Mat shrugs. “I think we’re going to order in, get some rest. Big game tomorrow.” He chews on the inside of his cheek and you know he’s feeling the pressure. 

Two games left in the regular season, a few clinching opportunities over the past few games. But you know that the magic number for playoffs is two. If they beat the Devils, they’re in. 

A little nausea churns in your stomach, anxiety bubbling for the boys. But you paste a convincing smile on your face and hide your nerves. 

“Good,” you say quietly. “I know you guys are going to give it your all. Alexa’s driving over tomorrow, with Danielle and I’m not sure who else.”

The younger girls are going to drive to Jersey and watch the game live, while the moms are staying behind to watch the game at the Martins’. Syd’s hosting a watch party and you’re excited to do a get together. 

Mat nods. He looks distracted and you know he’s getting in the pre-game zone. You’re glad he called though, just so you can see his face before tomorrow. He’ll text before the game, but after that it’ll be radio silence until the game’s over. 

“Hey,” you call softly, getting his attention, “we’re good here. Don’t worry about us. Get a good night’s sleep and I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” 

“Yeah, okay,” Mat replies, running his hand through his hair. “I love you.” 

“I love you,” you repeat. “Whatever happens, I’m proud of you, Mat.” 

“Thanks, baby,” Mat smiles, but it looks strained around the eyes. You blow him a final kiss and end the call, lips twisting to the side. You know Mat will get his head in the game, but playoff clinching down to the wire is always stressful. 

As you waddle - you can’t believe you’re fucking waddling, but it’s just a fact of life as of a week ago - back to the couch, you press your palms together and say a quick prayer to the hockey gods, hoping for a clinch tomorrow night and a smooth ride in the playoffs. 

“If that’s not too much to ask,” you add on out loud after your mental plea, rolling your eyes up to the ceiling and smiling faintly. 

The baby kicks in agreement and you pat at the spot, settling back onto the couch for a relaxing night. 

———

“What do you need help with?” You ask Syd, leaning your elbows on the countertop and snagging a baby carrot from the veggie tray she’s got sitting out. 

“Literally nothing,” Syd shakes her head at you, pouring pretzel sticks into a bowl. “Just relax and keep cooking that baby.” 

You roll your eyes at her and step over to the fridge, finding a couple of bowls of dip - hummus and tzatziki and the buffalo chicken dip half the girls are obsessed with from Costco. Ignoring her instructions, you take the dips out and set them on the countertop, pulling the plastic wrap off the top and swiping a celery stick through the hummus. 

“Everything looks so cute,” you compliment Syd, the sentiment echoed by Holly and Kristy, the latter of whom is slicing up chicken for Reese. 

It’s not a big group of girls that are gathering to watch the game, but Syd decorated anyway. She’s got blue and orange balloons around the den and more than enough snacks to feed everyone. Dinner is Italian ordered in and specialty cocktails, with mocktails of each drink for you and some of the other girls. You’re all in casual, comfy clothes - ready to settle in and cheer for the boys while the girls discuss the baby shower they’re throwing for you next week. 

Some of the details are a surprise, but you’d also wanted to be a little involved and it’s just nice to be able to celebrate the baby and the boys with your friends. 

For now though, the kids are all playing nicely and running in and out of the kitchen for food and you’re getting settled on the couch with an Icy Hot patch on your lower back. You rub at your back and reach for a pillow to prop behind you for support. 

“I can’t believe it’s only six weeks until we get baby Barzy joining the ranks,” Holly grins at you, tucking one leg up under her butt when she sits next to you. 

“Have you finished the nursery?” Kristy chimes in, Cole draped over her lap and quietly playing with a stuffed dog.

You shake your head. “It’s painted and the crib is in. But there are so many like finishing details to do. I’ve been too lazy to get them done and I figure we’ve got time to get that done,” you wrinkle your nose, realizing in real time that there’s not as much time as you think. Not if the guys clinch a spot in the playoffs and make a deep run. Baby’s due the first week of June, they could technically still be playing. 

“I really should get a move on with the finishing details,” you continue, a little flutter of anxiety making your stomach lurch. 

Holly reaches out to squeeze your shoulder and draw your attention. “Let me know and I’ll come over to help! The next couple of weeks will be completely crazy, but we can get it done,” she says and her tone is so reassuring. You’re beyond glad that you have her in your corner. 

The game is about to start and you get ready to lock in, nervous as hell for Mat. Your stomach jolts with movement and you wince, a cramp rippling over your skin. Frowning, you shift on the couch and move the pillow from behind your back to prop under your stomach, resting on top of your thighs. 

“You okay?” Kristy asks and you nod, eyebrows drawn together over your nose. 

“Fine, just uncomfortable. My back is killing me,” you grumble with a good natured smile. “I have no idea how I’m supposed to even move by the time I hit my due date.” 

“Barely,” Kristy laughs, running a hand over Cole’s head. “The last couple of weeks are for relaxing and fighting over names.” 

Another thing you and Mat haven’t decided on. You have a few options for a boy, but none you really love for a girl. Nothing seems right. But you figure you’ll just find the perfect name when you see the baby for the first time. 

“Do you guys have names picked?” Grace Lee pipes up, retrieving a cocktail for herself, baby August bundled against her chest in a wrap. 

“Barely,” You laugh, echoing Kristy. “We have a couple, but none are our favorites, you know?” 

You push yourself off the couch to get another drink while the girls suggest different names, some suggestions making you laugh. Your hips ache and you swing your legs to the side, one by one, to try and ease the pain. Walking around helps and you stand at the kitchen island for a bit, leaning over to let your belly hang a little and take the pressure off your pelvis. It’s frustrating that you’re trying to avoid painkillers because you definitely could fuck with an Advil right now. 

“Baby’s sitting low,” Syd comments, when you stand up straight and stretch out your back. She grins, teasing, “that means it’s a boy!” 

Your hand finds its way to the bottom curve of your stomach and you look down at the bump, not noticing anything different from your point of view. “Weird,” you comment, “I sent my mom a picture a few days ago and she said the bump looked high, so she thinks it’s a girl.” 

Something tingles in the back of your mind, a little shiver down your neck, but you disregard it as first pregnancy nerves. The baby’s constantly shifting and moving every day and you’re happy not to have them wedged up in your ribs all the time. 

“Those are old wives’ tales anyway,” Kristy chimes in. “Like if your engagement ring swings in a circle or in a line and if your cravings are sweet or salty.” 

“Fun, but not conclusive,” Holly agrees. 

You laugh and grab a bottle of water off the counter. “I’ve done all of them,” you say, settling back onto the couch. “It’s almost an even split between boy and girl, so we have no expectations.” 

“Well,” Grace lifts her glass to you in a toast, “we’re going to have a little guessing game at the shower too, so maybe that’ll be a tie-breaker.” 

“For my money,” you say, relaxing against the arm of the couch, grinning, “you know, as the kid’s mom, I think it’s a boy.” 

Over the past months, your guess has changed, but right now you’re fairly convinced the baby’s a boy. Based on literally no evidence, you’re mentally planning for a baby boy. A little mini-Mat. 

The pre-game show starts and Syd has the TV at a low volume, quiet enough so you can still talk, but loud enough that you can hear Shannon and Thomas do their analysis. They’re both discussing the clinching scenario for tonight and you rub absently at your stomach while you listen, even though you know exactly what they need to do. 

Win and in. 

About halfway through the first period, when the game is still scoreless and your thumb nail is basically permanently wedged between your teeth to nervously chew at, Jack Hughes trips over his own feet and falls to the ice, making you laugh. Along with the laugh, in an unfortunate new side effect of pregnancy, you feel your underwear get a little damp and you cringe. You wish you could say this is the first time you’ve peed your pants a little, but it’s happened too many times in the last few weeks, ever since the belly popped and you’ve been trying to stay as hydrated as possible. 

You push off the couch and another leak of liquid trickles out of you, even though you’re trying to hold it in. 

“Shit,” you mutter to yourself, finally upright. It’s weird because you don’t feel like you have to pee, but you’ve also learned that it’s not necessarily a requirement these days. 

You wave off the girls when they ask if you’re okay, padding off to the bathroom awkwardly. You don’t think your pants are wet which is good, but your cheeks are heating with mild embarrassment, in any case. 

You don’t have to go to the bathroom apparently, even after carefully lowering yourself to the toilet. Nothing comes out, not when you attempt to go, so you roll your eyes at yourself and get up, washing your hands twice. 

It happens when you get back into the kitchen, a faint popping feeling between your legs and a steady rush of liquid that soaks through your panties and the crotch of your leggings. Your eyes go wide, hand to your belly, as your brain catches up to what just happened. 

“Oh,” you manage a soft gasp, the fabric of your leggings soaking up the fluid and getting wet down the inside of your thighs. A cramp, the same ones you’d been feeling yesterday, ripples through your stomach and your jaw falls open. It’s like an error screen in your brain, trying to process the fact that your water just broke. 

A cheer goes up from the den, the girls clapping and whistling. Their voices seem far away as they congratulate Camille. A goal then, for JG. Your brain briefly registers that the guys have a lead now, but you’re on autopilot as you walk into the den, both of your hands cradled under your stomach. 

“Um,” your mouth forms shapes, but no words are coming out. You blink, feeling stupid, an icy tendril of fear wrapping around your heart. It’s early. It’s too early. Your leggings are soaked because your water broke and it’s too early. Another cramp - a contraction, your brain unhelpfully supplies - and you let out an audible gasp. 

It must have been louder than your realized, because the girls turn to look at you and you realize you’re standing in the middle of the kitchen stupidly, fingers pressing tightly against the curve of your stomach. 

Slightly hysterically, you blurt, voice cracking, “I think my water broke? Oh my god, my water definitely broke.” 

Time both speeds and slows, the girls all scrambling off the couch to rush to your side. They’re asking you questions, but you can’t hear them over the pounding rush of your frantic heartbeat in your ears. Your hands scrabble over your stomach as another contraction squeezes, forcing a gasp from your lungs. It hurts. 

Holly’s hand is warm on your elbow, her fingers squeezing the joint until she gets your attention. You look at her with wide eyes and you can see her mouth form words, but you’re still not comprehending anything. 

It’s too early. Six weeks is too early. You’re not ready. The baby’s not ready. You need - 

“Mat!” You gasp, choking on a sob. “I need Mat, I want him. Oh my god!” 

Panic grips your chest and your breathing feels strange, difficult. The baby kicks and you wince, a tiny foot in your ribs. 

“We’re going to get him, I promise,” Holly reassures you, her hands squeezing your forearms now. You blink and her face swims into focus. “Just breathe, okay?” 

You manage a nod and it’s like you’re not in charge any more, the girls are talking and figuring everything out. All you have to do is breathe and stay calm. Which works for about ten seconds and then the baby kicks again, a few jabs in rapid succession, and you’re reminded that you’re in labor and Mat’s in New Jersey and your breath hitches in your chest, the prelude to a sob. 

There are comforting hands on your back and shoulders, gently pushing you towards the door and it’s overwhelming to the point of overstimulation and you’re embarrassed when the dam finally breaks and tears start falling hot and fast down your cheeks. 

“I’m so sorry,” you stutter. “Oh my god, I can’t - I - I…” 

Holly steps in front of you and forces you to look at her. “Breathe! I’m going to take you to the hospital and we’re going to get ahold of Mat and everything is going to be okay,” she squeezes your hands, waiting until you nod a confirmation that you’ve heard her. 

Satisfied, she turns to Syd and without having to ask, Syd nods, saying, “don’t worry. We’ve got Gunnar and Tulsa here until you get back. Just look after our girl.” 

Syd wraps you up in a one-armed hug and kisses your cheek. “You’ve got this,” she reassures you. “And we’ll get Mat to you, we promise.” 

You nod and wipe at the tears on your cheeks, terrified. “I don’t even have my stupid hospital bag packed,” you wail, holding tightly to Holly’s hand like a little kid with their mom. 

Holly squeezes your hand, “don’t worry. We’re going to get you to the hospital and checked out. I’ll come back and pack your bag once Mat is here. Just breathe, okay?”

“Okay,” you murmur, trying hard to regulate your breathing. Your phone is clutched tightly in your free hand, the edges digging into your palm. Mat is on the ice, skating away in New Jersey, and you have no idea how to get ahold of him. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, everything was fine and normal and now it’s terrifying. 

She helps you into her car and you protest, worried about staining the seat. Holly shakes her head at you, laughing faintly even though it’s not funny, “girl, please. As long as you don’t have the baby in the car, which I don’t think you will, anything else can be cleaned. Just please stop worrying.” 

“Easier said than done,” you mutter, white knuckling the door handle when another contraction grips you. You bite down hard on your tongue, tasting blood, and that sends a wave of nausea through your body. 

You’ve never been happier that you live so close to the hospital, less than fifteen minutes and Holly’s pulling into the entrance to North Shore and throwing the car into park. She jumps out and you take a minute, breathing harshly through a contraction. 

“Don’t leave me alone, oh my god, I cannot do this alone,” you grip her forearms when she comes to help you out of the car. 

“I’m not leaving, promise,” Holly guides you into the hospital, stopping abruptly when a security guard appears, a frown on his face. 

“Can’t park there, ma’am,” he says bluntly and you want to scream. 

Holly’s eyebrows lift into her hairline and you give him the dirtiest look you can manage. Before she can say anything, you snap, “I’m in labor six weeks early and my husband is in a different state! She’s parking wherever she needs to!” Tears cover your face, you’re an ugly crier. 

The security guard’s eyebrow lifts and he steps aside, gesturing to the hospital door with one hand. “Good luck, but please come back and move your car when she’s settled,” he says to Holly and you barely hear her response as she ushers you inside. There’s a flurry of activity and at some point you wail through a contraction that you’re in labor and a nurse quickly finds a wheelchair. 

“Oh my god,” you grip the arm rests, heart pounding too fast in your chest. “Did someone get Mat? What’s happening, Holly?” 

“We’re trying,” she rubs at your shoulder, “I’m not sure what’s happening with the game, but the girls are on it. I’ve texted Bo half a dozen times so someone will get him. Just try and relax.”

“Is the baby going to be okay?” You crane your neck to look at the nurse pushing your wheelchair. “I mean, it’s six weeks early. But that’s not too bad, right?” 

She gives you a reassuring smile, “honey, you just focus on that breathing. We’ll make sure everything is okay.” 

It’s not super reassuring, but it does calm a little bit of the worst of your thoughts and you suck in a shaky breath. Your phone vibrates in your hand and you whip it up to your face, hoping it’s Mat, but it’s just the ESPN notification that the first period of the game has ended. You groan and wave your phone at Holly, “first is over, maybe we’ll get ahold of Mat now?”

She’s nodding, “we’re working on it.” 

You’re helped into a hospital gown and into bed, monitors strapped all over your stomach and an IV inserted into your hand. There’s medical jargon and nurses and all you’re trying to do is keep calm because everyone keeps mentioning your elevated heart rate. 

“We’re going to give you a magnesium drip,” one nurse says kindly, “to try and stop your contractions and delay labor for a few days, if we can.” 

“Is that safe?” You’ve calmed down a bit, your head a little fuzzy and your stomach twisting with anxiety. “It’s not…it’s not going to hurt the baby, right?” 

Holly’s at your side, holding your free hand with hers and typing rapidly on her phone with her other thumb. 

The nurse shakes her head, “it should be fine. But we do have to prepare you that it may not work since your water already broke and you’re a few centimeters dilated at this point. We’ll know more in an hour or two, but in the meantime, try and relax.”

Once the nurses all seem satisfied that you’re hooked up to enough machinery, they leave the room, the sudden silence overwhelming and deafening. You groan and rub your hand over your face, your eyes sore from crying and your cheeks itchy from the dry tears. 

“This is insane,” you mumble, shifting uncomfortably in the bed. 

“Okay, so the second period started,” Holly sighs. “I haven’t heard from Bo, I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m not sure we’re going to be able to get him before the end of the game, babe.” 

“Okay,” you sigh, resigned, “not much I can do but wait, right? Hopefully the magnesium works and we just, you know, roll with it.”

Holly smiles teasingly at you, “did they put a sedative in that IV too?” 

“Honestly, they might’ve,” you laugh faintly. You do feel a little slow, your body relaxing out of the fight or flight mode. “What’s the game looking like?”

It’s an insane thing to ask, but you need to think about something else that’s not the cramping in your stomach or the steady drumbeat of worry. Maybe the contractions are slowing or maybe you’re delusional, but it’s at least been fifteen minutes since the last one. 

“Um, Jersey scored, but we’re still winning,” Holly replies, taking a seat in the visitor chair in the corner. “The girls are still trying to get to Mat, but in the meantime, do you want me to run back to your place and pack you a bag?”

The thought of Holly leaving and you being left alone is enough to spike your heart rate enough yo get the monitor beeping angrily. 

You exhale shakily and admit, “I think the only thing I could handle right now is you going to move your car and coming right back.”

“In that case, I’ll be back in five,” Holly squeezes your hand. “I would fight a ticket, but if we can avoid one…” 

She trails off and you nod, closing your eyes as she runs out of the room. You’re taking stock of your body, the pain in your back and stomach, the way your thigh muscles are twitching for some unknown reason. Everything just feels strange and wrong and scary. Even your stomach feels different, firmer to the touch, spasming with the first contraction since you’ve been hooked up to the IV and monitors. You press your hand over your stomach, unable to hold back the groan as the pain ripples through your body again. 

“I need you to stay in there, okay?” You rub at the side of your stomach, feeling the baby move around. “At least until your daddy gets here, but preferably a few more weeks.”

Nothing happens except a little kick to your side, so you pray that it’s a good sign and try to relax. The IV itches and your head is throbbing, so you rub at your temple with one hand, constantly tapping your phone screen with the other. 

No update from Mat or the girls. 

Holly comes back into the room, frowning at her phone. “There has to be a better way to get ahold of the guys,” she mutters. “We need to overhaul this system.”

“I mean, it’s been a bit since my last contraction,” you reply hopefully. “Maybe the magnesium is working?”

She crosses her fingers and retakes her seat, distracting you with whatever gossip she can think of, videos of Tulsa performing little dances, asking about baby names. A contraction grips you during the conversation and lasts for a few seconds, leaving you breathless and teary eyed. 

“Holy fuck,” you grunt. “Why did no one tell me these were that bad? I expected solidarity from the Isles sisterhood.” 

Holly laughs, “you can’t even describe it, honestly. So telling you about it wouldn’t have done much good.”

You huff an exhale and shift onto your side to relieve some of the pressure on your ass. “What’s happening in the game?” You ask, needing a distraction. 

“Second period’s over, we’re up three to one,” Holly tells you. “How are you feeling?” 

“Terrified,” you admit honestly. “I don’t know if anything that I’m feeling is normal, but I really just want Mat, no offense.”

“None taken,” Holly laughs. “Want me to braid your hair? I feel kind of useless right now.”

Before you can answer, another contraction hits, less time in between this one and the last one, stealing your breath. When you can finally get a good breath in, you grimace at Holly, “you’re not useless, I’m just glad I’m not alone. And yeah, braids would be nice.”

While Holly braids your hair, a nurse pokes her head into your room, introduces herself as Kennedy, and asks you how you’re feeling. She checks the monitors and explains that they’re stopping the magnesium drip for now, since the initial dose is done, and the hope is that your body will respond to the treatment. 

“You’ll get another dose in about an hour,” she says. “Your contractions seem to have stabilized and haven’t increased in frequency, so that’s a good sign.”

“So, labor stopped?” You ask, shifting and sitting up more. Holly ties off the end of your braid and lets your hair fall against your back. “I’m not having a baby today?”

“Well,” Kennedy hedges, “I didn’t say that. Let’s just see how things play out, okay, hon? Your water did break so we don’t want to keep that baby in there too long, it increases the risk of infection. We’ll see if we want to give you a steroid injection to help baby’s lungs develop a little more.” 

You slump back against the pillows. “Oh,” you murmur, stroking your stomach. “I just…” 

“I know,” she squeezes your fingers warmly, “it’s scary, for sure. But you’re being monitored and if anything happens, we have a really phenomenal NICU here. You’re in good hands.” 

You nod reflexively, “thanks, um, do you think my husband will have time to get here before anything happens?” 

Kennedy lifts one shoulder in a non-committal shrug. “I really don’t want to promise anything because labor is extremely unpredictable in timing, but,” she looks at the monitor screen, “you’re not likely to have a baby in the next two or three hours.”

That’s a little reassuring, but you still drop your head back against the pillow when she leaves, groaning at the situation. Holly chuckles at your reaction, sitting on the edge of the bed and patting your knee. “Looks like Baby B really wanted to join the shower next week,” she tries for a light tease, but that only makes you feel worse. 

Emotion clogs up your throat and you press the heels of your palms into your eye sockets until you see starbursts. “The shower! You guys planned something so nice, I’m sure. But if I do…if baby is early…” you trail off, helpless. 

“Then we’ll cancel!” Holly says quickly and easily. “It’s not a big deal or something to worry about, we’ll reschedule for when you’re feeling up to it. Or we’ll just bring the party to you and baby.” 

“This isn’t how it was supposed to be,” you cover your face with your hands, pressing your lips together to hold back a fresh onslaught of tears. Baby kicks and you hiccup, needing Mat more than ever. 

There’s not much Holly can say to reassure you and you fall into a semi-comfortable silence, the monitors beeping away. For now, things are calm and you close your eyes briefly, hoping you’ll be able to get in at least a few minutes worth of a nap. 

When you wake up, Holly’s phone is ringing and you snap your head in her direction. She sighs, relieved, and you know it’s Mat. She jabs at the screen, answering the call and putting him on speaker and then Mat’s voice is filling the room. 

“Holly, what the fuck is happening? Where’s Squeaks? Is she okay?” He’s speaking fast and his tone is frantic, the speaker making his voice echoey and far away. 

Tears immediately fill your eyes, falling fast as Mat’s voice washes over you. 

“I’m sorry,” you cry, wiping at your face. “I’m sorry, Mat. I didn’t…” 

He cuts you off, “Squeaks, baby, it’s going to be okay. I’m on my way, I’ll be there in - fuck - two hours. Fucking goddamn traffic. Just stay calm and I’ll be there. I love you so much.” 

“I love you,” you reply with a wet sniffle. “Drive safe, please.” 

“I will,” he promises. “I’ll see you soon, okay? Holly, call me if anything happens.”

You’d been feeling a little calmer, but just hearing Mat’s voice has your anxiety spiking and tears refusing to stop. Now you’re worried about him driving home while he’s emotional, in addition to being nervous about the baby. You can’t stop the hiccuping sobs that are shaking your body and Mat can clearly hear them through the speaker. 

“Hey, Squeaks,” he calls, louder to get your attention. “Listen to me, everything is going to be fine. You’re strong and tough and stubborn and I’ll be there before you know it.” 

“Okay,” you mumble through a hiccup, baby kicking and rolling around. “Be careful, please, Mat. Please don’t speed, okay? I need you okay too.”

“I will be,” he assures you, letting out a string of curses. “Sorry, sorry. Leaving this fucking arena is a nightmare. I’ll be home as soon as I can. I love you.”

You nod, making a little squeaking noise when the baby’s foot lodges up in your ribs painfully. 

“I’ve got her, Mat,” Holly reassures him calmly. “I’m not leaving until you get here. She’s okay for now, nurses don’t seem too concerned, but you’ll get the full update when you’re here.” 

Mat’s sigh can be heard clear across the room and your heart squeezes. Trying for normalcy, you ask quietly, “how was the game?” 

“We won,” Mat laughs dryly, “but that wasn’t the most exciting thing happening apparently.” 

He sounds a little calmer now and you feel your own anxiety release. You really don’t want him driving when he’s worked up. 

“Win and in,” you reply. “Proud of you, baby.” 

“Thanks,” he sounds distant through the phone, a brief cut out of service that makes your heart sink. And then he’s back. “Busy times around the Islanders, huh? Okay, I’m getting onto the highway, let me know if anything happens.”

You and Holly simultaneously let him know that you will, even as you add on another “be careful!” and Mat blows you a kiss before ending the call. 

The sudden loss of his voice has you bursting out into unstoppable sobs, surprising both you and Holly. She yelps a little before folding you into a tight hug. You cry onto her shoulder, feeling awful and overwhelmed and like a burden, until the tears run dry. 

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, voice hoarse, when you pull back. “I know this is not what you expected or wanted when you became my friend.” 

Holly scowls at you, “babe, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say, and I’ve heard you say a lot of stupid shit. We’re ride or dies. I’m just glad you weren’t alone when your water broke and I’ll be here as long as you need me.” 

Baby rolls around and you nod, suddenly exhausted. “I just…I’m…” you fumble for words and can’t find them, tired of crying, tired of the anxiety that’s got your shoulders set stiffly by your ears. “Just, thank you.” 

“Literally anytime,” Holly pulls you in for another tight hug that makes you feel a little better. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep while we wait for Mat?”

You don’t think you’ll be able to relax that much again, but you’ll try, wincing your way through another contraction before slumping back in the bed. 

——-

Stefen Rosner Tweet April 15 

Mat Barzal doesn’t appear to be in the locker room after the game. We’ll ask about him to get a sense of what’s happening. 

Stefen Rosner Tweet April 15 

Barzal will not be made available to the media, but the team wouldn’t clarify as to why. His wife is pregnant, so hopefully everything is okay back on Long Island 

Stefen Rosner Tweet April 15 

When asked about Barzy, Patrick Roy had this to say: “This is his personal business, so I won’t speak to it. But Barzy knows we are supporting him and his family and if he needs anything, the team will have his back.” 

———-

The next few hours are less than restful. You get another magnesium infusion about an hour after Mat’s call, your contractions starting to pick up again. You can’t tell if they’re more painful or not, but they’re definitely more frequent. 

The baby is wiggling away inside of you, your stomach hardening with each contraction and jumping with movement. 

“Oh my god,” you groan, biting down hard on your tongue. “This is awful.”

Your skin feels hot and itchy. You can’t stop counting the minutes between contractions, worrying at your lower lip when they’re back to fifteen minutes apart. That feels like it’s the danger territory of baby coming sooner than you want. 

Another hour passes and you’re still having contractions, despite the second maintenance dose of magnesium. A nurse checks your cervix and confirms you’re about three centimeters dilated, which is apparently terrible news for actually delaying labor. 

“So you’re saying this stupid IV didn’t work?” You grumble, lifting your hand for emphasis.

“Sometimes it doesn’t,” the nurse shrugs, leaving much to be desired with her bedside manner. “Your labor is still progressing slow, so we couldn’t be sure the infusion would work.” 

Your next sentence is cut off by a contraction, a grin rumbling out of your chest as you double over, twisting the sheets in your fingers tightly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you wail, breathing hard when it passes. 

You drop your head back against the pillow, frustrated that the magnesium didn’t work, that your labor is progressing, that Mat isn’t here yet. He should’ve been here by now and you don’t want to call him and distract him, but you’re getting nervous. 

“You haven’t heard from Mat, right?” You ask Holly, even though you know she would’ve said something. 

She shakes her head. “Nothing, and his location is still not loading on Find My Friends?” 

“No,” you mutter, grabbing your phone up from where it’s lost in the sheets and thumbing over to the app, “nothing. Which is freaking me out.” 

You’re trying not to think about it, maybe his phone died, maybe it won’t connect to, like, a cell tower or whatever to give an accurate location. You just have to focus on breathing and Mat will be here soon. 

Holly leaves the room to get you some water and another contraction hits when she’s gone, leaving you dizzy and groaning through your teeth so loud you don’t hear the footsteps thundering down the hall until they skid past your room and double back. 

You look up in time to see your husband in the doorway, breathing hard and flushed, disheveled. 

“Mat?” You gasp his name and then start sobbing as the contraction fades into a dull ache. 

He’s at your side in three strides, kissing your forehead and running his hand over the back of your head. “Hey, hi, I’m here,” he mumbles into your hair, “I’m here.” 

You can answer, crying too hard, face turned to bury in his neck. He smells like sweat and locker room and Mat, and you’ve never been happier to smell him. You can feel your body relax the longer he holds you, stroking at your hair and kissing your temples. You twist your fingers into the fabric of Mat’s shirt, clinging to him desperately. 

“It’s okay, I’m here,” Mat keeps talking into your hair, fingers shaking against your skin as he cups your cheek in his palm. “I’m sorry, there was so much traffic and my fucking phone died.” 

“I don’t care,” you mumble-gasp, “I’m just glad you’re here.” 

“I’m not leaving,” he promises, pulling back and kissing you deeply. Your fingers cramp from holding onto him so tightly, but you can’t let go. 

You sigh shakily against Mat’s lips and he kisses your cheeks, your tears wet against his lips. He peels one of your hands away from his shirt to lace his fingers with yours and sits down on the edge of the bed, thumb rubbing over the backs of your knuckles. 

“How do you feel? What happened?” He asks, eyes a little wide and frantic looking. He’s in a crumpled button down and his slacks, the buttons done up wrong. 

“All the back pain I’ve been having,” you wipe at your face, voice raspy, “early labor. My water broke and they put me on a magnesium drip, but I don’t think it really worked that well because I’m three centimeters dilated and the contractions are pretty regular now.” 

Holly’s back in the room as Mat’s opening his mouth to reply and her sigh is audible, “oh thank god you’re here. We were worried!” 

She gives him a one-armed hug and settles your water on the tray table. 

“Thanks for taking care of my girl, Hol,” Mat says warmly. “I’m glad she wasn’t alone.”

You nod in agreement, still clinging to Mat. “I’m really glad you were here,” you say, breaking off into a groan when you’re hit with another contraction. Mat’s hand tightens in yours and you slump back in relief when it passes. “They’re closer together.” 

“We’re probably not leaving the hospital without a baby, right?” Mat asks, looking a little nauseous. 

“Like I said,” you exhale roughly, “I don’t think the magnesium worked.” 

Your stomach feels heavy and a little voice in the back of your mind is telling you that labor isn’t stopping. Mat’s free hand finds your stomach, rubbing gently and you can feel the baby react to his touch, jumping every time his fingers flex. 

“Okay,” Mat nods once, decisively, “okay. Everything is going to be okay, Squeaks. We just take it as it comes.” 

You’re more than happy to let Mat take control, to turn your brain off and let him handle things, but you can’t check out yet. 

Holly chimes in, “I’ll go grab a bag for you guys, a change of clothes for you, Mat. And if there’s anything else you need just let me know.”

“Thanks, Holly,” you say. “Just grab my keys from my purse and - wait, Mat, how did you get here?” 

He coughs faintly, ruffling his hand through his hair, “took Alexa’s car. Which, uh, Holly, can you move it into the parking garage? I left it in the front circle and got into a shouting match with the security guard. So it might not actually be there at all.” 

“Oh my god,” you groan a laugh. “I think I yelled at the same guard.” 

“I’ll pay the ticket,” Mat shrugs. “I wasn’t waiting any longer to come see you. If they don’t like it, fine.” 

Holly rolls her eyes and holds out her hand for Alexa’s keys. Mat fishes them out of his pocket and drops them on her palm. 

“I’ll move the car and go get a bag and bring it all back,” she says, squeezing your shoulder on her way out. You and Mat both call out your thanks and then the room is quiet and it’s just the two of you. 

Mat’s whole body slumps, his shoulders rounding forward and his face smoothing out from the concerned frown it had been stuck in. “I’m so fucking happy to be home,” he squeezes your hand. “When I saw my phone, all the notifications…” 

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “Mat, I am so, so sorry.” 

Guilt settles in your stomach like a brick and Mat shakes his head at you, frowning again. 

“What are you sorry about?” He asks, eyebrows lifting into his hairline when you yelp and squeeze his hand, hard, during another contraction. “Breathe, like we did in that class. In and out.” 

He breathes with you and you focus on him, matching his speed until it passes and you can relax again. 

“Was that closer together?” Mat asks and you nod. 

“I think so? I don’t know anymore,” you shrug. “I’ve been trying to pay attention, but I couldn’t while you were driving and I don’t know. Oh my god, I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

Your panic escalates into wheezy gasps and Mat has to remind you to breathe again, encouraging you to match his inhales and exhales until you’re calm again. 

“You’re okay,” Mat cups your face in his hands, nodding encouragingly at you. “That’s good, breathe, baby. You’re okay. I don’t know what I’m doing either, but we’re doing it together, right?”

“Right,” you nod minutely, exhausted and sore and scared. You wrap your fingers around Mat’s wrists for an anchor and he ducks his head to kiss you quickly. “I’m not ready for this, Mat. I thought we had time.” 

You don’t mention the fact that he’s got playoffs in literal days, that the nursery isn’t completely done, that you haven’t meal-prepped anything for after birth. 

“We don’t even have the car seats in our cars,” you huff. 

“But we bought the car seats,” Mat reminds you, scooting up so he can sit next to you and wrap his  arm around your shoulder. You tuck up against his side. “That’s a good step. I’ll install the seats before we need to use it.”

His hand is on your stomach and you lean into his touch, trying to shift away from the pain settled into your pelvis. 

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you repeat into his side, yawning. 

“Me either,” Mat strokes your hair. “But it’s happening and it’s really late, so why don’t you try and sleep?”

You stretch your legs out in front of you, calves twinging with stiffness, and shake your head. “I’ve been napping on and off, it’s really hard to sleep when the contractions get going,” you complain, tracing your fingers over the buttons on Mat’s shirt. 

Mat makes a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat. “It’s only going to get worse, you need to sleep as much as you can,” he traces his fingers on your shoulder. “I’ll be here, just relax and see what happens.”

It’s well after midnight, closing in on one in the morning, and you can definitely feel the exhaustion in your bones. You know Mat’s right, that whatever happens in the next few hours is going to need all your strength, but you also know you’re going to be woken up with every contraction that hits. 

“Stop thinking,” Mat laughs. “I’ll sing you to sleep, if you want.”

You laugh, momentarily distracted, “aren’t I suffering enough?”

He hums the chorus to Cinderella Man, sounding more like a threat than anything, and you laugh again, so much love for Mat warming you from the inside. He switches to Eye of the Tiger and then the Rocky theme song and you can’t control your giggles, feeling supported and motivated and so, so loved. 

After a while, Holly’s back with Bo on her heels, carrying your Beis overnight bag and Mat’s Herschel duffle. 

“Hi,” you wave from the bed, drowsy. You’ve napped a bit, but you’re fading in and out with the frequency of your contractions, now ten minutes apart. You’re dilated six centimeters at last check and the nurses seem pretty confident that there’ll be a baby before the end of the day. Which still leaves about twenty-two hours for you to labor, so you’re hoping it’s a little sooner than that. 

“Gave everyone a scare, huh,” Bo grins at you, kissing your cheek in a hello. He claps Mat on the back and deposits your bags in the corner. “God knows what we packed for you guys, so just let us know if you need anything else.”

“I’m just glad to get into anything that’s not my suit,” Mat says excitedly, rifling around in the bag until he withdraws a pair of joggers and a henley. He disappears into the bathroom to change. 

“Thanks for bringing stuff,” you reply quietly. You’d been given a mild sedative about ten minutes ago and it’s taking the edge off if everything since you weren’t getting an epidural - not by choice, your doctor had discouraged it for now, while they monitor you and the baby. “Who’s watching the kids?”

“Dobber and Alexa,” Bo answers, dropping down into the seat Mat just left and stretching out his legs. “Hol and I figured that I would come back with her so we could swap out your car with Alexa’s.”

“But they’re asleep anyway,” Holly chimes in. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” you shrug. “Another contraction should be coming any minute, they’re closer and stronger, but not much we can do at this point.” You frown, Bo’s explanation catching up to you. “Wait, you guys thought to bring Mat’s car here for us? That’s really sweet.” 

Emotion clogs your throat at their thoughtfulness and Holly squeezes your forearm. 

“It’s nothing, we’re happy to help however you need,” she says warmly. 

“Plus they gave her a sedative,” Mat says, coming out of the bathroom with his dirty suit bundled up in his arms and his henley bunched up over his stomach, having missed part of the conversation. He tugs at the fabric and tosses the suit onto the window ledge. “Doctor said there should be a baby within twenty-four hours.” 

“Hopefully,” you rub at your stomach. Anxiety bubbles up past the sedative. “We’re on a countdown because it’s apparently not safe to have my water broken too long, like, an infection risk or something.” 

Bo winces and you can’t blame him. Most men don’t like hearing about labor. You pivot the conversation to the game, dozing a little as the guys talk. It’s so late or early technically now that it’s nearing one in the morning. 

Holly and Bo head out to leave after a few minutes, wishing you luck and telling you to call them if you need anything. 

And then it’s just you and Mat again, a slightly anxious peacefulness blanketing the room. Mat’s back in his chair, tapping his foot against the floor and pushing his hand through his hair absently. He looks as exhausted as you feel and the reality of the situation really sinks in. 

There’s going to be a new baby, six weeks early, just days before your husband leaves for Carolina. 

You groan your way through another contraction, Mat jumping up to stand next to you and hold your hand through it. He strokes your hair off your face and says, “jeez, you’re so fucking tough, Squeaks,” in an awed voice that makes you giggle weakly. 

“I don’t feel tough,” you pant, breathless after the intense contraction. They’re lasting longer now and you’re not sure how you’re supposed to make it through hours more of this. Mat’s thumb rubs against the backs of your knuckles and you cling to his hand.  

“Our kid’s going to be just as tough as you are,” Mat vows, the slight shake in his voice betraying how nervous he is about the whole thing. Your lower lip wobbles and Mat swoops down to kiss your temple, the sweetness in the gesture making your tears spill again. 

You sniffle back your emotions, chest tight, and lean forward a little. Instead of repeating how scared you are for the millionth time, you ask Mat if he’ll rub your back. He nods and then his hand is warm on your back, fingers dipping under the open back of your hospital gown and working at the sore muscles. His touch feels good, like always, but everything hurts and your legs are starting to feel stiff. 

“Can you help me up?” You ask.  “I want to walk around a little, get things moving.” 

Mat nods and you use him for leverage to get out of bed, hospital gown flapping with your movement and a cool breeze ghosting over your bare skin. You reach behind you and tug the two sides of the gown closed, grumbling when you’re still exposed. “Don’t let anyone see my ass,” you mutter to Mat, bracing both hands on your lower back as you pace around the room. 

He laughs and pinches the gown closed with two fingers. “I’ll stay behind you the whole time,” he promises. “No one gets to see that gorgeous ass but me.” 

You shoot him a small smile and continue your pace, the grippy spots on your socks sticking to the floor and reminding you to lift your feet with each step and not just shuffle. A trickle of amniotic fluid snakes down your leg and soaks into the top of your sock. 

“Oh god, ow, ow,” you moan through a contraction, grabbing at Mat’s forearms and bending at the waist. You lean all of your weight on his arms and his fingers are tight around your elbows to keep you upright. The pain washes over you, your stomach tightening, Mat’s quiet encouragement background noise. It fades and you groan, dropping your chin to your chest, “my whole ass is hanging out, this is so undignified.” 

“It’s just us here,” Mat reminds you. “And we’re both familiar with your ass. I’ll cover you up when someone else comes in, but for now, just do what you’ve gotta do.” 

You nod and grip his forearms again, groaning your way through another contraction. 

——-

The sun is starting to come up, the sky fading from inky black to a washed out grey-blue, and Doctor Harmon’s delivering the bad news that despite the constant contractions, your labor has stalled and you’ve been at six centimeters for four hours now. 

“Your water broke around 7:30 last night, right?” She asks, tossing her gloves into the trash. 

“Around then, yeah,” you reply, sagging back into the pillows. Mat rubs at your shoulder. 

She clicks her tongue, thinking. “Well, the longer your water is broken without a baby, the more risk of infection there is. I don’t love that your labor stalled, but we’ll give you another hour. If there’s no progression, I’d like to start you on Pitocin to get everything moving,” she explains. 

“Can we do anything to get it going again?” Mat asks, eyebrows drawn together over his nose. You hate that you’ve been pumped full of medication already and if you can avoid more, you’d like that. 

“Walking,” Doctor Harmon answers. “Bouncing on the ball. But if you’re still at six in an hour, I would feel more comfortable with the Pitocin than with waiting. It’s better for you and baby.” 

You nod, her words sinking in and resonating even if you don’t love it. Mat nods too, saying, “we’ll walk up and down the halls. Will spicy food help?” 

You giggle. “I don’t think that’s going to do much other than give me heartburn,” you turn your head and kiss his wrist. “Just help me up so I can walk around.”

There’s an hour countdown now, for something to happen, and your anxiety is ramping back up. Mat tries to distract you by suggesting baby names, something you haven’t decided on, but that only makes you cry because what kind of shitty parents are you that you couldn’t come up with names in six months? 

Then he asks, with a sheepish frown, if you had called your parents. “I forgot to call mine and Li,” he admits, as if he hadn’t had other things on his mind. 

“I didn’t call anyone other than you,” you grit out the words through a contraction. 

“Well, shit,” Mat laughs, letting you crunch his hand. “Should I call everyone?” 

Part of you really wants your mom and the other part just wants Mat, so you shrug. “I don’t know, I don’t want everyone in here,” you say, “but if they have to get flights…” 

“Let’s see what happens in an hour and we’ll make a decision then,” he offers as an option, “sound good?” 

You nod and Mat holds your hand while you walk slowly up and down the hallways, stopping every few minutes for a contraction. 

An hour and a half passes in a blur and it’s bad news, “no movement,” Doctor Harmon informs you with a frown. 

“Are you sure?” You’re tired and hungry and scared. “I walked around forever, nothing?” 

“Nothing,” she tells you with a slight shake of her head, tone sympathetic. “I think it’s time for the Pitocin. Ideally, that’ll get you to ten in a few hours and you’ll have a baby before dinner. If we get to twenty-four hours since your water broke without a baby, we may be looking at a c-section. Normally it would be closer to forty-eight hours, but because baby will be premature, we want to get them to the NICU as soon as possible.”

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, heartbeat skipping. Mat exhales harshly. You look up at him and feel your eyes fill with tears. “I really don’t want to have a c-section.” 

He smooths a hand over the crown of your head and nods, “I know, baby, I know. Do the Pitocin and we’ll keep walking or you can bounce on the ball. Everything’s going to be okay.” 

You agree reluctantly, holding out your arm so you can have a second IV placed in the back of your hand. Mat’s sitting next to you on the bed, rubbing between your shoulder blades while you hide your face in his side, ignoring the pinch of the needle and the quick rush of heat beneath your skin from the Pitocin drip starting. Tears clump your eyelashes together and a contraction squeezes your stomach, your groan muffled by Mat’s shirt. 

Doctor Harmon leaves you and Mat with a squeeze to your forearm and a promise to have a nurse check in with you in an hour to see how everything is progressing. 

You wriggle in bed, uncomfortable and overly warm. Mat helps you adjust your hair off your neck and rubs at your shoulders, a worried frown on his face. “You look flushed,” he says, “and your neck and cheeks are hot.” 

Nausea makes your stomach lurch and you press your lips together tightly until the feeling passes. A wry smile lifts your lips, “I feel like shit.” 

Mat kisses your temple. “Still the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen,” he says quietly, sincerely. After a beat, he continues, “I think it’s time to call in the troops. Your mom’s going to kill me when she finds out you’ve been in labor this whole time and no one told her.” 

You nod, it’ll be nice to have your mom and Nadia around after the baby’s here. You’re going to need all of the help you can get, especially with Mat heading off to Carolina in a few days. 

“Go, give them a call and get me some ice chips on your way back,” you tug at the loose neck of your hospital gown, pulling it off your skin and fanning the fabric for a breeze. 

“I gotta call Patty too, let him know I’m not coming to practice today,” Mat ruffles a hand through his hair and fishes his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll be right back, okay?” 

“Okay,” you nod, biting down on your tongue to muffle the squeak of pain from a contraction. 

——-

New York Islanders Tweet April 16

#PlayerUpdate: Mat Barzal will not practice with the team today (Personal).

Stefen Rosner Tweet April 16 

Mathew Barzal is not on the ice at a quick practice before tomorrow’s regular season finale against Pittsburgh. We’ll try and get an answer if it’s related to why he left so fast after the game last night or something else. 

Stefen Rosner Tweet April 16 

On Barzal, Patrick Roy said, “We will talk to him tomorrow, see if he is going to play. But that’s all I will say.” 

————

“Okay, Mat, I need you to hold her leg up and help,” Doctor Harmon’s voice is brusque when it floats up from between your legs and in the next second, Mat’s grip on your sweaty thigh is tightening. His fingers dig into your skin and you grimace, breathless from the constant contractions. 

“I can’t,” you gasp, squeezing his fingers and dropping your head back against the pillow. “I can’t.” 

With the Pitocin in your system, everything had progressed pretty quickly. You’d dilated the final few centimeters and now, after pushing for an hour, you’re exhausted and wrung out. Your legs are trembling and every time you push, a wave of nausea rises and threatens. 

“You’ve got this,” Mat’s voice sounds far away, muffled by the rush of blood in your ears. “Just a little bit longer, Squeaks, you’ve got this. I’m right here.” 

“Hurts, Mat,” you squeak out the words around a groan, grinding your teeth together as the pressure between your legs becomes unbearable. Something shifts and tightens and you scream, the release of noise semi-cathartic. 

“Bear down,” Doctor Harmon instructs, “this push should get the head out.” 

Mat grips your leg tighter and releases your hand so he can prop you up behind the shoulders, helping push you into a crunch so you can push. “Come on, almost there,” he says, counting down from ten in tandem with Doctor Harmon. “So proud of you!” 

“Here we go, there’s the head and oh-“ Doctor Harmon’s tone changes immediately as she orders Mat out of the way and calls for more nurses. Your heart rate kicks into overdrive and Mat’s pushed to the side, out of reach. 

“What’s -“ the question isn’t even a fully formed thought before the air is pushed from your lungs, your legs wrenched up and pressed back against your chest, a nurse standing next to the bed and pushing down, hard, on your pubic bone. There’s noise and shouting and you can’t catch a good breath. The contractions don’t stop and it feels like you’re going to be torn in half. 

Mat’s eyes are wide, scared, when you look over at him and that only makes you even more scared. 

“Okay, almost there, got it,” Doctor Harmon’s talking to the nurses and a shriek rips from your lungs at the same time the baby slips out between your legs. The nurses let your legs fall back to the mattress and you feel empty, adrenaline coursing through your veins. 

She pops up, your tiny, gunk-covered baby in her arms. The baby’s not making that much noise, but you can hear the small squeaky cries and your heart gallops wildly in your chest, eyes trained on the baby. 

“It’s a girl!” Doctor Harmon grins at you and you hold out your arms for her, but the baby’s whisked off to the corner of the room. Mat wasn’t even offered the opportunity to cut the umbilical cord. 

“Mat…” you call for him in a hoarse voice and he’s at your side, brushing your hair off your face with a shaky hand. “What - is everything okay? Where is she?” 

“I think…” he trails off, craning his neck to see around the crowd of nurses. 

Your teeth start to chatter, your body shaking violently and uncontrollably. Everything is numb from the adrenaline and you nearly bite your tongue trying to stop the chattering. 

“M-m-mat,” you grab for his hand, your fingers trembling wildly. “I c-c-can’t stop.” 

He calls for a nurse and one appears at your side, a warm smile on her face when she explains, “it’s the adrenaline from labor, hon, totally normal and it’ll stop soon.” 

You nod and Mat’s still looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. Your brain feels fuzzy, slow, but focused solely on the baby that you can’t hear over the noise of the nurses and machines. 

“Holy shit,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head slightly. “That was…” 

“Where’s the baby?” You cut him off. “Go check on her, I don’t hear her. Mat, oh my god, is she okay?” 

Without another word, he’s across the room, looking over the shoulders of the nurses. All you can see is his back and you tremble with the adrenaline, calling out questions that get bitten off as fresh contractions squeeze your midsection. You know that it’s the placenta, but you groan nonetheless, asking about the baby as soon as you get a breath. 

“She’s so tiny, Squeaks,” Mat says, looking back over his shoulder at you. His eyes are wide, but soft, a look of total awe on his face. “She’s also kind of yellow.” 

“Yellow?” You slur, the word coming out strange. The tremble in your fingers worsens, sweat cooling on your skin. 

“Jaundice,” a nurse explains quickly. “It happens with babies born early. We’re going to take care of that in the NICU.” 

“NICU?” You repeat, shaking harder than ever, groaning. You deliver the placenta and your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest. Your brain feels slow. “Mat? She’s ok? Can I hold her?” 

A different nurse frowns sympathetically at you, “we’re bringing her up to the NICU, she just needs a little help breathing right now. And we want to get her temperature regulated, but you’ll be able to see her and hold her soon.” 

Tears are hot on your cold cheeks. This isn’t what you had planned. 

“I want to hold her, I need to hold her,” you hiccup, lightheaded. Mat’s at your side, but he keeps looking over at where the nurses are cleaning up the baby quickly and getting her settled in the plastic incubator. A chill rushes over your body, spots dancing in front of your eyes. It feels like you’re sweating all over your body, but your stomach bottoms out and your fingers get cold. Your lips start to feel numb and Mat’s face appears in your line of sight. 

“Squeaks? Hey, baby, look at me,” his voice goes up an octave, his hands burning against your cheeks. 

“I’m really cold,” you murmur, shivering. Everything in the room is starting to go hazy around the edges and your body feels strange. 

Mat’s fingers tighten on your cheeks, jolting you a little, but your eyelids are heavy and you blink them open and closed slowly. 

“Baby, look at me,” Mat orders sharply and you try, but it’s hard. Your body feels heavy and light at the same time. 

Your tongue feels too big for your mouth and you don’t think your words are coming out clearly, “cold. Check the baby, go with her.” 

“We’re going to get you warmed up,” the same nurse’s voice interrupts, firm. “Don’t you worry, we’ve got you, mama.” 

Blinking slowly, you try and nod, numb and cold and something is very, very wrong you realize with a sharp stab of fear. Mat’s face is stricken when you finally focus on him and before you can reassure him, everything fades to black. 

———

The first thing you notice, when you start to come back to yourself, is how quiet it is. Just before everything went dark, the room was full of noise and now the only sound is the quiet beep of a machine. 

The next thing you notice is the hot, heavy weight on your arm. Something tickles your skin and you manage to wrench an eyelid open, just that small movement alone painful. You blink slowly, the hospital room coming into focus along with Mat’s dark head splayed on your forearm, his fingers holding yours tightly. 

You’re disoriented for a moment before the memory of the last few hours comes back. Your breath catches in your throat and you cautiously lift your free hand to press it flat against your stomach. There’s a strange numb soreness that’s prevalent throughout your body and the cotton-ball feeling in your brain is making it hard to think. 

“Mat?” You whisper his name, your voice crackling. You’re not loud enough to wake him, so you call his name again, twitching your fingers in his. That works and his shoulders jolt, his head lifting from your arm. 

He blinks blearily at you, hair smashed down on one side and red marks on his cheek from where it was pressed to your skin. 

“Hey, shit, hi,” he sighs in relief, finally focused on your face. His eyes are red and he swipes a hand over his face, scrubbing at his cheeks. “Hi.” 

“Hi,” you repeat hoarsely. “Where’s the baby? What happened?” 

You shift and the dull ache in your lower body sharpens into a stab of pain that makes you gasp. Mat’s on his feet immediately, hands hovering over your body like there’s something he could do to help. 

“Fine, I’m fine,” you mumble. The light outside your window is different, less bright. “What time is it?” 

Mat shakes his head, “I don’t know. Close to nine, I think. I haven’t been looking.”

Your heart sinks to your stomach - it had been around 1 the last time you remember knowing the time. How the hell did you lose eight hours of your day? And why won’t Mat tell you anything about the baby? 

Tears prickle at your waterline and Mat sits gingerly on the bed next to you, leaning in and carefully wiping the tears from your eyes. 

“She’s okay,” he reassures you. “She’s in the NICU, but we almost lost you, Squeaks. Scared the shit out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur reflexively, leaning into Mat’s touch. “What - I remember feeling really cold and like, floaty?”

He nods and sets his jaw, rubbing his thumbs over your cheekbones quietly before answering. He’s struggling to get the words out in a way that you’re not used to. Mat is normally a D1 yapper. The fact that he’s so quiet and serious is scaring you the most. 

“After, like a few minutes maybe, not even,” Mat stumbles over his words, “you started bleeding, a lot. The nurses and Doctor Harmon basically body slammed me out of the way to work on you. You passed out and there was just blood….everywhere.”

Oh. 

Mat’s not able to meet your eyes and you can feel his hands trembling when they brush over your temples and into your hair. He brings his forehead to rest against yours and you let him, his fear washing over you. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, biting at your lower lip. Mat pulls back with a questioning noise, his hands finding yours and tangling your fingers together. 

“Why? There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he clears his throat, fidgets. “Doctor Harmon said there wasn’t anything we could’ve done, it just,” he shrugs, “happened.” 

Your nose burns with the precursor to tears and you turn your head to wipe your nose on your shoulder and to give yourself a brief moment to hide from Mat’s intense gaze. Guilt settles low in your stomach, an emotional ache to match the physical one. Maybe he’s right, but you’re the one that was supposed to keep the baby safe for nine months and you couldn’t manage that. 

“Still,” you mumble, not able to meet his eyes, “I couldn’t keep her safe and secure and now I haven’t even met her! And I scared you and I’m already failing at this whole thing.” 

Mat squeezes your fingers and chuckles without humor. “Baby, you’re not failing, there’s nothing either of us could’ve done,” he repeats. “She’s doing okay, you’re okay. We can just figure it out.” 

“She doesn’t even have a name,” your voice catches on a little sob, pain radiating from your lower body. There’s so much you have to do, the house wasn’t cleaned, the nursery isn’t completely finished, Mat has to leave for Carolina in a few days. Your heart aches to hold your daughter in your arms. Whatever medication they have you on isn’t doing much to ease your mind. “Has she been alone this whole time?” 

You can’t stop the flood of tears, thinking about your baby all alone in the NICU, and Mat pulls you into a hug, shaking his head. 

“No, I was with her,” he reassures you, stroking your hair. “I was with her and then I came back here to be with you, but the nurses are taking really good care of her. When you’re feeling up to it, we can go see her, okay?” 

“Now,” you blurt abruptly, pulling back, “now. I want to see her now.” 

Mat squints at you and shakes his head. “No way, you just woke up after a major medical event. You need to rest,” he frowns. 

“I need to see my baby,” you shoot back, even as your body is screaming in pain with your movements. “I need to hold her, Mat, I need…she needs to be with me! Help me up.” 

“No,” Mat snaps, eyes flashing, “you nearly died. You haven’t been cleared to get up, I’m not going to risk hurting you more.” 

Angry, frustrated tears blur your vision and you wipe at them harshly, pain overriding everything else. A little moan bubbles up and you can’t suppress it, Mat’s worried voice cutting through the static in your brain, asking if you’re okay. 

“No,” you grit the words out, pressing a hand to your side for support. It feels like your insides are on fire. “Everything hurts and I’m worried about my baby and you’ve held her and I haven’t even seen her up close.” 

Mat cups your cheek gently and it does nothing to comfort you, just makes you cry harder. He kisses the top of your head and shakes his head, “you need to rest. Just, please, you’re…you look grey. Let’s see if they can get you some pain meds and you can rest.”

A sob catches in your throat and makes everything hurt. It feels like a piece of your soul is misplaced and you don’t know how to explain that to Mat. So instead you just cry and he strokes your hair and whispers that it’s going to be okay. 

“I need to see her,” you hiccup, wiping your face on his shirt. “Please, Mat, I can’t - I’m sick thinking she’s all alone. I won’t be able to rest.” 

“I…yeah, okay,” Mat’s shoulders lower and he rubs a hand over his jaw. His eyes are tired. “I’ll…I get it. Okay, baby, I’ll see what we can do.” 

You twist your fingers in his shirt and Mat strokes the back of your neck. “Thank you,” you whisper, pain radiating through your entire body. 

——

In the end, it takes Mat and two nurses - both of whom object to you moving, but soften when you start to cry - to get you out of bed and into a wheelchair. Your body feels like it’s been scorched from the inside and you can’t stop the flood of tears down your cheeks. 

Mat holds your hands and his fingers are tight around yours, his jaw set in a way that you recognize as fear. You try to smile at him, to reassure him, but based on the way his face drops, you’re pretty sure your expression is only making things worse. You can feel a gush of blood and fluid between your legs and it’s like your period, but ten times worse. 

“Are you okay?” Mat asks quietly as the nurses unhook some of your IVs and tuck a blanket over your lap. You give him a tight grimace and shake your head, not in any shape to lie. 

“I just want to see her,” your reply is strained and Mat nods once, never dropping your hand for the trip to the NICU. The nurse pushing your wheelchair keeps up a steady stream of chatter, telling you about your daughter, but you can’t really focus on her words, too preoccupied with the jolting pain from being moved and the rolling nausea in your stomach. Mat’s fingers are cold in yours. 

You’re wheeled into the NICU and it’s both warmer and colder than you were expecting. There’s other families and too many plastic incubators and you almost tell Mat that you’re not ready, that you want to go back to your room, but he drops a kiss to the top of your head and whispers, “I’m right here and she’s waiting for us.” 

You nod and all of a sudden, you’re staring at your daughter through the plastic wall of her incubator crib and your heart feels like it’ll burst. She’s so small, skinny little arms and legs and a head that looks a lot smaller than it felt coming out of you. Her eyes are covered with little shield-like things and there are little stickers on her chest, connected to wires. She’s kicking slightly and you feel the phantom nudge against your stomach - those same little feet that you had felt from the inside just two days ago. 

Even under the bright light, you can see a shock of dark hair on her head, the same color as Mat’s. You can’t tell who she looks like, the slope of her little nose and the point of her chin just blurry features to you. 

“Oh,” you gasp, covering your mouth with your hand. Mat’s hand is heavy on the back of your head, his body warm next to yours. You look up at him with wet, wide eyes. “She’s so…Mat, oh god, she’s so little.” 

He nods and swallows, looking between you and the baby. “She’s a little fighter,” he rasps and rubs his fingers against your scalp. “They, um, she had some jaundice. That’s what the light is for. And the little like -“ he waves his free hand vaguely in front of his eyes, “-plastic things. Y’know, to protect her eyes.” 

You nod without really processing what he’s saying. all you can focus on is the tiny baby that’s all yours, attached to wires and looking less like the perfectly chubby baby you’d been imagining for months and more like a plucked chicken. Your hand shakes when you lift it to press against the plastic. 

“Can I -“ your voice cracks and you try again, “can I hold her? Is that - will I hurt her?” 

You never thought that just holding your daughter might be enough to hurt her. Your arms are supposed to be her safe place. 

“Oh no, honey,” the NICU nurse, a different one, smiles gently, “we just have to be careful. A little skin to skin is great for her. I know it looks scary, but she’s super stable and doing so well.” 

Mat watches like a hawk as the baby’s lifted from her incubator and placed carefully on your bare chest. The nurse tucks your hospital gown back up over her and drapes a swaddling blanket over the baby for good measure, making sure she’s nice and warm. 

Your hands lift automatically to cradle the baby, your heart skipping a beat in your chest. She’s warm and so much lighter than you imagined and you sniffle back a sob when you brush your lips over her dark hair. 

“Hi there, baby,” you whisper, terrified to move, “I’m your mom.” 

She’s even tinier like this, curled up in a fetal position on your sternum, a perfect little hand splayed out on your chest. You stroke your thumb over her cheek, soft and warm, and cry. Mat’s fingers wipe at your tears and you lean into his touch. 

“I just…” you hiccup and he nods. 

“You’re okay,” he says, squatting down next to your wheelchair so he’s not towering over you. His free hand comes to rest over yours, both of you cradling your daughter’s back. “She’s okay. Just breathe, baby.” 

“Can - did you hold her?” You ask, suddenly desperate to see him holding the baby. He’s stronger, he’s more capable of keeping her safe. You couldn’t do what you were supposed to do and you can’t keep her safe. Mat can though, he can keep her safe like he keeps you safe. 

Mat responds, but you can’t hear him over the sudden buzzing in your ears. Your chest gets tight and you can feel your body start to tremble. Your arms don’t feel like they’re attached to your body and a spike of panic pierces your brain that you’ll drop the baby. 

“You have to take her, Mat. Oh my god, take her.” Your breathing feels funny. “Mat, please - take her. I can’t - I have - Mat. Mat.” 

His eyes go wide and your breaths grow shallow, rasping out of your throat. He and the nurse both move towards you and the warm, solid weight of your daughter is gone, replaced by Mat’s hand pressed firmly to your thigh. You can’t catch your breath, tears blurring your vision and a ringing in your ears making you dizzy. 

“Hey,” Mat snaps your name, jolting your attention to him. When he catches your gaze, you can see the concern in his eyes. “Hey, baby, breathe for me. In and out, match me, okay? Like this…” 

He takes a deep, exaggerated breath in and you shake your head, lungs tight. 

“Come on, you can do it,” Mat encourages you and breathes again, saueezing your thigh. You blink tears from your eyes, managing a shaky, shuddery breath. Mat nods and says, “one more, okay? Keep breathing.” 

After what feels like a million years, you manage to get your breathing under control. Your head feels light and a bone-deep exhaustion settles over you. 

“I…” you falter and gasp, not able to get the words out to explain what happened. Not that it makes sense to you, but you’re positive it was a panic attack and that just makes you feel worse. You’re already overwhelmed by motherhood and it’s barely been two days. 

“Don’t worry,” Mat leans up and cups your cheeks, his voice steady. “Baby girl’s okay, see she’s back in the tanning bed.” 

You look over when he jerks his chin towards the crib and sure enough, there she is, placed back into safety by a nurse. She stretches and her skinny little legs kick out, tangling slightly in the wires she’s connected to.  

It cracks what’s left of your heart. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you cry, tears running over Mat’s hands. You repeat yourself, not even really sure what you’re apologizing for, just knowing that guilt is lodged in your chest like a bullet. 

“Stop apologizing,” Mat’s voice comes out strangled and he drops his forehead to rest against yours. “It’s not your fault, nothing is your fault. I think … let’s get you back to bed, okay?” 

Your head bobbles a nod and you lift your hand to brush your fingers over the plastic crib as the nurse wheels you out of the NICU, your head throbbing and the pain in your body dragging you down. Mat holds your hand again, but he’s quiet too, his steady gaze boring into you. 

There’s more pain when you’re put back into bed, your legs weak and stiff. Mat tugs the sheets and blankets up around your body and brushes a hand over your forehead, “get some rest. I’ll be right here when you wake up.” 

You shiver violently despite the blankets and nod, too keyed up to even close your eyes. Everything hurts though, pain breaking through the medication they’ve given you. A nurse reattaches your IV and smiles reassuringly at you, “you’ll feel better when you wake up, honey.”

“Go sit with her, please,” you whisper, yawning. It feels hot, a warm flood in your veins, and the room gives way to darkness. 

———

New York Islanders Tweet April 17 

#PlayerUpdate: Mat Barzal will not play tonight in the game versus the Pittsburgh Penguins. 

Stefen Rosner Tweet April 17

No update from the team about why Mat Barzal isn’t playing tonight. Only response was ‘no comment’ and we just hope everything is okay with him and his family. Will try to get an update about his status for the playoffs. 

——-

“No chance, tonight’s out of the question - no, I’m not leaving here until I have to. She’s - they’re both stable. But, fuck, Bo. It’s not - it’s not…it’s scary as shit.” 

Mat’s voice sounds far away and fuzzy, but it reaches your brain and fights through the darkness of sleep. Your eyes feel gritty and you whimper a little when shifting your body produces a shock of pain. 

“Ah, hang on. I think she’s waking up. Look, I gotta go - thanks for checking in. I’ll talk to you later, yeah. Thanks, thanks,” Mat’s voice is faster now and you blink slowly, his face coming into focus. 

His hand is warm, fingers laced through yours lightly. “Hi,” he says quietly, a volume level that’s so unusual for him. His eyes scan your face and his mouth is doing a weird smile-frown thing that’s making you nervous. “How do you feel?”

“Tired,” you whisper. “Were you with her? Is she okay?” 

Mat nods, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles. He watches the movement and says, “she’s sleeping too. They fed her and she knocked right out.” 

“They fed her?” Your voice cracks and your chest aches with the sudden awareness that you don’t even know if you can breastfeed her. Another thing you’re already failing at. Mat strokes his free hand over your forearm. His forehead is lined with new stress and his jaw is set stiffly. “You must be exhausted, baby.” 

“I’m okay,” Mat replies, but he sounds tired and unconvincing even to your fuzzy brain. “I closed my eyes a bit while you were out.”

You know that’s not enough sleep for him, even if he’s telling the truth, which you suspect he isn’t. But you don’t have the energy to argue with him, your head feels heavy and your eyelids keep closing. Mat’s hands are warm and steady on your skin and you force your eyes open again to ask, “how long have I been asleep?” 

“Couple of hours,” Mat looks sheepish, “they gave you a mild sedative, sorry. Also, the parents are here - at home, not in the hospital here. But they’re waiting for the okay to come see you.” 

Tears well up in your eyes and a pang of childish neediness hits your chest. You just want your mom. So you nod and whisper, “they can come. Whenever they want, but you have to get some rest too.” 

“I promise,” Mat nods. “Want to try some food? Sitting up, maybe?” 

You nod, wanting to feel more normal, and Mat helps you sit up. Your head swims briefly, but once you blink away the dizziness, you feel better. There’s still pain between your legs and your body just feels heavy, but you do feel marginally better. With a little effort, you push your hair back from your face, wincing at the gross feeling of your dirty strands under your fingers. 

A shower is definitely something that needs to happen as soon as possible. The shower you had taken after Met left for Jersey feels like it was a year ago. 

“Do you want to risk hospital food or should I run out and get you something?” Mat asks, reaching for the remote to lower the volume on the TV in your room. The Godfather is playing. 

You zone out for a second, focusing on Michael Corleone denouncing the devil before shaking your head at Mat. “I’m too nauseous,” you admit. “My stomach doesn’t feel right, can I just have some water?” 

Mat nods and takes the hospital-provided water bottle off the table, disappearing for a few minutes and returning with it full and rattling with the good pebble ice. He hands it over and you take a sip, the icy water instantly soothing you. It feels good going down your throat and you can feel your brain rehydrating. 

“I’m telling the parents to bring some food when they come,” Mat warns you. “You’ve gotta eat something, baby.” 

You nod and slump back against the pillows. You know he’s right, especially since you haven’t eaten anything since a little snack at the watch party. But you just don’t feel right, your stomach twisted up in a knot that’s preventing you from feeling hungry. 

“I’ll try,” you promise, picking at a piece of medical tape on your hand. “Can I see her again? I need to - we need to name her, I need to know what happened. I feel so…so useless! This isn’t what I wanted.” 

Frustrated tears blur your vision and you want to scream, you’re tired of crying and tired of hurting, and you don’t know how it’ll get better. 

Mat grips your chin with his thumb and index finger, lifting your head so he can look in your eyes. “You’re doing an amazing job, I am so proud of you,” he says firmly. “This was scary as shit, but you’re okay, baby girl is okay. We’ll take it one day at a time.” 

“I just wanted everything to be perfect,” you sniffle, wiping at your nose with the back of your wrist. “I can’t even get up on my own.” 

“Good thing you have a very strong, very athletic husband that likes picking you up,” Mat jokes, making you smile faintly. “I don’t know if they’ll let me bring her here, so let’s get a nurse and get you with the baby.” 

Your second visit goes better, baby girl tucked up on your bare chest with your hands cradling her protectively. She’s got a little nasal cannula this time and the nurse explains gently that her lungs were working a little too hard, so the extra oxygen is just some temporary help. 

Mat’s next to you, running the pad of his thumb over the shell of the baby’s ear, smiling softly every time she makes a snuffling little noise. You’re glad to have him there, another hand to protect the baby. 

“Um,” your voice catches in your throat and you’re trying hard not to move so you don’t jostle her, “I know…with the bottles, will she be confused when I … I mean, I want to breastfeed her. If I can. But will it be … harder?”

“A little bit,” the NICU nurse, an older woman named Kelly, replies. She tucks the swaddle blanket tighter around the baby. “But plenty of our NICU grads go from the bottle or the gavage tube to the breast successfully. It just takes a little more work and patience. The hospital can get you set up with a lactation consultant when your milk comes in and you just take it day by day.” 

“That’s what I said,” Mat pipes up smugly. You roll your head to the side and frown at him, but it doesn’t deter him at all. To Kelly, he continues, “baby girl’s doing good, right?” 

“She is,” Kelly assures you both with a smile. “She’s just a little peach too.” 

You feel a weird sense of pride, like even with all the ways you failed your daughter already, at least she’s winning the personality contest in the NICU. 

Having the baby’s weight on your chest is soothing, regulating your emotions in a way that you desperately needed. You’re able to feed her a few ounces of formula, watching - mesmerized, really - as her tiny mouth moves, little dribbles of milk running down her cheeks. 

Mat takes her when she’s done eating, carefully burping her under the watchful eye of Nurse Kelly. She looks so tiny in your husband’s hands and it scares you, just how fragile she is, how you’ll be responsible for taking care of her by yourself in a few days. Your fingertips start to tingle and you’re grateful when Mat brings your back to your room, even though you don’t want to be apart from the baby. 

An hour later, after you’ve taken a few slow, painful steps around the room with your hands curled tightly around Mat’s forearms, you’re back in bed and waiting in visitors. 

“I look like shit,” you mumble, scraping your hair back. 

“You look beautiful,” Mat kisses your cheek and holds up his phone. “They’re down the hall, you ready?”

You nod and then suddenly your mom is poking her head into the room, a big smile on her face and you instantly feel better. 

“Oh, my baby!” She sniffles, rushing to your side and wrapping you up in a hug. 

“Hi, mommy,” you cry, burying your face into her neck and leaning into the soothing feeling of her rubbing circles over your back while you cry. All you’ve needed is just a hug from your mom. She kisses the top of your head and tells you how proud she is and you keep crying, feeling completely wrung out. You pull back slightly and give her a wobbly smile, “I’m really glad you’re here.” 

She wipes at her own cheeks, damp with tears, and sighs, “I’m really glad to get my eyes on you. Mat - when he called… well,” she sniffs again, “I’m just happy to see that beautiful face of yours.” 

“We all are,” your dad pipes up, in a gruff voice that makes you think he’s been pretty emotional the last few days. He kisses the top of your head, “hi, kiddo. How’re you feeling?” 

“Like I just had a baby,” you murmur wryly, letting yourself be folded into a hug from Nadia too, “hi, Mama B.” 

Your mother-in-law cups your cheek and studies your face with concern. “Oh, honey, we’re all so happy for you and Mat, so excited to meet her!” She says with the enthusiasm only a first-time grandmother can produce. 

Mat chuckles and you look over at him, watching him dig into one of the giant plastic Iavarone’s bag. He pulls out a few take-out containers and points a finger at you, “she’s gotta eat. Then you can all meet the baby.” 

“You haven’t eaten anything?” Your mom looks horrified and you scowl at Mat, who gives you a smug grin back. Now that he’s got the mom-backup, he’s feeling bossier. 

“I’ve been nauseous,” you sigh, sucking aggressively at the straw of your cup. Mat’s piling all the food they brought on different surfaces, the mingled scents making your stomach roll. 

“Just try,” Mat pushes a container of plain pasta at you and you frown at it, lifting the plastic fork in a shaky hand. 

The room is fully of noise and energy now and it perks you up, the comforting weight of your mom’s arm over your shoulder and her Kate Spade perfume making you relax. You poke at the pasta while everyone chats around you, asking Mat about the baby and pointedly avoiding the topic of your labor. Good - you don’t want to talk about it at all. 

“How big is she?” Mike asks, digging into a chicken parm sandwich. “You didn’t say.” 

Your heart sinks - you don’t even know how big she is, just that she had been impossibly tiny and light in your arms. Mat catches a glimpse of your face, clocks the devastation, and reaches out to squeeze your hand while he answers, “little. She’s really little.  When they first weighed her she was four pounds, fourteen ounces. About a foot and half, eighteen inches. But I don’t know … since then, what she weighs now.” 

Not even five pounds, your stomach twists, she’s lighter than a bag of flour. No wonder she’d felt so tiny and fragile in your arms. You’ve never held a baby that small before. Mat’s fingers trace absently over your palm and he continues, “she’s got a ton of hair, dark like mine. Honestly, Squeaks is lucky she looks just like me.” He shoots you a toothy grin. “Who wouldn’t want to look at two of this face all day?” 

“Our Mat,” Nadia rolls her eyes at him. “So humble.” 

You smile faintly because that’s what Mat wants out of you, he wants you to be okay, so you’ll try your best to pretend. Still poking your fork at the pasta, you reply, “as long as her nostrils are a normal size, I’m good.” 

A real laugh bursts out of Mat’s mouth and all four of your parents chuckle. A little bubble of pride sits behind your sternum, pleased that you can lighten the mood for a minute. 

Mat shrugs at you, still laughing a little as he says, “can’t even be mad at you. Not when you went all Wonder Woman and pushed out my baby.” 

You don’t feel like Wonder Woman, but you shrug nonchalantly and lean against your mom’s side. “Why don’t you take everyone to see the baby? I know that’s why they’re all here,” you say with a wry smile. “Maybe I’ll even have a couple of ideas for her name when you get back.” 

“I’ll stay here with you,” your mom strokes your hair back from your face. “And swap with Daddy when they come back, okay?” 

Mat checks to make sure you’re okay and before he leads his parents and your dad out into the hallway, nudges your uneaten container of pasta and says, “eat a couple of bites, please? Just try.” 

To prove a point, you stick a forkful of bow ties into your mouth, chewing slowly. The pasta tastes gummy and metallic in your mouth, but Mat’s shoulders drop some of their tension when you swallow. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly, kissing your cheek quickly before leaving the room. The sudden quiet is unnerving and you set your fork down, pushing the container away from you, the single bite sitting in your stomach like a lead weight. 

“Don’t tell him I’m not eating the rest of this,” you murmur to your mom. 

To her credit, she doesn’t say anything, but the look in her eyes speaks volumes and you have to look away from her. 

“Oh, honey,” she rubs your shoulder, “this was a scary thing, huh?” 

You nod, already choked up. “I’ve barely held her,” you admit, a tiny, ashamed whisper. “And when I have, I’ve been so…just, terrified. I don’t feel like me, I don’t feel like a mom. I just … I don’t know.”

“Good thing you’ve got all of us to support you,” she replies warmly and you lean into her side despite the pain that lances through your body. “The four of us spoke before coming here. Daddy and Mike can’t stay long, but Nadia and I will be here as long as we can.” 

“Thanks,” you whisper roughly, overwhelmed already. “I don’t want to do it alone, with Mat leaving -“ 

“You’re not going to be alone, honey,” she reassures you. “We’ll be there and Liana’s coming in tonight, she’s very excited to see you, if the emojis in the group chat are to be taken at face value.” 

You laugh, excited to see Liana too. You can only imagine what your notifications look like since you haven’t even seen your phone since you were admitted. The big family group chat Mat had created is your favorite since everyone tries to update it semi-regularly with what’s happening in four different locations - you and Mat on Long Island, your parents down in North Carolina, Mat’s parents in Vancouver, and Liana from wherever work trips have taken her. She’s in London right now and you can’t wait to see her. 

“Maybe we’ll have a name for her by the time she gets here,” you huff, mentally running through the list of names you and Mat had discussed. Nothing feels right. 

You let your mom fill you in on what she and your dad have been up to and when Mat comes back with the others, they all look suspiciously red-eyed. It raises the hairs on the back of your neck. 

“Is she okay? What happened?” Your voice goes high pitched with fear, your chest tight. 

“She’s okay,” Mat assures you and Nadia chimes in with a sniffle, “she’s just so gorgeous and we’re already so in love with her.” She turns to your mom with a big smile and says, “come with me, you have to see our granddaughter.” 

“Yeah,” you smile shakily at your mom, “go see the baby, Grandma.” 

“Oh,” your mom gasps, grinning like a little kid and grabbing at Nadia’s hand, “we’re grandmas!” 

Their genuine, giddy joy makes everyone smile and you can’t help but think again how insanely lucky you are that yours and Mat’s parents get along so well and they’re so supportive. They practically skip out of the room, Nadia leading the way to the NICU. 

“How’re you feeling?” Mat asks, elbows resting on the mattress. His hair is greasy, sticking out in different directions and he looks worn out. 

“I’m okay,” you brush your fingers over his jaw. “Why don’t you have someone drive you home? Get some real sleep in a real bed? Dad?” You look over Mat’s shoulder at your dad, deep in conversation with Mike - about what? You’ll never know. 

Both of them look up at you and that warmth hits right behind your sternum again. 

“Can one of you drive Mat home?” You ask, over your husband’s objections. “I don’t - he needs to get some real sleep.” 

“I’m not going to sleep,” he protests. “Knowing you two are here and I’m home. I’ll sleep on the road.”

“You’re going to get hurt on the ice if you don’t sleep,” you snap back. 

Mat opens his mouth to argue, but Mike chimes in, “how about we go home and you can shower, change. Take a quick nap and come back. Two hours, tops.” 

Your dad agrees, “we’ll leave the ladies here to bond. It’ll be okay.” 

Mat looks skeptical, but he also looks exhausted and after a moment’s hesitation, he nods in agreement. Running a hand through his hair, he grimaces at the dirty feeling before saying, “two hours. Max. I’m not - I need…” 

It’s not usually this hard for him to find words, but he bites off the end of the sentence with a harsh exhale. He turns his head to look at you and narrows his eyes, “if something happens, you call me and I’ll be right back. Got it?” 

“Got it,” you pat his cheek. “Please, get some rest, okay? I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he flashes you a toothy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine. You just focus on healing and feeling better. Eat something while I’m gone and we should probably try and pin down a name when I get back.” 

You nod and return his smile, “yeah, I think that’s a good idea.”

——-

True to his word, Mat’s back within two hours, looking slightly more rested. You’re also feeling better since you got to spend time with the baby and get in the shower. Your mom and Nadia and a nurse had all helped and it was horrible and painful, but now that your hair is clean and your face is scrubbed, you feel slightly more like a human. 

Mat seems looser too and he’s lounging on the couch, one arm tucked behind his head and one foot planted on the floor as he calls out different names, “Kylie.” 

“Too Kardashian,” you reject it, poking a plastic spoon at the slightly melty vanilla soft serve from Carvel that Mat had brought back for you. Unprompted, but welcome. You’ve managed a few tiny bites and your stomach isn’t rejecting it. “Nora?” 

“Too old,” Mat wrinkles his nose. “This is really fucking hard.” 

“My mom said that they knew my name instantly, which doesn’t make me feel any better,” you huff. All four parents are back at home now. With visiting hours over, Mat’s the only one still allowed in your room. At some point in the morning, your mom will swap out with Mat when he leaves for North Carolina. It makes you feel slightly insane and like a huge burden, when they’re discussing schedules and who’s babysitting you, but you also know that when Mat leaves tomorrow, you’re going to be a wreck. 

“Squeaks Junior,” Mat grins at you, laughing when you stick your tongue out at him. 

On the TV, the end credits for The Godfather III finish and you watch as the opening credits for Rocky start up. You hum and say to the room, “is this like a Stallone marathon or something?” 

Mat squints at you, flicking his gaze to the TV and back before bursting out into loud laughter. 

“What?” You pout, offended. You point at the TV, “The station was playing The Godfather all day and now it’s Rocky - that’s Sylvester Stallone, right?” 

Around gasps of laughter, Mat shakes his head and wheezes, “baby, Stallone’s not in The Godfather. Who’d you think he was playing?” 

“I don’t know,” you whine a laugh. It feels good to be teased, almost normal. “I’ve never seen The Godfather completely, just the clips. Like you know with the horse head and the daughter’s wedding thing.” 

“Jesus Christ, I love you,” Mat gasps, still laughing. “But no, this is not a Stallone marathon. If anything, it’s a what’s-her-face marathon. The actress who plays Adrian is also the daughter in The Godfather.” 

You shrug. “I dunno. Look it up,” you suggest. 

“Too lazy,” Mat waves his hand in the direction of his phone, plugged into the wall to charge and resting on the windowsill. “Hey, why don’t we name her Adrian?” 

“From Rocky?” You lift an eyebrow. “Adrian Barzal? Meh, not my favorite.”

Mat rattles off a few more names and when he hits on ‘Natalie’ you pause, holding up a hand to stop him. 

“Hang on,” you murmur, eyebrows scrunching together. “I like the name Natalie,” you say absently, testing it out a few times under your breath, zoning out a little. You had wanted to use a name that connected to your families, somehow, so you wonder, “what if we sort of combine it with your mom’s name?” 

“Natalie and Nadia?” Mat scrunches his face at you. “How would you combine those? Half the letters are the same already.”

“I guess…maybe Natalia? Just swap out the last letter and it sounds a little more like Nadia?” You repeat the name a few times until it sounds familiar and a smile finds its way to your face. “Talia for short? Natalia Barzal - it has a nice flow to it.”

“Talia,” Mat’s lips curl in a smile instinctively and he nods, “yeah, I think I like it.” 

“Talia Barzal,” you grin at him. “She sounds so fancy.” 

Mat laughs, “she’s ours. Of course she’s going to be a fancy, bougie Long Island girl.”

You giggle and ask, “I know it’s late, but can we go see her? I want to see her.” 

“Oh, hell yeah,” Mat shoots up into a sitting position, grinning. “We need to run her name by her before it’s official.” 

Half an hour and some pain later, you’re back in the NICU, watching Talia sleep through the plastic wall of her incubator, stroking her little fingers. You don’t want to wake her, knowing she’s growing and getting stronger as she sleeps. Mat leans over your shoulder and kisses your cheek. His stubble scratches against your skin and you lean into the feeling. 

“Talia,” he breathes, tone full of awe as you watch her. “Thank god she’s got a name before Liana comes to meet her. She would’ve roasted the shit out of us.”

“You maybe,” you tease lightly. “I’m her favorite sister and just brought her niece into the world. She can’t be mean to me.” 

Mat hums in agreement and slides his hand into the other opening of the incubator, tracing the sole of Talia’s foot with his index finger. Her toes wiggle and scrunch and you can feel Mat’s grin. Talia’s less yellow-y today, but not quite at the healthy color you associate with newborns. She’s still on supplemental air and apparently she’s been eating okay. 

You sit and watch her quietly, wanting more than nothing to be out of the hospital and home in your own bed. 

“For her middle name,” you blurt out into the silence, “I was thinking Leigh. L-E-I-G-H. Sort of as an homage to Liana, you know, cause it sounds like the first part of her name. And also it works as an homage to Holly too, like the second half of her name. I don’t know, it was a thought, if you hate -“ 

Mat cuts off your nervous rambling with a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I think it’s perfect, Squeaks. Natalia Leigh,” he runs his finger over Talia’s foot again and she makes a soft snuffling noise in her sleep that has you smiling, “I think she likes it too.” 

——-

You wake up already in a bad mood, knowing Mat is leaving in a few hours. He went back to the house to finish his packing and throw his bags in the car so he can leave again straight from the hospital, swapping out with your mom and Liana, who finally arrived in town late last night. 

“Bagels!” She chirps, practically running into your room, swinging a plastic bag in her hand. “And coffee, I figured the hospital stuff wasn’t cutting it for you. Also, holy shit, you had a baby!!” 

That startles a genuine laugh out of you and chases away some of the dark cloud over your head. You let Liana fold you into a hug and settle on the bed next to you. 

“I had a baby,” you reply, smiling. “Want to go meet her?” 

“Absolutely I do,” Liana gushes, pushing the iced coffee at you. “But first, how are you feeling? I haven’t really gotten a total update on the situation. It seemed, I mean - Mat made it sound pretty scary?” 

You shake your head and wrap your fingers around the plastic cup, condensation cold against your skin. Chewing at your lip, you admit, “I don’t remember too much, honestly. But, um, I just don’t feel good or right yet.” With a shrug, you continue, “I don’t really want to talk about it.” 

Liana rests her cheek on the top of your head and nods, “no worries. We definitely don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. I’m here until you get sick of me.” 

“I never get sick of you,” you laugh. “Want to go meet your niece? I can’t - they don’t bring her to me, since she’s still in the NICU. We just have to swap out with my mom since it’s only two visitors at a time in the actual, like, room.” 

“I’m so down for whatever,” Liana agrees easily. “Does she have a name? No one ever said.” 

“Mhm,” you hum, pushing aside the untouched coffee. You see Liana look at it and then you, but you’re grateful that she doesn’t say anything. She’ll probably report back to your mom or Mat, but your nausea is worse today and there’s a weird metallic taste in your mouth. “I’ll tell you when we get there. But you can’t tell Mat I told you, he wanted to wait until we’re all here before he leaves.” 

Liana’s smile is wide and she climbs off the bed to help you up, “oh, you know I love not telling Mat things. Hang on, here - hold my hands.” 

You carefully move your legs off the bed and sit on the edge for a second, catching your breath and waiting for the lightheadedness to subside. Dark spots dance in front of your eyes and you try to blink them away. There’s the ever present gush of blood and gross into the giant diaper/pad contraption you’ve been wearing since giving birth and when you stand up on shaky, weak legs, your stomach swoops. 

The dark spots take over your entire field of vision and Liana’s calling your name but it sounds very far away. 

When you open your eyes, you’re looking up at the hospital room ceiling and shivering. It’s so fucking cold. 

Liana’s face comes into sight, eyes wide and her mouth set into an anxious frown. Then your mom’s face comes into focus and she’s wiping away tears. 

“What -“ you cough, “what happened?”

“Oh, honey,” your mom strokes your forehead, “you passed out. There was some extra bleeding apparently and a major clot,  but it’s fine, the doctors stopped it. Why didn’t you tell us you were feeling bad?” 

You ignore her question and lock eyes with Liana, “do not tell Mat. I don’t want him worrying about me when he’s in Carolina. Not on the ice when I need him focused on not getting hurt.” 

Liana shakes her head. “He should know - I mean, you went right down,” she frowns. “There was a lot of blood.” 

“I’m fine,” you protest, knowing it’s a lie. You feel even worse than you did earlier. “Please, don’t tell him. I just…bleeding’s normal after birth.” 

“Not like this, honey,” your mom exhales roughly. She looks like she’s aged ten years in the last day and it’s all your fault, for stressing everyone out. “You were out for two hours, they gave you an infusion.”

Which makes it four bags of blood pumped into your body in the last few days. One today and three right after giving birth. Losing that much blood so quickly can’t be good for your system. 

“And now I’m on the upswing,” you grit out. “Do not tell Mat. He’s stressed out enough. Please.” 

Your mom and Liana share a look and you scowl. Liana eventually sighs and says, “Mat’s going to ask, babe. You look like shit.” 

You feel even worse than you look probably, but that doesn’t matter. You haven’t looked good or healthy in days. 

“If he asks, fine. But do not offer up the information,” you pinch your lips together against a a wave of nausea. There’s a silent communication and neither your mom nor Liana likes it, but they agree to stay quiet. A nurse comes in to check on you, is pleased to find that the bleeding is slowing to a normal postpartum amount. 

“You’re severely anemic,” she tells you, checking your blood pressure. “And we’re going to keep you a few more days, just to monitor and make sure you’re strong enough to go home.” 

“Great,” you mutter dryly. Liana pinches your arm and you yelp, glaring at her. 

She rolls her eyes at you, “it’s better to stay in the hospital with professionals, as opposed to me and the ABBA tribute band being the ones responsible for your physical wellbeing.” 

“Liana!” Your mom yelps, laughing. “You know our rendition of ‘Waterloo’ was a hit at the party.” 

You giggle despite yourself. The video footage of your parents and in-laws drunkenly singing to ABBA at your last birthday is your favorite thing in the world. You watch it at least two or three times a month. 

“But, she does have a point, honey,” your mom says, turning back to you. “It’s better to make sure you’re healthy before they discharge you. Plus, Mat will be out of town and I’m sure he’ll want to make sure you’re okay.” 

“But remember,” you flinch away from the nurse as she adjusts your IV, “we’re not telling him.”

“Not telling who what?” Mat asks, breezing into the room with a furrowed brow and two boxes of pizza balanced on his palm. He sets them down on the rolling table and kisses your forehead. “Hi, did you get back to sleep after I left?” 

“Not really,” you reply, squinting at Liana and your mom over Mat’s shoulder. They both press their lips together - your mom in slight judgment and Liana to prevent a laugh from slipping out. “Is everyone else with you? We can tell them her name before you have to leave.”

As if it were planned, your dad and in-laws traipse into the room next, bearing smiles and a thick fleece blanket for you (“If I’m freezing in here, you must be even worse,” Nadia explained, draping it around your shoulders with a smile.) Your dad ruffles your hair and holds up a plastic container, “got you some cannolis from the bakery.” 

You really hope they’re eating all this food when they bring it home, because you’re certainly not eating it. You’ve managed some hospital mashed potatoes and a few bites of buttered toast in the last few days. Which is also probably contributing to how shitty you feel, but the thought of vomiting is so unappealing and terrifying - your midsection is so sore and painful if you vomit you’re worried about pulling a muscle. 

But still, you smile at your dad and thank him, continuing to say, “I wish we could bring the baby in here when we tell you her name.”

“I’ll go see if I can FaceTime from the NICU,” Mat offers, heading out to the nurse’s station before you can protest. You look around, but the nurse that was taking care of you earlier must have slipped out when everyone else came in. He pokes his head back in and nods, “we’re good. Li, wanna come with me? Meet her in person?”

“Oh god, yes!” She hops off the chair she’d been sitting on and follows Mat down the hallway. 

You lean back against the pillows while you wait for their call, blanket tucked around your body and the quiet chatter of your parents and in-laws serving as white noise. Your teeth chatter slightly, but you clench your jaw to stop the movement, rubbing your hands together to warm up your fingertips. 

“Doing okay, sweetheart?” Your dad asks, studying your face and frowning slightly. 

“Mhm,” you hum and then you’re saved from any further conversation by Nadia’s phone ringing with Mat’s FaceTime call. 

Liana’s voice comes through the speakers immediately, “she is so gorgeous, oh my god! I cannot believe you guys gave me the most perfect little niece.”

You grin at her, excited to spill the beans on the baby’s name, “glad you think so, especially since you’ll be spending so much time with Natalia Leigh the next few weeks.” 

“We’re calling her Talia though,” Mat chimes in and he winks at you before telling Liana, “Leigh’s for you, by the way.” 

“Wait? Really?” Liana’s eyes go wide and she promptly starts crying on screen. “Oh my god, guys! That’s - she’s so - I love her!” 

You start crying when Liana does and explain the story of Talia’s name, making Nadia and your mom cry too and Mat eventually gets kicked out of the NICU because Liana can’t stop crying. 

“I’m coming to hug you, be prepared,” she says through sniffles before Mat ends the call. 

It’s nice to have been able to tell everyone Talia’s name before Mat leaves, which happens less than an hour after he came to the hospital. You try your best not to cry when he kisses you goodbye, but you don’t really manage it. You’re just glad the parents have left the room for some fresh air - it’s always been embarrassing to cry in front of them and you just feel like a wreck right now. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he whispers, wiping at your tears with his thumbs. “I’m going to be back on the 23rd, I’ll see you at home and in the meantime, you have Liana to annoy you while I’m gone.”

He still thinks you’re getting discharged tomorrow, and you start to feel guilty that he doesn’t know. You bite your lip and whisper, “I actually, um, don’t know if I’ll be getting out tomorrow like we thought.” 

Mat leans back and shakes his head, frowning. “What are you talking about? I thought you were okay? Did something happen this morning - no one said anything,” the words spill out of his mouth rapidly. “Baby, what the fuck? I’m home in three days and you think you’re still going to be here?” 

“I’m fine,” you wrap your hand around his wrist. “I am, it’s okay. But like, there was a minor thing this morning and I just need to be monitored a bit longer.” 

“A minor thing?” Mat’s voice rises at the end of his question and he whips his head around to look at Liana, who’s suddenly very interested in her phone. “How minor, Liana, and do not lie to me.” 

Liana wrinkles her nose and you shake your head at her, tugging on Mat’s wrist to get his attention back on you. She tilts her head to the side and huffs a sigh, “I mean, it was handled. She’s okay. Just like, go play hockey and win a couple of games, don’t worry about things here.” She tugs at the end of her ponytail, “man, I really should’ve gone for the fresh air too.” 

“That’s not a fucking answer to my question,” Mat all but growls. His phone alarm goes off and he curses loudly - he has to leave or he’ll be late for the flight. “You,” he points at you with his free hand, “are going to answer some questions when I call from Raleigh. I’m going to worry every second I’m not here, but fuck, I guess I have to trust the hands I’m leaving my girls in.” 

A little thrill flips your stomach when Mat refers to you and Talia as his girls and you can’t help the faint smile on your lips. You nod, knowing you’re going to be dodging his questions when he calls later, but say, “I love you, be safe, please. And score a couple of goals for your girls?” 

Mat laughs, some of the stress melting from his body, and he kisses you one more time, “I’ll do my best. Don’t get into any trouble without me.” 

“I’m a perfect angel,” you tease, feeling a wave of sadness rise up again. You don’t want him to leave and your fingers tighten instinctively around his wrist but you force them to loosen. Shakily, you continue, “you’re the bad influence.” 

“You’re both disgusting,” Liana chirps. “And you’re going to be late if you don’t leave now.”

“I know,” Mat groans. He rubs a hand roughly over his face and squeezes your hand. “I’m calling the second we land, okay?”

“Okay,” you agree and with one last kiss for you and a quick one-armed hug for Liana, Mat is out the door and on the way to the parking lot. 

Liana looks at you and before you can really start to register the fear and panic building in your chest, she asks, “want to flip through Hinge for me?” 

It’s the perfect distraction. 

———-

The next two and a half days are a blur. Your blood pressure drops again, but there’s no new increase in your bleeding, so you’re on track to be discharged on the 23rd, the same day Mat will be home from Raleigh. 

Talia is stronger every day, still only taking a bottle since your milk hasn’t come in - the stress and trauma of her delivery, according to the nurses and lactation consultant. But it just makes you feel like an even bigger failure and it’s stressing you out even more, which doesn’t help. Your mom and Nadia do their best to keep you encouraged and keep your mood positive, but it’s hard. You spend as much time as possible in the NICU, but holding Talia still makes you nervous because she’s so small. 

Her breathing is still a little abnormal, she can’t regulate her body temperature, and she lost a few ounces of her weight, so there’s no chance she gets to be discharged with you and when you get that news, you sob for an hour. The thought of being home without her makes your chest ache. 

Mat calls every day, before and after each game, even when they lose both of them and his mood is in the toilet. He’s annoyed about the results and annoyed that he’s so far away from you, but trying hard to hide it. 

“Bo was saying,” Mat says through a yawn after the game two loss, “that Holly’s been texting but you haven’t answered? I think the girls were hoping to hear how you’re doing.” 

There’s no judgment in his tone, but you feel guilty nonetheless. You’ve been dodging calls and texts, ignoring the group chat and keeping your phone stashed away except for when Mat calls. It’s bad enough trying to appear okay for your parents and in-laws and Liana. But adding in the girls would just be impossible. They all have their shit together and you feel like a mess, plus the baby shower they had planned was obviously cancelled and that had just wasted everyone’s time. 

“I…” you hesitate, picking at the medical tape on the back of your hand, “it’s just been a lot, Mat. I’ve been with Talia and I’ve been sleeping and trying to rest. I just, I’ll reach out when I get home.” 

Mat raises an eyebrow at you, studying your face through the phone’s screen. He yawns again and sighs, “everyone just wants to be there for us, you know that, right?” 

You nod and murmur quietly, “I know.” 

After a few beats of silence, Mat manages a crooked smile. “Just glad I get to see my girls tomorrow,” his face softens. “What time are you getting discharged?”

“Not sure yet,” you reply. There’s been conflicting information, but you hope it’s a time when Mat can come get you. You know he has to lock in and focus on the two home games, but you really just want a hug. 

“I’ll be there,” he promises. “Give T a kiss for me, okay? And I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“I love you,” you sniffle, the dimly lit hospital room feeling scary and lonely all of a sudden. 

Mat echoes, “I love you. Get some good sleep, okay?” He winks at you and continues, “dream about me.” 

Your laugh is genuine and only tapers off after you end the call and your phone screen is dark. Mat’s always been able to lift your mood - it’s one of your favorite things about him, and you didn’t realize just how much you needed his cheeky sense of humor right now. 

Everything will be better when he’s home. 

——-

Leaving Talia in the NICU while you’re discharged is the hardest thing in the world. You can’t stop crying even though it hurts your core and gives you a headache that Advil isn’t touching. 

You’d hoped that maybe there would be a chance she could come home with you, but overnight her blood sugar dropped a little and she’d thrown up more of the formula than she had actually swallowed. There was a discussion of possible acid reflux and you’d started crying then. There’s just too much going on and your tiny baby seems to be struggling a little. 

“I don’t want to leave her,” you wail into your mom’s shoulder, her hand stroking over your back. “I’m a horrible mom, I can’t leave her.” 

“Oh, honey,” your mom sounds choked up too. “You’re not a horrible mother, Talia’s doing so well. We’ll bring you back every day to see her, but you need to be in your own space too.” 

“I can’t go home without her,” you sob harder, tears choking you and snot running down your chin. Everything feels like it’s spiralling out of control. 

“Ready to - what’s going on?” Mat’s voice, unexpected but so welcome, breaks through the pounding in your head and you turn away from your mom to fall into his arms. He’s at your side in three long strides and wraps his arms around you, his chin resting on top of your head when you tuck yourself close, crying into the hoodie that smells like airplane and stale cologne. His hands splay over your back and hold you close. 

You sniffle and choke, trying to stop the flood of tears and knowing that you’re overreacting to the situation. “I’m sorry,” you cry, your words muffled by Mat’s chest. He hasn’t even been home for an hour, arriving straight at the hospital from the airport. “I just don’t want to leave her.” 

“Okay, it’s okay,” Mat soothes. “We’ll get you home and you can shower and then we can come right back and see her, okay? How does that sound?” 

You nod against his chest and Mat squeezes you tightly, the pressure of his body working like a weighted blanket to ease some of your anxiety. You loop your arms around his waist and lean your body against his. Mat’s been shouldering your burdens all week and you’re infinitely grateful for him. 

“Car’s all pulled around,” Mat rubs his hand over the back of your head. “All you have to do is hop in that sexy-ass wheelchair and let me jail break you.” 

“Okay,” you laugh wetly, pulling back and wiping your face on the waffle kit sleeve of your shirt. “I’m sorry that you’re not getting a chance to rest.”

Mat laughs, “I’ll rest when I’m dead. Don’t worry about me, I’ve got everything under control.” 

He guides you up to your feet, kisses you sweetly, and deposits you in the wheelchair your mom brought into the room earlier. All of your bags are packed and in the car, filled with the random things everyone had brought to the hospital in the past few days and the baby-related paraphernalia that had somehow multiplied even though Talia was based in the NICU. 

“Can we see her before we leave?” You ask, sounding nasal from the crying. “I know we’ll be back, but … I just …” 

“Yeah, no, we can swing by the NICU,” Mat soothes you, wrapping his hand around the back of your neck and rubbing his thumb into the stiff muscles. “She’s due for a feeding now, right? What time is it? We can get her fed and she’ll nap while we get you home.” 

You nod and let Mat wheel you to the NICU, where you promptly burst into tears again upon seeing Talia. Her eyes are slightly open today and she blinks at you, as if to say “get it together, mom.” 

Behind you, Mat laughs - a sort of helpless, hysterical sound you’ve never really heard him make before - and your heart lurches in your chest. He’s going to get sick of taking care of you, you realize with startling clarity. He didn’t sign up for this - emotionally unstable wife who couldn’t even do the one thing your body was allegedly made for right. You hiccup back a sob, trying to get it under control. He doesn’t deserve this. 

“Come on, baby,” he runs a hand over your hair. “She looks like she could use a good cuddle, right? What do you think Talia?” He grins at the baby, resting his hand on top of the plastic. “Should we try and get you fed?” 

You’ve had a lot of practice at this, so it’s not necessary for a nurse to come and help you get Talia out of the incubator and into your arms. Mat hovers, hands out, just to make sure the transfer goes smoothly. 

She settles in your arms and you can feel your shoulders relax a little, your heart squeezing as you watch her tiny face scrunch up. With a weak smile, you trace her cheek with the back of your knuckle, “hi there, baby. Want to try eating for us?” 

Mat hands you one of the teeny bottles with a few ounces of formula - you hadn’t even realized that he went to go get it - and you get a little pang of anxiety. You’re still relying on the formula until your milk comes in and trying to relax isn’t helping. Luckily, Talia’s hungry and starts eating easily, if slowly. You’re pretty sure that a struggle to feed her right now would’ve sent you over the edge. 

“She’s getting better at that,” Mat comments, watching you watch Talia. You nod and look up at him with a wry smile. 

“All we’ve been doing while you were gone is eating and sleeping,” you reply. Talia hiccups and a dribble of milk spills down her cheeks. Mat jumps in to wipe it up, using the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Your nose twitches, thinking of the germs that are on the fabric, but you don’t say anything. 

“Sounds like my idea of a good time,” he winks at you and you give him a tremulous smile, returning your attention to Talia. She only manages another few drops of formula and then Mat’s helping you burp her. Her little back feels so fragile and your hand shakes when you give her back to Mat. 

He holds her for a little bit before setting her back in the incubator and you watch his mouth twitch like he’s trying to keep a neutral expression. When he looks back at you, his face is soft and carefully neutral. You can’t really tell what he’s thinking and you hate it - normally all of Mat’s thoughts are written plainly on his face. 

“Want to sit with her a little longer? Or should we head home for a bit?” His hand is still resting on the plastic and you flick your gaze from his face to Talia’s skinny little legs, kicking slowly. 

“Can we sit for a bit?” You bite the inside of your cheek and Mat nods, taking a seat in the armchair you’re not using. He leans back and lets out a little groan as he stretches his legs. 

Catching you watching, he shakes his head and assures you, “I’m fine. Took a couple hits, but nothing crazy. Liana said you’ve been getting around better.”

You nod, carefully avoiding the topic of the small-ish blood clot you’d passed yesterday. “It’s been easier, still sucks. Kind of like what I imagine getting hit by, like, Tom Wilson feels like,” you joke lightly. 

“Woof,” Mat winces, reaching for your hand and playing with your fingers. “If it’s even a fraction of a Wilson hit, then you shouldn’t even be sitting up.” 

“It’s not that bad,” you promise and then you’re quiet, watching Talia fall asleep, Mat’s fingers wrapped around yours. 

You’re not sure how much time passes, but eventually Mat ushers you into the car and back home when he sees that you’re fading and listing to the side in your wheelchair. Your parents and Liana are already home and when you step inside, Mat’s arm around your waist and holding your other hand for stability, you get choked up seeing how clean the house is and the ‘welcome home’ banner that’s strung up on the wall. 

You press your lips together to prevent a sob and let your mom fold you into a hug. “Welcome home, honey,” she kisses your cheek. “Talia will be here before you know it!”

Mat’s hand never leaves your lower back and you lean into his touch, letting it ground you. This isn’t how you thought you’d be coming home and Talia’s absence feels overwhelmingly glaring. Especially when you see the huge collection of goodies on the kitchen island. 

“What’s all this?” You wander over, pressing your palm to your side when it cramps. 

There are at least four huge bouquets of flowers, an LL Bean boat and tote bag embroidered with ‘Talia’s Mom’ over the pocket, and a huge wicker picnic basket with cookies and other goodies from Youngs Farm. You tear up at the sight and look through the LL Bean bag, sniffling when you see the teeny tiny Isles jersey. 

“The girls dropped that off,” your mom says. “Nadia and I picked up one of the bouquets, but the others are from the team, at least from the one card.” 

“Bo and Hol sent this one,” Mat says, nudging the colorful blooms towards you. “Syd and Marty did that one.” 

Liana leans her head on your shoulder, sensing that you need a little stability, and you rest your cheek on top of her head. There’s a ton of baby gear that you didn’t even realize you might need and self-care supplies for you - face masks and lotion and cartoon-covered romance books that you’re particular to. 

It’s the most thoughtful thing to come home to and you feel extra awful that you’ve been dodging calls and texts. 

“We have the best friends,” you tell Mat and he laughs, already digging into the chocolate chip cookies from Youngs Farm. He holds out the bag for your dad and Mike, who happily take one each. 

“Told you,” Mat shrugs, eyes dancing, “everyone just wants to be there for us. You just have to let them.” 

Easier said than done, but for now you do the easiest thing and send pictures of everything to the group chat, along with half a dozen heart emojis and a message telling them all how much you love and appreciate them. 

After a shower, this time Mat helping you even though you protest that nothing about your body is appealing to look at - he scoffs and nudges you into the bathroom while telling you that you’re wrong and every inch of you is his favorite thing, he tucks you into bed. Even though he hates it, he wraps your pregnancy pillow around your body and sits on the edge of the mattress to lean down and kiss your cheek. 

“Get some sleep and after you eat, we’ll go back to see Talia,” he promises. 

You shake your head. “You don’t have to take me, I know you have to get ready for tomorrow and get back to the hotel,” your face is pressed into the pillow, afraid if you see Mat’s face you’ll crack. 

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Mat deadpans. His fingers twirl the ends of your wet hair. “Of course I’m taking you, I want to see her too. Besides, I’m staying here until we go back to Raleigh. Talked it over with Lou and Patrick and they gave me the okay.” 

“You’re staying with me?” You ask quietly, pulling your face from the pillow to look at Mat. 

He nods. “I’m not leaving, baby. I know there’s only so much of your mom you can handle at a time,” he teases. 

“She’s been really good,” you acknowledge, tugging at his hand when he goes to stand up, “can you stay? Just…lay with me?” 

“As long as you want me to,” he says, climbing carefully onto his side of the bed and letting you take the lead. You just want to be close to him, so you carefully scoot back until you can feel his chest against your back and his arm drape over your hip. 

“Comfy?” he mumbles into your ear and you nod, letting your eyes close and your body relax finally. Mat’s warmth is a balm to your frazzled nerves and his thumb strokes lazily over your hip, soothing you into sleep. 

——-

The entire family bullies you into eating a bowl of soup when you get up and you manage to choke it down under Mat’s watchful eye. He scarfs back three grilled chicken cutlets and a bowl of pasta, preparing for the game tomorrow. 

“We’ve gotta figure out a plan here,” he says, rubbing at his hair. “Still no idea when Talia’s coming home, but hopefully it’s sooner rather than later. And when that happens, I don’t want Squeaks alone, since hopefully I’ll be on the road for a minute.” 

“Nadia and I will be here as long as you want us to be here,” your mom chimes in, slicing tomatoes for a salad. 

“You’ve got me until end of May,” Liana adds, looking up from her laptop. She’s working remotely - at her insistence, even though you don’t want her to put her job in jeopardy. 

The nap did a lot in helping you feel better, but your brain is still foggy so you sit back, wrapped up in an old sweatshirt and pair of sweatpants taken from Mat’s closet, listening as everyone plans around you. 

“I can be here,” your dad offers, but you can hear in his voice that he’s wary about how much help he’ll be. “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” 

“I don’t want everyone upending their lives for me,” you grumble, feeling petulant and anxious. Your fingers twist in the hem of Mat’s sweatshirt. “I’ll just…just figure it out, like every other new mom.” 

Mat rolls his eyes and shakes his head at you, speaking for the rest of your families when he says, “if you don’t have to do it alone, isn’t that better? We don’t know what we’re doing and I don’t want to leave you alone.” 

Probably because he doesn’t trust you to take care of Talia, not after the panic attacks you’ve had while holding her. A dark cloud settles over your mood and you curl up tighter on the couch, your chest aching in a way that you hope means your milk is coming in. That might be a silver lining at least. 

“Fine,” you mutter and Mat goes right back to planning. He’s taking charge and if you were feeling more like yourself you’d realize this is his way of controlling his nerves. If he can manage the situation, everything will be fine. 

Somehow, without your input, it’s decided that your dad and Mike will stay until Talia is discharged - hopefully soon - and that your mom and Nadia will stay as long as you need them. In some ways, it’s a relief that you don’t have to make any decisions, and yet it still makes you feel like a burden. You’re a mom now, you’re supposed to be the one taking care of things and handling them. 

It’s Mat and Liana who come back to the hospital with you, the three of you able to get into the NICU solely off the charm of Mat’s smile (that, and the huge gift basket of goodies Liana’s carrying). It feels like ten minutes since you’ve been here, even though it was four and a half hours, and your heart lurches when you lay eyes on Talia again. 

“Hi there, love bug,” you whisper softly, reaching into the incubator to stroke the bottom of her foot. She’s asleep again and her breathing sounds a little strange, wheezy and short, but the nurse assures you that she’s fine. It’s still terrifying to you, but Mat swoops in and gets her settled in his arms, looking down at her like she’s the most precious thing in the world. 

“Fuck, I still can’t believe what a cute baby we made,” he laughs and looks at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. “She’s going to keep us on our toes, I can tell.” 

Liana snorts, “yeah, she’s got both of your DNA. I can just see her running rampant one day with your AmEx.” 

“We’re gonna spoil the shit out of her anyway, she won’t want for anything,” Mat shrugs. Talia squirms in his arms and lets out a little cry, your nipples tightening at the sound and your tits aching. You rub at the side of one, wincing when your fingers press into the swell. 

“Ow,” you whine quietly, fingers meeting resistance. You look down, pulling at the neck of your sweatshirt to see your nipples tight and pressed against the cup of the nursing bra you’re wearing. Everything feels like it’s spilling out of the cups and you press experimentally at the top curve of one tit. It’s like a rock and you wince again. 

“What’s going on?” Mat asks, concern edging his tone. Talia squeaks in his arms and he looks down, adjusting his grip on her and avoiding the wires still attached to her chest. 

You frown and hold your hand against your chest, pressing against the sudden pins and needles tingling. It’s such a weird feeling, to - “pretty sure my milk just came in,” you wince and Mat’s eyebrows raise. Liana grimaces slightly and you can’t blame her. She knows way more than any sister-in-law should know. 

“That’s good timing,” Mat laughs. He calls over a nurse and then it’s logistics and shuffling and Talia ends up in your arms, her cheek pressed against the swell of your breast and multiple hands - none of which belong to you - guiding her to latch onto your nipple. 

It’s awkward and painful and strange and then suddenly, with a burst of hormones, you relax and Talia sucks hesitantly. Tears well in your eyes and you cradle her close, watching her eat. Mat and the nurses watch too and you’re faintly aware that they’re encouraging you and Talia on the latch. 

“Holy shit,” you look up at Mat with wide eyes. He’s grinning. “This is so weird.”

“You look damn good,” Mat says. “Like a natural.” 

For the first time in a week, you actually feel the way you expected to feel. Your heart is full and your shoulders are relaxed. Mat’s hand is warm and heavy, cradling the back of your head as he watches Talia eat. It scares you a little bit, just how hard the rush of love for Talia hits. Your body finally recognizes that this is your baby and you sniffle away a few tears. 

“Hey,” Mat cups your chin and lifts your head, “I love you.” 

You grin at him, the action finally feeling genuine and nearly giddy when he leans down and kisses you quickly. 

Breastfeeding only lasts a few minutes, Talia falling off your boob with a little wet pop, milk on her cheeks. But she’s content and the nurses are happy, so you’re happy. It’s still just as hard to leave her alone, but your mom and dad are going to come and visit and then Mike and Nadia will take a shift so she’s never alone for too long. 

You’re motivated to try and eat more now, to make sure you can make enough milk to keep Talia fed without supplemental formula and everyone’s trying not to make a big deal about you actually eating. You’re still vaguely nauseous at times and your stomach is only tolerating light things, but it’s a start. 

——

The next two days are a chaotic blur. 

You’ve added a pumping routine into the mix, attached to the breast pump whenever you’re not in the NICU with Talia. She’s inched back up to her birth weight plus a few extra ounces and that’s a good sign for her to be released, that along with her regulated breathing and stable blood sugar are all good forward progress. 

You insist on everyone going to game three and four and that you’ll be fine at home. It’s not fair that they’re all in town and wouldn’t see Mat play. Sitting in the arena for several hours isn’t your idea of fun right now, not in your currently terrible physical state. But the girls had sent over your playoff jacket and you’ll wear it at home, layered over the comfy matching sets from Aerie that are your uniform now. 

Your mom insists on staying behind with you, and visiting Talia while everyone else is at the game. She’s been helpful and understanding when half of your conversations just involve you dissolving into tears. 

The boys lose game 3 and Mat comes home in a mood, even if he’s trying to hide it. You’re curled up in bed with Liana, scrolling through the Twitter reactions on the game, and Mat rolls his eyes when he sees his sister. 

“Come on,” he groans, tossing his suit jacket to the floor, uncharacteristic of him. “Bad enough we lost, I have to come home and I can’t even get right in bed with my wife? Get the fuck out, Liana.” 

“You know,” she huffs, rolling out of bed, “I’ve been keeping her company while you’re gone. So you need to be thankful for me and not so cranky.” 

Mat flips her off and you sigh, scooting down further under the covers. He loosens his tie and continues, “Li, I love you, but I can’t put up with this tonight. I just want to fucking go to bed.” 

“Message received,” she mock salutes him and traipses out of your bedroom with a “night, guys” thrown over her shoulder. 

You feel awful, knowing Mat could just have been in the hotel with the guys and getting a good night’s sleep, instead of coming home and dealing with everything here. As it is, you don’t sleep well - tossing and turning and trying to get comfortable. He’s been careful not to let you see the cracks, but you can sense his mood shifting and deteriorating. Being in a three game hole isn’t helping. And you wonder if you’re a terrible wife for secretly hoping game four is the end of the playoffs for Mat, even if a sweep is objectively awful. 

As much as you want Mat to lift the Cup, you’re even more desperate for him to be home and handling everything. 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, as Mat pulls on a pair of sweat shorts and climbs into bed. He yawns and stretches out, reaching for your hand. You let him lace your fingers together, feeling sick. “I just…everyone else was asleep. I didn’t want to …” 

“What are you apologizing for?” Mat rolls onto his side to look at you, exhaustion written clearly on his face. “I’m not, like, mad or anything. Just wanted to get in bed.” 

Your lips twitch and your nose burns, a precursor to tears. But you bite down hard on your tongue to prevent them from falling. 

“I know this isn’t - you should be -“ you’re struggling to find the words, to explain how you’re feeling. “I’m just sorry, Mat. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”

Mat sighs and shifts on the bed to get closer to you, knowing it’s harder for you to move without pain. He presses a kiss to your shoulder and rubs a soothing hand over your hip. You bite at your lower lip to keep your emotions at bay. 

“Doesn’t matter how it’s supposed to be,” he says into the fabric of your top. “This is how it is and we’re going to be okay. We’ve got this, right? Me and you?” 

You nod and let him fold you up in a tight hug, burying his face in your hair. 

“Me and you,” you repeat shakily. You can feel Mat’s arms tighten around you in response. 

Mat’s in and out of the house the next day, at the rink and then at the hospital with you. He keeps up a running commentary for you and Talia, holding her when you’re not. 

“You think you’re gonna come see Daddy play? Huh?” He laughs and the grin on his face is like pure sunlight when Talia blinks at him and sticks her little tongue out. “Yeah, I know we’re not doing so hot right now, but I swear we’re a good team.”

Talia gurgles and Mat immediately props her up in his arms, the way the nurses have shown you to help her reflux. She looks too small in his hands and you have to look away for a second or the way his giant palms dwarf her body is going to make you cry again. She’d lost and gained a few ounces and it’s been a struggle keeping her full and well-fed. 

He kisses the back of her head, lips brushing over the dark, downy hair and you watch him linger, holding her close. “I don’t want to fucking leave her again,” he mumbles, shoulders stiff. 

“You’ve got playoffs to conquer,” you manage a faint smile. Mat grimaces at you - you both know this round has been brutal, playing Carolina is always ugly. 

“Hmm, yeah,” Mat hums, still holding Talia as close as he can to his bare chest. Skin to skin is still the best thing for her to help regulate her temperature. 

You stretch your leg out and ignore the twinge of pain below the waist, tapping your foot against his. “I’m - she’s - we’re still proud of you, no matter what happens,” you say softly. “You’re always going to be our best guy.” 

His smile eases at the corners and he pats Talia on the butt, his eyebrows furrowed. “One game for the rest of our lives,” he chuckles, “no pressure, right?” 

“Not from me or Talia,” you promise. 

In the end, Mat scores twice in game four - the tying goal in the second and the winner in double overtime. You watch the game from bed, propped up with pillows and with the breast pump attached to your chest. Anxiety ratchets up in your body as the game goes on and there’s no one around for you to talk to - Mike, Nadia, and Liana are there, but your parents had gone to bed halfway through the first overtime. 

The puck goes in - Bortuzzo or Mat, no one’s really sure at the moment - and the guys go crazy on ice. You hiccup a happy laugh that turns into a sob. Not getting swept is a positive, but this also means that Mat will be right back on the road. There’s still no date for Talia’s discharge and you’re exhausted from going back and forth to the hospital. 

You just want everyone you love home and safe under one roof and you don’t think you’ll feel settled or calm until Mat and Talia are at your side. 

With the post-game playing quietly, you shuffle out of bed and move like a zombie down to the kitchen to stash the pumped milk and pick at the sourdough loaf your mom picked up earlier. You scoop out the inside of a slice and roll the dough into little balls, leaving the crust for last. Mat always makes fun of you for how you eat bread and you wonder if this will be a habit that Talia picks up from watching you. 

The thought makes you smile and you wander back up to bed, passing out the second your head hits the pillow. 

Mat’s already gone when you get up in the morning and you shuffle downstairs, curled over from the stiff ache in your hips and back. Mike and your dad are in the kitchen, the pair of them eating eggs and reading the paper. It’s such an out of place sight that you start giggling before you can ask where everyone else is. 

“Mat and Nadia went to the hospital,” Mike offers up as your dad pops some bread into the toaster for you. “He’s going to the rink for video review and meetings, but he wanted to see Talia.” 

“Oh,” you hum, “he didn’t want to sleep in after - I don’t even know what time you guys got home.” 

“Honey,” your dad laughs and drops a plate in front of you, “it’s nearly 10. You’re the last one up.” 

Your stomach sinks and you rub at your eyes, glancing at the clock on the microwave. Sure enough, the digital numbers blink back at you - 9:57. Guilt knots in your stomach, knowing everyone else was up before you and Mat went off to see Talia without you, even though he had a long game last night. 

“Get that look off your face, kid,” Mike smiles gently at you. “You need rest too and someone will come with you later to see the baby. Mat didn’t want to wake you, said he knows you haven’t been sleeping well.” 

“I slept last night,” you reply reflexively and your dad ruffles your hair. 

“Get a few more of those in a row and then we’ll feel better,” he tips his chin at the plate of food in front of you. “Eat.”

You take a small bite out of a piece of bacon and chew slowly. Swallowing, you ask, “where are mom and Liana?” 

“Ran out to knock a few errands off the list,” Mike replies, sipping at his coffee. You know that means going to Pottery Barn and getting more decor for the nursery - which your dad and Mike had finished while you were in the hospital. When you saw it, mostly finished and decorated in pale pinks, you’d cried for an hour and gathered your dad and father-in-law in a grateful hug that left them both patting the top of your head with reassurances that it was nothing.  “How’re you feeling?” 

You lie, “okay,” and both men lift their eyebrows at you until you amend your answer to, “overwhelmed.” And then you look down at your plate, scraping the tines of your fork through your eggs. 

“It’s an overwhelming time, honey,” your dad says gently. “You’ve got all of us to lean on while Mat’s gone and even when he’s back.” 

“You and Mat are doing a great job,” Mike adds. “We’re all so proud of you both. And Talia, of course.” 

Both men break out into wide smiles at the mention of Talia and warmth floods your chest knowing how loved your little girl is. All four grandparents have a million pictures on their phones already and you know your mom has been bragging to her sisters about how much Talia is growing and developing. It’s all you’ve ever wanted and you relax slightly. 

“She is amazing, isn’t she?” You laugh. “She was sucking her thumb yesterday, did I tell you?” 

It’s easy to talk all about Talia and even though Mike and your dad know everything already, they let you ramble on until you finally stop. You can feel your energy flag and you end up on the couch, dead to the world. Mat comes and goes while you sleep and you wake up again after lunch, sweating and slightly dizzy. Spots dance in front of your eyes and you blink against them, closing your eyes until your vision clears. 

“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” Liana calls from the kitchen, drawing your attention, fuzzy as it is. “You want some lunch?” The Alexa is playing a semi-familiar country song. 

“No,” you rasp through a dry mouth. Your hand shakes when you lift it to push your hair off your face and the stupid fucking diaper you have to wear is uncomfortable. “What time -“ 

“One thirty,” Liana answers, turning the volume down on the music. “You were really knocked out. Feeling okay?”

Truthfully, no. You’re feeling shaky and strange, too hot even though it’s cool in the house. Your head is pounding and nausea rolls through your stomach. But it’ll pass, you’re sure, so you just shrug at Liana and say, “I’ve been worse. Where is everyone?” 

“The dads are watching football and the moms are with Talia. Mat should be back from the rink soon, I think?” 

You rub at your eyes with the heels of your palms and nod. 

Liana continues, “Mat said to feed you lunch and he’ll go to the hospital with you when he gets back, before he leaves for Raleigh.” 

“I’m going to shower,” you sigh, pulling your shirt away from your chest. There’s milk mixed with your sweat and your chest aches from missing a pumping. You feel disgusting in a way that you haven’t felt in a few days. Standing up from the couch makes your head swim and you make your way to your bathroom on shaky legs that don’t feel like they’re attached to your body. 

Somehow you manage to make it through the shower and stay upright, but it drains you of whatever little energy the nap had given you. You’re slumped over on the edge of the bed when Liana pokes her head into your room. 

“Hey?” Her voice is concerned. “You okay? It’s been a minute.” 

“Just…” you wave your hand in the air vaguely, “kind of wiped. Maybe I’m dehydrated. I’ll have some water and we can go.”

Liana squints at you and you know she’s going to blab to someone - your mom or Mat - but you’re honestly feeling shitty enough that you don’t care. She holds her hands out and pulls you to your feet, “you’re eating the entire sandwich I made too, just so you know.” 

“I….yeah, okay,” you concede sheepishly. “Eating’s probably good.” 

“Glad you see it my way,” Liana bumps your elbow with hers. “Mat’s been texting like a lunatic, asking if you were awake and if you’d eaten. So I’m glad to get him off my back for now.” 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh. “He shouldn’t…I’m not…ugh, god, I feel so bad that everyone is being inconvenienced by me.”

Liana scoffs and wraps you in an unexpected hug, “you’re not a burden and we’re not inconvenienced. We love you and Mat and honestly, I love Talia more than I love both of you combined. So of course I’m going to do everything I can to help my favorite people in the world get adjusted. Stop being a brat.” 

A laugh startles out of you at Liana’s proclamation and you feel lighter. Returning her hug and holding on tight, you say, “I don’t mean to be a brat. I’m trying to be normal, but everything’s so hard.”

“So lean on us,” Liana squeezes your hand. “Let us all be there for you guys.” 

You nod and wipe your sleeve over your eyes, stemming the tears before they can fall. Dropping your head to rest against her shoulder, you giggle wetly, “we’re going to have to get you an amazing birthday present.” 

——-

In the end, the boys lose game five in Raleigh and the season is over. The house is quiet and Mike flips the TV to a different station, no one really wanting to watch the postgame. 

“Well,” your dad says, trying for upbeat, “they put up a helluva fight.” 

You hum tiredly in response, pulling your hands into the sleeves of your sweatshirt. Any playoff loss stings and you know Mat and the guys are going to come home dejected. You can’t wait to see Mat lift the Cup, but that dream will have to wait at least another year. For now, you’re just glad that he’ll be home tomorrow. 

“Why don’t you head to bed?” Nadia suggests. “We’ll get everything cleaned up and before you know it, Mat will be home.” 

“And then the real adulting can begin,” you laugh faintly. “T will finally have both her parents in the same state for an extended period of time.” 

Your tone sounds bitter even to your own ears and you know it’s time to turn in - what’s the saying? When you start to hate everything around you, go to bed? That’s how you’re feeling anyway. So, with a wave to the room, you shuffle off to bed, crawling under the covers in your perpetual pajamas and curling up around Mat’s pillows. They’ve long since lost his scent, washed and washed again since he’s been gone, but it still comforts you to have them pressed against your chest as you slip off into sleep. 

The dip of the mattress startles you a little and you crack one eye open, Mat’s hazels meeting your gaze as he climbs under the covers next to you. 

“Hi,” he whispers, cupping your cheek. His thumb rubs against your cheekbone and you lean into his touch. 

“Hi,” you murmur sleepily, blinking. “What time’s it?” 

It feels early, too early for Mat to be home. Unless you slept the day away. But you don’t feel like you’ve slept very long at all. 

Mat’s hair is damp from the shower and he pulls you  close, until you’re tucked against his chest, his chin resting on your head. He rubs his palm in circles between your shoulder blades and his breath ruffles your hair when he replies, “caught a commercial flight out of Raleigh so I could get home earlier. Wanted to be back with you.”

“I missed you,” you bury your nose against the notch of his collarbone, inhaling the scent of his skin. “I’m sorry about the loss.” 

“It sucks,” Mat admits. His chest rises and falls, warmth radiating off his body. “Guess this year just wasn’t our year. Part of it’s my fault, I couldn’t focus on the game knowing you and Talia were here and she’s still in the NICU.” 

“She’s doing so good,” you pull back to look at him, his face blurry from your tears. “I think she should be coming home soon.” 

He laughs and kisses your forehead. “Waited for her dad, huh? I get to do the hot dad walk out of the hospital after all,” his grin is crooked, eyes dancing with delight. 

“Yeah,” you agree, “you do.” 

Mat’s arms tighten around you and you melt into him, his body relaxing as he falls asleep. It’s been a long few days for him and you let the steady rhythm of his breathing lull you back to sleep too. 

By the time you both wake up again, the house is noisy and smells like pancakes and bacon. Mat guides you downstairs with a hand in your lower back and doesn’t stray too far from your side. Your parents are at the hospital with Talia and your phone has half a dozen messages with pictures of your mom cuddling her. It makes your heart twinge and you speed through breakfast so you can swap out with them. 

It’s also a two week check-up for you, so you have to detour before you can see Talia. Mat trails along behind you, holding a Stanley rattling with ice and white peach Liquid IV mixed into the forty ounces of water. Liana had snitched on your difficulty in staying hydrated, so in the twelve hours he’s been home, Mat is making it his personal mission to keep you hydrated. He keeps rattling it at you, passing it over for you to drink from the straw. 

“I’m going to have to pee,” you whine, pushing at his wrist. “Let me get through this appointment and I’ll drink some more.” 

“And you’re getting a snack,” Mat crosses his arms. “You’ve lost weight.” 

“I’ve been pumping and breastfeeding,” you roll your eyes, avoiding looking Mat in the eye because you know you’ve also been avoiding eating too much. He seems right through you though and scoffs. 

“Which means you’re supposed to increase your calorie intake,” he points out. Off your raised eyebrow, he raises his own back and retorts, “I can Google shit, Squeaks. There’s a lot of downtime between games.”

You sigh and wrap your arms around your stomach, but say nothing. Mat’s stubborn, as stubborn as you are, so when he makes up his mind there’s no changing it. Your appointment goes about as well as it can - the bleeding is normal for this time of postpartum, no additional clots or things that shouldn’t be happening. Your iron levels are dangerously low though, which explains most of your symptoms and prompts Mat to scowl at you when you list them out in a quiet voice. 

“Why didn’t you -“ Mat starts, but you cut him off. 

“I wasn’t adding to your stress. I’m fine,” you huff. 

Mat rolls his eyes and drawls, with a sarcastic wave of his hand in your direction, “oh yeah, this is what fine looks like. Just a quick hydration IV and heavy duty prescription iron supplements. Babe, you’re the picture of health.” 

The IV tugs at your arm when you lift your hand to wipe at the tears pooling in your eyes, Mat’s words hitting deep. You sniffle, “you don’t have to be mean.” 

His face falls immediately, lips curled down in a frown, eyebrows drawn together over his nose. “Fuck,” he mutters, scrubbing both hands over his face and groaning. His words are muffled by his hands, “I wasn’t…I didn’t mean to - god, fuck, Squeaks. I’m sorry. Just…I’m so fucking sorry. I know this is hard and you don’t have any control.” 

Feelings still hurt, you shrug and curl back up against the infusion chair - the detour preventing you from seeing Talia and making you cranky. You know Mat’s under a lot of stress too and you’re trying to not feel so out of control. The IV itches and you’re too hot though and that’s making you bitchy. 

“Whatever,” you mumble, tracing your nails over the etching of your name on the Stanley. “Just, can you go see Talia? Make sure she’s okay? I’ll come up when I’m done.” 

Mat frowns at you again and adjusts the baseball hat on his head, dark hair slightly greasy under the fabric. He’s been running his hands through it a lot, spreading the oil and making it messy. It’s a nervous tic, you know that, and the constant repetition makes it hard to make eye contact. All of his stress is your fault. These are supposed to be happy days and here he is, fresh off a playoff elimination standing around watching you get an IV before visiting your daughter in the NICU. 

“T’s not going anywhere,” Mat says, his tone softer. “I’m going to wait with you and you can fill me in on everything that’s been happening because I missed you. Okay?” 

“Not much to fill in,” you mumble, bitchier than you need to be. “Been here and been at home. That’s it.”

Mat’s jaw clenches and you feel bad. You’re doing everything wrong. 

He shrugs and shakes his head, “okay. Well, I’m home now. We can start doing some other things too.” 

“I don’t know how,” you shoot back. “Talia’s still here and it’s bad enough that you were just on a plane and our families have been to the stores. She was probably exposed to so many germs.” 

“I was on a fucking plane to come home to you,” Mat snaps back and then visibly reels himself in when he sees your eyes well up. “Fuck. I’m going for a lap. I’ll get you more water.” 

You scowl and practically shove the Stanley at his chest. “I don’t want any more fucking water, Mathew,” you snap and Mat waves a hand over his shoulder as he walks away, his footsteps echoing down the hallway until you can’t hear him anymore. Then, and only then, you let yourself cry. Tears spill down your cheeks and your body shudders with the effort. You’re not sure how the day spiralled out of control so fast. 

Your chest feels tight and achy, guilt knotted behind your sternum. You feel crazy, unable to regulate yourself, and now Mat’s angry with you. Every single thing you touch seems to be breaking and you don’t know how to fix it. 

——-

The only bright spot of the next two days is that Talia is finally going to be discharged. Two and a half full weeks after birth, the two longest weeks of your life, you get to bring your baby girl home. 

Of course, literally everything else feels like it’s falling apart. You and Mat are tiptoeing around each other, polite in a way that scares you. The last time you’d been this polite with each other was around the time of your breakup a million years ago. It feels like everything is going to crash down around you. 

And having so many extra people in the house doesn’t help either. Your mom and Nadia are helpful in cooking and cleaning and staying out of your way as much as they can, but they can also sense the tension between you and Mat. No one wants to say anything to you and you hate that because it means you’ve given off the impression that you’re unstable. Which you are, but it still hurts. 

Liana’s the only one that’s treating everything normally, ignoring the tension and hanging out with you when Mat has to go to the rink for exit interviews and locker clean out. 

She holds Talia while you pump and watch the video of Mat’s exit interview that the team posted. 

He looks awful in the preview - pale and exhausted. Neither of you have been sleeping well the last few nights and neither of you want to admit that maybe you need to be in separate locations for a few days just to get a full night’s rest. Sleeping in separate beds feels like a big scary omen of something and you’d rather be exhausted, but with Mat at your side. 

When you hit Play on the video, Mat’s voice comes through scratchy and rough. 

“It sucks,” he shrugs. “They always have our number and it sucks.”

Your heart twists at the defeated expression on Mat’s face. He’s desperate to get back to the ECF and play in a Cup Final. Someone off screen asks a muffled question and Mat’s expression shifts. His shoulders loosen and his face gets lighter, a faint smile plays on his lips and you can see the sparkle in his eyes. You just know he’s about to mention Talia. 

“Hah, yeah,” tiny, on screen Mat laughs. “I definitely wasn’t at my best this series. Half my focus was on the ice, the other half at home with my family. Yeah, definitely not an easy thing to leave in the middle of everything, but you know, and just to kind of ask for a little privacy, my wife did have our first kid and we’re really obsessed with, you know, the baby. They’re both doing okay and that’s all I’m going to say on that.” 

Your heart skips a beat at the smile on his face and the way it totally transforms his features. Keeping your lives private is something that’s important to you and giving out information on your own terms is a skill that you’ve learned over the years with Mat. Eventually, people will see Talia and you’ll post about it, but for now, she’s just yours. 

“That was diplomatic of my big brother,” Liana laughs, grinning down at Talia and repeating in a baby voice, “your dad is usually a big mouth, Baby T.” 

“I didn’t realize he would even say something,” you murmur, wincing at the mechanical pull on your nipple. “We haven’t, um, really talked too much about it. Haven’t really talked about much of anything these past few days.”

Liana looks up at you with sympathy, Talia dozing off in her arms. The baby looks so much more substantial in Liana’s arms than she does in Mat’s - she’s still less than six and a half pounds and scrawny, but filling out the more of your breast milk she drinks. 

“You guys are doing a really good job in a totally new situation, you know,” she says kindly. “Don’t be so hard on yourself or Mat.”

“I’m trying,” you sigh. And you are. It’s just so fucking hard. “I just can’t wait until she’s home and we won’t have to keep coming back here.”

Mat’s voice echoes from your phone’s speakers, “no, my goal is still to bring a Cup to Long Island. Having a kid is just extra motivation, someone new to make proud.” 

——-

“Hey,” Mat rubs your arm, gently shaking you awake. You roll over and blink at him until his face comes into focus. 

“Hi,” you whisper, yawning. 

His smile is a flash of white in the dimness of your bedroom, excitement palpable, “Talia comes home today.” 

“She does,” you grin reflexively, your entire body lighting up with excited nerves. “Mat…” 

You trail off, but he kisses your forehead and brushes his thumb over your cheek. You haven’t really talked, or apologized which is what he deserves. 

“I know, baby,” he pulls you close and brushes a kiss over your lips. “Anything you say postpartum won’t be held against you.”

He’s too good to you and you don’t deserve him, guilt making you nauseous. 

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth, stubble scraping at your skin, “so much.” 

“I love you back,” Mat laughs. “Now let’s go bring our girl home.” 

The morning is a blur - your parents and Mat’s are beside themselves with excitement, cleaning everything last minute and stopping intermittently to gush about how happy they are that Talia’s finally going to be home. It’s slightly cool outside, considering it’s May 4th, so you dig through all the tiny baby clothes filling the dresser for something warm. It’s all too big for Talia, but you figure layers are probably good and settle on a couple of knit long sleeved onesies that should be warm enough.

You nearly vibrate out of your seat as Mat drives to the hospital, his Defender cutting through the afternoon traffic easily. Fleetwood Mac is playing and you roll down the window slightly as Stevie hits the chorus of Dreams. 

“It feels like it’s been a million years since she was born,” you murmur and Mat nods. 

“We’ve lived a couple of lives since April sixteenth, huh?” He reaches out for your hand and you lace your fingers with his, rubbing your thumb over a cut on the side of his hand. He’d accidentally knicked himself slicing up an apple for you last night. 

“I’m really scared, Mat,” you admit quietly. He turns into the drive for the hospital, easing up the road. 

“I probably shouldn’t admit it,” he says carefully, “but I am too. She’s all our responsibility now.”

“What if we fuck her up?” You have no idea how to raise a baby, your own relationship with your parents was combative when you were a teen. Mat’s on the road half the year and you’ll be alone with her. Anxiety and panic settle in your stomach and your breathing starts to get wheezy. 

Mat squeezes your thigh and you look at him with wide eyes. He shakes his head and nudges your chin with his other hand, “we’re not going to fuck up our kids, Squeaks. You’re going to be the best mom they could ask for and I’m your loyal second in command. We’re the best team I know - remember kicking Beau’s ass at Leesy’s Kan Jam two years ago? We’ve got this.” 

His confidence calms you and you nod, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to his mouth for reassurance. 

You walk into the hospital with just Mat and two hours later, after a feeding and a diaper change and passing the car seat test, you walk out as a family of three. 

Mat has the biggest, stupidest grin on his face as he carries Talia in her car seat. His Girl Dad baseball hat is on backwards and you take a picture of him and video, smiling while you cry. 

“Hot dad walk,” he laughs, grinning at you over his shoulder. 

“Hot dad walk,” you agree, eyes laser focused on Talia, sleeping away in the car seat. She’s tiny and curled up, tucked under the iconic hospital blanket and an Islanders themed fleece blanket the girls had given you. 

Mat holds his free hand out for you, wiggling his fingers until you fall into step next to him and take his hand. He kisses your temple, mumbling against your skin, “hot mom walk too. I’m so fucking proud of you.”

You lean into his touch, the iron grip of your anxiety easing so you can enjoy this moment with your husband and daughter. Finally, everything feels right and when you climb into the backseat of Mat’s car, buckling in next to Talia’s car seat, she wakes up briefly and blinks sleepily and unfocused at you. You rest your hand on her belly and she sighs, closing her eyes and falling back asleep as Mat pulls the car carefully from the parking spot. 

The radio is low and Mat drives slower than he’s ever driven in the entire time you’ve known him. The drive home takes twice as long as it usually does and every time the car bumps over a rock in the road you wince - both from the jarring pain to your body and from the little shake of Talia’s head. 

Your heart beats too fast, nervous about every turn and shift of the car, your eyes laser focused on Talia for any signs of distress. But of course, she sleeps happily through the entire drive, snuggled up all cozy when Mat finally pulls into the driveway and gets her car seat out of the car. 

She sleeps through the initial rush of getting her inside, your mom and Nadia looking at her with tears in their eyes and their hands covering their mouths. She sleeps through Liana’s squeal when Talia yawns in her sleep. She sleeps through your dad and Mike debating, loudly, over what to grill for dinner. 

Mat lifts her out of the car seat and settles her against his shoulder, one hand under her butt and one on her back. You can see his entire body physically relax with her in his arms and his face transforms with a mushy smile. Talia wiggles in his grip and he adjusts, looking so natural holding her. He presses a whisper of a kiss to the top of her head, ruffling her dark hair, and you catch the way his eyes gloss over. 

You couldn’t have picked a better man to be the father to your baby girl. 

And that’s just reinforced in your mind over the next two weeks, as your dad and Mike head back to North Carolina and Vancouver respectively, and you settle into a routine. 

Talia’s struggling with sleep and that means you and Mat are struggling with sleep. For as much as she was sleeping in the NICU and in the first few days at home, she’s doing the exact opposite now and crying more often. Your stomach sinks every time she cries, wheezing a little with the effort, making you think there’s something seriously wrong with her. 

“She just won’t stop,” you hiccup a cry to Mat in the middle of the night, leaking milk all over the place and trying to calm Talia down. She’s not hungry and her diaper’s freshly changed. Maybe she just hates you. 

“She doesn’t hate you,” Mat says through a yawn, plucking Talia from your arms and cradling her to his chest.

You wrinkle your nose - you hadn’t realized that you said it out loud. 

Mat paces around your room, bouncing his knees to try and get into a rhythm that’ll soothe Talia while you grab at one of the dozens of burp cloths hanging around every surface of the house and use it to clean up your chest. You’ve never felt less like a person than in this moment. With a pathetic little wail, you drop back against the pillows, tits out until you can find the faded and oversized Islanders shirt that had fallen into your lap years ago during the t-shirt toss and pull it over your head. 

“She was so good, are we - am I doing something wrong?” You whisper, watching Mat struggle to clam Talia down too. A mean, selfish little part of your brain is happy to see him struggle too. 

He shrugs and Talia wails, her little face bright red. You’re surprised that no one’s come in to see what’s happening, but at the same time you don’t want witnesses to your complete ineptitude as parents. You’ve been relying a lot on your mom and Nadia for silly questions and their help cooking and cleaning. Liana’s been your distraction, keeping you from spiralling out daily. They’re a safety net for you. 

“Maybe, I don’t know, she’s sick of the house?” Mat tries shifting Talia in his arms, laying her stomach on his forearm and cradling her head in the palm of his hand. All that does is make her choke a little and your heart lurches out of your chest until Mat props her upright again. Not quick enough though, she gags and spits up on his arm, his sweats, the floor, and Mat groans, muttering a curse under his breath. 

“Shit,” he steps over the spot and grabs a burp cloth to drop onto the carpet. Stepping on it with his bare foot to soak up some of the liquid, he continues, “remind me to clean that up in the morning.” Huffing a little laugh, he jokes, “not the first time one of my girls has thrown up on me.” 

The joke makes you smile and you reach your hands out for Talia, “let me take her, see if I can…” You trail off, Mat shaking his head at you. 

“Get some shoes on, we’re going to try going for a drive,” he says, propping Talia against his shoulder and rubbing her back. “She fell asleep yesterday on the way to the pediatrician, so it’s worth a shot.”

“We can’t just drive around whenever she cries,” you protest, even as you’re swinging your legs out of bed. “And it’s the middle of the night.” 

“Great,” Mat shoots back, grabbing up a few blankets and the pre-made bottle Talia had been refusing before you tried to get her to latch. “There won’t be anyone on the road. Just a few quick loops around the block, Squeaks. We all need some sleep.”

You can’t argue with him on that and so you go along with his plan, quietly gathering up a little hat for Talia in case it’s cold outside and following Mat down the stairs and out to the garage. He gets Talia buckled into her car seat and you tuck more blankets than necessary around her - it is cool out, Long Island still weeks away from the typical summer humidity - and climb into the back seat next to her. She wails and you wince, rubbing at her belly with a gentle hand. 

“Mat…” His name drags out on a plaintive whine and he nods. 

“I know, I’m starting the car,” as soon as the car turns on, he flips the heat setting up and pulls out of the garage and down the driveway. “Hopefully this works.”

Talia cries and you feel your own chest getting tight with the urge to cry, until Mat takes his third left of the night and her cries taper off a little. You’ve only been driving for a few minutes, but you can see Talia relax, her blinks getting longer. The car is toasty warm and even you can feel your body relaxing into the leather seats. 

“She asleep?” Mat whispers, looking over his shoulder as he eases to a stop at a red light. 

“Not yet,” you murmur back, stroking the soft skin of Talia’s cheek with the back of your finger. Her eyes flutter shut. “Just a little bit longer, I think.” 

Mat reaches back and squeezes your knee gently, “I’ll drive as long as my girls need me to.” 

And you know he means it with his whole heart. 

[pucksandpower]

Close Your Eyes (and I’ll Do the Rest)

soft!mob boss!Mat Barzal x wife!Reader

Summary: Mat kills a man on a random afternoon while you’re six months pregnant and craving cannoli. You keep your eyes closed like he asks. He still takes you for dessert after. That’s the thing about loving a man with blood on his hands — he’ll wash them clean before he touches your face, and you’ll pretend not to notice the water running red in the sink (or in which your husband is very good at two things: keeping you safe and making sure you never have to watch)

Based on this request and this photo

The dining room smells like rosemary and garlic, and Mat thinks — not for the first time tonight — that he’s the luckiest bastard alive.

“More wine?” You ask, already reaching for the bottle.

“I’m good.” He watches you pour yourself half a glass of the nonalcoholic stuff, the way you always do now, just to have a taste. The baby. His third kid. He still can’t wrap his head around it sometimes, the fact that this is his life. That you’re his life.

“Daddy, can I have more potatoes?” Your daughter — Elena, five years old with his dark hair and your smile — holds up her plate with both hands.

“Magic word,” Mat says, cutting into his steak.

“Please?” She draws it out, batting her eyelashes, and he’s done for. Completely done for.

“Your daughter’s gonna be trouble,” you say, but you’re already spooning more onto her plate.

“My daughter?” Mat raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure she gets that from you.”

“I’m an angel.” You sit back down, one hand absently resting on your stomach. Six months along and you’re glowing. He can’t stop looking at you, even after all these years. Especially after all these years.

“Mama’s an angel,” your son — Reid, three — echoes through a mouthful of green beans.

“See?” You grin at Mat. “Reid knows.”

“Reid also thinks the dog can talk, so.”

“Hades can talk,” Reid insists. “He told me he wants bacon.”

“Hades wants bacon because you keep feeding him bacon under the table.” Mat points his fork at his son. “I see you, buddy.”

Elena giggles, and the sound fills something in his chest he didn’t know was empty until he had kids. Until he had this. A family. A real one, not the fractured, violent thing he grew up in.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.

He ignores it.

“How was your day?” You ask, taking a sip of wine. Your eyes are on him, that look you get when you’re reading him, trying to figure out what’s going on in his head. You’ve always been able to do that, since the first night he met you at that gallery opening in SoHo. He’d been there on business — the guy who owned the place owed money to the wrong people — and you’d been there because you actually gave a shit about art.

“Boring meetings,” Mat says, which isn’t entirely a lie. He’d spent four hours in a warehouse in Red Hook listening to his guys give reports on shipments and territory disputes. “Nothing exciting.”

“Liar.” But you’re smiling.

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“I believe you sat through boring meetings. I don’t believe you didn’t make them interesting.”

His phone goes off again. A call this time. He feels it buzz against his thigh and fights the urge to check it.

“Daddy, tell the story about the dragon,” Elena says.

“Please,” Reid adds, because he’s a good kid, and also because he knows it works.

Mat glances at you. You nod, like you always do, like you know he needs these moments. The normal ones. The ones where he’s just a dad telling his kids a bedtime story over dinner.

“Alright, so there’s this dragon, right?” He leans forward, lowering his voice. Both kids lean in too, eyes wide. “And he’s guarding this huge treasure at the top of a mountain-”

His phone rings again.

“Mat.” Your voice is soft. Not annoyed, just knowing.

He pulls it out, glances at the screen. Anders. His underboss. Anders doesn’t call unless it’s important, and he definitely doesn’t call three times in a row unless it’s urgent.

“I gotta take this.” He’s already standing, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Two seconds, I promise.”

He steps into the hallway, closing the dining room door behind him.

“What.”

“We got a problem at the docks.” Anders’s voice is tight, clipped. “Panarin’s guys showed up with a truck full of product. They’re saying the territory’s theirs now, that we don’t have claim to the waterfront anymore.”

Mat’s jaw clenches. Artemi Panarin. Russian syndicate, been pushing into his territory for months now. He’d warned him. Twice. Apparently, the message hadn’t stuck.

“How many?”

“Eight, maybe ten. They’re armed. Our guys are holding position, but Boss, they’re getting antsy. If we don’t do something soon-”

“I’m on my way.” Mat ends the call, takes a breath. Then another. He rolls his shoulders back, loosens his tie.

When he walks back into the dining room, you’re watching him. You already know.

“I have to go,” he says.

Elena’s face falls. “But the dragon-”

“I’ll finish it when I get back, sweetheart. I promise.” He moves around the table, kisses the top of her head, then Reid’s. Both of them smell like the lavender soap you insist on using for bath time. “Be good for Mama, okay?”

“Okay,” they chorus.

He stops behind your chair, his hands on your shoulders. You tilt your head back to look at him, and God, you’re so beautiful it hurts sometimes. Even now, especially now, with your hair pulled back and no makeup and wearing one of his old t-shirts because none of your regular clothes fit anymore.

“Thank you for dinner,” he says, leaning down to kiss you. Your lips are soft, familiar, home. “It was perfect. You’re perfect.”

“Be careful,” you whisper against his mouth.

“Always am.”

He kneels beside your chair, eye level with your belly. His hand splays across the fabric, feeling the firm swell of it, the life inside. His life. His kid.

“You be good too,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss there. “Don’t give your mama a hard time.”

“Too late for that,” you say, but your hand covers his, squeezes.

He stands, looks at you for a long moment. Tries to memorize this — the way you look at him, like he’s more than what he is. Like he’s worthy of this life you’ve built together.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promises.

“I know.”

He grabs his keys, his gun from the safe in his office, and he’s out the door.

***

The drive to the docks takes twenty minutes, but Mat makes it in twelve.

Anders’s waiting for him in the shadows of Warehouse Six, three other guys flanking him. Ryan, Bo, and Casey. Good men. Loyal. The kind who don’t ask questions when shit needs to get done.

“Update,” Mat says, not bothering with pleasantries.

“They’re in the main warehouse.” Anders jerks his head toward the building. “Unloading crates like they own the place. I counted nine, but there could be more inside.”

“They say anything else?”

“Just that Panarin sends his regards and that you can take your ‘arrangement’ and shove it.” Anders’s mouth twists. “Said some other shit too, but you get the idea.”

Mat feels that familiar coldness settle over him. It’s not anger, not really. It’s focus. Clarity. The part of him that knows exactly what needs to be done and how to do it.

“Alright.” He checks his gun, chambers a round. “Here’s how this goes. Ryan, Bo, you take the side entrance. Casey, you’re with Anders on the back. I’ll go through the front.”

“Boss, that’s-” Anders starts.

“That’s how we’re doing it.” Mat’s voice is flat, final. “They want to disrespect me in my territory? They’re gonna see me coming. I want them to know exactly who they fucked with.”

Anders nods, doesn’t argue. None of them do. They know better.

Mat walks toward the main entrance, doesn’t hurry. The door’s already open, light spilling out onto the concrete. He can hear voices inside, Russian and broken English, the scrape of crates being moved.

He steps through the doorway.

There are nine of them, just like Anders said. They freeze when they see him, hands moving toward weapons.

“Gentlemen,” Mat says, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

A tall guy with a shaved head steps forward. He’s got a scar running from his eye to his jaw, and he’s holding an AK-47 like he knows how to use it.

“No misunderstanding,” the guy says. His accent is thick, almost comical. “Panarin says this is our territory now. You leave, we don’t kill you.”

Mat laughs. He can’t help it. “That’s generous.”

“Is only option.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” Mat takes a step forward. The guy with the scar tenses, but doesn’t raise his weapon. Not yet. “This is my territory. Has been for five years. And your boss? He knows that. So either he’s testing me, or he’s stupid enough to think he can just take it. Which is it?”

“Does not matter. You leave or you die.”

“Third option,” Mat says, and then he moves.

He’s fast — always has been — and his first shot takes the guy with the scar in the chest before anyone can react. The second shot hits another guy in the throat. Then Anders and the others are there, coming through the side and back entrances, and it’s chaos.

Gunfire. Shouting. The sharp smell of cordite and blood.

Mat doesn’t think. He just moves. Muscle memory and instinct. He takes cover behind a crate, fires three more shots. Two hit their marks. The third goes wide, but Ryan’s there to clean it up.

It’s over in less than three minutes.

Nine bodies. None of them his.

Mat stands in the center of the warehouse, his heart rate barely elevated. Blood spatters his white shirt, his face. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“Clean this up,” he tells Anders. “Make sure Panarin gets the message.”

“What message?”

“Send him their fingers. All of them.” Mat holsters his gun. “And tell him if he ever steps foot in my territory again, I’ll send him back to Chelyabinsk in pieces.”

Anders nods, already pulling out his phone to call the cleanup crew.

Mat walks back to his car, strips off his jacket and tosses it in the trunk. He’ll burn it later. The shirt’s ruined too, but he keeps it on. Can’t exactly drive home shirtless.

The drive back is quieter than the drive there. He cracks the windows, lets the night air cool his face. His hands are steady on the wheel.

By the time he pulls into the driveway, it’s past ten. The house is quiet, most of the lights off except for the ones in the kitchen and the hallway. You always leave them on when he’s out late.

He lets himself in through the side door, kicks off his shoes. Hades trots over, tail wagging, and Mat scratches behind his ears.

“Hey, buddy. Kids in bed?”

The dog just stares at him, tongue lolling.

“Yeah, stupid question.”

He walks through the dining room, past the kitchen where dinner plates are still drying by the sink. You always say it’s bad luck to go to bed with a dirty kitchen when he’s out.

He finds you in the living room, curled up on the couch with a book. You look up when he comes in, and relief floods your face.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Hi.” He crosses to you, leans down to kiss you. Your hands come up to his face, cupping his jaw, and you pull back slightly, eyes scanning him.

“You’re okay?”

“I’m home safe and sound. Just like I promised.”

Your thumb brushes his cheekbone, and when you pull it away, there’s blood on it. Not his. Never his, if he can help it.

“Come on,” you say, standing. Your hand finds his, and you lead him upstairs to the master bathroom.

He sits on the edge of the tub while you wet a washcloth, warm water running over your fingers. You stand between his legs, gently wiping the blood from his face. Your touch is soft, methodical. You’ve done this before. Too many times, probably.

“Was it bad?” You ask quietly.

“Not really.” He watches you work, the way your brow furrows in concentration. “Panarin’s guys thought they could take the docks.”

“And?”

“They were wrong.”

You rinse the cloth, wring it out, wipe down his neck. There’s more blood there, spatters he didn’t notice.

“I worry about you,” you say after a moment.

“I know.”

“The kids worry too. They’re too young to understand, but they know when you leave like that.”

Guilt twists in his gut. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” You toss the cloth in the sink, your hands moving to his shoulders. “Just … come home. Always come home.”

“I will. I always will.” He pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist, his forehead resting against your belly. “You’re everything, you know that? You and the kids. You’re everything.”

Your fingers thread through his hair, gentle. “I know.”

He looks up at you, and the love in your eyes nearly undoes him. How did he get this lucky? How does someone like him — someone with blood on his hands and violence in his veins — get to have something this good?

“I love you,” he says, because he needs you to hear it. Needs you to know.

“I love you too.” You lean down, kiss him slow and deep, and when you pull back, you’re smiling. “Now take me to bed.”

“Yeah?” His hands slide up your sides, feeling the curve of your waist, the swell of your belly.

“Yeah.” Your eyes are dark, warm. “But not to sleep.”

He stands, lifting you easily despite your protests about the baby weight. You wrap your arms around his neck, laughing, and he carries you to the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

The night air filters through the open window, cool and salt-tinged from the nearby water. He lays you down on the bed, follows you down, and for the next hour, there’s nothing else. No territory. No rivals. No blood.

Just you and him and the life you’ve built in the spaces between the violence.

Later, when you’re asleep beside him, your head on his chest and one hand resting over his heart, Mat stares at the ceiling and thinks about Panarin. About the message he sent tonight. About whether it’ll be enough.

It has to be. Because he’s got too much to lose now.

He turns his head, presses a kiss to your hair, and closes his eyes.

Tomorrow, he’ll deal with whatever comes next. Tonight, he’s home.

Tonight, he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

***

“I don’t need new shoes,” you say, but you’re already looking at the Louboutins in the window display, and Mat knows he’s won this argument before it’s even started.

“Baby, you’re six months pregnant. Your feet are killing you.” He steers you toward the entrance of the boutique, his hand on the small of your back. “Besides, when’s the last time I got to spoil you?”

“You spoil me constantly.”

“Not enough.” He opens the door for you, follows you inside. The place smells expensive — leather and perfume and money. A saleswoman in all black approaches immediately, her smile professionally warm.

“Good morning. How can I help you today?”

“She needs shoes,” Mat says, before you can protest again. “Comfortable ones. Pretty ones. Whatever she wants.”

“I’m pregnant, not disabled,” you mutter, but you’re already gravitating toward a display of flats.

“I understand completely,” the saleswoman says, her eyes flicking to your belly. “We have a wonderful selection that’s both stylish and comfortable. Let me show you.”

Mat settles onto a velvet couch while you browse, the saleswoman hovering nearby with suggestions. He watches you consider a pair of black flats, then nude pumps, then these strappy sandal things that he knows you’ll look incredible in but probably won’t be practical for much longer.

“What about these?” You hold up a pair of soft leather loafers.

“Get them.”

“Mat, they’re-” You glance at the price tag, lower your voice. “They’re eighteen hundred dollars.”

“So?”

“So that’s insane for shoes.”

He stands, crosses to you, takes the shoes from your hands and passes them to the saleswoman. “We’ll take these. And those.” He points to the flats you were looking at earlier. “And those sandals. The strappy ones.”

“Mat-”

“And whatever boots you’ve got that’ll fit her in a few months when the baby’s here and winter hits.”

The saleswoman is already pulling boxes, her smile widening. You turn to him, hands on your hips, but you’re trying not to smile.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love.” He kisses your forehead. “There’s a difference.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re walking out with four pairs of shoes, and Mat’s carrying the bags because you tried to and he physically removed them from your hands.

“I can carry a shopping bag,” you say.

“Not today you can’t.”

“The baby’s inside me, not in the bags.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He flags down his driver — Scott, who’s been trailing them at a discreet distance all morning in the black SUV. “You’re not carrying shit today.”

“Such language,” you tease, but you thread your arm through his as you walk.

The city’s alive around them — Saturday afternoon in Manhattan, tourists and locals mixing on the crowded sidewalks, street vendors hawking everything from hot dogs to knock-off handbags. Mat keeps you close, his body angled slightly in front of yours, always aware of who’s around them, who’s too close, who’s looking too long.

It’s instinct now. Second nature.

“Where to next?” You ask.

“Lunch. I made reservations at that place you’ve been talking about.”

Your face lights up. “Marea?”

“That’s the one.”

“Mat, you didn’t have to-”

“Yeah, I did.” He stops walking, turns to face you fully. People flow around them like water around stones. “You’ve been taking care of me, the kids, the house, growing a whole other human. Let me do this. Let me take care of you for once.”

Your eyes soften, and you reach up to touch his face, your palm warm against his cheek. “You always take care of me.”

“Not enough,” he says again, because it’s true. There’s never enough time, never enough moments like this where it’s just the two of you and the rest of the world doesn’t matter.

“The kids are having the time of their lives with my parents,” you say, like you’re reading his mind. “Dad’s probably teaching Reid how to play poker right now.”

“Your dad cheats at poker.”

“Exactly. Important life lesson.” You grin. “And Mom’s definitely taking Elena to get her nails done. She’s been begging for weeks.”

“She’s five.”

“She’s your daughter. She knows what she wants.”

Mat laughs, pulls you close, and kisses you right there on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 57th Street, with a hundred strangers walking past and not one of them mattering even a little bit.

***

Lunch is perfect.

The pasta’s incredible — you order the lobster linguine and moan at the first bite in a way that makes Mat shift in his seat and think about getting you home sooner rather than later. He gets the lamb, but he’s barely paying attention to his food because he’s too busy watching you eat, the way you close your eyes when something tastes good, the little satisfied sounds you make.

“Stop staring at me,” you say without opening your eyes.

“Can’t help it.”

“You’re being distracting.”

“Good.”

You open one eye, give him a look that’s half exasperation, half affection. “We’re in public.”

“So?”

“So behave.”

“I’m always behaved.”

“You’re never behaved.” But you’re smiling, and when you reach across the table for his hand, he takes it, threading his fingers through yours.

The waiter appears with more wine — just water for you — and asks if you want dessert.

“Not here,” Mat says, and when the waiter leaves, he leans forward. “I’m taking you to Veniero’s after this. You’ve been craving their cannoli since last week.”

“How do you even remember that?”

“I remember everything about you.”

It’s true. He remembers that you fold your socks a specific way and that you can’t sleep if the closet door’s open and that you hate the texture of bananas but love the taste. He remembers that you cried at Elena’s kindergarten orientation and laughed until you couldn’t breathe when Reid got into the flour and looked like a tiny ghost. He remembers every version of you he’s ever known — the girl at the gallery, the woman who said yes when he proposed after six months because he knew he couldn’t wait any longer, the mother of his children, the wife who cleans blood off his face and never asks him to be anything other than what he is.

“I love you,” you say quietly.

“I love you too.”

You finish lunch slowly, no rush, just the two of you talking about everything and nothing. You tell him about the book you’re reading — some thriller about a woman who fakes her own death — and he tells you about Elena’s latest obsession with dinosaurs and how she’s correcting everyone’s pronunciation of pterodactyl.

“She gets that from you,” you say.

“What, being a know-it-all?”

“No, being right.” You squeeze his hand. “And confident about it.”

By the time they leave the restaurant, it’s past two, and the afternoon sun is warm on their faces. Scott’s waiting at the curb, but Mat waves him off.

“We’re walking,” he calls out.

“Boss, you sure?” Scott looks nervous. He’s not young, early-thirties, but relatively new to the crew. He takes his job seriously, which Mat appreciates, but sometimes the driver needs to relax.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Stay close but give us space.”

Scott nods, retreats to the SUV.

You slip your hand into Mat’s as they start walking. “He’s worried about you.”

“He’s paid to be worried about me.”

“He’s loyal. That’s good.”

“Yeah.” Mat’s quiet for a moment, thinking about Anders and Ryan and the others. Thinking about what loyalty means in his world, how it’s bought with money and blood and fear, but sometimes, rarely, it’s real. “It is.”

Veniero’s is ten blocks away, and you’re moving slower now, one hand on your belly. He notices but doesn’t say anything, just adjusts his pace to match yours.

“I’m fine,” you say anyway.

“I know.”

“The baby’s just active today. Lots of kicking.”

“Yeah?” He stops, pulls you closer to the building, out of the main flow of foot traffic. “Can I feel?”

You take his hand, place it on the left side of your belly. He waits, patient, and then … there. A flutter, then a solid thump against his palm.

“Whoa,” he breathes.

“Right?” You’re smiling up at him, your eyes bright. “Strong, like his dad.”

“Or her.”

“Or her,” you agree. “Either way, this kid’s gonna be trouble.”

“Takes after their mom, then.”

You laugh, and the sound wraps around him like a physical thing, warm and safe and home.

They start walking again, your arm looped through his. You’re telling him about something Elena said this morning, some elaborate story about a princess and a dragon that became friends, and he’s listening, he is, but part of him is always scanning. Always watching.

Which is why he sees the guy before you do.

He’s twenty feet away, moving through the crowd with purpose, his right hand inside his jacket. Mat knows that walk. Knows that look. He’s seen it a thousand times.

The guy’s eyes lock on Mat’s, and there’s recognition there. Intent.

“Baby,” Mat says quietly, his voice even. “Close your eyes for me.”

You stop mid-sentence, looking up at him. “What?”

“Close your eyes. Right now.” He’s already moving, already positioning himself between you and the threat.

To your credit, you don’t argue. Don’t ask questions. You just close your eyes, and Mat loves you for it, loves you so much it’s almost painful.

The guy’s hand comes out of his jacket — gun, matte black, silencer already attached — and Mat’s faster.

Two shots. Center mass. The guy drops.

The crowd scatters, screaming, but Mat’s already got his gun back in his holster, already got his arm around you.

“Keep them closed,” he murmurs against your ear. “We’re gonna walk now, okay? Just keep them closed.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

He guides you forward, your hand gripping his arm. Scott’s there suddenly, the SUV screeching to a halt beside them.

“Boss-”

“Handle it. Call Anders. I want to know who sent him within the hour.” Mat’s voice is ice, and Scott nods, already on his phone.

Mat opens the back door of the SUV, helps you inside. You still have your eyes closed. He slides in beside you, closes the door, and only then does he say, “You can open them now.”

You do, and your eyes are clear, calm. Not scared. Never scared, not his girl.

“You okay?” You ask.

“Yeah. You?”

“I’m fine.” You glance toward the front of the SUV, where Scott’s already pulling away from the curb, maneuvering through traffic. Then you look back at Mat, and there’s something in your expression he can’t quite read. “Can we still go to Veniero’s?”

He blinks. “What?”

“Veniero’s. For the cannoli.” You place a hand on your belly. “The baby’s still craving them. So am I.”

And just like that, he’s in love with you all over again. Maybe he never stopped. Maybe it just keeps happening, over and over, every time you do something that reminds him why he married you.

“Yeah,” he says, a smile tugging at his mouth despite everything. “Yeah, we can still go.”

You lean forward, tap on the partition. “Scott? Veniero’s, please. On East 11th.”

“Uh, sure thing, Mrs. Barzal.” Scott sounds uncertain, like he’s not sure if this is some kind of test.

You settle back against the seat, your hand finding Mat’s. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For always protecting me. For letting me keep my eyes closed.” Your thumb traces circles on his palm. “For not making me see that side of you.”

“You know what I am,” Mat says quietly. “You’ve always known.”

“I know what you do. That’s different from what you are.” You shift closer, your head on his shoulder. “What you are is a good man. A good father. A good husband. The rest … the rest is just what you do to keep us safe.”

Mat doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t trust himself to speak around the tightness in his chest.

So he just holds you as Scott drives, the city passing by outside the windows, and thinks about the guy he just killed. Wonders if it was Panarin’s doing, retaliation for the docks. Wonders how many more will come before this is over.

But then you’re tilting your head up, your lips brushing his jaw, and you whisper, “I love you,” and the wondering stops mattering quite so much.

-888

Veniero’s is packed when they arrive, but the owner — Sal, whose nephew owes Mat a favor, or maybe it’s his cousin, Mat can’t remember — takes one look at them and immediately clears a table by the window.

“Mrs. Barzal, looking beautiful as always,” Sal says, pulling out your chair himself. “And Mr. Barzal. Good to see you.”

“Thanks, Sal.” Mat shakes his hand, slips him a folded hundred. “Appreciate it.”

“No need for that, but-” Sal pockets the bill smoothly. “I’ll make sure you get the freshest cannoli. Just made this morning.”

“Perfect,” you say, smiling up at him. “And maybe some sfogliatelle? If you have them?”

“For you? Anything.” Sal disappears into the back, and Mat takes the seat across from you.

The bakery smells like sugar and espresso and everything good in the world. Old Italian men nurse tiny cups of coffee at the counter, their voices a low rumble of Sicilian dialect. Tourists take pictures of the pastry displays, their phones flashing.

“This is nice,” you say, looking around. “Normal.”

“Normal,” Mat repeats, and almost laughs. “You just watched me kill a guy, and now we’re eating pastries.”

“I didn’t watch.” You pick up a menu even though you already know what you’re getting. “I had my eyes closed, remember?”

“Right. Of course.”

“Besides, normal is relative.” You peer at him over the top of the menu. “Our normal is different from other people’s normal.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

Sal returns with a tray laden with pastries — cannoli, sfogliatelle, rainbow cookies, biscotti, and what looks like half a tiramisu. “On the house,” he says when Mat reaches for his wallet. “For the beautiful lady and her bambino.”

“Sal, you don’t have to-”

“I insist. Mangia, mangia.” He pats Mat on the shoulder and walks away before Mat can argue.

You’re already reaching for a cannoli, biting into it with a satisfied sound that makes Mat think about getting you home, getting you out of that dress, getting his mouth on-

“You’re doing it again,” you say through a mouthful of pastry.

“Doing what?”

“Staring at me like you want to devour me.”

“I do want to devour you.”

“Mat.” But you’re blushing, that pretty pink that starts at your cheeks and travels down your neck, and he knows you’re thinking about it too. About later. About home and your bed and the things he’s going to do to you.

“Eat your cannoli,” he says, grinning.

You take another bite, cream filling sticking to your upper lip. Without thinking, Mat leans forward and wipes it away with his thumb, then licks it clean. Your eyes darken.

“You’re trouble,” you murmur.

“You like it.”

“Yeah, I really do.”

He feeds you a piece of sfogliatelle, watching your lips close around his fingers. You’re doing it on purpose, he knows, the way you hold eye contact, the way your tongue darts out to catch a flake of pastry.

“We should eat faster,” he says, his voice rough.

“Why’s that?”

“Because I promised you dessert at home, and I’m thinking we should get to that part of the day.”

“The real dessert,” you say, your smile wicked.

“Exactly.”

You eat faster after that, both of you, and when Mat signals Paulie that they’re ready to go, the kid appears at the door within seconds.

The drive home feels longer than it is, even though Scott’s definitely speeding. Mat keeps your hand in his, his thumb tracing patterns on your wrist, your palm, your fingers. He can feel your pulse, steady and strong, and it grounds him.

Someone tried to kill him today. Tried to kill him while he was with you, while you were pregnant and vulnerable and-

“Hey.” Your voice cuts through his thoughts. “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Spiraling. I can see it happening.” You scoot closer, until you’re pressed against his side. “We’re okay. I’m okay. The baby’s okay.”

“I should’ve seen him sooner.”

“You saw him in time. That’s what matters.”

“If I hadn’t-”

“But you did.” You take his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. “You always do. You always keep us safe.”

“I can’t lose you,” he says, and his voice cracks on the words. “I can’t—if something happened to you, to the baby-”

“Nothing’s going to happen.” You kiss him, soft and slow. “You won’t let it.”

He wants to believe you. Wants to believe that he’s strong enough, fast enough, smart enough to keep you safe from everything this life throws at you. But he’s seen too much, knows too well how quickly things can go wrong.

“I love you,” he says against your mouth. “So fucking much.”

“I know. I love you too.”

The rest of the drive passes in silence, your head on his shoulder, his arm around you. When they pull into the driveway, the house looks exactly as they left it — quiet, peaceful, home.

Scott parks and starts to get out, but Mat stops him.

“Take the night off. I’ll call if I need anything.”

“You sure, Boss?”

“Yeah. Go see that girl you’ve been talking about. What’s her name? Sarah?”

Paulie’s ears turn red. “Stephanie.”

“Right, Stephanie. Go see her. Buy her dinner. Don’t tell her what you do for a living.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Scott mutters, but he’s smiling.

Mat helps you out of the SUV, his hand on your waist. You’re moving slower now, tired from the day, and he can see it in the way you lean into him as you walk to the door.

“Bath first,” you say. “I need to soak.”

“I’ll run it for you.”

“And then the other dessert?”

“And then the other dessert.”

Inside, the house is quiet. Mat locks the door, sets the alarm, checks the windows. Force of habit. Then he follows you upstairs, watching the sway of your hips, the way your hand trails along the banister.

In the bathroom, he turns on the taps, adds the bath salts you like — lavender and something else he can’t pronounce. You strip off your dress, and he’s there to help, his hands gentle on your skin. The bruise on your hip from where you bumped the kitchen counter this morning. The stretch marks on your belly, new and silver. The scar on your shoulder from when you were sixteen and fell off your bike.

He knows every inch of you. Knows every mark and freckle and imperfection that makes you perfect.

“Get in,” he says, when the bath is full.

You do, sighing as you sink into the water. He sits on the edge of the tub, his hand on your shoulder, and just watches you relax.

“Join me?” You ask after a minute.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He strips quickly, slides in behind you. You settle back against his chest, your head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around you, his hands resting on your belly.

“Can you feel that?” You ask.

“Feel what?”

“The baby. Moving.”

He focuses, and there — a gentle roll beneath his palms, like waves under skin.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I feel it.”

“That’s our kid in there.”

“I know.”

“Crazy, right? That we made this. That in three months, we’re going to have another person in our lives who we’ll love just as much as Elena and Reid.”

“More than I thought possible,” Mat agrees.

You turn your head, kissing his jaw. “You’re going to be such a good dad to this one. You already are to the other two.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re succeeding.”

He holds you in the water until it starts to cool, until your fingers are pruned and your eyes are drooping. Then he helps you out, dries you off with a towel warmed from the heated rack, and carries you to bed even though you protest that you can walk just fine.

“Indulge me,” he says, laying you down on the sheets.

“You’ve been indulging me all day.”

“Your turn to indulge me, then.”

He stretches out beside you, propping himself up on one elbow, and just looks at you for a moment. Your hair is damp, curling at the ends. Your skin is flushed from the bath. Your eyes are warm and soft and full of love.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hi.”

“Kiss me?”

He does. Slow and deep, taking his time, his hand sliding up your thigh, your hip, the curve of your waist. You arch into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, and when you moan against his mouth, he swallows the sound.

“Mat,” you breathe.

“I’ve got you,” he promises.

And he does. For the next hour, he takes you apart piece by piece, learning your body all over again the way it is now — different, softer, more sensitive. You come twice before he even moves inside you, and when he finally does, when you’re wrapped around him and gasping his name, he thinks this is what heaven must be like.

After, you’re curled against him, boneless and satisfied, your breath evening out into sleep. He stays awake, one hand on your belly, feeling the baby move.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. He ignores it. It buzzes again. And again.

Carefully, so as not to wake you, he reaches for it.

Three texts from Anders.

Guy was Panarin’s. Confirmed.

Word on the street is there’s a bounty. 500k for your head.

We need to talk. Tomorrow. Early.

Mat sets the phone down, stares at the ceiling. Five hundred thousand dollars. That’s more than he expected. Panarin’s clearly serious about this.

He looks down at you, sleeping peacefully in his arms. Thinks about Elena and Reid at your parents’ house, probably passed out in a sugar coma. Thinks about the baby, growing steadily, due in three months.

He has too much to lose.

Which means Panarin needs to die. Soon. Before this escalates any further.

But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight, right now, he’s going to hold his wife and listen to her breathe and memorize this moment.

Because moments like these? They’re what he’s fighting for.

They’re what he’d kill for.

And they’re what he’d die for, if it came to that.

But it won’t. He won’t let it.

***

The thing about killing a man is that it’s easier the more you do it.

Mat learned that a long time ago, back when he was nineteen and stupid and thought he had something to prove. He’d thrown up after his first kill, shaking so hard Anders had to drive him home. The second time was easier. The third, easier still.

By the time he’d made his bones — really made them, not just the small-time shit — it was just business. Point, shoot, dispose. Rinse and repeat.

But Panarin is different.

Panarin tried to kill him in front of you. While you were pregnant. While you were vulnerable and trusting and holding his arm as you walked down a Manhattan street in the middle of the afternoon.

So killing Panarin isn’t just business.

It’s personal.

Mat sits in his car outside a warehouse in Red Hook, watching the entrance. It’s three in the morning on a Wednesday, and the streets are empty except for a stray cat picking through garbage and a homeless guy sleeping against a building two blocks down.

Anders’s in the passenger seat, checking his gun for the third time.

“You ready for this?” Anders asks.

“Yeah.”

“Because we can wait. Get more intel. Make sure-”

“I’m ready.” Mat’s voice is flat, final. “He put a bounty on my head. He tried to have me killed in front of my wife. This ends tonight.”

Anders nods, doesn’t argue. They’ve been working together long enough that he knows when Mat’s made up his mind.

Ryan and Bo are in the car behind them, waiting for the signal. Casey is watching the back entrance, ready to cut off any escape routes.

“Intel says he’s inside,” Anders says, checking his phone. “Third floor, northeast corner office. Four guards with him, maybe five.”

“And the rest of the building?”

“Should be empty. It’s a front — they use it for storage, but there’s no legitimate business happening at three AM.”

Mat opens his door, gun already in his hand. “Let’s go.”

They move fast and quiet, years of practice making them shadows. The front entrance is locked, but Bo has it open in thirty seconds. They slip inside, into darkness that smells like motor oil and rust.

The stairs are on the far side of the warehouse floor. Mat leads, Anders right behind him, Ryan and Bo covering their six. Every sound is amplified in the silence — the creak of a stair, the rustle of clothing, their breathing.

Third floor. Northeast corner.

There’s a guard outside the office door, nodding off in a folding chair. Mat doesn’t give him a chance to wake up properly — two shots, suppressed, center mass. The guy slumps, and Anders catches him before he can hit the ground, lowers him quietly.

Mat tries the door handle. Locked.

He looks at Anders, jerks his head toward the door. Anders nods, steps back, and Mat kicks it open.

The office is bigger than he expected, nicer. Leather furniture, expensive art on the walls, a view of the water. And Panarin, sitting behind a massive desk, a glass of vodka in his hand and four guards suddenly scrambling for their weapons.

Mat shoots the first guard before he can draw. Anders takes the second. Ryan and Bo burst in behind them, handling the other two.

Panarin doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. He just takes a sip of his vodka and looks at Mat like this is all very tedious.

“Barzal,” he says, his accent thick. “I wondered when you would come.”

“You tried to kill me,” Mat says conversationally, like they’re discussing the weather. “In front of my pregnant wife.”

“Business.” Panarin shrugs. “Nothing personal.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” Mat crosses the room slowly, his gun trained on Panarin’s head. “When you go after me in front of my family, it becomes very fucking personal.”

“You killed my men at the docks.”

“You sent them to my territory.”

“Is my territory now.”

Mat laughs, cold and sharp. “No, it’s not. It never was. And now you’re not going to be around to argue about it.”

Panarin sets down his glass, finally showing a flicker of emotion — fear, maybe, or resignation. “If you kill me, my organization will come for you. For your family. Your children.”

“Your organization is going to be too busy figuring out who’s in charge now that you’re dead.” Mat stops in front of the desk. “And if anyone comes near my family, I’ll kill them too. And then I’ll kill everyone they love. I’ll burn your entire operation to the ground.”

“Big words.”

“Not words. A promise.”

He pulls the trigger.

Panarin’s head snaps back, and he slumps in his chair, the expensive leather soaking up his blood. Mat stares at him for a long moment, making sure. Making sure it’s done. Making sure this threat is gone.

“Boss,” Anders says quietly. “We should go.”

Mat nods, holsters his gun. They move quickly, retracing their steps, and they’re back in the cars within five minutes.

As Scott drives — because Mat called him after all, needed someone he trusted behind the wheel — Mat checks his phone.

Eleven missed calls from you.

His heart stops.

“Drive faster,” he tells Scott.

“Boss, I’m already-”

“Faster.”

Scott presses the accelerator, and Mat calls you back, his hands shaking in a way they never shake after a kill.

You answer on the first ring.

“Mat.” Your voice is tight, strained. “Where are you?”

“On my way home. What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it the baby?”

“I think-” You gasp, and he hears it, the pain in your voice. “I think I’m in labor. The contractions started about an hour ago, and they’re getting closer together, and—oh God-”

“I’m ten minutes away. Less. Just breathe, baby, okay? Breathe for me.”

“I’m trying.” Another gasp. “Mat, I’m scared.”

“I know. I know, but you’ve done this twice before. You’re so strong. You’re the strongest person I know.” He’s leaning forward in his seat like that’ll make the car go faster. “Where are the kids?”

“Asleep. I didn’t want to wake them until—fuck—until you got home.”

“I’m almost there. I promise. Just keep breathing.”

He stays on the phone with you the whole way, talking you through contractions, listening to you breathe and curse and cry. When Scott finally pulls into the driveway, Mat’s out of the car before it fully stops.

He takes the front steps two at a time, bursts through the door, and finds you in the living room, bent over the couch, one hand on your belly.

“Hey,” he says, crossing to you immediately. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

“You’re here,” you breathe, and when you look up at him, there are tears on your face. “You came home.”

“Always. I always come home.” He cups your face, kisses you gently. “How far apart are the contractions?”

“Ten minutes. Maybe eight. I don’t-” You grip his arms as another one hits, your face contorting. “Oh God, Mat, this one really hurts.”

“I know, baby. I know. Breathe through it. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” He breathes with you, exaggerating it so you can match his rhythm. “That’s it. You’re doing so good.”

When the contraction passes, you slump against him, exhausted already. “We need to go to the hospital.”

“Yeah, we do. Let me call someone to stay with the kids.”

He pulls out his phone, calls the first number he can think of — Melanie, the babysitter you trust, the college kid from down the street who’s watched Elena and Reid a dozen times.

She answers, groggy. “Hello?”

“Melanie, it’s Mat Barzal. I need you at my house right now. My wife’s in labor.”

“Oh my God, okay, yes, I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Make it three.” He hangs up, shoves the phone in his pocket, and helps you straighten up. “Melanie’s coming. Let me grab your hospital bag.”

“It’s in the bedroom. By the closet.”

He takes the stairs three at a time, finds the bag exactly where you said it would be — packed and ready, because you’re always prepared, always thinking ahead. He grabs it and his phone charger and then stops, takes a breath.

He just killed a man.

There’s still blood on his shirt — not his own, spatter from when he shot one of Panarin’s guards at close range. He strips it off, tosses it in the hamper, grabs a clean one from the closet.

When he gets back downstairs, you’re having another contraction, gripping the back of the couch, your breathing harsh and uneven.

“Five minutes,” you gasp. “That was only five minutes.”

“Then we need to move.” He drops the bag by the door, comes to your side. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

But when the contraction passes and you try to take a step, your legs buckle. Mat catches you, sweeps you up into his arms without thinking twice.

“Mat, I’m too heavy-”

“You’re perfect.” He carries you toward the door just as Melanie’s car pulls into the driveway. She’s out and running up the walkway in pajama pants and a sweatshirt, her hair in a messy bun.

“Oh my God, is she okay?” Melanie eyes are wide.

“She’s in labor. Kids are asleep upstairs. Don’t wake them unless you have to. We’ll call when we have news.” Mat’s already moving past her, carrying you to his car.

“Okay, yes, go, good luck!” Melanie calls after you.

Mat settles you in the passenger seat as gently as he can, buckles your seatbelt, kisses your forehead. “You’re doing great.”

“I’m literally just sitting here.”

“And you look beautiful doing it.” He closes your door, tosses the hospital bag in the back, and slides into the driver’s seat.

The hospital is fifteen minutes away. Mat makes it in eight.

You have two more contractions in the car, and by the time he’s pulling up to the emergency entrance, you’re gripping the door handle so hard your knuckles are white.

“We’re here,” he says, already out and coming around to your side. “We’re here, baby.”

He helps you out, and a nurse is there with a wheelchair immediately, like she’d been waiting.

“How far apart are the contractions?” She asks as Mat helps you sit.

“Four minutes,” you gasp. “Maybe less.”

“And this is baby number …”

“Three.”

“Okay, third babies tend to come fast. Let’s get you upstairs.” She’s already wheeling you toward the elevators, and Mat’s right beside you, one hand on your shoulder.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmurs. “So, so good.”

“This hurts so much more than I remember,” you say through gritted teeth.

“Because you’re incredible and your body blocked out the pain so you’d be willing to do this again.”

“That’s a design flaw.”

He laughs despite everything, kisses the top of your head. “Yeah, it really is.”

Upstairs, they get you into a room, into a hospital gown, hooked up to monitors. A doctor comes in — the same one who delivered Reid — and checks your progress.

“You’re at six centimeters,” she says, snapping off her gloves. “Moving fast. Have you thought about an epidural?”

“Yes,” you say immediately. “Please. Right now. Immediately.”

“I’ll page the anesthesiologist.”

But fifteen minutes pass. Then twenty. You’re at seven centimeters now, and the contractions are coming every two minutes, and you’re crying from the pain, and Mat is about to lose his mind.

“Where the fuck is the anesthesiologist?” He demands when a nurse comes in to check on you.

“He’s with another patient. He’ll be here as soon as-”

“My wife is in pain. Right now. She needs him right now.”

“Sir, I understand, but-”

“No, I don’t think you do.” Mat’s voice drops, goes cold. It’s the voice he uses when he’s negotiating, when he’s making it clear that there’s no room for argument. “Get him in here in the next five minutes, or I’m going to go find him myself and drag him here. Do you understand me?”

The nurse’s eyes widen, and she nods quickly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She scurries out, and you reach for Mat’s hand, squeezing weakly. “You can’t threaten the hospital staff.”

“Watch me.” He sits on the edge of your bed, smoothing your hair back from your face. “You’re not suffering if I can help it.”

“My hero,” you murmur, but you’re smiling through the pain.

Three minutes later, the anesthesiologist appears, and Mat has never been so relieved to see someone in his life.

“Sorry for the wait,” the guy says, setting up his equipment. “We’re short-staffed tonight.”

“Just make it stop hurting,” you plead.

“That’s the plan.”

It takes another ten minutes to place the epidural, and Mat holds you through it, his forehead pressed to yours while you curl forward and try not to move. When it’s done, when the medication starts working and your face finally relaxes, he kisses you long and slow.

“Better?” He asks.

“So much better.” You slump back against the pillows, exhausted. “I can still feel pressure, but the pain is gone. Oh my God, I love modern medicine.”

“I love that you’re not in pain anymore.” He laces his fingers through yours, brings your hand to his lips.

Your OBGYN comes back in, checks you again. “You’re at nine centimeters. We’re going to start getting ready to push soon.”

“Already?” You sound panicked. “But we just got here.”

“Third babies,” she says with a smile. “They don’t like to wait.”

The next hour is a blur of nurses and equipment and your doctor’s calm voice giving instructions. You’re at ten centimeters, fully dilated, and it’s time to push.

Mat holds your hand through all of it, lets you squeeze until he’s pretty sure you’re breaking bones, but he doesn’t say a word. Just kisses your forehead between contractions, tells you how strong you are, how proud he is, how much he loves you.

“I can’t,” you sob after the fifth push. “Mat, I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can. You’re already doing it.” He wipes sweat from your face with a damp cloth. “One more push, baby. Just one more.”

“You said that three pushes ago.”

“This time I mean it.”

“Liar.”

But you push anyway, because you’re the strongest person he’s ever known, and with a final, guttural cry, the baby comes.

The sound of crying fills the room — high-pitched, furious, alive — and Mat’s eyes blur with tears.

“It’s a girl,” your OBGYN announces, holding up the tiny, screaming, perfect baby. “Congratulations.”

A girl. Another daughter. Mat can’t breathe, can’t think, can only stare at this tiny person who didn’t exist five seconds ago and now is everything.

“Would you like to cut the cord?” She asks, and Mat nods, not trusting himself to speak.

He takes the scissors with shaking hands, cuts where she indicates, and it’s done. His daughter is officially her own person, separate from you, real and alive and his.

“Here you go, Mama,” a nurse says, and then the baby is being placed on your chest, and you’re crying and laughing at the same time, your hands coming up to cradle her.

“Hi,” you whisper. “Hi, baby girl. Hi.”

The baby stops crying, like she recognizes your voice. Her eyes — dark and unfocused — try to find your face.

Mat leans down, one hand on your shoulder, the other gently touching your daughter’s head. She’s so small, so fragile, with a shock of dark hair and your nose and his mouth.

“She’s perfect,” he says, his voice breaking. “You’re both perfect.”

“We did it,” you say, looking up at him with tears streaming down your face. “We have another baby, Mat.”

“We have another baby.” He kisses you, tasting salt and joy. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

They take the baby after a few minutes — need to clean her up, weigh her, all the standard procedures — and Mat goes with her, not willing to let her out of his sight. She screams through the whole thing, furious, and he loves her for it.

“She’s got a good set of lungs,” the nurse says, wrapping her in a blanket. “Seven pounds, four ounces. Twenty inches long. All her fingers and toes are accounted for.”

“She’s perfect,” Mat says again, because he can’t seem to stop saying it.

When they bring her back, they hand her to Mat this time.

“Skin to skin is good for bonding,” the nurse explains. “If you want to take off your shirt-”

He’s already pulling it over his head, and then his daughter is being placed against his bare chest, her tiny body warm and solid and real. They drape a blanket over both of them, and Mat sits in the chair beside your bed, cradling her carefully.

She makes a little snuffling sound, her fist curling against his sternum.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Hi. I’m your dad. I know I’m probably not what you expected, and I’m definitely going to mess up sometimes, but I promise I’m going to love you forever. I’m going to keep you safe. I’m going to make sure you have everything you need, everything you want. You’re going to be so loved. By me, by your mama, by your brother and sister.”

The baby yawns, impossibly small, and Mat’s heart does something complicated in his chest.

“You’re perfect,” he tells her. “Absolutely perfect. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you know that.”

He looks up, finds you watching him from the bed, your eyes soft and full of love.

“What?” He asks.

“Nothing. Just …” You smile. “You’re really good at this.”

“At what?”

“Being a dad. Being you.” You shift slightly, wincing. “I’m so lucky.”

“I’m the lucky one.”

“We can both be lucky.”

“Deal.”

He sits there for a long time, his daughter sleeping against his chest, his wife dozing in the hospital bed, and thinks about everything that led to this moment. The violence. The blood. The fear. The love. All of it tangled together in a way he can’t separate and doesn’t want to.

This morning — last night? — he killed a man. Put a bullet in his head without hesitation, without regret. Did what needed to be done to keep his family safe.

And now he’s sitting here, holding his newborn daughter, feeling her heartbeat against his skin, and he knows he’d do it all again. Do worse, if he had to.

Because this is what matters. This right here. This tiny person who doesn’t know yet that her father is a monster. Who won’t know for years, maybe decades. Who will only ever see the man who reads her bedtime stories and kisses her scraped knees and threatens her boyfriends and walks her down the aisle someday.

He leans down, presses a kiss to the top of her head. She smells like you, like home, like everything good in the world.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I’m always going to love you. Even when you’re sixteen and you hate me. Even when you’re twenty-five and think you know everything. Even when I’m old and gray and embarrassing. I’m always going to be your dad, and I’m always going to love you.”

The baby shifts in her sleep, her tiny hand gripping his finger, and Mat thinks maybe he’s going to be okay. They’re all going to be okay.

Because he has this. He has you and Elena and Reid and this perfect new baby girl. He has a family that loves him despite everything he is, everything he’s done.

And he’s going to spend the rest of his life being worthy of that love.

Or die trying.

But preferably not die. Because he has too much to live for now.

“Mat?” Your voice is sleepy, soft.

“Yeah, baby?”

“What should we name her?”

He looks down at his daughter, studies her face in the dim hospital light. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I was thinking Sofia. After your grandmother.”

Mat’s throat tightens. His grandmother — the only family member who’d been kind to him growing up, who’d seen something good in him when everyone else saw a screwup. She’d died when he was seventeen, and he’d never quite gotten over it.

“Sofia,” he repeats. “Sofia Barzal.”

“Is that okay?”

“It’s perfect.” He looks at you, and there are tears on his face now, but he doesn’t care. “You’re perfect. This is all perfect.”

You smile, your eyes already closing again. “Come here. Both of you.”

He stands carefully, carries Sofia to the bed, and settles beside you. You curl into his side, one hand resting on the baby, and Mat wraps his arm around you both.

“I love you,” you murmur, already half asleep.

“I love you too.”

“Tell me about Panarin.”

He stills. “What about him?”

“Is he gone? Are we safe?”

Mat looks down at you, then at Sofia, then back at you. “Yeah. We’re safe. I promise.”

“Good.” You press a kiss to his shoulder. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

Within minutes, you’re asleep, your breathing evening out, your body finally relaxing after hours of labor. Sofia’s asleep too, her tiny face peaceful and perfect against his chest.

And Mat sits there, holding his whole world in his arms, and thinks about how lucky he is.

He’s a killer. A criminal. A man who’s done terrible things for terrible reasons.

But he’s also a father. A husband. A man who has somehow stumbled into something good and pure and worth protecting.

And he’s going to protect it. With everything he has, everything he is.

Always.

“I promise,” he whispers to Sofia, to you, to himself. “I promise I’ll keep you safe. I promise I’ll be the man you deserve. I promise I’ll love you forever.”

The baby sighs in her sleep, content and warm, and Mat closes his eyes.

Tomorrow, there will be things to deal with. Panarin’s organization will need to be managed. Territory disputes will need to be resolved. The usual business of his life will continue.

But tonight none of that matters.

Tonight, he has everything he’s ever wanted.

And he’s not letting go.

Not ever.

[ariesrain]

Look, I think it's pretty obvious that you came here tonight looking for something, so we might as well just get to the point.

[halsteadlover]

𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝𝐬

*Gif and pics not mine, credits to the owner*

• Pairing: Jay Halstead X Fem!Reader.

• Requested by anon: here.

• Warnings: mention of gun shots, prostitution, drugs, blood, violence, curse words. Let me know if there’s something else lol.

• Word count: 10k.

• A/N: guess who’s backkkk. Sorry for this I know it’s a long one lmao but I hope you like it, let me know in the comments what you think guys! I missed you so much, I’m trying to get back to writing even if it’s harder than I thought 😭 thank you always for your support, and thank you especially to everyone who stayed. I love you all ❤️

“Hey Halstead, you could finish filling out this case report instead of decorating the office,” you began, throwing him a paper ball from your desk, which was directly across from his. He almost jumped, then pretended like it hadn’t caught him off guard, but you didn’t miss it, and that was enough to make you laugh shamelessly.

He shot you a dirty look before picking up the paper ball that had fallen onto his laptop and throwing it back at you. You, however, weren’t taken aback and managed to catch it.

“Sorry, Miss Detective, but I haven’t gotten a master’s degree in hieroglyphics yet, so next time please write in English.”

You pressed your lips together because — you hated to admit it — that joke almost made you laugh. Almost.

You and Jay had been working together in Intelligence for years, having joined the team a year after him. You couldn’t exactly call your relationship with Jay idyllic, not the kind of relationship you had between friends. In fact, you bickered more often than you were ‘at peace.’

You didn’t mind, though. It’d be an exaggeration to say you hated Jay, he wasn’t the most pleasant company sometimes either, but he was a solid partner, and for some strange and absurd reason, your partnership worked and it worked very well.

Whether in the field, during interrogations, or on undercover missions, you and Jay had a connection that would’ve had a hard time believing.

It was true, you bickered often, you almost never agreed, there wasn’t a moment when one of you didn’t say something the other didn’t respond to with a stinging, sarcastic retort. You were both stubborn as mules, your personalities clashed like lightning and thunder, but outside the unit, you knew you could count on him, and he on you. And that would never change.

Before you could respond to his answer—and by respond, you meant throwing him the paper ball again—Voight’s gravelly voice urged you to stop wasting time and get to work right away.

You returned to the files on your desk, but not before glaring at Jay, who winked back at you, a mischievous smile plastered across his lips before he, too, resumed reading the report.

A wink. A damn wink.

Did you mention that one of the reasons you found Jay Halstead so damn annoying was that he was so handsome and attractive that it made your blood boil? Well, now you know.

It wasn't something you struggled to hide—you were the kind of person who managed to stay in control—but you hated the way that man seemed to make every cell in your body ignite with excitement, and how damnably drawn you were to him like a moth to a flame, despite him being unbearable most of the time.

The calm of the morning was suddenly interrupted when a case came in. Intelligence had been called following the kidnapping of the mayor’s son. Since it was a high-profit case, all the city’s attention was focused on it, and the entire police force was working on it.

The team worked day and night to bring Nate home, turning the boy’s and his father’s lives upside down. There were many suspects; there were many people who hated the mayor and who might have targeted the boy to get revenge on his father.

“It’s personal, of course. They made no calls, no ransom demands or money, no ‘don’t involve the police or your son is dead,’ whoever kidnapped Nate knew what they were getting into; they kidnapped him to directly attack the mayor,” Jay had said while the team was in the unit discussing the case. You glanced at Jay as he spoke, you sitting at your desk and he sitting on the edge of his, arms crossed over his chest. Voight nodded, agreeing with Halstead.

“And it’s a team effort. No one could kidnap the mayor’s son alone and go unnoticed,” Kim continued.

“We need to divide the tasks and we need to hurry, the boy’s life is hanging in the balance. Like Halstead said, it’s personal, so whoever kidnapped him won’t kill him until they get something from the mayor. This gives us some time to investigate possible suspects,” Voight intervened. “Atwater and Burgess interview all his friends and any possible witnesses. Ruzek and Upton locate nearby cameras and analyze the footage. Halstead and Y/Ln investigate the mayor’s background, threatening calls or letters, anything that might indicate a threat.”

You and Jay exchanged a look, and he wiggled his eyebrows, making you roll your eyes in annoyance before you stood up from your desk.

“I’ll drive,” Jay said as you headed to the car to talk to the mayor himself. The tension between you was palpable, but as usual, you suppressed it, trying to convince yourself it was just the tension from the case you were investigating.

Before you could respond, you saw him heading for the driver’s seat and huffed loudly, getting in the car yourself a few seconds later. “I’m perfectly capable of driving too, you know?”

Jay glanced at you, unconsciously taking a few extra nanoseconds to look at you as you put on your seatbelt. “I want to get to the destination alive, nothing personal.”

His gaze lingered for a moment on your profile, the line of your nose and jaw, the outline of your lips. It lasted almost literally a millisecond, and as soon as he saw you turning toward him, he immediately looked away, taking the car keys from his pants pocket and inserting them into the ignition.

“You didn’t just say that after I saved your life in that car chase last week.”

He laughed softly as he started the car, unable to resist looking at you again. “You’re never going to let it go, are you?”

A triumphant smile spread across your face, and Jay sucked in a breath. “No. Never.”

He remained still for a moment, one hand resting on the steering wheel. There was only a few moments of silence, during which the only sound echoing was that of the engine having just started. Every trace of your teasing smiles had vanished from your faces as your eyes met, his deep, searching ones staring at you, studying you with such intensity you almost looked away.

But you didn’t.

And neither did he, not in that moment.

If Jay had looked down, he would’ve seen the way your fingers were gripping the edges of your jacket tightly, how your breathing had slowed, heavier, as if every breath of air was struggling to reach your lungs.

Jay wanted to say something, he knew exactly what, and he knew that if he did, nothing would be the same again, so he was the first to look away. He couldn’t look you in the eyes anymore, not when those irises seemed to want to suck him alive.

The silence hung heavy inside that cabin, filled with unspoken words and unexpressed thoughts.

As Jay drove, he tried to keep his focus on the road, on the case, and not on the woman sitting next to him, whose presence seemed to fill every space of his being.

But he couldn’t help but think about the fact that he didn’t always have the chance to look at you that closely, that often, if not from afar. He’d almost forgotten all those details of your face that he couldn’t admire from afar, every little imperfection and detail of your skin that made you unique.

Because from afar, he couldn’t notice those details. He could only look at you when you were talking to Kim, for example, while you were all together in the kitchen drinking that awful coffee, when you gesticulated with your hands while discussing something, looking at you furrow your brows when you were perplexed, highlighting the little wrinkles in the middle of your forehead.

He could only see how you tied your hair with a pencil when you didn’t have a ponytail, how strangely you held your pen while filling out case reports, how you threw your head back when you laughed heartily and had the habit of hitting the arm of anyone nearby. But he also saw when he occasionally caught you looking at him and how you blushed when he did, then pretended nothing was wrong or just gave him the middle finger out of spite.

“Planet Earth calling Halstead, are you still here among us mere mortals?” Your voice caught his attention, not even realizing how lost he was in his thoughts.

“Sorry, you’re so annoying my brain tuned out your voice for a moment,” he couldn’t help but retort, because if there was one thing he loved to do and looked forward to every day, it was to piss you off.

He couldn’t help but chuckle when you hit him on the arm. “Piece of shit.”

“Oh c’mon, I was just kidding. I was just thinking about the case. What were you saying?”

What a load of bullshit, buddy.

You started discussing the case, and that brief moment, that dangerous exchange of glances that had taken place only minutes before, seemed to have already faded into oblivion, and he tried to convince himself, trying to forget how much it had made his heart skip a beat.

A notification on your phone interrupted the conversation for a few seconds. about the case, and when you unlocked it, you saw a message and a missed call.

From Mr. Sanders:

Y/n, I tried calling you, but I assume you‘re at work. Call me as soon as you can, it’s important.

A feeling of anxiety made your stomach twist. Mr. David Sanders was a man in his fifties, elegant and refined in appearance, and he was your lawyer.

Jay glanced at you, noticing your momentary silence, frowning for a moment as he saw you quickly typing on your phone.

“Everything okay over there?” Jay began, breaking the silence.

You quickly locked the phone before putting it back in your jacket, immediately adopting your usual cheeky and provocative expression. “What’s up, Halstead? You afraid I’m cheating on you?”

But Jay knew you well. Too well, even though you’d never admit it and he knew something was bothering you.

He also knew you’d never tell him willingly, always wanting to put on the superhero mask that could solve everything on her own, no matter what the problem.

“Have any of you noticed anything strange? A suspicious car, any unusual behavior?” Jay asked, addressing the mayor directly once you reached his house.

“What the hell do you care about this? My boy is God knows where, and you’re wasting your time with these stupid questions?!”

"We understand your frustration and assure you that our team and the entire police force are working tirelessly to find your son, and we won’t stop until he comes home,” you replied, your voice calm, understanding a father's frustration and concern for his son. “But we have reason to believe this attack is personal, so anything you can tell us can help us find the man who did this and your son’s whereabouts.”

The mayor ran his hands over his face in frustration, getting up from the couch and pacing around the living room.

“I get threatening letters practically every week. It’s hard to keep track of them and separate the serious ones from the fake ones.”

“Were any of these letters particularly violent or specific? Anything that might indicate a premeditated plan?” Jay asked, his hands in his pockets as his eyes followed the mayor as he paced nervously around the living room.

He hesitated for a moment, as if considering it, then nodded. “There was a letter a couple of months ago. It was about revenge. It said I would pay with ‘what I love most.’ It was disturbing, but there was nothing concrete.” The mayor gasped, starting to cry desperately. “It’s my fault… I… My boy, my baby…”

You and Jay exchanged a meaningful look before he approached the mayor, placing a hand on his shoulder and steadying him. Your heart broke for that poor, broken family, unable to begin to imagine what they were going through. “It’s not your fault, okay? Look at me, Mr. King. Your son is fine. Whoever did this wants to make you suffer. They haven’t gotten what they really want yet, and if they still haven’t reached out, it means Nate is still alive; they won’t do anything to him without your knowledge. That’s the point of his kidnapping.”

The mayor wiped away his tears, nodding feebly. “I’ll give you the letter.”

Scanning it, you noticed that the language was indeed violent and specific, but the signature was only an initial: “R.”

Jay tilted his head, thoughtful, before turning to the mayor. “It seems personal, like we said before. Do you recognize that initial?”

“I-I don’t… I don’t know… It could be anyone. Like I said, I have a lot of enemies,” he replied.

“We’ll have our technicians analyze it right away. We’ll let you know as soon as we know anything,” you said. “We’ll find Nate.”

During the rest of the day, you worked tirelessly, but your mind was racing, and you hated yourself for realizing that none of it was directed at the case.

Your attention was focused solely on that message from Sanders, on what he had to tell you. When you called him, you were in the locker room. It was already seven in the evening, and with each ring, your heart was beating faster and faster.

“Hello dear, it’s nice to hear you, how are you?” Mr. Sanders answered.

“Good evening, Dave. I’m fine thank you. I’m sorry to bother you now, but I’m busy with work. There’s a case…”

“Oh yeah, that boy’s kidnapping, I suppose. Bad story.”

“Yeah,” you sighed. “What did you want to talk about? It doesn’t take a detective to figure out it’s not something good.”

Sanders chuckled, but it was a bitter laugh, there was no humor behind it. “It’s about Marcus.”

Your breath caught for a moment. “What about him?”

“I’m so sorry, Y/n, I did everything in my power, but…” he sighed this time. “He got parole, he’s out of prison.”

“What?” You said, but it came out moreIt was like a whisper, and for a moment you prayed you’d misheard, that your brain hadn't processed those words correctly. “How is this possible? After everything he did... To those girls, those people... To me!”

You were furious, not at Sanders, but at the system that was supposed to protect you.

“I’m so sorry. He got a deal after leaking the names of several big people, and we’re not talking about just any people, but political figures, senators, doctors, lawyers, CEOs...”

“And obviously, some people’s names are worth more than justice.”

“I wish I could say you’re not right, but you know I’m on your side darling. I did everything I could,” he spoke. “But you’ll be safe, he’ll be monitored closely and the first mistake he makes he’ll be back in prison...”

You let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through your hair in frustration. “And you think that’ll stop him?” you snapped. “I have to go, Dave, thanks for letting me know.”

“Y/n, wait, how are you now?”

“I’ll be fine,” you muttered. You were brought back to Earth when the locker room door opened, revealing Jay with a tired, worn-out expression. “I have to go, bye.”

You ended the call and then casually tossed your phone into your bag, trying to act as if nothing had happened.

You’d be fine. Whatever happened, you’d be able to get through it, like you always did.

“I thought you’d left,” he spoke first as he looked while he approached his locker. He watched you pretend to search for something in your locker and immediately noticed how you constantly avoided his gaze.

“Apparently not yet,” you replied in a cold, distant tone.

Jay didn’t respond, but as he opened his locker, he continued to steal glances at you. Even a blind man could’ve noticed your tense posture, your frown, your heavy breathing, the way you avoided his gaze.

He’d noticed something had shifted since you’d gotten that call, but he tried to mind his own business, knowing that if he asked you anything, you’d probably just shoot him in the face.

“Well, see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, goodnight.”

Jay left, but not before giving you one last look. You weren’t looking at him; your eyes seemed to be focused on something undefined.

You sat in the locker room for an eternity as your mind replayed your last encounter with Marcus Kane, his angry shouts, the threats he’d scream at you.

“I’ll come back, you bitch! You’ll pay for what you did to me! If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll kill you!” He screamed as they handcuffed him and led him into the police car, and those were the last words you heard before you lost consciousness, submerged in a pool of your own blood.

Your hand instinctively went to the scar on your side as those words continued to echo in your own, as if they had been spoken only moments before, as if you could still feel the knife piercing your skin.

You left, closing the door behind you, hoping that all of this was just a nightmare.

Three days had passed since that call, and you continued working.

Nothing happened, you didn’t receive any threatening calls but you always watched your back, your gun always within reach even when you slept, or at least when you tried.

In three days, you’d probably slept five hours, and the fatigue was starting to set in. You were stressed, constantly on edge, you had the constant feeling that someone was following you, and you knew Marcus Kane was out there waiting for you; you could sense him waiting for the right moment to attack you.

For three days, you worked nonstop on the case, day and night, to bring Nate home. He was still alive; there was video evidence of the kidnapper forcing him to demand his own ransom, after beating him almost to death.

“You’re going to give yourself a heart attack with all that caffeine,” Jay said, leaning against the kitchen doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t expect to see you jump in fright, and he didn’t know whether to suppress a laugh or worry, because you weren’t the type of person who scared easily.

“You bastard,” you muttered in a not-so-low voice, not even looking at him, making him chuckle. “Thanks, but I didn’t ask for your medical advice, Halstead.”

“It was just an observation,” he commented, seeing the almost obsessive way you were stirring the sugar in your coffee.

“Well, go make observations somewhere else,” you replied, your back still turned toward him.

There was a brief moment of silence, as he continued to observe you, your stiff posture, the way you avoided looking him in the eye. Jay wasn’t stupid; he’d noticed this sort of change since you’d received that call. But he didn’t want to push you, he knew you’d withdraw even further.

You then turned to leave, but he pushed himself from the doorframe, preventing you from leaving. He noticed the slight tremor in your hand holding the cup and he couldn’t just act like nothing was happening. “Hey, are you okay?”

You sighed, your eyes still fixed on your cup before finally looking up at him. “I’m fine.”

A curt, mechanical reply, devoid of any emotion.

He looked at you for a few moments, his eyes fixed on yours almost as if he wanted to study you, as if he was searching for some way to extract the answers he knew he’d never voluntarily receive from you.

“Y/n. You’ve been fine for three days,” he replied, his voice tightening. “You’re not sleeping, you jump at the slightest noise. Whenever we’re out, all you do is look around.”

“You like me that much, huh?”

“I’m being serious, this isn’t you. What’s going on?”

Your jaw clenched. “You don’t know me well enough to decide what’s me and what’s not, do you?”

He let out a sigh, trying to keep his voice calm. “We’ve been working together for a while now, and I know fear when I see it.”

The silence that followed was heavy. You felt your throat tighten but swallowed hard, refusing to show it. “Drop it, Jay.”

He sighed again, realizing it’d be completely pointless to push any further. “Fine, do whatever you want.”

“Good.” And with that, you walked past him back to your desk.

-

The night air smelled of rain and tension, cold against your skin. The sound of water hitting the rusty metal of the warehouse provided a soft background, even soothing at times.

Through the earpiece, the team’s voices alternated with the crackling radio.

“Unit one in position.”

“Copy that.”

“Unit two.”

“Copy that.” Jay replied, ducking behind a stack of crates, his rifle ready. You were a little further ahead, your eyes fixed on the road, your fingers on your weapon, ready.

The money would be exchanged between the kidnapper and the mayor, and Intelligence was there, ready to capture the man and save the boy.

You kept looking around, nervous, impatient. Jay had noticed it, and he would be lying if he said it didn’t worry him.

“Breathe, Y/n,” Jay murmured, noticing the way you were trembling.

“I’m fine. I’m just cold, Halstead,” you replied, quickly glancing at him. Your clothes were now stuck on your skin, that much was true, and at other times you might’ve even been able to convince him, but not now, not with what had been happening to you lately.

“Let me know when you’ll believe it.”

You didn’t reply, but he knew you’d heard him.

“Target incoming,” Ruzek’s voice broke the silence.

A black van approached, its headlights now off, and stopped a few meters from the entrance to the old warehouse. Everyone was silent, their breath held, the rain being the only sound.

A man climbed out of the driver’s seat. He walked around the van and, instead of opening the door, remained standing there, his furious gaze fixed on the mayor standing a few meters away, the bag containing the money in his hands.

A mask covered his face so you couldn’t see him. But it didn’t matter, the plan was simple. Get eyes on the kid. Make the exchange. Take the man down.

But it wasn’t simple. It never was.

“Here’s your money, where’s my son?” The mayor’s voice was shaky.

“Give me my money first.”

“That wasn’t the deal. Give me my son and I’ll give you the money.”

The man pointed his gun at the mayor, and everyone stiffened, their weapons raised, ready for an order.

“Wait.” Voight ordered.

“You’ll pay for what you did to me,” the man retorted, and then the back doors of the van opened, but instead of the boy, two other masked men stepped out, both armed and their weapons ready to shoot.

“Gun!” Jay shouted, grabbing your arm and shoving you behind cover as the team spread out.

Your heart pounded in your ears.

Your eyes landed on the van and you saw a figure lying down in the back, you didn’t even know who it was. You didn’t think. You just moved.

Ignoring Jay’s warning, you broke from behind the crate, sprinting toward the van while bullets snapped past your head. The sound was deafening, every step a gamble. You almost reached it—

“Y/n!”

Jay’s voice cuts through everything. A second later, something hit you hard, him. He slammed into you, taking you down just as a bullet grazed the concrete where you’d been standing.

You hit the ground with a grunt, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs. Jay’s body covered yours, solid and heavy, his hand pressed against the back of your head to shield you as he returned fire.

For a moment, just a heartbeat, everything stilled.

The world narrowed to the smell of gunpowder and the sound of your ragged breaths tangled together. His eyes found yours, only inches away, fierce, terrified, and something else you couldn’t name.

Then his expression hardened.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” he snappep, still half-hovering over you. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?!”

“I—I saw him—”

“I don’t care!” he barked, voice sharp, chest rising and falling fast. “You move like that again, and you’re dead, do you hear me?!”

You swallowed hard, your pulse racing for reasons that had nothing to do with adrenaline. “Get off me.”

He hesitated — just for a second — before pushing himself up, still glaring at you as he scanned the perimeter.

The team closed in, the gunfire fading, suspects down, the boy saved, crying in his father’s arms. But Jay didn’t look away from you.

You brushed dirt off your vest, trying to ignore the sting in your arm where you’d hit the ground. “I had it under control.”

He lets out a low, humorless laugh, trying to keep his voice steady even if he was about to lose his mind. “Yeah. Sure you did.”

He walked off before you could answer, leaving you standing, breathing still shaking, and for some reason, the only thing you could think about was the look in his eyes when he’d covered you.

It wasn’t anger. It was fear.

The ride back was suffocatingly quiet and for the first time in your life you hated that Jay didn’t say anything, you hated he didn’t make his usual jokes just to piss you off, you hated he didn’t even look at you.

Streetlights flickered through the windshield, washing the inside of the car in flashes of yellow and shadow. The sirens had gone silent, replaced only by the steady hum of the tires on the asphalt.

You sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, your hands still faintly trembling. Every time you blinked, you could see it again, the van doors bursting open, the muzzle flashes, the moment Jay threw himself over you.

He still hadn’t said a single word since you got in the car.

Not one.

And somehow, that was worse than him yelling.

Finally, his knuckles tightened around the steering wheel. “What the hell were you thinking out there?”

You didn’t turn. “I was just thinking about Nate, I saw him there…”

“You almost got yourself killed.”

“I had it under control.”

His jaw clenched. “No, you didn’t. For fucks sake stop lying to me and yourself, you did something stupid and for once in your fucking life admit it.”

Silence again thick and heavy. You swallowed hard, your voice lowering. “You don’t need to babysit me, Halstead. I can take care of myself.”

“What’s happening to you? Why are you acting like this?”

You turned at that, glaring at him. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve—” You stopped, realizing your voice had cracked. You looked away quickly, blinking hard.

You felt his eyes on you but you refused to look back, you weren’t able to look at him without breaking down.

Jay’s voice softened slightly, though frustration still edged it. “You’re right. I don’t know. But I know what I saw and... And it scared the hell out of me.”

That caught you off guard. You looked at him, but this time it was him who didn’t look back. He continued, his voice lower now, almost speaking to himself. “You can hate me all you want, but I’m not gonna stand there and watch you get yourself shot.”

You didn’t know what to say. The words tangled in your throat.

You wanted to be angry, to snap something back… But all you felt was exhaustion.

“You didn’t have to save me.”

He was glancing at you and for the first time he didn’t know what to say.

The rest of the drive passed in silence.

When he pulled up in front of your building, you reached for the handle, but his hand landed gently on your arm. “You should call someone to stay with you tonight. After what happened...”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Stop saying…”

“I said I’ll be fine,” you repeated, already opening the door. You stepped out before he could say anything else, the cold air biting at your skin, already frozen due to the soaked clothes.

Jay watched you until you disappeared inside, that same gnawing unease twisting in his gut for days.

Your mind had managed to not think about what was happening to you for a few hours, but in your home, alone, those thoughts hit you again like a raging river.

You just wanted to sleep, you wanted so badly to close your eyes and rest just for a little bit, but Marcus Kane was still out there, hiding in the shadows, ready to attack you. How could you rest?

It had been almost four days since that call, and you hadn’t known peace since. You knew he’d look for you, that it wouldn’t take him long to find you, and you hated it all. You hated this wait, you hated the fear, you hated being scared to death in your own home, the place where you should feel most safe, you hated even having to shower with your gun beside you.

The apartment was quiet, too quiet.

You’d just stepped out of the shower, towel-drying your hair as you walked into the living room. The air still smelled faintly of shampoo and coffee.

For once, you thought maybe you could finally breathe.

But then the lights flickered.

And you froze, a prickle crawled up your neck.

You turned slowly toward the window, your heart almost stopped when you realized the lock was undone.

You remembered locking it. You knew you had because you checked it as soon as you got home.

How the hell was that possible?

Your pulse started pounding, sharp and shallow. You set the towel down, reaching for your gun that you now carried everywhere.

And then a voice, that voice.

“I always told you that your pride would be your downfall, sweetheart.”

You spun around and there he was.

Marcus Kane.

He was older, meaner, eyes burning with the same kind of hate you’d seen the day he was dragged into custody.

He took a step toward you, smirking. “Didn’t think you’d actually make it easy for me,” he muttered, glancing around. “Nice place, by the way. Better than the dump where I found you playing the perfect girlfriend.”

“Stay back,” you warned, gun raised, while trying to keep your hands as still as possible. “Don’t take another step,” your voice steady, not wanting to show fear. That was what he enjoyed most, seeing his victims scared to death, but you didn’t want to show him, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“Oh, come on,” he said, voice dripping with mock affection. “After everything we’ve been through, you don’t even want to say hello?”

He didn’t even give you time to react.

The gun went flying as he slammed into you, both of you crashing into the coffee table but not before a shot landed in the void. Pain shot through your ribs as the wood cracked beneath you. He tried to pin you down, his forearm crushing against your throat, but you drove your knee into his side, hard.

He grunted, stumbled, and you scrambled to your feet, gasping. “You ruined my life!” he snarled, grabbing your wrist before punching you square in the face, making you step back. “Did you have fun pretending to fall in love with me? Making me trust you? You fucking bitch!”

You didn’t think, you just reacted.

It was your turn to punch him across the jaw, and you did it with all your strength, enough to make him stagger back.

He roared and swung again, but this time you were ready and dodged it. You shoved him back, grabbed the lamp from the side table, and smashed it against his head. He shouted, stumbled into the wall, enough for you to bolt toward the door. Or at least try.

He grabbed your hoodie, yanking you backward, and you felt the fabric tear, his breath hot against your ear. “Where do you think you’re going, sweetheart? We have unfinished business, you and I. You won’t get away that easily.”

You elbowed him in the side, and that was enough to make him loosen his grip around your neck, making it easy for you to turn toward him and punch him in the nose again. The crack was sickening, blood spraying as he cursed and fell to one knee.

You hit him in the face with your knee, with such force that he fell to the ground.

A kick to the stomach.

And another.

And another one.

And then you ran.

Down the hallway, out the door, barefoot, your heart thundering as his shouts echoed behind you.

You didn’t stop running, not when your feet hit the pavement, not when your shoulder screamed in pain, not when you realized you’d left everything behind except fear.

The TV was on, but Jay’s mind was focused on everything except the movie playing. He sipped occasionally from his beer bottle and couldn’t help but relive what had happened that day, the shooting, and you.

To be honest, he’d always had a hard time not thinking about you, even though he tried to convince himself otherwise.

What woke him from his reverie were loud knocks on the door, sharp, urgent.

He jumped and glanced at the clock: 12:47 AM.

Who the hell was that at that time?

He approached the door, and his heart almost stopped as he looked through the peephole.

He threw the door open, and there you were.

“Y/n...” he whispered, almost breathless, as his eyes scanned your body. You were soaked from head to toe, barefoot, your eyes wide open, tears mixing with the drops of water running down your cheeks, your body trembling. “What the hell—? Oh my god. What... What happened?”

A sob left your lips. “I… I don’t know where else to go…”

“Jesus Christ… Come here,” he without even thinking once pulled you into a hug, wrapping his arms around your body. He didn’t care you were soaked from head to toe, he just wanted to hold you. “Shh, it’s okay… It’s all right, you’re safe now.”

To his surprise, you returned the hug, as you continued to sob, your fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt as if it was your lifeline.

In all the years he’d known you, he’d never seen you like this, ever.

“It’s okay, everything’s okay, I’m here, I won’t let you go,” he kept whispering as he stroked your hair and held you tightly against his chest.

His stomach twisted with a feeling he’d never experienced before, with a rage so strong he’d raze the entire city if he could.

“Hey, look at me,” he whispered softly, pulling away from that embrace just enough to look at you. You avoided his gaze, as you had been doing for the past couple of days. “Look at me.”

The first thing he noticed when you slightly lifted your head was the purple bruise forming on your cheek. He wanted so badly to caress you, to wipe away those tears he hated to see, but he didn’t, he didn’t want to scare you away, make you feel uncomfortable.

“Talk to me, please. Who did this to you?” His voice was soft, sweet—a tone he’d never used with you—even as he tried to mask the anger and fear he was feeling in that moment.

You shook your head, not saying a word.

“Okay, okay, it’s okay, you don’t have to tell me now, okay? Come inside.”

You didn’t say anything, simply letting him lead you into his house, his hand on the small of your back as if he feared you might disappear at any moment.

It was ironic that this was the first time you’d seen his apartment and it was because something horrible had happened to you.

“Do you want anything? Some water? I can get you some clean clothes. You can take a shower if you want.”

You nodded, though you didn’t answer any of his questions. Jay stepped away for a moment, his heart still pounding as he went to his room and grabbed a pair of clean pants and a shirt from the drawer, then a pair of clean slippers before joining you in the living room. He’d found you in the same position, standing, arms crossed over your chest, staring into space.

“Here you go, take all the time you need. The bathroom is down the hall on the right; you’ll find clean towels and robes there.”

You grabbed your clothes, the trembling in your hands still there. He noticed the swelling of your hand, the cuts on your nuckles. You looked at him for a moment, and Jay felt as if he’d been hit in the gut, before whispering a faint, “Thank you.”

Jay ran his hands over his face in frustration, feeling more helpless than ever. What the hell had happened?

At that moment, his cell phone rang, and Voight's name lit up the screen.

Turns out, a patrol unit had reached your apartment after a neighbor called about what sounded like a gunshot. Upon arrival, an unknown man was found injured, confused, and still semi-conscious on your floor. The cops had called Voight after realizing the address belonged to one of the Intelligence members, but you weren’t there.

Jay reassured Voight you were with him, and you were fine, or at least seemingly so. Voight was investigating the man’s identity, and it didn’t take long to pinpoint his name: Markus Kane, a convicted felon who’d been released only a few days earlier after serving time for drug trafficking, prostitution, and murder.

It didn’t take Jay long to realize that the change in your behavior over the past few days was due precisely to Kane’s release.

“Keep an eye on her Halstead,” Voight said before ending the call.

“Of course, don’t even mention it.” The call ended, and Jay let out a sigh before placing his phone on the coffee table.

He went into the kitchen and started heating up some water so he could make you some hot tea. He didn’t know what he was doing, because since it was you and he didn’t really know how to act around you most of the time.

“I didn’t know you were the tea kind of guy, Halstead,” your voice startled him, so lost in thought he hadn’t heard you arrive. His heart probably didn’t skip a beat, not until he saw you in his clothes, even though they were a few sizes too big.

This isn’t the time Jay, stop it.

“Figured it out you wanted something hot.”

You nodded. “Thanks.” You sighed, running a hand through your now-dry hair. “Listen, Jay, I... I’m sorry to bother you...”

“Hey, no stop,” he interrupted you before letting you continue what you were saying, “If you think for even a second I’m going to let you go, you’re sorely mistaken. I’m not leaving you alone.”

You looked at him for a moment, your gaze unreadable, before lowering it to your feet.

“C’mon, let’s get comfortable on the couch.”

Jay sat down next to you, leaving a little space between you two, a space he only wanted to fill.

The silence was tense, almost suffocating; he didn’t know what to say. After all, he knew you, he knew it’d be useless to push you to tell him what had happened because that would only make you shut down even more.

But God, he was trembling, he just wanted to tear the son of a bitch who had done this to you to pieces.

You were still shaking, though not like when you’d arrived, and Jay hoped it was just the cold. He took the blanket he always had on the couch and draped it around your shoulders. “You’re shivering,” he almost whispered.

Your eyes were on his face, scared, curious, but you didn’t say a word. Jay’s heart was pounding, so fast that for a moment he feared you could hear it.

He passed the cup of tea between your hands. Your fingers barely touched, but this tiny contact made his throat tighten.

The room fell into an almost deafening silence again, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall and the sound of the rain still hitting the windows.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked. You brought the cup to your lips, taking a small sip.

“No.”

M

“Of course not,” he muttered, running his hands over his face in frustration. “Why would you ever…” He stopped.

“What?”

“Make things easy, you always have to complicate everything. You always have to put on this tough facade, pretend everything is fine, I don’t know why you do this… Seriously, you’re driving me crazy… Why can’t you just accept that someone wants to help you? Why do you think you have to deal with everything alone?”

“It’s not your job…”

“Of course it’s my job. For fucks sake we work together, you’re my partner, of course I want to help you, I care about you.”

You looked down at the cup, but Jay had noticed your shiny eyes, your trembling lip.

“Why did you come here?”

“I told you, I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Yes, you did, you could have gone to anyone else—Kim, Adam—but you came here, to me. We don’t get along most of the time. Why?”

“Jay… Enough…”

“Look at me,” he said, and you did. He tried to ignore the way seeing your tears again made him feel. He tried not to think about it, not to be distracted by the trembling of your lips, by the way you were trying to stay composed, to still feign strength when it was clear you had none left.

“Because I trust you,” you breathed out, in a whisper, “You… You’re the only person who won’t judge me, who won’t look at me like I’m a victim.”

The words hung in the air, as if they, too, were afraid of breaking. Jay stared at you, unable to say anything, incredulous that you could actually say it. His chest rose and fell rapidly, as if simply breathing had become difficult.

“Really? Please say it again, I have to record it.”

“Never, you bastard.” You both chuckled. “You’re not going to let me live this down, aren’t you?”

“Oh never, princess.”

“Don’t call me princess.”

“Alright, alright. I won’t call you princess anymore, princess.”

“God, you’re unbearable. Forget what I said.”

Jay smiled, happy to have managed to ease the tension a little, because he knew you, he knew how much you hate being vulnerable, how you used sarcasm to avoid talking about your feelings.

But he was especially happy because he finally got to see you smile. Man, he hated seeing those teary eyes of yours, and in that precise moment, he vowed to do everything in his power to never see you cry again.

There was a moment of silence.

“That’s also why I’m here,” you whispered, your eyes now fixed on the cup.

“What do you mean?”

“Because you manage to make things a little bit better.”

Jay was taken aback; he never in his life would’ve expected to hear those words from you.

But then again, that was your relationship. You bickered. It wasn’t true to say you hated each other, because you didn’t, but at the end, you were always there for each other. Not explicitly—neither of you had ever said “I’m here”—but with your jokes and arguments, with an offered beer, even just with your presence, with silence.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that now,” you continued.

“I think I’m hallucinating.”

You giggled, playfully hitting him on the arm.

You took another long sip of tea, which was now cooling. You tucked the blanket around your body, then pulled your legs up to your chest before placing the cup on the coffee table.

“Before I started in Intelligence, I worked in the Major Crimes Unit in Washington. We were investigating a large drug ring, prostitution, and a series of related murders,” you began, your gaze lost in space. Jay listened intently, his breath held almost as if he feared that if you heard him, you’d stop talking. “There was a man in charge, Marcus Kane, and there was no way to frame him. We knew he was behind all those crimes, but there was no concrete evidence. Whoever had anything to do with him, they were terrified enough not to testify...”

“So we decided to go undercover. I volunteered. Catching Marcus Kane was the perfect opportunity to make myself known. I’d just become a detective, and I wanted to prove my worth.”

Jay smiled to himself. It was just like you.

“I went undercover for about a year, pretending to be a big shot in the prostitution ring and looking for new girls to buy. He was a shrewd, paranoid guy, suspicious even of his own shadow, so it wasn’t easy. But eventually, slowly, I managed to gain his trust.”

“He fell in love...”

You nodded. “And I took advantage of this opportunity. I never did anything with him; I always managed to slip away without arousing his suspicions, playing with his feelings. Long story short, I managed to gather enough evidence to frame him, to get the victims he raped to talk… But something went wrong, and to this day I still don’t know how he got the word that there was an undercover cop,” you sighed, huddling tighter. “We fought, he managed to stab me, but before he could finish the job, backup arrived and arrested him, but not before yelling at me that he’d get revenge.”

His heart broke for you, he couldn’t even imagine how you felt in that moment, fighting for your life, fearing you were about to die.

“What happened?” Jay whispered.

“A few days ago, I got a call from my lawyer. Kane made a deal, revealed the names of some big shots he dealt with, and got of jail…” you replied.

There was another moment of silence.

“I checked every single door and window, and everything was locked… I don’t know how he got in,” you swallowed the lump in your throat. “We fought, he managed to disarm me, but believe it or not, he got the worst of it… I ran away, and here I am.”

“Oh yes, I absolutely believe you, Detective. I saw you angry,” Jay joked, trying to hide the turmoil he felt inside. He was there, he had left you at home and left. If he had insisted on staying, none of this would’ve happened.

“We caught him. Voight called me. One of your neighbors heard a gunshot and called 911. The patrol called him.”

You looked at him for a moment and let out a breath, though Jay noticed the news didn’t completely reassure you.

“He’ll find a way out this time too.”

“He attacked a cop. He won’t get away with it.”

You sighed. “I hope so, Jay.”

And there was that silence again, heavy, suffocating.

Jay’s body was tense, unable to relax. He’d never even seen that man’s face, but he hated him with every fiber of his being. Now your behavior became clear, the way you flinched, the way you constantly looked over your shoulder every time you were in the field, your recklessness during the trade.

He could only imagine the hell you went through these past days, the sleepless nights staring around, feeling vulnerable in the only place you were supposed to feel safe: your home.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, leaning back on the couch. Neither of you seemed to realize that in the meantime, Jay had inadvertently moved closer to you, but without actually touching you. He just wanted to implicitly tell you that he was there, that he was listening, that he would protect you.

“For what? It’s not your fault.”

“For not understanding. I mean, I knew something was wrong in the past few days, but all I did was insist on asking you if everything was okay, knowing you’d push me away. I’m your partner, I know you, I know who you are, and I didn’t do anything to help you.”

Jay studied you for a long moment, the way your shoulders trembled beneath the blanket, the way your eyes kept darting toward the floor as if you were afraid of what he might find if you met his gaze. Every instinct in him screamed to pull you closer, to erase every trace of fear from your face, but he couldn’t. Not when you’d made such a point of keeping walls between you two.

And yet, seeing you like this—raw, shaken, human—cracked something inside him.

“That son of a bitch will never touch you again, do you hear me? I don’t care what it takes, he’ll never hurt you again.”

You didn’t look up, and that killed him more than anything else. Because he could see the weight behind your silence, the exhaustion, the fear, the shame you didn’t deserve to feel. He knew it was something you hated, having to ask for help, depending on someone, feeling like a burden.

He hated seeing you like this, vulnerable, almost broken.

He just wanted to see you with that bright smile of yours, so beautiful it could light up the darkest room, he wanted to hear your terrible jokes, your way of teasing him.

“I know it’s hard for you, I know you’ve always been used to facing everything alone in your life, because every person you relied on has always disappointed you, and you’ve learned you can’t trust anyone. No one but yourself,” he spoke in a sweet, patient tone, “I know I’m the last person you’d want to tell you this. We’re not exactly best friends, but you’re not alone in this world. Whatever happens to you, happens to me… To the whole team.”

“I care about you, more than you can even imagine, and I know I’ve never told you this because that’s how our relationship is… But I’ll always be there for you whenever you want me to be. I know that stubborn little head of yours will stop you from doing that, but I’m here. I won’t leave you alone now, tomorrow, or ever, no matter how much you hate the idea.”

You finally looked up at him, and his heart broke as he saw those tears streaming down your face, that beautiful face now surrounded by that damned purple bruise.

“I hate you so much, Detective Halstead,” you sniffed, drying your tears. “Remember when you told me that if things got bad, a hug could make it all go away?”

He nodded.

“I really need one right now.”

He smiled and didn’t need to be told twice before pulling you into his chest for the second time that evening. He could count on one hand the number of times you’d hugged in the years you’d known each other, but each and every single one of them was forever imprinted in his memory.

Your arms were holding him with such force it left him speechless, as if he was your lifeline, the only thing that could save you in that moment.

“I thought I’d lose you today,” he whispered, so low he didn’t even know if you’d heard him. But from the way you held him, he knew you had. “Don’t ever do that to me again, please.”

“You really like me that much, Halstead?” you murmured, making him chuckle.

You have no idea, baby.

“That’s called being a partner, you should try it sometime.” He retorted, his arms wrapped around you as he stroked your hair.

“You won’t lose me. It would be hard to find a better partner than me.”

He laughed again, pulling you even closer. “I hate to admit it, but it’s true. That’s why I’m begging you to stay in one piece.”

“I’ll try,” you chuckled this time, and he breathed an internal sigh of relief as he felt you finally relax in his arms. “Thank you for everything.”

“Anytime. I’m always here.”

You lifted your head slightly so you could look at him, and he placed a hand on your cheek, wiping away your tears with his thumb. “I don’t want to see you like this ever again,” he whispered. “Insult me, hit me, do whatever you want, but I don’t want to see you cry, see you suffer like this again.”

He saw you trying to hold back your smile, and his heart skipped another beat. “There it is, that’s that pretty smile that I like, that’s how I want to see you all the time. And if there’s anyone who stops you from doing so, promise me you’ll tell me, okay? So I’ll break his legs with my bare hands.”

You laughed, and his heart began to race this time. “Don’t you think that’s a little overboard?”

“Not at all.” He shook his head slightly. “You have no idea what I’ll do to that son of a bitch when I lay my hands on him.”

“It feels good.”

“What?”

“Feeling protected, feeling like there’s someone there to protect you, making you feel safe. It feels good.”

Those words weren’t supposed to affect him the way they did, they weren’t supposed to break his heart like that, but they did, and he hated it. Himself for feeling that way, the rest of the world for making you believe you weren’t worthy of those things.

“I know, and you won’t have to worry about that anymore, whether you like it or not.”

“I think I might like it.”

You remained silent for a moment, his heart still pounding, your breathing slowly becoming more regular. You stayed there, hugging each other on that couch as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if you were used to it, and somehow it felt natural, for some strange reason it was supposed to be this way.

His fingers continued to delicately caress your face, he wasn’t even sure if he was doing it more for himself than for you, and with every passing second he hoped time would stop for a little longer.

“So…” it was you who broke the comfortable silence, your tone lighter. “That pretty smile that I like, huh? My God, you’re really into me, Jay.”

Jay rolled his eyes, trying to suppress a laugh. “Don’t let it get over your head, obviously I just said that to make you feel better.” He retorted, grateful you couldn’t see the blush on his cheeks, because what he’d said was as far from the truth as could be.

“Mmh, mmh,” you hummed in amusement, relieved. You tilted d your head so you could look at him. “Sure, keep telling yourself that, maybe one day you’ll believe it.”

Jay felt something inside him twist, a sharp pull low in his chest that left him breathless. He didn’t even know how to describe it, what name to give that sensation.

You looked exhausted, yes, but there was also something else, trust, maybe, or the faintest flicker of safety. And God, it almost broke him.

He’d seen you angry, stubborn, reckless; he’d fought with you more times than he could count, but he’d never seen you like this.

So close. So open, so damn real.

And you were so beautiful it took his breath away.

His eyes kept roaming over every millimeter of her face, mentally taking thousands of photos so he could imprint them in his memory, because the truth was, he didn’t know if he’d ever have the chance to have you this close again.

His throat went dry, the words burning there with nowhere to go.

Jay swallowed hard.

Don’t do something stupid. Don’t do it.

But his gaze dropped to your lips for a second too long, and he knew he had to move, immediately, before he crossed a line he couldn’t take back.

“I…” he started, his voice rougher than he expected. He cleared his throat, stood up too fast. “I’m just gonna—uh—get you some ice. For… you know.” He gestured vaguely toward the side of your face, anything to justify the sudden space between you.

He didn’t wait for a reply.

He needed distance, oxygen, anything that wasn’t the scent of your skin, anything to non to see the look in your eyes that felt like it could undo him completely.

As he reached the kitchen, he braced his hands on the counter, eyes closed, chest tight.

Fuck.

Get it together, Halstead.

Because for a second back there, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to comfort you or just kiss you until the world stopped shaking, until neither of you would have any air left in your lungs.

Jay took longer than he needed. The ice was already in the towel but he couldn’t quite bring himself to go back yet.

For fucks sake he’d faced armed men, stared down killers, fought in wars, and somehow, walking back into that living room felt harder than any of it.

When he finally did, you were sitting in the same position, knees still drawn up, blanket still wrapped around you. Your eyes found him immediately, soft but searching, like you could tell exactly what was going on inside his head even if he was trying damn hard to hide it.

He cleared his throat, forcing a half-smile.

“Here you go,” he murmured, holding out the ice. “It’ll be good for the bruise.”

You took it, your fingers brushing his again, just a second, just enough to make his skin burn under your touch.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

He nodded, trying to focus on the movement of your hand instead of the fact that his heart was still hammering in his chest.

“Keep it on for a while,” he muttered, sitting down again, this time a little further away than before.

Safe distance. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

For a while, you both pretended to watch the rain through the window. The air still felt thick, like the room itself remembered what had just almost happened. Every once in a while, he’d steal a glance, the curve of your jaw, of your nose, your lips, the faint rise and fall of your shoulders as you breathed, and every damn time, it felt like something in him shifted.

You broke the silence first.

“Are you okay?”

Jay blinked, thrown off. “Me?” He huffed out a laugh. “You’re the one who just went through hell, and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

You shrugged lightly. “I don’t know, it seems like something is bothering you.”

He couldn’t help it, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before his gaze flicked to yours, holding it for just a heartbeat too long before he looked away again.

“It’s…” he said finally, voice low. “I’m just glad you’re here. That’s all.”

And that was the truth. Raw, simple, terrifying in its honesty.

Because for all his control, all his training, nothing had prepared him for how much he could care about someone who drove him this crazy, for someone who could make him feel so protective, so alive, and so close to losing every bit of restraint he had left.

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