pairing: small town!oscar piastri x city girl!fem!reader
warnings: fluff, swearing, oscar is so chalant its crazy, not a slowburn, location is purposely ambiguous bc i hate continuity, potential for a part 2 but depends on how yous feel about it, not proofread!!
synopsis: someone has finally swept the towns most eligible bachelor off his feet [7.0k]
a/n: another au im sorry guys its literally all i can write atm 💔
MASTERLIST
the first thing you noticed about the town was how quiet it was, not peaceful, although slightly charming. it was just quiet.
there was no distant sirens, no endless streams of traffic, and no people rushing down sidewalks with coffee cups clutched in their hands. just rolling fields stretching toward the horizon and a main street so small it looked like it belonged in an old movie.
you'd had moved here two weeks ago after your job transfer, and every day since then you'd found a new reason to miss the city. the coffee shop closed at three, the nearest shopping center was forty minutes away, and apparently everyone knew everyone else's business.
you sighed as you adjusted the strap of your tote bag and stepped off the sidewalk, at least the weather was nice. that was something you couldn't complain about.
golden sunlight spilled across the countryside, warming the fields of tall grass that swayed in the breeze, and the scent of fresh earth lingered in the air.
you'd been told by a woman at the coffee shop there was a walking trail behind the farms, and after another painfully boring afternoon unboxing your life, you'd decided to explore it.
what she hadn't told you was that there would be cows, lots of cows. and you were pretty sure this was the first time you'd actually seen them in person, your eyes widening when one suddenly appeared beside the fence. "oh my god."
the massive animal stared at you, you stared back, and it took one slow step forward. you took one very quick step backward. the cow took another slow step toward you, its large brown eyes blinked lazily beneath impossibly long lashes, but that didn't make it any less intimidating.
you backed away immediately, the heel of your trainer caught on a loose stone and your arms pinwheeled for balance. "shit-"
"you know she can't actually hurt you, right?" the voice came from behind you and you whipped around so quickly your ponytail smacked against your shoulder, bag slumping down your arm.
he stood a few yards away, leaning casually against the fence. the late afternoon sun sat behind him, outlining his figure in warm gold. he looked like he'd stepped straight out of some countryside advertisement, messy brown hair and a faded shirt complete with mud-caked boot and a grin that suggested he'd been watching your entire embarrassing encounter.
your face immediately grew hot as you fixed your bag back into your shoulder. "i knew that."
the boy's eyebrows slowly lifted, obviously skeptical of your lie and the corner of his mouth twitched. "did you?"
the challenge in his voice made your eyes narrow. "i was being cautious."
a laugh escaped him at your reply, it wasn't loud or obnoxious, just a low, warm chuckle that seemed completely effortless. "cautious?" he glanced toward the cow, and then back at you. "you looked like you were negotiating for your life."
you folded your arms tightly across your chest, and the movement felt defensive even to you. "that thing," you pointed towards the animal behind the fence. "is enormous."
"daisy?" his expression turned almost offended.
"daisy?" you questioned, no way a beast like that had such a name.
"yeah," he pushed himself away from the fence and walked closer, dry grass crunched beneath his boots with every step. "that's her name."
"she has a name?"
"as opposed to?" he was almost smiling now.
"i don't know." you threw your hands up, looking back to daisy the cow. "being cow number three?"
a laugh burst out of him this time, his head tipped back slightly as the sound carried across the field and the sight caught you off guard. god he had one of those smiles, the kind that transformed someone's entire face, one that made you forget what you were annoyed about. "you really aren't from around here."
you groaned at assumption, no matter how true is was. "oh, not you too."
"too?"
"everybody keeps saying that." you shifted your weight onto one hip, feeling your shoes go deeper into the mud and you groaned at the thought of having to clean them later. "apparently I have some giant sign above my head that says 'new girl.'"
the boy studied you for a second, not in a rude way, more like he was genuinely considering the question and then his gaze dropped briefly. "well," the smile returned. "you kind of do."
you looked down at yourself, trainers caked in mud and jeans getting dirty on the bottom. "what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
he pointed at your shoes, "white trainers."
you frowned, glancing down at your choice of footwear. "so?"
"those things won't survive a week here." then his gaze shifted upward. "fancy tote bag."
"it's just a bag." you defended, for some reason you felt the need to, clutching the strap.
"mhm." his expression said he didn't believe that for a second. "and," he pointed toward the cow. "you're standing ten feet away from daisy like she's a wild predator."
you sighed looking at daisy, and she looked back at you, "okay."
for a moment the breeze swept through the field, tall grass rippled around them like waves and the scent of earth and wildflowers drifted through the warm air. the silence was awkward, yet you couldn't think of anything to say to stop it.
he finally held out a hand. "i'm oscar." his voice was gentler this time, less teasing, and you finally heard the hint of his accent. you glanced at his hand, it was larger than yours, a little tanned and a few faint scratches marked his knuckles.
signs of someone who actually worked with his hands, not someone who spent every day surrounded by concrete and office buildings and you slid your hand into his, repeating your own name back to him.
oscar's grip was firm but careful, warm from the sunlight and his thumb brushed lightly against the side of your hand before he let go. something in your chest fluttered unexpectedly. "nice to meet you, city girl."
you immediately pointed at him, shaking your head, "you are not calling me that."
his eyebrows rose, "no? why not?" the teasing tone to his words was back and you suppressed the urge to roll your eyes. the grin that spread across his face was infuriatingly attractive.
"because it's awful." you argued back, which only further fuelled his amusement.
the sun had begun sinking lower in the sky by the time they reached the north fence. golden light stretched across the fields, painting everything in shades of amber and honey. the air had cooled slightly, carrying the scent of grass and freshly turned earth. you stood with your arms resting against the wooden fence while oscar crouched beside a loose section of wire.
you watched him work for a moment, his movements were easy, definitely practiced like he'd done this a thousand times before. which, knowing him for all of an hour, was probably true. "so this is what passes for excitement around here?" you asked.
oscar glanced up, a strand of brown hair had fallen across his forehead. "you've clearly never fixed a fence before."
"and i plan to keep it that way." you replied quickly.
he laughed quietly, and you found yourself smiling again. after another few minutes, oscar straightened up and dusted his hands against his jeans. "there." he nodded at the fence. "good as new."
you looked at it, then looked back at him. "i genuinely cannot tell the difference."
his hand moved to his chest, mock offense flashed across his face. "that hurts."
"sorry." you shrugged a shoulder.
"no, you're not."
"not even a little."
his grin widened, gathering up his tools from the ground. "thought so."
the two of you started walking back toward the main trail, the conversation came easier now, unlike before you weren't stumbling over words anymore. and somehow, despite having spent days feeling completely out of place, the silence between conversations didn't feel uncomfortable.
it felt almost natural, then the farm appeared in the distance, a large white house surrounded by fields with a painted barn sitting proudly nearby. the sight made something tighten unexpectedly in your chest, because reaching the farm meant leaving, which was absolutely ridiculous because you'd only met him today.
you found yourself slowing your steps, and oscar noticed, from what you'd found out about him so far you knew he was perceptive as hell.
"you heading home?" his voice was casual, but his eyes stayed on you.
and you adjusted the strap of your tote bag. "eventually." you looked up, and he was smiling, small and amused like he was enjoying your company as much as you were enjoying his.
"that's not an answer."
"maybe i'm avoiding going home." you sighed, relenting from the pressure of his gaze on you.
"why?"
you shrugged. "because i'm still adjusting." the confession slipped out before you could stop it, for a second, you regretted it then oscar's expression softened, the teasing disappeared completely.
"it's hard?"
you laughed quietly, small nod of your head. "that's one way of putting it."
his gaze dropped briefly toward the dirt path beneath his boots. "when i was younger, i wanted to leave."
you blinked at his confession, "really?"
"yeah." his shoulders lifted slightly, looking back at you now. "thought this place was boring."
"and now?"
he looked around at the fields, at the open sky stretching endlessly above them and at the farm sitting in the distance. then a smile tugged at his mouth. "now, i think i'd miss it."
the honesty in his voice surprised you, and for some reason, it made you look at the town differently. just for a second, when you reached the road where your paths split, both of you slowed.
neither saying goodbye immediately, the evening breeze tugged gently at your tied hair, strands falling across your face, somewhere nearby, birds called to each other from the trees. "well." you shoved your hands into your jacket pockets. "thanks for introducing me to daisy."
oscar laughed, eyes catching yours. "she'll be pleased."
"tell her i said goodbye."
"i'll pass along the message."
you rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. then came the awkward part, the part where you were supposed to leave, except neither of you seemed particularly eager to.
finally, oscar rocked back on his heels. "see you around, city girl." and you groaned, hearing him laugh as you both walked the opposite direction.
—
the next morning, the town felt different, not dramatically different. it was still small, and still quiet, still the kind of place where people waved from their cars and knew each other's names.
but as you walked down the main street with your tote bag hanging from your shoulder, you found yourself noticing things you hadn't before. flower boxes sat beneath shop windows, a golden retriever lounged outside the bookstore, an elderly couple shared a newspaper on a bench near the bakery.
it felt less like a place you'd been forced to move to and more like somewhere people genuinely loved living. the realisation was unsettling, and you blamed the lack of caffeine in your system.
the bell above the café door chimed softly as you stepped inside, immediately, warmth wrapped around you, the scent of freshly ground coffee beans mixed with vanilla syrup and baked pastries, filling the small space.
sunlight streamed through the front windows, stretching across the worn wooden floors in golden rectangles, the café itself was tiny compared to the places back home. there were only a handful of tables with mismatched chairs, and small potted plants sitting on every windowsill.
a chalkboard menu hanging behind the counter, everything looked slightly imperfect, slightly worn but somehow comfortable.
it wasn't busy, a few elderly men sat near the window reading newspapers, a young mother occupied a corner booth with two small children, and someone quietly typed away on a laptop near the back.
everyone seemed to know everyone, you'd noticed that already. the barista greeted three different customers by name before turning toward you, which felt absurd, in the city, nobody knew your name. sometimes not even your neighbours.
you ordered your coffee and claimed a small table near the front window, your laptop sat open in front of you, unopened emails filled the screen, none of which you wanted to answer. instead, your attention drifted repeatedly toward the street outside.
watching people pass, watching cars roll slowly down the road, watching life happen at a pace that still felt impossibly slow compared to the city. you wrapped both hands around your coffee cup, the ceramic felt warm against your palms.
you took a sip, and then immediately grimaced. still terrible like the first three times you'd been there. you'd barely set the cup down when the bell above the café door rang again.
the sound was soft, ordinary, yet your eyes lifted automatically, cursing yourself for doing it because there he was, which was ridiculous, completely ridiculous, because god seemed to have it out for you.
outside the fields, the sunlight and open countryside. he looked strangely out of place in the café and yet completely comfortable at the same time. he wore a dark green flannel today, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, his jeans were slightly faded and his boots looked cleaner than yesterday, though not by much.
his brown hair was still messy as though he'd run his fingers through it while driving over, or maybe rolled out of bed five minutes before leaving, that made more sense than your self indulgent fantasy.
the morning sunlight followed him through the doorway, catching in his hair and illuminating the faint freckles scattered across his nose. he scanned the café once, then his eyes landed on you, and you swore almost immediately a grin spread across his face.
your stomach performed an incredibly inconvenient flip as you quickly averted your attention back to your screen.
his eyebrows lifted, almost as if he hadn't expected to see you either. which somehow made the reaction worse, because that meant his smile wasn't planned. and that physically made your stomach hurt.
"well." his voice carried across the café, warm and familiar despite the fact you'd only known him for a day. "look who it is."
you hated how quickly your own smile appeared, covering it up quickly as you rolled your eyes before he even reached your table, "don't." you already knew what was coming.
oscars grin only widened, "city girl." he laughed, the sound was low and effortless, as he started walking toward the counter but never took his eyes off you.
"what are you doing here?"
you gestured around the café. "getting coffee."
"that explains the coffee." his gaze dropped briefly toward your laptop. "the laptop's throwing me off."
you looked down at the screen as twenty-three unanswered emails stared back at you, and you sighed dramatically. "i'm pretending to be productive."
"how's that going?"
"terrible" you glared at the face he makes. "don't judge me."
"i am absolutely judging you." he leans against the counter, one elbow resting casually on the wood. "who voluntarily answers emails before noon?"
"people with responsibilities."
"can't relate." you rolled your eyes, his grin only widened. he was enjoying this more than you liked him to.
the woman behind the counter appeared beside him, holding a large paper bag. "your mum's order." eleanor, the cafe owner, smiled, wrinkles creasing around her eyes and grey hair framing her face.
"lifesaver, thank you." oscar accepted the bag with one hand. "she would've disowned me if i forgot."
eleanor laughed, leaning in as he pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek, like she was family. "again?"
you watched the exchange with amusement, everyone seemed to know him, not only know him but like him. the kind of familiarity that only happened in places where people grew up together.
where lives overlapped for years, it was strange. back home, most people barely knew their neighbours and yet here, everyone seemed connected somehow.
oscar turned back toward you, his eyes immediately finding yours again, and there was that strange feeling, like the room got slightly smaller every time he looked at you.
"so," he shifted the paper bag under one arm. "have you stopped being afraid of cows yet?"
you groaned, eleanor couldn't hep but smile beside him, before chastising him for teasing you. it was clear she'd watched him growing up, feeling comfortable enough to do it. "i wasn't afraid."
"right." he nodded at your answer, like he believed you, but the tone in his voice revealed the truth.
"i wasn't." you argued back, closing your laptop as if you were going to leave, but you made no effort to move.
"oscar," eleanor spoke up, small warm smile on her face. "leave her alone."
"thank you." you nodded toward her, and she gave you a knowing look, which you couldn't quite understand yet.
"oscar's impossible." she added.
"exactly."
"hey." he looked genuinely offended. "i'm standing right here."
you smiled into your coffee cup, trying and failing to hide it. for a moment, oscar simply watched you, his expression softening slightly and the teasing fading around the edges.
the noise of the café continued around you, cups clinking together, the espresso machine hissing behind the counter with quiet conversations filling the room. yet somehow the moment felt oddly separate from all of it. eleanor glanced between the two of you, smile never leaving her face as she took this as her cue to leave.
his gaze dropped briefly toward the empty chair across from you, and then back to your face. "you busy?" the question was casual, almost too casual.
but you noticed the way his fingers tapped once against the side of the paper bag, noticed the slight hesitation before he asked and suddenly you had the distinct feeling he wasn't asking about your emails. your heart betrayed your head again. "depends."
his eyebrow lifted. "on?"
you leaned back in your chair, pretending to think about it. "what's your definition of busy?"
the smile that appeared on his face was immediate, bright, victorious and entirely too attractive. "i'll take that as a no."
you tried not to smile, failed completely. and for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, you found yourself wondering if moving to this tiny town might not be quite as terrible as you'd originally thought.
the chair opposite you scraped softly against the floor as he pulled it out, he didn't sit, just rested one hand against the back of it. towering slightly over you and you hated how aware you suddenly became of how close he was.
warmth and fresh air clung faintly to his clothes, mixed with the scent of hay and something clean. something that was very distinctly him. his eyes immediately flickered back to your face, and lingered.
just for a second, the look made warmth creep into your cheeks. thankfully, he seemed to notice the same thing at the exact same moment, because he suddenly looked away first, clearing his throat and you tried not to smile again. you found yourself doing that a lot with him already.
"so," he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, rocking back slightly on his heels. "what are the chances?"
you raised an eyebrow, glancing up from your half written email. "of?"
"running into me twice."
you looked around the café dramatically, then out the window for good measure. "there are approximately six buildings in this town."
his laugh escaped immediately, a low sound that made the elderly men near the back glance over. "fair."
"thank you."
"still." his head tilted slightly, brown eyes settling on you again. "i was kind of hoping i'd see you." the words were casual, almost too casual. but something about them made your pulse stumble.
because he said them like he meant them, like it wasn't just a joke to him, like it wasn't teasing. you released a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding, and oscar noticed. of course he fucking noticed.
his grin returned immediately, slower this time, more knowing. which was somehow worse. "what?" you asked, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.
"nothing."
"you're smiling." you narrow your eyes at him, he was being odd, but then again you didn’t truly know him enough to call him out on it.
"am i?"
"yes."
"interesting." he looked entirely pleased with himself, after a moment, he glanced toward the door, reluctantly, as if remembering he actually had somewhere to be. "i should probably get this home before mum thinks i got lost."
"probably."
he nodded, but didn't move. finally, he stepped backwards. "i'll see you around."
you looked up at him, standing there with wind tousled hair and a ridiculous grin, and for the first time since moving here, the thought of staying didn't seem quite so awful.
"yeah." a smile tugged at your lips.
"see you around, farmer."
oscar froze, completely and you watched realization dawn across his face, followed by disbelief then amusement "farmer?"
you shrugged innocently. "seems fitting."
his laugh filled the café, warm enough to chase away the rain looming in the clouds. he shook his head, still smiling. then pushed open the café door. the bell chimed overhead, cold air rushed briefly inside before disappearing again.
—
three weeks after your first meeting, you had come to one very unfortunate conclusion. oscar piastri was incapable of behaving normally around you.
every time you saw him, in the cafe, the one and only supermarket in the town, or at the bar on a random friday, he found a new way to be annoying. and by annoying, you meant flirtatious, which was arguably worse. he flirted the way other people breathed, effortlessly and constantly, without any shame too.
you were beginning to suspect he enjoyed watching you get flustered. the worst part being? it worked, which was information you planned to take to your grave.
today, however, you weren't thinking about oscar's flirting, you were thinking about paperwork, which was something a lot worse. the small medical clinic sat at the edge of town, attached to the doctor's office.
sunlight filtered through the blinds behind your desk as you worked through patient notes, the waiting room beyond the door was unusually quiet.
for once, you'd almost finished your last chart when the front door opened. voices drifted through the reception area, and you paid them little attention. until one of them sounded familiar.
far too familiar, your pen paused, looking up and immediately regretted it.
because oscar was standing in the doorway, of course he was. this was the only place he was yet to find you, somehow, yet given the circumstances of your job you were thankful.
his brown hair was windswept, his hoodie was dirty, there was mud on one sleeve, and there was blood on his hand. your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, all traces of amusement disappeared instantly. "oscar?"
he looked up, the second he spotted you, his face lit up, actually lit up. you could see it happen in real time, like showing up injured had somehow improved his day. "well, hello there."
you ignored that entirely, professional face well and truly on. "why are you bleeding?"
his gaze dropped toward his hand. "oh yeah" oscar only shrugged. "that's what you're concerned about?"
you stared at him, noticing the bleeding was still happening, yet he acted like nothing was wrong. "oscar."
"right." his smile remained completely intact, which was concerning. "apparently i met a fence post."
you blinked, raising an eyebrow. "a fence post."
"it attacked me."
the older man standing beside him snorted and you recognized one of the neighbouring farmers. "he walked straight into it."
"oscar." you pinched the bridge of your nose already developing a headache.
"traitor." oscar shouted towards the spot his neighbour was in before he left.
"exam room."
he grinned. "yes, ma'am."
you pointed toward the hallway. "don't."
his grin somehow widened, which should have been illegal. and a few minutes later, he was sitting on the examination table while you pulled on a pair of gloves.
the room smelled faintly of antiseptic, bright fluorescent lights reflected off white walls. outside, you could hear distant voices moving through the clinic, inside, however, it was just the two of you.
which immediately felt dangerous, mostly because oscar looked far too pleased about the situation. you stood in front of him and carefully reached for his injured hand.
his teasing expression softened slightly, just enough that you noticed. "let me see."
for once, he didn't make a joke, he simply turned his hand over. your fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, warm skin met your palm.
a small cut stretched across the side of his hand, not deep. but enough to require cleaning to make sure no dirt had gotten in it. you let out a quiet breath, relief settled in your chest. "oscar." you grabbed a disinfectant wipe. "how exactly did this happen?"
his shoulder bumped against the wall behind him."i told you."
"you walked into a fence post?"
"yes."
you looked up from the cut. "how?"
"well." he seemed to genuinely consider the question, before the smug smile returned back on his face. "i was distracted."
you narrowed your eyes. "by?" and his gaze met yours immediately, without hesitation.
you rolled your eyes, hard, yet the warmth creeping into your cheeks betrayed you instantly and his eyes sparkled with amusement. "there it is."
"what?"
"that look."
you frowned, still carefully cleaning his cut, hearing him groan a little in pain. "what look?"
"the one where you pretend i'm annoying."you pressed the disinfectant wipe directly against the cut and oscar hissed. "that was sore."
"good." his laugh filled the room, warm and familiar, the sound bounced off the walls. and despite yourself, you found yourself smiling.
his smile softened, something gentler replacing the teasing, something that made your stomach do strange things and for a moment neither of you spoke, you focused on wrapping the bandage around his hand.
absolutely refusing to acknowledge the way his gaze seemed fixed on your face "there." you secured the bandage. "all done." you pointed at him, your professional facade back in full force. "try not to walk into any more fence posts."
he glanced down at the bandage, then back at you. "i'll do my best."
"i'm serious."
"so am i." his voice was quieter again now, less teasing. his eyes stayed on yours, holding them. "i'd hate to lose my favourite nurse."
your heart stumbled, completely and hopelessly. and judging by the smile threatening to appear on his face, he knew it.
you stepped back immediately, creating distance, professional distance. "oscar."
his grin returned instantly. "yes?"
"out." he laughed, loud enough that people probably heard it from reception. then he hopped off the examination table, still smiling and still entirely too pleased with himself.
when he reached the doorway, he paused, turning back. "see you tomorrow."
you folded your arms. "how do you know you'll see me tomorrow?"
his eyes danced with amusement, as he glanced over your figure, "small town." and before you could think of a response, he disappeared down the hallway. leaving you standing there.
trying and failing not to smile.
—
by friday evening, you had spent an entire week trying not to think about oscar piastri. which was proving to be annoyingly difficult, mostly because he seemed to appear everywhere.
once, you'd looked out the clinic window and spotted him driving a tractor through a nearby field, which felt incredibly excessive.
he was becoming an actual problem. unfortunately, your coworkers had noticed too. which was why you currently found yourself sitting in a crowded pub while they interrogated you. the transfer celebration had been their idea, apparently it was tradition whenever someone new joined the clinic.
you'd only been in town for a month now, but somehow they'd already decided you belonged. the pub was warm and noisy, golden lights hung from wooden beams overhead and laughter echoed throughout the room.
glasses clinked together, music played softly somewhere in the background. every table seemed occupied, the place practically radiated small-town charm.
you were beginning to suspect this town did everything deliberately, even its pubs looked like they belonged on postcards.
"so," across the table, one of the other nurses, ruby, leaned forward, her eyes narrowed. "how many times have you seen him now?"
you sighed, immediately knowing where this was going, and you took a sip of your drink in anticipation. "i don't know."
"that's not an answer." she argued back, playfully rolling her eyes at your stubbornness.
"it wasn't meant to be." your coworkers exchanged looks, the kind of looks that made you nervous. you pointed at all of them. "don't do that."
"do what?" ruby answered back.
"that."
they looked entirely too innocent, which meant trouble. another nurse, amy, took a sip of her drink. "we're just asking about oscar."
you groaned, suddenly feeling like you needed a stronger drink, there it was, the name, always that name. "why is everyone obsessed with him?"
the entire table laughed, actually laughed, which felt unfair, like a joke you were being left out of. "you genuinely don't know?" amy asked.
"no?"
"you haven't noticed?" brad is the next one go ask you.
"i've noticed he's annoying." that earned several snorts and ruby doctor nearly chokes on her drink.
"annoying?"
"very." you hum.
"he flirts with you."
"exactly!” the table erupted again, and you stared, completely confused. "what?"
"oh sweetheart." one of the older nurses, janet, patted your arm "that's why."
you blinked. "what does that mean?"
three different people answered at once. "it means he likes you." "it means you're hopeless." "it means you're blind."
your jaw dropped. "excuse me?"
amy beside you shook her head. "you should see your face every time he walks into the clinic."
"my face doesn't do anything."
"it absolutely does." you buried your face in your hands, this town was impossible, all of them were impossible. when you looked up again, every single person at the table was smiling, waiting, watching and judging. "stop looking at me like that."
"we're just saying." brad shrugged. "oscar's a good guy."
"i never said he wasn't."
"then what's the problem?" you opened your mouth, then closed it again. because unfortunately you didn't actually know. there wasn't a problem.
that was the issue, oscar was kind, funny, charming and annoyingly handsome. everyone liked him, you liked him. which was precisely why you were avoiding the topic. "there isn't a problem."
"ah!” ruby pointed dramatically. "there it is."
"there what is?"
"you like him!" amy practically shouted this across the bar and you could feel your cheeks start to burn.
"i do not." the response came far too quickly, everyone noticed.
"oh, she definitely likes him."
you reached for your drink, desperately, downing the rest it. "this conversation is over."
the entire table dissolved into laughter again, and you considered leaving. or moving towns. both felt reasonable. then the front door opened, and every thought immediately vanished. because oscar walked in, because of course he fucking did.
because apparently the universe enjoyed making your life difficult, the cool evening air followed him through the doorway and he paused near the entrance.
talking to someone, a few people waved in his direction. others called greetings across the room and he returned every one with easy familiarity.
it was almost fascinating to watch, he belonged here. you'd never seen someone fit so naturally into a place before. and apparently you weren't the only one watching. "there he is." the nurse beside you nodded toward him.
"town's most eligible bachelor."
you nearly spat out your drink. "town what?"
"bachelor."
"absolutely not." you looked around, only to discover multiple women glancing in his direction. one waved. whilst another smiled and oscar greeted both without missing a beat.
you immediately hated how unsurprised he looked by the attention. "you're joking."
"we are not."
"everyone's had a crush on him at some point." you stared at ruby's confession.
"everyone?" you query, looking back to where he was standing at the bar now, buying himself and the guy beside him a round.
the older nurse laughed. "welcome to town."
you looked back toward oscar, unfortunately. because the second you did, his eyes found yours. as though he'd been searching the room, the noise around you seemed to blur for a second. his face brightened, that familiar smile appearing the moment he spotted you.
and somehow it felt different from the smiles he'd given everyone else, warmer, more genuine, more dangerous for you.
"oh." janet beside you noticed. "oh, that's bad."
"what?" you looked back at her, confused on what she was saying.
"he likes you."
"i know he likes me." the words slipped out before you could stop them. the table fell into silence, complete silence. and you froze, horrified, then the realisation hit a second later.
"oh my god." brad his head onto the table, laughing. "you just admitted it."
one of the nurses pointed toward oscar, warm smile on her face as she waved over to him. "give him a chance."
your eyes widened, wishing now you'd saved some of your drink as you reached for an empty glass. "what?"
"give him a chance." amy repeated herself, "he clearly adores you."
"he does not-" you tried to argue back before brad cut you off.
"he drove himself to the clinic for a paper cut." the table erupted in laugh again, and your face immediately burned.
you covered your face, feeling like you wanted to the ground to open up and swallow you whole. "oh my god."
"you deserve someone nice." their teasing softened slightly, janet smiled, gentler now. "and oscar's one of the nicest people in this town."
you looked toward the bar again, toward the brunette farmer currently laughing at something someone had said, the sight of him smiling tugged at something inside your chest.
annoyingly, inconveniently and as if sensing your gaze, he looked up. there it was again, that damn smile. the one he reserved just for you, the one that somehow made the crowded room feel a little smaller.
a little quieter, a little less overwhelming and your coworkers followed your gaze, then exchanged knowing looks. "you should really give him a chance."
for the first time all evening, you didn't immediately argue and judging by the grin spreading across your coworkers' faces, that answer told them everything they needed to know.
"i'm getting another." you pushed your chair back, immediately, every face at the table lit up, suspiciously. "no." you pointed at them before anyone could speak "whatever you're thinking, stop."
"we didn't say anything."
"you didn't have to." brad looked far too amused at your outburst.
"have fun." their laughter followed you across the pub, traitors.
the closer you got to the bar, the louder everything became, conversations overlapped from every direction and glasses clinked together. music hummed softly beneath the noise. the smell of beer, wood polish, and fried food filled the warm air.
people crowded shoulder to shoulder around the counter, thankfully, there was one familiar face among them. unfortunately, it belonged to oscar.
he was leaning against the bar with one elbow resting on the polished wood, a half-finished drink sat beside him. his sleeves were rolled up again and somehow he'd managed to make standing still look unfairly attractive.
you hated that, the second you approached, his attention shifted. his face brightened immediately, like it always seemed to when he saw you. and for reasons you refused to examine too closely, that realisation made your stomach flutter. "well."
his eyes flicked toward you, then over your shoulder, then back again and slowly a grin appeared, you knew that grin. "what?"
his grin widened. "oh, nothing."
"that's a lie."
"it is." he admitted putting up no fight.
"just say it." you sighed.
instead of answering, oscar glanced toward your table and you followed his gaze, immediately regretting it. because every single one of your coworkers was watching. janet actually waved and you nearly dropped dead on the spot. "oh my god." you buried your face in your hands.
"they're staring." oscar hummed, not bothering to hide the shit-eating grin on his face.
when you looked up again, his eyes were sparkling with amusement. "they look invested."
"they've lost their minds."
"possibly."
"they've spent the last hour interrogating me." you feel the words slip past your lips before you can stop them, and internally you curse yourself.
"oh?" his eyebrow lifted, head tilting slightly in amusement. "what about?"
you stared at him, and he stared back, completely innocent. completely full of shit. and maybe it was the confidence the alcohol gave you, or maybe you were finally done running from the inevitable because you found yourself answering honestly. "you."
his grin became positively unbearable. "really?" he was becoming more cocky by the minute you wished you hadn't said anything. "what did they say?"
"i'm not telling you."
"was it nice?"
"it was embarrassing." you groaned, turning toward the bar, resting your elbows on the worn wood, feeling whatever sticky substance has been spilled on it who knows how long ago. "i'm getting a drink."
"a strategic retreat."
before you could respond, the bartender approached. "what can I get you?"
you opened your mouth, but the words that came weren't from you. "i've got it."
your head whipped around. "what?"
oscar looked entirely unbothered, shrugging slightly. "put it on my tab." the bartender laughed and nodded.
you stared at him, stuck on what to say. "you don't need to buy me a drink."
"i know." he answers simply, as if the most obvious thing in the world.
"then why are you?" his gaze met yours, steady and easy.
the teasing softened slightly, "because i want to."
your heart immediately became a problem, you looked away first, which only seemed to amuse him further. when your drink arrived, oscar slid it across the counter toward you.
his fingers brushed yours briefly, the contact lasted less than a second. yet somehow it felt longer, dangerously longer. and you swore you felt the surge of electricity between you.
"there." he nodded toward the glass. "enjoy."
you wrapped your hands around it, the cold glass grounding you slightly, as you twirled the straw between your fingers. "thank you."
"you're welcome." for a moment, neither of you spoke, the noise of the pub filled the space around you.
people laughed nearby, someone cheered from across the room and music drifted through the air. yet standing beside oscar somehow felt oddly separate from all of it. comfortable and easy, which was becoming a recurring issue.
his shoulder rested lightly against the bar, close enough that you could feel his presence beside you. close enough that you were very aware of it. "so." your voice pulled his attention back.
"so?" he answered, dipping his head slightly to hear you better.
"town bachelor?"
at your jibe he nearly chocked on his drink. "oh, absolutely not." his laugh burst out instantly, "you heard about that?"
"my coworkers told me." you couldn't help but giggle at his reaction, taking the straw between your lips as you took a sip. "you wanna know what else they told me?" you asked, raising an eyebrow as he nodded his head.
"that i should give you a chance." his grin was unstoppable when he heard your words, the quiet confidence he exuded was bordering on cocky now, but god would you be lying if you said you didn't enjoy it.
"yeah?" he asked, tilting his head as he looked down at you, eyes shamelessly flickering to your lips before finding yours again. "they're right."
"oscar." he looked delighted at the effect he had on you, watching the way your chest rose and fell, hearing your heartbeat begin to race.
"yes?" oscar whispered back, so close you could feel his breath on your face.
"you are unbelievable." you tried not to smile, failing. immediately and his expression softened when he saw it. something warm flickering across his face, more genuine than teasing, more dangerous than flirting. for a second, he simply looked at you.
like he'd forgotten whatever joke he was about to make, the noise around you seemed to fade slightly, the moment stretching and settling between the two of you. "you're so beautiful you know." his voice was so quiet now, like he was telling a secret he only wanted you to know, and you could feel the heat creep up your neck.
the sincerity of his words had your stomach hurting, and you couldn't look at him any longer, letting your eyes fall to the drink laid abandoned on the bar, when you felt his hand on your cheek directing your attention back to him.
you had to shake yourself out of the trance like state he'd put you in, clearing your throat as you reached for the drink, before pointing toward the exit. "leave."
"it's my town."
"then i'm leaving." his grin returned immediately and you sat the drink back down, turning away from him before beginning to walk away, when you felt his hand wrap around your wrist pulling you back to him.
"not before you finish the drink i bought you." you rolled your eyes, but as you lifted the glass, you couldn't stop the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, and judging by the look on oscar's face, he noticed that too.
a/n: i am so shocked yet happy that people loved my texting blurbs sm! happy pride month, and once you get to the 13th one, that is COMPLETELY a joke!! i am a bisexual woman and i think the millie memes are hysterical, so i apologize if that offends anybody! it is not meant to be homophobic in any way and i hope nobody interprets it like that, this is a safe space for those in the lgbtq+ community and those who may just be allies. enjoy!! :)
putting this gif because last time i didn't and it used the freaking divider as the picture when shared/thumbnail in my inbox... like i'm irritated
pairing: 2000s!sidney crosby x reader
summary: you and your phone become a new good luck charm
warnings: fluff
wc: 574
this is the first hockey game you’ve been to ever since you’ve started dating sid. before him, you weren’t crazy interested in it. you knew a bit about it, but not all the ins and outs of how it all worked. you’re sat semi-close to the offensive side of the rink, not too far away where you can barely see the action, but not close to the boards.
as the game goes on, you start realising why sid loves hockey so much, and why he’s so passionate about it. it’s fast paced, keeps you on the edge of your seat, and the arena is loud in support.
whilst the penguins as a team were doing great, leading the game, sid himself isn’t having his best game so far. during the first two periods, he kept turning over the puck, making small mistakes here and there.
after the second intermission, the penguins enter the third period with a very comfortable lead, everyone in the arena is starting to believe that there’s no way things will change that much in these next twenty minutes — some people from the opposing team start leaving, thinking there’s no way they’ll catch up. however, with goal after goal, the opposing team starts catching up a bit. the nerves start hitting, and the anxious thoughts start flooding in: what if we can’t keep our lead? am i bad luck?
even with all the nerves, the game still quite literally has you on the edge of your seat. a faceoff is about to happen right in front of you, with sid getting ready to square off. for the memories, you take your phone out to record what happens. the puck is dropped and within a couple passes, sid shoots it into the back of the net, scoring his first goal of the game.
when sid gets on the ice for his next shift, you bring your phone out once again, wanting to record his gameplay. the puck travels to the defensive zone, and for a moment, you think you might not get that great of a view, but a turnover occurs, and all of a sudden sid has the breakaway. it’s just him and the goalie, and sid makes a clean shot for the net, once again scoring and extending the penguins’ lead.
many things are running through your mind, but the main thought is: i can’t believe i got that goal on camera again
under your breath, you let out “oh my god, he’s on a hatty watch.” it isn’t loud enough for the people around you who are too busy cheering to hear, basically meaning, in your own superstitious nature, that you didn’t jinx it.
the end of the third period starts reaching, and you start thinking that maybe sid won’t get a hat trick, but at least the penguins have a big lead and will still win the game. you record the final faceoff, just to see the celebrations that would occur shortly after the end of the game. however with just under a minute to go, sid miraculously scores for a third time, marking another career hat trick.
later that night, you show sid all three of the videos you recorded, showing how every time your phone was on him, he managed to score a goal.
“i might need you to come along to all my games now.”
“and why’s that?”
“you’re a good luck charm, obviously.”
a/n: quick 2000s!sid blurb based on the hockey game i went to!!
I know I said I'd post this tomorrow, but I finished it earlier today, so why not just post it now?
First time writing for Fraser, I hope you all enjoy! 😊 2.4k words
You’re still half asleep when you blindly reach for your phone on your nightstand because it just will not stop going off. Lazily you squint against the brightness of the screen, and you’re greeted with a slew of messages from nearly every social app you have.
Instagram: 100+
TikTok: 100+
Follow requests, mentions, comments, reposts, likes, DMs from people you haven't talked to in years.
You have messages from nearly every single person in your contacts, but the ones that stick out are the two from Fraser.
Fraser: You awake sweet girl?
The second, sent less than a minute later:
Fraser: Don’t panic
Which, naturally, makes you panic immediately. You sit up so fast the blankets fall almost entirely off your body, confusion taking over now.
That’s when you notice your notifications keep climbing in real time. Your stomach drops, and you open TikTok first.
The first video on your feed is from the official Bruins account captioned: “Family Skate Day 🐻⛸️”
Oh no.
“Oh my god,” you whisper to yourself.
The video starts innocently enough. Players’ kids skating around, players helping little cousins stand upright. A sibling or two crashing into the boards while everyone laughs. Then midway through the reel; there you are in the background.
Your face is only partially showing and the camera isn’t even fully focused on your features. You hadn’t even realized you were in frame.
Fraser is beside you, gliding backward effortlessly while holding both your hands because you’re still shaky on skates despite him trying to teach you how to properly skate multiple times. His head is tilted toward you, listening to something you’re saying, and he’s smiling in that small quiet way he does when he’s genuinely amused.
The clip cuts, then you show up in the background again.
This time you’re standing near the boards talking to one of the other girlfriends while Fraser skates past behind you, and without even looking, he reaches for your hand as he passes, just to give it a quick squeeze to remind you he’s around. You remember the moment exactly, you’d taken a break while he was skating circles around the rink with some of his teammates and some of the kids.
Near the end, there’s a blurry little background clip of you laughing about something while Fraser leans down and presses a quick kiss to your forehead before skating away again.
You make the mistake of checking the comments under the video, and it’s incredibly clear people noticed you and Fraser together:
THAT MAN IS IN LOVE
Bruins admin hard launching Fraser Minten was not on my bingo card…
Whoever she is, he adores her
Him skating backwards holding both her hands 😭😭 BYE
who IS she?!
You replay the video. Once, twice, three times.
The whole afternoon you weren’t exactly aware of the social media admin filming as much as they did, but then again you were just focused on having a good time with your boyfriend and his teammates and their families.
Your phone rings. Fraser.
You answer immediately. “You told me not to panic,” you say the second you pick up.
“Yeah.”
“Well I’m panicking.”
“I figured.”
His voice is calm, annoyingly calm like it always is. Like this isn’t the social equivalent of a small disaster currently unfolding in your bedroom.
“I have hundreds of follow requests.”
There’s a pause from his end. Then, carefully, “Okay.”
“Fraser.”
“Still listening.”
“You don’t understand, people are literally trying to figure out who I am.”
“You are who you are,” he says, as if that’s the answer. He has a hint of humor in his voice, probably hopeful to ,ale you laugh, but you’re just too overwhelmed.
You stare at the wall of your bedroom. “That’s not helpful right now.”
That gets a laugh out of him, soft through the phone. You can picture him already; hoodie on, hair messy, and leaning against his kitchen counter while making coffee like nothing is happening.
“I’m serious,” you say, voice quieter now. “I didn’t want…this.”
And immediately his tone changes, it becomes much softer, “I know.”
The anxiety pressing against your ribs eases slightly, because he does know. From the beginning, you’d been careful about privacy, and you’re very intentional about what you share, even with people you know. You like your quiet life. You like being separate from hockey and public attention.
Fraser had never pushed against that once. In fact he agreed to keep things private for both of your sakes, it was just simpler that way, less demanding for both of you, less stressful.
“I just feel weird,” you admit. “Like suddenly strangers are trying to know things about me and I really don’t like it.”
“Hey,” he says, trying to stop you from what you feel like is some kind of spiral in your head.
You close your eyes, and listen to him.
“You don’t owe anybody access to you,” he says gently. “Okay? None of this changes anything.”
You breathe out slowly, “I know, but it feels like it is. People know who I am now, like really know. They’re tagging me in stuff and I’m getting dozens of messages from people I don’t even know.”
“If people are being weird, tell me.”
You huff out a laugh, “What are you gonna do?”
You can hear his smile when he says, “Don’t know yet, but I’ll handle it. And if I can't, I can probably find someone who knows how.”
“Okay...”
Another buzz of notifications lights up your screen. You groan dramatically and flop backward onto the bed, “They’re just not stopping.”
Fraser hums quietly again, “You want me to come over?”
Your answer is immediate, “Yes please.”
—
By the time Fraser gets to your apartment, you’ve migrated to the couch wrapped in a blanket like its protective armor. Your legs are drawn up to your chest, chin resting on your knees. Your coffee sits abandoned on the table in front of you, and your phone sits right next to it. It hasn’t stopped going off since you woke up.
Fraser lets himself in with the spare key you gave him months ago, and the second he sees your eyebrows knit together and a frown on your lips, his whole expression becomes gentler.
“Oh, honey.”
You point accusingly at him, “This is your fault.”
“My fault?” he asks as he sets his keys on the table by the door, and kicks his shoes off.
“You’re too affectionate in public.”
He looks genuinely confused by that, “I just held your hand. I hold your hand all the time.”
“Yeah, you held my hand, Fraser. Apparently that’s devastatingly sweet to people online. And the only reason it’s bad is because everyone saw it, and now all your fans are scouring the internet for information about me..”
That earns a laugh from him, “So now I can only hold your hand in private?”
You nod, a very serious pout on your face.
He walks over, nudging your legs just enough to sit down before pulling you against his chest. “You okay?” he murmurs into your hair.
“Mostly embarrassed,” you say, messing with a loose thread on his sweatpants.
He shakes his head, “You shouldn’t be.”
Easy for him to say. He’s been recognizable since he was a teenager.
You tilt your head back to look at him, “You seriously don’t get why people are freaking out?”
“No, not really. ”
“Fraser, the comments are analyzing your body language, making comments about me, about how we are around one another even though the clips are only like three seconds each and we’re in the background every time—”
He cuts you off, “That’s weird.”
“I know.”
He thinks about this for a second, then he says, “I was just holding your hand.”
Your expression softens helplessly, because the thing for him is; it really is that simple. He reaches for you because he likes touching you, and he kisses your forehead because he wants to. Looking for you is automatic for him, his brain just does it, he doesn’t have to think about it. None of it is performative, it’s just how he is.
“People know now,” you mumble.
“Know what?”
“That we’re together.”
“…Were we hiding it?” he asks, with genuine confusion in his voice.
You pull back a bit to stare at him, “Yes?”
“I thought we were just private.”
“That’s the same thing!”
“It’s not, really.”
You groan and drop your forehead against his collarbone. Your phone buzzes against the coffee table again. And again. And again. You don’t even want to look anymore, at this point you want to shut it off and not leave your apartment for the next week if not longer.
“People are finding my accounts, I don’t even have public accounts but people are just requesting, and digging, and…it’s too much, I don’t like it. I just want it to stop.”
Fraser gently puts his hands on either side of your head, moving it so that you’re looking at him instead of hiding. “Hey,” he says, “It’s okay.”
“It is not okay,” you say weakly. “I had a plan for this.”
“A plan?” he asks, a small smile on his face.
“Yes.”
“You made a relationship publicity plan?”
“You didn’t?”
He chuckles a little, “No,” he says honestly.
Which, unfortunately, sounds exactly like him. You let out a stressed laugh despite yourself, covering your face with both hands.
Fraser gently pulls your wrists down so he can actually see you, “You don’t have to look at any of it right now.”
“But—”
“You don’t.”
His thumbs brush over your wrists in comfort, “You didn’t do anything wrong. Neither did I.”
You exhale shakily, “I just don’t like strangers knowing things about me. It makes me feel really weird.”
“I know, baby.” And he does. Fraser knows how carefully you move through the world, how selective you are with what you share. How highly you value privacy and routine and control over your own life, so all this sudden attention feels suffocating.
His expression softens a little, “We’ll handle it, and it’ll be okay, I promise you. I know it’s a lot right now but it’ll die down.”
“You’re unbelievably calm right now,” you say, your voice still small.
“I don’t really get why everyone’s freaking out.”
You let out an incredulous laugh, “Fraser.”
“What?”
“The forehead kiss?”
“What about it?”
He clearly doesn’t get where you’re going with this,“The hand holding?” you ask.
He shrugs, “I was helping you skate, I always hold your hands when we skate.”
You just stare at him. Fraser’s mouth twitches a little when he realizes he’s losing this argument.
“Okay,” he says finally, quieter now, “maybe the PDA was a little obvious.”
You groan again, this time mostly out of affection. He smiles properly then, down at you. It’s his small and soft smile that you absolutely adore.
“C’mere,” he mutters.
He pulls you into him again before you can protest, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other settles warm against the back of your neck. You melt almost instantly, cheek pressing into his hoodie.
“People are scary,” you mumble.
He rests his chin lightly against the top of your head, “They’ll calm down.”
“Want me to do something about all this?”
You tilt your head back slightly, “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Post you or something.”
Your eyes widen, “That’s a lot…that’s not exactly subtle.”
“I’m not trying to be subtle,” he says simply, “I’m trying to make people stop digging.”
Of course his solution would be straightforward, and it makes sense. There’s no games, no weird secrecy, no room for the public to spiral about who you are, what you are to him, and so on. For him it’s just: yes, this is my girlfriend. Please leave her alone.
You look at him carefully, “You’d post me?”
Another tiny confused crease between his brows. “Why wouldn’t I?” The sincerity in his voice hits harder than you expect, like it’s completely obvious and he doesn’t really get why you’re so shocked by this.
To him, loving you publicly was never the scary part.
Eventually, after another hour of you spiraling quietly and Fraser calmly talking you down from every ledge your brain creates, you end up stretched beside him on the couch while you hide under his arm pretending not to monitor your notifications anymore, but every time your phone buzzes you start the spiral all over.
After a while you feel his chest move with a quiet laugh.
You look up at him, confused, “What?”
He angles his phone toward you. His Instagram story.
It’s a photo you didn’t even realize had been taken. Fraser is sprawled out across a lawn, one arm braced behind him while you sit practically folded into his lap. Your arms loop around his shoulders, leaning in close enough that your face disappears against his. It’s simple, and it’s so you, like he knew that this picture in particular captured how the two of you were naturally.
Written in the space underneath the center of the photo:
My girl 💛 Please be respectful of her privacy, and be kind
“Oh,” you say, almost timidly.
Beside you, Fraser looks over cautiously, “Too much? You want me to take it down?”
You shake your head quickly. “No,” you mumble, “No, it’s…nice.”
His expression relaxes, and then he leans over and presses a kiss against your forehead exactly the same way he had at family skate a few days earlier. “You okay?” he asks softly.
You look down at your phone again, where the follow requests have already slowed, then back at him. He’s undoubtedly calm, his demeanor still steady, just looking at you like this isn’t complicated at all. He makes it much much easier to breathe.
“Yeah,” you say finally, curling closer into his side. Fraser hums quietly, arm tightening around your waist before he reaches for the remote with his free hand like this is just another normal day. Maybe, with him, it still can be.
“Can we just stay here all day?”
He hums, “Yeah baby, we can. We’ll just wait it out, I’ll make you some tea, we can watch something, do that lego set you ordered…” and as he continues to list things for you to spend the day doing, you let yourself relax. It’s still a lot, but less so now, and a part of you is happy that this is finally public. People know he’s yours and you’re his, and you can finally, fully exist in that.
Prompt: you rarely sleepwalk, so of course you end up sleepwalking while staying with will’s family during the summer. but luckily will is quick to help you
Warnings: sleepwalking (which I’ve only experienced a handful of times with people so I’m hoping this is accurate)
requested!
You were over the moon when Will’s mom Colleen called you one afternoon asking for both you and Will to come stay at their lake house in Boston during the off season. You guys were on a plane in an instant back to where Will grew up.
You’ve visited Boston only a handful of times, being born and raised half the country away didn’t make for much time for you to be in that area.
So, you and Will did it all. He showed you everything he loves, you’ve done boat days, fishing, golfing, shopping town days, you name it. Boston, had begun to feel like your home too, or a home away from home as you tell Will.
By a week into the trip you are exhausted, but that good kind of exhausted where you feel so at peace and so happy. But, that’s what you think triggered it. Not that you could blame anyone else for your lack of sleep. After all, it was you who chose to stay up every night around the fire with Will and his sister Grace, and it was you who insisted on sneaking out in the dark for a midnight lake runs with Will.
So tonight, the family also equally exhausted, all turned in early. After your shower, washing off a mix of sunscreen, tanning oil and lake water, you walk into the room you and Will are staying in, drop your towel, and pick up his sharks t-shirt. It fits you in that perfect way, coming down to mid thigh. So again, it was you who chose to stay up with Will as he showed you just how much he loved the look of you in his clothing.
But now, it is past 1am, and Will is sprawled out over the bed, his arms reaching out like they are searching for you, only your side of the bed is cold.
—
Colleen walks slowly down the stairs to the kitchen, slowly blinking sleep out of her eyes, but she freezes as she hears a faint clicking coming from downstairs. Clicking which sounds like the door lock on the sliding glass doors that lead to the patio.
She frowns, walking fully up. And as she slowly looks around the corner, she sees you.
You’re standing in front of the doors, your hand pulling uselessly on the lock. Your hair is curly from all the lake water, but plopped in a huge bun on your head, pieces falling down on the sides of your face. Will’s Sharks t-shirt covers your frame, but it’s large enough on you that it leans off one of your sun tanned shoulders.
“Honey?” She says, squinting a bit as she walks closer to you.
But you don’t look towards her, it’s almost like you didn’t even hear her. You just keep pulling on the lock, your breathing labored, panicked sounding almost.
“Sweetie.” She says, a bit more firmly but still coated in softness and comfort.
Your head moves towards her at that. As Colleen takes in your appearance her heart hammers. You look… different. Your eyes are glassy and slightly squinted. Your body is stiff and you seem like you’re floating somewhere else.
That’s when it hits her, she remembers it clear as day. A phone call she had with her son a long time ago when she asked how you were doing. Will had told her about this.
“She’s okay. Work’s been taking a lot out of her recently, she actually started sleepwalking occasionally.”
“Sleepwalking?” Colleen parroted back to him.
“Yeah, it’s rare. She only does it when she’s overly tired. Freaked me out the first time, I honestly didn’t know she was asleep.”
So Colleen makes sure her expression is soft and loving, her normal expression when she is talking to you, and she listens as you finally manage to speak.
“I have to get him.” You mumble, your voice so soft she could have easily missed it.
“Get who, honey?” Colleen asks you.
“Rigney.” You say, turning back towards the lock.
Colleen’s eyes flick to the chair in the living room, where Rigney is lying, perfectly safe, and still asleep. She glances back to you, wanting nothing more than to show you the family’s dog is inside, but it seems evident that you’re not abandoning the door without some persuasion.
“Rigney’s inside already, sweetie.” Colleen says very gently, trying not to startle you. “He’s in his normal chair in the living room.”
“No. He’s cold. Colleen he’s out there.” You say, a slight panic starting to rise in your tone. Your glossy eyes get glossier as you beg her to hear you, beg her to listen to you.
“Okay, okay.” She says, stepping closer and noting the shaking of your hands, and the way your chest moves rapidly. “Why don’t you sit down quick and I’ll go grab Will. He’ll help us look okay?”
“Will?” You question, and for a second she swears she can see the fully awake you at the sound of her son’s name.
“That’s right.” Colleen says, leading you so carefully that you think it’s your choice to sit down. “You stay right here while I grab him, alright?”
You only nod in response, but your eyes stay locked on the doors. “Tell Will to hurry, he’s all alone out there, I don’t want him to be scared.” You whimper, and Colleen’s heart cracks at how upset you sound. She’s a mother after all, she wants to fix this, wants to protect you from this, but she knows it’s not her that you need. So Colleen moves quickly, trying to stay silent so she doesn’t wake the rest of the house. She opens the bedroom door, and goes to the side of the bed that Will is sleeping on.
“Will.” She says, setting her hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t budge. “Will.” She says again, a bit louder as she shakes him lightly.
Will opens his eyes, and takes only a second before he’s looking at his mom in worry. That’s when he notices you’re gone, and the sheets are cold enough to tell him you’ve been gone for quite some time. Will’s heart leaps out of his chest, you missing, his mom looking a bit panicked.
“Mom-“
“She’s alright. She’s downstairs, I think she might be sleep walking.”
Will didn’t need to hear anything else, he didn’t bother with a shirt or shoes as he starts going down the steps. He knows not to startle you, so as he walks into the kitchen he does so as calmly as possible.
“Baby?” He asks, as he sees you. Sees the way you’re stiff, and as if you’re not really here. You turn your face towards his at the sound of his voice.
“Will, he’s out there.” You say, standing up in panic as Will makes his way over to you. He’s crouching a bit, trying to stay eye level with you.
“Who’s out there?” Will asks you, and it kills him to not reach out and tuck your curly strands of hair behind your ears.
“Rigney.” You say, and you choke on the name.
Colleen looks at Will, and he tracks her eyes over to the chair where Rigney is still sound asleep.
“Okay, well let me sit down and put my shoes on and we’ll go look.” Will says, secretly trying to lead you into the living room. You follow him blindly, like you always do.
But then your brain freezes when you hear the familiar shake of metal dog tags, and all of a sudden a wet nose comes and pokes your shin.
“See baby? He’s inside, he’s safe.”
“But he was-“ you start to say, pointing to the doors. “He was out there, and he was cold.” You try to justify.
Rigney jumps on the couch, and Will watches as you reach your hand out and touch the soft fur of the dog.
“He’s warm, he’s here with us.” Will comforts you as tears leak from your eyes. “Hey, hey.” He says, and even in your sleeping state you throw yourself against his chest. The warmth of his skin grounds you, just as much as the familiar smell of his body wash.
Colleen smiles sadly and looks away as Will comforts you. His hand on the back of your head, while one runs up and down your spine through his t-shirt. He waits, while throwing small comforting words in here and there until your cries soften.
“He’s safe?” You ask one more time, and Will smiles at you, your glossy eyes shining in the light of the moon that’s filling the living room.
“He’s safe. Just like you.” He says. “Do you want him to sleep with us tonight? That way we can watch him?” Will asks, and you just nod, tears back in a steady stream down your cheeks. His wipes them away with his thumb, and your eyes stay glued to the dog like he might vanish if you look away.
Getting you to believe Rigney was in the house wasn’t very challenging, but getting you back up the stairs proved to be more difficult than he thought. Rigney of course bolted straight up, making a beeline for the room. You took the steps slowly, Will next to you the entire time. Halfway through you just stopped, and he quietly and calmly reassures you that Rigney is probably sitting on your pillows waiting for you.
Colleen stayed behind you the entire time, far enough away so you don’t feel crowded, but close enough that if for whatever reason you fell backwards she was there to catch you.
But most importantly, they didn’t rush you. They took each step one at a time, and in your hazy fog and confusion, you let Will guide you. By the time Colleen made it to the top step, she wished you both a goodnight, and unknown to you looked at her son, quietly asking if he’s got you. He nods, and turns your body slowly to get into the bedroom.
Sure enough, Rigney has taken over your side of the bed. His head is resting on your pillow as if he’s using it, and for a smaller dog he manages to take up a lot of room.
Will walks you to his side of the bed instead, pulling back the covers and helping you get tucked in. Will slips in next to you, keeping you in the middle while he was dangerously close to the edge. But he pulls you flush against him, your back on his chest, your legs finding comfort tucked under his.
You don’t speak, you just close your eyes, listening to the soft words from your boyfriend. Little “sleep baby” or “you’re safe” or kisses on the top of your head.
To no surprise of Will, it didn’t take long for you to completely pass out, but Will stayed up for a little longer. Almost afraid that you’d manage to slip out again without him knowing. The thought of you getting outside in the dark, alone, with no shoes on, and near an open body of water was enough to scare him senseless. But he reminds himself too, that you’re right here.
He finally drifts off with the image of you sleeping in his chest burned into his brain, not that he’d ever want to forget it anyway.
—
As morning came, Colleen makes her way up the stairs to knock on the door. She didn’t tell anyone else what happened last night, not knowing if you’d be embarrassed or not. As she’s faced with the door it’s cracked slightly, Will must have left it open last night only a sliver in case Rigney needed something.
She opens it a tiny bit more, just enough to poke her head in to wake you guys for breakfast. But she stops, and nothing comes out of her mouth as she takes in the sight before her.
The three of you are curled into each other. Rigney spread out but pressed against your chest, and Will pressed up against your back. The three of you completely sound asleep. The dog and Will guarding each side of you like neither of them wanted you to slip away.
Colleen doesn’t move for a better part of a minute. And after she witnesses yet again how much her son adores you, she only smiles, watching as Will shifts slightly but just to pull you in deeper, the action making you pull Rigney in as well. She closes the door just a bit before she lets out a soft laugh, and a warmth different than the sun washes over the house.
okay queen i have a smutty blurb idea for mintyyyy
OKAY SO BASICALLY YOU KNOW HOW GUYS WEAR GRAY SWEATS RIGHT? I NEED LIKE WHEN FRASER IS JUST WALKING AROUND THE HOUSE IN NOTHING BUT GRAY SWEATS AND HIS GLASSES AND THE SWEATS ARE HANGING LOW OFF HIS HIPS SO YOU CAN SEE THOSE WASHBOARD ABS AND DIMPLES AND MAYBE HE'S LIKE WEARING HIS GLASSES AND READER IS OVULATING SO OBVIOUSLY SHE POUNCES ON HIM
thank youuuuuuu
Nerd - Fraser Minten
Suggestive Blurb below the cut
It had to intentional at this point. The way your boyfriend wandered the shared apartment, curly hair tousled, glasses perched on his freckled nose, grey sweatpants hung so low on his shirtless torso you could see that he wasn’t even wearing boxers.
He was still on the phone, over an hour after the call had woken you both up, chatting away with Connor as they planned their summer training together. He appeared to be in absolutely no rush to end the call, despite your gaze burning through his skin. His abs flexed as he laughed, face scrunching up in delight. Your mouth watered at the sight. Muscles contracting the same way they did when his fingers pressed on your scalp and your nails dug into his thighs.
How could a man as sweet as Fraser be so entirely unaware of your staring and fascination? For the love of god, if he would just notice what he was doing to you maybe that would persuade him to put a shirt on. The thoughts racing through your mind were dangerous, and as badly as you wanted him right now, you were not going to subject Connor to that.
So you sat, patiently, like a decent person. Flopped on your stomach, breasts pressed together, ass tastefully raised, pretending to scold on your phone. Fraser entered the living room again, still pacing in circles. From the corner of your eye you saw him flop down on the other couch.
You toyed with the idea still brewing in the back of your lust fogged mind. You couldn’t in good conscience work him up real bad while he was trying to catch up with his friend. But curling up in his lap isn’t that bad, right?
Crossing the small space between couches, Fraser’s blue eyes trained on you. His brows furrowed as you climbed onto his lap, head resting on his bare chest. A large hand, the one not holding his cell to his ear, slid down your side, cupping your ass.
You sigh, nuzzling your face closer to, and eyes fluttering shut. Your right hand traveled to his nape, nails grazing his scalp, left hand grazing the band of his sweats with the lightest touch.
“Yeah, alright man,” his voice rumbled. “Okay, yeah, we’ll figure it out. Okay, yeah, you too. Yeah, bye.”
His phone dropped the cushions and his other hand brushed your hair from your face. “Someone’s cuddly right now.”
You groaned. “Sorry, my boyfriend was just walking around the apartment looking so fucking good, and I just wanted him to hurry up and es the call.”
He laughed. “I’m sorry baby. Next time I’ll put more clothes on.”
“Don’t you dare!”
The two of you laughed, faces a few centimeters apart, before Fraser closed the gap.
“Let me make up to you?” He whispered as you separated.
You pretended to toss the idea around before agreeing. “I guess you could try.”
a/n: is it plagiarism if you copy your own idea? mat and squeaks had their moment with the kiss cam and now it’s sid and nova’s turn! this was so fun to write and i hope you enjoy ☺️
tw: jealous sid, in game fighting, blood, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), protected p in v sex, dirty talk, possessive sid, overstimulation, the philadelphia flyers
word count: 5.4k
summary: nova gets caught on the kiss cam at a game and sid makes his feelings about that known
The Pens are down by one, with a period and a half of the game left, when Nova realizes that she’s on the Jumbotron. She blinks up at herself, more than life-sized, and clocks the pink and red hearts on the border, the stylised script spelling out “Kiss Cam.”
“Oh no,” she says out loud, shaking her head, even as the camera pans to include the man to her left. Mark - a Flyers’ fan that was a total stranger to her an hour ago and who she’s had only polite conversation with since - grimaces slightly, but turns to her with a little shrug and a sort-of hopeful look in his eyes.
“What do you say?” He asks, the arena cheering and booing around them. Maggie snickers on her right and Nova shakes her head.
“I have a boyfriend,” she says, understatement of the century. She glances at the ice and said boyfriend is staring off into the middle distance, glaring. He doesn’t know where she’s sitting because Maggie had gotten the tickets comped from work so Nova’s not in the usual family section. So now he’s just glaring, although if it’s about Nova’s cameo on the Kiss Cam or just his general hatred of the Flyers, Nova can’t be sure. Knowing Sid, it’s probably the latter.
The arena erupts in boos when the camera swings away from them, clearly wanting to get a move on with the bit, and Nova sighs in relief.
Mark shrugs, “worth a try.” His smile is easy and he’s taking the rejection well, something Nova is grateful for.
And then the camera is back on them and Mark waves, Nova’s stomach sinking. She waves a little at the Jumbotron, still shaking her head, saying loudly, “I have a boyfriend! I’m not with him!”
She’s not sure if the fans or the camera guy can lip read, but she keeps shaking her head to try and get them to move on.
But the camera is insistent, the crowd is insistent, and Nova can feel her face heating at the attention. Sid is definitely aware of what’s happening, if the agitated swinging of his legs and the deep set frown on his face is to be believed. He keeps looking up at the screen and then scanning the crowd. Nova sighs and tilts her cheek towards Mark, allowing only the briefest brush of his lips against her skin before she’s jerking away. The crowd goes crazy and finally, thank God, the Kiss Cam goes away.
The players, including Sid, skate to center ice for the next face-off, and the game is back on.
“Thanks for playing along,” Mark chuckles. “Good thing your boyfriend’s not here, huh?”
Nova manages a tight smile, not impressed with his comment.
Maggie bumps Nova’s thigh with her knee, tipping her chin at the ice, laughing, “you-know-who is so not happy about that.”
Nova’s eyes find Sid and sure enough, he’s skating around like he’s been shot out of a cannon. He looks like a demon on the ice, sending snow flying as he stops short for the puck.
“Shit,” Nova mutters, leaning forward on her elbows, stack of bracelets slipping down her arm. She reacts a second after the arena does when Sid lifts his shoulder for a totally clean hit that sends Trevor Zegras headfirst into his own bench. The arena erupts and Nova sticks her fingers in her mouth to whistle, even as she worries about Sid. But he seems fine, careening towards the goal and throwing the puck at Vladar’s head.
It bounces off the goalie’s mask and Kindy picks it up for a rebound that hits the back of the net.
“He looks possessed out there,” Maggie laughs, screaming when Sid picks up his speed on the way back to the bench and crashes right through Jamie Drysdale, sending the younger defenseman sprawling to the ice. Flyers fans erupt with boos, but Sid doesn’t get penalized, sitting on the bench with a murderous look on his face.
“He’s going to get hurt,” Nova mutters, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms tightly over her chest to keep her hands from shaking. “And then I’m going to have to kill him.”
Mark looks at her side-eyed and mutters sympathetically, “you put money on the game?”
Nova startles - truthfully, she’d forgotten Mark was there the second Sid started acting like a lunatic - and tilts her head slightly, chuckling, “something like that.”
She wants to dig her vape out and suck at it to ease some of her nerves. But security will only accept the “Sid’s girlfriend” card so many times and Nova hates playing that card anyway.
Sid swings his way back onto the bench after another quick shift and Geno pats him on the head, doing nothing to mitigate the scowl on Sid’s face. Nova shakes her head and leans into mutter to Maggie, “I can’t wait to hear what the guys have been saying.”
“You know they’re going to roast the shit out of him,” Maggie laughs and Nova can see Sid getting jostled a bit during the next TV timeout.
The game goes into the third tied at 2, with a minute remaining on an interference penalty called on Sid. He’d knocked Travis Konecny’s stick from his hands and then pushed the dropped stick away with his skate. Even from a distance, Nova can see the intense look on his face and she knows the third is going to be a shitshow.
The entire team comes out like their asses are on fire and Sid sends a puck flying past Vladar into the back of the net so fast no one’s really sure if it’s a goal. But Sid’s sure. He throws his arms up in celebration for what ends up being the game winner, drawing his linemates to his side for the group hug.
And then of course he takes another penalty, throwing a punch at one of the stupidly named Flyers’ rookies, who shoots a punch right back, sending Sid’s visor snapping into his nose. Nova grimaces at the burst of blood that appears.
“Jesus,” Maggie mutters, leaning forward. A scrum breaks out and Sid’s on the ice. “He’s really mad, Nov.”
“He’s acting like an asshole,” Nova grumbles. She’s a fucking hypocrite though - rolling her eyes about his fighting while her panties are growing damp. Eventually, Sid’s removed from the fight, helmet off and hair sweaty. There’s blood all over his face and Nova’s stomach jumps, a mix of arousal and worry, but Sid gives the crowd a bloody grin and waves his hand to pump up the crowd. It’s a little uncharacteristic of him, but extremely attractive.
Maggie smirks at her and leans back to take a sip of her beer, “and you’re gonna jump him the second he gets home later, right?”
“Well, obviously,” Nova deadpans for a second before breaking into laughter. She clinks her beer against Maggie’s. “Why waste a night when he’s going to be completely feral?”
“I know once upon a time I said I wanted details,” Maggie winces as the puck hits off a post with a loud pinging sound, “but I actually don’t think I do. Not if I want to keep enjoying hockey.”
“Noted,” Nova says, her eyes tracking the puck. “So I shouldn’t tell you about the handprint on my ass?”
Maggie’s shocked cackle of laughter draws the attention of the people around them and Nova gives them a sheepish grin, punching Maggie’s thigh gently to get her to stop. Maggie’s laughter tapers off to a choked giggle and she shakes her head, “I definitely don’t want to know about the handprint on your ass. But very happy for you, SuperNova.”
Nova shows off all her teeth in an exaggerated grin that morphs into a scowl when Travis Sanheim takes a run at Sid. She jumps to her feet, shouting, “that’s a fucking dirty hit. Are you fucking blind?”
Still in her seat, Maggie rolls her eyes and mutters, “yeah, Sid’s the only one that’s completely feral. Lunatic.”
“I’m unashamed,” Nova shrugs, dropping back into her seat. No Flyers penalty, but Sid’s fine. So she figures it’s a wash.
The rest of the game is full of Sid’s intense face and him storming up and down the ice as if he were 21 instead of 39. He picks up another assist on a Tanger empty net goal and that makes it a three point night for him. It’s been the most dominant game he’s had so far in the early days of the season.
After they win and give Silovs his goalie pats, the guys salute the crowd and step off the ice, but Sid pauses. He scans the crowd quickly, mouth tipping up in an involuntary smile as the remaining fans chant his name. Nova’s stomach lurches the moment he spots her and makes eye contact.
His smile widens and his brows lower, a version of the intense look that’s only for Nova. She bites at her lower lip and waves slightly, letting out a little puff of a laugh when he waves back, somehow making the gesture into a warning.
Maggie slings her arm over Nova’s shoulder and gently bumps her head against Nova’s cheek. “Let’s get you home, lover girl, you can shave your legs and get ready for your man,” she teases.
“Please,” Nova scoffs, letting Maggie lead her out of the arena, “I’ve been waxed all week.”
Maggie’s cackle echoes off the concrete and Nova has a little spring in her step that even the cool October air can’t diminish.
—-
Maverick is curled up on Nova’s feet, a sleeping dead weight, when Sid comes through the front door. She can hear him go through his routine - keys on the hall table, toeing off his shoes, dropping his bag to the floor, the swish of his suit jacket sliding off his arms - and then his footsteps get louder as he comes into the den to find her.
The light is low, but Nova gasps at how bad his face looks. Two black eyes, already turning a dark purple, and the cut on the bridge of his nose give him a gruesome look that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. The narrowed eyes and flat lipped expression he’s giving her only add to the look.
“So,” Nova says, dragging the word out into two syllables, “are we going to talk about what happened?”
Sid drapes his suit jacket over the back of the couch and loosens the tie around his neck with two fingers. He’s quiet for a beat, studying the thin t-shirt and tiny pair of cotton shorts Nova’s wearing. She lifts an eyebrow at him and Sid smirks, clicking his tongue before he says, “later. Right now I need to get my cock in that perfect pussy of yours. Remind her who she belongs to after that little stunt.”
Nova’s entire body heats and she can’t help the slow grin that stretches across her face or the sharp edge it takes. “Stunt?” She laughs, kneeling up on the couch to face Sid fully. He smells good, like the last remnants of his cologne and the locker room soap. “How was I supposed to avoid being on the Kiss Cam, Sidney? How would the arena camera crew know to avoid me. Enlighten me.”
Undercutting her words is the tension that’s been building up slightly - their relationship is feeling more secret than private lately. Nova doesn’t need to take out an ad in the paper, but she’s starting to feel a little cranky about it. They had a big fight back in June, after Sid went to Switzerland for Worlds without even letting her know he was leaving the country. The summer was rocky and fall has only been slightly better, but Sid’s attention is purely on hockey and Nova respects that. Loves it about him, even. But she’s got a brewing unease that she can’t explain.
“Did it have to be a Philly fan?” Sid grumbles after a moment, clearly unable to come up with a good option.
“Next time,” Nova says dryly, “I’ll turn and kiss Maggie.”
She expects Sid to laugh, to break the moment so they can go upstairs and fool around, but to her surprise he catches her chin in his fingers and tilts her face up to his. There’s a serious look in his eyes when he says, “there’s not going to be a next time, honey. First thing tomorrow, arena staff’s going to get a picture of you and a quick lecture.”
“Oh, a Sidney Crosby lecture?” Nova teases, her thighs clenching. “Wouldn’t want to be on the recieving end of that.”
Sid’s fingers tighten on her chin and he drops his head to give her a quick, hard kiss, breath ghosting over her lips when he murmurs, “get upstairs and ready for me and you won’t be.”
Nova pouts her lips out to kiss Sid again and when he steps back, she wrinkles her nose at him, already getting off the couch, “are you more mad that Mark’s a Flyers’ fan or that I was on the Kiss Cam in general?”
“Mark?” Sid’s voice lifts at the end and Nova shrieks a giggle, running for the stairs when he tries to grab at her. “You know his name?”
“He introduced himself after puck drop,” she laughs her way up the stairs, Sid hot on her heels. “It was only polite!”
Sid lets out a noise that’s part growl and part strangled laugh, chasing Nova into their bedroom and saying, “from now on, you’re only allowed to be polite to me, Nova Kincaid.”
Nova throws herself backwards onto the bed, comforter and pillows bouncing up around her, and wiggles her way up to the top. She watches Sid stop at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips. His tie is loose around his neck and the damage to his face is at contrast to the slight smile playing on his lips.
“What does being polite to you entail?” She props herself up on her elbows, crossing her legs at the ankle. “Because, if you watched, Mark only got to kiss my cheek very briefly. I guess I can - ah!”
Sid grabs her foot and tugs her down the bed, lifting her leg so he can kiss the inside of her ankle.
“You’re such a fucking terror,” Sid says affectionately, free hand going to undo his belt. “Letting some other guy kiss you and then giving me attitude when I’m trying to get my hands on you. Your generation is bratty as fuck.”
He shakes his head and Nova wiggles her toes in his grip.
“I probably should be punished,” she says, sighing heavily. “For the disrespect, you know?”
“Yeah, you probably should,” Sid lets her foot fall back to the mattress and undoes his fly, cock hard and tenting the fabric of his briefs and slacks. “Get naked for me, Nova. Want to see how wet you are.”
“Very,” she shoots back, wiggling out of her shorts and yanking her shirt over her head, sending her hair into a staticky mess. Sid laughs when he sees it, his slacks on the floor. “Come on, speed it up, old man.”
Nova’s naked on the bed, nipples already pebbled into stiff points, her legs spread so Sid can see how wet and pink she is. He stares at her a little dumbly, button down hanging open over his chest and cock straining at his briefs.
“So goddamn mean to me,” he shakes his head, movements unhurried as he discards the rest of his clothes to the floor. Nova’s fingers ghost over her stomach and down to her clit, playing with the swollen bundle gently.
“I think you can take it,” Nova watches with appreciation as Sid climbs onto the bed, kneeling between her legs. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, dragged down by its own weight, and Nova can feel herself get wetter at the sight. Arousal drools out of her, pools under her ass.
Sid wraps his hand around his cock and strokes himself, groaning a little under his breath, precome slicking his hand.
“Only thing I want to take right now is your clit in my mouth,” Sid mutters, readjusting so he can lay between Nova’s legs and kiss her inner thigh. He works his way up her leg, tongue darting out to lick at the crease of her thigh. His cock grinds into the mattress, hips working and ass bouncing. Nova shivers at the feeling of Sid’s breath over her cunt and she slumps back against the pillows before remembering.
“Hey, wait,” she breathes, poking her toes against Sid’s obscenely muscled thigh, “as much as I’d love to grind on your face, you broke your nose tonight.”
Sid’s head pops up from between her legs, eyes wide.
“Yeah,” she deadpans, “I do occasionally check out the Twitter feed after games. Plus with the cut on your nose, it would be super unsanitary and probably really unpleasant for you.”
“Burying my face in your cunt is literally never going to be unpleasant for me,” Sid retorts, fingers finding their way to Nova’s inner thigh. He strokes at her, enjoying the way she clenches around nothing, thighs trembling.
Nova shivers and reaches down to push at his shoulder. “But think about that Urgent Care visit,” she wriggles under his touch, breathing harder when his fingers find her entrance and circle lazily. His middle finger dips inside and Nova hiccups.
“Pens’ medical staff signs non disclosures,” Sid huffs a laugh against her clit. “But I’ll keep my nose far away from you, don’t worry.”
She whines - Sid’s nose really is one of her favorite body parts of his to grind against - but doesn’t get to complain for long before Sid lips latch around her clit and suck, hard, jerking her hips off the bed. Two of his fingers slide home, curling up in her cunt and making her wail his name as the press against her g-spot.
“SidSidSid oh my god,” she writhes, twisting the comforter in her hands. His fingers pump in and out of her, mouth working at her clit like it’s a lollipop, spit and slick making her messy.
The orgasm hits hard and fast, unexpected. She clenches around Sid’s fingers and through the fog in her brain, Nova can feel his stubble chafe against her inner thighs as he rubs his face against her skin like a cat.
“I think you can do better,” Sid rasps, fingers still pumping inside of her, slower now. “What do you say, Nov? Wanna give me another?”
She nods and Sid grins at the way her body is limp and boneless from just the one orgasm. He shifts again and slings her legs over his, so she’s half sitting in his lap, half laying on the bed, and focuses his energy on thumbing at her clit and watching his fingers disappear into the tight heat of her cunt.
“Couldn’t believe I was seeing you on the screen,” he says roughly, Nova’s whines and whimpers increasing the harder he presses his thumb against her clit. She’s soaking, responding so nicely to his fingers. “Guys thought I was possessed.”
“Looked - you looked,” Nova gasps, clamping down hard on his fingers and squealing when his free hand presses down low on her stomach, increasing the pressure, “looked it. Loved it - so fucking - oh god oh god right there - hot, Sid!”
Sid doubles down, adding a third finger, and grunts at the tight fit. Nova’s hips chase his fingers and her ass rubs against his cock, the leaking tip pressed in between her cheeks.
“Felt like,” he continues, paying attention to the subtle changes in Nova’s body, “I was going crazy. Seeing some other guy kiss your cheek.”
Her body goes taut and Nova whines, “Sid, Sid oh my god stop I’m going to -“
“But you’re mine,” he says, slightly changing his angle and pressing down on her stomach and grinning when Nova cries out his name and squirts all over his fingers. She soaks his arm and his stomach and his cock twitches hard against her ass, slick dripping everywhere. He finally pulls his fingers out of her cunt with a squelching sound and Nova groans, throwing her arm over her eyes.
Sid laughs and sucks his fingers clean, free hand stroking gentle circles over Nova’s hip and stomach, scratching blunt nails against her skin.
“That’s a new record,” Nova mumbles, dropping her arm out to the side and squinting at Sid as he pops his fingers out of his mouth. “I’m not usually -“
“I know your body,” Sid chuckles, gathering her body up in his arms so she’s really sitting on his lap now, his cock trapped between their bodies. “You know I can make you fall apart whenever I want, right?”
He bites down on Nova’s shoulder and she wiggles in his lap, smirking when he grunts.
“Yeah, yeah,” she huffs, breathless, “generational hockey player, generational orgasm giver. What can’t you do?”
“Not much,” he replies smugly, the cloud of Nova’s hair tickling his face. He gathers it back in one hand, twisting his fingers through the curls, and tugs to pull her face back. With a sly smile, he kisses her messily, teeth and tongue and Nova’s little whimpers. Sid bucks his hips up and Nova’s moans are swallowed up by his mouth.
“Sid,” she pouts, pulling back, “can I have just a little bit, please?”
His sweat-slick chest glides against hers, her nipples painfully tight as she rubs up against him subconsciously. Two orgasms and she still wants more, needs more. Nova scratches her nails against the nape of Sid’s neck and leans in to lick at a bead of sweat trailing down his jaw.
“Just the tip, huh?” Sid chuckles under his breath, jaw muscles ticking as Nova’s mouth makes its way down towards his chin. She nods against him, the top of her head narrowly missing his nose. She’d meant a little bit of a break from the stimulation, but just the tip of his cock also sounds really good.
“And then the whole thing,” she adds, lowering to kiss his throat. Sid’s pulse jumps under her mouth and his cock jerks against her stomach.
She’s not sure how it happens, but Nova finds herself straddling Sid’s thigh, rubbing her cunt against his leg. His hands are huge on her hips, guiding her movements until his skin is slick from her arousal.
“Oh,” she gasps, catching her clit against his leg hair, dropping her head forward to rest on his shoulder. She can see his thigh glisten with each pass of her hips and his cock bobs between them, looking painfully hard. “Sid, please,” she whines, wanting the stretch of his cock. “Just a little bit.”
He’s so obsessive about wearing condoms, which Nova can appreciate, but the few times Sid’s given up control and let his cock slip inside of her bare have been insane. She feels like an addict, jonesing for just a few inches of him, and Sid knows that.
“That sounds like a reward for you,” he mutters, rolling her nipple between his fingers and tugging on it until she moans. “Because I don’t think you deserve a reward.”
“Siiiiid,” Nova pouts, tugging at his hair a little. Pleasure builds up again, her chest heaving. His muscle flexes under her cunt and she jolts, overstimulated. “S’a reward for you,” she manages, shifting her hips and biting down on her lip. She’s going to come like this, rubbing herself on his thigh, the scrape of his stubble against her neck. Sid pinches her nipple, hard, and she yelps, feeling the shock all the way down in her clit.
“Tell you what,” he says, strangled like he’s suffering just as much as Nova is, “come on my thigh and I’ll give you my cock, okay?”
She nods and moves her hips faster, legs trembling. But she slants her mouth over Sid’s, sucking on his tongue while he helps her move, her cunt gliding over him with barely any friction from how wet she is. He rubs against her clit with one hand, biting at her lower lip, and Nova’s coming again, with little hiccuping gasps into his mouth. She gushes all over his thigh and nearly slips right off until Sid catches her around the waist.
“Jesus,” he mutters, flushed and achy. “Baby, you’re like fucking miracle.”
Nova slumps over, the chains of her necklaces all tangled together around her neck. Wisps of hair stick to her sweaty forehead and there’s a flush spreading from her cheeks all the way down to her stomach. Sid loves it when she’s like this for him. He traces over the constellation of birthmarks on her hip and grins at her. His free hand strokes his cock, squeezing the base of it to keep himself from finishing too early.
She scoffs at him, his thigh still between hers, even as she’s half on her side on the mattress. “I take it back,” she rasps, voice cracking, “I don’t need any of that inside me. Three orgasms are enough.”
“Didn’t think you were a quitter,” Sid goads her, dragging her higher on his thigh and smirking when she squeaks at the sensation. Her legs fall open around his waist and he grips the base of his cock to steady it. Nova writhes and moans, the sound choking off when Sid slaps his cock against her cunt with an obscenely wet noise.
“Oh god!” She kicks her legs out, stomach muscles jumping, and he does it again, making sure the tip hits against her clit. She shrieks his name and Sid shifts onto his knees, holding Nova down with one hand on her hip and guiding the tip of his cock to circle her clit and dip down to her entrance.
“You think I’m going to let this end without you creaming on my cock, honey?” Sid chuckles, holding his cock in place. Nova wiggles, hips jumping as best they can with Sid’s pressure keeping her pinned down. Her heels dig into the comforter. “Been needing this since I saw Mark,” he sneers the name with a curl of his lip, “kiss your cheek.”
“All this for a cheek kiss,” Nova huffs, red faced and cunt clenching, “what would I have gotten for a real kiss?”
Sid narrows his eyes at her and says flatly, “a fucking spanking.”
Before Nova can respond, he thrusts forward, the head of his cock pushing inside Nova’s cunt and punching a gasp from her lungs. Sid groans, dropping his chin to his chest, staring at the place where they’re joined and just holding his hips still. Nova clenches around him, complaining for more, but Sid shushes her with a little swat to her hip. His thighs shake with the effort of keeping still and if he sinks in any deeper, without the condom, he’ll burst.
“Next game, then,” Nova giggles, tugging on Sid’s arm. “More, please.”
“Can’t,” Sid grits out, sweat beading at his hairline. “Not gonna - need a condom, honey.” He’s starting to sound a little nasal now, the bruising around his eyes looking worse.
She groans and nearly cries when Sid pulls back, his cock slipping out and hitting her inner thigh. She’s half ready to tell him to fuck it - to fuck her - and forgo the condom. But she knows Sid won’t do it, so she only pouts when Sid leans over and rummages in his night table drawer for a condom. She runs her fingers over his side, down his hip, distracting him while he rips the foil open and rolls the condom on.
“Ready?” Sid asks unnecessarily. Nova’s legs are spread wide for him, a loose, easy smile on her face. She nods and hooks her ankle around the back of his thigh.
“More than,” she laughs, lifting her ass slightly out of the absolute puddle of her slick. “Any wetter and you’re just gonna slide right back out.”
Sid groans and notches his cock at her entrance. He leans forward, his body covering Nova’s, and presses inside slowly. He’s holding his breath and Nova’s mouth is open in a silent whine as he stretches her out. Her nails scratch at his back, surely leaving lines that he’ll get chirped about in the locker room, and she drags him closer. His cock disappears inch by inch until he’s fully seated inside her.
“Good so good oh god,” she whimpers, Sid’s chest crushed against hers. “Move please oh my god Sid.”
She feels so good wrapped around his cock and Sid knows he’s not going to last long. His hips pull back and snap forward, jolting Nova higher up on the mattress with the force. She’s chanting his name like a prayer, legs locked around his hips, heels digging into his ass.
“Perfect,” he mumbles, dripping sweat. “My perfect girl, all for me. All mineminemine.”
It’s messy and sweaty and Nova’s gushing around his cock, maybe she came again, Sid honestly can’t be sure. She’s squeezing the life out of him, choking his cock and pressure builds at the base of his spine, his balls tighten and he spills into the condom, Nova’s cunt still spasming and fluttering.
He collapses on top of her, burying his face in her damp curls, Nova’s heartbeat racing against his chest. He winces at the sharp pain in his face, knowing the bruising is going to be worse than if he had just come home and rested. They’re both breathing hard and Nova’s hands slip through his hair, a wheezed chuckle escaping her lips into Sid’s ear.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, rolling partially off of her. His cock is still half-hard and Nova rolls with him, keeping her leg hooked over his hip.
“I like it,” she mumbles. “Like a weighted blanket. Soothing.”
Sid rubs his hand over her side, thumbing at her nipple on his upwards pass. Truthfully, he could lay here with Nova for hours, her vanilla lotion scent invading his senses. There’s a hint of something extra sugary sweet buried in her hair tonight and he hides his face in her neck, wincing when his nose is jostled.
“Do you need some ice?” Nova asks softly, pressing her thumb into a muscle on his back.
“Nah,” Sid’s response is light. His hand drifts up to play with the row of gold hoops in Nova’s earlobe. “Shouldn’t have pressed it so close to you. I’m fine.”
She hums like she doesn’t believe him and Sid knows she’s going to come back to bed later with a bag of ice for his face. Which is definitely throbbing a little bit from all the pressure and exertion. Worth it.
They’ll have to get up soon, sweat is drying on their skin and the sheets might honestly have to be burned at this point. The adrenaline is draining from Sid and he’s almost sheepish about how possessive he was being. Nova yawns and Sid rolls onto his side, making her whine and scratch at his bicep to try and pull him back.
“Gotta get you cleaned up, Nov,” he presses a kiss to her shoulder. “Don’t think you want to sleep on these sheets.”
“No, definitely not,” she yawns again, skin still buzzing. “Don’t get mad at me, but I’m definitely going to try and get myself on the Kiss Cam again so I can have a repeat performance of that.”
It takes a second for her words to skin in, accompanied by the sly look in her half-lidded green eyes, but when it does, Sid barks a laugh.
“Nova, honey,” Sid’s heart goes gooey at the soft smile she’s giving him, “I’ll give you anything if you just ask. Do not get on that Kiss Cam again.”
“Mm, we’ll see,” Nova sniffs, shrieking with laughter when Sid’s fingers dig into her sides, tickling her until tears trickle down her temples and she cries for mercy. Her abs cramp with all the movement and her hair feels like it’s a rat’s nest at the nape of her neck, but life has never been better.
After a summer spent mostly apart, Nova’s been worried that jumping right back into things in the fall would be awkward. But Sid cups her cheek now and kisses her with tongue and a smile against her lips and she’s right where she wants to be.
The unease is easy to ignore when Sid’s kissing her neck, whispering that she’s all his. Later, when they’re both not sweaty and post-orgasmic, they’ll have a conversation and Nova will explain her concerns. But for now, she rolls on top of him, the heat of her cunt against his lower stomach, and leans down to suck a hickey against his pec.
ridiculously affectionate with you. he's constantly pulling you into his side, rubbing slow circles into your back, just always making sure there's a point of contact between you two almost all the time.
you two tend to have a lot more domestic dates. of course, he likes to take you out somewhere special every now and then, but it's more common for you two to make a little day out of something small like running an errand together.
whenever he's out of boston and you can't come to the game, he becomes a bit more clingy than usual. expect facetimes half-awake from the hotel room.
" i hate sleeping without you here," fraser admits softly. "the room's too quiet."
"you'll literally be back tomorrow."
"tomorrow is too far away."
if you ever recommend him a book to read, he takes it very seriously and will be annotating any reactions or tab any pages he liked so he can bring them up to you later. it'll go straight to the top of his tbr despite others recommending him books before you.
he loves when you two read together. you two don't even need to stop to talk about the books you're reading, he just likes the feeling of sitting next to one another in a comfortable silence with the quiet sounds of pages being turned.
if he finishes a book before you do, he becomes unbearably smug about not spoiling it (he desperately wants to spoil it).
"i know something you don't know," he teases, grinning as you narrow your eyes at him. "and no, i'm not telling you anything."
he pretends to be chill whenever you compliment him, but he'll remember every single one.
he's incredibly patient with you. even during any disagreements you two may have, he's fully listening before responding because he genuinely wants to understand your perspective instead of wanting to "win" the disagreement.
he absolutely loves having small routines with you -- calling before bed whenever he's away, grabbing breakfast together in the mornings, any small traditions that become your things over time.
always keeps a hair tie on his wrist in case you ever need one. he also makes sure that it's perfectly stretched before he ever thinks about giving it to you -- not too new and tight, but not so loose that the elastic is on the brink of breaking.
if you ever fall asleep on him, he will not move. it doesn't matter if his arm goes numb. it doesn't matter if he needs to get up to grab something. you're asleep on him now, so he's obligated himself to stay exactly where he is.
he's not overly flashy when it comes to romance, but he's consistent with it. he'd be the type to fill up your car if he notices your tank was getting low. he'd mark the page you're on if you fell asleep reading. he'd memorise your orders after hearing you say them out loud one time.
he would instinctively check in on you before anything. even after any exhausting games or travel, he's still asking you how your day was or if you slept okay before he even thinks about himself.
he subtly gets jealous. he just gets quieter and clingier when he notices someone is looking at you for a bit too long for both of your liking. he'll start wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you back beside him, and resting his chin on your shoulder hoping the person who was staring would get the hint, whilst he pretends as though he's completely unaffected.
he's very observant when it comes to you. you don't always have to tell him something's wrong before he notices.
"you've been quiet all day," he says gently. "c'mere for a second." opening his arms up for a hug.
a/n: been running on 3 hrs of sleep today and it's definitely catching up on me
song on repeat: all the small things - blink-182
summary: desperate for a place to live during your last year at uni, you respond to a vague craig list ad for a guy your age needing a roommate. feeling bold, you go through with it. after all, the guys user is gunthman11, and said he’s away most of the time anyways. what could go wrong? besides showing up and finding out the man in question is your childhood nemesis, dylan glenther.
[word count] 17.3k
warnings: childhood enemies to friends to lovers | slow burn | roommate dynamics | humour/crack | mentions of drinking | childhood bullying | banter | tension | fluff | angst | brief one bed trope dynamic | swearing | sport related injury | kissing | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion
pairing; dylan guenther x reader
authors note: this idea literally just come out of nowhere and I worked on it for 4 days straight to execute it before I lost motivation. obviously i’ve never written for dylan before, but he’s so cutie pie and Im obsessed with him. hope you guys love this—I feel like it’s similar to things i’ve explored before, but also unique. lace dividers from @cursed-carmine
🎶 always been you by shawn mendes, haircut by noah kahan, scar tissue by red hot chilli peppers, drop dead by olivia rodrigo, earrings by malcolm todd, heaven by bryan adams, roommates by hillary duff + hang with me by robyn
the sidewalk smells faintly of dirty snow and garbage that's been left out for a day too long…which is great. with a grimace on your face, you look down at your phone, the craiglist chat thread pulled up like proof of concept. like this entire situation is seconds away from disappearing.
a text from your study group bestie, luca, pops up on your screen—another warning about you even messaging about the listing in the first place. she's warned you many times about how dangerous this whole thing is, but you waved her off every time because, well, you need a place to live.
realistically, you know that responding to an ad made by a man on craiglist isn't very smart. especially with a username like gunthman11–but the chances of him being a student, like you, are very high. that, and you figured it's utah, what's the worse that can happen?
and this place is affordable, and there's a campus bus stop like, a 2 minute walk away. it’s perfect, despite the whole sketchy vibe of taking an offer from craigslist.
you just heart the message and toss your phone in your bag.
you roll your heavy suitcase up to the stairs, one wheel bent just enough that it tilts awkwardly to the side, making it unnecessarily difficult. you think about trying to heave it up all three stairs right now, then decide against it, leaving it on the concrete walk up to the house—your house.
the rest of you stuff is in your car, which you parked against the curb, because the car in the driveway looks sort of expensive and you felt weary.
"okay," you take a deep breath, pull your hair over your shoulder and smooth it out. "let's get this over with." then, you knock.
the door makes a funny creaking noise when it opens—like a poor jointed robot—and it’s makes you almost snicker. that is, until you lock eyes with the familiar gaze of the man who opened it, and your heart plummets to your ass.
dylan guenther stands with one hand braced on the wood, the other still holding the handle like he opened it and then immediately regretted every decision that led him here. his hair is shorter than you remember, cleaner cut, but the expression is exactly the same—somewhere between disbelief and irritation, like the universe personally inconvenienced him.
"what the fuck." the exclaim comes out before you can stop it, sharp and breathless, fists clenching at your sides so you don't have the urge to reach up and claw your own eyes out.
his eyebrows shoot up, just slightly, like he's trying to decide if this is real or some kind of elaborate joke. "y/n?" your name sounds weird in his mouth—familiar and wrong all at once.
you blink at him, once, twice, like that'll somehow swap him out for literally anyone else on the planet. "dylan?" you ask like an idiot—because what else are you supposed to do?
your childhood nemesis huffs out something that almost resembles a laugh, but there's no humor in it, just disbelief. he straightens a little, pushing off the doorframe, running a hand through his hair like he needs a second to recalibrate.
"yeah," he says, dragging the word out as his eyes flick over you, your suitcase at the bottom of the stairs, the plant he can see through your car window—taking in the full, unfortunate picture. "what are you...doing here?"
at that, you let out a short, incredulous breath, shifting your weight as your bag tips and you have to catch it with your foot.
"what are you doing here?" you shoot back, brows knitting together. "I thought you lived in arizona. you know, the whole hockey thing? or did that fall apart?"
his mouth twitches, something smug slipping into place like it never left. "nope. the team moved here." a beat. his gaze sharpens, tilting just slightly. "but glad to see you were keeping tabs."
you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts, crossing your arms over your chest like that might somehow anchor you. "are you the guy I was talking to about the room for rent?"
there's a flicker of realization in dylan's expression—quick, but noticeable. his grip tightens on the door just a fraction. "I thought I was talking to a guy," he shoots back immediately, like that's the bigger issue here. "you've got that star wars username." he says, like that explains everything.
your jaw drops, just slightly. "so you assumed?"
"yeah."
you let out a dry, humorless laugh, glancing past him into the house—there's a big couch, a half unpacked box like he hasn't been here long, a hockey stick propped casually against the wall like it belongs there now. of course there is.
"right," you mutter, dragging your gaze back to him. "so—"
"you can't live here." his voice cuts you off. it's immediate. flat. like he's been waiting to say it since the second he realized what was happening here.
your head snaps back, eyes narrowing. "what?" you take a step forward before you can stop yourself, bag bumping into your ribs. "dylan, you can't be serious."
he shifts, blocking the doorway more fully now, shoulders squaring like this is a standoff instead of a conversation. there's something almost panicked under the irritation, but it's buried deep.
"I can't live with you, y/n."
the words land heavier than they should, and for a second it's not this porch, not this stupid house—it's years ago, slammed lockers and sharp words and the kind of history that never really untangles itself.
you tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly, something sharper—petty—slipping in.
"why?" you muse, voice tipping into something almost sweet. "scared i'll leave a bra on the couch or something and scare away your lady friends?"
his face scrunches immediately, like you just personally offended him. "you're so fucking weird."
there it is. that familiar annoyance that you've associated with dylan guenther since you were kids, up until the 12th grade.
you just shrug and lift your chin just a little.
"you love it." after that, you turn sharply then, stomp down the stairs, grab your bag and heave it up the steps—all while dylan watches without offering his assistance—you can't say you're surprised because he's always been a dick.
you stop in front of him again, nudge your suitcase forward with your foot, trying to edge past him, like it’s already decided. "now let me in."
his hand shoots out, bracing harder against the door, blocking you completely. "no."
you can only stare at him. because he can't be fucking serious. "you want me to be homeless?" you prompt, brow raised expectantly.
there's a split second where he falters—just enough. his eyes flick down to your bag again, to the plant, to the very real reality of you standing in his doorway with nowhere else to go.
"what? no—"
"then step aside, tough guy." you step forward again, closer this time. close enough to see the tiny scar on his chin you definitely remember giving him when you were 10–long story involving barbie’s—close enough that the tension shifts into something tighter, sharper.
dylan's jaw clenches. for a second, it looks like he might actually hold his ground. but then, although reluctant—"fine."
he barely moves when he says it, just shifts his weight back a fraction, one hand still braced flat against the inside of the door like he could slam it shut again if you pushed your luck too far. which, historically, you always do.
you stand there for half a second longer than necessary, suitcase handle digging into your palm, heart beating somewhere up near your throat—not from the stairs you just climbed, not from the september heat still clinging to your skin, but from the sheer, absurd disbelief of it all.
gunthman11–how did you not see it? but to be fair, you thought he lived in arizona, not fucking utah. when you first responded to the ad—looking for a roommate, independent, respectful, non-smoker, blah blah blah—you pictured...honestly, you hadn't pictured much. some random engineering student. maybe awkward. hopefully quiet.
definitely not six foot something, broad shouldered, annoyingly familiar, and currently looking at you like you've just tracked mud across his entire life, childhood nemesis. your everything-nemesis.
dylan fucking guenther.
the boy who used to steal your bike and hide it three streets over. the boy who snapped your gel pens in half in seventh grade because you "had too many colours." the boy who, at sixteen, told you that your music taste was "painfully predictable" and then proceeded to memorize every song on your playlist just to prove a point.
and now—apparently—your landlord.
you step past him before he can change his mind.
inside smells faintly like laundry detergent and something citrusy, clean but not overly so. it's nicer than you expected. open concept, big windows, sunlight spilling across hardwood floors. a couch that actually matches the rug. hockey gear tossed carelessly in one corner like it belongs there, like it's part of the decor.
behind you, dylan closes the door with a creaking click. silence stretches between you for a second, thick and familiar and a little too charged for two people who just reunited on a porch ten minutes ago.
you look over your shoulder at him, find him already watching you, and you practically snarl.
then, so you don't slap that stupid look off his face, you glance around again, forcing your attention elsewhere, spotting a second door down the short hall—probably the bedroom you'd been promised through a craigslist chat.
the one you'd already mentally decorated. the one you need. another reason you were drawn to this ad in particular is because dylan—or gunthman11 rather—said he's gone most of the time anyways, which means quiet. which you need for the copious amounts of studying you need to fit it. welcome to the life of a university student.
squaring your shoulders, you turn your attention back to him. "look," start say, tone shifting—less bite, more resolve. "I don't have a backup plan, okay? this was it." your gesture to your bag like it speaks for itself. "my lease ended. everyone else already sorted their housing. i'm starting classes in a week."
dylan watches you, expression unreadable now, arms crossing over his chest like he's bracing himself against something.
"i'm not asking you to suddenly start liking me," you add, a little more quietly. "I never did." his brows twitch, just slightly, like he's remembering the same things you are. but you just continue, "I just need a place to live."
you're not one for begging, but you're seconds away from dropping down to your knees right about now.
dylan exhales over the sound of the fridge humming, gaze dropping to your suitcase, then lifting back to your face. "you're still a nightmare, you know that?" he mutters, but there's less heat behind it now. more resignation.
"and yet," you say lightly, "here I am."
his jaw shifts, like he's chewing over every possible argument left—and losing.
"ground rules," he bites out suddenly, pushing off the counter he'd been leaning against and straightening.
you blink, caught a little off guard. "ground rules?" you echo.
"if this is happening," he clarifies, gesturing vaguely between the two of you like it's still a questionable concept, "there are conditions."
a slow smile tugs at the corner of your mouth before you can stop it. tilting your head like a dog, you cross your arms again, but this time it feels less like defense and more like anticipation.
"wow," you say, almost impressed. "you're gunna let me stay? i'm touched."
"don't be," he shoots back immediately. "I'm tolerating you."
"semantics."
he rolls his eyes, but there's something dangerously close to a smile threatening at the edge of it. "first rule," he starts, holding up a finger while taking a step closer to you. "you don't touch my stuff."
you can't help but to scoff. "I don't want to touch your stuff."
"good." dylan swallows.
"second rule," you counter before he can continue, lifting your own finger. "you don't get to kick me out the second I annoy you. you've agreed to let me stay, so you can't back out of that."
he takes another step forward, somehow looking a little intimidating even though he's actually kind of cute—in a completely platonic way or…whatever.
"third rule is don't be bringing a bunch of guys over here." when you roll your eyes, dylan practically scoffs out a laugh. "i'm serious, i'm a professional athlete and the last thing I need is your hookup fanboy-ing."
"oh my god," you huff, "get over yourself."
"i'm very over myself." another step. not close enough to raise any eyebrows, but enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly so you can look at him properly.
god, when did he get so tall?
a beat passes before you agree. "fine. then you can't have girls over. ever." you say, even though there's no reason for you to have that preference. maybe you're just petty, maybe something else.
your eyes lock for a second—yours challenging, his narrowing just slightly.
then, he relents, "fine."
breaking the intense gaze, you glance toward the hallway again, that closed door, then back at him. "so," you clear your throat and take a step back. dylan blinks, moves back as well.
you nudge your suitcase forward with your foot, a hint of something lighter creeping into your tone, "which one's mine?"
he follows your gaze, then looks back at you, already regretting every decision he's made today. "end of the hall."
you nod once, satisfied, and then grab the sticky handle of your suitcase. and as you brush past him again—closer this time, easier—your shoulder knocks lightly against his.
you don't miss the way he goes still for half a second.
"you're welcome, by the way," you toss over your shoulder as you head down the hall.
"for what?" dylan calls after you, already sounding tired.
you don't turn around, but he can hear the smile in your voice. "making your life interesting again."
he doesn't respond, and that feels like a victory today. you don't spare dylan a glance before opening the door—your door—and promptly shuffling inside.
and then you let the mask fall. leaning back against the door, you let your head thud against the wood. because out of everything that could've happened with that fucking craiglist ad, this might just be the worse possible one.
─────
the first few weeks living with dylan settle into something that doesn't make sense on paper, but somehow weirdly works. I mean it's not smooth, or clean, by any means of the word, but you don't feel the need to rip his head off anytime you're in the same room. so there's that!
it probably has something to do with dylan being gone more often than he's not, just like he disclosed in the ad. road trips, back to backs, practices that bleed into flights—you learn this because he's got his schedule on the fridge, which is irritating for no reason other than him being weirdly punctual.
the day you arrived, you didn't leave your room until dylan knocked on your door a few hours later—you were ready to pull open the door an snap, but he was just gruffly letting you know to move your car so it didn't get towed. oh.
not think anything of it, when you came back inside, you left your keys on the counter. but the next morning when you got up to meet with your friends for breakfast, you found all your stuff from the backseat of your car in the living room. dylan got it out for you. you had been stopped in your tracks, because why was he being nice? maybe because he felt guilty for almost denying you a home the day prior.
whatever, neither of you have brought that up since. and that's because, once again, you don't really run into each other like normal roommates.
when dylan is home for a stretch, he'll stay in his room with the door shut. unless you're in your room, then he's in the living room, watching tv on a volume so low that there's no way he can actually hear it.
however—naturally—there's still some kind of hostile tension lingering between you and dylan when you do happen to interact. like a few days ago, when you came home from class and almost tripped over his hockey shit left at the front door. you told him to move it, he just snickered.
then yesterday, when you had a stare down for who got the first turn in the shower. which ended in dylan rushing in while your guard was down—and you retaliating by running the water in the kitchen, feeling very triumphant when he shouted in pain from the now scalding shower.
and just this morning, when you were both in the kitchen at the same time. him getting ready for practice, and you for an early seminar. dylan looked you over—from your leggings to your comfy hoodie and ponytail—and then asked if you wanted coffee. you said sure, and he just showed you were the pot was.
It should be annoying—and most of the time it is. because on top of everything, dylan likes to leave things where they don't belong. he still says things just to get a reaction out of you. always has that tone—that thing—that makes you want to argue even when you don't have the energy.
but there are moments. small ones.
like when you come home late from study group and the kitchen light is left on—not bright, just enough that you don't walk into total darkness. or when he wordlessly starts moving his gear out of the front entry way ever since you tripped over it. and the one time you fell asleep on the couch studying and woke up to a blanket that definitely wasn't there before.
it't weird—really fucking weird—but it's also kind of nice.
however, tonight is not one of the nice nights.
you'd been sleeping until your consciousness suddenly comes back to you. you take some sleep laced blinks until the reason you're even waking up in the first place registers.
there's some sort of noise, leaking under your door—low at first, then unmistakable. multiple voices, overlapping one another like a bunch of excited puppies. followed by laughter, maybe even a couple clinking beer bottles.
you frown through the dark room as you sit up in bed. for a second, you think maybe the tv is just too loud, but then someone whoops—loud, obnoxious, very much not a tv—and something thuds against a wall hard enough that you feel it faintly through the floor.
its gotta be dylan, you think. now you're not just frowning—you're scowling. "is he fucking serious?" you don't know what he's doing out there, but you're ready to tell him off for whatever it is.
its not that late, but you've had a long day and fell alseep like as soon as you got home around dinner time—and you've got an early morning ahead. dylan would know that if he actually looked at the stupid calendar on the fridge, which you now have also starting utilizing in some weird, petty kind of way.
with a determined grumble, you swing your legs over the side of the bed, and a hand through your hair, still a little disoriented. even though, you haven't been asleep that long.
in one of your smaller sleep shirts and a pair of loose shorts that barely qualify as coverage, you stumble to the door and crack it open just as the noise spikes again. a chorus of voices this time. and yeah, definitely not the tv.
the house feels brighter than it should be at this hour. every overhead is light on, the glow spilling into the hallway. you can smell it too now—something fried, something salty, and the unmistakable hint of cheap lager.
realizing your roommate has people over a step too late, you freeze in the entryway to the living room. four—no, five guys, are scattered across the couch and floor, controllers in hand, a game paused mid screen. someone's leaning against the kitchen counter with a drink, another halfway out of his seat like he just got up.
and they all look up at the same time. right at you.
for a moment, you're annoyed that dylan didn't even have the decency to warn you about this, but then again, you'd do the same out of sheer pettiness—that is, if you had more friends than just luca.
there's a split second where your brain just... blanks. it's just you, standing there in the archway, very aware of how little you're wearing under the full attention of a room full of very surprised strangers.
"oh—" you start, already taking a small step back, heat rushing up your neck. "I didn't know—"
"jesus—" the familiar voice voice cuts in sharp. dylan.
you barely have time to register where he is sitting before he's already on his feet, movement quick, almost instinctive. he steps forward, not enough to make a scene, but enough to close the distance between you and them—subtle, but deliberate.
his hand finds your arm—not rough, not even firm, just there, fingers wrapping lightly around your elbow as he steers you a half step behind him.
your eyes lock, and your mouth parts with something unsaid. not so deliberately—almost subconsciously—dylan's eyes flicker down your body.
you immediately go warm all over.
"guys," he clears his throat after a moment, looking away from your gaze. his tone easy but edged in a way you recognize immediately, "this is y/n. my roommate. we know each other from back home."
there's a chorus of greetings that follow—half-awkward, half-curious. looking at the stats of these guys, you can assume they are also hockey players. thick thighs, broad shoulders—is that a missing tooth?
"hey."
"hi—sorry."
"didn't know—"
you manage a small, tight smile, crossing your arms instinctively and trying to ignore the way your skin suddenly feels too exposed under the bright lights.
"yeah, hi," you say, a little breathless. "I—um. I didn't realize you had people over."
"yeah," dylan mutters, just low enough that it's mostly for you, a hint of something apologetic slipping in. "that's on me."
his grip on your arm lingers a second longer than necessary before letting you go, but he doesn't move far. he stays just slightly in front of you, angled enough that you're not directly in the center of the room anymore.
one of the guys—tall, sitting on the couch and with the number 77 printed on his sweater—leans forward a little, offering an easy grin. "we didn't mean to ambush you," he says. "we just got back from—"
dylan cuts him off before he can finish. "yeah," it's not harsh, but firm enough that it redirects the attention onto him and away from your pebbled nipples. "she was asleep."
the guy nods, almost snickers to himself, and then sits back again. "right, yeah. sorry again." then everyone seemingly is done ogling you, because the game starts up again, just like the conversation.
dylan looks back at you.
you shift your weight under his gaze, suddenly hyper aware of everything—your bare legs, the way your shirt rides up slightly when you move, and how his teammates keep looking back between you like it means something. you almost want to shout out that you're not even friends, but you obviously don't.
"i'll just—" you gesture vaguely behind you, already stepping back. "i'm gonna go. I have an early morning."
"yeah," he says quickly, almost too quickly. then, softer, glancing down at you for a second, "sorry. we can keep it down."
you nod, brushing it off even though your cheeks are definitely still warm. "please do," you attempt to sound firm, but you don't.
turning away before it can any more awkward, you retreat down the hall a little faster than you mean to, heart still thudding lightly in your chest. the bedroom door barely gets hallway closed closed when you hear it—
"dude, she's hot." must be one of his teammates. "you hittin' that?"
then, dylan—"fuck you, no. we don't...we don't get along."
typical, you think, eyes already rolling before you can stop them. shutting the door quietly, you huff out a small breath, and let your head fall against the wood for a second.
because what just happened out there?
with noise still bleeding faintly through the wall—muffled laughter, the rise and fall of voices, and the low thud of bass from whatever game they've gone back to, your heart's still beating too fast for someone who was asleep ten minutes ago.
annoyance settles in properly now—sharp, clean, and way easier to deal with than whatever that other feeling was out there. "unbelievable," you mutter under your breath, pushing off the door.
you cross your room in a few quick steps, grabbing your phone off the nightstand. the screen lights up your face in the dim, your expression still tight as your thumbs move.
y/n
can you come here? now.
your stare at it for half a second before hitting send. the three dots don't appear right away—of course they don't.
you toss the phone onto the bed, immediately regret it, and pick it back up again, pacing once across your room. you tug at the hem of your shirt like it's suddenly too small, too thin, too everything.
your phone buzzes.
dylan
seriously?
your jaw tightens, thumbs dancing over the keyboard faster than lightning.
y/n
yes. seriously.
this time, his reply is quicker.
dylan
give me a sec
exhaling hard through your nose, you drop onto the edge of your bed. one second turns into two, then three, then long enough that your irritation starts to build again.
then—finally—a knock.
you're on your feet immediately, crossing the room and yanking the door open a little faster than necessary.
he looks...exactly like he did out there, which isn't a shock because it only took a few minutes until you started freaking out and demanding him to come to you—slightly flushed, hair a little messy like he's been running his hands through it, hoodie half zipped like he threw it on in a rush.
"hi," dylan says, like this is normal. like you didn't just get ambushed in your own house. if you knew any better, you'd probably think he's enjoying this.
you blink at him once. "are you serious right now?"
his brows pull together slightly. "what—"
"you caught me in a little bit of a daze out there," you cut in, keeping your vice low but sharp, stepping back so he can come in. "but don't think I don't know what you're doing here. you didn't text, you didn't knock, you didn't do literally anything to let me know there were five random guys in my living room."
"okay, they're not random—"
"they are to me," you snap, shutting the door behind him a little harder than necessary.
the sound cuts off the rest of the house almost completely. it's just the two of you now—your room dim, the only light coming from your bedside lamp.
dylan exhales, dragging a hand down the back of his neck. "okay, yeah maybe I should've sent you a text—" you let out an incredulous laugh. he ignores it, continuing, "—but I didn't do it on purpose."
but you're not buying it, and you roll your eyes right in his face. it makes him exhale, sharply, hands flexing at his sides.
a beat passes before he looks back at you, properly now like he didn't get the chance when you were half naked and mortified. you watch his gaze flick over your face, then—briefly, quickly—down again before he catches himself and looks back up.
you scoff, "are you checking me out?"
"what?" he splutters, making your irritation double. "no." then, as if on instinct, his eyes flicker over your figure again.
"you just did it again!" you point an accusing finger at him.
he runs a rough hand through his hair. "well, it's not my fault you're walking around wearing that."
you let out a short laugh that isn't really amused. "oh, I'm twisting it?"
"yeah," he says, more firmly now. "you are. I know I should've told you. I get it. I messed up. but you're acting like I did it on purpose."
at that, you find yourself hesitating for half a second. when you initially thought that maybe he did orchestrate this whole thing on purpose, you'd been seething with anger and just looking for an excuse to blame him. but now, you know that's probably not true. you and dylan don't get along, never have, but he wouldn't do something that cruel.
back when you were younger, he wasn't always picking on you. sometimes—only in a passing moment of weakness—dylan guenther would be kind to you, in his own…awkward way. like in the 5th grade when carlos and joe made fun of how your legs looked in your new jeans—which obviously made you cry—dylan took one look at your tears and then promptly punched them both in the gut.
then of course, on the first day of 7th grade you tripped walking inside from the yard, flat down in front of everyone. people laughed, pointed, and you were very much mortified. you don't know if dylan did it on purpose, but he walked into a flag pole almost immediately after, taking the attention away from you. knowing him though, he probably just wasn't paying attention, and it had nothing to do with you.
there was more times, more than you like to remember, and anytime dylan would stick up for you, or check in on you in his own messed up way, you'd feel a flicker of hope—hope that maybe things could be different between you. but then he'd pull your hair, or tell the boy you like something that would make him stop talking to you, and yeah, you'd get reminded exactly who dylan is.
"I didn't say that," you sigh, tired. "but you don't exactly make it better out there."
his dark brows pull tight. "what's that supposed to mean?"
you shake your head once, like you're trying to decide if you even want to go there. "the whole... thing. the 'she was asleep' comment, the—cutting your friend off like I was—what? some kind of problem you needed to manage?"
his expression shifts—confusion first, then something else you can't quite pin down. "I was trying to get them to chill out," he laughs, once. "they were staring."
"yeah," you mutter. "I noticed."
"and you think I liked that?" he shoots back, a little incredulous now.
that wasn't an answer you expected. here dylan is, trying to be some kind of protective over you, only to turn around and make it feel like it's somehow you're fault. you hate that it’s conflicting. you also hate how you don't hate it—or hate him.
"I don't know what you like," you say after a second, more defensive than you mean to be. "we don't exactly talk, remember?"
dylan goes still for a second, like the reminder lands. "right," he says, quieter.
you press your lips together, suddenly aware of how close he's standing. how small your room feels with both of you in it. the admission hangs there, heavy, and for another beat, neither of you move—just continue looking at one another, guards up, and the past sitting between you. you can feel your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, everywhere.
and then quieter, and almost reluctant, you continue, "from where I'm standing dylan, you're still the same guy who used to make my life hell for fun."
his face changes at that—subtly, but enough. the edge in him drops just a fraction, something more serious settling in its place. "I was a stupid kid.”
"so was I," you shoot back immediately.
"I know," he says finally, but it's not defensive. he sighs again, takes a step back like he's realizing he's too close, and rubs at his jaw—exhausted. "let's talk about this another day."
you eye him over, pulse kicking uncomfortably. because of course he's dismissing you. "right, whatever."
he says your name, quiet, but you ignore it, turning away from him and walking back towards your bed. "go back to your friends," you mutter eventually when you don't hear him make any move to leave. you eye him and gesture vaguely to the closed bedroom door. "make sure to tell them again how we don't get along."
hearing the words dylan told his teammates mere minutes ago spat back at him, instantly has a deep pang of guilt hitting him in the chest. especially because he didn't even mean it like that...he was just—it doesn't even matter.
"try to get some sleep, y/n," he says instead.
you almost roll your eyes. "yeah, i'll work on that."
that earns the faintest hint of a smirk. dylan reaches for the door, pausing just slightly before opening it. then, like he can't quite help himself, he calls your name again.
you look up from where you're sitting in the edge of the bed. you raise an inpatient brow, silently urging him to continue.
"you were never a problem," he says, quieter now.
your chest tightens, just a little. your mouth parts, wanting to say something, but nothing comes out.
after a second, dylan nods to himself and slips out, the door clicking shut behind him. and once he's gone, the room feels entirely too cold and quiet.
for a while, you just sit there, staring at the door like something else might happen—like he might come back to say something annoying. maybe undo whatever just happened between you. but he doesn't.
you throw yourself back, mattress dipping under your weight. but you're not tired anymore, not even close. because now, instead of being half asleep and annoyed, you're fully awake and stuck replaying everything.
the way dylan stepped in front of you.
the way his hand lingered on your arm.
the way he said I didn't like it.
"whatever," you mutter to absolutely no one. expect, it's not just whatever—it never has been.
this whole thing would be easier if it was.
─────
the next few days don't fix anything, mostly because dylan's gone again for a roadie. but something does...shift. he texts you on the first day, asking if you need any money for groceries. your initial response was to get mad, because how dare he try and give you handouts? but he almost immediately followed it up by explaining he used the last of a bunch of ingredients for his meal prep and that’s why he’d offering. you still declined the money, even though you can't really afford to.
a few hours later and insta cart shopper was dropping off a bunch of groceries.
you hated how that didn't grind your gears.
two days after that, the day after dylan was due to come home from edmonton, he called you. you'd answered tentatively—suspiciously—to which dylan just stuttered through asking if you've been shovelling the driveway or if he needs to do it when he gets home.
"yes," you hummed, still confused on to why he was calling you, rather than texting. especially considering he should've been indulging in a pregame nap right about then. "it's shovelled."
"okay," he had breathed. "thanks."
and that was pretty much it. he did try and ask about your day, but you got so weirded out by his niceties, that you spat out some excuse about needing the bathroom and hung up.
the week that follows, between practices and studying and the usual business of your lives, there are these...moments.
small ones, that slip in between everything else. like you’ll catching dylan already looking at you when you walk into a room. or him turning the volume down without being asked when you're in your room with the door open. brushing the snow off your car when he gets up first for practice.
none of it gets acknowledged, though. god, no. because that would require an actual conversation, and you're not there—because every time it almost gets too normal, or feels too easy, something in you pulls back. reminders you of who he is. or who he used to be.
and you see it in dylan, too, sometimes—that hesitation. like he's not sure how far he's allowed to go before you snap the line tight again.
so you circle each other instead. like quite like enemies. and definitely not like friends. but something in between.
which is...yeah.
you're hunched over the kitchen table when the front door unlocks and dylan walks in from his game. you barley register the sound, too locked in on the two textbooks open in front of you, along with piles upon piles of notes that are starting to blur together.
It's late—not quite midnight, but close enough that the city outside has softened into a low, steady hum. you've been trying to study for hours, key word trying. you've been in the same position for a while. leg tucked under you, shoulders hunched, pen tapping against the page in a rhythm that doesn't match anything except the anxious loop in your head.
you've reread the same paragraph for what has to be the fifth time, eyes dragging over the words without actually processing them. its just not sticking, which is almost as frustrating as the unknown with your roommate—who has know peered into the kitchen curiously, because this isn't like you. staying up late, not being able to handle study material.
you lean closer, brow furrowing, like proximity might force the information into your brain by sheer will. completely oblivious of how dylan is now watching you.
after a quiet beat, he steps closer, floorboard creaking under his socked feet. you register it distantly, like background noise.
"hey," he says, voice a little rough, probably from yelling during a scrum.
"mhm," you hum back, already halfway through another sentence you're not absorbing.
there's another pause. you can feel it, even if you're not looking. his attention shifts from your hunch, to the table, then around the kitchen like he's searching for answers he won't find.
then, he move closer, slower this time, like he's approaching a dangerous situation, which would make you scoff if you were paying attention. the kitchen light is the only one on, and it's bright—too bright—catching every messy detail of your study setup.
"have you moved?" he asks.
you frown slightly, pen still hovering over your notebook. "what?"
"since I left, like six hours ago."
that has you blinking, finally glancing up.
his hoodie only half zipped and hair slightly damp at the ends like he showered at the arena and didn't bother drying it properly, dylan is looking at you like he's...concerned. which can't be right, but there's a crease between his brows as his gaze flickers between you and the mess you've got spread out over the table.
"I went to meet with my study group," you say.
dylan gives you a deadpanned look. "that's not what I meant."
"why are you interrogating me?" you shoot back, squinting at him like he's personally offended you just by existing.
"i'm not," he says easily, leaning his hip against the counter. "i'm just concerned because I think you're going to give yourself scoliosis if you're hunched over any longer."
you snort, dropping your pen with a quiet clatter. "that's a big word for you, guenther. who taught you that?"
"must've caught it from your pile of notes, smarty pants—" he reaches out, quick as anything, and ruffles your hair like it's a completely normal thing you guys do. ruffle hair and hold hands and make fucking friendship bracelets.
"hey—" you smack his hand away, glaring up at him. "i'm trying to study. I have a midterm in two days and I need to cram, specifically without your comments."
you ignore him after that, looking away and flip another page. only to immediately regret it because now there's just more information staring back at you.
a beat passes, and then dylan tilts his head, eyes flicking between your still eyes and to your open book. "you're not even reading that."
you almost growl. "I can't with you hovering."
"i'm not hovering," dylan argues, pushing off the counter—but he doesn't actually leave. if anything, he steps closer. "even if I was, you've been on the same paragraph since I walked in."
you press your lips together, glancing down at the page like it might suddenly defend you. "okay, well maybe I need to read it a few times to stick."
"y/n," he says, softer now, but there's still that annoying edge of certainty in it. "i'm getting a headache just watching you. take a break."
there's something in the way he says your name that makes you look up again. you find him still watching you, and you sigh, exhausting creeping into the fight. "I can't. I need to pass this class."
"you will," he says immediately, like it's obvious. "you've always been like...the smartest person I know."
you huff out a laugh at that, leaning back in your chair just enough to look at him properly. "that's because you hang out with low IQ athletes."
"ouch," he winces, a hand coming up to his chest like you physically hurt him with that. you roll your eyes as he continues,"but true." then, without missing a beat, he nods toward your notebook. "close the book."
"what? no."
he's even closer now, standing on the other side of the table, one hand braced lightly against the back of a chair. not confrontational—just there. pestering you. "close it."
"are you deaf?" you scoff, "I just said no."
"fine," dylan shrugs, already reaching forward. "i'll do it."
"hey— get your hands off—" you lunge, but he's faster, snapping the book shut with a soft thump before you can stop him. your eyes are wide, and a little furious, when you meet his gaze again.
but he's completely unaffected, even smirking a little as he starts pushing the looose pens away from you, rolling across the table. "take a 5 minute break."
"I don't need a—"
"5 minutes," he cuts in, holding your book just out of reach like he knows you'll try again. "and then you can go back to staring at that same paragraph for as long as you want."
you glare at him, but it's weaker now. mostly because he's not entirely wrong, and you hate that more than anything. "god, you're annoying."
"yeah," he says, completely unbothered. "but i'll be even worse if you don't take this break for—" cuts himself off, a brief tense pause, "—for yourself."
you exhale, long and dramatic, letting your head fall back against the chair. "fine. 5 minutes."
"yeah," dylan nods, satisfied and then sets your book down on the far end of the table like he's putting it in time out. "that's it."
you turn your head, eyeing him as he moves deeper back into the kitchen, opening the fridge and peering inside. "so do my 5 minutes get to be peaceful," you squint, "or are you sticking around?"
he lets out a quiet, unamused laugh, putting his weight on the fridge door as he spares you a quick glance. "well, I was planning on eating something, if you wanted to have some food."
you make a face. "and eat your bland rice and chicken?"
"it's not bland."
"it's beige," you correct.
dylan rolls his eyes. "are you hungry or not?"
lips parting, you fully intended to deny his offer of pre made meals, but then your stomach growls, only loud enough for you to hear—but it's just as efficient in making you back peddle. your eyes dart between him, and then two containers in his hand.
"actually—" you push your chair back, standing and stretching, arms reaching up until your spine cracks slightly. "yeah, i'm starving."
for a moment, dylan is too busy eyeing the sliver of space between the top of your sweatpants and bottom of your baby tee. but then the fridge starts beeping, and he's reminded of everything around him.
it earns you a small, almost smug smile from him as he shuts the fridge with his free hand. "thought so."
the five minutes stretches longer than they should, and easier than they has any right to be. you end up perched on the counter while dylan pre-heats the food on the stove. all while you keep stealing bites out of the pan and pretending not to like it by critiquing the lack of flavour—even though it actually tastes really good.
your notes are forgotten under the soft hum of the apartment and the quiet rhythm the two of you fall into without thinking. and by the time you drift back to the table, the tension in your shoulders has loosened, your head a little clearer—though the space beside you feels noticeably less empty than it did before.
─────
it's the middle of the night, your room dim—because your forgot to turn your lamp out—and quiet, when a sharp crack splits through the silence—loud, sudden, and followed by the unmistakable drop of your mattress giving out beneath you.
you jolt awake, and it doesn't take long to realize what just happened. mostly because your mattress is tilted at a 90 degree angle now, which is great.
the bed groans as you attempt to sit up, staring down at the lopsided disaster beneath your sheets. "you've got to be kidding me."
you swing your legs over the side carefully, like sudden movement might make it worse. the frame tilts again in protest, and you immediately curse whoever crafted your $70 amazon frame. maybe you should've known better. whatever.
for a good few minutes, in your tiny pyjamas and on your hands and knees, you attempt to fix the broken slates that hold your mattress off the ground. stacking old textbooks and dirty laundry to attempt to level everything else, but to no avail.
"I need tools," your chest heaves from exertion, hands on your hips as you survey the mess. if you can find some sort of tool box in the house, maybe you can like nail the slates back together? you're not sure, but you do know you're going to try.
sneaking out of your room, you start the search.
five minutes later, the apartment is no longer quiet. drawers open with rolling force, and the close even firmer. open again. something metallic clatters onto the kitchen counter, echoing throughout the house.
"where the fuck does he keep tools?" you mutter to yourself, crouching to check under the sink like a hammer might just magically appear if you look hard enough.
you only find cleaning supplies, and a random screwdriver. "okay," you breathe, holding it up like it's somehow useful in this situation. "this could work."
you stand with a wave of determination, then immediately bump your hip into the counter with a dull thunk. "fuck me," you whisper.
"why do you have a screwdriver?"
you whirl around at the sound of dylan's deep, sleep laced voice. he's standing at the edge of the hallway, one hand braced against the wall, the other dragging down his face like he's been awake for exactly thirty seconds and already regrets it.
his hair is sticking up in every direction, sleep shirt wrinkled like he pulled it on sometime earlier and never fixed it. he squints between you and the tool in your fist.
"my bed broke," you say like that explains everything.
he blinks. "your—what?"
"my bed. it's, like, collapsing." you gesture vaguely toward your room, heart still racing from his impromptu appearance. "i'm gunna fix it."
"with a screwdriver?"
"yes," you grumble.
dylan makes a point of staring at you long and hard. "you don't even know what you're doing."
"excuse you," you shoot back, already defensive. you shake the screwdriver at him like a vindictive old man, making his eyes widen a fraction through the dark. "I can figure it out."
"at one in the morning?"
you snap, but there's not much of a bite considering, "so you want me to sleep on the floor?"
"I want you to stop making noise," he says flatly. you open your mouth to argue, and then hesitate. because yeah, maybe you shouldn't be making all this noise when dylan has to get up for practice.
and as if he can see the flash of guilt on your face, dylan sighs and takes a step towards you, almost cautiously likes he's not sure how his next move is going to go. "just—" he cuts himself off, rubbing the back of his neck. "just sleep in my bed."
that has you going still. "i'm sorry, what?"
he's already half turned back toward the hallway, like he said it and is hoping you won't make it a whole thing. but obviously you're going to.
"my bed," he clarifies, not looking at you. "it's fine. i'll take the couch or something."
you narrow your eyes at the back of his head, "you're not taking the couch."
footsteps falter before he's turning back on you. "why not?"
"because that's stupid," you say immediately. "it's your bed."
dylan just shrugs like he doesn't care, even though he clearly should. "it's not a big deal, y/n. c'mon it's late."
"It is a big deal," you counter. "i'm not kicking you out of your own bed because mine broke. you're being ridiculous."
he squints, confused but also like over it. "I offered."
"well, i'm declining." you tell him, even though that means you'll probably end up staying up trying to fix your own bed, or sleeping on the couch yourself. neither sounds the most ideal, not when you know dylan probably has one of those really expensive mattress that feel like marshmallow.
a brief lull, then you cross your arms, eyes cast downwards in a combination of mistrust and something that feels a lot like vulnerability. "why are you being nice to me anyways? you don't even like me."
it's a petty jab, but one that feels true nonetheless. and the second it leaves your mouth, the air between you thickens like oobleck. somehow solid yet liquified at the same time.
dylan stills. "what did you just say?" it's not defensive, or annoyed, just completely thrown—which throws you. you blink, caught off guard by the reaction.
"you don't like me."
"that's not—" he shakes his head once, like he's trying to reset. "that's not true."
you let out a shirt, disbelieving laugh. "yeah, okay."
"no seriously," he retorts, waving off your disbelief by taking another step closer to you. "that's not true."
you only cross your arms tighter, eyebrows lifting. "dylan you've been at my throat since I was like, eight."
"and you've been at mine since I was eight," he shoots back.
you tilt your head, unimpressed. "you started it."
"how did I start it?"
"you literally hid my barbie bike."
"because you kept leaving it unlocked," dylan fires back immediately. "anyone could've taken it."
"you took it!" you exclaim, throwing your hand out in his direction, as if trying to show him the problem is right there. aka: him.
"I brought it back."
"three days later!"
"yeah, so you'd remember not to do it again!" you just stare at him, unimpressed while he continues, "and it worked, did it not?"
"no," you drag out the word, "it made me think you were insane."
he huffs out a breath, pacing once across the living room now, restless energy creeping in, probably as well as frustration for the entire situation. "that my point," he breathes out like he can't stop the admission, gesturing vaguely in your direction as his pace comes to a halt. "it always came out wrong. still does...fuck."
you frown slightly. "what does?"
dylan swallows, adam's apple bobbing tightly beneath his skin. a beat passes where you think he might say whatever it is that you can see on the tip of his tongue, and you wait with folded arms and baited breath.
but he doesn't—instead, he lets out a long breath, keeps his gaze downcast as the moment fizzles. "nothing. just—" he cuts himself off, "—i'll grab my pillow and stay on the couch, okay? avoid the construction project at 1 a.m."
"wait." you blurt out, then immediately shut your eyes because—are you actually about to do this? you take a shallow breath as he looks back at you. "we can just...share your bed. I don't want to be the reason you're all stiff at practice tomorrow."
surprise is written all over his face, coupled with something else you can't quite decipher this late at night. "you want to share my bed?"
"no," you bite out quickly, like that should be obvious. "but it's a queen, right? we can hopefully survive." you're not even sure if you believe that, but that's not the point right now. right now, it's sleep.
eventually, dylan lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, one hand dragging over the back of his neck. "wow. you must be really tired to be saying this."
"not tired enough to break your mattress and then we both have to suffer," you shoot back with a sickly sweet smile, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.
his mouth twitches, something almost amused slipping through. "that sounds dirty."
"don't make it weird."
"i'm not making it weird," he says, but there's a hint of a grin now, the tension from a minute ago easing just slightly. "you're the one offering to get in my bed."
you narrow your eyes at him. "i'm offering you a solution—you know, because you're the one who's suddenly wanting to be all chivalrous."
"right," he nods slowly, like he's humoring you. "a solution."
there's a beat—quiet, stretched thin—where neither of you move.
then he exhales, short and resigned, like he's already lost whatever internal argument he was having. "fine," he mutters, pushing a hand through his hair. "but if you kick, you're out."
"I don't kick."
"everyone who says that kicks."
"I don't," you insist, following him down the short hallway anyway.
immediately, it's weird. dylan's room is naturally darker than yours, and the only light is coming from the hallway, spilling in behind you before he nudges the door shut with his foot. it clicks softly, leaving you in that low, comfortable dim where everything feels a little too quiet and intimate.
you hover near the edge of the bed, watching dylan through the lack of light on the other side. he's remaking the sheets that he'd clearly been sleeping in before you woke him up with you banging around. you're hit with a pang of guilt again about that, now slowly growing because you're crashing in his bed.
he's pulling back the covers like this is the most normal thing in the world, even though his shoulders are just a little too tense.
absentmindedly, you start gnawing on the skin around your thumbnail.
dylan catches it, and shoots you a soft yet firm look. "it's just sleeping, relax."
you squint, a little incredulous. "just because you have girls in your bed all the time doesn't mean it's not weird for me," you shoot back, arms folding tighter across your chest as you hover, not moving an inch closer to the bed. feet planted on the floor.
he freezes for a second, brows pulling together. "when have you ever seen me bring a girl in here?"
short answer, you haven't. you lift a shoulder, unimpressed, even as your gaze flicks briefly around his room like it might somehow prove your point. "you probably sneak them in."
"what—" dylan lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand down his face because even he knows you're just bullshitting to bullshit. "you've known me for years...when have I ever been sneaky?"
your eyes narrow immediately, like you've been waiting for that. "do I need to bring up my bike again?"
he groans, head tipping back toward the ceiling for a second.
you just stare at him.
after a beat, he exhales hard through his nose, clearly losing this, and points sharply at the bed. "y/n, get in the bed."
there's a beat where you hold his gaze, stubbornness flaring one last time—before you finally roll your eyes and move, muttering under your breath as you slip between the sheets.
the mattress dips again as dylan follows suit next to you. there's a solid stretch of silence as you both settle into the bed. you stare straight up at the ceiling like it's suddenly fascinating. and so that you also don't lose an internal battle and look at him.
there's space between you, but can feel him there anyway—heat, presence, and the quiet rhythm of his breathing that you're suddenly very aware of.
you go to make a joke about him snoring, but you know from sharing cabin B during 5th grade summer camp that he doesn't. you remember that week vividly, and finding out you'd have to share a space with your nemesis felt like the end of the world. if only younger you could see you now—not only living with him, but sleeping in the same bed.
jesus.
your eyes slowly adjust to the dark, the outline of the room coming into focus—the dresser, the chair in the corner, the faint glow of his phone on the nightstand.
you roll slightly onto your side without thinking. "dylan?"
you're met with silence for a minute, and you're not sure if he's going to respond. or if he's awake. but then the bedding ruffles as he turns to face you as well.
he exhales gently, "what?"
"thank you," you murmur, quiet enough that you're not even sure he hears it. it's a thanks not just for tonight, but for letting you stay here in the first place, and for at least trying to change the hostility between you. lord knows you haven't made it easy.
there's a pause, then, just as soft as the heart beat thumping in your ear, he mutters—"go to sleep y/n."
and you do.
───── 1 month later
things after the whole...sharing a bed with your childhood nemesis turned unexpected roommate, turn into something you don't really have the words for. you're definitely not friends with dylan—he still drives you up the wall, and you argue with one another like you're still kids throwing sand in a sandbox—but you're definitely civil.
which is a complete inner shock to your system. so much so that you've called your mom 10 separate times since that moment to just...replay about the entire situation over and over again.
and then there was the whole thing with him being the one to fix your bed while you were at class the very next day, and you walked in just as his shirt ridden up enough to give you a front row seat to his abs and the dark trail of hair disappearing below his boxers. and that wasn't even the problem—the problem was you thought he looked...hot.
your mom got a panic call about that revelation too.
and now, everytime you run into each other in the hall, or in the morning making coffee, or simply just in passing leaving the house, you're hit with that reminder that you know think dylan guenther is attractive.
it's plagues most of your thoughts. even now, sitting at the kitchen table where you're very much supposed to be going over cue cards for a test, you're thinking about him at his game—is he all sweaty and heaving chest right now? did he maybe get into a pushing and shoving match, bust his lip...blood dripping down like some kind of sexy vampire—
your phone buzzes rhythmically against the table and you jump. the highlighter you'd be dragging against a card in slow, uneven lines—more out of habit than focus—falls next to the phone.
you almost ignore it, because it's an unknown number. your eyes flick over it once, twice. it buzzes again, insistent, and something in your stomach twists—subtle, and unknown but enough—and before you can talk yourself out of it, you reach for it.
"hello?"
"hello—uh, is this y/n?" there's noise behind the voice, and not just usual sitting in a restaurant background chatter. you can hear the roar of fans leaving a building, and medical tape being ripped off the roll, and your heart stops.
"um, yes. who's this?"
"this is JJ," he tells you, "I play with dylan. we've met before, a few weeks ago. you know the whole pyjama thing—" he pauses, as if you're going to laugh, but your heart is in your ass. so you just wordlessly wait for JJ to continue.
he clears his throat, maybe a little awkwardly. "always. don't tell him I told you this, but he asked me to call you—he's fine, just—he took a hit during the game. he's definitely a little banged up, and they're sending him home instead of the hospital."
"I—what?" you push out, already standing without realizing it, chair legs scraping harshly against the floor. "Is he okay?"
"yeah, yeah," the guy says quickly, like he hears it in your voice. "nothing broken, but his ankle is sprained pretty badly. I can bring him home, but l need your help getting him inside."
you press your eyes shut, free hand coming up to your forehead, trying to slow the sudden rush of thoughts. "okay," you breathe, forcing it steady. "yeah, okay. i'm home so just, text me or something when you're here."
JJ, supposedly, answers immediately. "yeah that be great. we will be there within the hour."
you don't go back to your notes. they sit there, open and abandoned, highlighter bleeding into the same sentence you've read three times already.
you're at the door before you even hear anything, pacing once, twice, like you can't settle into your own space anymore. every sound outside makes your head snap up—voices, the hum of an engine, lights driving past—none of them his.
minutes keep dragging in a way that feels like a personal attack. when you're not checking the front door, you're looking at your phone. but the screen stays stubbornly silent. you try sitting, but you last maybe ten seconds before you're back on your feet again, pacing a line into the hardwood between the couch and the door.
you're too worried about the possible state of dylan to chill out. which you're trying not to think about that revelation—you're already going through the whole finding him hot now thing. or maybe you always have. fuck.
headlights finally sweep across the front window, and your body reacts before your brain does. not waiting for the text JJ said he'd send you, you're immediately pulling open the door before the car can fully stop in the driveway.
JJ is halfway out of the driver's seat, already circling the car, and then you spot dylan through the passenger seat window—and then you get a proper view when the car door is open.
he's slumped a little in the seat, one arm braced awkwardly against the door as he tries to shift himself upright. there's a stiffness to the way he moves that doesn't belong to him—careful and measured, like every inch has to be negotiated first. his hair is damp with sweat, pushed back messily, and there's a flush high on his cheekbones that doesn't look like exertion anymore.
you move down the snow dusted steps towards them.
"hey," jj calls to you, but it's soft, like he's aware of the way your entire focus locks onto dylan. "we made it."
"y/n—hey, don't—" dylan starts, a weak attempt at something light, but it cuts off the second he tries to put weight on his foot. he lets out a quiet, yet disgruntled, noise in the back of his throat.
it hits you like a punch. "okay, nope," you cut in immediately, stepping closer, hands hovering for half a second before settling—one at his arm, the other steadying his side. "don't be an idiot. just lean on me."
there's a flicker of something in his expression—protest, maybe pride—but it doesn't last. not when his smile is on fire, and especially not when you're looking down at him with a certain kind of softness that makes his stomach pull tight.
"yeah," his teammate mutters, coming up on his other side and effectively breaking the intense eye contact between you. "what she said."
between you and JJ, you get dylan upright. it's slow and clumsy with his weight heavier than usual. his arm comes around your shoulders almost automatically, muscle memory, but it lands tighter than usual—like he needs the support more than he wants to admit.
"sorry," he breathes, low, near your ear. "didn't mean to—"
"stop talking," you say, quick but not harsh. your grip tightens slightly at his side. "let's just focus on getting inside."
the walk to the door is short, but it feels longer with the way dylan limps through it, each step uneven. you're hyper aware of everything—the hitch in his breathing, the way his fingers flex once against your shoulder, the careful way JJ keeps pace on the other side.
shit, he must be in a lot of pain, you think.
once you get him up the stairs and inside, you and JJ guide him straight to the couch, easing him down as gently as you can. dylan exhales the second he's off his feet, head tipping back against the cushions, and eyes squeezing shut for a brief second like he's been holding that in the entire time.
JJ lingers a second, rubbing the back of his neck when you meet his gaze. "trainer wrapped it," he says, nodding toward dylan's ankle. "ice, elevation, meds and all that."
"thanks," you manage, glancing back at dylan just long enough for JJ to realize you mean it. "for bringing him home. do you want me to call you an uber?"
"no, you're good. I already did." he gives his teammate one last look, something knowing passing over his face. "gunner, text if you need anything." he looks back at you, "you too, y/n."
you thank him again, weakly, and then JJ is gone, front door clicking shut behind him.
its quiet when you step closer to the couch, slow under dylan's gaze. he must've opened his eyes while you weren't looking, because they're fixed on you now—tired, a little unfocused, but there despite all that.
"hi," he says, softer than before. but you can feel the pain and disappointment in them.
"hi," you echo, your voice coming out quieter than you expect. there's a beat where you're eyes fight to stay on just one thing, flickering between his and his wrapped ankle. "how are you feeling?"
he sniffles, not upset, just...full. "like some big fucker fell full force onto my foot."
you huff out something that's almost a laugh, but it doesn't quite land. your hands hover again, unsure, before settling carefully near his ankle, not touching yet. "can I look?" you ask, nodding toward it.
he nods once.
you're gentle when you finally move—peeling back the edge of the wrap just enough to check, fingers light, cautious. it's already swelling, angry and tight under the tape, and you feel your jaw clench without meaning to. you know his staff know what they're doing, but looking at dylan's ankle right now, you're not sure how this is just sprained.
"hey," he murmurs, catching the shift in your face. it makes you glance up. "i'm okay. don't freak out."
your eyes search his for a second, like you're trying to decide if you believe him. "i'm not freaking out," you force out the reply, even though it's a lie.
he gives you a knowing look, one that feels like too much. it makes your breath hitch before you force yourself away, already thumbing over your shoulder, vaguely gesturing towards the kitchen.
"i'll get you ice." you tell him, already walking away.
when you return with a makeshift ice pack, dylan half expects you to just rest it against the bone of his ankle and then leave—maybe sit on the couch if you're feeling generous enough to keep him company. but you take it one surprising step further by holding the ice there for him, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the coffee table. than again, maybe it's not a surprise, because you've always cared deeply about others...even him.
he winces—just slightly—at the cold, toes flexing near your arm.
"hold still," you murmur, reaching out without thinking to rub his shin in a soft, soothing way.
and dylan lets you.
—
you don't realize how much a sprained ankle actually affects until you're watching dylan try to exist with it. everything becomes slower, more deliberate. getting up from the couch takes planning. walking to the kitchen is a process. even just shifting his leg wrong earns that quiet, sharp inhale he tries to hide.
and you notice every single hitched breath and tightly pulled expression.
"stop hovering," he muttered at one point, not even looking at you as you trailed half a step behind him on the way to the bathroom that very first night.
"i'm not hovering," you shot back immediately.
dylan just glanced over his shoulder, one brow lifted. you were close enough that if he stopped suddenly, you'd walk right into him.
"...you're hovering."
you open your mouth, then close it. "i'm just supervising," you corrected, a little weaker that time.
he snorted, but it softened into something quieter when he reached the counter and needed to grip it for balance. you had stepped in without thinking—hand steady at his elbow, grounding more than guiding.
dylan doesn't shrug you off. and that becomes your pattern.
by the third day, you've figured out some sort of rhythm when it comes to him and the injury. you'll move things without asking—shift a chair here, clear a path there, bring what he needs before he has to go looking for it. you always have pillows stacked on the couch, so that his leg stays elevated properly, even when he inevitably slouches down and pretends he doesn't care.
"you don't have to do all this," he tells you the first time you hand him his meds, a glass of water already waiting in your other hand.
"good thing I want to, then," you reply, like it's obvious.
dylan hesitates—just for a second, eyes flickering all over your face, searching—before taking the meds. "still," he mutters, but it lacks any real argument.
but you always make sure the meds are delivered into the palm of his hand on time.
cooking is where he pushes back the most.
"seriously?" he says the first time you set a plate down in front of him. "you made...all of this?"
"it's pasta," you deadpan, dropping into the chair across from him. "relax."
"there's like—sautéed vegetables in this."
you could only snicker at his surprised, "don't sound so shocked, dylan. you'll start to hurt my feelings."
"I am shocked," he shoots back, eyeing the plate like it personally offended him. "you had school today."
"and?" you shrug, reaching for your own fork. "I can cook and go to class. multitasking. very advanced skill."
he just watches you for a second, something unreadable flickering across his face. "you didn't have to do this," he continues, a little reserved but laced with gratefulness, "you should be studying. I don't what to be a burden"
you don't roll your eyes, but you're close to. "and I can. after."
dylan looks down at the plate after that, jaw shifting slightly before he takes a bite. you pretend not to watch for his reaction, even though you absolutely are.
"it's good," he admits after a second.
"wow," you say flatly, twirling some pasta between the pronges of your fork. "high praise."
the faintest smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, "don't let it go to your head."
retaliation is brushing your socked foot against his good ankle, and that says more than anything words could.
about a week after the initial injury, you're cleaning up the kitchen after dinner, late, while dylan's stretched out on the couch, the tv playing something neither of you is really paying attention to, ankle already up because you made sure of it.
"you missed your calling, you know," he teases suddenly.
you glance over your shoulder, thanksgiving themed dish cloth in your hand. "as?"
"live-in nurse."
you snort. "you'd be the worst patient i'd ever have."
"hey," he protests, shifting slightly. "I say thank you."
"after you complain," you point out, but there's a lightness in your tone that warms the space between you.
his perfect grin widens. "that's part of the charm."
after making a show of rolling your eyes—making dylan chuckle—you turn back to the sink, but you're smiling a little, and he can hear it in your voice when you answer. "yeah, well your charm is overwhelming."
he doesn't say anything to that. a few minutes pass before you turn off the water and dry your hands off on your sweats. you don't even think about going to your room, not like you would've a few weeks ago. instead, you drop down onto the couch beside dylan, tucking your legs under yourself out of habit.
dylan shifts, just slightly, making room without being asked. both of you various of his propped ankle.
your shoulder brushes his, and instead of freezing up, neither of you move.
somewhere in the quiet, in between the routine and the teasing and the way taking care of him has started to feel less like something you're doing for him and more like something you're doing with him—something between you settles.
and whatever this is—it's not just civil anymore. not even close.
you fall asleep on the couch together, your head on his strong shoulder and his head resting on the top of yours. even in your sleep, your carefully tucked against him, careful of his injury—and even in dylan's sleep, he'd throw everything into the wind and keeps you from straying.
—
it's two days later that everything truly turns on its axis.
you're going through and editing an essay you've been absolutely working your ass off to get done before tomorrow—when you'll go over it again with your study group—when a sound thumps down the hall. more specifically, the bathroom where dylan is showering.
it's not loud or dramatic, but it also doesn't sound like a bottle of shampoo falling to the floor. it sounds wrong in a way your brain catches before you can explain it—a sharp disruption in the steady rhythm of water against tile. something—someone—slipping.
"shit," you curse, not thinking before pushing away your laptop and making your way down the hall. "dylan?" knocking gently against the closed door, you call his name, only to be met with silence.
naturally, your stomach plummets.
you don't bother knocking again—not when you're thinking the worst. a half crippled brick of a man slipping in the shower? god, he could've cracked his head open.
the door swings open too fast, because he never locks it, thankfully—the handle hitting the wall with a muted thud as steam rushes out in a thick, suffocating wave. it clings to your skin instantly, blurring your vision for half a second, turning everything soft and indistinct.
"dylan—?"
"y/n, fuck."
then you see him. he's on the floor of the shower, one hand braced flat against the tile, the other gripping the edge of the tub so tightly his knuckles have gone pale. his leg with the injured ankle is bent at an angle that makes your chest tighten, hovering just off the ground like even the suggestion of pressure would be too much.
water pours over him, relentless—soaking his shoulders, dripping from his hair in uneven rivulets that trace down his jaw and neck.
"shit—" you're moving before you realize it, bare feet slipping slightly through the condensation soaked tiles. "what happened? are you okay?"
"i'm fine," he says too quickly and too breathless for that to be the truth. its the kind of fine that isn't fine at all.
your eyes scan him automatically—quick, efficient. no blood, and no obvious injury beyond what you already know. in one sudden blink, you seem to remember—and physically note—dylan is naked. which is obvious, but it flusters you instantly.
but the way he's holding himself, the rigid set of his shoulders, the careful way he keeps his ankle lifted is enough for you to snap out of it.
"don't move," you say, dropping down beside him without hesitation. the closer you get, the more you can see this is killing him. the strain is clearer now, seen in tightness in his jaw, the faint tremor in his arm from holding himself up, and the shallow way he's breathing like he's trying not to let it show.
your hand hovers for a second before settling lightly on his forearm. "did you twist it?" you ask, softer now.
dylan exhales through his nose, eyes squeezing shut for a second. "yeah. just—fucking slipped. tried to catch myself and—" his voice cuts off, jaw tightening again like even explaining it frustrates him. and knowing him, you have no doubt that re injuring his ankle is definitely not ideal. not when he's biting to get back onto the ice.
you nod, more to yourself. "okay. okay." it's not okay. but you say it anyway.
the water keeps running because you don't even think about turning it off, splashing against your sleeve, soaking through the fabric until it clings cold against your skin.
"can you stand?" you ask, glancing into his eyes.
he lets out a short breath—almost a laugh, but there's no humor in it. "I mean... I can try, but that feels like a terrible plan."
a small exhale slips out of you. "yeah," you murmur. "let's not do terrible plans."
for a second, everything stills. just the sound of water, your thumping heartbeats and the both of you caught in that in-between moment where the only thing you see is each other.
"i'm—" he starts, and stops. his expression shifts before looking away, something unfamiliar flickering across it. expect it's not just pain, it's also embarrassment. "this is kind of pathetic," he says, quieter now, throat bobbing as he swallows. "you wouldn't be wrong if you laughed."
you can understand why he would feel embarrassed. dylan has always been cool and confident and loud—but right now he's vulnerable. naked and hurting, with only you to help him. regardless, your brows pull together immediately. "hey—no."
he huffs faintly, shaking his head, water flicking from his hair. "I'm serious. I can't even shower without wiping out. thats—"
you cut him off, "I would never make fun of you for needing help, dylan." that comes out firmer than anything else you've said to him, and it's enough to stop him.
dylan looks at you then—really looks at you. and whatever he had lined up next fades out before it can reach his mouth.
you ignore that. your grip on his arm tightens just slightly. you let out a slow breath to steady yourself, "alright. we're gonna get you up, okay?"
he can only nod.
carefully, you move closer, one arm sliding around his back, and your other hand bracing at his side. the heat of the shower wraps around both of you, thick and close, the space shrinking until it feels like there's nothing outside of this moment—just the two of you and the steady rush of water.
"lean on me," you murmur, trying not to think of how this feels oddly familiar to a few days ago when this just happened. expect this time, your hands are on his wet, naked body...which is a lot.
dylan doesn't hesitate, hand coming up to your shoulder, gripping tighter than usual, long fingers pressing info you as he shifts his weight. he curses.
"i've got you," you say again, softer this time, like you're trying to soothe him.
together, you move slowly. guiding him up inch by inch, his balance uneven but manageable with you there. his breath catches once—sharp—when his ankle shifts wrong, or maybe it's because your hands slipped dangerously down his front.
you get him upright, then out of the tub.
water drips everywhere in your wake, pooling on the tile as you step onto the bath mat. by the time you stop, both of you are damp—your clothes clinging, his grip still firm on your shoulder like he hasn't quite convinced himself he doesn't need it.
you help lean him against the vanity, and then your eyes meet once he's somewhat settled. you don't pull away—can't even if you wanted to—because you and dylan are close. there's barely any space between you, his baked body pressed to your soaked through one.
just warmth, locked gazes, and the slow rhythm of both of you trying to catch your breath.
"sorry," dylan says, even though he's not sure for what.
you shake your head immediately. "stop apologizing."
you might imagine it, but you're pretty sure his eyes flicker down to your lips. just for a second.
"I mean it," he breathes, "you didn't sign up for this."
"I kind of did," you say after a beat, meeting his eyes as you bite back all the nerves climbing up your throat. "the second I decided I care about you."
between you, something snaps. dylan stills. the embarrassment fades, replaced by something warmer. something more open than he usually lets himself be. "yeah?" he murmurs, a little struck.
"yeah." your fingers adjust slightly against his arm, not pulling away—just settling, like they belong there. for a moment, neither of you moves, sitting with how something's finally being acknowledged instead of avoided between you.
then, gently, you nod toward the hallway. "come on. let's get you sitting before you prove me right about the terrible plans."
that pulls the faintest huff of a laugh from him, warm against the space between you. "alright," he says.
by the time everything settles down again, you end up on opposite ends of the couch, the TV on low more for noise than anything else. dylan dozes at some point—dressed now, thankfully—his head tipped back, breathing slow and even.
you don't move when it happens. don't dare risk it. not when you know he's gotta be up early for his doctors appointment tomorrow.
when you finally do get up—turning off lights, grabbing your things—his eyes briefly flicker open, finding you through the dim light.
"wake me if it gets worse," you murmur as you settle down beside him. you're not even sure if he hears you, but then he moans out and that feels like a response.
—
"i'll be back after your appointment," you tell him the next morning, too half of a bagel in your mouth as rush out the door. your study group is meeting early this morning, to go over your essays for last minute tweaks before they get handed in that afternoon.
you continue, "but text me how it goes."
dylan hobbles towards you, holding the door open for you with a flat palm. it's so simple that it shouldn't make your heart soar, but it totally does.
despite the lingering pain in his ankle, he grins down at you—bright eyes and round cheeks. "I will," he smiles, voice slow in that syrupy kind of way that feels deeper than it should. "i'll see you later, yeah?"
you nod, almost shy as you look up at him. this feels like the part where you should say something else, or maybe even lean up and brush a kiss to his cheek. but you chicken out last minute, instead just sending him another smile.
"see ya." and then you're gone, not looking back over your shoulder even though you can feel him watching you leave.
—
your study group is the same as always—same table, same scattered notes, same low buzz of conversation—but your focus keeps slipping. you reread the same paragraph three times, miss half of what someone's explaining about citations, and you lee checking your phone more than you want to admit.
unfortunately, there's no messages from dylan. you try not to let that worry you, but you figured it slipped his mind.
at one point, luca leans over, her hair tickling your arm as she lowers her voice. "are you good?"
your eyes snap to hers. "yeah, just, waiting to hear from dylan. he had his follow up appointment for his injury this morning."
all she does is waggle her eyebrows in a suggestive way at that, which makes you duck your chin to hide a growing smile.
by the time you pack up, it's well passed the time dylan's appointment was set to be over with, and you still haven't heard anything from him.
is he okay?
did his phone die?
maybe he got caught up with cooley, who was driving him there and back.
without wanting to waste anymore time wondering and ultimately, worrying, you pack up all your stuff and make your way to the bus stop, wanting to get home and hopefully, have all your questions answered.
the bus ride feels longer than it should, mostly because you reaches out—a simple hey, how's it going?—and we're still met with silence. well, that's not completely true. you know dylan sees it because it gets left on read, and that only worries you more.
and by the time you're unlocking the front door, your cuticles are a raw mess and throbbing.
"dylan?" you call out as you walk inside the home, toeing off your shoes. the front door clicks shut behind you with a soft, familiar sound.
you see his nikes then, kicked off messily, and know that he's home. but despite that, you don't get an answer from him. it's quiet, too quiet.
with your brows drawn inwards to your nose, you walk further, towards the living room. and instantly, you spot him. he's sitting on the couch, but not like usual. he's not stretched out, or half relaxed with his leg propped the way you've made routine.
he's got one elbow on his thighs, head dropped down in a way that screams defeat. his other hand holds his phone, but he's not even scrolling—like he's forgotten it's even there.
your eyes flick over his tight jaw, and even tighter shoulders.
something in your chest dips. the brief flare of anger you felt a moment ago—knowing he'd definitely saw your text and ignored you, coupled with him blatantly not answering you just now—disappears. instantly, you know something isn't right.
"hey," you say softly, stepping closer. "you okay?"
dylan doesn't look up, nor does he answer right away. he lets your question hang there. "yeah." he says, completely flat...maybe even, dismissive of you. which you wouldn't of question a few weeks ago, but you were sure you've made progress. right?
you hesitate—but only for a moment. maybe it's because you like, like him, but you're still assuming this is something small, something fixable. and oh, how wrong you are.
"okay," you murmur, nodding a little to yourself. "well, i'm gonna make something quick—do you want anything? I was thinking like, sandwiches with some pasta salad or—"
"I don't need you to make me anything, y/n," dylan's voice is sharp, cutting through the air before you can even finish. "I don't want your fucking help."
you blink, surprised. "what?"
finally, he looks at you. there's something sharp in his expression—frustration, edged with something heavier, something you don't quite recognize at first.
"I said I don't want your help," he repeats, more firmly this time. "I don't fucking need it. it's really starting to piss me off."
your stomach drops. "I—okay," you start slowly, trying to recalibrate. "I was just asking if you wanted something to eat. there's no need to get all—"
"I can make my own food," he snaps, interrupting you again. and the edge in his voice hits harder this time. "god, i'm not useless, y/n, so stop acting like i'm some charity case you can fix."
you straighten slightly, caught off guard. "I don't think that."
"then stop acting like it," he shoots back, jaw tightening. "you're always—hovering, or fixing something, or bringing me stuff like I'm useless. it's getting old."
"I have never—" you start, but your voice catches slightly. you swallow, trying again. "i've been helping you because I care about you, dylan," you continue, your voice steadier now, even if it feels like it's being pulled tight. "not because I think you're incapable of doing things on your own."
"yeah, well I didn't ask you to," he mutters. then, to push the imaginary dagger deeper into your chest, dylan's jaw tightens, tendons flexing underneath his stubble, and looks you dead in the eye. "I don't fucking want you here."
oh.
for a moment, all you can do is stare at him, like you're waiting for him to take it back. but he doesn't.
the silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable now.
"good to know," you manage to mutter, tears brimming your waterline and threatening to fall. because out of all the years and pettiness you and dylan have shown each other, nothing has felt like this moment.
you turn before he can say anything else, heading back toward the door, movements quicker than before—sharper. you grab your bag, barely registering the way your hands shake slightly as you sling it over your shoulder.
"where are you going?" he asks, something shifting in his voice now—but it's too late for regret now.
"you don't want me here," you repeat, voice wobbly as you refuse to look at him. knowing that if you do, you'd surely start sobbing. "so i'll leave."
he says your name, reserved. tries to get up but the pain in his ankle makes him buckle over, and he lets out an uncomfortable hiss.
you force yourself to not check on him. instead, you walk back out the front door with tears streaming down your cheeks.
the silence that follows is immediate, naturally. deafening without needing to say so.
dylan doesn't know what to do at first. he's still hunched over exactly where you left him—your words echoing back at him in a way that feels sharp. almost as hurtful as what he said to you.
his jaw tightens and he drops his head. "shit."
he didn't mean to snap at you, would never even dream of it. but the news he'd received from the teams doctor today had don't nothing but altered his entire day, if not week.
the doctors voice had been calm and clinical as he explained the situation—how his ankle was worse than they originally thought, and how there's been a decline since the initial injury. how the rest of the regular season isn't a likely outcome for dylan anymore.
it had been utter defeat, and anger, and above all, a feeling a hopelessness he won't be able to shake for a little bit.
and when you walked in, already assessing him, asking all sweetly and concerned if he wanted something to eat—that anger came rushing back in full force, and he just snapped.
another reminder that he's useless right now. to the team, to himself, and to you.
"fucking hell," he drags a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. because he knows he messed up big time with you, and knows that after all you've done for him, you don't deserve that.
because despite when his anger took over and he was spitting that nonsense, dylan does appreciate you. he does need you. and he absolutely wants you.
his gaze flicks toward the door, like he expects you to walk back through it any second. obviously, you don't, and dylan can't even blame you.
with as much strength as he can muster, he shifts forward and push himself up slightly. his ankle screams in protest from the shift of weight, but he pushes through it. because it's not just about him anymore, maybe it never has been.
ankle be damned right now. all he can focus on are your tears, the crack in your voice, and how he's going to fix his own mistake.
─
your professor dismisses the class in his usual monotone voice. it's followed by the rise of conversation, zippers closing and textbooks snapping closed as everyone gets ready to leave.
two girls behind you are loudly discussing how they think they did on their essays—one thinks she's nailed it, the other says she flunked. beside you, luca watches you carefully. she can tell something is up, but you don't mention the fight with dylan.
it's still fresh, and anytime you think about it, you start to tear up. thankfully when it happened during the lesson, she just wordlessly passed you some kleenex.
you zip your own bag and sling it over your shoulder as people start filtering out.
"text me if you need the notes," luca tells you quietly, slipping her laptop in her purse.
"yeah, thanks." you smile, but it doesn't meet your eyes. making your way down the stairs of the lecture hall, you don't waste anytime in leaving the room, looking forward to getting home and into bed to wallow in your tears.
hopefully, he's in his room and not lingering in the living room—waiting to reel you out even further.
you exhale and walk out, only to be met with a familiar figure leaning against the brick wall outside the lecture hall. and your stomach drops.
dylan is wearing the same thing has earlier, which isn't a surprise because it hasn't been that long. he's got on a thick black coat now, unzipped so his gray hoodie is peeking out. a set of crutches are beside him, which you don't see in the house earlier. but then again, you'd been a little bit distracted.
his eyes find yours almost instantly, because he's been waiting here for you. longer than he'd like to admit.
there's a second where neither of you moves. then, he straightens slightly, grabs one of his crutches and hobbles over to you.
you swallow, adjusting your grip on your bag. you hate how you want to immediately check in on him—clearly his doctors appointment didn't go well considering he's got accessories now.
"what are you doing here?" you ask instead, keeping your voice low out of habit. students filter out all around you, but neither of you are paying attention.
dylan stops a few feet away, weight uneven as he steadies himself on the single crutch. up close, you can see him better—the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw keeps flexing like he's holding something back, the faint flush in his cheeks that isn't just from the weather.
"i'm here because I fucked up," he says, a little breathless like it's been sitting heavy for awhile. eyes search yours, a little frantic before he continues, "and i'm sorry"
your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag. "how long have you been here?" you ask, ignoring everything else.
but dylan doesn't seem to mind, answering you without a doubt. "about an hour. but it doesn't matter," a self induced pause, he runs a weak hand through his messy hair. "i'm so sorry, y/n"
an hour? your stomach twists at that, eyes flicking briefly to the bench nearby, the concrete ledge, the floor he must've paced—well, as much as he can pace—waiting. no doubt, students sneaking pictures because dylan guenther is on campus.
you swallow roughly, throat tight with lingering emotion, "for what? yelling at me, or telling me to get out?"
"both." another step closer. "all of it. I got bad news from the doctor, and i'm out for the rest of the season and I just...I'm useless."
the word lands heavy. it doesn't fit him—never has. and hearing him say it—so easily, like he's already convinced himself it's true—makes something in your chest pull tight. because no matter what, you hate to see the man in front of you feel like that.
you sigh, a little reserved but no less meaningful. "you're not useless, dylan."
"I am. fuck," his hand falls helplessly to his side while he briefly tilts his head back, sitting with his own emotions from today. "I can't even shower on my own. getting here was like, a whole thing, even with these things now." he shifts slightly, the crutch scraping faintly against the ground. his eyes find yours again, "and when you walked in and asked if I wanted food, I was just reminded of just how useless I am right now. but I shouldn't of taken it out on you"
there's frustration in his voice, but it's not directed at you anymore. it's turned inward, sharp and relentless. and now you know that it was never about you.
"no, you shouldn't of." you mumble, but there's a little bit of playfulness in your voice.
he nods immediately, not catching how you're already on the way to forgiving him. "I didn't mean any of that. i'm like, so fucking grateful for you, y/n."
there's a pause, the words sitting between you like a missing puzzle piece. shyly, you keep your gaze on dylan. "yeah?"
"yeah," he breathes something that resembles a laugh. "without you i'd be a mess. i'd probably have JJ making my meals and giving me accidental salmonella."
despite everything, your mouth twitches, slowly forming a half grin. "probably," you muse.
the tension shifts between you, not completely gone but dissolving into something softer. he swallows again, throat dry. "i'm not just sorry about earlier, y/n. fuck I...since we were eight, I would say things, or do things that would just come out wrong." he shakes his head slightly, frustrated. "I never meant to hurt your feelings, or be a dick, i've just never been good with my feelings"
your hand twitches, wanting to reach out and touch his calloused knuckles in comfort. but you don't, not yet. instead, you just nod, a little solemn but understanding. "yeah, I know."
and you do.
"i'm sorry," dylan repeats, almost desperate.
"I know that too"
his grip tightens on the crutch, knuckles going a little pale. like he's bracing for something—rejection, maybe. or silence. or the worse case, moving out and leaving him. letting him wallow in his pain and loneliness without you. so almost hurriedly, he continues, "does that mean you'll come home?"
and you can see there's something careful in the way he asks it. hopeful, but restrained. like he doesn't think he's earned a yes, but really wants one.
you shift your bag higher on your shoulder, and step a little closer without fully thinking about it. finally, a proper smile begins to tug at your mouth as you nod towards the doors leading outside, "I would've regardless. my bed has just been so comfy since you put all that hard work in and fixed it, how could I not?"
at that, a small, tentative smile tugs at his mouth. "i'm trying to be serious," dylan almost whines, but the grin never falters.
"me too." you chirp, "come on dylan."
you go to turn, foot barley making a step past him when he reaches out, warm fingers and palm enclosing aorund your wrist.
not rough. not hesitant, either. something else that makes you stop mid step.
your breath catches as he gently, yet firmly pulls you back toward him. the crutch shifts awkwardly, tapping against the tiles as he adjusts, but he doesn't let go. not this time.
"dylan—"
you don't even get to finish before he's darting down and kissing you. it's quick at first—impulsive, like the decision outran the execution—but there's nothing unsure about it. the second it happens, it lands.
your brain scrambles to catch up, but he's pulling back before you can register the feeling.
dylan looks down at you, lips parted, like he's surprised himself too.
your heartbeat thumps in your ears. "what are you doing?"
"kissing you," he says, a little rough around the edges now.
"I—yeah, I got that," you say, blinking up at him. "why?"
dylan exhales, like something is finally catching up to him. "because I was gonna lose my nerve," he admits after a beat, gaze stating between yours and your slick mouth.
for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. and stare you do, at his eyes, the dusting of freckles over his nose, rosy cheeks and dark stubble and everything in between. your stare probably for a minute too long, and he probably thinks you're insane. or going to slap him.
"your nerve?" you repeat, curiosity lacing with hope in your expression.
he gulps. "yeah."
"why?" you ask, quieter now.
his grip loosens slightly, thumb brushing absently against your wrist like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. "because it's you," dylan breathes out like the words bring him relief. maybe they do.
you let out a breath, a little shaky. because what do you even do with something like that? he waits patiently for you to digest that, fiddling with your bracelet and the vein beneath your skin.
"...you're insane." you muse eventually.
it earns the smallest hint of a smile from him. he tugs you closer, smoothly, and shrugs casually. "probably."
"didn't think to tell me this before?"
"i'm telling you now," he offers playfully.
you glance at his mouth, then back up to his eyes. "you didn't even give me time to react."
"okay," he hums, finger still sweeping along your wrist. "react."
but instead, you tilt your head back, angling your nose against his and whisper—"kiss me again."
that's all it takes for his mouth to find yours for the second tome. and it's far from careful, which is hindsight makes sense. it's immediate, a little clumsy from the angle and the way he's balancing, but there's nothing uncertain about it. it's months—years—of things unsaid, feelings misfired, words that never came out right—it all crashes into this one moment.
his grip on your wrist loosens, sliding down just enough to steady you instead when you stumble.
your hand comes up instinctively, catching in the front of his hoodie, grounding yourself against him so he doesn't tip and you don't either. the noise of students passing by blurs into nothing—there's just him, warm and real and here. finally.
—
authors note: guys I gave up editing this halfway i’m sorry
It’s late Saturday night. Sidney’s shirtless back is faced to you, the faint red scratch marks from your earlier activities still visible. He’s cooking something – probably cavatappi for the zillionth night in a row – and it smells amazing.
You’re sat at the island with a wineglass in hand. He’s always been good to you, and even more so tonight as he’s never let either of your guys glasses become empty.
He turns around, a few pieces of pasta balanced on the bamboo spoon in hand. He holds it out to you, pressing it against your lips, whispering a soft ‘try’. You slurp the pasta in, licking the sauce off your lips. It’s perfect, just like everything else he’s ever made.
Refusing to break the stillness of the moment, you offer a soft smile and nod, washing away the sauce flavor with more wine. Sidney leans over the island, capturing your lips with his for a second before his focus returns to the pasta.
You’re only dressed in the robe he stole from Sweden this March. He had this silly grin on his face the first time he pulled it out of his suitcase, excited to show you what he ‘got’ for you. It’s so unlike him to nab something from a hotel, but he’d do it in a heartbeat if he thought you’d like it.
“Baby” He says softly, sliding a full plate infront of you before sitting next to you with his own. He presses another kiss to your temple, then to your neck, then to your shoulder.
The two of you sit in silence as you eat. He’s not terribly talkative after sex, and neither are you. Sidney only ever gets up once in the 9, maybe 10, minutes you sit there, and only because you ran out of wine.
Eventually though, he turns and nudges you, a concerned look on your face. “You feeling okay? You’re awful quiet, love” He’s barely above a whisper, still too chicken to ruin the moment.
You nod, leaning your head onto his shoulder. He shovels pasta into his mouth as he waits for you to answer. “Just…tired.” You yawn, interrupting yourself, “Not everyone has the stamina of a hockey god.”
That gets a small snort out of him. He offers a sarcastic apology, complete with more kisses. You two sit in silence for a few more minutes until both of your plates are empty. You try to get up, but Sidney swipes your plate before you can.
“Sit, I got it” He says. He rinses off the plates and puts them away, before walking back over to you. Your eyelids are already drooping. Good sex and good food tends to do that to a person.
Before you can protest, you feel Sid’s arm slide underneath your knees and the other around your shoulders. You don’t resist, leaning your head against his collarbone, letting him carry you through the house and into the bedroom.
You feel the soft cotton sheets beneath you, the duvet covering you immediately after. The fan clicks on, the door clicks shut, and you feel the bed dip beside you as both Sam and Sidney get in.
His arms wrap around you, pulling you close and heating you up. He presses more kisses against you, on every surface he can reach without jostling you. The soft rhythm of his lips against your skin, combined with the full stomach and previous exhaustion, lull you to sleep. Right in the arms of your beloved.
SUMMARY Levi Rivers never thought he needed to tell his friends that his younger sister was off limits. That was a given, all things considered. He especially didn't think Joe, of all people, would need to be told that.
WORD COUNT 24k
WARNINGS/TROPES Brother's best friend, everyone being freaks through music, deafness + sign language (maybe some incorrect terminology relating to those, but I really tried), heavy religious themes, a little angst, hurt/comfort, vulgar (and perhaps a little misplaced yet good-intentioned) jokes, short mention of puking, name-calling, Elsie is openly bisexual but also holds some form of internalized homophobia that stems from her religious upbringing and it isn't addressed
AUTHOR'S NOTE Honestly, I don’t find this age gap (22-23 & 27) particularly controversial, but I’m sticking to the request (I know I said I don't take requests, but the idea was stuck in my head and it clearly got a little way too out of hand haha). Instead, the way they met is more of the questionable part?? I don’t know, Joe and Elsie beat themselves up about it pretty badly, though. Anyway, for the most part, italics are dialogue using sign language.
OCTOBER
"I'm bored."
"I'm sorry, princess," Elsie Rivers deadpanned. "Is my presence not entertaining enough?"
Camille didn't lift her head from the decorative pillow on her couch, voice muffled against the beige woven fabric. "I forgot the Leafs weren't playing tonight. Can't let you experience the bars when there's no collective suffering to be had."
"Every day, I thank God for not being a Leafs fan." Elsie bit back a laugh when Camille shoved her foot off the couch.
"Like the Blues are any better."
"At least they've won something in the last fifty years."
Camille groaned and rolled onto her back. It was a dark, mid-autumnal night, and the comforting hum of the air circulating the small apartment was broken by the boisterous nature of the city beyond the walls that roused a restlessness in her bones, one that Elsie seemed immune to.
"What's your brother up to?" asked Camille. "Think he and his friend would mind if we dropped by?"
Elsie shrugged. It had played out as one big coincidence that she and her older brother's respective best friends lived in the same city, that they could time their visits so perfectly without sending their parents into a state of worry that their kids were alone in a different country, even if they spent their entire trip so far removed from one another: Elsie hadn't seen Levi since they grabbed their bags at the airport, and she had no plans to see him again until their flight home was called to board.
"At a bar, it seems like," she said, turning her screen toward Camille to show the unflattering contact photo running loose in the city. "Feel like getting dressed up?"
Camille grinned, all mischief. "Guess we're going to a bar after all."
The bar was crowded, bodies pressed together like they were squished into a club, and music pounded through the speakers until it rang uncomfortably in their heads. Elsie walked on the tips of her toes, peering over people's heads and shoulders in search of her brother, and Camille clung onto her like a child would their mother.
Finally, she spotted him—the God-awful bleached, buzzed hair, dyed with faded leopard spots like a beacon of light in this dim establishment—and each nearing step revealed the lines of ink scattered along his arms. His back was turned to them, and Elsie's lips crimped with diablerie. Her footsteps slowed, prowling like a predator scouring its prey, and she waited until she was just a hair's breadth from him to blow air into his ear.
Levi flinched, whipping around with a curse flying from his mouth. His expression hardened when he heard his little sister cackling at his distress. He rubbed his ear. "You're not funny."
"I'm hurt, Jeans," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Hey, Camille," Levi greeted, earning a distracted one in return. "What're you doing here?"
"If you don't want your little sister showing up at the same places, then you should probably turn your location off," said Elsie, snatching his beer for a quick sip before he could smack her hand away.
"I share my location with you so you know I'm not dead in a ditch when I don't answer."
"We were bored." Elsie turned to Camille, whose silence drew concern. She followed her best friend's gaze, roaming over the faces she had seen on TV before, and understood. "Quit staring."
"I can't," Camille whispered, wide-eyed.
Levi lifted an eyebrow as he placed his beer on the table surrounded by his best friend's friends. "She's a Leafs fan, right?" he signed dexterously. "Does she know?"
"I guess not. Must have forgotten."
"Oh, this will be fun," Levi smirked when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a presence returning from the bathroom. "Hey, man, look who showed up."
Joseph took a second glance at the woman standing in front of his childhood friend—the same eyes sparkling beneath the lousy lighting, the same crooked smile that spoke only of mischief, even the same bend in their noses like they'd broken it in the same spot. Recognition widened his eyes. "Elsie?" He brought her into a friendly, yet gauche hug. "Almost didn't recognise you without the blue hair."
"God, has it been that long?" she asked before introducing Camille to him, nudging her out of her stupor. Joseph had extended the same gesture to his teammates who made it out to the bars for the night, and their thin smiles had eased at the newfound familiarity.
"Hey, kid!" Levi called before Camille could yank her too far away from the crowded booth and toward the bartenders. He handed her some cash, the corners of his lips curving slightly when she thanked him and ran off.
"Okay, what the hell?" Camille asked at the bar. "Why did you never mention that you know Joseph freaking Woll? You know how much of a Leafs fan I am."
"Sorry," Elsie said sheepishly. "To be fair, in my head, he's just Joey. Half the time, I forget he exists."
Elsie managed to flag a bartender and put down enough money to cover her and Camille's drinks—courtesy of Levi, of course. They took a shot in gratitude for his generosity, then ordered another. She could feel a pair of eyes burning into her as she tipped her head back, and as she brought the lime to her mouth, her gaze couldn't help but skirt past Camille and toward the group of hockey players in the distance until she found the charming blues of her brother's best friend.
Her heart flipped—so quickly, she thought it was from the way the liquor went down her throat.
The flashing lights hid the moment Joseph snapped his attention away with his lip trapped between his teeth.
As time plunged deeper into the night, and it became abundantly clear that Camille was not going to hold her alcohol as she had in college, Elsie put a stopper on her drinks. The stranger who wanted to buy her a drink had raised an eyebrow when she settled for a water and a basket of fries.
Camille's eyes lit up when a basket of fries was shoved into her hands. Elsie laughed, then returned to the stranger—Hailey, she'd come to learn her name was. She took her forwardness with stride, leaning into the touches on her arm and returning the flirty glint in her eyes that seemed to devour every curve and dip of her figure.
It was no surprise that she had ended up with Hailey's mouth on hers not long after.
But a coldness washed over Hailey when a stern throat clearing sliced through the pounding bass of the music.
Their heads turned, and Elsie furrowed her brows.
"Your brother's looking for you," Joseph said with a slight edge in his tone.
Elsie didn't think she'd ever seen him so serious. Her gaze flickered between him and Hailey, who seemed equally as twiddled, before she excused herself and allowed the crowd to swallow her whole. She felt like a fish weaving between threads of seagrass: turning, lingering, observing, with no destination in sight.
Instead, she waited until the familiar mop of dark hair slipped past her a few feet over. Jumping forward, her hand curled around the bend of Joseph's elbow.
The alarm on his face quickly fell. "Jesus, Els."
"What's up?"
Joseph had said something, and Elsie tried her best to decipher it, eyebrows cinching together as she stared hard at his lips—a habit too hard to snap despite the years that had passed. He noticed, then—the focused expression, just how loudly the music was blaring at them, the drunken racket of voices—and glanced around for an emptier part of the bar.
Elsie smiled gratefully when he led her away, on the fringes of the booth with his friends, distant enough to avoid their own clamor. And although everything was still so loud, when he gestured to ask if she was okay, she nodded.
"Do you wanna tell me what's up?" she decided to ask again. "I know my brother's not looking for me."
"Yeah, he is."
A chuckle rolled off her tongue as she raised her phone, revealing the last text she'd received from her brother—a short few minutes ago, but enough time to crumble Joseph's narrative—about leaving with someone.
Joseph inhaled deeply, tried to ignore the faint waft of her vanilla perfume that infiltrated his senses, and rubbed his jaw. "I meant that he wanted me to look after you."
"Levi doesn't ask anyone to do that," Elsie said easily. "Besides, you didn't have to tell me that."
"Wanted to make sure you knew."
Amusement crawled up her face. She stood on her toes to alleviate the scratch of her throat over the music. "You know, if you're gonna lie, at least try to do a better job at it."
Joseph's hand steadied her hip as he leaned down. It had been an innocent move, one to ease the strain on her ears and abate the unsteady stance that came with being on her toes, but he saw it—the wave of goosebumps undulating across her skin as his breath fanned her ear. "You're my best friend's little sister," he said. "I have that responsibility to him to make sure you're safe."
And there it was—the eureka moment, the unfortunate rewrite in her memory that the heady staring from across the room and the seemingly fueled interruption had been nothing but an obligation to the person who bound them together and not born from an excitement seeking danger that sparked all the right spots in her head.
With the slightest turn of her head, Elsie met his eyes, then glanced at his lips. If it weren't for all the noise around her, she might have convinced herself she heard the slight hitch in his breath, but she had never been good at listening to more than one thing at a time. "I'm not a kid," she muttered, somewhat sourly. "I don't need protection."
"Seems like you do," he said, and the seriousness from before returned, masked with a little more mastery until it was nothing more than a drop in his tone. His posture, too, had straightened like he was trying to appear larger than he was. "You could at least pick someone different, Els. Seen her here before; she's friends with this guy who tried to get into a fight with Kniesy."
"Oh, really?" Elsie couldn't help but bark out a laugh. "Thank you, my knight in shining armor. Would you like to screen everyone I talk to?"
Joseph rolled his eyes. "She had her tongue shoved in your mouth. I don't think there was a lot of talking going on."
"Jealous?"
"What?"
Elsie's lips twitched with repressed amusement at the sight of his scandalized expression. "Then, what? You don't fuck with the gays?"
Joseph stammered over his words. "What—no! I fuck with the gays."
"Have you seen who your best friend is? I'm fucking with you." Elsie patted his chest, a little taken aback by the sturdiness she was met with (Of course, he would'd be well-muscled. Why wouldn't he be? Fucking athlete.). "I'm headed back to the bar. You're off the clock, Joey."
"Joey," he said in disbelief. "Your brother doesn't even call me that anymore."
Elsie hadn't expected him to follow her, but when she ordered another water, his voice rang behind her for one more. Then she dipped her head with a laugh when he asked for some chicken tenders and handed his card over to go with it.
"I have one memory of us, Joey," she said. "The only time we ever hung out. This kinda feels like it." She turned around with something reminiscent sparkling in her eyes. "You had to pick me up from piano lessons because someone rear-ended Levi. God, I felt like the coolest girl around, catching a ride with a high schooler who wasn't my brother. Of course, that being the only time it ever happened, the 'cool girl' status didn't really stick around for very long."
Joseph looked almost apologetic. "I honestly forgot that happened."
"I would be surprised if you hadn't," said Elsie, sipping her water. "I never could remember where you took me to get food on the way home, though."
"Could've been Town Square," he said, running his hand over his neck and jaw like he was trying to soothe himself. "I went through a phase when that was all I wanted."
"Huh." Elsie pondered his answer before her face twisted with disbelief. "Really?"
"I hear they changed the recipe for the chicken tenders, though, so I don't think you should go in with the same expectations."
Elsie blew a raspberry, earning a laugh—full-hearted and meaningfully like it'd been the funniest thing he'd seen all day. She couldn't help but smile at the sound, much kinder to her ears than the bass droning from the speakers.
"Do you have your phone on you?" she asked.
Joseph held it out.
"You're incredibly trusting considering who you are in this city."
"You're not a stranger, Els," he said.
Elsie turned her back to him, holding his phone up. "C'mere."
Their mirrored faces stared back at them. Joseph didn't contest when she snapped a photo of them—eyes crinkled with their wide grins, lighting as egregious as the music playing, his posture curved horribly to fit into the frame—finding it almost endearing.
"There," said Elsie, returning his phone. "So you have proof that you didn't let me run wild like hooker over there."
Joseph followed her thumb jutting toward Camille, who was dancing on a table. He shook his head with amusement, both at Camille's antics and at Elsie's jesting tone. She was worse than Levi in that regard, never a serious bone in her body. Levi liked to complain about that sometimes.
A basket of chicken tenders was placed between them. Joseph watched her stuff her mouth, probably faster than she could chew, and something new passed through his eyes—a fondness, perhaps. He sucked in a sharp breath when the realization flickered through his head and looked away, pushing a thin coaster around with his finger.
Elsie swallowed loudly as she watched his calloused, yet lithe fingers twirl the coaster around. She was glad she had a mouthful of chicken right now.
"Shouldn't you be with your teammates?" she decided to ask, wiping the corner of her lips with the back of her hand. A smear of grease-stained red blemished her skin.
"Is all I am to you a wallet?"
Elsie snickered. "No, that's all my brother is. You, on the other hand, I told you that you were off the clock."
Joseph tilted his head. "Do you really want me to leave you alone?"
The quick little flip of her heart happened again. Elsie vigorously shook her head.
Joseph smiled softly, reaching for a napkin. "Alright," he said. "Hold still."
Elsie froze when he held her chin in place between his thumb and pointer finger. Gently, he wiped away the smudged lipstick, careful not to remove what was barely clinging to your lips. Elsie wondered if he could sense the fried brain cells, the disorder she could only describe as highly entropic, the stilted breath that should've pelted against his skin.
Joseph released his hold on her to scrub the back of her hand.
"I could've done that myself," she said. "I'm not a kid."
"You're welcome." Joseph grinned, ruffling her hair.
"Thank you," Elsie said softly.
"Oh, fries!" Camille squeaked out, stumbling into Elsie, who caught her with ease after years of drunken excursions together.
Elsie mourned the bubble that had popped with a laugh that told nothing of it. She flipped Camille's hair out of her face. "Did you have fun dancing on the tables?"
Camille nodded, grabbing a fistful of fries. "So much fun! God, I'm so glad we stalked Levi."
"How about we skip the ranch, yeah?" Elsie said calmly. "I don't think you can stomach it right now."
"Sounds like a dare."
Elsie pulled Camille away from the bartop by her waist. "I think that's our sign to head home."
Joseph reached for his car keys. "Need a ride?" he asked. "You know, for old time's sake. I'll try to remember this one this time."
A smile curved at Elsie's lips. "Yeah, that would be great."
Camille snatched one last portion of fries from the tender-less basket and shoved them into her purse. She cried out in complaint as Elsie dragged her away like she was nothing more than a tantrumming toddler.
"You got her?" asked Joseph.
Elsie couldn't get a letter past her lips when Camille folded over her arms like dead weight. The sudden shift nearly tripped her, and a panicked yelp straggled past her lips. "I don't got her!"
Joseph laughed as he so easily brought Camille into his grasp, her body draped over his arms like a cut of silk. The sound died on his tongue when Elsie slipped her finger into his belt loop, tightening and loosening depending on the thickness of the crowd.
For a short moment, they stopped at the booth with what was left of his teammates to say their goodbyes, and maybe for that short moment, they had fooled his teammates into believing that they had known each other well—beyond the passing pleasantries when they caught rare glimpses of each other over the years, beyond the brief mentions they heard from Levi.
"Go Leafs Go!" Camille shouted over Joseph's shoulder, earning a myriad of responses from patrons throughout the bar.
"How 'bout 'go home go', hm?" Elsie asked with a teasing lilt.
Once they got Camille strapped into the backseat, Joseph and Elsie filled the front. He handed his phone over for her to type in Camille's address and gave her the freedom to browse through an extensive number of playlists.
Part of it felt oddly vulnerable, some sort of translation of his soul laid out for her to judge, but he also felt it was unfair to assume that she was as pretentious about music as her brother was. After all, between the two siblings, only one of them studied music, and it hadn't been her.
"EDM, folk, classical, country," Elsie read out. "Wow, a little bit of everything here."
Joseph turned out of the parking garage as a soft ballad drifted into Je te laisserai des mots—from his playlist of songs he'd bookmarked to learn on the piano, he recognized. A slow smile tugged at his lips. "Do you still play?"
"Not so much anymore," she said remorsefully, thumbing along the base of her hand. "It was one thing that I lost my hearing, but I also broke my wrist in high school. Never been the same since. But it's alright; my brother has all the talent anyway."
"That's funny: Levi always says you had the talent," said Joseph. "Think he was jealous of how easily it came to you."
Elsie smiled at that. "Do you play?"
Joseph was suddenly shy, the tips of his ears burning bright red. "Here and there."
"You'll have to show me one day."
"I really don't think that's something you wanna hear," he said with a dismissive laugh.
"But what if I did? It could be fun."
Ding!
Ding! Ding! Ding!
Elsie couldn't help but steal a glance at Joseph's screen as the notifications piled in and interrupted the tranquil atmosphere.
Levi Rivers
Sorry to ditch
Staying the night
Is my sister still there? I think her phone's dead
Can I put you on babysitting duty? I'll shovel your parents' driveway when it snows
Thanks man
See ya in the morning
Elsie stared at the series of texts that came through before it hit her that she was actively peeping at someone else's phone. Her attention darted, rather, to the passing Toronto skyline she was growing familiar with, fingers thrumming against her thighs.
A chuckle came through. "Subtle, Els. Who was it?"
Crimson spilled across her cheeks. "Levi," she answered, turning her head. Her throat grew dry: Of course, he looked good while driving, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift, body loose and comfortable like he'd settled in a well-worn chair. "Said he'd clear your parents' driveway when it snows if you'll babysit me for the night."
"Told you," Joseph all but sang.
"Right, but this doesn't seem like it was sent before you cockblocked me," Elsie said with a quirked brow.
"I really don't think cockblocked is the right word."
"Of course, on account of neither of us having cocks. Pussyblocked then."
Joseph took his eyes off the road for a moment, just long enough to send her a flat look that melted when she cracked a cheeky grin. "You've got a mouth on you now," he said. "Did you really think Levi wouldn't ask at all?"
Elsie sank into the red leather seat, suddenly curling into herself. "He never really had to," she said, fiddling with the crucifix hanging from her neck. "I mean, he moved out for college when I was still in middle school. Our circles are pretty fucking distant, if you ask me."
It was as though a bucket of ice had been dumped over his head. Revulsion wormed through Joseph's mind—not at her, but at himself. "God, I forgot how young you are."
"You make it sound like it's a curse," said Elsie. "I'm only five years younger than you. I'm 22."
"In one mile, turn right," his phone announced, and the conversation simmered.
The car seemed to grow colder without Elsie and Joseph talking, and a shiver eventually racked through her body.
"Cold?"
"A little," said Elsie, her voice small, because there was something about him actually looking out for her, vocalizing her needs because she wouldn't, that seemed to reiterate just how childish she appeared to him.
"I can turn the air down," he said, "or there should be a sweater in the back."
"I'll take the sweater." Elsie stretched her body like a cat, blinding pawing for the thick lump of fabric somewhere beside an unconscious Camille. She slipped it on, shielding the world from viewing the deep plunge of her shirt, and shuddered as a warmth and lingering scent of his cologne cradled her.
"Are you doing anything tomorrow night?"
Elsie kept her head down, picking at her nails. She hadn't felt the need to keep them trimmed and neat since she stopped performing all those years ago. "Camille was gonna take me to a bar to watch y'all play. Something about collective suffering." Her eyes jumped up. "No offence."
Joseph huffed out his amusement. "I've heard worse—a lot worse." His fingers tapped against the steering wheel, contemplative, something close to hesitant. "Would you two wanna go to the game?"
Camille suddenly lurched forward, like one final breath of life had possessed her, and Elsie nearly screamed. "You better say yes, Els, I swear to God," she whispered hotly, though her inebriation had let Joseph hear the slurred words loud and clear.
Elsie wished the passenger seat would swallow her whole when Joseph's laughter rang through the car, and for that split second in time, she felt like a little child again—the subject of her brother's teasing, her body flimsy without a confident bone to hold her up, cheeks a permanent shade of red.
"Alright, sit back down," she told Camille. "Have some decorum."
"I'll have Levi send you the tickets in the morning," said Joseph.
Elsie offered a simple smile, yet appreciative all the same. "Thank you."
She turned back to the cityscape, streaks of warm building lights and headlights going the other way blurring together, and remained oblivious to the skin on Joseph's hand blanching as it gripped the gear shift a little tighter—as though he was battling with himself and the little voice in his head that'd been deeply ingrained since his youth, since he first stepped foot into church.
"When'd you stop dying your hair?" he decided to ask. She and Levi always seemed to have layers of colors in their hair for as long as he could remember.
"Right before college," she answered. "Figured I should have a go at being a little 'normal,' I guess."
"Normal can be overrated."
"Coming from the clean-cut, golden child? How you ended up being friends with someone like my brother still astounds me."
Joseph couldn't help but smile. "You know, I play hockey for a living. I wouldn't say that's a very normal job."
"I guess not. You're a goalie, too. Makes you even weirder by default." Elsie grinned when he sent a playful flick to her thigh. It faltered at the edges for a moment, and she shifted in her seat, her voice small. "Did you like it? The hair, I mean."
"I thought it was cool," he said with a casual shrug.
"Really?"
A half-chuckle rolled off his tongue. "Really, Els."
Elsie played with the ends of her hair, clamping them between her pointer and middle fingers like a cigarette as if to examine its stiffness and gauge if the strands could handle going through rounds of bleach and color again. Maybe one of these days, she'd show up to a family function with a head of neon green like she did at sixteen, and she and Levi could battle it out for the largest disappointment in the eyes of their grandparents.
Yeah, one of these days. Maybe the next time she'd get to see Joseph. Whenever that was.
And how juvenile she felt for that, seeking everything in her power to be perceived as cool in the eyes of someone older. She thought she'd gotten over that phase long ago.
Fuck, she just wanted to beg for some semblance of fierce confidence she'd channeled in the bar—even if only an ounce of it. Faintly, she could feel the beads of her seldom-used rosary between her fingers, and a faded prayer sprout at the tip of her tongue, as though God had personally crept into her mind to provide an answer to her wishful pleading.
The reminder of how ineptly she had kept up with the faith she grew up in left a bad taste in her mouth, and something wilted deep within her soul under its weight. She felt like a horrible person. No, scratch that, she was a horrible person for it.
She might even consider having Joseph drive her to the nearest church so she could spill her guilt through the familiar latticed grate.
They hadn't made it through the door before Camille threw a panicky finger toward the bathroom. Joseph held Camille's hair back as Elsie scrambled around for the cleaning products, careful to avoid the splotch of vomit on the floor that failed to make it into the toilet bowl.
Joseph's eyes widened when Camille leaned her weight on him, sending him flopping against the bathtub. He looked down at her, slumped against his chest with a low rumbling snore, and breathed out, giving her a gentle pat on her waist as though she were a baby he had no idea how to hold.
Elsie had chuckled and continued cleaning. "You probably didn't have your night planned out like this."
"Can't say I did. Need any help?"
"Just make sure she makes it to the toilet if she has to throw up again."
Elsie finally settled beside Joseph with a heavy sigh, slouching until she was partly against his arm and the bathtub. "I'm so glad I'm not drunk right now."
Joseph leaned his head on hers, unable to see her eyes flutter shut as though she was bathing under the summer sun, and enjoyed the few moments of silence. He could fall asleep here, he thought, even with Camille passed out on his lap, even with his butt going numb against the tiled floor. If he moved just a few inches, he might reach the cushiony bathmat, but that would mean moving away from Elsie's touch—a soft undercurrent like an old lullaby his mother might have sang to him.
Five minutes had passed, and Joseph nearly thought he was trapped there for the rest of the night when Elsie tilted her head back enough to see the top of his head. "Can you help me put Cami to bed?"
Even if he could say no, the sweetened glimmer in her eyes, all stripped down by the late hour of the night, would have been a very hard refusal, for she looked as a puppy begging for scraps off the table would. And so he did, and he remained by the bedroom door to watch as Elsie gently wiped away the makeup off her friend's face, with something soft etched into his expression.
He was grateful that the dim lighting had cast disguising shadows, so Elsie could never see the cracks in his mind nor the shame that came with it.
Elsie settled on the kitchen counter, legs dangling over the edge, as she observed Joseph, from the way his eyes seemed to roam Camille's apartment—he could recognize the smiley face on the tape of the hockey stick slanted against a corner—to the twiddling of his shirt. Anything, it seemed, to avoid looking at her.
"Do you live far from here?" she asked to make conversation. "Despite what it sounds like, I don't check my brother's location all the time."
"I don't think it matters how far I live from anywhere," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "The city's a nightmare to drive through."
"So I've heard." Elsie tilted her head. "Why're you standing all the way there? Come here."
Joseph audibly gulped when he finally spared her a glance—how prettily the warm overhead lights shone down on her, like an altar worthy of reverence, and how the air seemed to calm against the cityscape beyond the windows. "I don't think that's a good idea."
The easy expression on her face fell.
She guessed why: The sweeping gaze, the looming presence, the unneeded interference. He'd even let slip the turmoil eating at him when they were in the car, the exasperated and nearly abhorrent hiss of how young she was, like he couldn't sit with the thought that he saw her as any bit more than just his best friend's little sister.
"I didn't mean—" Elsie shook her head, small, as though to herself. "Just 'cause," she gestured to her ears, "you know."
Joseph felt like a major jackass, then, but he didn't think he was imagining something forlorn in the way she looked at him. He took a few steps forward, but nothing beyond that, almost hoping it would be enough. All it seemed to do, however, was cement the damnation coursing through his head, how easily he wanted to crumble under her gaze and close every inch of distance between them, and it left him in fear of saying something that would scare her off—or just as scarily, make its way to Levi's ears.
Levi, who was his best friend. Levi, who was just as, if not more, muscular than him, could pound his face in with a simple swing. Levi, who was deathly protective of his younger sister, even if she believed otherwise. Levi, who never had to consider telling his friends not to try anything with her, least of all his best friend, because it was a given, all things considered.
Was this messed up? It felt messed up.
"Hey," Elsie said softly, leaping off the counter. "I can tell your mind's going a million miles an hour." She looked up at him with a gentle tilt of her head. "Are you stressing yourself out because you think I'm hot?"
Joseph's chest filled with air, lots of it. "You're not one to beat around the bush, are you?"
The corner of her lips curved just the tiniest amount, for just the shortest moment. "Is it really so bad?"
"Yeah," he said, "it is. You're my best friend's baby sister. I've known you since you were a kid."
"It's not like you ever paid any real attention to me back then," she said, curling her arms around herself.
Joseph couldn't stand the feeble crack in her voice. He kind of wanted to take it all back, then—wished he'd never gone up to her at the bar at all. Maybe he would save them both from this moment—the inquiry, the shame, the fluster, the dejection. Still, he couldn't help but ask, "Is that supposed to make things better?"
"I think so. Do you even know my birthday?"
Joseph furrowed his brows. "Uh...March 5th?"
"February 17th," Elsie corrected. "Did I ever have braces?"
"Seriously?"
"Timer's tickin', Joey."
He nearly rolled his eyes. "I don't know."
"You would if you ever got close enough to me to pay attention," said Elsie. "I had them for years. C'mon, what do I have to do to get this moral dilemma out of your head?"
"Be the second coming of Christ."
Elsie huffed out a laugh before she reached for his jaw. A spark jolted between them. Joseph swallowed thickly, felt her gently pelting against the armor protecting his dignity, the shred of virtue tearing him apart. Moment by moment, he felt it waver, under her soft stare, under the patience she stood with, under the delicate touch that spoke of nothing more.
It took everything in him to keep his feet planted, to keep himself contained despite the seams of his restraint unraveling. He was starting to believe it was harder than any Game 7 he would ever have to face, and he would be deemed a failure once again when his palm splayed against her hip, the denim of her jeans rough against his calluses as he walked her toward the counter.
The corner of Elsie's mouth lifted in a devilish half-smirk as the base of her spine hit granite. Her heart thundered against her ribs, her chest heavy with his overwhelming presence, caging her against the counter. She glanced at his lips. "It's your move."
For a moment, Joseph leaned forward, felt the faintest, most feather-light brush of her lips against his, felt her breath against his, felt the heat of her body against his, but just as quickly as he'd given up on his restraint, the thought of her brother spurred in his head again, and he pulled his head back.
"Fuck," he hissed, "I can't do this to Levi."
Elsie bit into the inside of her cheek, dejectedly tipping her chin away.
And maybe it was just how sad she looked, defeated like she'd just watched the very last thing keeping her going slip from her fingers, that had him slotting his hand against her neck, nearly searing to the touch. The hope in her eyes was palpable, a bright speck in the dim ambience enveloping them, and suddenly, he felt cruel.
God, messed up and cruel. He was discovering new ways of beating himself up tonight.
"I'm sorry," he said, stepping away from her, away from the chokehold she had on him. "I should go."
Elsie watched him as he crossed the open-plan of Camille's apartment, collecting his keys on the counter, then stumbling as he shoved his feet back into his shoes. She felt naïve, she supposed, in believing that he would indulge her in something like a kiss when he was beating himself up over the mere prospect of even finding her attractive.
It was like she had become every bit the kid he claimed she was—so gullible and easily fond.
"Wait—" Joseph swiveled around, reached into his front pocket, and took his credit card out. "Take this. Use it at the arena, if you or Camille want anything from the store or the concession stands. I don't really care."
"You're crazy," Elsie said. "You don't know me well enough to trust me with your card. I could buy a car, for all you know."
"Your brother asked me to look after you," he said, and something about the way he said it felt pointed.
"Yeah, for the night, not financially. Besides, you've done more than enough by helping me with Camille. We'll be okay. We have grown-up jobs."
"Just—take it," he said. "If you end up with a car, then, fuck, I don't know, you somehow end up with a car."
In some ways, it felt cheap, maybe a little degrading, to accept his credit card after the blow to her dignity his little rejection had managed to inflict—like this was his way of palliating the burn and mending the damage with a bandage made of dollar bills. Still, she plucked the card from between his fingers with no intention of ever using it and walked him to the door.
Joseph was halfway past the doorway when he paused. "Are you gonna tell Levi?"
"Tell him what?" she asked. "That his best friend thinks his sister is hot? That he wanted to kiss her? I really doubt this hasn't happened in history before, but don't worry, Joey, your secret's safe with me."
And despite how scornfully he could've taken her words, the ghost of a smile he noticed revealed something earnest, something sweet, something entirely dangerous for his frenzied mind. He figured even a puck to the head wouldn't shake it out of him.
"Hey, stop beating yourself up over it," she said, a lot less teasingly. "Nothing happened. You just dropped me and Camille off."
Joseph nodded.
"Drive safe, okay?" Elsie told him like they were words she'd always said. "Text me when you get home."
Joseph blinked at her. "You're gonna be the death of me."
Mirth flickered in her eyes. "Should we look for plots together?"
"Goodnight, Els," he said over his shoulder.
Elsie waited until he got into the elevator before retreating.
Once morning came, all Camille could remember from the night before was seeing her favorite team's players before she blacked out—from shock or the insurmountable amount of alcohol she consumed, she was yet to determine—with the minor exception of accepting Joseph's invitation to see the game live.
She would be damned if she forgot that.
Elsie laughed when Camille finally showed face in the morning, eyes barely open as a pounding headache rang obnoxiously against her skull as though a death metal concert was being held there and her feet dragging like her muscles were made of concrete.
Camille could only flip her off before flopping onto the couch. "Don't tell me I embarrassed myself."
A snort sounded, and Camille groaned.
"Alright, let's go whoop these Krakens," Camille said with the most enthusiasm she could force herself to project, which was to say, not very much.
Levi, too, had laughed once Elsie and Camille found their seats beside him, a few rows from the glass. "The sunglasses, Camille?"
She lazily shoved her hand in his face, as if to shush him for speaking so loudly. They hadn't been there for very long, taking a straight path from the parking garage to the lower bowl, but already the pulsing music was worming through her head with the right amount of suffering. "Earplugs, too."
"How hard did y'all go last night?"
"You, singular," said Elsie. "Only one of us went hard last night. Though I'm glad to see you're alive and well."
Levi nudged her. "Hey, that's why I share my location with you." He finally took note of what his sister was wearing, lips curling with disgust with each pass. "Where the hell did you get all that Leafs shit?"
"Cami's closet." Elsie pulled the sleeves of Joseph's sweater over her hands. It hadn't been a total lie—she'd raided the hat and logo-printed socks hidden by her dark-wash jeans back in the apartment—but Levi didn't need to know that the Drew House crew neck, way too large for her or Camille's frame, belonged to his best friend. "Where's yours?"
"I'm a Blues fan." He looked at her like she'd grown a second head, for it had never been a secret. In fact, it was very loudly proclaimed, and his childhood bedroom, decorated with pennant flags and banners and one-of-a-kind memorabilia collected over the years, had been all the evidence she needed. "I'm not wearing another team's gear. You shouldn't either. I thought I raised you better than that."
"But he's Joey." Elsie all but pouted.
"And he knows where my loyalties lie. Who else goes through the hassle of collecting all of his cards?"
Elsie rolled her eyes before scanning the ice. They were about halfway through warm-ups, pucks bouncing off the posts and skidding along the boards while the team glided throughout their zone with envious ease, sharpened blades scratching perfectly over the ice. She turned to Levi, and even if he wore his mask well, she could see it—the longing twisting into the edges of his mouth, the dimmed spark in his eyes, something that could've been a wiry green monster in his heart if she didn't know him as well as she did.
"Do you miss it?" she asked.
"Miss what?"
"Being out there?"
Levi huffed out a laugh, tightening with defensiveness. "I still play beer league. It's not like I've given it all up."
Elsie chewed on the inside of her cheek, tongue soothing over the tender tissue. "I know, but it's not the same as playing with your best friend."
"What are you trying to get at?" Levi nearly snapped. His glare softened almost immediately when he saw her rub her finger along the back of her ear, like the external parts of her cochlear implants had suddenly grown ten times heavier. "I don't blame you, you know," he said gently, draping his arm around her shoulders. "I'd do it all over again. Besides, I like what I do now."
The game started and quickly plunged into a bloodbath of anxiety, neither team ever allowing a lead for very long. Elsie went to grasp her necklace, as though she had hoped for a holy presence to swing the game in their favor—as stupid as she might've called herself for it—but when the cold metal never came to know her fingertips, her heart sank.
She could've sworn she just had it.
Levi raised an eyebrow when she looked under her seat. He asked if she was okay, to which she signed her frustration that she was, indeed, not okay. He raised his hands and let her be.
With an overtime loss for the Leafs, Levi, Else, and Camille filed through the corridors, passes hanging from their necks, until they found the family room, filled with wives, girlfriends, relatives, and children. They had felt a little out of place there, falling into none of the categories that really validated their presence there, so they remained huddled in a corner, waiting for Joseph to find them, as though he were a parent picking their children up from daycare.
"There he is!" Levi exclaimed.
Elsie looked over her shoulder, the hand that was soothing the front of her bare neck coming to a slow halt as her eyes brazenly scanned over the suit fitted against his figure. His tie, colorful and loose around his collar, looked like he couldn't be bothered to knot the fabric together again after the loss looming in the air. A thin smile blossomed on her lips, one that came off a little stilted, yet had painted her restraint fairly well to him.
"Not even a water?" Joseph said to her. He tried not to think too hard about how comfortable she looked in his sweater. "Really?"
"I did appreciate the sentiment," she returned his card, ignoring the spark jumping between their fingers as they brushed against each other, "but one of us is majorly hungover and can't be within a three-foot radius of a drink without wanting to throw up, and the other overpacked her carry-on and can't fit anything she'd want to buy."
Levi seemed offended. "Why didn't I get a card?"
"What?" Joseph furrowed his brows. "You said to take care of your sister."
Elsie smiled sheepishly under her brother's wry glare.
"Need another ride?" asked Joseph.
This time around, things were different: Levi, with his long legs and sinewy build, had claimed the passenger seat, forcing Elsie and Camille to the back, and considering her brother's charisma seemed to crowd the car like there were more than four people inside it, the tranquility that once threaded through the space failed to burgeon. Elsie internally bewailed it, wishing that, for a fragment of a second, it was just her and Joseph again.
But sometimes it felt like it was—in the stolen glances in the rearview mirror, in the little ways he had roped her into the conversation, like he had only wanted to listen to what she had to say.
Elsie knew she was being stupid, knew that he was just being Joseph—kind, attentive, caring, funny without meaning to be—but there was a part of her that believed that maybe, just maybe, he actually did like her beyond the intimacy of a bar and the unraveling cloak of night, saw her as more than she was, thought of her as someone worth being selfish for.
She wondered what it'd take to break his resolve, then she realized how behemoth of a task that seemed to be, for how did one tempt someone who possessed the mental fortitude to play at the highest level his sport had to offer?
She could try. She wanted to try.
Even as tortured as he seemed to be last night. That had only enticed her more. The almost flawless gift that kept on giving, coming apart at the seams at a single bat of her eyelashes.
She could reap the consequences of her beguiling before the altar. Surely, God would understand the desire He so put forth in her heart.
"Thanks for the ride, Joe," said Camille. "Can I call you that?"
Joseph snickered. "I think we're on a first-name basis after last night."
Elsie slotted herself between the front two seats, pressing a chaste kiss on her brother's cheek, then one that lingered, for just a hair longer, on Joseph's. She never let her smirk make headway, not even the slightest twitch or slant at the corner of her lips, when the light shade of pink crawled up his neck.
"Thank you, Joey," she said, "for yesterday and today."
He watched her clamber out of the car. "Anytime, kid."
Elsie's step faltered. She knew what he was trying to do, this last-ditch attempt to talk himself out of his wandering gaze and soft-hearted nature, to keep his best friend entirely oblivious to it, too. She was grateful, then, that her back was turned to the car, so he couldn't see the glimmer in her eyes fade, so Levi wouldn't be privy to anything.
But he did anyway. Because he was Levi, and he was almost too attuned to all of his loved ones' fluctuating emotions.
"Hey, kid," he called out. She turned around. "You okay?" he signed. "You've been quiet."
Elsie offered a faint smile. "Fine. Listening fatigue. I'll see you at the airport. Enjoy the rest of your night."
"Not going to stalk us this time?"
With a quick glance at Camille, she laughed. "No," she said. "Night, Jeans."
"Night, kid." Levi rolled the window up.
Joseph waited until Elsie and Camille made it inside before he drove away.
"So, wanna tell me what that was about?" Camille asked once they crossed the threshold into her apartment unit.
"What was what about?"
"Els," Camille stared blankly, "that sweater's not mine; Joe gave you his card; you can't look him in the eye; he kept looking at you—not subtly, either. What the hell did I miss?"
Elsie collapsed onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. "Tomorrow?" she asked with a sigh. "Implants are running out of juice."
Camille chuckled. "Alright."
It had been a few hours later, Elsie mindlessly scrolling on her phone in silence, when she received a video from her brother that spelled out his inebriation like he was teaching a class of toddlers. She didn't need to assume that there was yelling and music blasting—after all, Levi always knew how to have a good time—and neither did she need to assume that Joseph was with him; the only thing surprising that came out of his presence when Levi flipped the camera around, however, was how intensely he had thrown back his shots.
Like he was trying to drown out every thought in his head.
Elsie left his video unanswered and went to put her phone down when she felt it buzz—once, then twice.
josephwoll is now following you
Joseph Woll
I should've kissed you last night.
NOVEMBER
Levi and Elsie weren't the type of siblings who texted all the time (maybe a meme every few weeks), or made plans to see each other every other weekend (they were on par for a hangout every month and a half), or intermingled their friend groups (Levi was as good as their dad as recognizing her friends), or asked for life updates when it'd been too long (Elsie heard from their mom that he was looking to move). They believed that made them, by definition, not close—not estranged, but not best friends like they'd seen some others.
But every once in a while, when he was bored, Levi would remember that she lived in the same city and show up at her door unannounced.
"Joe's in net today," he said. "They're playing the Blues. Watch the game with me."
Elsie's transmitter snapped into place against her head, and the racket from the TV rushed into her ears. How Levi had found her remote when she had no recollection of where it'd last been placed was beyond her, but she kept her lips sealed.
"You're not giving me much of a choice," she said, joining him on the couch. "What happened to your friends? Oh, wait, you don't have any."
Levi rolled his eyes, pulling her throw blanket over his lap. He always thought she had the comfiest things—a perfectly warm lamp on the end table, festive garlands strung along the underside of her island counter, ready for Thanksgiving, silken cushions propped on her couch, all perfectly lived-in. He might drive home with this blanket later, though, if he can sneak it out.
"Turn the captions on."
"You're actually gonna watch with me?" Levi asked in disbelief. "I figured you were gonna leave me be and fuck off."
"It's the middle of the workweek," she said, sinking deeper into the cushions. "I'm not going anywhere if I can help it."
Levi flashed his bleached eyebrows like he understood.
"Can I dye your hair?" asked Elsie.
"What, this weekend?"
"No, like, right now."
Levi inhaled deeply, palming the grown-out buzzcut plagued with dark, overgrown roots, faded color, and brassy ends. "Fuck it, yeah. Buzz it while you're at it."
Elsie saluted and scurried off to her bathroom, finding her stash of bleach, developers, dyes, and gloves that had yet to see the light of day—all prepatory in case she decided to bite the bullet again. She liked to think it was going to happen sooner rather than later.
"Hey, did you go to Mass on Sunday?" Levi yelled from the living room.
"No!" she called back, brows furrowed with concentration. "I'm not driving forty minutes home to feel guilty. I can do that on my own, thank you very much. Did you?"
"No," he said.
A second passed, and like the answer to a millennium problem sprouting in their heads, their eyes lit up with realization.
"So that's why Mom was pissed," they concluded.
"She acts like it's something new," said Levi. "You and I are Creasters, at best. Joe might even be better about that, and he's not even Catholic."
Elsie snorted, about to bring the supplies over to the living room, when she pulled out her phone instead. Away from Levi's eyes, she could do this, stew in her hesitancy, stew in the fluttery feeling in her stomach. Her manicured thumbs hovered over her screen when she read the drunken text Joseph had sent that she never found a response to, and she wondered if she should've at the time, or if sending something now, entirely unrelated to it, was a good idea.
Before she could stop herself, however, the texts were sent.
els ♒︎
heyyy joey
play well tonight (not that you don't normally)
but i need to rub it in my brother's face
Seen now
Elsie returned to the living room and laid down plastic along her rug and couch before forcing Levi onto the floor. Briefly, she looked at the TV as the national anthems rang out, Levi quietly singing along as though it would mask how good his voice truly was, and waited until the final note sounded before she brought the clippers to his head.
Splinters of hair cascaded along Levi's bare shoulders, and she was tempted to leave him with the shaved strip down the center, but her humored giggles earned her a shove, so she kept going.
By the time she had slathered on the bleach and let it process, they were halfway through the first intermission. Levi rushed through the rinse, shouting from Elsie's bathroom as suds dripped into his eyes from his haste.
"Two minutes, Jeans!"
"Fuck me!"
With heavy stomps, Levi stumbled back into the living room with a towel obscuring his vision, drops of water tracing his path along the floor. He plopped back into his spot in front of Elsie, another string of curses falling from his lips as the jagged edges of his fallen hair speared into his legs, adding to the sharp pain radiating from his spine after sticking only his head beneath the shower stream.
Once the game ended, Elsie wasn't sure whether he was bemoaning the overtime loss the Blues had suffered or the black squiggly, ribbon-like lines now encircling his hair. She assumed it was the former, for he'd slid praise to his childhood best friend at some point, only to lament the string of losses piling on his favorite team's record.
"Hey, wanna order in?"
And it was as though Levi had never watched his team lose. "Yeah, what do you want?"
"Chinese?"
"Chinese."
A few minutes later, Elsie's phone vibrated. Her gaze slid to her brother, who was entirely encapsulated by the post-game panel breakdown of the game, before she angled her phone ever so slightly.
Joseph Woll
Was that good enough?
els ♒︎
i was joking, by the way
seeing you get to play is more than enough for me :)
but yes, jeans is a mess
Seen now
Elsie frowned when it appeared that she would receive no additional response. Had she been too much? She didn't think so—just a friend expressing her pride in his accomplishments.
That was what they were now. Friends.
Maybe.
They didn't talk all that much, and she didn't ask Levi about him, just as he didn't ask Levi about her. But they weren't as peripheral anymore, and maybe acquaintances was a better choice of words, but she didn't like the sound of that.
She didn't think it explained the way his hands brushed against hers as they walked to his car, or the way his eyes lingered, or the care with which he handled her, or how desperately he wanted to kiss her.
But with her brother just a few feet away, too perceptive a person for any change in her mood to go unnoticed, she tossed her phone aside.
"Oh, by the way, you got some bleach on your hair," said Levi. "Might be a sign, kid."
DECEMBER
"You couldn't have picked a different color?" Dana Rivers cried when her son showed up on her doorstep on Christmas Eve with neon pink stars drawn on his hair. "Jesus, Levi! What about something Christmas-y, like green or red?"
Levi ducked away from his mother's hands. "I'm not walking around looking like a bloody tampon."
Elsie barked out a laugh. She stood in the foyer, equipped with a spray can, the same chocolatey shade of her hair. She gave the can a few shakes, mixing balls clacking loudly against the calm hum of Christmas hymns warming the old suburban home.
"Oh, you came prepared, huh?" Levi narrowed his eyes.
Dana looked like she was one moment away from letting out a sob. "This is all your fault, Steve! If you had never let..."
Elsie tuned out her mother's voice as she pulled her brother into the bathroom.
Levi plopped onto the toilet lid, hissing when the first icy blast of temporary hair color hit his scalp. "What's Mom's problem?"
"Same ol', same ol'," Elsie said. "They've started up again."
A string of silence dragged on—thick, uncomfortable. Distantly, they could hear Steve finally snap at his wife's incessant badgering.
"I know, Jeans," she said, offering a thin-lipped smile. "The walls spoke."
"How long has it been going on for now?"
Elsie continued spraying his hair. "Started to pick up a few weeks ago, I think. Been especially bad lately. Think it's just the holidays, though."
Levi saw the anxious purse of her lips, the muted spark in her eyes, the bloodied cuticles that juxtaposed the cute and festive designs adorning her nails. "Don't blame yourself for it, kid."
"I don't. Not really. Not this time around."
"Okay. Good."
Levi didn't critique the blotchy work Elsie had done on his hair, not when their parents were ushering them into the car to make it to midnight mass in time to secure their seats after his little color debacle had set them back a few minutes. But he was wholly privy to it when she let out a giggle every once in a while, like it'd been her intention the entire time.
"Joe saved us a spot," he announced.
"Oh, you invited him?" Dana asked. "Well, bless him."
Elsie had slid into the shellacked pew first, flashing Joseph a quick smile when she settled beside him. The air was stiff between them, like they hadn't quite known how to exist around one another beyond the boundless thoughts of what could've happened between them, and perhaps they didn't—not in the way they should, at least.
But how could they when the longing came rushing back to the forefront of their minds?
The moonlight passed through the stained glass with a reverent glow befitting the altar that stood high and mighty, but all Elsie could think was that it illuminated like a spotlight meant to shame her for the temptation flowing through her body, the gravitation that had her seeking Joseph's touch, no matter how slight.
The guilt that followed consumed her like rot when she subtly knocked her knee into his, almost like an accident if neither of them knew any better. But he made no attempt to move away, and the nervous wire stretched tight in her spine loosened.
For a brief moment, their eyes connected, and the faintest smiles danced across their faces.
Despite the relatively lax stance she and her brother had taken toward their faith, each procession came to them like a breath of air—easy, familiar, long-held. Each move taken to stand, to sit, to make the sign of the cross, to recite each prayer, response, and creed—all of it, Elsie swore, she could do even in death.
She did not know if, at the depth of her soul, that made her a good person despite it all, or if it worsened the guilt over her lack of discipline, the guilt over the prurience distracting her, the guilt over her wandering eyes to people the Church would never let her marry, the guilt over allowing her mortal feelings and urges to become the driving force in her decisioins over the religious moral teachings ingrained in her from her youth, the guilt over existing as she did.
Her eyes glazed over with something distant and cloudy as she sank to her knees beneath the crushing weight of it all.
And a part of Joseph felt a heaviness in his chest when he watched from the corner of his eyes, past the rim of his glasses—a moment of innocent, hallowed piety that bewitched his mind and soul with something that should send him scrambling for the confessionals. He knelt faster than a flash of lightning, hoping the Eucharistic Prayer could wash him of his thoughts.
Elsie's dad had received the Eucharistic bread in his hand when she decided to tilt back, only marginally, only enough for Joseph to notice. He leaned forward, just a smidge, ready to hear whatever it was she wanted to say.
"Is there anything you'd like to confess before receiving a blessing?" she asked, lips barely moving, voice even less distinguishable.
But Joseph heard, and all he could do was nudge her forward.
Elsie's cheeks inflated with the laugh she kept contained.
In the chaos of families making their escape after Mass had concluded, Elsie had found her place before the votive candles by one of the alcoves, the gentle candlelight softly dancing against the delicate curves and edges of Mary's statue. It was just her there. She felt small, like a little child seeking the comfort of her mother, and a sudden solace mended her heart when she thought of this as no different.
Still, it was overwhelming, the feeling that gutted her from within—a fearfulness trembling her muscles, a distraughtness stinging behind her eyes.
Elsie couldn't remember the last time she'd clutched her rosary that tightly, fingers blanching like the silvery moonlight high in the sky. Maybe in high school, when she'd been confined to a sling and hoped to play the piano the way she used to, begged God not to take that from her, too. Maybe in middle school, that very day her best friend at the time had innocently grazed her hand, and she felt her heart skip a beat; God, she'd cried and cried and thought something was profoundly wrong with her and hoped she would pray herself into normalcy. Or maybe before that, as a child, pleading to have her hearing back until her knees scarred; she still had the marks to prove it.
It felt a little disingenuous, in all honesty—how she only came before the Lord when she needed something. She wondered if He ever got tired of it, if He thought any less of her for it. But the candlelight continued to burn, and she figured that had to have meant something.
"Do you wanna talk about it?"
Elsie had felt Joseph's presence loitering, and she was deeply grateful that he'd let her be for just a few moments. She hastily brushed away the tears trickling down her cheeks and looked back up at Mary's statue, as though for reassurance. "You been standing there this entire time?" she asked.
"I was on my way out," he said. "Had a feeling I should stop by."
Elsie didn't turn to him when he joined her side.
A long silence lapped between them.
Joseph stuffed his hands into his pockets, craning his neck to observe Mary. Her lips were curled softly, her eyes painted with tenderness, and her palms were turned outward, as though inviting all to stand with her, to unshackle the weight of their troubles onto her, to feel the love that Jesus had.
How kind she appeared before them, despite her grandness. A sort of humility that rippled into succor.
He understood why Elsie would go to her when something troubled her.
Lowering his gaze, he noticed the tired breath expelling from her shoulders, like she didn't quite have the strength to stand from her kneeling position. He reached for her back, his fingertips only able to skim the base of her neck, but that had been enough, it seemed, when the tension in her body loosened beneath his touch, sent her leaning against his leg like it was some lifeline keeping her upright when all she wanted to do was lie down.
"Did my brother ever tell you that our dad's starting to lose his hearing?"
"Once," he said, carefully smoothing his palm over her hair. "You know how he is: For someone so attuned to everyone's emotions, he doesn't like talking about his own."
"It seems stupid to say, but I hope it doesn't get worse," she said, toying with the beads of her rosary. "I don't want him to go through what I did. It was hard getting to where I am, and I struggled—still struggle—a lot."
Joseph pressed his lips together in concentration. "I guess I never really considered how much goes into hearing again."
"Most people don't really think about deafness unless they're insulting someone." The corner of Elsie's lips swept up just the tiniest bit, like she was trying to lighten the air, but the weight of Joseph's presence and Mary's knowing stare had quickly snuffed out that attempt. "I'm grateful that I can hear again, I am, and I live a fairly normal life, all things considered," she continued with furrowed brows, "but it's not the same. Festivals, concerts, large gatherings—they're all kind of...muffled and robotic, and I can't really focus on more than one sound, and emotions don't come through the same way. It's like...I can hear, but I can't listen. Not fully.
"But that's why I studied physics in college. I may not be able to hear like I used to, but I can experience sound through numbers and graphs and vibrations, and the more I studied it, the more I realized that...everything sings. That's kind of comforting, isn't it? Poetic, even.
"Even then, that doesn't remove all the envy I feel. The worst part about everything is that I remember what sound was like before I lost my hearing—barely, but enough that I spent a lot of time upset over it, and some days, I consider just taking these suckers off and never putting them back on." Elsie had felt some sort of relief in admitting this to someone, something like stepping out of the confessionals. "But my parents used to get into fights about it, and obviously, I couldn't really hear them by that point, but I'd feel the walls shake sometimes. One night, I wanted to see what was going on, but instead, I found Levi just sitting in front of my door like he was standing guard. He wouldn't tell me what was happening, but he just looked so...sad, and I knew.
"They all put in so much time and money into helping me; it would feel like a waste if I decided to stop using my implants," she said. "I don't know—He and my mom are already starting to argue again, and I can't stand the thought of my dad experiencing what I did, and I guess, that's assuming he'll even get that bad, but it's hard not to think about it when it kind of looms over us, y'know?"
Joseph wasn't quite sure what to say: He didn't think it was right to tell her that it'd all turn out for the better, that she should be overtly optimistic—this overbearing, false sense of positivity that seemed to do more harm than good—because it was obvious that this had been gnawing at her for a while, that she hadn't quite had the chance to sit with everything fully, and he didn't want to brush her emotions off when she was opening up to someone—to him.
But neither would it feel right to tell that she was strong for persevering when everything seemed so bleak, that she should continue to be strong, because she didn't have much of a choice in the matter. It wasn't like she wanted to lose her hearing, like she wanted to sit through hundreds of audiologist and speech therapy appointments, like she wanted to live knowing that she wasn't experiencing life with the depth that sound gave everyone else.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to dump that onto you." Elsie dismissively shook her head, rubbing her eyes. "It's late."
"Hey," Joseph gently coaxed, dropping to his knees at an instant. His gaze softened when she finally spared him a glance, the skin around her eyes puffy like she'd showered in pollen. His chest tightened when they turned glassy again, her lips trembling with each passing second. "C'mere."
Elsie melted into his grasp, his arms snaking around her shoulders—comforting, anchoring, supporting, all at once. She quite liked the feel of it, how her muscles seemed to loosen, like her shoulders no longer carried the weight of the cross she was burdened with, and for a moment, her mind quieted.
Joseph pulled back enough to let his thumb collect the wetness on her cheeks. He studied her face as she leaned into his touch, felt time slow when she mustered up the courage to meet his gaze, all vulnerable and raw emotion. He knew, then, that he wanted to be the one she went to when she needed a moment away from the responsibilities of the world, so he could shield her while she rested.
Briefly, his gaze drifted to Mary. The candlelight, still as gentle and as strongly lit, seemed to soften her kind expression even more. It had never felt more heavy-laden, however, like the weight of a mother's expectations had now been bestowed upon him. He turned back to Elsie, then.
"You can talk to me about anything," he said. Before he could stop himself, he pressed a kiss onto the top of her head.
Elsie shifted, tucking herself deeper into Joseph's grasp. "I know I didn't really give you much of an option, but thank you for listening."
"You don't have to thank me." His hand brushed over her hair, careful to avoid the implants on either side of her head, and the way his heart flipped blinded him, temporarily, from all the restraint he felt he owed Levi.
But it came surging back in, left his smile fading and his soul heavy with shame for ever feeling what he did when he thought about her, let alone when she was around. The church, too, seemed to agree, the pietistic lighting within the church haloing around her head, laughing at him for ever thinking he would be worthy of her.
Then came the footfalls echoing softly against the stone floor, and maybe a little too quickly, he seemed to shove some distance between them. "You feeling better, kid?"
Elsie had understood fairly quickly—the turmoil ribbing at him and the approaching presence. Hastily, she wiped away what tears were left on her skin, nodding despite the emptiness now feasting on the warmth he had enveloped her in. She might even say she heard a crack form in her heart if it didn't sound so theatrical.
"There you are," Levi's voice rippled from behind them. His strides grew louder, then softer as he slowed down. "I've been looking all over for you, kid. Oh, hey, man."
Joseph offered a nonchalant acknowledgment, a simple jut of his chin. He saw the slight crinkle of Levi's brows at the sight of them, like each rationalization was passing through his face, before he shook his head dismissively. After all, he had no reason to believe anything else.
"Are we still on with Freddy tomorrow?" Levi asked Joseph, who gave some half-assed response. "Sweet. C'mon, kid; Mom and Dad are getting antsy."
"Night, Joey," Elsie said quietly, unable to meet his eyes, entirely enraptured by the rosary clutched dearly in her hands. She trailed alongside her brother.
"What was that about?" asked Levi.
Elsie shrugged. "Nothing."
Levi came to a halt when he heard the faint sniffle, the raspiness of her voice finally striking something in his mind. His gaze finally swept over, with detail, her mottled skin, then the slightly tumid nature of her eyes. "You were crying."
"Let's go, Jeans." Elsie tugged at his arm, but he remained firmly in place.
"What's wrong?" he asked. Briefly, his eyes flickered when Joseph passed them, and he thought back to the past few moments. "Did Joe do anything?"
Elsie stared at him, long and hard. Then she laughed, slapping her hand over her mouth to mute herself. "Joey? Your best friend, Joey? The guy who won 'Most likely to brighten your day' one year? That Joey?"
"I don't know!" Levi threw his arms up. "You were fine when Mass ended, and then I find you with him, crying. I was just throwing shit out there."
Another laugh, more of a giggle this time, had left Elsie's lips, and the sound seemed to knead away the knots in Levi's shoulders. "Joey didn't do anything. He won that superlative for a reason. We were just talking about Dad."
"Oh." Levi fell into step with his sister, opening the church doors for her. "When did you two become so close?"
"When you ditched us in Toronto," she said.
Levi thinned his lips, glaring when Elsie shot him a teasing grin. "Whatever. You steal my clothes, my pens, my car...Next thing I know, you'll be stealing my friends, starting with Joe."
It had been a joke, but Elsie couldn't help but find Joseph as he reached his car, just two spots over. He seemed to feel the weight of her stare and looked up. "You're not losing your friends to a kid, Jeans."
She climbed into the backseat before she could see the way Joseph winced.
Morning had come quickly, and Elsie stirred awake when her phone buzzed. She cursed at herself, wondering if she'd been too tired to silence her phone before she collapsed into bed when they'd gotten home from church, but she lifted her head, bleary eyes clearing to read the texts coming in.
Joseph Woll
Have something for you. Think you can open the door for me?
Elsie shot out of bed, nearly tripping over her comforter tangled between her legs, and hurried out of her childhood bedroom, uncaring of how she looked—hair sticking in different directions, eyes lined with flakes of mascara she'd failed to remove last night, old pyjamas skewed and crumpled.
The front door swung open, and Joseph bit back an endeared laugh at the sight of her.
"Sleep well?" he asked.
Elsie nodded. "So what's this thing you've got for me?"
"Greedy."
"I know what I want," she said.
Joseph pulled a wrapped box out from behind him, small enough to rest entirely in his palm. "Merry Christmas, Els."
"Merry Christmas, Joey." Elsie smiled softly, even if her heart still stung from last night. Her foot seemed to twitch, like it was wondering if she should step forward to hug him or remain where she was. Instead, she took the gift and lowered her gaze, observing the paper littered with Christmas trees. "Thank you," she said. "And thank you again for last night—for listening."
"Like I said, you don't have to thank me. I meant it—when I said you could talk to me about anything."
Elsie gently cradled the wrapped gift between her interlocked fingers. "You can talk to me, too."
"Els, close the door!" Levi shouted from inside. "You're letting all the cold air in."
"It's sixty degrees outside!" Elsie yelled back. "Now, do you want me to leave Joey inside or outside?"
"In, what the hell?"
Joseph tried to suppress his smile when she shot him a wink. He had grown to accept that his resolve eroded away with each moment he spent with her, and how dangerous was that? He stepped into the house when she opened the door a little more.
Elsie felt her face burn when he squeezed her waist in passing. She closed the door, heard the rattle of his voice with Levi's, then his voice with her parents, how familiar it sounded, like an old vinyl on her father's player, then looked at the present in her hands. A smile crooked her lips, and she ran off to her room with a skip in her step.
Carefully, she peeled the taped corners and edges of the gift, revealing a velvet box. She lifted the lid and read the note slipped in there.
Found this in my car and had it repaired.
Merry Christmas, Els ❤︎
Elsie moved the card aside, wondering if her mind had taken the right path, and a scream left her throat before she slapped her hand over her mouth.
"Els?" her father shouted from the living room.
"I'm fine!" she replied. "Spider!"
Elsie liked to believe she could hear Joseph laughing at her obvious lie. Her thumb brushed over the gold chain leading to the crucifix that'd once hung from her neck a few months ago; she had only just begun accepting that she'd never be reunited with it.
Excitement coursed through her body until all she could do was flop onto her back with a squeal, feet kicking in the air.
els ♒︎
you're godsent joey
MARCH
"What happened with your car?" Elsie asked as her brother climbed into the passenger seat.
"You're never gonna believe me," said Levi. "I got rear-ended again."
"You're joking." Elsie gaped. "Any more, and I'll assume you're talking to me about your sex life, which, please, never do."
Levi snorted.
"So, where are we headed?"
"Joe's. Mom and Dad are there."
Elsie's mouth peeled back with offence. "Why wasn't I invited to this?"
"This is your invite," he said. "Besides, I thought you were going out with what's-her-name."
"Rain checked," said Elsie, setting off on the forty-minute drive to their hometown that she had no idea she'd make that night. Of course, she'd known that Joseph was around—the Leafs were in town, and he'd texted her about it—but she wasn't expecting to see him until the next night, under the arena lights, surrounded by the rest of his family and friends that would keep her on her best behavior.
"Let's get this party started!" Levi exclaimed, barging through the front door.
"Where's a bathroom, Jeans?" Elsie asked quietly. She didn't think she recalled the last time she'd set foot in this house, if she'd ever. Following his directions, she turned down a hallway, counted the doors, and went to open the one she'd hoped was the right one.
The door opened as her hand grazed the doorknob, and a sharp gasp sliced through her throat.
"Jesus, Els!" Joseph flinched. "Didn't know you were coming tonight. Levi said you were busy."
Elsie's cheeks flushed at the thought that he might have asked about her before she cleared her throat. "Levi needed a ride here, and Bells canceled."
Joseph glanced down, smiling softly as the gold chain around her neck glinted under the warm houselights. He reached for the crucifix, letting it rest on his fingertips. "Glad to see it hasn't broken off."
The cool metal of the crucifix hit her skin again. Joseph almost wished he'd skipped meeting her eyes—the soft-edged, doe-like feel of them that nearly sent him to his knees, and the smile it'd brought out had wrecked him, gutted him from within until every inch of him craved being near her.
Fuck, he was so screwed.
Levi was going to kill him.
"I don't know how many times I can thank you for it," Elsie said earnestly. "Seriously, Joey."
"It was nothing," he brushed off. Then, he curled his finger into one of her belt loops, tugging at it and steadying her with his other hand on her hip when she stumbled into his chest, and swapped their places in one fell swoop. There was a flutter in his chest when she regarded him with wide eyes and parted lips, as if he'd just taken away any rational thought. "Dinner's in five."
Elsie closed the door, breath ragged and soft, all at once. She wasn't sure how much more of this she could take before her heart exploded. She doubted that it'd be a very pretty sight.
How she had been sandwiched between Matthew and Joseph's younger brother, Michael, at the dinner table, she wasn't quite sure, but she hadn't complained. She knew Michael distantly from the few instances they'd crossed paths in school, and Matthew was charismatic enough to befriend just about anyone.
And maybe it was the sight of it—of Elsie enjoying herself around people closer in age to her—that seemed to tick Joseph off, seemed to set off the same arguments that'd been running through his mind for half a year now. Just when he'd thought he'd begun to quell those thoughts.
Levi and Elsie helped clean up the dining table after everyone had finished their meals, piling on dish after dish.
All it took was the first note, the first press of E on the white piano keys, for Elsie to stop mid-scrub, hot water rolling off her hands. Then the second note rang, and she glanced over her shoulder, finding that her brother was still in the kitchen with her.
So, not Levi.
"Go join the rest of them in the living room," Dana said quietly, taking over at the sink.
Elsie dried her hands on her sweatpants (an unfortunate choice of clothing, because if she'd known where they were going, she would've put in a little more effort to look nicer), then crept toward the archway opening into the living room, where Joseph sat behind an old, upright piano against the wall. Her lips pulled softly with each unraveling of Für Elise that graced her ears, but it quickly fell when it transitioned into another song, as though the opening few notes were simply meant to capture their attention—her attention.
Because it had to be hers that he was chasing when Je te laisserai des mots followed.
And for a moment, she fell through the veil of time, landed back in Toronto, in the front seat of his car as the song gently rippled into the mellow air, the cityscape passing by them in soft blurs, late-night chatter filling in the gaps of knowledge between them. She quite liked that night, liked how calm everything was, even with Camille passed out in the back.
It was sweet, and it was melancholic, and it was tranquil, and it was fun, and it was dejected, and it was far too short, and yet it was something she cherished.
But she was growing to accept that, despite her efforts, she would never get that with him—too devoted to her brother, too embroiled with the thought that she was younger than him.
This fluttering of their hearts, this clandestine dance in the shadows, this rewiring of their minds each time they saw each other that left them breathless and frozen—even as he played his heart out in ways only obvious to them, she would let what simmered between them fizzle out if that was what he wanted.
She knew when to stop. Enacting it would be much harder, however.
As the last few notes dragged out, it seemed like everyone had turned to Levi, who stood behind Elsie. Everyone knew how much of a prodigy he was—how each note flowed through him like they were his life force, how the world seemed to disappear around him once he touched an instrument. It was only right to have him display his talent in front of an audience.
But his gaze had jumped to Elsie.
She shook her head like her life depended on it.
"I haven't played in so long," she said, something like a plea.
Still, Levi nudged her forward, toward Joseph, who had walked over. Her throat bobbed before she latched onto his outstretched hand, letting him pull her toward the piano. He squeezed her shoulders before stepping back, watching, first, with amusement when she tied her hair up, revealing the blue hidden underneath, then, with admiration as she inhaled deeply, eyes sliding shut like she could already feel each bar of music weaving through her soul before her fingertips had even touched the sleek keys.
He'd understood, then, what Levi had meant all those years ago—that this seemed to come easily to her. Because, despite how she'd claimed it'd been ages since she'd played, each note, each slur, each accidental, each break, each pedal mark came to her like a long lost friend—a gentle tune into the good night that required nothing but the heart and soul.
She breathed life into the second movement of the Pathétique Sonata in ways he never believed he could ever do, no matter how much he practiced. He felt it, though—the hauntingly beautiful bittersweetness of the song, like a balm for a troubled spirit—and something remorseful swept him away.
Then came the weight of a stare—Levi's stare—and Joseph wiped away any trace of fondness from his face, replaced with a shameful dip of his head to remain as avoidant of his best friend's dissecting attention as he could.
And Levi was...confused?
His gaze flipped between Joseph and Elsie, like the pieces were starting to fall into place, and questions began to bludgeon him with the force entirely contradictory to the reposeful air around them.
The piece had come to an end before he could sort out his thoughts, and he watched in deliberate silence as Joseph's mother suggested they do a duet, watched as they shared the bench and sat shoulder-to-shoulder as they browsed his phone for songs to try.
They laughed, heartily and unrestrained, with their eyes crinkled fondly and mouths wide. Even as chatter resumed around them, Levi couldn't help but hear their liveliness over it—the excited gasps and pushiness from Elsie when she found a song she liked, and the rejecting cry from Joseph, who had very little faith in his sight-reading skills. It was like they were in a world of their own, trapped in orbit, an instantaneous repulsion of everything else in the room; God, Elsie would laugh at the knowledge that he actually listened to her physics-speak and retained any of it.
"C'mon, Joey," said Elsie. "You know this one. It could be fun."
Levi saw something shift in his best friend, like Elsie had ceased any sense of fight from his body with a simple bat of her eyes.
Joseph gave in embarrassingly quickly, leaving to print off the sheet music they'd found online. In his absence, Elsie had taken to playing a string of keys in the background—softly, then a dip in mood like something in her mind had fallen, before she'd picked it back up again in time to see him return.
Elsie turned her head, and her lips parted with shock, fingers slipping from the keys when Joseph resorted to signing: "Which side of you want to sit on?"
Her eyes snapped up, found the sheepish smile on his face, and returned it softly. "It's your move."
Joseph took the spot to her left, unclamping the sheets of paper between his arm and ribs, spreading them out along the music desk. He'd felt somewhat cowardly taking the easier set of notes, but he felt even more selfish for it, too—for wanting to hear Elsie commandeer control of the melody with her nimble fingers and soulful interpretation, because he didn't think there was anything more angelic and deserving of reverence than hearing her play.
He'd almost missed his cue because of it, and he'd heard the faintest chuckle of hers that told him she'd noticed. His face flushed hot, but he still grinned.
It was a funny little thing—how Interstellar had become associated with him—but he could play the theme in his sleep, he thought, and it sounded otherworldly with Elsie beside him. It would never sound the same after this.
Applause had followed the conclusion of the song, and Elsie briefly hid her gleeful expression against Joseph's shoulder, like she didn't quite know how to receive praise after all these years. He curled his arms around hers—a side-hug just as brief as the slight nuzzle she'd given him, yet it lingered in the gentle sear against her skin.
"You okay?" he asked quietly when he noticed her rubbing her wrist. He'd felt guilty, then.
Elsie nodded, the heat of his gaze easing the throbbing pain spreading to her hand. "Just haven't played like that in a while."
"Do you need anything? I'm sure we have Advil somewhere."
"I'll be fine," she assured softly. "Thank you."
And how could she stop feeling what she did when he treated her so tenderly?
Dana and Steve had decided to go home shortly after, but they'd insisted that their children could stay without them, which Levi had planned to do anyway—and with Elsie being his ride home, she had followed whatever he said.
Everyone spread themselves across the couches and floor, with a movie humming into the dimmed living room. The energy had calmed as time plunged deeper into the night, and Elsie felt her eyelids grow heavy.
"Can I?" she whispered to Joseph, who nodded. She let her head drop to his shoulder, which grew wiry with each passing second, and it didn't take much for her to understand why: She had sensed something radiating from her brother—something unsettling that didn't allow her, or Joseph, to unwind the way everyone else had.
Elsie shifted, her eyes flickering up to find the apprehensive bite of Joseph's lips, the forced unwavering attention on the TV.
"I'm gonna get some water. Do you want any?" he asked quietly, sparing her a glance.
"Sure." Her gaze didn't follow as he stood up and left, something distant taking over. It was barely there, but Levi caught it—the downturn of her lips, the quiet purse of it—from across the couch, and that had been enough. She noticed him follow Joseph into the kitchen.
A few minutes passed before she slinked through the shadows.
"She's a kid!" Levi whispered hotly.
Joseph sighed exasperatedly, skirting his palm over his jaw, because he'd had this conversation before—with himself, countless times.
"I don't believe 23-year-olds are considered children," Elsie inserted herself casually, not bothering to apologize when Joseph's shoulders jumped. She came to his side and grabbed one of the filled glasses of water. "Unless there's someone even younger I don't know about, in which case, wow, you like your women young."
"Els," Joseph sighed again, earning a sheepish smile.
"Hey!" Levi snapped his finger at him from across the island counter. "Don't talk to my fucking sister like that."
Elsie furrowed her brows. "Like what, Jeans? He just said my name."
Levi inhaled deeply, eyes sliding shut for only a moment. "Joe. Really?"
"What about him?" she asked with a tilt of her head.
"You don't have to hide it anymore."
"Hide what? We're not hiding anything."
"Oh, so my best friend hasn't been screwing my baby sister behind my back?"
Elsie's face pinched. "Why'd you say it like that?"
A tired plea leaked into Levi's stare. "You said you two got close in Toronto. What happened?"
"Nothing," said Elsie. Her eyes slipped to Joseph, whose eyebrows scrunched together like he was trying to slow the conversation before him with what little he knew of sign language. "He just dropped me and Camille off at home. There was no secret rendezvous that you think happened."
"Really?" Levi gibed. "I find it really hard to believe that when you were throwing yourself around that night."
Elsie returned a scoff, just as scorned. She gripped the edge of the counter and leaned forward to hiss, "You are un-fucking-believable, you misogynistic pig! You were whoring it out, too."
"Dude!" Joseph looked at Levi in disbelief. "What the hell?"
Levi went to point a firm finger at him when the floorboards creaked.
Their heads whipped around just as the new set of footsteps came to a halt. Matthew's gaze swept over the kitchen—the rollercoaster of emotions etched on everyone's faces, the way Levi's jabbing finger and Elsie's iron-clad grip on the counter didn't speak of a peaceful confrontation, the apprehension corded through Joseph as he looked on, the tense air that stilled the heater circulating through the house.
"I'm just gonna..." Matthew crept on his tiptoes toward the cupboards, but Joseph had shoved his untouched glass of water in his direction with an apologetic look and sent him off.
Elsie turned to Joseph when his hand soothed along her back, as though the space above the spine of her scapula had been worn away by his touch. It was subconscious, she knew, because he'd stopped once she laid eyes on him, but it'd worked—softening the harsh edges that wanted to serrate through the conversation—because it wasn't a string of argumentative words that she'd thrown at her brother this time, it was a defeated sigh that returned the color to her fingers.
"Why?" she asked. "What set this off, Jeans?"
"I have eyes, kid," he said. He also had the awareness of an omniscient being—attuned to every change in the air, to every oscillation and battle in his loved ones' eyes and hearts—and everyone knew that, knew that there was very little they could get by him without him sniffing it out.
Perhaps the most impressive feat was how long it had taken him to notice something bubbling between the two people closest to him, but that, too, could have been boiled down to the simple idea that he never thought he needed to consider it.
"Do you like him?" he asked, something earnest swirling in the depths of his eyes.
Hesitation seized the use of Elsie's hands for a second, as though she was unsure if she wanted to put it all out there for Levi to pick apart, but the momentary silence was enough, and the way he looked at her—a cross between disappointment, moreso in himself than her, and remorse, like he'd wished he'd broached this differently—had her seeking comfort elsewhere.
The soft stare she received from Joseph seemed to erode the tension in her muscles, seemed to slow her heart that was coiling with anxiety. Because he knew, truly, what nestled in her chest, and if she couldn't get the words out to announce it to the rest of the world, at the very least, he knew.
And maybe that was all that mattered to her.
"Of course you do," Levi muttered, hands sliding down his face. "You're my sister, Els, and he's known you since you were a kid. You were still in middle school when we left for college, for Christ's sake!"
"Jesus, Jeans, it's not like anything happened back then, and nothing happened in Toronto because he shut me down that night!" she snapped, watching the way his face morphed with something else, something less fueled. "If you're gonna get mad at someone, it should've never been at him, because he was thinking of you. He cares about you, Jeans, and he knows what it looks like. Trust me, I've heard it all."
Levi blew a long breath past his lips. "Just—give me a moment."
He left the kitchen without so much as a glance, footsteps heavy with the intensity of his emotions.
Elsie expelled a heavy breath, cradling her head in her hands, a sharp pain radiating up from her elbows as they hit the counter. She nearly jumped out of her skin when Joseph squeezed her waist, but the initial shock had faded quickly. Still, she couldn't muster up the courage to look at him. "How long have you been learning sign language?"
"A few months," he admitted quietly.
"How much of it did you understand?"
"Not all of it, but enough." Joseph rubbed her back, finally drawing a gentle tilt of her head. He leaned down slightly, tried to get their eyes level. "I care about you, too, Els."
"I know," she hummed, "but not enough to risk your friendship with my brother, and I get it. Really. No hard feelings."
Joseph didn't say anything. Not yet. Because he did care, more than enough, and that'd been what sparked the fuse that left the kitchen a pile of rubble. He cared so much that he was willing to test the foundation of his friendship with Levi, willing to risk it for even a chance with her.
Because he'd accepted that this rush of warmth, this constant warring between his heart and his ribs, this lingering ghost of her perfume that followed him everywhere—all of it had taken root like an ancient tree, fortified, unrelenting, spreading. It wasn't going away, no matter how much he'd tried to rid himself of it.
But it felt entirely opportunistic to sweep into Elsie's life as something more after this—as a strange silence befell them, as the exchange with Levi remained fresh in their minds, as the emotions went unregulated in their bodies, as he stood as the trigger between the two people he loved.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Elsie shook her head dismissively, a large rush of air entering through her nose as she shoved her hair out of her face. "I'm sorry for starting this whole thing."
She left without giving him any room to speak.
Joseph closed his eyes with his head thrown back, a heavy sigh weighing his shoulders down. He dreaded returning to the living room, in all honesty, exposed to the all-knowing eyes of his best friend, his mother, and the girl who seemed to consume every thought of his.
But he knew he had no other choice but to join everyone else, and with a new glass of water and the one Elsie had left on the counter, he hoped his strides didn't quite show his unease as he slinked back to his spot on the couch.
Elsie glanced up when the cushion beside her dipped. She offered a slight smile when Joseph held her water out, hand spelling out her gratitude in a way that told him she wasn't in the mood to hear anything. The implants lying on her lap only confirmed that.
"You'll be okay?" he asked.
The corners of Elsie's mouth couldn't help but tug wider. How exciting that he was speaking to her in her language when no one else she'd been with had ever bothered to, not when her implants seemed to patch up that small bump in communication. Maybe they'd work in a separate universe; maybe she'd go back to school to research the possibility of a multiverse just to find the one that was true in.
"Don't you worry about me, Saint Joseph."
The joke had nearly written itself: the holy father of Christ—the protector, ever the worrier, the model of faith, of obedience, of humility, even when confusion grabbed hold of him. Elsie had seen all of that in Joseph, even as he shook the nickname off like he didn't think so, like it was too sacrilegious to believe otherwise.
As the movie droned on, the quiet and calm hum of silence surrounding her gently pulled Elsie back to a sleepy state. She shifted, and as though it'd been a puck flying at him, Joseph caught the exterior parts of her implants sliding off her thigh before they could hit the cushions, before she could accidentally roll over them amidst her slumber, the way she seemed to roll onto him.
Joseph stilled, then relaxed when he spared her a cursory glance, noticed the way the wrinkles between her brows smoothed, the soft breaths pelting against his sweater, the almost purring hum rumbling from her as she nuzzled against him. For a moment, he'd forgotten what transpired after dinner and let his fingers twirl the ends of her hair, the edges of his lips lifted when he collected the chunks of blue hidden beneath a mop of brown.
He'd always thought she and Levi were so much cooler than him for that, even with all the bad color choices over the years, the strange mixes that didn't quite blend together, or the bold and experimental choices that left him looking like a toddler had taken a paintbrush to their hair with free rein.
Then he felt the heavy stare from across the living room—dissecting, studying, frowning. And maybe, for a split second, he'd considered moving Elsie off of him, so Levi would relent the piercing examination he was inflicting on them, but their hearts had already been laid out before them, and there was no use in pretending that he wasn't at his most tender state of mind when he was with her when the one person he was most scared of knowing already knew.
So, he let her be.
But Elsie had been the kind to be attuned to every shift in the air in a way that wasn't lauded like her brother, and even in her sleep, that seemed to ring true, for she moved again, turned so her back was to Joseph, body slumped over the arm of the couch, curled up in her little corner of the sectional like a feline basking under the long summer sun.
Joseph pulled the hem of her rumpled sweater down to cover the sliver of skin across her back that'd been exposed amidst her tossing and turning, then draped one of the throw blankets over her. He didn't dare look anywhere but the screen after that.
Then came the time when everyone decided to call it a night.
Levi had volunteered to be Joseph and Matthew's ride back into the city, so not Shelley nor Bob nor Michael nor Emma had to make the back and forth through the dark abyss.
Michael snorted. "Does Els know you're offering her car up?"
"Well, she's dead asleep," said Levi, sifting through her purse for her car keys. "I don't think she really has much of a say."
"Just don't get rear-ended again, kid," Shelley snickered, grabbing Elsie's glass off the coffee table. She pressed a kiss on Levi's head. "I don't think she'd appreciate that."
Elsie stirred awake, feeling the subtle vibrations through the cushions. She blearily looked around, her heart rate skipping when clarity revealed the numerous eyes on her. She might've made a sound, perhaps a squeak, if the chests shaking with laughter was anything to go by. "What is going on?"
"I'm driving us home," said Levi, head cocking toward Matthew and Joseph.
Elsie shot up, attention flickering, searching. She shot Joseph an appreciative glance when he handed over her implants. Sound assailed her from every direction once the external transmitter snapped into place against her head. "Like Hell you are, Jeans. Not on God's green fucking Earth are you going anywhere near my fucking car."
A string of laughter echoed through the living room as offence marred Levi's face.
"Sorry for my language, Mrs. Woll."
Shelley waved her off, leaving for the kitchen.
"Is it okay if I use the bathroom before we go?" Elsie asked.
She had nearly screamed when she opened the door to leave the bathroom and was met with her brother's towering figure.
"I'm sorry," said Levi.
"It's fine," Elsie mumbled, ready to slip past him when he shoved his arm out in front of her.
"Not for scaring you," he said. "About Joe."
"Oh."
"You really want him?"
Elsie looked down with a nod, picking at her nails. She had been doing so well at leaving them alone. "Yeah," she said. "I do." She inhaled so sharply that it nearly hurt. "He's kind, and he's thoughtful, and he's funny, and he took care of me before you asked him to, even helped put Camille to bed when she was too drunk to remember her own name, and he had my necklace fixed and returned, and he listens when I tell him things I'd never told anyone else, and he's been learning sign language, and he puts up with all my teaisng, and—"
"And he likes you, too," said Levi.
"And it kills him," she added with a sigh, letting her forehead fall against his outstretched arm. "What the fuck am I doing, Jeans? I don't wanna get in between you and him. He's your best friend, and I don't want you to get angry at him."
"Hey, he and I are good. I'm not angry at him." Levi bent his arm, using the crease of his elbow to pull Elsie in. "You know, I still see you as a kid," he said, eyes closing as her grasp snaked around his torso. "You're my baby sister, and that's not changing, not even fifty years from now. I'll always hate the guys and girls you bring home, because no one could possibly be good enough for you. Except maybe Joe."
Elsie stilled.
"He takes care of you, kid, and he makes you happy." Levi rubbed her back until the tension faded from her muscles. "That's all I could ask for, and I'm sorry that neither of you felt like you could tell me, and I'm sorry for getting all up in your faces about it, and I'm sorry for what I said in the kitchen."
"I love you, Jeans," mumbled Elsie. "But I'm not apologizing for saying you were whoring it out."
Levi smiled to himself. "It's what started this anyway, wasn't it?"
"Oh, yeah," she said easily, pulling away from the hug. "He came up to me after you'd left."
"Opportunistic prick."
Elsie smacked his stomach, earning a pained grunt.
Levi ruffled her hair. "I love you, too, kid. Now, get. I really gotta piss."
Elsie stumbled past the doorframe with a laugh—a soft sound that promptly died on her tongue when she spotted Joseph at the end of the hallway, talking to Matthew by the front door. Her shoulders felt a little lighter, a little less weighed down with guilt and shame and secrecy for who had her wrapped around their finger, but none of that mattered when the person in question had cemented the notion that they could never be.
So, with feet as heavy as lead, she dragged herself over, holding her breath as she walked past him to grab her purse and bid her final farewells to Joseph's family. She came to Joseph and Matthew's side with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, fingers twiddling with the crucifix on her chest like it'd alleviate the tension whorling in her body.
"Do you want me to drive?" asked Joseph.
Elsie loosened her grasp around herself. "No, it's okay. Thank you, though." Her gaze flickered. "So, before my brother comes back, which one of you wants shotgun?"
Matthew's hand shot up. "Dibs!"
Levi eventually made his way over to the sedan parked curbside. Elsie grinned when he went to open the passenger seat door, only to find Matthew there instead. He sighed and stuffed himself into the back beside Joseph, their knees flush against the front seats and spines hunched to avoid smacking their heads against the ceiling. "You need a bigger car."
"I don't normally have three giants in here," she said. "My car is perfect for normal-sized people."
"Whatever happened to that car you said you were gonna buy with my card?" asked Joseph. "Bill never came in for that."
Elsie met his gaze through the rearview mirror and smirked. "Declined when I tried."
Matthew barked out a laugh, and Levi dragged a tired hand down his face, like he was dreading the thought of his sister's teasing infiltrating his best friend's life. Maybe his protectiveness had been all screwed up, twisted to shield the wrong person; maybe he should've been protecting Joseph from Elsie instead.
Levi's apartment had been the first stop, the closest to the suburbs out of the three of them.
"Don't worry about tomorrow," he told her. "I'll catch an Uber or something or have Mom and Dad pick me up on their way to the game."
"You sure, Jeans?"
Levi nodded, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He had nearly slipped out of the car when he turned his head. "You know, I should've said this earlier, but you two seem to forget that I studied music at Juilliard." His face twisted. "You absolute freaks. That's what gave you away."
"Get out of my car," Elsie said, cheeks flamed.
"Alright, see you tomorrow!" Joseph reached over and closed the door, muffling Levi's laughter as he waved and headed inside. "Hit the gas, Els."
"One step ahead of you."
In the silent hum of the night, tires trekking over the asphalt into the depths of the city, Matthew's fingers tapped against the center console. "So...you two...when did that, you know..."
Joseph hid his face in his hands. "Oh, God."
"Good going, Matt," said Elsie. "You've got the ol' saint saying the Lord's name in vain."
"Jesus, Els."
"Sorry." She smiled sheepishly before going on some tangent that managed to distract Matthew for long enough.
Matthew thanked her for the ride once she pulled into the hotel lobby, receiving a kind smile in return.
"Hey, you go ahead," Joseph told him. The passenger side door closed gently, and Joseph slid to the middle, leaning his forearms against the center console, eyes carefully tracing the side of Elsie's face—the slight tilt of her head to look at him, the slow drag of her eyelids over her eyes, the straightened line of her lips. "Stay the night. You're tired."
"I'll be fine," she said. "It's a ten-minute drive at most."
Joseph sucked in a sharp breath. "Let me rephrase that: Stay. Because I want you to."
Elsie wanted to cave—because this sort of admission had seemed impossible all those months ago—but she couldn't get the image out of her head, the pained twist of his face when he thought of her, the casualness with which he brushed her off when her brother was around. "Have you reconciled with the fact that you like me?"
"Yeah, I have," he said easily. "I like you a lot, Elsie Rivers, and I want to be with you, if you'll have me."
"Are you saying that because my brother says he's okay with it?"
"It certainly helps," he said, "but no. I was planning on asking you out while I was home—tomorrow, mostly, but tonight works, too."
Elsie pursed her lips, ponderous. This was all she wanted, wasn't it? After all these months, it could finally happen, free of the shackles that'd tied them with guilt. She could have what she wanted, could even have a hand at a relationship that the Church would bless. Why should she deprive herself of such a thing when it was practically begging on its hands and knees?
After all, hadn't she always been a greedy little thing?
Joseph silently watched as she reached across for the glove box, browsing its contents.
"You're lucky I have a spare charger in here. Now, move up front; I feel like a chauffeur."
Joseph was there in a split second.
The ride up the elevator felt too long, steeped in silence that grew thick until Joseph let his hand brush against hers; then, it was calm. Elsie glanced at the small space between them, then turned her palm out, smiling to herself when he twined their fingers together.
For only a moment, the room was shrouded in darkness, and Elsie hoped the whir of the air conditioner masked the ferocity with which her heart pounded. She followed him in, thanked him when he gave her some clothes to change into, and locked herself in the bathroom.
Not even the coldest water from the faucet could clear her mind. It was incredible how easily he'd reduced her to a nervous wreck.
"I can't breathe."
Joseph's head shot up from the mountain of pillows on the bed. "What?"
Elsie plopped her clothes over her purse near a corner of the room. "My heart's beating so quickly, I think it might actually jump out of my chest, and my hands won't stop shaking, and I'm starting to sweat, and—" She inhaled deeply. "I just never thought this would happen. I mean, are you sure you want me?" she asked, somewhat pitifully. "Ever since Toronto, I kept going back and forth between wanting to tempt you into betraying everything that makes you you, and accepting that it would never lead anywhere, that I was just being a stupid kid trying to seduce the lifeguard at the pool all over again, that this was just a little crush I needed to get over."
Joseph climbed out of bed, scrambling to reach her. His hand carefully slotted against her jaw, feeling the warm skin and thunderous rushing of her blood beneath his fingers. "Please don't get over it," he said, eyes flickering between hers, catching the subtle dilation and contraction of her pupils. "I want you, Els. I want you so bad, it scares me. I thought I fucked it all up tonight—with you, with Levi—and I'm sorry for putting you through the wringer while I came to terms with it."
A loud gulp constricted her throat, her trembling hands gliding over his chest and nestling into the hairs near the nape of his neck. Her heart stammered when he leaned into her touch, like he was entirely at her mercy.
"I forgive you," she whispered.
Joseph breathed a little heavier now, pulse throbbing in his throat. He leaned in, like he wanted to show his gratefulness in a million little kisses across her skin, before he stopped just shy of her lips. "It's your move."
"Hey, that's my line. You can't steal my line."
"What're you gonna do about it?"
The corner of Elsie's mouth twitched before their lips met—softly, at first, then again in a rushed and messy collision, all teeth and tongue and desperation. A gasp sliced through the air when her back hit the wall.
"Fuck," he groaned into her mouth when her fingers tangled in his hair.
"Knew you had a filthy mouth behind all that sweet talk," she said as he dragged his lips down her neck, nipping a path but not sharp enough to leave any marks.
"Jump." Joseph easily caught her as her legs wrapped around his waist, his large hands sprawled along the underside of her thighs. He blindly walked them away from the wall, cursing, when his toe stubbed against one of the legs supporting the bed.
Elsie erupted in laughter at how quickly Joseph had dropped her onto the mattress, his balance knocked off-center until he had no other choice but to fall atop her.
"Fuck, that actually hurts," he said, laughter leaking into his tone.
"The poor bed," she joked, hands gently cradling his face. Her breaths slowed as she glanced at his lips, a gently bitten pink, before bringing him in for another kiss—softer, this time, less urgent and desperate, less frenzied, like everything had started to quiet.
Joseph pulled away only to tug his shirt off, revealing the ridges of toned muscle and the smattering of hair that dipped beneath his pants.
"You should go tarps off in an interview one day," she said, looping her arms around his neck as he came back down. Her legs twined around his hips, and she felt him shiver as her cold hands found his back, mapping out the texture and dips and curves of his body.
"How do you know I haven't?" he asked, lips tracing a path from the collar of her shirt and up her neck, past the delicate necklace that abhorred the thoughts running through his mind.
"Trust me," she whispered, "I would know."
Joseph amusedly raised his eyebrows, a chuckle rolling off his tongue when she looped her finger around his chain to kiss him again. By then, they'd lost the feverish rush and simmered in something gentler, something as patient as the feelings they'd stewed on for months.
"Can I take you out for breakfast tomorrow?" he asked between kisses, fingers laced with hers beside her head like he needed to anchor himself to the moment.
"I was wondering if you were gonna bring that up before or after you fucked me," she said.
Joseph hid his face against the crook of her neck, his shoulders shaking with laughter.
"I'm being so serious right now." But even Elsie couldn't stop herself from joining in.
"See, I was getting the impression that sex wasn't on the table tonight," he said, his palm smoothing over the skin of her thigh, creeping up her hip and under her shirt to hold her ribs. He was met with a soft sigh as his thumb caressed her, and her eyes slipped shut, struggled to open back up. That only strengthened his belief. "You can barely keep your eyes open."
Elsie smiled, slow and lazy, staring into his too-blue eyes with a loud fondness. She couldn't stop herself from brushing her thumb along the ends of his eyelashes, feeling them flutter gently. She leaned up to connect their lips, like she never wanted to deprive herself of feeling them ever again. "Breakfast sounds good."
"Good," hummed Joseph. He pulled away slightly, still close enough that their noses could brush, still close enough to greedily pick apart every detail of her face. "You're so fucking beautiful."
With beet-red cheeks, Elsie bit her lip, as though she thought just showing how wide her smile wanted to be would scare him off, and looked away.
"Oh, you're shy now?"
"It's different when it's from you," she said, pushing a loose lock of hair out of his face. "It's actually so embarrassing how shy and giddy you make me."
"It's cute," he said, kissing the corner of her mouth, then the tip of her nose, then her cheek, his stubble scratching against her skin in the most perfect way.
"Did you really think you fucked it up tonight?"
Joseph pushed his tongue against his cheek, nodding. "I did," he said. "I thought you'd had enough of the way I'd been treating you these past few months, and—"
"How have you been treating me?" asked Elsie. "Because I remember you taking care of me and my best friend. I remember you listening to me at church. I remember the happy birthday text at midnight. I remember the times you've checked up on me, over the phone or in person."
"I've been mean, Els," he said. "Don't pretend like I haven't been. Pushing you away when it felt a little too real, or when your brother was around, or when that little voice in my head cursed at me for thinking about you. I've seen the frowns, so has your brother, and that's why he cornered me in the kitchen, and after that, I thought I'd lost my best friend and any chance with you."
Elsie's stare lingered, her chest rising and falling gently against his, quiet and minty breaths calm as they hit his face. "You're never going to lose Levi; there has never been a Levi Rivers without a Joseph Woll. He was just being my brother," she said, thumb brushing over his lip. "And you're right: The good doesn't erase the bad, but are you gonna go cold on me again?"
Joseph shook his head. "Never," he said. "I want you, and I'll never let anything come between that."
A slow grin danced across Elsie's face. "Then that's all I care about."
She nudged her leg into his hip, pushing him onto his back. He looked pretty like this—beneath her, wide eyes staring up at her, swollen lips parted to let his ragged breaths through, his hair tousled from the way she'd played with it, his hands holding her steady against him. Hands raking up his torso, she leaned down and let her lips drag over his chest, neck, and jaw, committing it all to memory.
Joseph tightened his hold around her waist, a contented sigh shedding weight from his soul as she melted into his grasp. He thought he could stay like this for the rest of his days—with Elsie in his arms, her legs tangled with his, her finger tracing amorphous blobs along his skin.
Propping her chin on his chest, she innocently batted her eyelashes. "Can I ask you to grab the charger for my implants?"
He squeezed her waist before gently maneuvering her aside. "Give me a second," he said, lips soft against her forehead. "I'll be back."
Elsie kept her eyes trained on his back—the muscles that rippled with each swing of his arms—as he walked to the bathroom. The door closed behind him, and her body collapsed against the mattress with a smile that burned her cheeks as she stared at the ceiling. It took everything in her to keep her squeal in.
Joseph returned with his glasses on. Amusement knit through his face when he found her with her teeth digging into her fist. "You okay?"
An affirmative hum sounded. "Just giddy."
"I see that," he said with a laugh, turning to the TV stand, where a cable rested tangled on the surface. He settled on the side of the bed as Elsie braced herself on her forearm, squeezing into the space between his arm and ribs, humming when he made room for her.
"Wanna get your last words in before I take these suckers off?" she asked.
"Hardly my last words," he signed.
"You're gonna regret learning sign language," she said. "Set yourself up for a whole new world of shit my brother will say in public."
Joseph breathed out a laugh through his nose. "Mr. Pottymouth right there. We all know where you learned your vibrant vocabulary."
Elsie smiled. She reached for the external pieces on the sides of her head, but before she could pluck them off, Joseph's voice rang through.
"Wait, one last thing," he said, earning an inquisitive stare that widened her eyes like a doe. "I think the hair's cool. I didn't get to tell you that earlier."
A moment passed. Elsie reached for the underside of her hair, blue strands twirling around her finger. Her mouth curved upward.
She snatched her implants off, and the world went blissfully silent.
There was no whirring of the air conditioner, no rare honk from outside, no rustling of the sheets beneath them, not even the rush of blood in her head. But she felt them—felt the hum of night rumble through the walls, in the springs of the mattress, in the fibres of her clothes.
It was a sensation she wasn't sure she could describe—not quite nothingness, but perhaps something like a hollow oblivion.
Joseph watched intently as Elsie twisted the battery modules off the processor and plugged them into the Y-shaped charging port. There was a flashing green light.
Elsie canted her head slightly, noticed the attentive gleam in his eyes. "It'll be a steady green light when it's fully charged," she said slowly. "Takes about four hours."
Joseph didn't feel embarrassed that he'd been caught watching her—no, now that everything had been left out in the open, he felt very little shame in his actions and thoughts. His bottom lip slipped between his teeth, and he eagerly followed as Elsie shuffled across the bed with a crooked finger.
She had barely dropped her head onto the pillow when he kissed her again, like he couldn't quite get enough of her, not when he'd deprived himself of it for so long. Her hand slotted against his neck and felt the vibrations of a groan against her skin; she could imagine how low and raspy it was as the night draped heavier against them.
Elsie waited for him to slip under the covers before nestling into his side again, her chin set against his chest as she stared up at him. He ran his fingers through her hair, watched her eyes slip shut contentedly, heard the little purr again.
Joseph wondered what it was like—to not hear anything, not even the birds chirping on a calm summer morning, except maybe her stream of consciousness. Maybe he'd grow to hate the silence, constantly seeking any chance he could to have sound wiggle into his head, or maybe he'd grow to love it, the way she had, and maybe he'd even find peace in it.
Toying with his chain, Elsie pushed it around his chest until her fingertips found the heavy thumping of his heart. She laid her palm there, felt the stuttering and racing beat that mirrored the one against her ribcage, feeling the very force that kept him running, kept him alive.
It was an oddly vulnerable thing, something he couldn't hide like he could a smile or glance, but he was alright with that.
Joseph tightened his hold on her, pulled her closer against him like she'd get absorbed into his side and fill the missing spaces in his ribs. His skin prickled as her minty breath fanned against his neck, her lips ghosting over his pulse. She pressed a chaste peck there before shifting, tucking her head under his chin. He'd nearly chuckled, his hand rubbing up and down her back.
The feel of his fingers lightly tracing along her shoulders, her arms, and her neck, as if he were trying to memorize the curves of her body, like he might a new song, had lulled Elsie into a peaceful slumber, the drumming of his heart a steady rhythm against her ear.
In the back of her mind, she might have believed she'd listened to it bouncing around in her skull like a lullaby.
It was a few minutes later when Joseph went to sleep, feeling like his soul had been freed of condemnation.
APRIL
To no one's surprise, Elsie had grown to like Toronto. She wasn't oblivious as to why that'd come to be, but it had become a recurring thought with each growing moment she spent in the city.
"Hey, Els, put your stuff with ours," Camille's father told Elsie as they stood in line in the team shop, the crowds of Scotiabank Arena cramming into the small space. She had not demurred, simply accepted the offer like it'd been her plan the entire time, and Camille spared her an inquisitive glance.
They reached the front of the line, jerseys and other apparel stacked onto the counter, each from Camille, her father, her mother, and her two brothers. Elsie watched the total price rack up, sucking in a deep breath before managing to beat Mathieu at putting her card down.
Mathieu looked affronted. "What is wrong with you?"
"What isn't wrong with her?" Camille teased, only to get reprimanded by her mother.
Elsie felt her face heat up like she was face-to-face with the Sun. "Don't worry about it. It's a small birthday gift for you."
"Small?" Mathieu cried out.
Camille had spied Elsie taking her phone out and sending a quick text. Realization clicked in her head, and her hand shot out to Elsie's bicep, subtly shooting her eyes open, only to receive a cheeky smile in return.
"I'm jealous," said Camille. "You probably snagged up the only good guy in this city."
"It probably helps that he's not from this city," said Elsie. "And you're just saying that because he's been hooking you up with tickets for most of this season."
"Yeah, and thank God for that. My parents now think I'm some hockey god for somehow always finding them decently-priced tickets in the lower bowl."
Elsie laughed.
Max, the eldest of the Charbonneau children, had gaped when they inched closer to the glass, the sound of pucks hitting the boards during warmups loud against the hard bass of the music. "Jesus, Cami, how the hell did you manage to get us all seats here?"
"I didn't this time," she said. "Els did."
"Tell me your ways, Els," said Alexis, childish eyes shimmering with awe.
Elsie staved off a smile as she led the group down the row of seats until they found Levi, who rolled his eyes at the beers in their hands and the bags hanging from their arms like they'd gone on a shopping spree at the mall, but he accepted the drink his sister held out for him.
"You're welcome," she said.
"I believe my thanks go to Joe's card, which, knowing you, I don't know why he trusts you with it."
Elsie scoffed. "At least I thought to use it to buy you something."
Levi grumbled out his gratitude before his eyes raked over Elsie's outfit—the blue marbled sweater she'd worn last time, and the ripped jeans revealing her pirckled skin beneath. "That's his, isn't it? The sweater? I thought it looked familiar. Man, I should've known."
Elsie gave a thin-lipped smile. "Guilty. It's mine now, though."
She set her things down before slipping back into the aisle, gesturing for the young Alexis to follow her. They stood just three steps from the glass, exchanging humorous words, and Elsie wondered if this was how Levi felt when talking to her when he was around her age.
Joseph spotted them from the ice and skated over, shoveling a puck onto the blade of his stick. He waited for a moment before flipping it over the glass, grinning beneath his mask when Elsie caught it and immediately handed it over to Alexis, whose face immediately lit up.
Elsie couldn't hide her fond laughter as Alexis jumped up and down, throwing his arms around her shoulders. Her gaze slid briefly to the ice, catching the wink Joseph sent her before he returned to the net.
"Mom, Dad, look!" Alexis exclaimed, nearly tripping his way down the row of seats with the puck held up high.
Camille mouthed a 'thank you' as Elsie slipped past her, earning a dismissive shake of her head in return.
With the way Elsie had cheered throughout the game, it would've been easy to assume that she'd been a lifelong Leafs fan. Camille was a little bitter that it hadn't been her arduous attempts at convincing her to join the dark side that had done it, but she would not complain when the very reason had been generous to her for most of the season.
Adrenaline coursed through their veins when the final horn blew, sealing a win for the home team against the Oilers. Their voices joined the cacophony of other fans as they made their way through the concourse, and as they went further away from the main crowds and toward the little area with several of the family members, Elsie heard the first hushed comment.
"I don't think we're supposed to be here," said Mathieu.
"Oh, wait, passes!" Camille chucked them out of her bag and handed them to her family.
"Seriously, what is going on?"
Elsie grinned, playing with the ends of her hair, now entirely the same shade of blue as the Leafs. "As I said, it's a small birthday thing."
Mathieu was starting to think his daughter's best friend from college was genuinely insane.
"Bet you've started rethinking giving these two your card," Levi said as Joseph approached them.
Joseph laughed, eyes crinkling softly. "I don't mind," he said, squeezing Elsie's waist and pressing a swift kiss to her temple. "Plus, I heard we had a birthday happening?"
Mathieu had looked like every neuron in his brain had short-circuited. His eyes flipped between Camille, Elsie, Levi, Joseph, then all over again. The rest of his family had looked no better.
"Happy birthday, Mr. Charbonneau," said Joseph, leaning past Elsie to shake his hand.
Mathieu's jaw dropped. "Holy shit, you're Joseph Woll."
Joseph's face had flushed a gentle pink.
"Here." Elsie handed a marker over to Joseph as Camille searched through the bags for something he could sign for her father.
Alexis was the first to break out of the spell ensorcelling his family. "So that's how."
Elsie grabbed his shoulders. "Don't go telling my secret now."
Alexis mimed zipping his lips, grinning when Elsie shot him a wink.
"You know, it's crazy to think that he's just Joe to us," Levi said when his sister came to his side, watching his best friend sign memorabilia and take photos with Camille's family. A twang of pride swelled in his chest as he thought back to their early hockey days in St. Louis—all of the dumb fun they got themselves into, all of the drills ingrained in their heads, all the effort that got Joseph to where he was.
Even though their journeys had led them to very different careers, at some point, their humble beginnings were something they kept dear to them.
Elsie noticed the proud glimmer in her brother's eyes and smiled softly as she leaned her head on his shoulder. She, too, had felt an admiration spark in her chest as she observed from the side, got to see him extend his attentive and caring ways to everyone else, and it only blossomed when his gaze flickered to her, his mouth tugging wider, before he looked away.
"Gross," said Levi, but it wasn't hard to pick out the lack of animosity in his tone.
"The only disgusting thing here is your hair," Camille said as she walked over to them, her lips twisting at the sight of his brassy buzz cut.
Levi gasped out her name in offense.
"She's right, brother dearest." Elsie scrunched her nose condescendingly.
"For the millionth time, I ran out of toner!" he defended.
Elsie snuck away as Camille and Levi bickered back and forth like they'd grown up together. She tucked herself into Joseph's side as he talked to Camille's family, his arm draping around her without missing a beat in conversation.
"So you're the reason why Cami's able to get all these tickets," said Sophie.
"All this guy." Elsie patted Joseph's chest, feeling the rumble of his laughter against her fingertips.
Joseph leaned down slightly, unaware of the kaleidoscope of butterflies he'd set off in her stomach. "If you hurry, I think you'll be able to snag the seat up front before your brother does."
Elsie's gaze snapped up. "Give me your keys."
"Hand over the bags."
They swapped items, and Elsie made her way through her goodbyes, wishing Mathieu a happy birthday, before giving Joseph a quick peck on the lips. She bolted through the throng of family members, then, nearly knocking Matthew over in her haste. Joseph's flushed cheeks puffed out with his suppressed laugh when Matthew looked at him with wild eyes and furrowed brows.
"Well, I suppose that's our sign to go," said Max, clasping his little brother's shoulder. "Thank you for today, Joe."
"Yeah, of course," he said. "Camille's one of Elsie's best friends. I'd do anything they asked."
Sophie snorted. "I'd be careful with saying that. Our Cami can be greedy."
Joseph chuckled because Elsie was no better, and he loved her no less for it.
Camille's family had announced to her that they were leaving, and Levi glanced around.
"Where'd my sister go?" he asked.
Joseph scratched the back of his neck. "Toilet. She'll meet us at the car."
"Liar," Alexis sang under his breath, his mouth splitting into a shit-eating grin when he received a gentle nudge from his favorite hockey player. He would be sure to bother his sister about seeing Joseph more.
Camille commandeered the string of farewells, and Joseph led the way out. One of his eyebrows arched when he spotted Elsie in the distance, not tucked away in his car as he'd expected, but locked in a conversation that drew a wide grin and hearty laugh. With each nearing step, the pillar grew less obstructive, and around the corner, Joseph found Trent on the other end of it.
Elsie's head snapped in the direction of growing voices, and her eyes widened. She seemed to give Trent a barely-there bye and darted further into the parking garage.
"A Leafs fan, dude? I thought you taught your sister better than that," Trent said to Levi, who grumbled and threw Joseph a flippant glare.
Joseph merely smiled, head hanging low.
Trent couldn't loiter for long, and after bartering promises of seeing each other when they were all back home, he ran off to get on the team bus.
"I always forget that you know all these people," Camille told Levi. "You're you, and they're them."
"What's the supposed to mean?" Levi asked, flabbergasted.
"Look in the mirror."
Levi rolled his eyes. "Well, the league could use more people with stupid hair and piercings and dumb Pinterest tattoos."
Joseph nodded slowly. "Could've been you."
"It was either hockey or my sister hearing again. I think I made the right choice," he said nonchalantly, like he hadn't just dropped a heavy piece of himself out into the world.
Something passed through Joseph's face—an understanding of some sort, of what Elsie had said back in the church: It wasn't just her parents who'd given so much for her; it was also Levi, who'd one day quit his team without so much as a reason to anyone, and she'd felt indebted to them all for everything they'd sacrificed to allow her a chance at hearing again, even if some days she wished they never did.
"Seriously?" Levi narrowed his eyes when he found his sister in the passenger seat of Joseph's car.
Joseph could only offer a thin-lipped, apologetic smile and shrug.
"Girlfriend privileges," Camille said.
"She wouldn't be his girlfriend if it weren't for me," said Levi, cramming himself into the back seat, red leather soft to the touch.
"Sorry, Jeans," said Elsie.
"No, you're not."
"No, I'm not."
Joseph passed his phone over to Elsie, oblivious to the soft blush on her face when she noticed the new lock screen background—the selfie she'd forced him to take with her at the same bar they were headed to. It looked worse than she remembered it, blurry and of poor lighting, but she could pick out their smiles, not yet laced with affection in the way they were now, yet fond in ways that spoke of what could be, and what did.
Elsie shook her head, as if ridding herself of all the mushy thoughts in her mind, and went to choose a playlist to fill the silence as they drove out of the parking garage.
The bar was as she remembered it to be—loud, busy, trembling with music and laughter against its walls. Elsie and Camille had run off to the bartenders, taking their first round of shots, face curling as the flaming liquid raced down their throats.
Joseph's eyes were a welcome weight against her body as she and Camille bounced between the dance floor and the bar, much less stained with a curling green monster she'd finally got him to admit to housing that very first night.
"You're back, eh?"
Elsie turned her head and burst out in laughter when she met Hailey's eyes.
"Your boy's not gonna jump me for talking to you, is he?" she asked, tossing a glance across the bar. "I'm not really in the mood to be on an NHLer's bad side today."
"You know, he's probably the least scary person on the team."
"I don't know," Hailey said with inflection. "I've watched enough games to catch the times he's lost his cool on the ice."
Elsie smiled with a small huff.
Hailey returned the smile before tilting her drink toward Elsie, as if to excuse herself, then to an observing Joseph, an unspoken truce. She disappeared into the crowd not long after.
Camille had long gotten lost in the tangle of bodies when Elsie tried to find her again, and she soon gave up. She figured her best friend would show face once she was ready for another drink or to leave, and so she sauntered over to Joseph.
"—leave for the night," Levi had said.
Elsie raised an eyebrow, hand gliding over Joseph's shoulder as she nestled into his side. His touch was light, yet firm, against the dip of her spine. "Ditching us already, Jeans?"
"Just in time, actually," he said, eyes flickering between them before looking over his shoulder.
Following his gaze, Elsie's own softened when she found the guy waiting by the door, his posture reeking of nothing but nervousness. She grabbed her brother's shoulder, gently nudging him away. "Go. Just send me a text of something, so I know you're not dead."
Levi saluted her, his serious expression fading with a laugh. He kissed her cheek. "Camille's on a table, by the way."
"She'll be okay," said Elsie, waving her brother away.
Joseph tightened his hold on Elsie's waist, managing to trade their places on the stool he'd been sitting on in one fell swoop. His stomach fluttered at the sound of her laughter, and again at the look she gave him—tender, despite the rambunctious air around them, and devout, like he was the sun at the center of the solar system she orbited.
"Thank you for today," she said, winding her arms around his neck. "For having me and my brother, for having Camille's family. I think you made their year."
"You and Camille did," he said, pressing his lips against her bicep. "You were the ones to think of it."
"But it wouldn't have worked out if it weren't for you, so thank you, and thank you for this."
Joseph plucked his card from her fingers, swiftly putting it away. "You really don't have to thank me. You know I'd do anything you asked."
"You should learn to tell me no one day," she said.
Joseph hummed, sounding inauthentic in his pondering. "No."
Elsie's expression turned wry. "Funny."
A smile danced along his lips.
The night had slipped from them, the hours bleeding into the early morning before they had made it back to Joseph's car. Camille was safely strapped into the back seat, and Elsie had curled up in the passenger seat, tired eyes locked on Joseph as he steered through the city, one hand interlocked with hers.
Music gently hummed in the background, and Elsie unconsciously drew shapes into his forearm to the beat of the song.
"I'm getting major déjà vu right now," she said. "A few months ago, you would've hated yourself for this."
"I didn't hate myself—" Joseph felt the look he was getting from her. "Yeah, I would've."
Elsie playfully punched his arm. "Look at that. Growth."
Joseph squeezed her thigh, his lips peeling back into a pearly smile as her laughter echoed softly through the air. "As long as you didn't think I hated you."
"I know you didn't," she said, leaning forward to kiss his shoulder. "You were so into me, you creep."
Putting Camille to sleep had been easy this time around, and with a glass of water on her bedside table, Elsie and Joseph left her alone. The door closed with a soft click, masking the exhausted snores rippling from deep within the room.
A simple slant came to Elsie's lips, one that didn't quite carry any of the haughtiness a smirk did, as Joseph's arms bracketed her against the kitchen counter. Her heart flipped in her chest, disturbed the electrical pulses that kept each pump of blood steady, under his watchful and tender stare. "It's your move."
Joseph chuckled, leaning forward, sure of every move as he kissed her.
Yeah, he didn't know why he ever thought he could deprive himself of what felt like the closest coming of heaven on earth.
one of the best things i have ever read im so not kidding. i love how there wasn‘t too much unnecessary drama and we really got to see more of them. this made me sick with jealousy:
„Maybe they'd work in a separate universe; maybe she'd go back to school to research the possibility of a multiverse just to find the one that was true in.“
a/n: entry #2 into the sidnova verse! i’m loving writing these two and i can’t wait to hear your thoughts ☺️
tw: relationship fight, sid’s bad reaction to a possible pregnancy,
word count: 3.2k
summary: sid’s plan makes sense to him. unfortunately it’s not just him he has to worry about anymore and nova won’t wait forever
“Nova, honey…” Sid’s mouth twitches in a disbelieving smile, relief flooding his entire system. His body visibly sags, shoulders dropping from somewhere around his ears. He hadn’t thought that she would come to the game after their fight, but seeing her here is more steadying than she knows.
Nova’s face bends into a tight smile, her posture stiffening from the relaxed ease she’d been displaying with one of his teammate’s kids. She bounces the toddler on her hip once and makes a face at him before passing him back to his mother. She smooths her hands over her shirt and Sid notices that they’re shaking. Guilt threatens to choke him - he’s the one that’s causing her heartache.
“Can we -“ he steps forward, catching her elbow and goes silent at the look in her eyes. Usually when she looks at him, her green eyes are twinkling with life, but now they look muddy and sad.
“Not here, Sid,” she says quietly, lifting up on her toes to kiss his cheek gently. “We’ll talk at home, okay? I just wanted to -“
She shakes her head and gives him a wry smile. Shrugging, she continues, “I didn’t want to mess up your game, if you were counting on me coming.”
They’ve been together for two season openers now and she’d been to both, so of course she figured that he would be expecting her. It only makes the icy cold fingers around his heart squeeze harder. He’d disappointed her this morning and she’s still showing up for him. Frankly, Sid doesn’t deserve her.
“I -“ he struggles for words, settling on kissing her forehead and hoping even half of the love he feels for her sinks in with the gesture.
Nova’s smile is a degree warmer and she squeezes his forearm, “I’ll see you at home.”
“Yeah, okay,” Sid murmurs, watching Nova walk off towards the parking garage. She wraps her jacket tighter around her body as she goes and something about the gesture makes his heart hurt. He shoves a hand through his hair roughly, sending water droplets flying, and turns back into the locker room to get his shit together.
——-
Nova’s curled up in their bed when Sid gets home - another sign that things are wrong between them. Normally she’d be waiting on the couch to throw herself at him for a kiss and to let him run through the game with her, armed with texts from her dad and brothers about the game as well. Usually, they’d cuddle up and Sid would get handsy and they’d fool around on the couch.
The house is quiet when Sid closes the front door behind him, the air still and suffocating. He sighs, braces himself, and heads to their room that has only been their room for less than a year. Nova’s touches are everywhere, her knicknacks and throw pillows multiplying in the nine months since she moved in. Sid’s always liked his place, but it felt different after Nova moved in, warmer somehow.
“Hey,” he says quietly, stepping into their bedroom and lingering by the door. The TV is on, quiet, blue light casting the room in an eerie glow.
Nova’s curled up on her side of the bed, almost too precisely, like she doesn’t want a single inch of her body on Sid’s side. The blankets are pulled up around her and Sid knows she’s bundled up in old sweats instead of one of the cute, little things she wears when she wants to tease him. Everything about her seems deflated, even her hair isn’t the big mess of curls piled on top of her head, instead it’s limp and pulled back in a haphazard braid.
“Hi,” she says back, looking up at him with an unreadable expression on her face. She twists the ring on her index finger and continues flatly, “I’m not pregnant, by the way.”
Her words hang in the air and drop to the floor like dead birds.
“Oh. Oh, that’s -“ Sid cuts himself off before he can say ‘good.’ His gut instinct is what got him in trouble this morning, what started the whole thing. His stomach sinks when he sees Nova’s eyes narrow. She sighs and rubs the heels of her palms into her eye sockets.
“Good, right? That’s what you were going to say, Sid. Isn’t it?” She doesn’t even sound angry, just sad, and that’s what hurts Sid the most. Nova pulls her knees up to her chest and shakes her head. “It’s good that I’m not pregnant because that would be such a huge, terrible distraction for you, right? God forbid you have something other than hockey to think about.”
Sid hooks his fingers in the knot of his tie, loosening what feels like a noose tightening around his neck.
“That’s not -“ he huffs, tossing the tie onto his dresser. “That’s not fair, Nova. You know this,” he waves his hand in the air between them, “isn’t a distraction to me. You know that.”
His suit jacket gets caught on his hand as he struggles out of it, making his frustration grow until he can finally fling it to the floor.
“You literally, twelve fucking hours ago, told me that a baby is bad timing,” Nova hisses, pushing the blankets off her body and leaning up on her knees. “I said I think I might be pregnant and you said oh shit, wrong timing, Sidney. You looked me in the eyes and said ‘oh, shit’ when I was bursting with excitement to tell you.”
The look of devastation in Nova’s eyes will haunt Sid for the rest of his life. The second the words were out of his mouth, he knew they were wrong. But he’s retiring at the end of the season, the decision made slowly and painfully, but he’ll be forty-two in August and even though his body feels good now, there’s never a guarantee.
He just wants to focus on hockey, on the Penguins, maybe winning a last Cup.
And as shitty as it is, if Nova were pregnant, Sid would be worrying about that. He knows he wouldn’t be able to be there for her the way they’d both want. And that would be a distraction because he’d feel awful about each missed ultrasound and unfulfilled craving request.
He’d be able to focus only on Nova and their kids, if they waited until he was retired to start a family. It makes sense, it’s not like a few months or a year matters. Nova’s not even thirty yet. Sid’s age is irrelevant at this point. He’s going to be an old father, but he’s made his peace with that.
“We said,” Sid snaps, getting undressed with jerky motions, “that kids would be after I retire. You agreed to that, Nova. You knew -“
“Accidents happen!” She shouts, interrupting him. Quieter, startled at her outburst, she repeats, “accidents happen, Sid. If I was pregnant, the baby wouldn’t be here until the summer. You’ll be done with hockey by then, I don’t see why-“
Clothes in a pile on the floor, Sid stands still in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest. “You’d still be pregnant all season and I still wouldn’t be able to be there. You’d want to go through a pregnancy basically alone? I said kids after retirement so I can be there for you and them.”
Nova wipes at her eyes and Sid wants to gather her in his arms, but knows it’s not the right time. Frustrated, he runs his hands over his hair and turns his back on Nova so he can get sweats and a t-shirt out of his drawer.
“I’m going to be thirty next month, Sid,” Nova sounds defeated. “We’re not even engaged. I just…this morning… it feels like you’re just wasting my time.”
His spine snaps straight, head halfway tangled in his shirt. “Nova,” his voice is muffled and he fights the fabric until he’s free, the cotton caught and crumpled at his chest. “Honey, you have to know I’m all fucking in on us. Please tell me that you know that.”
“It doesn’t feel like it, Sid,” she’s tucked up small, arms around her knees. For the first time, Sid notices that her eyes are rimmed in red and it’s like a punch to the gut. He hates that she’s been crying over him. “I love you, so much. But you haven’t told anyone this is going to be your last season and it feels like - it feels like you’re going to pull a fast one on me and sign another deal.”
She pulls her sweatshirt sleeves down over her hands and Sid finally breaks, climbing onto the bed and wrapping his arms around her. Nova lets out a little hiccuping gasp and crawls into Sid’s lap, burying her face in his neck as she starts to cry.
“Nova, honey,” his own voice cracks, her tears soaking the neck of his shirt. “Oh, honey.”
Nova cries, shaking in his arms, and Sid’s hand finds the nape of her neck, stroking gently. His thighs bracket her body and he can feel the knobs of her spine when she curls in even closer to him - he hadn’t realized how much weight she’s lost and that worries him too.
“I’m not going to do that,” he says into her hair. “I said I was done at the end of this contract and I meant it.”
“You said that last year too,” Nova reminds him wetly, pulling away from his chest. When his contract had expired in 2027, he’d said maybe he was done. He’d had a good run and his injuries were piling up. But then he’d signed a one-year and thought that would be it too. Then he’d felt good, too good to retire even though he would be turning forty-one before the season started.
“You blessed the second extension,” Sid reminds her, a little edge to his tone. “You agreed, when I asked you what you thought. Said you wanted to see me do what makes me happy.”
She wipes her face with her sleeve and nods, “I know and I know how happy hockey makes you, but it makes me feel like I’m second fiddle when you keep pushing retirement off. It keeps my life in limbo too, if I can’t plan for a wedding or kids.”
“That’s not my intention,” Sid protests, thinking about the engagement ring sitting in his sock drawer. Maybe he should’ve followed his first instinct and proposed over the summer, before he made the decision on the extension. Now Nova’s going to think it’s a reaction to her late period, a band-aid over her hurt. “I want it all with you, honey. Everything.”
“But only on your timeline,” Nova murmurs and pulls herself away from Sid, the sudden loss of her making his body go cold. She scoots back against the headboard and tugs her pillow into her lap to hold it against her chest. The physical barrier is like a blow. “I’m going to be thirty, Sid. I want a wedding and kids and I don’t want to be so old I can’t enjoy anything.”
When she lays out their ages like that, so matter of fact, Sid feels like a dirty, old man. Like he really is stealing her youth and wasting her time. The eleven years between them hasn’t felt like anything, but staring down retirement means Sid is reckoning with the passage of time.
“If you’re not serious about me, about us,” Nova’s voice wavers, “you have to tell me. I can’t - won’t wait and wait for nothing, Sid.”
She’s been folded into his life in every way possible. She’s met his parents and sister, spent weeks in Cole Harbour during the summer. She’s in the Pens WAG group chat and goes to events and games and parties. She lives with him and has had him in every room in the house.
And still, Nova doesn’t feel settled.
“Fuck it,” Sid grumbles and gets off the bed, leaving Nova’s jaw dropped. He can’t possibly be leaving her like this. He pads to the dresser, ass bouncing in a way that Nova can appreciate even though she’s angry with him, and digs into his sock drawer. That’s the one drawer Nova never goes in because honestly, a woman can only find threadbare socks and briefs so many times before she worries about getting the ick.
“What are you -“ the words die in Nova’s throat when he turns back around and she spots the black velvet box in his hand.
The laugh Sid lets out is wry, his half-smile sitting crooked on his face. Nova shakes her head at him reflexively, but that doesn’t deter Sid. He takes another step towards the bed, kneeling next to the side, his face eye-level with Nova’s thighs.
“Sid -“ she whispers, fingers tightening around the pillow.
“This,” Sid laughs, “is not how I was planning on proposing to you, Nova Kincaid.”
“No, no,” Nova’s eyes fill with tears and Sid panics, freezing in place. His thumb is on the seam of the box, ready to flip it open and expose the engagement ring. “Sid, you’re - I’m - this is - oh my god.”
Her words trail off in a little moan, the pillow coming up to cover her face.
Sid’s voice is shaky when he says her name, soft and worried.
“You’re in your briefs,” Nova points out, pulling the pillow away and setting it aside. “I’m in my rattiest Penn State sweatshirt and we’ve been fighting. This is -“
“Not the proposal you deserve,” Sid finishes for her, finally dropping his arm to the side and getting to his feet. There’s an imprint of the carpet fibers on his kneecap and Nova focuses on that, nodding slowly. Sid sits heavily on the mattress, resting the ring box on his thigh. He taps it in place twice, absently.
Nova’s fingers are delicate and cold when they find his forearm, a gentle olive branch that Sid’s going to grab onto with both hands. He turns to face her, bending his leg up on the mattress and involuntarily opening himself up to Nova’s gaze. At this point on a normal night, they’d be messy and sweaty and giggling together. He misses that.
“Sid, baby, how long have you had the ring?” She asks quietly, something glinting in her eyes.
“Six months,” he takes a risk and laces his fingers with Nova’s. She lets him and her entire body sags. “I told you, I’m all in, honey. I just - I was going to over the summer, but -“
“But the extension decision,” Nova finishes. She stares down at their interlinked hands. “You’re so good with kids, Sid. With the baby Penguins and my nieces and nephews. I mean, you’re the best godfather to Wyatt and we only see the Mackinnons a handful of times a year. I don’t understand why our hypothetical kid got an ‘oh shit’ reaction.”
“It’s timing, honey,” Sid sighs, feeling like he’s going in circles. “I need to give everything my all. And I can’t let you get only half of me during the season, going through a pregnancy.”
He leans in and brushes a kiss over Nova’s temple, murmuring, “I want to give you babies. I want to see your belly grow and hold your hand while you curse my name. I can’t wait to have a baby that’s going to get all the best parts of both of us.”
Nova tips her face so Sid’s lips brush her cheek, leans into him again. It’s so late, but his girl’s a night owl, could continue having this discussion until the sun comes up. Sid’s happy to reassure her as much as possible.
“We - I need you to put that ring away right now,”
Nova says softly, her free hand covering Sid’s. “But not forever, Sid. I won’t wait forever.”
“I’m not going to make you wait much longer,” Sid assures her. “I should’ve done it already, I got -“
Stupid. Scared. Pick an adjective. It doesn’t matter, Sid’s just mad that he let it get to this point.
Nova offers him a small, genuine smile and climbs into his lap, Sid’s hands finding her waist. She can feel the little box in his grip and curiosity blooms, but she’ll see that ring soon enough.
“You know,” she says, brushing her nose against his jaw, affectionate. Her curls tickle his cheeks. Sid waits for her to continue, wondering what she’s going to say. “You absolutely should’ve gotten called for the trip on Celebrini, but I guess they’re taking it easy on the elder statesman of the NHL.”
Sid throws his head back in laughter, Nova’s giggle drowned out by his burst of noise. That’s definitely not what he was expecting her to say, but the mood is definitely lighter now.
“Eh,” Sid slips one hand under her sweatshirt so he can press his palm flat against her spine, “not like the kid didn’t deserve it. Could be considered elder abuse.”
Nova hums and smirks at him, ignoring the easy joke layup he gave her. He sighs and Nova leans in again, her lips just shy of his. When they part, Sid takes the invitation and closes the gap, kissing her lightly, tasting the black cherry and rose lip balm she’s been applying obsessively lately. It makes her taste good, different from the vapes and cigarettes she’d tasted like when they first got together, but those vices have been gone for a long time now - over a year. Outgrown, Nova’d said one day when Sid commented that he hadn’t seen the vape in a while. Now he wonders if she dropped the habit with the intention of having a baby in the near future.
“I love you,” Sid breathes into her mouth, holding her close. “I’m sorry I reacted like an ass.”
Nova pulls back slightly, “I love you, too. I get it.” She plays with the neckline of his shirt, fingers brushing his skin. She’s hesitating. Sid waits her out.
“I’m also sorry that this ruined your last home opener,” she blinks wide eyes up at him. “I wish we could redo today.”
“It’s not too late,” Sid lifts an eyebrow. “I can go back out and you can jump me for kisses. If I know the Kincaid family, your group chat probably has a couple dozen messages about the game. Wanna read them out to me?”
She huffs a laugh, her whole body vibrating, and Sid’s cock twitches under her now that the emotional danger is mostly abated. It doesn’t feel like the right time to see if she’s in the mood though.
“The group chat was popping tonight, especially in the second,” she confirms. “But I think I just want to go to sleep, I’m exhausted.”
Sid agrees and gets out of bed to put the ring away, Nova snuggling up against his chest when he gets back under the covers. She tangles her legs with his and twists her fingers in the front of his shirt, clinging tightly like a baby koala. It makes Sid’s heart clench in his chest, the knot of unease that had been present all day loosening.
Whatever he’d fucked up this morning is on its way to mending.
He knows Nova will roll away from him in the night, stealing blankets as she goes, her feet poking out of the end of her inevitable cocoon, but for now he tightens his arms around her and rests his chin on the top of her head.
“So what’s it actually going to take for you to spend the night with me?” – or the smutty part two to this. Go read that first! This takes place somewhere between their first date and the wedding epilogue.
Pairing: Nico Hischier x afab! reader with she/her pronouns
Word count: 6k
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ★ Awkward Nico to soft dom Nico real quick (but it's quite vanilla overall). This has the whole shebang. Oral (f! receiving), fingering, penetrative sex and reader is on the pill so he gets to come inside. They're also madly in love without saying anything about it yet.
A/N: I don't know how I feel about this because I was not in the mood to edit smut when I did it, but please tell me what you think ◡̈
“Can you turn your hat around?”
Nico looked down at you, a small, delighted grin spreading across your face. our hands were tucked into his, both of his holding yours as they swayed lazily in the small space between your bodies.
The courtyard between your buildings was in full bloom, color spilling out of every planter box and climbing vine. Spring had settled in properly, warm and fragrant, with summer waiting just around the corner. You could feel it in the air by just being outside.
It suited you, even beside your clear connection to flowers.
Your cheeks were dusted pink, the blush melting seamlessly into your skin.You wore a long dress with a dainty polka-dot pattern that shifted in the breeze, brushing against his legs when you stepped closer. And your lips—fuck, your lips—were flushed with color from biting back laughter, a habit he was starting to recognize.
It was a problem, really. A constant tug-of-war between wanting to tell you to stop—because he wanted to hear you laugh out loud—and wanting you to keep doing it, just so he could watch the way your teeth sank into the soft curve of your bottom lip.
“Why?” he asked anyway, even though he already knew.
Your smile tipped into something playful. “So I can kiss you without hitting my forehead on the bill, silly.”
Nico dropped the act—the teasing, the slow, deliberate way he’d been staring at your mouth, the feigned confusion—and flipped his hat around in one smooth motion. He didn’t give you time to say anything else before he leaned in, closing the distance and kissing you.
You melted into it like you always did.
You’d spent almost the entire day together. It hadn’t exactly been planned that way—he’d just picked you up for breakfast at Ruthie’s, and then neither of you had really found a reason to leave.
You’d wandered through the park for hours, the path winding under trees just beginning to bloom. Nico had spent most of it asking about flowers, pointing them out like he knew what he was doing, only to be told—repeatedly—that they were all just different colors of crocuses.
You’d drifted through shops after that, hands brushing, shoulders bumping, until you’d convinced him—far too easily—to buy a vintage letterman jacket. He’d barely even looked at the price once you said he looked handsome in it. He figured he’d probably never wear another jacket now.
At a used bookstore, you’d quizzed him on classics, growing more dramatically disappointed with every wrong answer. But he’d caught the way your mouth kept twitching, the smile you tried to hide behind exaggerated sighs. You weren’t actually upset—you just liked getting a rise out of him.
And then you’d gone to the arcade.
A late lunch consisting of fried food, blinking neon lights, the low hum of machines—and mini golf. You’d beaten him. Completely, undeniably, and with far too much gloating for someone who insisted they were a gracious winner.
Nico hadn’t let you win. He just hadn’t tried that hard to stop you because seeing you that unashamedly happy was better than winning some stupid game.
It had been like this for weeks now. Nearly a month since your first date, if he was counting correctly—which he was, even if he pretended not to be.
You weren’t technically his girlfriend. Not yet. He had a plan for that, somewhere in the back of his mind, half-formed and waiting for the right moment. It wasn’t because he was scared or anything.
Or maybe it was because he was deathly terrified of getting it wrong. Because this—whatever this was—felt too good to rush.
So he let things unfold the way they had been. Long days together, easy laughter, and then this—the quiet end of it all, here in the courtyard, where he kissed you breathless before watching you disappear into your building.
Like always.
His hand slid up slightly, thumb brushing against your wrist as he leaned down further, making it easier for you so you didn’t have to rise onto your tiptoes. The kiss softened, then deepened again, slow and unhurried. He could taste the cherry coke you’d had at the arcade on your breath, sweet and faintly fizzy, and feel the light press of your tongue against his.
It made it hard to think.
“Be honest with me,” you murmured against his mouth, your lips barely leaving his. “Did you let me win at mini golf?”
Nico huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low between you. “No. I would never.”
You pulled back just enough to narrow your eyes at him, unconvinced—but smiling anyway. Then you leaned in for one last kiss, quick and deliberate, like a period at the end of a sentence.
“Same time tomorrow?” you joked.
“Get home safe,” he shot back, just as easily.
You slipped out of his hands and turned, your dress catching the breeze as you crossed the courtyard. There was a lightness in your step, something almost buoyant, like the happiness of the day was still clinging to you.
Nico stayed where he was, watching. He always did. He didn’t move until you reached your door, until you disappeared inside, until there was nothing left to look at but the empty pathway and the lingering warmth of you still clinging to his skin.
Only then did he turn toward his own building.
But he didn’t get far. He’d barely reached the elevator when his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he already knew it was you.
You’d done this before—these small extensions of goodbye, like neither of you were quite ready to let the day end. Sometimes it meant him standing by his kitchen window, waving across the courtyard until you finally disappeared to go to bed.
He was already smiling as he pulled his phone out, ready with some half-formed joke, but you were quicker than him to speak.
“So,” you said, “what’s it actually going to take for you to spend the night with me?”
—
“I missed you,” Nico mumbled against your lips the moment you opened.
He stepped inside, making a clumsy attempt to kick it shut behind him while also trying to push you up against the wall like he knew what he was doing. He didn’t. Not even a little.
This was not as easy as it looked in the movies.
You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out, your head tipping back just enough that he nearly missed your mouth entirely. “We’ve been apart for maybe five minutes, Nico.”
“Still missed you,” he insisted, one hand coming up to steady your jaw so he could actually land the kiss this time.
The force of it knocked the breath from your lungs—surprise more than anything—but he felt it the moment you softened. The kiss started urgent, almost frantic, like he needed to confirm what you’d meant by that call. That it had been real. That you wanted him here. Then it eased, breaking into slower, lingering presses of your lips as the urgency gave way to something warm and comfortable.
“You really ran over here, huh?” you mused, taking a step back.
Nico tried to collect himself and failed—completely. His chest rose and fell too fast, heat climbing up his neck, his thoughts scrambling somewhere far off and inappropriate.
It hit him all at once, then—this was the first time he’d actually been inside your apartment. Not just glimpses through the window, not just imagining it from across the courtyard. All those dates, and he’d never made it past your front door.
You stepped back into the living room, and he followed without thinking, toeing off his sneakers in the process.
Your place felt like you—warm, a little cluttered in a way that made it feel lived-in with soft afternoon light spilling in across the space. There were flowers on every surface and in the windows—of course there were—and a faint, familiar scent he couldn’t quite place but already associated with you.
“I didn’t run,” Nico said, because apparently that was the part he’d decided to defend, a crooked smile breaking through despite himself. “I just walked really fast.”
“I think you ran,” you said, giggling like you knew you were right.
You’d backed up against the couch now, leaning into it like it had been planned. Nico just stood there for a second, watching you like he’d forgotten how to move. The silence between you felt thick enough to touch, like the both of you were standing on the edge of the same thought and waiting to see who would say it first.
“We don’t—” Nico started.
“This doesn’t—” you said at the same time.
You both stopped, then laughed, the tension cracking just enough to breathe again.
“You go first,” you said.
“I don’t even know what I was going to say,” Nico admitted, a nervous laugh slipping out with it.
But he stepped closer anyway, in a moment of strange bravery, gently bracketing you with his body.
His hands found your bare arms, sliding slowly up and down, grounding himself in the feel of you. Your hand slipped into his, fingers tightening just slightly—familiar, like the courtyard, like earlier. But different, too. Nico felt it as it happened, that small shift, like a decision being made in real time.
His thumb brushed along your cheek, slower this time, lingering before his hand slid back to cradle your jaw. He kissed you again, softer at first, like he was giving you time to change your mind. But you didn’t.
Your other hand came up, hesitating only for a second before resting against his chest. He could feel the warmth of your palm even through the fabric of his hoodie, the slight curl of your fingers like you weren’t sure if you should pull him closer—or if you even needed to.
“Are you sure about this?” Nico asked quietly against your lips.
“Nico,” you murmured, breath warm against his mouth, “having sex doesn’t exactly have to be reckless.”
Despite himself, he let out a small, breathy laugh. “I know.”
“Then why are you always acting like it is?”
He pulled back just enough to look at you. Your brows were slightly drawn, not upset—just trying to understand him. And he realized, all at once, that he hadn’t hidden his emotions as well as he thought. But maybe it was obvious when a month’s worth of hanging out hadn’t lead much further than kissing. Kissing that you’d had to initiate the first time, nonetheless.
“Because I don’t want to be casual about you,” Nico softly revealed. He didn’t see the point of being obtuse. “I don’t want to just… stay over and have it be nothing. And I don’t want you to think that’s all I’m here for, either.”
“I don’t think that at all.” You broke out into a little smile, fondly looking up at him with almost a pout. “You don’t have to be so careful around me.”
“I just didn’t want to get it wrong,” he admitted.
The shift Nico had felt was suddenly present again, throwing all of his nerves aside.
Your fingers fisted lightly in his hoodie, and that was all the invitation he needed to kiss you again. His hand tightened at your waist, drawing you closer until there wasn’t space left between you, your dress brushing against his legs, your body fitting against his like it had been threatening to all day.
The sound you made—quiet, almost surprised—went straight through him.
It was warm and a little unsteady, a little desperate in a way that made his entire body tighten. Your hands moved—one sliding up to his shoulder, the other finding the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair and pulling lightly.
That definitely hadn’t happened in the courtyard.
The kiss deepened, messier now, less careful. Not rushed—but not held back, either. Like you’d both crossed something you didn’t want to uncross.
You didn’t quite make it through another full kiss before something shifted again.
It was subtle at first—your steps faltered, his hand tightening at your waist—but then suddenly you were both moving, half-guided, half-stumbling, like neither of you wanted to break apart long enough to figure out where you were going.
Nico let out a quiet, breathless laugh when the back of his leg bumped into something, but you were already tugging him past it, your fingers still tangled in his hair, your other hand gripping his hoodie like letting go wasn’t even an option.
“Wait—” he tried, breathless, though he didn’t actually stop.
“Bedroom,” you murmured, the word brushing against his lips more than spoken.
Nico was happy your apartment had the same layout as his; otherwise he would’ve never made it to your bedroom like this.
The walk down the short hallway felt impossibly long and not long enough all at once. Your shoulders brushed the wall, his hand slid along your side to steady you both, and your mouths kept finding each other in quick, heated bursts.
Your bedroom was dim, lit only by a small lamp casting a warm glow across rumpled sheets and subdued shadows. He should’ve known your bedroom would look just as soft as you did.
You moved with him, guiding him back a step, then another, until the edge of the bed met the backs of his legs and he was forced to sit down.
And then you pulled away.
“Can you unzip my dress?”
There was something a little shy tucked into the edges of it, despite the way you turned coquettishly sweet, almost practiced—giving him your back.
Nico swallowed hard. He could reach you from where he was sitting, hands settling instinctively at your hips before he let them slide upward. His fingers hesitated for half a second at the zipper before gently pulling it down.
The soft sound of the zipper felt louder than it should’ve in the silence of the room. Fabric loosened beneath his hands, and he caught a glimpse of your skin—just enough to make his chest tighten unexpectedly.
He’d spent all day looking at you, but never like this. Nothing could’ve prepared him for the sight of you as the dress effortlessly peeled of your shoulders and fell to the floor in a pool of fabric around your feet.
Nico exhaled slowly, like he was trying to ground himself in the moment instead of getting swept up in it. But there was something totally overwhelming about you.
You turned around to face him again, and he tried his best to not let his eyes roam, but it was useless.
Floral. Of course it was. A matching set of lingerie in a pink pattern with white lace, soft and delicate, like something you’d definitely chosen on purpose.
For a split second, he nearly laughed—not at you, but at the overwhelming rightness of it. At how completely, unmistakably you it was. He had to stop himself from doing something stupid, like asking about it or just immediately pulling you into his lap. Even if seeing your abashed little face would probably fill his heart up with love right to the brim.
You shifted slightly in front of him, the hardwood creaking, and that’s when he noticed the change. The way your shoulders drew in, just a fraction. Your eyes were big and glassy as you dared to look up at him, but it was only for a second before your gaze was back on the floor again.
You were shy, even after all that.
“Did you get nervous now?” he teased lightly, his oice softer than the words themselves. “See? Not as easy as you thought.”
Nico adored you. In some deep and unexplainable, cosmic way. With every part of his being, probably. It was not even a question if he was going to love every inch of your skin or not—he already did before seeing it. You were handing over your comfort into his hands, showing him trust in a way he wasn’t sure he was deserving of.
You made a small sound—half a protest, half a laugh—but it didn’t quite settle.
“Hey—hey,” Nico murmured. “Look at me.”
His hands came up without thinking, finding your waist again, only this time it was your bare skin he was touching. You stood between his legs as he still sat on the mattress, eyes flickering to the ceiling before looking down.
The look you gave him was beyond sweet—eyes a little wide and lips swollen from kissing.
Your skin was warm to the touch, and Nico couldn’t help but think of the first time he’d held your hand while on that first date at Ruthie’s. Or how you’d felt the first time you’d kissed him—because he’d been too scared to do it first. Or that time you’d fallen asleep in his car after a cinema date and how your skin had felt as he’d tried to pick you up and carry you inside, only for you to wake up and refuse the help.
All those small, quiet moments. This was just another one of them.
“You’re okay,” he said gently, thumb brushing along your stomach. “We don’t have to rush anything.”
Your fingers tightened lightly in his hoodie, arms going around his neck like you needed something solid to hold onto. “I don’t think you’re rushing me,” you said. “I just—”
You didn’t finish. It was a hard feeling to put into words.
Nico’s gaze flickered down again, just briefly, catching on the floral pattern of your panties, lace fabric tickling his palms, before lifting back to your face, something warmer settling into his expression.
“It’s very pretty,” he said simply.
Your shoulders loosened at that, the tension easing out of you in a way he could feel as you laughed at the same time.
“Can I kiss you again?” Nico asked.
You granted him his wish, the sigh of relief leaving your mouth never finding completion before you kissed him again, leaning down to press your entire body into his. Nico breathed into the kiss, slowly settling into a familiar rhythm.
When he pulled back, it wasn’t far, the tip of his nose still touching yours.
“What kind of flowers are these?” he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as he toyed with the lace trim stretching across your hips.
You exhaled, hiding a laugh by pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. “I think it’s just a pattern.”
“Mm,” Nico hummed, like he was considering that very seriously anyway. His hand slipped down to yours, fingers threading together, giving you something steady. “You wanna lay down for me?” he asked softly.
You answered with a soft nod. Nico shifted a little to the side and guided you gently. The backs of your knees hit the mattress first, and you sat, pulling him with you without really meaning to until your head hit the pillows and Nico naturally lay on his side next to you.
For a second, neither of you moved. You were close—closer than ever before somehow, even without the urgency. Your knee brushed his thigh, your hand still loosely wrapped around his. The room felt quieter now, the earlier tension settling into something soft.
Nico reached up, almost absentmindedly, brushing a piece of hair back from your face.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded again, this time with a small smile that felt more like you. “Yeah. I think I just—” You huffed out a quiet breath. “Thought I’d be smoother about this.”
He smiled at your honesty. “I’m pretty sure I almost took your door off its hinges five minutes ago,” he said. “So I don’t know if either of us gets to claim ‘smooth.’”
You laughed—loud and properly this time—and the sound loosened something in his chest.
“Come here,” he said softly.
You leaned into him with an easy kiss that never really seemed to end. Nico’s hand cradled your jaw again. It was probably his favorite place to put it because it meant he could control how you kissed him. Even as you gasped for air, he was back to kissing you immediately. Soft and unhurried with tongues exploring and teeth gently nibbling at each other’s lips.
You were so fucking sweet, clad like some spring daydream and kissing him softer than he’d ever experienced before.
His dick had been half-hard ever since you kissed him in the courtyard, and definitely more than half since your dress had ended up on the floor. Each little sound and move you made only made it worse for him, and you probably weren’t even aware of it.
The hand he had cradling your cheek started to trail further down in a tickling whisper, down your neck and collarbone, before gripping over your breast, fingers touching the lace on your bra, swiping over your nipple slightly protruding it.
Nico wasn’t even thinking as he did it, but as you arched up against his touch, he suddenly noticed. And he definitely noticed when your hands swiftly moved behind your back to pull at the clasp of your bra.
It was discarded on the floor seconds later, and Nico’s mind went completely blank for a moment, only being able to zero in on your naked chest. He swallowed a moan at the sight alone, your skin spreading out like a landscape before him, soft nipples slowly pebbling into hard peaks from being exposed, practically pulling him in like a force of nature.
“Oh my god,” he breathed out without a care, lips moving down to kiss you all over, starting with your neck and ending with one of your nipples drawn into his mouth. “Fucking look at you.”
You arched again, moaning a little louder. You threaded your fingers through this tousled hair, holding him close to your chest like you didn’t want him to stop.
Nico hummed against you, mouthing softly at your breast, nipple popping from between his lips as he let go, looking at you with a smile.
“Oh—” you gasped softly, a strangled noise that got caught on the way out. Your hand quickly found his arm, fingertips pressing indents into his bicep through his hoodie.
“Do I need to remind you to breathe?” Nico teased.
You didn’t have a chance to quip back because Nico’s other hand dipped between your thighs, fingertips running up the inside before he could stroke you over your panties, fabric clinging onto the wetness already coating you.
You definitely struggled breathing when his hand toyed with the waistband of them, softly going under it to cup your mound. With a delicate complaint, Nico was back to kissing you to feed your neediness. He could feel you smile into it, a breathless sound leaving you as he slipped his tongue into your mouth, keeping it messy.
Your clit throbbed under the teasing circles he made, his ring and middle finger gliding through your fold just to tease your entrance before withdrawing, slicking up to press harder against your swollen nub before pulling his hand away completely.
Reluctantly, Nico pulled away from the kiss too, shifting his body away from you for a moment. You breathed out in frustration until his hand trailed down your stomach to hook back into the cotton material of your panties. “Hips up for me?”
You complied wordlessly. Nico bowed down to kiss you again as he slowly pulled them down your legs, dropping them somewhere on the floor. Once you were now completely naked, his hand carefully grazed back up your leg, splaying warmly across your stomach.
“Spread your legs a bit more, huh? Can you do that for me?”
You answered with the action.
Nico descended down your body, leaving a trail of warm kisses in the valley between your breasts, over your ribs and stomach, before getting comfortable between your thighs. His hands rubbed up and down them gently, your legs spreading even further apart on instinct.
“God, you’ve got the prettiest pussy,” Nico mumbled, moving one hand to thumb through your folds. You glisten from wetness in the dim evening light as he gently uncovered your clit. A soft whimper escaped you when he finally nudged it again, the pad of his finger running a soft circle directly on it.
“Please, Nico,” you managed to get out in a small whimper.
“Please what?”
You huffed, body tensing. “Please use your mouth on me.”
“Well, when you ask so nicely…” Nico placed yet another kiss on your stomach and a few more along your inner thighs just to see you writhe. He looked up at you as he did, an intense stare filled with nothing but lust.
Finally leaning in further, he dragged his lips against you, tracing your soaked folds with his mouth, wetness smearing and clinging to his face. It had you bucking against him, that first wave of pleasure making you just a little crazy for more.
“You’re so sweet,” he whispered between your legs, the word sweet having a double meaning.
Nico started slow, and you continued to squirm in anticipation. He lapped up the wetness that dripped from you, nuzzling closer so his nose brushed your clit. When he figured you’d had enough, he finally flattened his tongue against you, licking a long stripe from your entrance up to your clit, ending by suckling down on it, pulling it between his lips harshly.
One of his hands still gripped your inner thigh, the other one gently moving to press inside you. One finger at first to test the waters, and when you completely sucked it in, he added a second.
Hidden behind your relentless sounds, Nico was enjoying this just as much as you were, pressing his erection deep into the mattress in continuous ruts, moaning into your cunt when he couldn’t help it. He’d never experienced something this sweet and intoxicating before.
It didn’t take long for the tandem of his fingers pumping inside of you and the pressure of his tongue to have you writhing beneath him. His tongue teased you as his fingers softly curled with every thrust to nudge that sweet, perfect spot inside.
“F-fuck, Nico,” you warned.
“You can come, baby,” he urged back. “Wanna feel it on my tongue.”
You pushed his hair back, revealing more of his face to you—how his cheeks hollowed out and his eyes were glassy and dark as they drank you in. It was like Nico could sense it, because he took your clit between his lips once more, sucking roughly, and in the same moment, you were completely done for.
A loud sob escaped you as you came, and he brought you through it, leaving a loving series of soft kisses right on your clit until you stopped tensing. Nico was fully mesmerized by the sight of you. You were breathing hard—ribcage expanding and contracting quickly—and your eyes were slowly blinking as your vision probably whitened.
Nico continued looking at you, lifting his head up from his place between your legs, hands gently rubbing along your upper thigh. Your hands were clutched over your chest, almost holding onto your breasts for comfort.
“You’re absolutely insane,” you said between heavy breaths.
“I can’t believe we lasted a month without doing that,” Nico laughed back.
He playfully pecked your stomach, and then he pushed away from you, sitting on the side of the bed. Nico could see your brows wrinkle in confusion before you noticed him reaching to unbuckle his belt. You sat up too, folding your legs under you as you dragged the sheets to partially cover your naked body.
“I think the next part is easier if I’m naked too, don’t you think?”
You let out a soft giggle, clutching the sheets closer to your chest. “Can I help?”
Nico’s stomach tensed under your light touch, fingers dragging down to his stomach before lifting the fabric of his hoodie swiftly upward, making a mess of his hair along the way.
You then softly looked at him, hand resting on his arm as he struggled to pull off his jeans. Suddenly his bulging boxers stood like an elephant in the room—your kind eyes gently following it while Nico just wanted to sink through the floor at the sight of precome soaking through the gray fabric of them.
“Can I touch you?” you sweetly asked.
Nico just let his hands fall away as an answer, resting back on the mattress.
Your hands moved slowly, scooting a little closer, leg pressing into his. Your palm was surprisingly cold against his warm skin as you let your palm follow the shape of him through the fabric. Nico fixated on the shaky little breath you released as you pushed his boxers down, making his blood-filled cock spring up with fervor.
Leaning into you, his head fell against yours as you both watched how your hand stroked him. Smearing precome over his already throbbing tip, swollen red with lust. Nico had to stop you from doing too much too quickly, gently removing your hand by holding your wrist.
With his jeans kicked aside and the last pieces of his clothing removed, you both lay back on the mattress, warm skin sticking to each other. You pulled Nico on top of you, bodies perfectly aligning—his cock nestled against your stomach, almost instantly rubbing up through your folds as your breasts pressed into his chest.
He braced one arm beside your head, the other trailing up your side, teasingly gripping at your hip before cupping your breast, adding a gentle pinch to your nipple. You gasped out a giggle in response.
“Condom?” Nico asked.
“I’m clean and on the pill, so—” you cut yourself off, speaking unnecessarily fast. “I mean, only if you’re comfortable with that. And clean too, of course.”
“Fuck.” Nico sucked in a breath, realization dawning. “You want me to come inside you?”
“Yeah,” you whispered.
In the same moment, Nico felt you wriggle beneath him, legs spreading, almost like you were showing off for him—puffy from earlier and dripping with wetness. He didn’t have much more time to think about this—not that he really needed to—because you were already ready and waiting for him to make the move.
Nico paused, the head of his cock resting right by your entrance. “I’ll ease in, okay?” He leaned down to capture your mouth in a soft kiss. Your jaw went slack as he pushed in, breathing in a moan right into Nico’s mouth as he went to the hilt.
The soft stretch burned momentarily, your walls fluttering around him as he sank deep. He didn’t tear his eyes away from you as he began moving, always making sure that you were with him.
He pulled out halfway first before thrusting back in, building a gentle rhythm that easily grew faster. You could savor the drag of his cock filling you up and stretching you wide. Your breaths hitched with each slide, Nico’s hips rolling into yours with added pressure as you arched into him.
“Nico, oh fuck— You feel—” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him into a kiss. Your legs tensed around him, wrapping around his behind to keep him there.
“I know, baby. I know,” Nico chuckled low, the sound vibrating in the small space between you as he nipped at your lips. “You feel fucking incredible.”
“You fill me up so much,” you whimpered back, clenching around him without meaning to.
Nico kept the rhythm quick and steady, each push and pull coaxing more and more from the both of you, the room filling up with a litany of sounds—moans, heavy breathing, and the wet sound of his cock sliding into your soaking cunt.
You clawed at his back whenever he sped up a little or hit particularly deep. Your nails would leave marks, but Nico didn’t care. Any mark you left on him, he would proudly parade around the locker room. Maybe that would finally stop the boys from making fun of his singleness. He was also pretty fucking sure he wasn’t single anymore.
He pressed his forehead to yours to keep you as close as he could, your breaths mingling when you weren’t kissing. He could feel you tense with every stroke and gush more and more. If the way you were squeezing him was any indication, you were close to coming. Your stomach tensed, your forehead wrinkled, and your eyes went blank.
“Gonna come, baby?” Nico murmured right by your ear, his hand finding the side of your face to cradle.
You nodded in desperation. “Mhm— I can’t—” you cut yourself off with a soft cry, head tilting back.
“I know,” he rasped. “Let it go.”
When you did come, your attitude changed back to as soft and needy as before when his hands had worked you through. Nico felt it in the way you clung closer to him and the way your moans and breaths faded into gentler whines.
“Shh, you did so good. That was so good,” Nico whispered out, carefully continuing to thrust inside you until he too could reach his peak. It didn’t take him many seconds, but he felt you shudder all the same as he did. Your body tensed, clenching around him, and Nico tried to not let himself drown completely in the pleasure to be there with you, a soothing hand still cupping your cheek.
He felt the familiar warm sensation as he slowly pumped you full of his release, everything from his arms, stomach, down to his thighs freezing up like they were cramping before violently relaxing. Your cunt was pulsing around him still, squeezing as he messily slipped out, dripping come on you and your bedsheets along the way.
A little overwhelmed, your only response at first was heavy, squeaky breathing. Nico chuckled fondly at the sight. You were trying to catch up and calm down at the same time, leaning up to kiss his shoulder to have an anchoring spot.
“That was…” Nico exhaled, trailing off as he dropped onto his side beside you.
You wrapped your arms around him as he lay down, tucking yourself into the space beneath his chin, your head settling into the curve of his neck. He felt how both of your chests heaved with the skin-to-skin contact. For a moment, that was all there was—the sound of both of you breathing, slowly finding a rhythm again. Your fingertips moved without much thought, tracing along his back, soft and careful as you soothed over the faint marks your nails had left behind.
Nico’s hand came up just as absentmindedly, brushing your hair back from your face, over and over until it stayed. His fingers lingered there, cupping your cheek, thumb warm where it rested just beneath your eye.
“How do you feel?” he asked quietly.
You took your time answering, letting yourself settle fully into the moment first. Your body felt loose and heavy in the best way, like everything had softened all at once.
“Really good,” you murmured.
He smiled at that—soft, almost relieved. “Good.”
There was a pause, comfortable and unhurried, before his hand drifted lower, brushing lightly over your side and your stomach, like he was still mapping you out.
“Hey,” he said, a hint of amusement slipping into his voice. You hummed in response, already half-lazy with it. “Your legs are shaking, baby.”
You let out a small, embarrassed laugh against his neck, the sound muffled. Nico’s hand slid down to your thigh, his touch gentle as he rubbed slow, soothing circles into the trembling muscle.
“It happens sometimes,” you said. “Usually means it was… a strong one.”
“Yeah?” he teased lightly. “Like little Bambi legs, huh?”
You made a quiet, offended noise, though there was no real bite to it, your fingers tightening briefly against him.
“Don’t ruin it,” you mumbled.
“I’m not ruining it,” he said, grinning into your hair. “I’m appreciating it.”
You huffed, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. His hand stayed there, steady and warm, grounding you as the last of the tension worked its way out of your body.
Nico pressed a slow kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second before settling back into the pillow, his arm tightening just slightly around you. After a moment, he shifted again, just enough to look down at you properly. His expression softened again, something more serious settling in.
“You’re my girlfriend now, by the way,” Nico said, like it had just occurred to him, even if the thought had bugged him for weeks now. “I’m not letting you go.”
“Cool,” you murmured, eyes already drifting shut. “I’ve wanted to be that for, like, a month now.”
Thank you for reading ◡̈
Please tell me what you think
My ask box is always open!
Summary: “So, is your aunt actually dead? Or did you come up with lies every time?” – or the one where Nico is weirdly infatuated with his neighbor and his solution is to buy flowers from her every week.
Pairing: Nico Hischier x afab! reader with she/her pronouns
Word count: 16k
Warnings: No real warnings for this one. It's mostly cute. There's mentions of loneliness, hinting at depression almost, and also an argument between reader and her sister ★
A/N: One singular request for it and I will post a smutty little part two to this that I've already written. Please come tell me what you think ◡̈
The first time Nico saw you was the day he moved into his new apartment.
It had only taken him close to a decade, but he finally had a place in Jersey that wasn’t just somewhere his stuff happened to live. He’d bought a home. A penthouse, no less—top floor of a redbrick building that was probably an old factory in a past life. The real estate agent had talked a lot about its historic charm, but Nico had stopped listening somewhere between exposed piping and original hardwood floors.
All he’d really wanted was space. And big windows. Now he had both.
More closet space for clothes he didn’t own. A dining table large enough to host dinner parties he would absolutely never throw. A balcony perfect for long, reflective evenings he would definitely spend… inside. Just your classic, upscale bachelor pad.
He’d spent the morning directing the movers like a man who knew exactly what he was doing and the afternoon correcting everything Timo had unpacked like a man who absolutely did not.
By the time Timo finally left, Nico felt like he could sit down and breathe for the first time all day.
His kitchen was sleek—high-gloss black cabinets and brick accent walls, the kind of place that made you feel like you should know how to cook something impressive. He did not. One of the dining chairs wobbled when he sat down, which he chose to blame entirely on Timo, who had assembled them, and not at all on his own lack of supervision.
Through the massive windows, the apartment overlooked a courtyard—four tall buildings forming a quiet square around a patch of green. It felt almost hidden, like a secret garden for people who paid too much in maintenance fees. That had been a selling point. Nico preferred it to the constant noise of the street his old place faced.
Most of the windows across the courtyard were dark or shuttered. It was getting late, he figured. All except for one lonely window.
Directly opposite his apartment, in a unit that mirrored his almost exactly, a kitchen glowed softly. Same layout, same angles—just more lived-in. The cabinets were white instead of black. Lace curtains framed the windows. Potted plants lined the sill like they’d been there long enough to grow stuck.
And on the table, a single white candle burned in a holder, steady and bright. For a second, Nico’s brain went straight to fire hazard. Then you sat down.
Hood up, like you were hiding from the world—or just the evening. A mug cupped between your hands, something warm curling up in faint wisps. You settled easily at the kitchen table. Like you’d done it a hundred times before, and like you might do it a hundred more.
Nico looked away almost immediately, suddenly very interested in unpacking a box of kitchen utensils he didn’t remember owning. When the fuck had he bought a garlic press? He told himself not to stare. He folded laundry. He stacked plates. He tightened the screws on the chair Timo had “definitely assembled correctly, bro, trust me.”
But every now and then, he glanced back across the courtyard. You were still there.
Sometimes you smiled faintly at something on your phone. Other times, you scribbled in a notebook, pausing like you were deciding whether the thought was worth keeping or if you should erase it. And sometimes you just sat there, your gaze weirdly empty. Watching the candle. Letting the wax drip over your fingers as if you had nowhere else to be.
By midnight, Nico was brushing his teeth, half-asleep on his feet. He glanced over one last time, toothbrush hanging from his mouth. You were still there. Your head dipped slightly, like sleep was catching up to you in slow motion. But you didn’t leave the table. He couldn’t understand how you weren’t bored out of your mind yet, having sat still for hours at this point.
Nico turned off the lights in his apartment, the darkness folding in around him. And when he finally fell asleep, it was with a distinct, slightly ridiculous certainty that he would be dreaming of a girl that looked a little too much like his new neighbor.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Nico didn’t mean for it to become a habit. It just happened.
At first, it was accidental—passing glances while he heated something in the microwave or waited for his coffee to brew. But somewhere along the way, it turned into something else. A predictable routine. Slightly embarrassing, if he ever admitted it out loud.
Whenever he was home, he would look your way. He even started to notice things about you.
Like how your curtains changed with the seasons. In October, they’d been replaced with ones patterned with tiny pumpkins—subtle, but unmistakable if you were, for example, someone who apparently spent a concerning amount of time looking into a stranger’s kitchen. And then in December, the curtains were red, of course.
Or how every Saturday night, without fail, your apartment filled with people. Four girls, always the same ones. Nico had seen them enough times entering the building that he could almost recognize their voices echoing up from the courtyard.
And then, the rest of the week—there was nothing. Just you in your window. A candle always flickering while you simply sat there. Sometimes you cooked; other times he’d see delivery drivers outside the front door. Sometimes he could sense you were listening to music by the way you mouthed along or bobbed your head to a beat. But mostly you were quiet.
Maybe that was by choice. Maybe you like it that way. Nico told himself that had to be it. Plenty of people liked being alone. But for some reason, he wasn’t entirely convinced you were one of them.
You never looked his way. Or—at least—he’d never caught you doing it.
Not once. Not even accidentally. Which felt statistically unlikely, considering he was a full-grown man basically haunting the space the minimal time he spent at home. He liked his new apartment—he really did. But he was not one of those people who enjoyed being alone.
Over Christmas, you disappeared entirely. Nico noticed on the second day. By the third, he’d caught himself checking your dark windows out of pure reflex. By the fourth, he stopped pretending it didn’t bother him.
He stayed in Jersey.
There wasn’t enough time to make it back to Switzerland between games, and his parents hadn’t managed to come over this year. It wasn’t new. It didn’t even feel particularly sad anymore. It was just the way things worked when you had to move across the Atlantic to live out your dreams.
He’d celebrate with some of the guys from the team, eat too much, laugh a little too loudly, and then spend an hour or two on FaceTime with his family, trying to ignore the time difference and the way calls always ended a little too soon.
Still, the apartment felt bigger without you across from him. Colder, somehow. Maybe he just needed to decorate his place more. Bring in some of that warmth that you seemed to have at your place.
As snow gently fell over the courtyard, frost clinging to the windows, his habit of looking for you was, of course, still there—only now he was filled with a sense of longing every time he noticed you still weren’t there.
He wished for you to have a nice Christmas wherever you were. He hoped you were somewhere warm. Somewhere familiar and good. Mostly he hoped you weren’t alone.
A few days after Christmas, the candle was burning again.
Nico noticed immediately. He came home late from a New Year’s Day game—legs heavy, brain somewhere between exhausted and wired—and he saw the flickering light coming from your kitchen.
You stood by the stove, stirring something in a pot, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like you’d been at it for a while. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed that until he felt his shoulders relax at the sight. Which Nico knew was totally ridiculous.
January dragged on, slow and gray, until eventually the days started stretching again. More light filtered into the courtyard, lingering a little longer each afternoon.
Your window changed with it.
Sometimes there were fresh flowers on the table, bright and out of place against the winter backdrop. Other times, they’d be pushed aside to make room for dinner plates or board games or a bottle of wine that never seemed to stay full for very long.
The four girls came and went, just like always.
Nico had even run into them once—on his way out for a late practice, bag slung over his shoulder, already mentally halfway at the rink. They’d smiled and said hi. One of them had nudged another like they were sharing a joke he wasn’t in on.
You weren’t with them. Obviously. They were on their way to your apartment.
In fact, Nico had yet to see you anywhere that wasn’t framed by your kitchen window. It was starting to feel intentional. Like you existed exclusively in that space—lit by candlelight, half-hidden behind glass, untouchable in a way that didn’t make any logical sense.
After your friends left on Saturdays, you always lingered. Sitting alone at the table again. Sometimes with your phone, sometimes with that notebook, sometimes just staring at the candle like it had you hypnotized.
Nico wondered what you were thinking about. He wondered if you needed the quiet—or if you were just used to it. If the dinners you hosted drained your battery to the point where you needed to recharge alone for a few hours afterward, or if you just simply liked sitting there in your kitchen.
He also wondered, briefly, how deeply unsettling it would be if you knew how much a professional athlete—someone who, on paper, had much better things to do—was thinking about a girl he’d never spoken to.
Probably very. He tried not to think about that part.
Nico also had no idea what he’d do if he ever saw you outside of that window. He wasn’t even entirely sure he’d recognize you.
Turns out he would.
And you wouldn’t give him nearly enough time to come up with a plan.
One morning, Nico stumbled out of his building, barely awake, already mentally complaining about the practice waiting for him. The cold hit him immediately, sharp and rude, and he hunched deeper into his jacket as light snow drifted lazily through the air.
And there you were, on the other side of the courtyard, crouched slightly as you unchained a bike. He thought you were crazy for riding a bike in this weather.
Nico slowed without meaning to, watching as you tugged on a pair of mittens with your teeth. Up close—or just closer—you looked exactly the same. But also less like something framed behind glass.
You were human and not just a figment of his imagination.
Your coat was oversized, the kind that swallowed you whole, and a few strands of hair had escaped from under your knitted beanie, catching the light as they moved. Nico found himself noticing the smallest things—the way you shifted your weight, the way your breath came out in little clouds, the way you seemed entirely in your own world.
Without thinking twice, he said a quiet hello as he walked past you. He was only being a nice neighbor. You were on the way to the car park anyway.
Butyou didn’t react to it at all—you just adjusted your scarf, grabbed the handlebars, and started walking your bike toward the sidewalk as if he hadn’t said anything at all. You didn’t even give a glance in his direction.
Nico slowed to a stop for half a second, something awkward settling in his chest. Then he kept walking. He told himself you probably hadn’t heard him. The snow, the distance, the early hour—any number of reasons. Maybe you were painfully shy.
The silence followed him all the way to his car. And all the way to the rink. And, annoyingly, through most of practice.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
A few days later, some of Nico’s teammates invited themselves over.
Officially, it was to see his new place. Unofficially, Nico was about ninety percent sure it was because he had the biggest TV and the least likelihood of someone’s girlfriend telling them all to go home every twenty minutes.
Also—if he was being honest—there was a faint air of guilt to it too. Most of the guys were in long-term relationships now. Engagements, shared apartments, children. Guy’s nights had become something you had to schedule a month in advance, like a dentist appointment.
Meanwhile, Nico still had single written across his forehead in bold, capital letters.
He didn’t really mind, though—if they were here because of guilt. Not when his apartment was full like this. Voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the high ceilings, someone yelling about a missed pass on Chel like it was Game 7 of the finals.
It felt good. Almost entirely normal.
Dawson’s voice cut through the room from the couch, loud and indignant as he accused someone of being blind for missing an obvious offside. The response came just as quickly, dismissive and amused, reminding him that it was just a video game and he needed to relax.
And then they had the never-ending discussion about pineapple on pizza when they decided what to order for dinner. Someone declared it should be illegal. Another disagreed. The consensus was that pineapple wasn’t really that terrible when Jesper told everyone about how Swedish pizza places usually offered banana as a topping too.
Nico needed a moment to himself after eating. That’s what he told himself, anyway. Dishes. Trash. Totally normal, productive reasons to step away from a loud room full of grown men shouting over a video game.
He grabbed a couple of empty bottles, stacking them together as he moved toward the sink. He hadn’t even turned the water on yet when he heard footsteps behind him.
Timo. Of course.
“Are you okay, dude?” he asked, leaning casually against the counter like he hadn’t followed him in here on purpose. “You haven’t said a word all night.”
He said it in German, which helped approximately zero considering half the team could still probably guess what was being said just from tone alone.
Nico rinsed out a glass, focusing a little too hard on something that did not require that much concentration.
“I’m just tired, I think,” he muttered in response.
Timo hummed, unconvinced.
Nico braced himself. He could practically feel it coming—the follow-up question, the inevitable digging. Timo had that look, the one that meant he wasn’t done yet. Nico half expected something along the lines of “you sure? you’ve been weird” or, worse, something about him needing to “get out more.”
He kept his back turned, focusing on the glass that was definitely clean now. There was a pause. Long enough that Nico figured he’d gotten away with it. He knew he had when Timo asked something totally unrelated.
“Have you noticed your deaf neighbors across the street?”
Nico didn’t know what he was talking about at first, seeing Timo stare out his window with furrowed brows. He reached for a towel to dry his hands as he walked over to see for himself.
“I think they’re arguing in sign language,” Timo continued, pointing to the window for Nico to see.
The only window with a light turned on was yours, and through it he could see you and one of your friends. It was Saturday after all. For some reason, the other two girls in the group were missing.
And Timo was right; you were talking in what appeared to be sign language, hands frantically gesticulating. Even from a distance, it was obvious that this wasn’t casual conversation. It was tense. Emotional in a way that didn’t need sound to be understood.
Nico’s stomach dropped a little, though he couldn’t have said why.
“What was that look?” Timo asked, watching him now instead of the window. “Do you know them?”
“I tried talking to her once,” he admitted.
“Wait—what?”
“A few days ago. Outside.” Nico rubbed the back of his neck. “She just… ignored me.”
Timo’s expression shifted—somewhere between sympathy and barely contained amusement. “You tried talking to a deaf person without knowing she’s deaf?” he said. “That’s rough, dude.”
Nico exhaled. “Yeah.” Obviously.
But suddenly, it made sense. The silence. The lack of reaction. The way you hadn’t even glanced at him when he said hello. Maybe you couldn’t have heard him no matter what he’d said. How could he not have noticed the sign language before?
“Which one was it?” Timo asked, turning back toward the window.
“The one in the red shirt,” Nico said quietly. “She’s the one who lives there.”
Timo nodded once, assessing. “She’s cute.”
Nico let out a short breath. “Why do you think I tried talking to her?”
“Fair,” Timo said. “Still didn’t hear you, though.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Timo grinned, entirely unhelpful.
“Have you given Jonas’s wife’s friend another chance, by the way?” he added. “The redhead from Halloween?”
Nico groaned immediately. “No. Why would I?”
“I don’t know.” Timo shrugged. “She seemed interested in you. And you can’t just sit around moping over your neighbor who you literally can’t talk to.”
“I’m not moping.”
“You left a room full of people to do the dishes.”
Nico sighed. “I guess I’ll… think about it. Okay?”
From the living room, someone yelled, “Yo—are you two starting a separate party in there, or are you bringing more beer?”
“Coming!” Timo called back.
He clapped Nico once on the shoulder before heading out, like the conversation had been successfully completed. Nico stayed for a second longer. Just long enough to glance back at your window. Your friend was gone, but you weren’t.
After his teammates left that night, the apartment fell quiet again.
Nico sat at his kitchen table, laptop open in front of him, some half-hearted attempt at planning his summer schedule blinking back at him. His mind was obviously elsewhere. Right across the courtyard actually.
You were sitting in your usual spot, mirroring him. The candle was lit like usual, but everything else was off. There was no laughter. No music. No movement from the rest of your apartment. Just you, sitting still, staring into the flame.
Nico frowned slightly. Saturday nights at your place were supposed to look different. Like something out of an indie movie about friendship, crowded kitchens, and cheap wine that somehow tasted better in the right company.
Of course, he didn’t actually know anything about the situation, but it still felt out of character for your friends to be arguing. Tonight, you just looked sad. More alone than usual. He kept on wondering what you’d argued about.
Your shoulders were slumped, your expression distant, like you were somewhere else entirely. Even from across the courtyard, he could see it. And then, the mascara. Dark streaks trailing down your cheeks, untouched. Like you either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care enough to fix it.
Nico sat up a little straighter.
On the table in front of you was a rectangular box. And something in your hands—a card, maybe. You kept turning it over, fingers lingering on the edges like whatever it said mattered more than you wanted it to.
He knew he shouldn’t be watching. This was already too much. He didn’t even know your name, and yet he was here, piecing together a story from fragments he had no right to.
But he couldn’t tear his eyes away when you opened the box, gently unwrapping what looked like just a bunch of green fabric at first. It wasn’t until you held it up that he realized it was a dress. A long, flowing dress. Maybe in silk or chiffon. It looked expensive just from the box it came in.
Your hands trembled slightly as you held it. And then, you broke.
The kind of crying that wasn’t quiet or controlled. It hit all at once, like whatever you’d been holding back had finally decided it was done waiting.
Nico froze. Helpless, halfway across a courtyard, watching something he couldn’t reach, couldn’t interrupt, couldn’t fix.
You dropped the dress like it had burned you. Then you turned and left the kitchen so quickly it was almost abrupt—like if you stayed even a second longer, you might fall apart completely.
Nico couldn’t see where you went. The kitchen just went still. But the candle kept burning, and the dress lay crumpled on the floor. He didn’t know why it hurt him so.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Now, did Nico try harder after that? No. Obviously, he did the exact opposite. He avoided you.
Or—more accurately—he avoided the idea of you. Because in reality, you were still there, right across the courtyard, existing exactly as you always had. Nico was the one changing his behavior like that might somehow solve the problem.
He couldn’t figure out how to talk to you. Hell, he barely even saw you outside of his window anyway, so what was the point? And even if he did—what then? He didn’t know sign language. You wouldn’t hear him. He’d already embarrassed himself once. That felt like enough.
So he stopped looking. Or, at least, he tried to. He went to bed earlier. Found reasons to stay busy. Kept his gaze firmly not drifting toward the window every time he walked into his kitchen, like it had developed a magnetic pull.
It worked. Kind of. Until the next Saturday.
He noticed it immediately. You were alone—and it wasn’t even evening yet. By the time Nico got back from a home game, the candle was already burning. Too early. Wrong, somehow. Your friends didn’t come that night.
They didn’t come the weekend after that either.
Not that Nico kept track or anything. But it was weird. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. People got busy. Plans changed. Life happened. Still, something about it sat wrong with him. Maybe it was the way tears had violently fallen from your eyes last time he’d seen you with your friends.
So naturally, instead of dealing with that in any kind of healthy or logical way, Nico agreed to go on a date. Timo and Jonas had been trying to set him up for weeks, and at this point, saying yes felt less like a decision and more like a way to get them to stop talking about it.
Her name was Cassie. She’d been nice to him at the team’s Halloween party last year. Red hair and a nice smile. Seemed fairly normal. That was… about all he had. Which was fine. Probably. Definitely a solid foundation for a first date.
But Nico had never felt more ridiculous than when he stepped out of his apartment that evening.
The button-up shirt alone should’ve been a warning sign. He didn’t wear button-ups unless someone forced him. Or unless there was a formal event. Or unless he was actively trying to impress someone—which, in this case, felt a little forced, considering he wasn’t even sure he wanted to be there.
The collar scratched at his neck. Actually—no. It wasn’t scratching. It was stabbing. He reached back, frowning, trying to discreetly feel for a tag. There was no tag. This was just the way he felt.
He dropped his hand with a quiet sigh, already mildly irritated and not even five minutes into the evening. This was going great. But he had a plan. A good one, even.
Flowers.
If he showed up with flowers, it automatically made him seem thoughtful. Intentional. Like he had his life together. Which—objectively—he did not. But that wasn’t the point. If he turned out to be the most boring date ever for Cassie, then at least she got flowers out of it. He certainly felt boring.
So, before calling a cab, he’d pulled out his phone, googled “flower shop near me,” and followed the directions with increasing hesitation the closer he got. It turned out to be just around the corner.
He’d lived here for months and somehow never noticed it. Then again, he bought flowers approximately never. The slowly dying house plant on his windowsill was proof enough of that.
Nico slowed to a stop outside the shop. A small wooden sign hung above the door, the lettering hand-painted in looping script spelling out Lennon & Lilies.
It was a cute little store, sat tucked between a café and a vintage store, its exterior painted a soft, weathered sage green that stood out gently against the street of redbrick buildings. A string of tiny warm lights framed the window, glowing softly even in the fading daylight, twinkling gold so that he could see inside.
The flower arrangements were really nice as they lined the storefront in various colors and heights. Like, twentieth-wedding-anniversary nice. And not impress-a-date-you-barely-know nice.
Nico stepped a little closer to see more.
That’s when something about the girl behind the counter caught his attention.
At first, it was small—just a flicker of familiarity he couldn’t quite place. Like how strangers in passing sometimes looked like someone you knew. But this was a little more than that. Unsettling almost—like he’d seen her before without ever being there. Like a memory framed by glass, softened by distance and light. The window display wasn’t too different from seeing you through his kitchen window.
Nico could’ve recognized you anywhere.
The way you wore your hair. The shape of your face. The fit of your clothes. The way you moved was familiar in a way that didn’t make sense, considering he’d never actually stood this close before.
His neighbor was a florist.
You were ringing something up at the register. Smiling widely and talking to a customer who held the biggest bouquet of… some pink flower he couldn’t name.
Your voice didn’t reach him through the glass, but your mouth moved easily, naturally, as you gestured toward a bouquet, explaining something with a brightness he hadn’t seen before.
What?
He straightened slightly, trying to make sense of it.
You were deaf. Weren’t you?
He’d seen you sign during that argument with your friend. He’d built an entire understanding around that fact—adjusted his expectations, his assumptions, his everything.
And now—you were talking. Laughing, even. Like there had never been a barrier at all.
Nico frowned, a little thrown off balance.
Okay. So maybe you weren’t deaf. Or maybe you were, but also… talked? Was that a thing? Of course it was a thing. Probably. He just had absolutely no idea how any of it worked. Which, in hindsight, felt like an important detail he maybe should’ve considered earlier.
The customer said something that made you laugh even harder, and Nico felt something in his chest shift.
You weren’t just a quiet figure in a window. You worked here. You existed outside of that kitchen. Outside of the candlelight and the stillness and the version of you he’d built entirely from observation.
You were right there.
Nico’s grip tightened slightly around his phone. He could go in. It would be easy. Normal, even. Walk through the door. Buy flowers. Say something simple. This was the perfect excuse. The most natural opening he was ever going to get. His brain, however, chose that exact moment to be deeply unhelpful.
What was he going to say?
Hey, I live across from you, and I’ve been accidentally watching you for months? Also, sorry I thought you were deaf, but apparently I don’t understand how anything works?
Yeah. Great plan.
He exhaled slowly, shifting his weight. Through the window, you turned slightly, reaching for something behind the counter. Slightly closer to the door now. Closer to him.
Nico instantly took a step back. Then another. He stared at the shop for a second, like he might still change his mind. But he didn’t. Instead, he turned, pulling his jacket a little tighter around himself as he walked away.
No flowers. He just needed out.
By the time he reached the street corner, he was already checking his phone. Cassie’s number stared back at him. Nico winced as he typed it, but at least it was honest.
Hey, I’m really sorry, something came up. Another time?
Nico let out a breath as he hit send, shoving his phone back into his pocket as he stood there on the sidewalk, feeling not better, exactly. But not worse either.
He’d just made a rash decision without understanding why. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to try. It was that he didn’t know how to start without already feeling like he had messed up. And that was always enough to stop him.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
The Devils locker room was loud as usual when Nico stepped in after practice—gear clattering against benches, doors slamming shut, and voices overlapping as guys shouted across the room about nothing and everything at once.
Nico barely registered any of it. It all blurred into background noise, distant and unfocused, as he kept his attention fixed on his own little corner. He kept his head down, fingers working slowly at his skates, giving himself something to concentrate on. If he didn’t look up, there was still a chance—however small—that no one would start anything.
“Did you seriously stand up Cassie?”
Jonas’s voice cut clean through the locker room noise, sharp and immediate—like he’d been holding onto that question all practice, just waiting for the right moment to drop it.
Nico didn’t look up. “I texted her,” he said quickly, because technically, that was true. “Like an hour in advance that I wouldn’t be able to make it.”
Even to his own ears, it sounded weak.
Jonas stepped closer. Nico could feel it without looking—how he stared down at him.
“That’s still a shitty move, Nico.”
Nico exhaled, dragging a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how warm the room felt. Maybe he was just sweaty. “I just— I didn’t want to go,” he admitted. “I figured it would be more unfair to her if I did.”
That also sounded like a cop-out. But it wasn’t wrong.
“You ditched the date we set up?”
Timo’s voice joined in from somewhere to his left, and Nico briefly considered just getting up and leaving. Pretending he had somewhere else to be. A special captain’s meeting. A phone call. Literally anything.
“Is this about your neighbor again?” Timo pressed.
That made Nico finally glance up.
Jonas frowned. “What neighbor?”
Of course Timo would say something. He was as annoying as his own siblings. Except Timo was on the same continent as him and could call him out on his bullshit in person. He was a lovely friend to have, but god, did he need to mind his own business a little more.
Timo continued to not hesitate. “He has this deaf neighbor,” he explained to Jonas. “Who he apparently thinks is pretty, but he can’t talk to her. For obvious reasons.”
Nico closed his eyes briefly. Perfect. That was exactly how he wanted this explained.
Jonas snorted out a laugh, then leaned in to touch Nico’s shoulder, interest immediately piqued. “Can you see her naked from your apartment or what’s going on? Why is she special?”
He cut himself off. Abort. This was already going badly, and giving Jonas more material felt like actively choosing to make it worse.
“I was going to get Cassie flowers before the date,” he said instead, like that might redirect things.
Jonas scoffed. “What a gentleman.”
“But,” Nico continued, ignoring him, “my neighbor is a florist. I almost walked right into her shop. And I don’t think she’s deaf because she was talking perfectly fine to a customer.”
He could still see it, clear as anything—the way you’d smiled, the way your hands had moved, the way your mouth—wow, he really shouldn’t be thinking about your mouth like that.
Yeah. None of that had looked like someone who could not hear.
Timo tilted his head, considering. “So… she ignored you on purpose?”
Nico shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“How exactly did you try and talk to her?” Timo asked.
Nico hesitated. Because now that the question was being asked directly, the answer sounded… significantly worse.
“I said hi,” he admitted.
There was already a pause, and Timo made a weird face. Not a good sign.
“I was walking to my car,” he added quickly, like context might help. “She was on the other side of the courtyard unlocking her bike.”
Jonas stared at him. Then leaned back slowly, like he needed physical space to process what he’d just heard. “I shouldn’t have to tell you this,” he said, very calmly, “but are you fucking stupid, Nico?”
Nico huffed automatically. “Oh, come on—”
“That’s like fifty feet,” Jonas continued. “Fifty. Minimum.”
Timo nodded, already on board. “She doesn’t have to be deaf to not hear you.”
“Was she wearing—I don’t know—headphones?” Jonas added. “A beanie? Was there wind? Traffic? Literally anything?”
“I don’t know,” Nico muttered.
“Exactly,” Timo said. “You don’t know.”
The words stuck a little. Because it was true. He didn’t know anything. Not really. Not about that moment. Not about you. Not about why this had turned into… whatever this was.
Nico dropped his gaze back to his skates, picking at the laces again just to have something to do with his hands.
“It doesn’t mean anything anyway,” he muttered. “I’ll probably never talk to her, so what’s the point?”
Timo’s expression shifted slightly. “Are you seriously giving up?”
Nico shrugged, like it didn’t matter. “What else can I do?”
“You buy flowers from her. Duh.”
Nico looked up again.
Timo gestured like this was the most obvious solution in the world. “She’s a florist. You say you need flowers. This is not complicated.”
Jonas nodded, butting in again. “Yeah, and then you’ll figure it out.”
“Figure what out?” Nico asked.
“If this whole thing is real,” Jonas said, waving a hand vaguely in Nico’s direction, “or if it’s just you being weird about a girl you’ve never spoken to.”
“That’s not—”
“Maybe she’s terrible,” Jonas continued, ignoring him. “Bad customer service. Annoying voice. Maybe she has really bad breath.”
Timo snorted. “That would solve everything, actually.”
Nico huffed out a quiet laugh before he could stop himself. “And what if she’s not terrible?” he asked.
Timo and Jonas exchanged a look. Then Timo shrugged. “Then you’re fucked.”
Jonas nodded. “Completely.”
Fucked. Yeah, that sounded about right.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Nico almost turned around twice before actually going in.
Once at the corner—easy excuse, he could’ve just kept walking, pretended he’d never even had the idea. Once right outside the door—close enough to see his reflection in the glass, slightly warped between bundles of flowers, like even his own face wasn’t fully committing to being here.
This was so stupid. He was a grown man. A professional athlete. A captain, supposedly a leader. He played in front of thousands of people on a regular basis.
Buying flowers should not be where he drew the line.
He had to physically force himself by quickly pushing the door open and stepping inside, because if he was gentle about it, he knew he would just turn around and never look back.
A distinct smell hit him immediately. Sweet and damp. Almost thick—like the air itself was holding onto water. It wrapped around him in a way that felt a little overwhelming at first.
And he noticed the colors. They were everywhere. Bright, soft, pale, dark—flowers stacked and arranged in a way that felt intentional without looking staged. It was a lot. More than he expected. More than he knew what to do with.
The shop stretched further back than it looked from the street—rows of fresh flowers, houseplants, little decorations tucked into corners like someone had thought about every inch of the space. So big he didn’t even see you at first and figured he had yet another chance at escaping.
But the door had a bell above him that rattled as soon as it opened. And you poked your little head out from behind door deep into the shop that said staff only.
“I’ll be out in a second!” you quickly said to him.
Your voice was bubbly, a polished happiness covering it in a true retail worker spirit. And nothing like Nico had imagined. Actually scratch that, he didn’t know what he’d imagined. Jonas’s dealbreaker about you having an annoying voice was obviously not going to work, though, because you sounded perfectly normal.
Nico froze on the spot when you finally walked out. You looked different like this. Not in a way he could clearly define—just different. Maybe because this was proof you were an actual person. He was still weirdly unsure about that part.
“Can I help you with anything?” You smiled at him, expectant and patient.
Right, he needed to say something. That’s how this worked.
“Yeah,” Nico managed, his voice coming out just a fraction too late. “Uhm— I need a bouquet.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” you said with a small laugh, like you’d heard that exact line a hundred times before. Of course you had.
You turned, already moving deeper into the shop, and Nico followed a half-step behind, trying very hard to act like this was not the most stressful interaction he’d had all week. He’d scored in a shootout against Vasilevskiy yesterday, yet this had him sweating more.
Keep it together, man.
You moved easily through the space, weaving between tables and displays without hesitation, your hands brushing past leaves and stems like you knew exactly where everything was. Which you probably did.
You looked adorable. You were wearing denim dungarees, practical and a little oversized, with pruning shears tucked into every possible pocket. Not at all mysterious or as cryptic as he had made you up to be in his head. Not some quiet, untouchable figure behind glass.
You were simply adorable, and appeared to have a vast knowledge of flowers. And completely, terrifyingly easy to be around. Which made Nico feel even more like he was doing something wrong.
“What’s the occasion?” you asked, glancing back at him briefly. “See if that can give me something to work with.”
“Oh, they’re for—” Nico hadn’t thought about this at all. “A funeral.”
What the fuck? Why would he say that?
“Or—not really a funeral,” he added, because apparently digging the hole deeper was the plan now. “Just for the grave. My—uh—my aunt. Very sad.”
Nico wanted to leave his own body.
You blinked at him, your expression shifting immediately. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry.”
Nico felt something twist in his chest. Because now you looked genuinely sympathetic. Concerned, even. And he’d just invented a dead relative. Or he had an aunt, but she was perfectly alive as far as he knew.
“Do you want a bouquet,” you continued gently, “or more of a traditional grave arrangement?”
“Just a bouquet,” Nico said quickly. “I think.”
You nodded, already turning back to the flowers. “Lilies are a popular choice for that,” you said. “You could also do carnations—they tend to last longer this time of year.”
You gestured toward a cluster of flowers, and Nico followed your hand.
He had absolutely no idea what he was looking at. They were flowers. That was all he had. Smaller than roses and more wrinkly? Maybe? He nodded anyway, committing fully to pretending he understood.
“Yeah. Those look good.”
You looked back at him, and it was obvious that you saw right through him. Not in a mean way, just unmistakable in the way you paused and the corner of your moth twitched, like you were holding back a smile. Like you’d already figured him out.
“I just got these yellow ones this morning,” you added, a little softer now. You were adjusting for him. “And then we could fill it out with some greenery and baby’s breath.”
A baby’s what?
Nico nodded anyway. “That sounds great. I’m trusting your opinion on this.”
Which was the only smart decision he’d made so far.
You smiled again and got to work. Nico stood there, watching. Your hands moved quickly, confidently, pulling stems, trimming, arranging like it was second nature. There was something almost calming about it.
“I hope your aunt will appreciate them,” you said, walking over to the register when you were done tying the bouquet together. “From heaven, or whatever.”
Nico let out a quiet breath. “I know she will,” he said.
Because at this point, there was no turning back from that lie.
After he’d paid, you held out the bouquet to him, carefully wrapped in brown paper and a white ribbon. “There you go.”
He took it carefully, like he might somehow mess that up too.
“Thank you, Y/N.”
The name slipped out without thinking, something he’d caught just a second earlier on the small badge clipped to the front pocket of your overalls. He hadn’t meant to make a big deal out of it, but, of course, you just had to have the sort of name that sounded perfectly leaving his mouth.
It felt strangely important, like finally putting something concrete to you.
You blinked at him, just slightly surprised, before your smile softened. “You’re welcome…” you said, letting the words linger just enough to feel intentional.
Oh. You wanted to know his name.
That shouldn’t feel like anything. You were just being nice. That was literally your job—customer service, basic politeness. You probably did this with everyone who walked through that door. It didn’t mean anything. It absolutely did not mean anything.
“I’m Nico,” he said, still.
Your smile returned, easy and warm. “Nice to meet you, Nico.”
Hearing his name in your voice did something deeply unhelpful to his body. He nodded once, because apparently words were no longer reliable, clutching the bouquet like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.
This was normal. Just a transaction. He had bought flowers. You had been nice to him because that was your job. That was it.
And yet, as he lingered for one second too long before finally turning toward the door, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—small, probably insignificant, but enough that leaving felt harder than coming in had been.
The bell rattled again as he stepped outside, the cool air hitting him like a reset he didn’t quite accept. He stood there for a moment on the sidewalk, bouquet in hand, staring down at it like it might offer him some kind of explanation.
Yellow carnations, whatever that now meant.
He exhaled slowly, already turning toward home, because now he had to figure out what to do with them. He couldn’t exactly leave them somewhere without looking insane, and throwing them out felt wrong.
So that left one option: take them home, find something to put them in, and pretend this had been a normal, well-thought-out decision. Which meant he was about to walk into his apartment with a bouquet meant for a fake dead relative and spend the next ten minutes googling how to properly arrange flowers in a vase.
Did he even own a vase?
But how else had he expected his interaction to go? That he would miraculously leave with a date? This would be so much easier if you’d turned out to be horrible, just like his teammates had said.
But no. You just had to be fucking adorable.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
“Here, take these.”
Nico tossed a bouquet of flowers at Jonas mid-set.
The weight room at the Prudential Center was loud in a different way than the locker room. Less chaotic, more rhythmic—metal clanging, plates sliding onto bars, the dull thud of weights hitting rubber flooring just a little too hard. Music pulsed through a speaker, bass heavy enough that Nico felt it in his chest as much as he could hear it. The air smelled like sweat and something faintly chemical from whatever cleaning spray had been used hours ago and definitely hadn’t won.
Jonas barely caught them, the barbell clanging back into the rack as his entire focus shifted to not dropping what was, apparently, a carefully arranged bundle of pink peonies. A few petals shook loose on impact, drifting down onto the floor like evidence.
Jonas stared at the bouquet. Then at Nico. Then back at the bouquet.
“What the fuck, Nico?”
Nico reached for his water bottle, taking a long sip just to avoid answering right away. He already knew how ridiculous this was.
“Give them to your wife,” he said. “The last ones haven’t died yet. I only own one vase.”
It was becoming a real logistical issue. At this point, his apartment looked less like a place someone lived and more like a greenhouse.
Jonas still hadn’t moved, eyes locked on the peonies. “You bought flowers,” he said slowly, like he was trying to confirm reality, “again?”
Nico shrugged, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to defensive indifference.
He had his reasons for buying flowers. He’d had lots of reasons. Actually, he’d gone through every possible explanation at this point, cycling through them like plays he wasn’t entirely convinced would work. The logic never really held up under pressure—but that didn’t stop him from trying.
In the past month, he’d bought flowers from you five times.
There had been his mom’s promotion—despite the small, inconvenient detail that she lived in Switzerland and would never see them. Then the baby shower, which had required him to invent not only a pregnant friend but also an entire social circle that suggested he was the kind of person who got invited to baby showers in the first place. After that, Timo’s birthday—which had been especially bold, considering Timo’s birthday was in October and it was currently April.
And yet, you’d smiled every time.
Asked him questions. Remembered small details. Once, you’d even said, “Back again?” in that light, teasing way that had made his brain completely shut down for a solid five seconds while he stood there holding a bouquet he didn’t need, trying to remember how words worked.
There had been an attempt to ask how long you’d worked there—except it came out as, “How long have you been… flowers?” There had been another where he meant to compliment the shop and instead said, “It smells… like plants. Good plants.” And once he’d almost asked for your name again, even though you always wore a name tag.
Progress, clearly, was not being made.
He did try to space out his visits. For dignity, mostly. But standing here now, in the weight room, watching Jonas hold yet another bouquet, Nico had a sinking feeling that whatever system he thought he’d created was not nearly as subtle as he’d hoped.
Across the room, Timo let out a quiet laugh like he’d just been proven right about something he hadn’t even said out loud yet.
“I can give them to Nicole if you don’t want them,” Jesper cut in, already stepping closer, hand halfway extended like this was a perfectly normal exchange that had happened before.
Maybe because it had.
“No, no, I’ll take them,” Jonas said quickly, pulling the flowers back toward himself before Jesper could grab them. “I’m about to be husband of the year. For free.”
Nico huffed quietly, lifting his water bottle to his mouth again just to have something to do. Hydration had become his main coping mechanism in situations like this. It stopped him from having to actually talk.
Jonas, however, wasn’t done. He looked up again, expression shifting from amused to something far more pointed. “But we can’t keep acting like this is normal behavior, Nico.”
Nico took a sip, buying himself time. “It’s not that weird,” he said after swallowing down a big gulp.
“It’s very weird,” Timo said immediately, not even giving the idea a second to breathe. “I’ve lost count of how many bouquets you’ve bought.”
“That feels like a you problem,” Nico muttered, lowering the bottle.
“It’s very much a you problem,” Jonas shot back, gesturing clearly with the flowers.
Nico rolled his shoulders, already feeling a familiar frustration creeping in—the kind that settled low in his chest and tightened there, stubborn like hell, because he didn’t have the words to explain it. It wasn’t just annoyance at being questioned; it was the deeper irritation of knowing he looked ridiculous from the outside and still not doing anything to change that feeling on the inside.
“I just—” Nico started, then stopped, because there was no version of this that sounded normal out loud. So he defaulted to the simplest possible explanation. “I go in,” he said instead. “We talk. She makes the flowers. I leave.”
There was a loud pause. Jonas blinked at him slowly.
“…and?” he prompted.
Nico frowned. “That’s it.”
That was so not the correct answer.
Jonas dragged a hand down his face, groaning under his breath. “You’re killing me,” he muttered. “You’re actually killing me!”
Nico felt his chest tighten, irritation flaring just enough to push back. “What do you want me to do?” he shot back. “Just ask her out? Out of nowhere?”
“Yes!” Timo said immediately.
No nuance allowed there.
“It’s literally the only step left,” Jonas added, like they were discussing something painfully obvious that Nico had somehow missed.
Nico shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “No. I don’t— I don’t even know if she’s—”
He stopped again. Because the second he said it, it would sound stupid. As if this entire exchange wasn’t already a joke on his behalf.
Timo raised an eyebrow. “If she’s what?”
Nico heavily sighed. “Interested.”
There it was—out in the open, sitting between them in a way that made it feel just as big as it did in his head. And Nico regretted it instantly.
Because saying it out loud was like agreeing to how ridiculous it was. Like he was overcomplicating something that, for most people, wasn’t complicated at all. Nico had never been this guy before—the one hesitating, second-guessing, getting stuck in his own head over whether someone might like him back. That had never really been his problem.
If anything, it had always been the opposite.
Girls approached him. Conversations came easy because he didn’t have to initiate them. There was no pressure to figure out the right thing to say, no risk of getting it wrong before anything had even started. It had always just happened.
And now he was standing in a flower shop, forgetting how to form sentences because you simply smiled at him. It threw him off in a way he didn’t know how to recover from.
He hadn’t felt like this before. And the worst part was, he didn’t even know why it mattered this much. He just knew that it did.
Timo stared at him for a second, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “What has happened to your confidence, dude? Go look at yourself in the mirror.”
Nico let out a dry breath. “That’s not the point.”
“It is exactly the point,” Jonas said, already shaking his head.
Because to them, it probably was that simple.
Walk in. Ask you out. If yes, great. If no, then move the fuck on.
But they hadn’t stood in that shop, trying to form a coherent sentence while you looked at him like he was a normal person instead of someone whose brain had just completely abandoned him.
They hadn’t had to process the way you laughed, or how easily you filled the silence with adorable nonsense, or how every interaction somehow left Nico feeling like he was capable of jumping to the moon just from pure energy.
“I don’t have it in me to just randomly ask her out,” Nico admitted finally, more honest than he’d intended. “So yeah. I’m stuck.”
For a second, no one said anything. Then Jonas glanced down at the flowers again, turning them slightly in his hands before setting them off to the side like he needed both hands free for what came next.
When he looked back at Nico, the amusement was still there—but there was something else under it now. Something a little more direct.
“You’re not stuck because you can’t talk to her,” he said. “You’re stuck because you won’t.”
Nico didn’t respond. He didn’t really need to. Because it was so clearly true and hit so hard that Nico completely froze. Just enough to settle somewhere uncomfortable and stay there, even as Timo snorted under his breath and reached for a weight like the conversation was already over.
Nico took another sip of water. His teammates were still laughing. And they were still right no matter how much Nico avoided it.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Nico almost didn’t go in. Again. He always felt like he was standing on a ledge every time he found himself outside of Lennon & Lilies. He still had no idea what that name meant. Maybe that could be something normal for him to ask you about.
He lingered outside longer than necessary, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, rocking slightly on his heels like he might still turn around if he gave himself one more second. The glass reflected him faintly—blurred between rows of carefully arranged flowers—and for a moment he focused on that instead of what was inside.
This wasn’t going anywhere. Same routine. Same conversation. Same careful, meaningless small talk that never actually led anywhere. He already knew how it would go.
You’d smile. Ask what he needed. He’d come up with something very unconvincing. You’d build something beautiful anyway—always something a little too thoughtful for whatever excuse he’d come up with. He’d thank you, leave, and spend the walk home replaying every second, rewriting his own lines in his head like that might change something retroactively.
And repeat.
Yet, he continued to walk inside. The bell above the door chimed loudly as always.
“Hi Nico,” you said happily, sitting on a stool behind the register.
He looked up at the sound of your voice. You must’ve been looking at him even before he stepped inside.
It hit him—again, like it always did, stupidly and without warning—how easy you seemed in your own space. Like everything in this store made sense because you were part of it.
You had your sleeves pushed up, a faint green smear along your wrist that you either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care about. Your hair was pulled back in a way that clearly hadn’t been overthought, a bunch of loose strands slipping free when you tilted your head just slightly at him.
And of course, you smiled at him. Wide and a little crooked. Enough to make Nico feel like his legs were about to give in.
He suddenly had the very real, very inconvenient thought that he could probably stand here and look at you for an unreasonable amount of time before realizing he hadn’t said anything yet.
“Hi,” he answered, a little quieter than intended.
“You need another bouquet?” you asked. You’d picked up on the pattern just the second time he came into the store.
“Yeah,” Nico said, nodding once. “You can pick freely.”
“Oh, I love when customers let me do that,” you said, already hopping off the stool. “It’s way more fun.”
Nico followed in your direction without thinking. He always did.
He watched the way you moved through the space—not rushing, just very certain in what you wanted. You reached for stems without needing to check where they were, turning them in your hands like you already knew what they’d become before you even started.
There was something almost unfair about how easy you made it look, because he knew it probably wasn’t.
Your fingers worked quickly—trimming, adjusting, and aligning things just slightly off-center before correcting it again. You paused sometimes, tilting your head the smallest amount, like you were seeing something he definitely couldn’t.
Nico found himself staring. Again. God, get it together.
“I’m going to give you one of my personal favorites,” you said, glancing back at him briefly. “I just got these burgundy dahlias that are absolutely spectacular.”
He nodded like that meant anything to him. It didn’t, really. But the way you said it mattered.
“Sounds good.”
Of course it did. Because you said it did.
He watched as you added them to the bouquet, adjusting them slightly—turning one, then another, stepping back just a fraction like you were checking something only you could see. Your lips pressed together in thought for a second before relaxing again, satisfied.
It was such a small thing.
But Nico noticed it—of course he did, because he noticed everything about you, every small, effortless thing that made you seem like the most wonderful person in the world. It wasn’t great, not really, because all that noticing didn’t actually get him anywhere. He was still left standing there, stuck in the same place as always, quietly collecting details that felt important and meaningful and entirely useless all at once.
“Who are they for this time?” you asked.
Your back was still turned to him as you tied the stems together and wrapped the bouquet in the same brown paper you always used. Your little logo consisting of a lily was embossed on it.
“Me, I think.”
Nico, for once, didn’t reach for a lie. He noticed it the second he said it—how tired he was of lying. The words came out in a quiet admission, like he hadn’t fully decided on them until they were already said.
You turned around and pushed a few buttons on the register, gently nodding at what he’d said like it wasn’t any different than all his lies. Then you looked up and tilted your head at him.
You quickly hesitated. That was a little new. You didn’t usually hesitate.
It was subtle. Anyone else might’ve missed it. But Nico had spent an unreasonable amount of time watching you exist. He noticed the way your shoulders shifted, the way your fingers froze on the register for a second too long before continuing.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed about buying flowers for yourself,” you said softly. “I’m not going to judge you.”
Your gaze went back to the register as you spoke, like you were giving him an out.
“I’m not going to judge you. I think it’s sweet,” you added, almost under your breath, like it had slipped out before you could stop it. “A guy wanting fresh flowers on his kitchen table every week.”
“What?” Nico managed to repeat, the confusion he was suddenly feeling slowly starting to settle.
You let out a small laugh, barely audible. Then you glanced up at him, and there was something different there. “You know we’re neighbors, right?” you said, carefully, like you were testing the ground before stepping forward. “I can see the bouquets through my window.”
Nico couldn’t move. He wasn’t even sure he blinked.
The pause that followed wasn’t long, but it stretched. You shifted slightly, like you suddenly felt the need to explain yourself. “Not in a weird way,” you added, too fast. “I just—Our windows face each other, so—” You stopped, cutting yourself off, and for the first time since he’d known you, you looked unsure. Not fully embarrassed, but close enough that it registered.
Nico’s brain, meanwhile, had completely short-circuited. The realization didn’t hit all at once—it stacked, piece by piece, each one worse than the last. You could see his kitchen. The table. The flowers. Every single time he’d stood there, pretending not to look across the courtyard. Also every time he had looked. Every bouquet lined up like quiet, undeniable proof of… something going on.
Holy fuck.
“I—” he started, and immediately stalled out. Nothing followed. He dragged a hand over his face, exhaling sharply, trying to grab onto literally anything that resembled a coherent thought. “I didn’t— I wasn’t—”
What? Spying on you? Lying about dead relatives? Building an entire routine around five-minute conversations he couldn’t get past? Literally pick one and they’re all equally bad.
You misunderstood him instantly.
“I hope you don’t think I’m weird for saying that,” you rushed out, words overlapping with his as you tried to backtrack. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, I did notice, but not like—” You huffed out a small, awkward breath, shaking your head at yourself. “Okay, maybe it is a little weird,” you admitted. “But not in a bad way, I don’t think.”
That somehow made it both better and worse at the same time.
Nico let out a laugh, something in his shoulders loosening despite the absolute chaos still happening in his head.
Because you weren’t calling him out. You weren’t making it into something uncomfortable or exposing. If anything, you were meeting him halfway by admitting you’d seen exactly the thing he’d seen through his window but about him.
Before he could figure out how to respond—how to say anything that didn’t immediately make this worse—you moved on.
“Here,” you said, holding out the bouquet. “Your flowers.”
You saved him from further embarrassment.
He took them automatically, his fingers brushing yours for half a second before pulling back, the contact brief but enough to spark a little.
The bouquet was spectacular, to use your own words. Nico didn’t know what a dahlia was, but they were big and delicate, a deep red color filled out with wispy greenery and small white flowers for the rest of the bouquet.
You were damn good at your job. You made the whole thing feel very intentional. Like it belonged somewhere. Like it belonged on a grand table. His table that you’d seen. More than once. Had you purposely tried to match them to his kitchen?
Nico swallowed, adjusting his grip slightly. “Thank you,” he said.
You nodded quickly, still smiling, hiding awkwardness behind it. “See you around, neighbor.”
He left the shop in a bit of a blur. Not because anything had gone wrong, but because for the first time since this whole thing had started, it didn’t feel like he was stuck in place anymore.
—
By the time Nico got home, it was already dark, the apartment quiet as he stepped inside and kicked off his shoes, still holding the bouquet he set down on the kitchen counter without much thought.
His mind lagged behind him, trying to catch up to what had just happened—how you knew, how you’d known for a while probably, and not just about the flowers but about him, or at least enough to make everything feel suddenly, undeniably closer.
The candle on your table was already lit across the courtyard, as it always seemed to be, a steady presence he never had to search for, even when he pretended not to notice it.
But Nico didn’t look at it. Not right away.
He made himself dinner and cleaned some things around his apartment, all without looking out the windows. Moved through his apartment with a kind of deliberate focus, like if he just stayed busy enough, he wouldn’t have to think about what the fuck all of this meant. Maybe it didn’t mean a thing.
Coming across as needy or intrusive was the least of his intentions.
It wasn’t until later, when he was getting ready for bed, that he finally drifted toward the window. His hand paused on the blinds before he looked out—and there you were, like always.
You were not at the table this time. You were closer, leaning against the windowsill with your arms folded and your head resting lightly on them, gazing out into the courtyard in a way that felt almost deliberate, almost like you were waiting.
Nico stilled, caught for a moment in the quiet of it, and then you looked up, meeting his eyes without hesitation or confusion.You immediately flashed him a little smile and waved your hand daintily.
Nico took an embarrassingly long amount of time to react, but he smiled and waved back. He fell asleep that night with the same stupid smile still stuck on his face.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
It was raining. Not lightly either—proper, relentless rain that soaked through everything within seconds and made the whole courtyard look washed out and gray.
Nico was halfway down the stairs of his building, jacket thrown on, keys in hand, already mentally set for yet another Saturday alone, when the patter of raindrops finally registered. The steady drumming against doors and windows. The way the light outside had dimmed into complete dullness.
Fucking perfect.
He needed groceries, and maybe another bouquet if he found his way past your shop. But his evening was now ruined before he’d even made it to his car.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he glanced out through the glass doors—and paused.
There was someone crossing the courtyard.
A polka dot umbrella tilted against the rain, moving a little too quickly for it to be comfortable. That would be the rain’s doing. The wind pushed at the umbrella, tugging the fabric sideways, and whoever it was adjusted their grip without slowing down.
Nico watched, distracted more by the movement than anything else at first.
Something about it felt familiar.
The way you walked. Slightly forward, like you were always already on your way to the next thing. The shape of your body, your height, and your stance. The way messy strands of your hair were visible peaking out from under your raincoat’s hood.
His brain caught up a second later, but he still didn’t move.
Just stood there, watching as you crossed the last stretch of pavement, stepping up onto the covered entrance with a small, relieved exhale. You shook the umbrella once, careful not to splash too much water everywhere, and closed it swiftly. In the same moment, Nico saw you adjust your grip on a paper-wrapped bouquet.
Of course.
Nico stared as you opened the door to his building and immediately caught sight of him.
You weren’t supposed to be here. Not like this and not anywhere except behind the counter or framed by your kitchen window with that stupid candle burning beside you.
But you were.
You were wearing rain boots—actual rubber rain boots in bright yellow—and your jeans were tucked messily into them, like you’d done it in a hurry. Your jacket looked a little too big, sleeves pushed up just enough to keep them out of the way, and your hair was already a little damp, a few strands sticking to your cheek where the wind had gotten to it.
“Hi,” you said, a little breathless.
“Hi,” Nico said back, which felt wildly insufficient considering the situation.
There was a brief pause where neither of you moved. Rain filled the space instead as the sound filtered in through the door you held open.
“I, um—” you started, shifting your weight slightly. “I figured I could bring these to you.” You held the bouquet out just a little, like you weren’t entirely sure how to present it. “So you wouldn’t have to come to the shop in this weather.”
“You—” he started, then stopped. “You came here for me?”
“Yeah,” you said, like that part was obvious. “It’s not far.”
It was. Well, not far, far—but far enough that no one in their right mind would walk from the store in pouring rain just to deliver flowers to someone who… bought them every week. Oh, right. He did that. And you still believed it was because he liked having fresh-cut flowers at home.
“That’s—” Nico exhaled, a hand automatically going to the back of his neck. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. I just thought, since you always—” You trailed off slightly, like you were suddenly aware of how that sounded. “They’re parrot tulips,” you added instead, lifting the bouquet a little. “Straight from Holland. Kind of a spring special.”
Nico looked down at them. They were tulips, presumably. A little messier than the ones he’d seen before. The petals curled and ruffled in a way that made them look almost unfinished.
“Parrot?” he repeated.
“Yeah,” you said, nodding. “The petals look like feathers. More ruffled than normal tulips.”
You said it like it mattered, like he should care, or that you thought he cared. For a second he almost did, but it was never about the flowers. It was about the way you were explaining them, about the fact that you’d brought them here for him despite the rain.
Something in his chest tightened and shifted, and then, before he could stop himself, he felt everything he’d built up slowly unravel.
“Actually, can I—” Nico started. He hesitated, feeling his mouth go dry as he gambled with what to say next. “Do you want them instead?”
“Why?” you asked, genuinely confused. “Do you not like them?”
“No, no,” Nico said quickly. “They’re beautiful.”
They were. That had never been the problem.
“I just—” he exhaled, running a hand through his hair, already feeling this go horribly wrong. “I don’t really need them.”
You tilted your head slightly. “You don’t?”
“No,” he said, and then, because apparently he had lost all sense of self-preservation, added, “I don’t really want them either.”
There was a brief pause, filled only by the steady sound of rain. You kept staring at him. It didn’t look like he’d offended you, but you were still confused. It made everything just a little worse because your confused little frown was maybe the most adorable expression he’d seen.
“I don’t—” Nico started again, the beginning of a spiral. “I don’t care about flowers. At all.”
Your brows pulled together even more. “Then why do you keep—”
“I’ve been coming to the shop every week because I’ve been trying to ask you out.”
The words dropped between you, heavy and stupidly quick. Even the rain seemed to quiet around you. Nico froze the second he said it, because that had absolutely not been the plan. Not to admit it that directly, anyway.
“And when I obviously failed at that,” he continued, unable to stop himself, “I just bought flowers so I’d have a reason to talk to you.”
Nico stepped back slightly, already cringing. “Oh my god. That sounds—” He cut himself off with a quiet groan. Bad. It sounded bad. “That sounds worse out loud. I’m not—I mean, I am, but not like—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I can just go. Or move out. That’s also an option. I don’t have to live here—”
“Nico.”
He stopped rambling instantly.
You were looking at him with a smile now—a stupid, happy grin, maybe a little smug because you’d finally figured him out.
“Can you stop talking for a second?”
He closed his mouth and nodded once.
The silence that followed wasn’t nearly as unbearable as the one before. You adjusted your grip on the closed umbrella, shifting the bouquet slightly in your other hand as you thought.
“There’s this diner a few blocks away,” you said.
Nico blinked, thrown. What?
“Ruthie’s,” you added. “If you’ve heard of it.” He hadn’t, but he figured it didn’t matter. “They do really good malt milkshakes. And the burgers are kind of insane.”
You paused, then looked back up at him, still stupidly smiling. “Are you busy? Or—” you hesitated just slightly. “Do you want to come with me? Like right now, maybe?”
Rain kept on pouring steadily around you, soaking the pavement and pattering against the building. Nico stood there, brain still catching up, heart doing backflips inside his chest.
“Yes!” he said too quickly, before steadying himself. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Nico barely heard what you said as you started to talk.
The diner was exactly what you’d promised. Full fifties kitsch—checkerboard floors, chrome details, and red leather booths that stuck slightly to the back of his jacket. There was an old jukebox humming somewhere in the corner and the faint smell of bacon grease and pancake syrup hanging in the air.
It should’ve been distracting—to have all of that around him—but it wasn’t.
Not when you were sitting across from him, damp hair curling slightly at the ends, a warm oversized sweater pulled over your hands as you leaned forward just a little and wrapped your lips around the straw of your vanilla milkshake.
Nico’s brain sizzled like telephone wires.
The maraschino cherry balanced on top disappeared between your lips, and he watched helplessly as you bit down, chewing softly before speaking as if nothing significant had happened at all. As if it hadn't stained your lips a perfect shade of pink.
“So,” you said, and Nico actually managed to listen, “is your aunt actually dead? Or did you come up with lies every time?”
“She’s very much alive,” he said, clearing his throat slightly. “Somewhere in Switzerland.”
You perked up a little. “That’s where you’re from?”
“Yeah. Born and raised.” He shrugged lightly. “Most of them were lies, by the way. Except for one. I did get flowers for a friend’s birthday. I don’t think he appreciated them, but I didn’t lie that time.”
Nico left out the part about Timo’s birthday being in October.
You laughed, it gently slipping out like you couldn’t stop it. “That’s cute.”
He hummed in response, too aware of his own awkwardness to continue digging himself into a hole about it. You either didn’t pick up on it, or you didn’t care. He wondered if you thought you were on level playing fields—as if you’d overstepped the boundary that strangers were supposed to have just as much as he had.
Nico busied himself by taking a bite out of his burger, but not before picking away the slices of pickles that society insisted on putting there. He wasn’t picky enough to ask for them to be excluded, but he thought removing them himself was perfectly normal.
“Wait,” you said, staring at his plate like he’d personally offended you. “You don’t like pickles?”
Nico chewed before explaining. “They’re too tangy.”
Your phone buzzed against the tabletop before you could argue with him. Once. Twice. Then again. Three messages coming in quick succession. You glanced down at it briefly, your expression flickering—something tired passing through it—but you didn’t pick it up.
“You can just say you’re childish, Nico,” you corrected easily, already reaching across the table. “But I will be taking these.”
He watched as you plucked the pickles straight off his plate like you’d been doing it your entire life.
“You can have them,” he said. “But you’re not stealing my fries.”
Your phone buzzed again, and this time you totally ignored it. You popped one of the pickles into your mouth instead, chewing and then proudly grinning at him.
Nico let out a snort, but before he could be embarrassed about it, your phone buzzed a third time. Or technically maybe sixth.
“I’m sorry,” you said, finally reaching for it. “My sister keeps texting me. She’s being a pain in my ass.”
Nico shrugged lightly. “You can answer if you want.”
“No,” you said quickly, muting it. “If I start, I won’t stop.”
You set the phone aside, but your fingers lingered on it for a second longer than necessary, brushing absently over the edge of the screen like you were fully expecting it to light up again within seconds.
It didn’t.
Nico noticed the way your demeanor changed. Your shoulders had tightened just slightly, barely noticeable unless someone was really paying attention, and your gaze dipped for a moment—not avoiding him, but not quite meeting his eyes either.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.
You looked up at him, a little surprised. “You want to hear me rant about my sister?”
He leaned back slightly, picking up his chocolate milkshake. “Yeah. Hit me.”
You looked like you studied Nico for a moment, squinting your eyes. Like you were deciding if he meant it or not. But you started talking before he could reassure you again.
“I haven’t talked to her in over a month,” you said, lips twisting into a tight line. “Not properly, anyway. We just keep arguing about the same thing.”
Nico nodded once, letting you continue. He tried to connect the dots, wondering if one of the girls who used to come to your place for Saturday dinners was actually your sister.
“She’s getting married this summer, and she picked out my bridesmaid dress without telling me,” you went on before pausing, exhaling slightly. “Which would be such a non-issue if I were able to be normal about it. Everyone thinks I’m overreacting, but I just—I don’t even know.”
You looked down at your hands instead of looking at Nico. You, crying over a dress in your kitchen, was really starting to make sense to him now.
Your thumb worried at the edge of your cuticle, picking at it absentmindedly, then not so absentmindedly when it caught and stung. Nico could see you wince. He felt a strange, almost overwhelming urge to reach across the table and still your hands. To catch your fingers in his and make you stop. But he didn’t.
“She has this great guy,” you continued, a little quieter. “And she gets to wear our mom’s old wedding dress, and they’re getting married at a sunflower farm, which is just—” You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head. “Adorable.”
Nico smiled slightly. “Sounds kind of perfect.”
“It is,” you said. “That’s the problem.”
You didn’t hesitate when you said it, but something in your expression shifted right after, like the words had maybe come out a little too honest.
Nico watched you, trying to piece it together. He wasn’t sure he fully understood how something perfect could feel like a problem. But there was something familiar in it anyway—the way things could look so complete from the outside that there didn’t seem to be any space left for you in them.
He sort of felt that way with his own siblings; when they celebrated a milestone of any kind, Nico always wondered when it would be his turn, and what that would even look like.
“She’s deaf,” you added, like you were circling back to something steadier. “And he learned a bunch of sign language before their first date. How disgustingly cute is that?”
Ah. That explained why he’d seen you two sign through the window.
There was a new softness to your voice. Fondness. A little tired maybe, but mostly fond.
“It took him like six months to become fluent,” you continued. “It took me twelve years.”
Nico tilted his head slightly. “Were those your first twelve years alive?”
You narrowed your eyes at him, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Maybe.”
“Okay,” he said, holding up his hands slightly. “Then it’s fair.”
You laughed again, freely, like it bubbled up without a way to stop it.
God. He liked that sound a little too much.
“He’s a great guy,” you went on. “They’re going to have this amazing wedding, and I’m—” You gestured vaguely to yourself, hands hovering in the air like you weren’t entirely sure what to do with them. “—busy feeling sorry for myself because she chose a dress I’m not comfortable with. It’s so stupid.”
Nico leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on the table, trying to catch your eye. “What’s wrong with it?”
From his view through the window, it had looked like a pretty standard dress, but he also wasn’t that well-versed in the world of women’s clothing.
He could visibly see you hesitate again. Your mouth opened, then closed again, like you were reconsidering whether you actually wanted to say it out loud. Your shoulders shifted, pulling in just slightly, and then you dumped it all out.
“It’s beautiful,” you said quickly, almost too quickly. “Like—objectively.” You let out a small breath, eyes flicking up to him for half a second before dropping again. “But the straps are super thin, so you can’t wear a bra, and the back is completely open, so all I can think about is how—”
You stopped, the words caught somewhere between your brain and mouth.
Nico frowned slightly, confusion flickering across his face as he waited, not quite sure if you were going to finish the sentence or not.
“How?” he prompted softly.
“How gross my back acne scars look,” you mumbled out in a hurry, as if you said it fast enough he wouldn’t hear it. “See? I told you it was silly. We’ve been arguing for months about nothing.”
You were sitting there, shoulders slightly hunched in on yourself, like you were bracing for him to agree. Like you’d already decided how this sounded out loud and didn’t expect anyone to take it seriously.
Nico didn’t think it was silly, but he didn’t know how to say that out loud.
You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “This is so not a first date conversation. You’re allowed to run away. I’ll even pay for your meal.”
“I’d like to stay,” Nico said immediately.
No hesitation. Absolutely none. You blinked at him in surprise.
“I mean, if that’s okay with you,” he added in recovery.
He saw you relax as he said it. Your shoulders loosened just a little, and the corner of your mouth tipped up in this small, almost shy smile that felt completely different from the easy ones you’d been giving him all night.
It caught Nico off guard, forgetting anything he might’ve wanted to say. He was too busy watching the way your lips puckered around your straw again as you ducked your head just slightly like you were trying to play it off.
“I’ll get over it,” you said after taking a sip, trying to brush it over. “I know I will. I just wish I wasn’t such a… bitch about it.”
“I don’t think you are.” Nico shook his head. “I think you care about her day being perfect,” he continued. “And you can’t really do that if you’re uncomfortable the whole time.”
“Yeah, maybe,” you said. Then with a small exhale, “Can we talk about something else now?”
Nico smiled. “Yeah, of course.”
You both lingered there for a second, the conversation settling between you like something gently folded. You dragged your straw through your milkshake with a soft, hollow sound, eyes flicking briefly to the side like you were searching for something lighter to grab onto. Nico picked at the edge of his napkin, folding and unfolding it without really thinking, giving you the space to shift things without rushing you.
Maybe it was his turn to come up with something.
“Uhm, how’s your hockey thing going?” you asked suddenly, straightening a little.
He blinked. “You know I play hockey?”
“Yeah, I mean,” you said, popping the other pickle slice you'd stolen from him into your mouth, “you learn quite a lot by staring out the window.”
Nico stilled. Right, the windows. If he saw through yours, you saw through his. His brain immediately started flipping through every single morning he’d ever spent in that kitchen like it was trying to pull up security footage. It was embarrassing enough that you’d seen the flower bouquets collecting on his table; what else could you have seen?
Making coffee. Eating at the table. Talking on the phone. Occasionally pacing. Definitely staring out the window like an idiot. He hadn’t done anything inappropriate. No, he hadn’t, right?
He frowned slightly, trying to picture it. There had been mornings where he’d just thrown on sweatpants. Or a shirt. Or… there had definitely been a towel situation once or twice.
Fuck.
His lips curved into a dimpled smile anyway. “What?”
You grinned back. “Your morning ritual of making coffee naked needs to stop, Nico.”
Nico choked on nothing. “What?”
His brain short-circuited again. Because now he was actively trying to remember if there had been a single moment where he’d walked into his kitchen without thinking, half-asleep, not dressed.
Jesus fucking Christ.
You burst out laughing. “That was a joke,” you said quickly. Then paused. “Wait—do you make coffee naked?”
“No,” he said, way too fast. “No, I don’t.”
He definitely didn’t. Probably.
“Okay, good,” you said, nodding. “Or I don’t know if it’s a good thing— Actually, why don’t I keep my mouth shut?”
You exhaled all the air you held inside into a laugh, hiding your face in your hands like you were trying to physically retreat from what you’d just said.
Nico now felt how heat had risen to his cheeks, letting out a soft breath as his shoulders loosened, watching you, the flirty tension easing just enough for him to latch onto something safer.
“I get what you mean, though,” he said. “You can basically see someone’s whole life from those windows.”
He kept it to himself that it was your life he was talking about.
“Oh, absolutely,” you hummed in agreement. “I once saw the lady below you aggressively pick her nose. That was certainly an experience.”
Nico winced. “That’s rough.”
Then you pointed at him, just slightly, like you’d remembered something. “You mostly just sit at your table, though,” you said. “Very mysterious. Annoyingly normal. I couldn’t figure out anything about you at first.”
He shrugged, looking down at the table for a moment. “I don’t think there’s much to figure out.”
“See, I disagree,” you said, leaning forward a little, resting your chin in your hand. “My sister saw you leave once carrying this huge hockey trunk. Like—massive. And her fiancé is a Rangers fan, so they’ve basically been trying to spy on you from my kitchen ever since.”
Nico snorted. “Any luck?”
“None,” you said, smiling. “I haven’t told them you play for the Devils, but she won’t stop talking about how I live next to some hot athlete anyway.”
He tilted his head slightly, watching you a little more closely now. “You think I’m… hot?”
“No. Definitely not.” You didn’t even hesitate. “I only date guys I find repulsive.”
“Perfect,” Nico sighed. “That works out for me.”
Your smile softened at that—just enough that he noticed. He could see through your sarcasm.
“My sister might actually kill me for asking you out without telling her,” you went on, glancing down at your phone for a second before pushing it further away. “If the dress thing doesn’t get me first.”
Nico leaned forward slightly this time, mirroring you without really thinking about it. His hand moved before he could second-guess it, reaching across the table to take yours—warm, a little tentative, but steady once he had it.
“I can keep a secret.”
—
Nico’s cheeks hurt by the time he reached his building.
He hadn’t realized how much he’d been smiling until he was alone again, the night air cooler now, the rain reduced to a soft drizzle that clung to his jacket instead of soaking through it.
He’d walked you to your door. Stood there for way too long. Said goodnight like a somewhat normal person. And then left, like an idiot.
He ran a hand over his face as he climbed the stairs, letting out a quiet breath that turned into something dangerously close to a laugh. He was actually unbelievably bad at this. All of that, and he’d just…walked away.
Nico pushed his door open and stepped inside, toeing off his shoes without much thought, the familiar space of his apartment feeling slightly different. Or maybe that was just him. Because everything felt different.
His phone buzzed in his hand as he was just about to put it down on his hallway table. Nico blinked down at it and saw your name. You had exchanged numbers so maybe he wasn’t as helpless as he felt.
He picked up before it could ring a second time. “Hi.”
“You got home safe?” you giggled from across the line.
Nico snorted out a laugh, shrugging off his jacket. “Yeah. Made the long journey home.”
“Good,” you said. There was a small pause before he heard your voice again. “Can you go to your kitchen?”
Nico stilled slightly, glancing toward the window. “Why?”
“So I can see you.”
That did something irrevocable to Nico. Like his brain tripped over itself, missed a step, and went tumbling straight down a flight of stairs, headed for a place labeled “Oh no, I’m in love now.”
“Okay,” he said, already moving.
He didn’t bother turning on more lights, just walked straight into the kitchen, phone still pressed to his ear as he reached for the edge of the counter.
When he looked out, your window was lit. Of course it was. The candle was there too, flickering softly against the glass, casting everything in that warm, familiar glow he’d spent months pretending not to search for.
And there you were—standing by the window, looking right at him.
“Hi,” you said again, smiling.
“Hi,” he echoed.
For a second, neither of you said anything. You just took each other in, finally, like there was no glass in the way.
“I had a really good time tonight,” you said eventually, your voice still in his ear, even as he watched your lips form the words across the courtyard.
“Yeah,” Nico said. “Me too.”
Then you lifted something slightly into view. The tulips.
“Thank you for these, by the way.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, of course. I’m really good at picking out flowers.”
“Clearly,” you said, amused.
There was another soft pause—the kind that didn’t need to be filled.
Nico leaned back slightly against the counter, still watching you, still half-convinced this wasn’t real. This had to be something he’d made up. Something his brain had come up with after one too many nights staring out the window.
“You know,” you said, tilting your head slightly, “you could’ve kissed me.”
Nico blinked.
For a split second, he was back there again—standing outside your door, rain still clinging to his jacket, your hand lingering just a little too close to his as you said goodnight. He’d thought about it. God, he’d thought about it. The way you’d looked at him, the way neither of you had moved right away—it had felt like something was supposed to happen. Like he was supposed to lean in, close that small, stupid distance. And instead, he’d just… smiled. Said goodnight. Walked away like he hadn’t spent the entire evening staring at your cherry-stained lips.
“I could’ve?”
“Yeah,” you said simply. “I wouldn’t have minded.”
His grip tightened slightly around the phone. Fuck. Good to know.
“I’ll remember that,” he said. “For next time.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
You didn’t hang up right away. Neither did he.
The line stayed open, quiet except for the faint sound of your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. Nico shifted slightly where he stood, his shoulder brushing the edge of the counter, eyes still fixed on you through the glass.
You hadn’t moved either.
Still standing there, framed by that warm light, the candle flickering softly beside you like it always had—except now it didn’t feel like something distant. It felt close. You felt close. Like he could reach out and touch you if he wanted to.
After a moment, you lifted your hand slightly, giving him a small wave through the window. He mirrored it without thinking. This was ridiculous. Ridiculously perfect.
“Good night, Nico.”
He let out a quiet breath, something easing in his shoulders as he smiled. “Good night, schatz.”
—
What happened after that is probably better left unsaid. Or maybe it’s simple.
You’d stopped spending most of your nights alone. And Nico didn’t have to look out of his window to see you anymore. Most nights, he could just turn over in bed and find you there instead.
Half asleep, wrapped up in one of his shirts, your hair a mess against his pillow. He’d lie awake sometimes, longer than he should, just watching you. Counting your birthmarks. Tracing the shape of your face without touching, like he was still half-afraid you might disappear if he got it wrong.
Other nights, you’d still find your way to the kitchen—whether that was his or yours. Always in front of a candle burning brightly, doodling in a notepad. Sometimes he’d watch you from the doorway, leaning against the frame like he used to lean against his counter. Other times he would join you at the table, borrowing a pencil to hijack your doodling.
“What are you drawing?” he’d ask.
You’d shrug. “Nothing.”
It was never nothing. It was always flowers.
On your sister’s wedding day, he’d been your date.
It was an overwhelmingly beautiful day. Slightly chaotic. Full of too many people, too much laughter, and too many emotions stacked on top of each other until it all burned into a memory strong enough to watch like film in your head.
Sunflowers had stretched endlessly behind the ceremony, glowing gold in the late afternoon light. The kind of setting that didn’t feel real until you were standing in the middle of it, squinting into the sun and trying not to cry.
Nico had watched you the entire time.
Not in a way that anyone else would notice—he’d learned how to be more subtle about it now—but enough that you noticed every time you caught him across the room.
By the time night settled in, the wedding had turned into something looser. Music spilling out across the fields, people barefoot in the grass, ties long abandoned and heels carried instead of worn.
Nico had lost track of you at some point.
You got pulled into conversations, into dances, into hugs that lasted longer than you were comfortable with. Every time he thought about stepping in, someone else was already there, spinning you away again.
So he’d let it happen. Leaning back against the edge of the reception space, watching from a distance. Smiling to himself like an idiot over the most beautiful girl in the room.
He’d found you on the balcony much later, overlooking the fields, where the noise softened into something distant and the night air cooled the lingering heat of the day.
Standing by the railing, arms resting lightly against it, your back to him. The dress dipped low just like you’d said it would, the fabric falling away to expose the skin you’d been so worried about.
Nico had walked up and kissed your shoulder, shrugged off his suit jacket without thinking about it, stepping into your space just enough to drape it gently over you.
Then you’d danced on the balcony, softly to some Beatles song your sister had picked out. Even if she couldn’t hear it, you insisted she liked certain vibrations of music, nylon-stringed guitars, and Lennon & McCartney’s lyrics.
God, he loved you. The words had come easy, spilling from his lips over and over again.
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Summary: both you and your boyfriend are ass people. Enough said.
warnings: sexual touching and ass grabbing (obvi) mostly playful and fluffy, some suggestive content., not proof read and written hastily
More below the cut ⬇️⬇️⬇️
Sidney was aware of his body. More specifically, Sidney was aware of his ass. He had eyes–he could turn around in the mirror and see that he did not lack in thigh or buttocks– and if it wasn’t his own vision, it was the people in his life constantly reminding him. His teammates jokingly making a comment in the change room along the lines of “love to see that cake Crosby!” or other similar crude jests. For fucks sake, Sidney had to get his jeans specially tailored. Yeah, he was aware of his body. He became especially aware when he started dating you.
You were a touchy little thing–not that he complained–always reaching for his hand, his bicep, waist, whatever you could grab. You were big on physical affection, and Sidney was happy to oblige your needs. However, innocent nudges to his side requesting a hug eventually began to change as your relationship grew. Once you were fully comfortable with one another–then the ass grabbing started.
It started with a small pinch. You were curled in his arms, face buried in his chest, reunited after he’d been gone on a roadie, when your hand snuck down past his hip. Just a tiny squeeze of your fingers caused Sidney to reel back, eyes wide as he let out a noise of bewilderment.
“Hello???”
You just giggled, like the little fuck you were. He stared incredulously, as you finally surrendered a small “Sorry,” that was the least genuine thing he’d ever heard. “If you get to do it to me, I get to do it to you.”
Sidney didn’t like that logic. “But I’m a guy–”
“Who’s ass is bigger than mine,” You interrupted. “If butts had cup sizes, I’d be an A and you’d be a double D.”
Geez you were weird. Maybe it was part of why he kept you around–you made him laugh, even if it was with the stupidest humour ever.
Sidney got used to it eventually, and you got more bold. Pinches turned to grabs, which turned to smacks as he walked past you in the living room. An eye for an eye sort of situation–just because you had begun grabbing your boyfriend's butt more didn’t mean he stopped grabbing yours any less. Your relationship was most definitely an ass over boobs situation with no room for debate, (though if you ever asked Sidney what he preferred, he’d bat his lashes and respond ‘personality’ like a dork).
Even if you both responded with startled outbursts when the other would tap a bum cheek in passing, you both enjoyed it. Not (always) in a kinky way–it had sort of become a little gesture. Playful and goodhearted– never if one of you was in a bad mood or was actively not wanting to be touched. Sure you were obnoxiously grabbing each other's butts but hey at least you had some boundaries.
The whole ass grabbing situation was quite possibly one of the least mature aspects of your and Sidney’s relationship, yet neither of you cared. You kept it behind closed doors. Most of the time.
The one time you did reach for Sid’s ass in a public setting was at a charity event for the Penguins…his suit pants looked so good on him, that your hand slid down just slightly, giving a small squeeze–and then Geno let out a squawk from behind you. You didn’t realize he was standing there, your eyes immediately growing wide as a flush burned your cheeks. Geno was chill about it of course, smirking as he nudged you as he passed.
“I don’t blame you y/n. Your boyfriend really is God’s favourite, but uh– maybe watch that the cameras don’t catch that,” he winked.
Sidney was even more horrified than you. “Fucks sake, I’m their captain you can’t do that in front of them! They’re never going to look at me the same.”
“They called you out when you had a hickey on your neck. I think they’re aware we have sex.”
“It’s not the same-”
Ironically, Sidney had also gotten caught touching your butt in public. After a game, celebrating a satisfying win with the team, Sidney had a few drinks in him (his excuse when you called out his hypocrisy), when he’d very obviously looped an arm around your waist, settling a big palm against your ass cheek before he gave a hearty squeeze, leaving his hand there with zero remorse. Geno was yet again at the scene of the crime. “You two are fucking weird.”
You both didn’t care. Lord forbid you both loved your partner's body– though you did respect those around you by not necessarily showing that love to other onlooking eyes.
“What if you sleep on your stomach tonight and I use it as a pillow?”
Sidney blinked at you as you stated your suggestion. Deadpan.
“Nevermind then. Party pooper,” you’d scoffed in reply to his unimpressed gaze, shifting closer to him for a hug which he gladly accepted, big arms wrapping around your frame.
“I’d rather use yours as a pillow,” he finally responded.
“That is not fair.”
“What if I fuck you stupid first?”
You pulled back from the hug to look up and meet his eyes that were already staring at you expectantly, crinkled at the corners with a playfully sly look. “You’re on Crosby.”
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